#I can’t go to sleep THE SPICE MUST FLOW | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sassyhobbits · 4 years

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16. "I can't believe you're making snow angels at a time like this!"

and here we have the ONS christmas special!! my last xmas fic this season and i hope you all enjoy! have a great holidays everyone!! <3

~~~

Aelin Galathynius loved Yulemas.

She loved the smells, the sights, the foods. She relished in spending time with her closest family and friends, giving them gifts she knew would make their faces light up. She loved laying by the fire and reminiscing.

This was Aelin's third Yulemas with Rowan. She fell more in love with her husband everyday, and always enjoyed spending the holiday with him. The only thing that she could have wished for this year was that their daughter had decided to join them.

Aelin was heavily pregnant. Their daughter was about a week late and Aelin wanted her out, out, out already. It wasn’t only that her feet were always swollen or her back ached constantly, but also that Rowan had become terribly overbearing. There wasn't a single thing Aelin tried to do that her husband didn't attempt to do for her before she could. At the beginning of her pregnancy, she enjoyed it. She liked when Rowan would grab the remote or get out of bed to fetch her slippers if she asked. But by now, it was beginning to lose its charm.

It was Yulemas eve. The palace was filled with their friends and family. They had even invited some of Rowan’s cousins to Orynth. Arlene and Isolde were excited to enjoy their first northern Yulemas.

They had all spent a few hours lounging in the parlor, indulging in wine and other spiced holiday drinks. Aelin sipped on a hot chocolate, cuddled into Rowan’s side, his hand a steady weight on her belly. It had all been wonderful, but after a while Aelin began to feel a bit warm with the fire and the bodies stuffing the cozy parlor

"Hey, Ro?" she whispered to her husband.

"What is it, Fireheart?"

"Will you take a walk with me?"

He smiled and nodded. "I'd love to."

He helped her off the couch, grabbing her boots and her coat and helping her slip them on. No one noticed when they ducked out of the parlor, walking down the halls towards the entrance to the gardens.

They had become a wintry wonderland in the recent days, covered in a fresh blanket of soft snow. The night was silent, the sky clear and beautiful. Aelin held Rowan’s arm tightly as they meandered slowly over the snowy path.

Suddenly, Aelin hissed in discomfort, placing a hand over her huge stomach as their baby girl fussed.

“Is everything alright?” Rowan asked, brows knitted in concern.

“Fine,” Aelin assured him, not wanting him to go full mother hen mode. “She’s just making herself comfortable, apparently.”

Her husband sighed heavily. “It seems she likes it in there.”

“Well, it’s cold as hell out here so I don’t blame her.”

Rowan released a bark of laughter. “I was hoping she’d be with us by now.”

“Me too.” Aelin pouted down at her belly. “I had some adorable little Yulemas outfits for her.”

“I know you did, love.”

They continued their trek through the gardens, admiring the lights that had been strung up and other holiday decorations. Aelin always enjoyed decorating the palace. It was one of her favorite parts of the season.

The princess was just about to suggest they go back inside when she felt something strange. A sensation she had never endured before; a little pop followed by something decidedly wet between her legs. Aelin didn't have to be a rocket scientist to realize what, exactly, that feeling was.

"Rowan?" she rasped, tightening her grip on her husband's arm.

"Hm?"

"My water just broke."

"Your water just what-?!"

Rowan’s head whipped towards her, eyes wide in shock. In his bewilderment, her normally graceful husband wasn't watching where he was going, stepping on a slick piece of eyes. His feet flew out from under him, tumbling back into a fresh bank of snow.

Despite herself, Aelin released a laugh. Rowan leaned his head upwards, flakes scattered in his slicer hair, arms spread on either side of him like a star.

“I can’t believe you’re making snow angels at a time like this!” the princess cried playfully. “We’re having a baby!”

Rowan blinked once, a slow smile spreading on his lips. “We’re having a baby,” he repeated in a whisper. “We’re having our baby!”

Aelin could only grin.

…

It didn’t take long to head back inside and gather the things they needed to make the trip to the hospital. Aelin had thought Rowan was being ridiculous earlier, but it was nothing compared to his actions now. He was everywhere at once, not allowing her to pick up anything or even open a door for herself. Yet, Aelin was too nervous to even really scold him about it.

She and Rowan were already getting into a car in the garage by the time they let their other friends and family know what was happening. Before she knew it, they were on the way to the hospital.

Aelin knew that she likely still had a fair share of time before things would get serious, but her mother had faced many complications when giving birth to her. Aelin’s entire family had agreed to play it safe.

There was a private, secure suite waiting for Aelin by the time they pulled up to the hospital. She was only just starting to feel the first of her contractions when she slipped into the shapeless hospital gown.

Aelin spent a few hours speaking with nurses and doctors, getting poked and prodded and questioned. She spoke with her friends and family over the phone, convinced Rowan to read to her even though her husband seemed much more nervous than she did.

As the night wore on, Aelin’s contractions grew stronger and more frequent. A little after one in the morning, the doctor came in and informed her that it was time to start pushing. It was then that Aelin felt those first twinges of fear.

“Rowan?” Aelin squeaked, looking to her husband who was seated beside her.

He reached out, brushing a strand of her hair from her sweaty forehead. “What is it, Fireheart?”

“I’m scared.”

His lips tightened a fraction of an inch, grabbing her hand and giving it a firm squeeze. She could see in his eyes that he was frightened too, but he would be strong. Strong for both of them, and the little girl they were waiting to meet. He leaned close and kissed her flushed forehead.

“I’ll be here every step of the way, Aelin. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

…

The birthing process wasn’t easy, though no one was expecting it to be. Aelin felt as though she was being torn in two, her throat raw from screaming in pain. Even through the haze of the agony, she could tell that Rowan was beyond stressed and seeing her like this was likely shaving years off his life. It was a good thing his hair was already silver, because this experience probably would have turned his hair gray anyway.

Still, he was nothing but supportive: whispering words of encouragement, letting her grip his hand as tightly as she needed, dabbing her sweaty forehead with a cool cloth.

It was the wee hours of Yulemas morning, the sky turning a buttery yellow as the sun rose above the jagged peaks of the Staghorns. Aelin was beyond exhausted. She had been pushing and screaming for hours. All she wanted to do was sleep.

A ragged cry tore from her throat before slumping back on to her pile of pillows, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I’m so tired,” she sobbed, voice hoarse and crackling. “Ro, I’m so tired.”

“I know you are, love. You’re doing so good. You’re almost there.”

“I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Yes you can, Aelin.” Rowan squeezed her hand tightly. “You’re the strongest person I know. Just a little bit longer. I know you can do it.”

“He’s right, princess,” the doctor said from his position between her legs. “Your daughter’s nearly here. Just one more big push. Can you do that for me?”

Aelin clenched her jaw and nodded. She had survived much worse than this. She could do anything. The princess sucked down one last deep, bracing breath, preparing herself before giving a mighty push.

Aelin wailed as she put everything she had in her into this last push, sure she must have been breaking the bones in Rowan’s hand with how hard she was gripping it.

And, where one cry ended, another began.

A shrill shriek that did not come from Aelin filled the air just as her own voice failed her. Her strength left her body, collapsing against the pillows just as she saw the doctor hand a screaming, bloody, wiggling thing to the nurse.

Her daughter. That was her daughter.

Aelin forced herself to sit up straighter as the nurses carried a bundle of pink blankets towards her before carefully placing it into her arms.

The tears wouldn’t stop flowing as Aelin held her daughter in her arms for the first time. Her face was red, and her little face was pinched up as she cried, but she was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

“Hi,” Aelin rasped, giving another tiny sob. “Hello. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Rowan was a warm presence at her side, looking down at his daughter in wonder. “She’s beautiful. She’s perfect.”

“I’m so in love already it doesn’t feel possible.”

The doctor smiled at the little family before them. “Have you picked out a name for the little princess yet?”

Aelin nodded, tracing the shape of her daughter’s nose. “Eliora. Her name is Eliora.”

The doctors and nurses took a few steps back, giving them a bit of privacy as they grew acquainted with one another.

“Happy Yulemas, Eliora,” Rowan whispered to the newborn.

“It is Yulemas, isn’t it?” Aelin asked. She had lost track of time during the birthing process. “It looks like we’re gonna have to wait to do presents.”

“No offence, Fireheart, but I don’t think you can out do yourself now.” He ran his fingers over Eliora’s silvery-blonde hair. “This is the best Yulemas gift I’ve ever could have asked for. Thank you. I love you. I love you both so much.”

Aelin looked up, beaming and kissing Rowan quickly, scooting over so he could sit beside her on the hospital bed. He perched himself on the corner, tucking Aelin under his arm and holding both her and their daughter close.

Now Aelin Galathynius had another reason to love Yulemas.

#ONE NIGHT STANDARDS #rowaelin #my writing

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kpop---scenarios · 4 years

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Come To Me

Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader / Demon! Kai x Reader

Warning: Smut, Choking

Word Count: 3.1k

Summary: You and Chanyeol were happy for the most part, atleast until you meet a demon named Kai who can make all your desires come true.

"I thought we were drinking." You pout as your friend, Jisoo drags you into a small antique shop. "We will, I just want to look in here first." She smiles, abandoning you as soon as she enters the store, leaving you to wander around by yourself.

Letting out an annoyed breath, you slowly walk around the store, casually looking at the random antiques displayed around the store. You hadn't planned on buying anything by alcohol today, until you spotted something that caught your eye. Jisoo was the one who was into buying things from different time periods, but there was something about this small statute that had drawn you to it.

"It's said to unleash your wildest fantasies." You hear from behind you. Turning your head you see the little old shop keeper standing there, a smile on her face as she looks at the sculpture. "You must be very careful with what you wish for." She says.

"This? This will give me my wildest fantasies?" You laugh. You didn't really believe in all that, but for some odd reason you, you liked it.

"How much?" You ask, pulling out your wallet.

A few hours later you arrive home from lunch with Jisoo, completely forgetting about your earlier purchase. You had shoved it in your purse after you bought it and was distracted by the half from margarita's the restaurant had on.

It wasn't until you were laying in bed, tossing and turning that you remembered it. You scrambled from your bed, going over to your purse to dig through it, finding the finely wrapped artifact still there. You unwrap it, looking it over and scoffing. You knew it wouldn't unleash your wildest fantasies, but wouldn't that be something if it actually did.

"What are my wildest fantasies?" You mumble to yourself. Almost instantly a smile spreads across your face. "Unbelievable sex drive. Cumming so easily, a sex goddess." You giggle. "Oh, Maybe a sex demon could come into my life." You laugh, thinking to your boyfriend, Chanyeol and how not risky he is in bed. You loved him, but fuck you needed more spice. He was gentle and loving with you, and you loved him for it but damn, sometimes a girl just needed to get railed.

Rolling your eyes, you toss the artifact to the edge of your bed, allowing it to fall to the floor before you drifted off into a deep sleep.

"Oh fuck." You moan, grabbing your breasts and squeezing. "Just like that." You cry, arching your back. "Yes."

Your eyes shoot open, sitting straight up in bed, your pussy throbbing as you relive your dream. You weren't sure who the man in your dream was, but fuck you wanted more. You look to the other side of your bed and see Chanyeol sleeping peacefully. He usually got home later than you, spending time in the studio, letting his music flow. You were just happy he made it home safe.

You quietly crawled out of bed, creeping your way into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. You take a sip of your water, closing your eyes as you feel hot breath on your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

"Chanyeol." You breathe.

"Not quite." You hear the voice chuckle, turning around to see the man from your dream, standing in front of you.

"Who are you?" You gasp.

"I'm here to make your deepest and darkest desires come true." He smirks.

"You're from the.. the thing?" You ask, not really sure what to believe.

He nods his head.

"I'm dreaming. That's what this is, this is a dream." You decide, turning away from the extremely handsome man.

"No, what had you moaning before was a dream. This is real life." He purrs.

You turn back to look at him, your mouth slightly parted.

"What?" You whisper.

He walks towards you, his tongue lightly licking his lips.

"You wanna get pounded like the slut you are, am I right? Have your pussy railed so hard you can't walk." He murmurs, backing you into the wall, his body pressing against yours. "A sex demon to make you a sex goddess, mhm?" He says, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Just say yes, and it can all be yours."

"I don't even know who you are." You stutter, your body shuddering.

His hand trails over the curve of your breast, down your stomach, stopping just above your heat, your pussy throbbing for more.

"Kai." He moans.

Without thinking, without processing anything, the words just slipped from your mouth.

"Yes."

The man kneeled down in front of you, bringing his hands up to your panties and ripping them to shreds, tossing them away. He spreads your legs before he dives in, licking up your cunt with the flat of his tongue. Your knees begin to buckle. He brings his hand to your stomach, pressing you into the wall to keep your balance. He spreads your lips with his other hand as his lips wrap around your clit, sucking hard.

You bring your hand up to your breasts, cupping them, pinching your nipples as you try to stifle your moans.

"Fuck." You cry out, your orgasm wasting no time to coarse through your body. Your knees give out as Kai continues to lick up your juices.

He stands up, grabbing your hand to pull you towards the counter. He bends you over, spreading your legs as he unbuckles his belt, releasing his cock. Lining himself up with you, he pushes himself in, stretching out your pussy.

"Fuck." He hisses, his hand grabbing a chunk of your hair as he pushes himself in deeper. "So fucking tight." He moans.

Kai pulls himself out of you slowly before harshly thrusting back in, the sound of skin hitting takes over the kitchen. He places a kiss on your exposed neck as your body is flush against him while he pounds his cock into you.

"Such a good girl." He moans, yanking your hair harder.

"Please." You cry out in a whisper.

"Rub your clit." He spits, letting your hair go, pushing you down against the counter again. You move your hand between your legs, rubbing your clit ferociously, longing for another orgasm.

As it approaches, Kai whispers in your ear, "Cum."

As soon as that word left his mouth, your orgasm washed over you, sending the feeling through your whole body, making you shudder. You tighten yourself around him, making him grunt as he releases himself into you, his hot cum seeping down your leg as he pulls out of you.

A chuckle escapes his lips as he turns you around. "Every night, at 3am, meet me here." He growls in your ear before he's gone.

A little confused on what happened, you go to the bathroom to clean yourself up before you crawl back into bed, cuddling up against the man you love.

The next morning, Chanyeol rolled over as he usually did, gliding his hands over your body. Your bipples were perky and sensitive, your clit throbbing, desperately needing to be touched. He lifted your shirt, placing his mouth round your nipple, and sucking. Your back arches immediately as your orgasm suddenly bursts through your body.

"What was that?" He asks, pulling his cock out.

"I.. I don't know." You breathe. You knew it had to do with last night, it just had too.

Chanyeol slid his cock inside of you, making you cum again, by barely doing anything.

By the time he had finished making love to you, you needed a nap from cumming so much.

Over the next few weeks you were slowly but surely becoming increasingly more obsessed with Kai. Every Time he visited you, something became more heightened, and you longed for him. The feeling of his hot touch lingering on your skin, his lips pressed against you, his cock inside of you. Nothing compared to it anymore.

Every time you slept with Chanyeol, you weren't into it, it wasn't what you craved. You needed to be choked, gagged, fucked hard and he was too soft, you needed the roughness of Kai. No matter how many times you spoke to Chanyeol about it, he was turned off, he didn't like it.

"You okay babe?" Chanyeol asks one night as the two of you watch a show.

"I'm fine, why?" You reply, your stomach in knots. A part of you absolutely felt guilty for doing what you were doing. You loved Chanyeol, you had been together for the last four years but sometimes things change, people change, their needs change but you didn't have it in your heart to hurt him. You couldn't be the one to end it, not after everything the two of you had been through.

"Well I'm going to go to bed." He says, patting your leg. "I love you." He finishes, looking you in the eyes.

"You too." You smile, blowing a kiss to him. You did, but you couldn't say it, not anymore.

You stayed awake every night until 3am, when you hoped Kai would show up. Sometimes he would but sometimes he wouldn't show up and you hadn't seen him in two weeks. You were desperate for him.

Just before 3am, you strip yourself of your clothes, and stand at the sink, waiting for him.

"I've missed you" Kai's voice whispers in your ear, his body pressing against your back, while you're standing at the kitchen sink, wearing nothing.

"I missed you too." You say, leaning yourself into him. He wraps his arms around you, bringing his hand up to cup your bare breast, rolling your nipple in between his fingers.

"My most favorite outfit you own." He chuckles, moving his hand down from your breast, to your stomach, and in between your legs. "Spread." He demands. He takes his other arm, wrapping his around your neck, giving it a small squeeze as his hot fingers begin rubbing your clit.

"Nice wet pussy." He groans, slowly rubbing you. You can feel his cock harden against your back.

"Fuck me, please." You groan, grinding yourself against his growing erection.

"Are you a little needy, baby?" He asks, pushing you down, against the counter before unzipping his pants, allowing his cock to spring free.

"Oh god, yes I am." You cry.

He lines himself up with you, he slowly pushed himself inside of you, stretching out your walls more than anyone had before. "Fuck." You hiss, gripping the counter tightly.

"Such a good little slut." He growls, fingertips digging into your hips.

"Just for you." You moan, arching your back. He reaches one hand between your legs, rubbing your clit as he fucks you, hard.

He leans his head forward, resting his lips on your neck, lightly biting and kissing, making your orgasm approach quicker.

You hear a stir from the bedroom, you know Chanyeol will be out there any second, the adrenaline making you cum faster, the possibility of being caught in such a rush.

"Say my name." He demands, his thrusts quiet, but hard.

"Kai." You moan, his hands holding onto you tightly as he cums, spilling his hot cum inside you, filling you completely.

"That's right baby." He moans, kissing your neck gently before disappearing.

You catch your breath just in time as Chanyeol shuffles into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes.

"You okay babe?" He asks.

"Just getting a drink." You say quietly, relief flooding over you.

"Come back to bed." He sighs, turning around to head back. You follow him, silently while the cum of Kai runs down your leg.

You could see as time went on that Chanyeol was becoming more and more suspicious about your behavior. You were calling into work more often, sleeping a ton more and distant from him.

"Are you going to work today?" Chanyeol asks as he puts his suit on, not looking at you.

"No, I wasn't scheduled today." You yawn, rolling over in bed.

"Well i'll see you later then. I love you, Ayn." He sighs, walking out of the room, knowing you won't respond to him.

Later that afternoon when you woke up, it was just after lunch time. Your stomach was growling so much that you felt overly nauseous. You had thought that maybe you were just hungry and needed to eat. You reluctantly rolled from your bed, shuffling to the kitchen to find something to eat.

Yawning with your eyes closed as you walk into the kitchen, you didn't notice the figure sitting on the counter, waiting for you.

"Hi baby." He whispers, startling you.

"Oh my god." You jump, your hand over your heart. "You scared me." You say, containing your breathing. "What are you doing here? It's the middle of the afternoon?"

"I'm well aware of what time it is." He smiles. "I need you." He whispers, his voice in a deep purr.

"Oh? Do you?"

Within a second, he slams you against the wall, his hand gripping your chin as he pushes his leg between yours, spreading them. "Yeah, I do." He grunts, ripping your nighty from your body, leaving you naked. "So badly." He moans, bending down, to take a nipple in his mouth, sucking harshly. You bend your legs, resting yourself on his leg, your clit throbbing.

"I know you want to do it, baby." He whispers, looking down at his leg. "Go ahead."

You bite your lip as he flexes his thigh. You move your hips, rubbing clit on his hard muscle.

"Fuck." You pant, your hands holding onto the front of his suit tightly as you rub your clit faster on his leg.

"That's it baby."

The moment your orgasm is about to peak, Kai effortlessly lifts you from his leg, and places you on the counter. He kneels down, placing his face in between your thighs, flicking your clit with his tongue. Your hands find his hair, grabbing a chunk as you wrap your legs around his head, bringing him in closer.

Kai's lips wrap around your clit, his hands forcing your legs open. You tighten your grip on his head, grinding yourself on his face.

"Oh fuck.. oh yes." You cry out, your legs shaking as your orgasm takes over, washing through your body. "Oh my god." You pant, as Kai removes his head from between your legs, lickinh his lips.

He looks at you, his eyes black, his cock hard. He unzips his pants, his eyes never leaving yours. He lets his cock spring free, your pussy throbs as you look at it, needing him to stretch you out and pound himself into you.

He picks you up from the counter, laying you down softly on the kitchen table, your legs dangling over the edge. He places himself in-between your legs. Without warning he thrusts himself inside of you, not giving you time to adjust to his size. You wrap your legs around his waist as he pulls you up against him, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Kai walks the two of you over to the wall, pushing your body against it. He thrusts himself in and out of you, gently caressing your face and breasts before something in him changes. His hand leaves your face, and wraps around your neck, squeezing tightly as he forces his cock further and further inside of you.

"This is what you want, isn't it?" He spits. "You love when I fuck you like a little slut."

"Y-yes." You croak.

He pulls himself out of you, letting you slide down to the floor. He quickly turns you around, pressing your front to the wall as he inserts himself back inside you. He places your hands on the wall above your head before he grabs a chunk of your hair, forcing your head back as he continues to fuck you.

Your head still back against him, he reaches up, grabbing your throat again and giving it a good squeeze before he moves down to your breasts, pinching each nipple.

"Oh my god Kai, fuck, yes." You cry out, loudly. So loudly that you didn't hear the lock of your apartment door click.

"Good girl." Kai grunts, his hand reaching in front of you to rub your clit.

"Cum." He demands.

Within seconds, and you being pressed against the wall, you came hard, along with Kai, who pumps his cum inside of you.

"I'll see you soon, baby." He whispers in your ea, giving you a small kiss before he disappears.

You wander back into your room, falling into bed now exhausted after this afternoon's festivities.

What feels like 5 seconds later, you're woken up by the feeling of kisses on your cheek. You open your eyes and see Chanyeol hovering over you, a desperate look in his eyes.

"Hi." You whisper.

"Hi." He replies, his voice deeper.

"I need you." He says, your mind goes back to Kai and this afternoon a smile appears on your face.

"Fuck me hard." You moan, moving the blanket, and spreading your legs. You were nauseous but oh so horny. You closed your eyes, imagining it was Kai who was pushing himself inside of you at the moment.

You can hear Chanyeol grunting as he folds your legs far over your head, his cock pounding into you. He lets your legs go, bringing his body to hover over yours, his face now buried in your neck sucking and biting.

"Oh Kai." You whisper, not loud enough for him to hear, you thought.

Immediately he sits up, and wraps his hand around your throat, choking you hard, as he rams his cock super hard into you, his other hand on your clit flicking it like a button. You open your eyes just as you're about to cum and you see Kai standing there, his arms crossed as he smirks

"Fuck, Kai." You moan as you cum hard, like a geyser.

Chanyeol keeps going, with no intentions of slowing down until he cums. As he continues to ram himself into you, you begin seeing black dots and as you tightens around him once more and he finally cums, his body drapes over you, as you both heavily.

"Whose Kai?" He asks, pulling himself out of you, and getting off the bed.

"I.. um.. I.." you stutter, unsure of how to answer.

"I knew it. I knew you were fucking around. I'm done." Chanyeol spits, quickly getting dressed before beginning to pack a bag.

"I'm sorry.. please.." you beg.

"Fuck you." He spits, taking his bag and leaving the apartment you once shared.

You sit, and lay back on the bed, leaning yourself against Kai who had now appeared again.

"It's okay baby." He purrs, rubbing your stomach. "I'm all the two of you will ever need."

#exowritersnet #kai smut #chanyeol smut #kai fanfiction #chanyeol fan #Kai scenarios #exo kai #exo chanyeol #chanyeol scenario #exo #exo smut #exo fanfiction #exo writing #kpop scenario smut #kpop smut #kpop fanfic #kpop writing

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loving-all-for-loki · 3 years

Text

Voiceless Love Chapter 4: Little One

Loki x reader, Bucky x reader

Word count: 2061

Warnings: fluff, talk of family loss, depression (alludes to suicidal thoughts), mention of a boner, angst

Tag List: @caffeineoverloadandstudying @zizzlekwum @lokiyoulittle @magicalpieex @daddysfavoritesexkitten @buckylokisimp

A/N: Okay Loki lovers, this is a dozy. We’re gonna delve more into Y/N and Loki’s relationship and look at her background a little. There’s a little spice at the end then it ends with some angst so I’m sorry. Trigger warning, there is depression mentioned and there are a few sentences that could be taken as suicidal tendencies or attempts so a little warning there.

You find yourself sitting at the kitchen island one day and eating your cereal still contemplating how you got to bed the night before. Bits and pieces from the night before come back. You remember making Loki a sandwich and him reading a book to you, but after that everything goes blank. Loki comes into the kitchen and smiles as he sits next to you.

“Hello, little one.”

You smile up at him, looking at his shiny beautiful green eyes.

“Did you sleep well?”

You take out your pen and write yes on his forearm. He chuckles at the way you always have that pen on you.

“You really carry that around everywhere?”

Yes, I’m not scared of communicating, just talking

Loki nods his head in understandment, “can I ask why you don’t speak?”

You contemplate answering for a moment, not knowing whether you should answer that question or not.

“I’m sorry I shouldn't-”

You grab his arm and start writing all the way up to his bicep.

I’ve lost a lot of people in my life by twisting my words and changing them, so I figured if I were to write everything or make solid proof of my words, no one could change them.

Loki reads what you wrote then stares at you with a melancholy look. You hate being pitied, especially when you know the person is stuck up or prideful. Loki seems like one of those people who carries themselves on a higher pedestal than the rest. The looks he gives you makes you comfortable, urging you to repress into a small ball and close yourself off to him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Loki reaches his hand out to cover yours in comfort, but it only heightens your anxiety. You move your hand and lean away from him, which makes Loki feel bad. He doesn’t know how to act with you, one second you’re very sweet then you avoid him like the plague. That’s why he started to leave the room when you entered, he thought you’d hate him.

Don’t worry about it

You finish your bowl of cereal and set it in the sink before getting up and leaving. Loki follows you up to the library where you start reading a book and he continues his own. He keeps staring at you, this lonely girl who has more pain than he realized.

“Why are you here?”

You look up and over to him on his chair. His eyebrows are furrowed in confusion, waiting to know everything about you, including why he is so drawn to you. Getting up and setting your book down (with slight annoyance), you sit back down near him like the first time you two interacted. He reaches his arm out to you to use.

I’m an avenger.

“Well, clearly, but how?”

About two years ago, my parents and I got in a bad car accident. They both passed away and I survived, horribly injured and stuck in a hospital. I was in a horrible state to the point where I should have been dead, but somehow I was alive. That’s when we found out it was a targeted hit and why I wasn’t killed. My parents were the targets. S.H.I.E.L.D agents came to me and told me that they were involved and going to help me. A day or two later, a scientist came and talked to me about healing options and there was a “potion” of some sort they had been working on to completely heal any wounds. They said the risk of me dying from taking it was about 50/50 and I didn’t have much to live for. Without my parents, I was lost and depressed, so I agreed to take whatever liquid they had. It healed me, but it had side effects. I would trip and scuff up my leg, but I’d find the bruises and legs to completely go away in seconds. Turns out it had lingered somewhere in my bloodstream and not my injuries that it flowed through me, healing any wound. Then throughout time, I found out it gave me the power to heal others as well.

You run out of room on Loki’s forearm and switch over to his right side, making him chuckle.

It started with me accidently touching my friends' cuts and them completely healing. After SHIELD came by my house one day to check on me, I told them what had been going on and they took me to some lab or theirs. I was tested on for a little bit and they decided I would be a good asset to them as a healer for missions. Not having a plan for my life, I agreed to join and come help.

“You have no fighting background or any defense?”

Not at all. I’m just a personal nurse/antidote.

“What about your parents? Did they ever find out what happened?”

Hydra attack. Apparently, my parents were SHIELD agents back in the day and worked on a post-Captain America frozen case and Hydra wanted to cover up and hide Bucky. My parents found out about him.

“Your parents found out Bucky was alive a year before the Avengers did?”

Yes.

Loki nods his head, wrapping his brain around everything you just told him. No wonder you were so close with Bucky. You probably relate to him with how bad Hydra ruined your life.

“Does Bucky know about this?”

No. No one does except for you and Fury. He was told everything of course, but in my file he only put my powers and selective mute in ‘important information’. He knows how private I can be about things so he didn’t want to inform everyone on it if I didn’t want them to know.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Because I trust you

“No one trusts me.”

I do.

“Why?”

Because I know who you are. I know what happened with New York and it’s not your fault. I know what it feels like to be at the lowest point and want to do anything to feel something or get attention. I know you’re not a bad man, just a hurt one.

“I underestimated you, little one.”

You smile at each other, knowing you have a deeper bond than before. Loki chuckles at your shy little face, now knowing how much strength and depth you carry. You are much more than just a healer girl.

“I’m sorry about your parents.”

It’s okay. I’ve gotten over it.

“I remember when I lost my mom. It was my fault. I’ll never forgive myself for it.” Loki looks down to see you staring with big doe eyes. He smiles at you, the features on his face softening. “You make me feel better, though.”

I’m glad I can help.

“Were you mute before your parents died?”

No, it was the Hydra agents that twisted my words. Trying to get me to agree to things or say things about my parents. I stopped speaking.

“Hydra agents ma-”

They were the ones with the potion, not SHIELD. They’re trying to find what Hydra used on me and they took me in to protect me, but Hydra would come every day and aim a gun at my head. Asking me questions and threatening me.

“I’m so sorry. That must have been traumatic.”

That is why I don’t speak anymore, saves me from trouble.

“I don’t blame you. You’re very strong, little one.”

You and Loki share a smile, but the awkward silence fills the air. Loki wants nothing more than to hug and hold her, protect her from all the evil things in the world, but you’re timid. He doesn’t want to scare you again.

“I’ll leave you to your book,” he says, “thank you, for telling me everything.”

Thank you for listening.

You smile and nod before heading back to your seat and finishing Wuthering Heights. Loki’s eyes never leave you, though.

Another day or two goes on and you and Loki are closer than before. His whole body is covered in your writings and smears from when he washed off parts for you to write again. He doesn’t ever want to wash it all off, knowing your words are precious and important. You notice the way he rereads what you wrote when he’s sitting or eating. There’s something about his fascination with you that makes you feel important and loved. You’ve caught him a couple times smiling as he reads, byt quickly becoming stoic again when he realises you’re looking.

You’re baking a bunch of cookies for when the team comes home. The mission should be over in about a day and you wanted to surprise them. Loki comes walking in to see you covered in flour and munching on some spare dough that was too little to make a cookie. He chuckles at the sight of you and comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“What in the good heavens are you doing?”

You turn around and chuckle silently, pointing to the over. Loki slightly opens it and sees the pan of cookies baking.

“I didn’t know you baked.”

You grab your pen off the counter and write on his shoulder.

I love baking, music, and sewing.

“You learn something new every day,” he chuckles, “Can I help?”

I’d love that! I need these things mixed, you write as you point to the recipe, think you can do that?

“I think I can manage to mix some ingredients, little one.”

A couple minutes go by as the two of you mix and measure ingredients. You can’t help but watch the way Loki’s strong hands mix everything at a vigorous speed. You peel your eyes away, trying to not get caught and embarrass yourself.

What you don’t realize is the way Loki steals glances at you when you’re not looking. He loves the way your hair dances as you move around, the way you climb onto the counter to reach the highest shelves. You’re so focused while baking with your eyebrows furrowed and fingers skimming the bowls. He’s never seen a creature more adorable and divine. Then Loki notices the flour on your cheek and laughs, getting your attention.

“You have a little something on your face.”

Reaching out, he brushes the flour off of your forehead. The heat coming from your body is intimidating, calling him to get closer to you to warm up, but he denies himself. He brushes his hand against a towel to get rid of the flour before turning to you, who blows a little flour on him, covering his clothes in the white dust.

“Oh, you little-”

You start running around the island as Loki chases you. He laughs as you try to evade him, but he slips his arm around your bicep, pulling him into you. You fall on top of him, his body breaking the blow to your head.

Lifting yourself up, you look down to see Loki under you, his arms still around your waist. His eyes go big as soon as he realizes you’re straddling him in the worst place possible. He prays to Odin that you don’t feel his boner as you lay on top of him. You blush as you two stare at one another in the tight embrace

“I uh-” Loki stutters as his eyes flicker to your lips, trying to focus on anything but the heat of your body on his.

All of a sudden, there’s a horrible sound coming from outside the tower. It pierces your ears, forcing you to cover them and drop on top of Loki fully. He pulls one arm around your whole body and cradles your head in his other.

“What is that sound?” he winces. Loki looks over to see the Quinjet landing and Sam Wilson running out of it.

Sam’s eyes go wide at the sight of you and Loki embracing on the floor. He notices the writing all over Loki’s arms and legs and the way he smiles as he looks up at you. He shakes it off as he goes in seeing that he has bigger problems at hand. “Y/N!” He shouts.

You look up to see Sam in a hurried scared face.

“We need you! Bucky got hurt and may not live! We need you to save him!”

#loki fanfic #loki fan fiction #loki x reader #loki laufeyson #loki #loki x reader fluff #bucky fluff #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader fluff #bucky fic #bucky fanfic #buckyfanfiction #voicelesslove #lovingallforloki

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alittlebitmaybe · 4 years

Text

with a fated touch

For @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: reunion

Pairing: Geralt/Yennefer

Rating: E

Warnings: None

Additional Tags: PWP, Canon-Typical Mind Reading, Inappropriate Use of Magic, Cunnilingus, Facefucking/riding, Light D/S dynamics, Dirty Talk, Mild Praise Kink

Summary: (2.6k)

“Presumptuous,” she murmurs, running her forefinger over his bottom lip.

“Sorry,” Geralt says, not sounding so at all. His tongue comes out briefly to meet her touch. “I’ve missed this. You.”

Or: The first time they meet after the dragon hunt, Yennefer puts Geralt on his knees.

Read more on AO3 or below the cut!

Geralt’s hands slide up her thigh, pushing her dress higher, and gooseflesh erupts over her skin when cool air hits it. His other hand brushes her hair back from her shoulder while his mouth moves along the line of her collarbone, desperate open-mouthed kisses a counterpoint to the burn of his stubble as it drags against her.

He’s beginning to harden against her stomach. She fists her fingers through his loose hair, lets her nails scrape his scalp. He groans as she pulls him back.

“Are we doing this?” she asks him. He tries to lean in again, unfocused and helpless, but she channels chaos to hold him in place. “Geralt. Answer me.”

“Yen,” he says, gruff. She withholds a shiver. “I am trying to do this. If you’ll let me continue.”

His hand, without permit, continues its journey up her leg. She allows this for an inch, two, his thumb brushing the hem of her smallclothes, before reaching out with her magic and halting that too. His palm spans the width of her thigh—he looms over her—yet she can control him with a spell, a touch, a word. It never fails to send a thrill through her. He has no real power over her. He wants to be hers. He craves it.

“Don’t you want it?” he asks. That thumb sweeps back and forth at the crease of her hip, though it can move no higher. His other hand has settled around the back of her neck, tilting her up to meet his gaze. A wall of lust smashes into her from his thoughts, impossible to ignore. He projects it at her nevertheless. It rushes through her, slips hot down her spine. She could block it, but she doesn’t.

“Yes,” she breathes. “Always.” A betrayal, perhaps—she shouldn’t want him, it’s not real. But it’s not in her nature to deprive herself. Not when images are pushing into her mind, memories, fantasies, spreading the heat through her belly.

Geralt must know she’s attuned to him, because he says, “How do you want it?” An image of him on his back, her on top. Using him. “Like this?” Yennefer perched on her vanity with him before her, both of them fully clothed. “Or this?” Both of them on their sides on the bed, him curled behind her, her leg held high to make room for him. “I’m full of ideas. Say the word.”

“Presumptuous,” she murmurs, running her forefinger over his bottom lip.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding so at all. His tongue comes out briefly to meet her touch. “I’ve missed this. You.”

All at once she releases the magical restraints and yanks his mouth down to her own, kissing him with the same urgent passion that had driven them together all the way back in Rinde. She wants to mount him above her mantle. To sink her teeth in and rip him open. She does away with kindness—she hates him for what he’s done to her. For her own failure to resist him. For the longing that radiates from him under the lust. He has yearned for her. He tells her this with his mind, with the way he yields control of the kiss to her without a second’s hesitation, with the way he presses them together sternum-to-stomach as though even a hint of space between them is too far. More than yearning, he thinks, and she realizes she has been pushing her own thoughts back to him unintentionally.

“Enough,” she says in the gasp separating one kiss from the next. He steals another peck before awaiting her judgment. He is hot all over, so close, his breath, his chest, his straining cock. She’s doing this to him. It’s all for her, and she’s weak. She wants him again like she’s had him before. Like no one has ever—

She stops that seed of thought before it can grow wild. She says, “Undress me.”

It takes only a moment for him to pick out the knot of her corset and loosen the lacing. The straps of her dress droop down her shoulders.

“Anything else?” he asks, a faint smirk crossing his bitten lips. Too lucid. She’s going to undo him.

Yen smiles back despite herself. “You’ll put yourself to good use. On your knees, Witcher.”

He kisses the corner of her mouth one last time, lingering, and says, “As m’lady wishes.”

Her retort is lost somewhere in her throat when he begins tracing a slow path down her body with hands and mouth, following the dress as he guides it down. Gods, he knows how to touch her—knows where to bite to send sparks up her spine, knows that her right breast is much more sensitive than the left, knows that fingertips swept down her side will toe the line between enticing and ticklish. Her dress puddles to the ground at last when he lowers himself to kneeling and puts his teeth to her hipbone, lightly, before nuzzling at the rise of her belly.

Only her smallclothes are left now. “Well? Finish the job,” she orders, voice thin and higher-pitched but thankfully even. He hooks two fingers in the waistband, tugs, and leaves her bare. She steps out of the pile of clothing, kicking it to the side.

He looks up at her with widened pupils, trusting. Her Geralt. For he is hers, isn’t he? He treats her as if she’s the answer he’s always sought; she knows he’d do anything she wanted at the barest suggestion. She’s tested those limits, and not even the godsforsaken unicorn shook him. Is that truly him, or simply the wish? How can she ever know?

Not the time. Not with him waiting on the floor where she’d put him, and her naked in the drafty air.

“Light the fire,” she tells him.

He forms Igni at the dying hearth, which catches in a blaze. She spreads her legs, runs her fingers over the backs of his scarred hands to urge them under the curve of her ass.

“Brace me,” she says, and his grip tightens to take her weight. “You’re not to let go.”

He stares up at her, taking her commands in stride, patient even though he’s still untouched. Even though he must smell her arousal. In his position even an unenhanced man would be able to tell how slick she’s gotten.

The stream of his thoughts continues to flow thick with want but otherwise remains calm and steady. She’d like to see how long he can wait before the current turns turbulent. How long he can await instruction without moving a muscle, and all the while she gets wetter until her cunt threatens to drip on the rug.

Geralt’s chin bumps the inside of her thigh. “You’re testing me,” he rumbles.

“Yes, quite,” replies Yennefer. To up the ante, she reaches down and circles her clit slowly. When she presses harder, she moans softly at the relief. He watches the movement, jaw tensing, before flicking his gaze back to her face.

“Is this a punishment?”

“Perhaps.” Her breath hitches and she fights to keep still as she teases herself, just this side of not what she really needs. She aches to get it but can’t give in yet. “What do you want, Geralt? Do you want to taste me?”

He nods.

“Speak when you’re spoken to.”

“Yes,” he says. “Please.”

“Good boy, remembering your manners.” She rocks into her touch just a little, slipping two fingers inside herself before she removes her hand. “Open up.” When he obediently parts his lips, she withdraws her fingers and places them on his tongue, pressing down. “Clean them for me, Witcher, and maybe you can have more.”

He groans as he sucks the wetness from her skin, his eyes dropping shut as if he could get drunk on her. She gathers another fistful of his hair, cards it back out of his face. Holds it tight.

She sends him a question. What would you do for me?

Geralt shifts on the floor, his breeches taut over his cock and thighs when he leans back on his heels. A damp spot spreads near his waistband—already, the needy bastard. She’s barely begun.

What would you let me do to you?

It takes a few moments and even then a flurry of vivid images is his only answer. She takes them to mean Everything.

Her fingers leave his mouth with a pop, and she cups his cheek, tugging on his hair. He chases after them—so easy. So easy to have him like this, but only for her. Only with her does he stop checking his blind spots. Gods, she could burst from the disappointment of living in a reality that would keep her from him. Of a destiny that would force them together.

“Yen,” he starts, voice like gravel. “Here? Wouldn’t you rather we—”

“Don’t presume to know what I would rather,” she snaps, and grips him under the chin. “We do this my way or no way at all.”

He quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t argue.

She says, “I’ll tell you what I would rather. I’d rather come on your face and then leave you here as a toy for my personal use. I could immobilize you, but I wouldn’t have to. You’d stay right here on your knees until I told you otherwise. Tell me you would.”

“I would,” he rasps.

“I’d leave you hard and unsatisfied, drooling with how much you want it. Like a dog for a bone. I’d go over to my bed and get a full night of peaceful sleep, and you would have to stay here and hope I’d come back in the morning to take mercy on you.”

“Yen, fuck.”

“Should I, Geralt? Do you deserve my mercy?”

Reaching out with her magic, trailing it over his nipples and down his abdomen under his clothes, she finally wraps it around the base of his cock. He inhales sharply but does not reply.

She leans more fully into his support, spreads her legs as wide as she can manage to open herself to him.

“Don’t take all night,” she says, releasing his chin and urging him forward by the back of the head.

He buries his nose into dark hair, lips kissing along her vulva and the crease of her thighs. Building anticipation that doesn’t need to be built. She’s already clenching around nothing from his proximity, from the way she can feel his hips pushing against the tight hold of her magic for some semblance of friction. At last he goes where she wants him, licking broadly up her cunt. She bites her lip as he flicks his tongue over her clit. Swears when he sucks, and lifts herself towards the wet heat of his mouth.

His fingers flex and dig into her the skin of her ass. If he had his way, she knows he’d have them inside her by now. He loves to rub over that spot that makes her eyes roll back while he works her clit with his mouth, bringing her to ruin inside and out. One time he had lain her out and made her come over and over again on his mouth and fingers until she could no longer tell how many hours had passed. Gods, she’d nearly screamed for him that day. She had let him get her there. She’d wanted to.

Without the use of his fingers, Geralt makes do. His mind simmers with frustration and determination and need.

Yen eases the phantom touch up his shaft as he licks down toward her entrance, and his teeth catch against her on his gasp. She can’t quiet the whine that tumbles out of her throat. “You like that, don’t you?” He makes his way back to her clit, circles it with just the right pressure. “You like—oh—you like feeling my magic on your cock. I bet you want more. I bet you’d beg for it after long enough, with my taste on your lips and nothing in return.”

He pulls her tighter to his face, and she yanks on his hair to make him groan. At the same time, she forms the magic into a fist around him. It begins stroking him at a moderate pace, not how he wants it, quick and hard and now, but enough to keep him on the edge of desperate. It squeezes around the head how she’s seen him do to himself—how she has done to him—and he pauses his work to pant harshly against her skin.

When he stops, so does the magic. He growls.

“Now you know the rules,” Yen says breathlessly. “I come, then you come. Not before.”

“Fucking—” he curses quietly, hips rutting uselessly into the stilled touch. He settles for biting down on her inner thigh. Her legs tremble.

With renewed vigor he licks into her once more, doing away with technique and strategy. He centers his energy on her clit, clearly not aiming for anything other than to make her fall apart above him—her shoulders curve in and her mouth falls open on a cry.

“Yes, like that. Good boy,” she tells him again when he lets off enough for her to find the words. “Can you do that while I ride you? Hold still for me?”

He makes eye contact with her, irises nearly swallowed by pupil. Nods.

“Perfect,” she whispers, and grinds her cunt into his face.

He meets her rhythm with some guiding from the hand still in his hair, alternating his flicks from his tongue with firm suction that shoots sparks through her nerves. By the gods, she’s not going to last long. He knows her too well, knows how to put himself where she needs him most. The higher he sends her the more of her weight he must support, until it’s nearly only him holding her up to his mouth while she shakes and fucks herself on him with rolling hips.

The magic on his cock speeds as she ascends; she can feel the tension climbing through his muscles with the effort to hold back. A flick of her wrist sends the touch to engulf him as if he is sunk deep in a warm throat. He moans, and one of his hands slaps against her ass.

“Careful, just—almost—”

She thrusts forward and he sucks hard and she comes, convulsing in his grip, keeping him there by his hair while he works her through it. Until he must be running out of air, even with the mutations, and his eyelids flutter with the effort. The throat around him tightens, swallows.

Yen says, chest heaving, “Go on, Geralt. You can come now.”

He does, his forehead pressed snug into the soft give of her stomach, breathing her name so quiet that she might not hear it.

She combs her fingers through his hair and stands fully on her own, though her legs are still weak and her spine aches. The pins in her hair are poking at her scalp, so she pulls them out and tosses them on the vanity on her way to the bed, stepping over the discarded dress. It can be hung in the wardrobe in the morning.

Yennefer has one knee on the mattress before she realizes Geralt is still where she left him on the rug by the fire, gazing after her with a question in his eyes, like she might actually leave him there in his soaking breeches to be used at her whim.

Maybe next time.

She throws back the blankets and pats the space beside her. “Are you joining me or not, Witcher?”

He grins.

#my fic #the witcher #the witcher fic #yenralt #geralt x yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #geralt of rivia #lmao i tried to edit the post last night and broke it and i just decided to post it today instead bc it was a weird time anyway #writing 2600 words of pwp took like 2 years off my life <3

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agoodgoddamnshot · 4 years

Text

Navigating - Geralt/Jaskier [G]

Warnings: None (Geraskier Getting Together; Injured Roach)

Word Count: 6,837

Originally posted on my AO3

The Witcher is a cantankerous old bastard; not entirely fond of talking, which is fine for Jaskier (he talks enough for both of them), and with a deep scowl permanently etched into his face. It’s been a few weeks since Jaskier adhered himself to the Witcher’s side. The soles of his boots are beginning to wane and his joints protest every hour spent walking from town to town. Even when they come upon an inn, and Jaskier’s muscles graciously steep in a warm bath, the ache still lingers in his bones.

But the Witcher keeps going. Jaskier idly wonders how many circuits of the Continent he’s done. What villages and towns does he spend the most amount of time in? Which city is his favourite? But the Witcher stays quiet, perched up on his horse and leading them to the next town. It’s a small trading post, straddling a crossroads between some major mid-continent cities. Even though the town itself is small, it has enough taverns and inns in it to feed and house travellers. And the people don’t mind Witchers – something Jaskier has had to take into consideration when he asks for board.

Jaskier watches merchants and their aides pull the last of their wares into storage for the night. They’ll be gone by morning, on their way to whatever regent’s city who is demanding silks or spices or the most recent harvest.

Taverns and inns are filling up quickly. They manage to snag the last rooms available in a quaint enough inn with stables around the back. Jaskier slides the innkeep the necessary coins, as well as two pieces of silver for two portions of venison stew, a loaf of bread, and some mead. Jaskier’s stomach trembles with the promised of being warmed and filled.

Geralt’s horse is his own responsibility. In the weeks of following the Witcher around Jaskier’s hasn’t so much as touched the mare. Not that she would let him. Any time Jaskier so much as glances in her direction, her ears flatten and she gives him a glare that could rival her master’s.

So Jaskier nabs a small table within the inn for them as Geralt settles Roach down for the night. The smallest of chips cracks in the Witcher’s stern expression whenever his mare is concerned. He’s sure that he’s out there now, slipping off her tack for the night, making sure that stablehands don’t mess with her. A full feed bucket, a hay net, and a soft bed; that’s what Roach deserves with carrying Geralt around the Continent.

The Witcher steps into the inn just as their dinner arrives. Two bowls amply filled with stewed venison and root vegetables, a loaf of bread still warm from the oven, and tankards of ale that look newly brewed. Jaskier’s stomach almost seizes at the sight.

“Hope this will be enough,” he says as Geralt sits opposite him. Because he’s seen the Witcher go for days without eating a thing – giving Jaskier his portions of rations when they started to get low – and eat an entire store of food in one sitting. There is very rarely is anything in between.

Geralt grunts. As much of an answer as Jaskier is going to get out of him.

They eat mostly in silence; Jaskier offering short bursts of conversation when he can because sometimes the silence can be deafening, despite the inn humming with noise around them. His lute sits by his leg, propped up against him. If he can stave off sleep, he might perform a few songs – if the innkeep doesn’t mind, of course. But she looks like a kind-enough soul who would appreciate a ballad of adventure.

Geralt finishes his food first, all but inhaling it and his mead. Just as he wipes the last of his crusty bread through some remaining stew, Geralt lifts his chin. “We’ll have to stay here for a few days,” he says simply. “Roach won’t be able to travel.”

Golden eyes meet Jaskier’s. “If you want to leave, bard, and go somewhere else, I won’t stop you.”

Jaskier almost splutters around a mouthful of mead. “Why would I leave? You’re where the stories are – you’re doing great things for my career.” Or would-be career. He won’t rest until his songs have seeped into the soil of the Continent, stretched out from Pont Vanis to Beauclair, until every pauper and noble knows the opening plucked chords of each composition. Jaskier clears his throat. “Why, what’s wrong with your horse?”

Geralt’s eyes drop. His fingers rub together and pick at the splintering wood of the table. “One of her legs is lame,” he says. “Don’t know how I missed it.” And there’s a storm behind those eyes; looking down at his empty plate as he mulls over some thought. But Geralt grunts after a time. “Ask the innkeep if you can sing here to pay for rooms,” he says, getting up from the table and grabbing his cloak. “Our coin is running thin and I don’t want to be spending it on board.”

Jaskier nods. “Alright,” he says, quickly polishing off the last of his food and slinging his lute case over his shoulder.

And the innkeep is as kind as he expects her to be. Toss A Coin has spread throughout the countryside like a wildfire. She has him play it for the patrons already within the tavern, settled down for their suppers. And even road-weary and feeling sleep pull at him, Jaskier lures smiles and soft laughs out of people as he strings together all of the songs he can remember. A mixture of his own compositions and songs that he learned within the Academy or out on the road.

He rattles through a handful of polkas when he spots traders from the Skellige Isles; grinning broadly when they howl back raunchy lyrics and crow in laughter. This is what he wants, when his fingers are riddled with old aged pain and his voice starts to tremble and crack; memories of people singing and dancing and laughing, his songs spreading throughout the Continent for other future bards to play with.

Gods only know how much time slips past him. Some patrons leave, heading upstairs to sleep before their early morning departing. Others order more mead and ale, sitting back in their chairs as Jaskier’s voice begins to rasp and crackle with overuse. He doesn’t have Oxenfurt mentors to lecture him anymore – take breaks, take care of that voice, it’ll be your livelihood. The innkeep offers him a drink during the lull between songs, when he takes the time to retune his lute. To the edge of the tavern, collecting emptied tankards and plates, one of the tavern maids watches him out of the corner of her eye. She’s a beautiful girl, a round face with emerald eyes and full lips, an ample chest and hips. Jaskier swallows. He has had people watch him before, women and men lulled in by his voice and words.

The girl giggles as she catches his eye, turning to retreat to the back with her arms laden with dishes. Long golden hair tumbles down her back and flows behind her as she walks.

And before Jaskier can pull himself together for another chorus, finishing off the last of his drink, welcoming the hum of ale in his veins, his nose wrinkles at a light perfume lapping over him. “Are you the Witcher’s bard?” The woman, who must barely be as old as him, asks. Her voice is smooth, with a light regional accent lilting through it.

A small smile curls along Jaskier’s lips. “I am,” he says, bowing his head slightly. The girl laughs at it. “And who may you be, my lady?”

It might be the best night’s sleep he’s had in weeks, rivalling nights where he would soak a travel-weary body in a hot bath, scented with salts and oils. Jaskier blinks at the first streams of morning light stretching into the room. They’re crawling towards the foot of the bed, a mess of kicked-down sheets and furs. A light linen sheet hangs lowly over his hips, with most of the warmth lapping through him coming from the body plastered along his side.

Jaskier rubs a hand over his face. Looking down at the girl next to him – or rather, on top of him – he can’t stop a small content smile curling his lip. Her hair fans out over her shoulder and neck, still bare from the night before. The smell of sex still lingers in the air, and memories flashing in front of him like afterimages send a pleasurable thrum through him. The girl – and Jaskier really struggles to remember her name – shuffles against him, her arm strung over his abdomen and hugging him close.

She was sweet – blushing and giggling as they scampered upstairs and fell into bed. And her lips were soft and every touch she skimmed across him sent his skin alight.

He just hopes a father or brother doesn’t come barging through the door, wielding a knife, as they’re oft of doing.

He should go, slip out while she’s still content and asleep, and be on the road again. But the realisation settles over him that Roach is injured, and the Witcher went out to tend to her.

And...Jaskier blinks. And he can’t remember if he ever came back inside.

An arm tightens around him. The girl – Clara! – lifts her head from Jaskier’s shoulder, blinking against the brightness of the room. When her eyes settle on him, a smile curls along her plump lips.

“Good morning,” he offers her a smile. She has been curled around him all night. And the thought of stepping out into the fresh summer morning air, that still holds some of the night’s chill to it, isn’t the most pleasant of thoughts. Clara looks to the only window of the room. A heavy sigh escapes her. “I have to go,” she mourns. She scrubs a hand over her face. “Ellayne will kill me if I’m not downstairs to help with breakfast.”

Jaskier hums. He lets himself roll out and languish into a full-body stretch, wincing slightly at the groan of muscles and protesting joints cracking as he settles back into the mattress. He’s content to just lie here, catching up on much-needed rest. Bu the mention of breakfast has him perked.

Clara slips out of bed, quickly grabbing her clothes before early morning air can nip at her skin. She pulls the front ties of her dress together. “Will you be here for long?” she asks, mostly flattening the pleats of her skirt, but casting a quick glance to him out of the corner of her eye.

And that, he doesn’t know. “My companion’s mount is injured, I’m afraid. So until she is well enough to carry us to our next adventure, I guess I’ll be staying here.”

It earns a warm smile out of the woman. She bows her head slightly, tucking some golden hair behind her ear. “Would you...,” she nods to the door, “I can bring you up some food, if you’re hungry?”

And he tries to smother the sound of his stomach growling. But—

“Thank you, darling, that’s a lovely offer,” he replies, finally sitting up in the bed, “but I have to check in with my companion. We can have something later.”

Clara nods. She has one last check over herself before leaving, gently letting the door click shut behind her. Jaskier’s body protests getting out of bed. It’s soft and warm and his bones are tired and just screech at him to rest. But Geralt’s blasted well-being nibbles at the back of his mind. The Witcher keeps to himself, sure. And why would he knock on Jaskier’s door while the bard had a girl in his bed, just to bid him a goodnight?

Slipping on breeches, boots, and a cream-coloured, light shirt, Jaskier heads to the tables. Geralt’s room is beside his, and his door still hasn’t been closed. A quick glance inside the room shows the bed still neatly made; pillows fluffed and stacked to the headboard while thick furs line the foot of the bed.

The tavern downstairs is quiet. A few maids drift between tables, collecting emptied plates and topping up tankards. Breakfasts seem to be as generously portioned as dinners; fried eggs and crusty loaves of bread, still warm from the oven; grilled bacon and fried sausages, stewed beans and grilled mushrooms. It takes everything within Jaskier not to drift out to a table and stuff himself with food.

The morning isn’t as cold as he feared. Trudging further into the height of summer, the night’s chill doesn’t linger in the morning as the sun quickly started to warm the air. Labourers and stablehands in the yard are already beaded with sweat and shedding their tunics. Jaskier slips through them and heads for the stables. Most of the merchants and tradesmen have gone, taking their wares, carriages, and steeds with them. Jaskier passes mostly emptied stalls before coming upon one that has its door bolted shut.

And he blinks as he peers inside.

Geralt is there, with Roach, sitting with his back pressed up against the stable’s wall. The mare is lying down, her head snugly nestled on Geralt’s lap. The Witcher runs a hand up and down the mare’s stripe, occasionally scratching lightly at her soft muzzle. His other hands smooth along her neck, keeping her at ease and drifting further into sleep.

He doesn’t want to intrude. Looking at Geralt’s face, Jaskier’s throat almost bobs at the smoothed out expression. He looks...well, not pissed off. And in the weeks of trailing after the Witcher, he hasn’t seen Geralt not scowling.

But the Witcher has finely tuned senses – something Jaskier is still getting used to. Within a few seconds, just as Jaskier thinks of slipping away, Geralt turns and looks at him.

Jaskier’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth. “Morning,” he says, the word stumbling out of his mouth before he can think of anything better to say.

Golden eyes linger on him for a moment before Geralt hums. Morning. The unspoken reply.

Jaskier sets his arms on the stall’s door, peering further inside. Roach looks...well, Roach looks fine. She’s asleep, soft snores coaxed out of her by Geralt’s petting. But his eyes linger on a white cloth wrapped around one of her front fetlocks. “She’s lame?” he asks, keeping his voice low. It then occurs to him that he’s speaking quietly as to not to wake up a horse.

Geralt hums. “Strained, I think.” A long sigh escapes Roach, earning a small smile from the Witcher. It barely ghosts his lips, almost not there at all, but a stray beam of light streaming in through the stables catches it. “She’ll be fine.”

Jaskier nods. His fingers pick at the splintering wood of the stall door. Looking at the Witcher, he knows that he hasn’t slept. They can go for long stretches of time without sleeping, according to Geralt. But after travelling for days on end, with no breaking except to make camp, and countless completely bounties for the neighbouring towns and cities, the Witcher needs rest. Jaskier clears his throat. “Did you, uh,” he says, “did you get much sleep?”

That quirks Geralt’s eyebrow.

Jaskier splays his hands. “Just, I noticed that you didn’t sleep inside, and I thought that you might appreciate, um, a changing of the guard...in a way.”

Geralt watches him carefully. “Roach doesn’t like you,” he says simply. And I don’t trust you enough to touch my horse. The last part goes unsaid, but the words linger in the air between them.

Jaskier lifts a shoulder. “I know, but,” he rubs the back of his neck, “I thought that you might be tired. And breakfast is being served inside, if you’re hungry.”

Those golden eyes could bear right through him at the best of times; but Geralt regards the bard for a moment. He turns to Roach, still contently strung across his lap, snoring peacefully. He fidgets with some of her mane. “She has to keep lying down,” he says after a time. When he looks at Jaskier, his gaze hardens. “She can’t put any weight on her leg.”

Jaskier nods. “Understood.”

Roach wakes as Geralt carefully slips out from underneath her. She lets out a soft nicker before Geralt gentles her muzzle. The two of them seem to have an unspoken conversation, just looking at each other. Geralt stands, stretching out his back and legs. His armour sits in pieces stacked against the corner of the stall, with the Witcher only clad in a loose black tunic and breeches and worn boots.

He slips past Jaskier, nostrils flaring slightly. He stalls in his steps, turning to Jaskier; a question forming on the tip of his tongue, but ultimately gets swallowed once he turns and leaves the barn.

As soon as Geralt disappears behind the corner of the stables, Jaskier turns to the stall door. Roach is awake, watching him with stern eyes. Her ears flatten as Jaskier steps into the stable. He holds up his hands. “I’m just here to help,” he says, and it occurs to him that he could be mad, talking to and trying to reason with a horse.

The mare huffs, curling in on herself and slipping back to sleep.

Jaskier sits in the corner of the stall, content to just watch over the mare until Geralt returns; preferably with a full stomach and well-rested. He’s watched the Witcher meditate before, when Jaskier sits by the campfire and idly plucks at the strings of his lute. Geralt would sit nearby, eyes closed and hands settled on to his thighs. Even though it all had the air of sleeping, Geralt could snap back within seconds. And his swords always sat nearby.

Jaskier’s head thumps back against the stable’s wall. The mare slips back asleep, her injured leg stretched out away from her. Looking at it, even with the cloth draped over it, he can’t see anything particularly wrong with it. His mind is drawn back to the horses his father owned – and the stablehands that he employed. The boys the same age as the viscount’s son, and got along famously well. One of them in particular, Johannes, was good at fixing all of the viscount’s horses. Jaskier wishes that he were here – the boy, barely older than Jaskier, could look at a standing horse and point out everything wrong with it, and how to fix it.

So he shuffles over. The cloth draped over Roach’s leg is damp and slightly cool to the touch. Peeling it away from her leg, Jaskier’s brow knits into a frown. It’s swollen, ever so slightly, but just enough to be different from her other fetlock. He clicks his tongue. “Poor girl,” he mumbles, looking for her water bucket. He dips the cloth back into it. It won’t be as cold as he’d like it to be, but it’ll help.

Roach watches him, still sprawled out in her bed of hay and sawdust. She stays stock still as Jaskier lays the cloth back over her ankle, making sure that enough of it sits seeping into her skin.

He isn’t sure how long he spends in that stall. A few stablehands come and go, mucking out other stalls and leading new travellers’ horses into them. Jaskier’s ears prick at a few different accents rolling in through the yard. Merchants from all over the Continent stream through these roads. And if he were younger, he might want to hop on one of their carriages and go with them to wherever it is that they’re going. Maybe sticking with the Witcher might get him to see the entire Continent.

The day trudges by, and surprisingly enough, Geralt leaves him to watch over Roach for longer than he expected. The mare eventually blinks awake, stretching out languidly. As she makes to stand, Jaskier sits up, holding out his hands. “Now just you wait, madam,” he says, “you have to rest.” He wants to set his hand on her neck and scratch at her – like Geralt had been doing. But the mare’s ears flatten. Jaskier almost balks. “Listen. You’re injured. Gods alive, but you’re as stubborn as your master-”

A throat clears. Whipping his head around, Jaskier almost blanches at the sight of the Witcher standing at the stall door. He quirks an eyebrow. “Is she giving you trouble?” he rumbles, looking down at both Jaskier and the horse.

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “She’s just as stubborn as you, I swear.” And it would be sort of endearing; if said horse wasn’t flinching at his every touch and flattening her ears back when he comes too close.

Geralt grunts. “She’s injured,” he reasons, fooling his arms over his chest. “She’s allowed to be stubborn.”

Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. Stupid Witchers and their respect for their mounts. For the first time in a long time, quite possibly in his life, Jaskier swallows his words. So he grabs another piece of cloth and soaks it in water. Shuffling footsteps fall in front of him before he sees Geralt lowering himself into the far corner of the stall, letting Roach put her head back in his lap. Jaskier tries to keep his attention on the task at hand; but taking a quick glance up he’s almost floored by the sight of the Witcher letting the mare settle on him with a gentle huff. He cards his fingers through her mane, wrangling out the tangles and smoothing the hair against her neck.

It’s a while before either of them moves. Geralt’s head perks up at the sound of people talking. A farrier. He’s an older man, with thinning grey hair and a weathered face. But he’s able to nudge and move a draft horse around to look at the stead’s shoes. A merchant stands nearby, holding on to the horse’s headcollar. Geralt’s eyes narrow slightly. Something he does when he’s thinking.

“Do you want him to have a look at Roach?” Jaskier asks, his voice quiet. The mare’s eye opens slightly, regarding him for a moment, before she goes back to sleep.

Geralt hums. With the mare’s head settled comfortably in his lap, it’s Jaskier who offers to proposition the farrier. That, and people don’t tend to even glance in Geralt’s direction when he enters a room. The man is just about finished with the merchant’s steed, wiping his hands on a rag.

Geralt stands and stalks out of the stall. Jaskier keeps a firm pressure on Roach’s tendon, lightly massaging it, trying to get the blood to flow properly again. The mare huffs, but she doesn’t lurch up to bite him. And honestly, that’s all Jaskier can really hope for.

Geralt returns with the farrier, quietly telling him what happened and how he found it.

The man, older than Jaskier took him for, nods sagely. “If it’s just swellin’, then the lass will just need rest,” he says, stepping into the stall. Jaskier backs away, happy to let the expert at it.

Some deep noise rumbles out of Roach – not a particularly happy one at the sight of a stranger coming near her. Geralt clicks his tongue. A sharp sound that cracks through the air as harsh as a whip.

Jaskier settles his hand on to her hindquarters, fingers flush out into her fur. The beginning of a winter coat is starting to settle in, with her hair fluffier than usual.

It doesn’t take the farrier long to stand back up. “Aye, nothing too serious,” he says, slipping out of the stall again. Geralt eyes him cautiously. “Rest her as long as you’re able to. Will you be heading home, wolf?”

Jaskier blinks. He sits up that bit straighter. Home?

Geralt’s jaw tightens. “I was planning to,” he rumbles, letting his voice fall quiet. “But if she can’t walk, I’ll stay down here.”

The farrier shakes his head. “None of that,” he waves his hand, “you wolves need to go home and get your own rest. She should be right as rain within a few days.”

The farrier leaves them, not taking a hint of gold. When Geralt comes back inside, letting Roach nudge his hand when he leans down to scratch her forehead, Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. “Home?” he asks, never quite being able to snap his jaw shut or silence his own tongue.

Geralt doesn’t look at him. “Some Witchers return home for the winter,” he rumbles, sitting back down to let Roach stretch out her neck and settle her head in his lap. He cards his fingers through her mane and forelock. The mare huffs.

Jaskier hums, scratching any stretch of skin he can reach on the mare. It keeps his fidgeting hands busy, but his mind still churns. The Witcher is a grumpy old thing with a tight jaw and a silent tongue. Anything he’s managed to lure out of him in the past few weeks was solely by chance, or suggesting a rumour that he once heard and watching for a reaction, just to see if it’s true or not.

Geralt has never, ever said anything about a home. He doesn’t have much of an accent. Nothing as rasping, yet lulling, like the ones from the Skellige isles; and certainly not like the nasal of most of the wealthier capitols. Jaskier doesn’t even know where he’s from.

“Where’s home?” he finds himself asking. Because when the flood starts, he can rarely ever stop it. He’ll blame it on youth, but he knows that he just likes prodding and luring things out of the Witcher.

Geralt doesn’t say anything for a while, but Jaskier watches his response swirl around in his mind; some internal struggle churning around on whether or not to voice it. When something slips out of the Witcher’s lips, it’s quiet and Jaskier almost misses it. “Kaer Morhen. The Witcher school.”

School. He’s become adept at cementing everything Geralt says to memory. He can spin ballads and stories out of most things. But this seems like something different.

Geralt’s jaw flexes. “We go home every winter,” he rumbles, keeping his attention solely on the mare sprawled out on his lap. “Or when he can, at least.”

Something hangs in the air. It’s sour and Jaskier doesn’t like it at all.

I won’t be able to this year.

The bard clicks his tongue. “I’m sure Roach will be better by morning,” he says firmly, speaking it into existence. The mare snoozes contently between the two of them. Jaskier sits back, pressing his back flush against the wooden wall.

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“I’m staying here,” he replies, “for company.”

The Witcher’s eyes narrow. “Your girl might be put out at the fact you’re spending the night out here with us, rather than her.”

He remembers Geralt’s nostrils flaring.

Curse Witchers and their supernatural senses.

But he will lounge in the fact that this may be the longest time the two of them have been conversing together. It might just be the most amount of words he’s heard come out of the Witcher in one go.

As soon as he’s realised that, the Witcher falls back into silence.

A storm rolls in from neighbouring hills. Jaskier bristles as thunder rumbles overhead. Flashes of lightning have been creeping closer over the past hour, with the rain outside only growing heavier and heavier. The barn is well-kept, sheltering them from the worst of the rain. An occasional drip manages to sneak past, but he’s weathered out storms in worse places.

Roach doesn’t like storms. In the few months that he’s spent with the Witcher and his mount, he’s learned everything he can about the mare. She will begrudgingly take any apple slices or sugar cubes he can steal for her, and that she likes to puff out her belly when Geralt is trying to do up her saddle’s girth; just to annoy him.

But she hates storms.

He settles a steady hand on her flank, soothing words slipping out of him as her ears flick and her body tenses with every clap of thunder. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, mostly to the horse and a little bit to himself.

He isn’t overly fond of storms either. His childhood was spent in a kingdom with rare bad weather. Sure, it rained and winds tumbled down from far off mountains, and the blusters that swept in from the sea weren’t pleasant, but storms were rare. He remembers spending most noisy nights with his mother, enduring the scowling face of his father grunting that viscounts don’t hide behind their mother’s skirts at a bit of wind.

His mother never said anything like that to him. Warm arms bundled him against her chest and she carried him to her own chambers – why his parents had separate rooms, he never quite understood. He didn’t think it was strange until he went to college and met other students, all saying how much their parents loved each other.

Love withered away and died a long time before Jaskier was born.

A stray rumble of thunder catches him off guard. He tries to stop himself from jerking, but his breath catches in his throat.

The mare’s ears flatten for a moment. How is he meant to keep her calm and steady if he can’t do so himself?

Geralt looks up. He’s busied himself with plaiting a few braids into Roach’s mane, leaving them for a moment before untangling them with his fingers. He watches Jaskier curiously. “Alright?”

Jaskier blinks, realising a moment too long that the Witcher is talking to him. “Yeah,” he rasps, coughing to clear his throat. “Yes. I’m alright.” Though he looks to the barn’s ceiling, watching how light blinks and stretches across the sky for a brief moment, followed by a rumble of noise.

Geralt watches him for a moment. “You don’t like storms,” he says slowly, not really a question, but not quite a statement either.

Jaskier nods all the same. “Not the biggest fan of them, I’ll admit,” he laughs breathlessly. Because he can always poke some fun at himself. “A young strapping viscount like myself, afraid of a bit of noise. Funny, isn’t it?” For a moment, his tongue feels sour in his mouth at the thought of his father’s words tumbling out of his lips instead of his own.

Roach settles after a moment, fine with the fact that the storm doesn’t seem to be moving anywhere anytime soon.

“I don’t like them either.”

Jaskier looks up. The quiet words are almost lost to the next clap of thunder and the continuous pelting of rain on the roof above them. He blinks. “What?”

Geralt sighs. “I don’t like storms either,” he says, a bit firmer. “I’m better with them now, but...when I was younger, I tried to hide from them.”

Jaskier lifts his chin. A silent request to keep going, that the bard won’t interrupt.

Geralt draws in a small breath. “One of our teachers, Vesemir...he was a father figure to most of us. We were separated from our actual families. Not stolen or anything that humans seem to think. We were dumped at the bottom of the mountain. What else could the wolves do but bring in the pups.”

Jaskier stays silent. He lets himself slouch against the stable wall, getting as comfortable as he can among the wood and straw. The heat from the mare wards off the worst of the chill.

Geralt sighs. “He let us hide with him. The keep is up high, almost touching the clouds. And the higher up you are, the worst the winds get. And the winds during winter storms were strong. I thought that the walls would cave in one night, the weather was so bad. So...I hid. I went to Vesemir’s room, and he looked at me, nodded, and let me inside. There were others there too. My brothers.”

A father. Brothers. Jaskier’s mind swirls.

Geralt hums, idly fidgeting with some of Roach’s mane. “When you live as long as I have, you start to get used to the things that scare you.” Some sort of breathless laugh puffs out of him. “Still scared shitless of the Crones, though.”

Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. “I would hide with my mum,” he mumbles, barely able to get the words out at all. But it’s a tit-for-tat. If Geralt manages to share something, he will too. “She let me sleep in her room until morning. My father wasn’t...too happy, but he couldn’t stop her. Even when he tried to have a servant bar my door.”

At that, Geralt arches an eyebrow.

“My mum is the one with the title,” Jaskier explains. “She’s the viscountess. My father was a baron. He married up. When the servant went to get the beams, my mum stalks down from her study and demanded that nothing be done to my room. If I wanted to stay with her, I could. I think my father was actually afraid of her. With one word, he would be sent straight back down to be a lowly baron of some forgetful town on the outskirts of the province.” Jaskier lifts a shoulder. “He hated her, really. But I think it was more fear. Not of her, but what she could do to him.”

Geralt nods. He can’t pretend to know the in and outs of noble life, particularly the politics of marrying up or down your stature. It’s all a bit frivolous to him, really, especially when the Continent seems to have bigger problems on its hands. But he nods, humming. “She sounds like a good woman.”

Jaskier offers him a small smile. “And your father sounds like a good man.”

Geralt laughs. It’s small, and barely a huff of air, but the corners of his lips twitch upwards, and Jaskier will take it. He made the Witcher laugh.

He pads back to the stall with everything Geralt asked for. The storm raged through the night, and even though the innkeep sent people out to bring them inside – including Clara, which warmed Jaskier’s cheeks with a flush – but they stayed. Roach slept for most of the night, only trying to get up to get some water and hay. Geralt helped her. Jaskier sat by with a faint smile ghosting his lips at the sight of the Witcher reaching for the hay net and water bucket, bringing them down to the mare so that she can eat and drink.

Geralt waits for him by the stall door. The mare’s leg looks better already. Most of the swelling has gone down, but it’s still a stubborn tightness that remains. He hands over a small bowl of plants and rainwater he managed to find. A poultice will work the last of the strain away. He’s seen Geralt make them before, more often for himself to put on cuts and injuries gotten from rough hunts.

Jaskier sets his arms on the stall door, watching as Geralt sets the cool mixture on the mare’s leg. She goes to nose at it, but her ears flatten at a slight bat on her muzzle from Geralt. “Don’t eat it,” he says sternly, as if talking to a human child. The mare huffs, but turns away.

By the time Roach is healthy again and able to stand on her four legs without much hassle, it’s been another day. Jaskier stretches out his back and legs as he sets their bags down beside the barn. Geralt does up the last of Roach’s tack, making sure that everything is sitting comfortably on the mare. He won’t ride her. For the next few days, he’ll walk beside her and just let her carry the bags.

Jaskier can’t help but grin at the idea of the Witcher walking. Maybe his own feet will start aching now that he’s down on the ground himself.

The bard stuffs the last of the rations into their bags. A small loaf of bread, dried roasted beef, and a flagon of water. It should carry them until the next village, almost a day’s walk away. He got the package from Clara, the woman trying to lure him to stay, but adventure calls, and I cannot document it without being on the road, my dear.

Maybe he’ll come this way again, when the weather is kinder and he can stay for longer. But the thought of falling into the girl’s bed again doesn’t sit as well with him as it once did. Even as he left, she pecked a kiss to the arch of his cheekbone, and it churned his stomach. Not in the nice way he’s come to love. But in a way that made him feel like he was about to get sick.

He pats a hand on the mare’s neck. “Good to go?” he asks her, making peace with the fact that if Geralt won’t talk to him, he might as well try the horse.

Roach doesn’t lurch out to nip him. She doesn’t kick out a leg to bash in his shins, or try and flick her tail at him like a whip. Instead, her head falls into his arms as he scratches behind her ear. “Yeah,” he coos, “we’re friends now, aren’t we?”

“It’s the apples and sugar you insist on feeding her.”

Jaskier looks over his shoulder. Geralt hauls the last of the bags on to the mare’s saddle, strapping them in for the walk ahead. The Witcher settles him with a stern look. “We’re tight on coin. Stop spending it on treats for her.”

Jaskier balks. “She’s just recovered from an injury – one probably got from carrying your arse around the whole Continent. She deserves every treat I can get her.”

“Then you’ll be getting them with your own money.”

“I have my own money, thank you very much.” Jaskier lifts his lute on to his shoulder. “The people of this fine town paid me enough gold to buy her a whole orchid.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow, but says nothing. He huffs, grabbing the mare’s reins, and starting to walk down the worn cobblestone path towards the next village.

Jaskier walks on Roach’s other side, keeping the mare between him and the Witcher. Even though Roach is fine with him now bumping against her, he can’t say the same thing about Geralt. They manage to get almost a mile before Jaskier pipes up, his fingers fidgeting by his side and his tongue ready to let words slip out. “So,” he says, almost mostly to the start of a canopy forming over their heads. A forest stretches out in front of them, damp yet vibrant green from the rain. “When will you be heading home?”

Geralt grunts. “Winter.”

“Good job on being specific. That’s a whole season, Geralt. When will you be going?”

“Not too sure yet,” the Witcher mutters. “When the winds change.”

“They seem pretty changed to me now.” Storms rolling in out of nowhere. Rain. Wind. The slight nipping chill in the air. It could very well be winter now.

Geralt sighs. “Afraid to walk the road without me, bard?”

“No.” Jaskier tries not to look as petulant as his reply sounded. “No. I just want to know. I might head to Oxenfurt.”

“A warm, safe place.” Geralt watches him out of the corner of his eye. Even with a horse between them, he still manages to find the bard. “Keep yourself there for as long as you can.”

“And miss the adventures you bring me on? Never.” “When will you come down from the mountain? Spring? Where will I meet you?”

Geralt tries to hide the small smile ghosting his lips by turning his head away. But a breathy laugh slips out of him all the same. “Who says that I’ll meet back up with you? I have contracts to collect, bard, and they’re far too dangerous for humans to go on.”

“I’ll keep myself safe,” Jaskier replies. “But I know you like the company, grump that you are and all that.”

Geralt hums.

Jaskier will find him again. The thought of leaving him one day and spending a whole season without the Witcher there doesn’t sit quite right in his stomach. It churns and chills his blood, and he wants to retch. But if the Witcher must return home, and he can’t come with him, then that’s fine. He’ll just pick up the scent after a season and continue on their trek through the Continent.

And Geralt will berate him for it; snapping that he’ll be a burden and that his presence isn’t wanted, but something has settled in those golden eyes that says please come back. Something soft and something that wasn’t there before.

So he’ll meet him again. Jaskier nods, mostly to himself. He promises.

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shards-of-divinity · 4 years

Text

"Bone-Weary" a WenZhou Word of Honor fic.

Summary: "A'Xu...Haven't you traded massages with a martial sibling after long hours of training or travel?"

Before he can stop himself Zhou Zishu takes his discarded sash and holds it up. “Blindfold yourself and you can do what you want to do.”

He watches Wen Kexing’s throat bob before he quickly rallies himself, flicking his fan out and cocking his head with a slow smile.

“So we’ve switched to this type of play? A’Xu, you continue to surprise me and I only want to know more. The last thing I want to do is over-tax you in your condition--”

Or, in which Wen Kexing takes care of Zhou Zishu after their impromptu swim.

(Find me here on AO3)

He forces himself not to shiver in the night air, energy depleted still from the toxin that lingers in his veins. Not for the first time, Zhou Zishu hates the nails that restrict his internal force and how long it's taking to bounce back even with the tincture he had on hand.

Pushing aside the thought, he tries to focus on his meal. The rabbit meat is stringy and burnt in places but still hot and Zhou Zishu forces himself not to eat too fast. Any food at this point would aid in rebuilding the energy he is expending to heal.

"A'Xu, you flatter me with your enthusiasm for my cooking!"

Zhou Zishu glances at Wen Kexing out of the corner of his eyes; hiding a huff of laughter at the slender fingers trying to make work of the ruined meat. As if he could feel Zhou Zishu staring, Wen Kexing's laughing eyes meet his and he leans in closer.

"If you had followed me back to my boat there would have been a much better meal for us."

"This is enough," Zhou Zishu says, ignoring the pout sent his way. How a grown man and (very likely) accomplished martial artist can look so pitiful and still have any face is beyond him.

"At least try to lie a bit better than that, A'Xu. One can only do so much with only this fire and no kitchen or spices. After the feast at Sanbai Manor--especially those delightful prawns--this is unseemly."

Zhou Zishu's face reddens slightly at the memory of Wen Kexing boldly placing the prawns on his plate as if they were close and anything other than reluctant travel partners. He takes another bite and hopes the firelight hides the color lingering in his cheeks.

"Surely with such a well trained and graceful form you're used to finer things than this poor meal. Your attempt at a disguise and demeanor can't hide the elegance in your every move, A'Xu."

Again with the excessive compliments! Zhou Zishu slowly lifts his head from his food and stares. Wen Kexing is watching him, chin propped on his hand again. Once again he wonders if the man is trying to throw him off balance, enjoys teasing him or…

Or.

The final option just isn't a possibility.

Before he can think of a reply, a cough forces its way out of Zhou Zishu and the food tumbles from his hand to the ground.

"Zhou Xu!"

As he's wracked with a coughing fit, suddenly all of his senses are invaded with Wen Kexing. His vision is full of the man's robes, he's surrounded by the scent of the river and wet hair and clothing, those things covering the faded smell of hair oils and tonics. The other man's warmth feels almost smothering as he leans in to try to steady Zhou Zishu through his coughing fit. He braces his hands on Wen Kexing's forearms, meaning to push him away but gripping tightly as he coughs harder.

Zhou Zishu forces himself upright and folds his body into a lotus pose, closing watering eyes. A second later Wen Kexing's energy flows into him and bolsters his own and Zhou Zishu ignores how compatible it feels.

"Will you follow me back to the boat now?" Wen Kexing is leaning over his shoulder too close in his ear and Zhou Zishu pulls away with a sigh. "You can't hide the way you're hunched into yourself and hurting; not from me."

"Of course, my form is so distracting to you I'm sure you've studied and memorized my every move, Lao Wen," Zhou Zishu quips back between more coughing, and there's a moment of silence between them.

"A'Xu you are shivering, soaked to the bone from our impromptu swim, and lacking energy. Please see reason?"

Zhou Zishu takes in a deep breath and turns to fully face Wen Kexing. "Who is partially to blame for my condition, Lao Wen?"

Wen Kexing sighs loudly. "Alright, alright. Let me make it up to you? On. The. Boat."

It's bone-deep weariness that finally forces Zhou Zishu to give in. In the nearly three years since he's left he's used to sleeping outdoors or in other uncomfortable places, but the excitement of his condition and last few days demand a proper rest.

He finds himself settled at a low table, a flavorful spread in front of him with heated wine. The two maids smile and sneak glances at him in curiosity as they bring more food. There's pea shoots with garlic, sweet sesame buns. Flavorful rice and tender white fish that is savory instead of overly bitter, and other foods placed before them. Zhou Zishu wonders again who exactly Wen Kexing is to just have such opulence at his fingertips, but doesn't hesitate to eat his fill as midnight creeps ever closer.

"So much better than charred rabbit, isn't it."

Wen Kexing pulls back his sleeve with extra flair as if they're at another banquet, serving Zhou Zishu first and then himself. Zhou Zishu tracks the movement, and feels the sudden (irrational) urge to bite at Wen Kexing's wrist.

There must have been something in the water, too, if Zhou Zishu can't control his thoughts.

"Who have you run into now, Master!"

Gu Xiang rises from below deck, bouncing forward; and settling herself between them both at the table. Zhou Zishu watches her face slacken in surprise while Wen Kexing smiles in amusement.

"Aiyah, it's you! Sick Dude!" She waves her finger in his face before rubbing at his cheek in wonder. "Master, you saw through the disguise and were right after all!"

Zhou Zishu leans back, smirking when Gu Xiang squawks loudly as her actions earn her a rap on the head from Wen Kexing's fan.

"Did you ever doubt me? You can see what I've always known, that A'Xu is truly a treasure."

Zhou Zishu rolls his eyes but smiles before returning to his meal. His thoughts drift between the clatter of his chopsticks against the plate, lulled by the savory food and energy of Xiang and Wen Kexing's bickering in the background.

It doesn't take long to finish the meal and round it off with fresh fruit and more wine and then Wen Kexing brings out his flute to play. The music slides smoothly from more refined pieces to local, jaunty tunes that might be more familiar in a tavern before finally returning to the Bodhi Meditation Song. Zhou Zishu watches Wen Kexing’s eyes flutter shut as he plays, and he only stops when Gu Xiang sighs and rests her elbows on the table.

“Will you only play when this dude is around?”

The music continues, only a slight curl of Wen Kexing’s lips showing acknowledgement of the question. Zhou Zishu listens a few moments longer before clearing his throat.

“You don’t need to play all night for me again, Lao Wen.”

The Bodhi Meditation Song finishes after repeating once more and the look Wen Kexing levels him with after makes Zhou Zishu’s mouth go dry. It’s too assessing before his face softens to a playful smile. “Maybe you’re right, A’Xu. I am a bit tired...let’s get settled and start out fresh tomorrow!”

...

Zhou Zishu lets himself be led below the deck where a large, yet cozy room awaits, a small desk with texts stacked neatly rests against the corner along with a room divider and a bed just large enough for two people sits at the opposite wall. Paintings cover another wall and the final holds a small window. He wonders again who exactly Wen Kexing is to have this much at hand yet pursue him so relentlessly, trailing his fingers along the finely crafted wood of the desk.

“Does my modest room meet your tastes?”

He stares as Wen Kexing rummages through a clothing chest and pulls out two sets of inner robes for sleeping. He turns and hands them out with a flourish to Zhou Zishu, who stares blankly.

“My robes are fine--”

“A’Xu, if you won’t change for your own self preservation at least have pity on my bedding. How rude to sleep in a clean bed with wet and travel-soiled clothing, not to mention the blood or did you forget so easily?” Wen Kexing is suddenly in his space again, hand on its way to his brow. “Are you running a fever?”

Zhou Zishu smacks the offending hand away, and then he and Wen Kexing are sparring again, Wen Kexing’s delighted smile growing when he twists to avoid knocking into his desk; advancing and forcing Zhou Zishu to avoid hitting the end of the bed. They come to a stop when Zhou Zishu wavers a bit and he finds himself gently but firmly pushed to sit on the low bed.

“Enough play; you need your rest if we are to continue tomorrow.”

“Who says I was playing,” he grumbles, hissing softly when pain flares down his back and the ever-present ache in his body from the nails in his chest. He watches Wen Kexing take the Glass Armor from his sleeve and produce a key, putting it inside of his desk before locking it inside.

“Alright, A’Xu. Let me take care of you. A massage imbued with internal energy should help ease your discomfort.”

Zhou Zishu pulls away when Wen Kexing tugs on his sleeve, schooling his face into something that isn’t shock. “That’s not really needed. You played the meditation song, I’ve eaten. I can sleep--”

“Come, A’Xu...Don’t you have a long journey ahead of you? Do you want your disciple to worry when he sees you in such a sorry state?”

His sleeve is pulled at again and Zhou Zishu peers into Wen Kexing’s face; taking in his wide eyes and open expression. There’s not a hint of teasing in sight.

"Haven't we shared multiple nights slumbering together under the stars? In a woodshed? Why be nervous now? Haven't you traded massages with a martial sibling after long hours of training or travel?"

Before he can stop himself Zhou Zishu takes his discarded sash and holds it up. “Blindfold yourself and you can do what you want to do.”

He watches Wen Kexing’s throat bob before he quickly rallies himself, flicking his fan out and cocking his head with a slow smile.

“So we’ve switched to this type of play? A’Xu, you continue to surprise me and I only want to know more. The last thing I want to do is over-tax you in your condition--”

Zhou Zishu’s head aches with how hard he rolls his eyes. “Will you do it or not?” he holds the sash up higher, watching Wen Kexing’s smile fade into a thoughtful look; setting down his fan and taking the sash from him.

“Despite what you think of me, I am a virtuous man. However, if it would ease you I’ll wear this."

While he doesn’t think Wen Kexing would truly violate his space, he still doesn’t want anyone who doesn’t need to see the evidence of the nails in his chest. It’s one of his most closely guarded secrets and he’s too tired for questions. He’s too tired to think of this massage as a poor idea, and leans against the wall to wait.

Wen Kexing brushes his hair over his shoulders before making quick work of putting on the impromptu blindfold. Once he’s situated, Zhou Zishu waves his hand in front of his face to make sure he truly cannot see before settling on the edge of the bed.

“Go ahead then, Lao Wen,” he murmurs, waiting and feeling oddly exposed somehow. There’s no reply and then hands come to rest lightly on his arms.

His robes are pulled down from his shoulders and pushed aside until they're pooled at his waist. Broad hands sweep along his shoulders before they begin to knead at the tense muscles, heated with internal energy and Zhou Zishu forces himself to not groan in relief. He allows himself to curl forward and Wen Kexing’s touch follows him.

There's no sound other than the light creaking of the boat and soft laughter and the clatter of dishes above them. Wen Kexing is--for once--blessedly silent, and Zhou Zishu glances over his shoulder to make sure the blindfold is still in place.

"Are you rendered speechless, Philanthropist Wen? No poetry or literature in honor of my flexibility or 'well-trained waist'?"

The hands pause on their journey, and Zhou Zishu can practically hear the smile he can't see. "I can be serious, and taking care of my A'Xu is an important task.”

Zhou Zishu settles again. He lets himself drift in the thumbs rubbing at his shoulders; Wen Kexing careful to avoid the injury and touch around it. His fingers digging into the right muscles in his biceps to help them loosen. His entire back is explored and given the same thorough treatment, even his arms; Wen Kexing learning in close enough that Zhou Zishu can hear him breathing steadily in his ear.

“‘...elegant and graceful is the lord; and fine match for the gentleman.’[1]--”

The soft words startle Zhou Zishu back into awareness. “I should have known better than to think you could stay quiet for longer than a half a dian[2]...”

A huff of laughter stirs the hair at the nape of Zhou Zishu’s neck and he suppresses a shiver. “You seemed disappointed that I didn’t compliment you earlier…” Wen Kexing’s fingers dig in deeper, the heat intensifying at the small of his back and Zhou Zishu feels restless; trying and failing to notice the new heat building in his belly and the need to arch back into that touch.

It’s been much too long if such a simple massage is drawing a reaction like this from him. He wonders what Wen Kexing would do if Zhou Zishu gave in to his body’s urges; turning around and pressing the man to the bed beneath him. Tangling his fingers in Wen Kexing’s hair and dragging that smiling mouth into a deep kiss. Rendering him breathless, but probably never silent. Would Wen Kexing battle him in his usual way for the upper hand or would he stretch out and take whatever Zhou Zishu gave him?

He thinks of pulling away his fine layers and seeing if the skin underneath is as pale yet strong as the wrist Wen Kexing flashed at him while pouring tea. If he’d laugh as much and smile while Zhou Zishu tasted the skin at his throat and trailed further downwards. He wonders what other tricks the man had hidden under the mask of elegance, and if his broad hands would take as much care exploring the rest of Zhou Zishu’s body.

Zhou Zishu’s thoughts cool down and turn to leaning back; letting his head fall onto Wen Kexing shoulder. How those soft lips would feel pressed to his own and of Wen Kexing’s hands coming forward to encircle him gently. When was the last time Zhou Zishu had been embraced by anyone? Much too long and the ache of loneliness pushes aside any unwanted arousal that he might have had.

“What are you thinking about?”

Zhou Zishu takes another breath, letting it out slowly. Wen Kexing’s hands have traveled during his errant thoughts, kneading back at his shoulders again. Zhou Zishu feels light, much better than he’s felt in months. The heat of Wen Kexing’s internal energy making him nearly boneless.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, and he hears Wen Kexing shuffle a bit behind him. “Thank you, Wen Kexing.”

“So formal when we’re like this,” Wen Kexing tsks, spending a bit more time before the energy fades until it’s barely warmer than the room around them. His fingers trail lightly down Zhou Zishu’s spine just to rile him up, and it breaks the moment. Zhou Zishu huffs and shifts forward to stand, but Wen Kexing follows; pulling his robes back up as carefully as he rolled them down.

“There, now we are done.”

Zhou Zishu stands and turns to look down at where Wen Kexing is seated perfectly; his robes settled around him as neatly as if they were at a banquet instead of in bed. His head tips back and a soft smile quirks his lips the longer Zhou Zishu stares.

“Unless you’d like more,” he laughs, reaching out and wiggling his fingers with a playful grin. “My martial siblings always said I had the most talented hands.”

Zhou Zishu shakes his head. “Boring.”

Wen Kexing’s delighted laughter rings around them. “Come now, A’Xu; laughter is also key to healing. Either way, may I remove this blindfold?”

“You’re finished aren’t you?” Zhou Zishu tosses over his shoulder, glancing back as Wen Kexing rises from the bed and removes the sash in one smooth movement. A pout overtakes the full lips and Wen Kexing is back to crowding into his space. “My sadness at not seeing more of your handsome form is soothed by the memory my hands will have of your soft skin and lovely shoulders.”

Wen Kexing tosses a lingering look over his shoulder before setting up the room divider to change and Zhou Zishu takes a deep, fortifying breath before undressing quickly.

“Come sleep, Zhou Xu,” Wen Kexing calls when they’re both dressed for bed, voice firm. Zhou Zishu steps closer and settles on the soft bed; sparing a look at Wen Kexing who looks softer than he’d think the man would in dove gray sleeping robes, hair braided over his shoulder and stretched out on his side.

“The floor would have sufficed.”

“Please, A’Xu. I would never let you sleep that way in my presence, and do you truly think I would sleep on the floor? You’re arguing just to be contrary! This bed is large enough after all and it’s for one night. Sleep.”

Zhou Zishu shakes his head but gets into the bed anyway. He glares half-heartedly at Wen Kexing’s smug smile, and rolls onto his good side; pulling the blanket over him. His skin prickles at the feeling of eyes watching him before the bed shifts and Wen Kexing rolls to face the other wall before settling down.

His last thoughts are of the piece of Glass Armor sitting in the locked drawer of Wen Kexing’s desk and the sound of the man’s slowing breathing behind him.

…

Zhou Zishu wakes feeling refreshed, blinking away half-remembered dreams of lips pressing against his shoulder and a soft smile before focusing on the soft light that stretches across the room and the gentle sway of the boat. Footsteps clatter above, likely the maids or Gu Xiang and Zhou Zishu bites back a groan as he arches his back in a long stretch. His energy feels more stable if not as strong as he wishes, and the lingering pain from both wounds is gone. He slowly drags his arm up and pushes the sleeve aside to see healed skin.

A soft sigh draws his gaze to Wen Kexing where he’s much closer than he was the night before, practically sharing Zhou Zishu’s body heat and pillow. The dawn light casts the other man in different shades of pinks and reds and Zhou Zishu is struck with the odd urge to capture him with the same reds as the flowers he painted in what feels like a lifetime ago.

He wonders about a different life, where he could completely let down his guard and confide in someone in waking hours instead of wishing while the world is asleep. A life where he is whole and able to reach out to trace the sleep-slackened face of a lover or train a smiling and eager disciple. To belong again in a place and not wander in guilt and feel a weariness down to his bones.

“I thought I was the shameless one. Here you are watching me sleep, A’Xu.”

“No one alive could match your levels of shamelessness,” Zhou Zishu quips back, his voice hoarse from sleep. He blinks, focusing on the indentations on Wen Kexing's cheek from the pillow instead of his lips.

Instead of deterring him, Wen Kexing rolls onto his side and props himself up so he’s looking down; eyes sweeping over Zhou Zishu’s thankfully blanket clad form.

“The only shame is I was denied the view of you waking. I keep missing it!”

He rolls onto his back, draping his arm over his eyes; secretly grateful for Wen Kexing waking when he did. Zhou Zishu has no right or reason to try to imagine a life that is impossible or including the man at all. Despite the short amount of time they’ve known Wen Kexing has invaded the cracks of his defenses, and he doesn’t know how to feel about it other than foolish and yet sad he’s not got enough time to see what might happen.

There's a sharp rap at the door and Zhou Zishu sits up quickly, pushing himself up from bed and moves until he’s halfway across the room. Gu Xiang opens it with a basin full of steaming water, not hiding her curiosity as she looks between him and Wen Kexing who is standing just behind him.

"A'Xiang, have you suddenly become so disciplined that you're bringing the bathing supplies so early in the morning? Are Yun Cai and Hong Lu still unwell?"

She sets the basin down and rises slowly.

"No, Master. They're well...but you did sleep longer than you usually do,” Gu Xiang says with raised eyebrows and Zhou Zishu huffs a laugh as Wen Kexing takes the basin from Gu Xiang, setting it down on the table before waving her out of the room

"How could you criticize such a dedicated servant, Lao Wen?” Zhou Zishu teases. “One who is also a cute young lady?"

"A'Xu. You hurt me...dropping so many sweet words to everyone else but me." Zhou Zishu rolls his eyes as Wen Kexing snaps his fan open and steps closer. "Besides, that 'cute young lady' is as nosy as any old grandmother."

"Maybe she's protective instead?" Zhou Zishu shrugs, turning away.

Wen Kexing hums. “‘Protective’? I think I’d enjoy whatever you’d have planned for me, Zhou Xu.”

That startles a true laugh out of him, and Zhou Zishu lets his head fall back in amusement. If only Wen Kexing knew. When he finishes laughing and turns around, Wen Kexing is watching him in a way he can’t read. Zhou Zishu would almost say conflicted and maybe even enthralled and Zhou Zishu shakes his head; setting up the room divider between them to break the charged energy in the room. Wen Kexing pushes it aside a second later.

"Not so fast, A'Xu," and Zhou Zishu steps back as Wen Kexing invades his space with a mountain of robes.

"How could you possibly continue in those old robes now that you are not wearing your disguise? I’ve got plenty more here for you to choose from." Wen Kexing begins to pile robes over his arm until the riot of colors makes Zhou Zishu dizzy.

"Alright, alright. At most I'll take these," he relents; grabbing plain robes in the softest blues, grays, and cream and turning around before Wen Kexing can do more. An irritated scoff meets his back and Zhou Zishu smirks, setting them down before putting the room divider back up.

He washes in the heated water quickly, ignoring the rustling of Wen Kexing doing the same. Zhou Zishu finishes his absolutions quickly, and emerges to see Wen Kexing standing there in deep turquoise and vibrant red.

"You look even more beauti--gallant, A’Xu,” Wen Kexing drawls, moving too close as usual and Zhou Zishu smirks back as the other man’s eyes linger.

“Here!"

He glances down at the wooden comb and guan in Wen Kexing’s hand, and takes them slowly. Their fingers touch briefly and Wen Kexing pulls away with a smile.

"Consider it a little gift."

"You're so generous, Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu says, taking time to brush his hair quickly and secure it before pushing the door aside ascending the steps.

“It’s only fair after you gave me the privilege of touching your naked flesh in my bed last night, A’Xu,” Wen Kexing purrs, and Zhou Zishu shoves him aside at Gu Xiang’s wide eyes and laughter combined with the two maids who hide their smiles behind their sleeves.

“You--!”

“Won’t you stay for another meal before you leave?” Wen Kexing rolls over any reply Zhou Zishu might’ve had and his protest dies in his throat. He rolls his eyes, ignoring all of the eyes on him and shakes his head; taking in the sun’s placement in the sky. “It’s later than I want it to be; it’s best to start out now.

“I’ll see you off then!”

Zhou Zishu gives up trying to shake him off, instead handing the comb out to Wen Kexing. “Thanks for lending this to me...and everything else.”

Wen Kexing’s hand folds over his, thankfully the angle of his body blocking the gesture from being seen. “It’s rude to refuse a gift and someone’s hospitality,” he says waving his fan at Zhou Zishu like he would an unruly child. “As for the rest, I’ll always be willing to care for you, Zhou Xu.”

Zhou Zishu turns Wen Kexing’s words over in his head, the weight of them too much to analyze at the moment. He stares at their hands for a moment before stepping away. He shares a long look with Wen Kexing before offering him a small smile of thanks.

He puts the comb in his money pouch and tucks it into his sash before jumping onto the cool, morning air; Wen Kexing's fond laughter ringing behind him as they travel towards the shore.

#word of honor #shan he ling #tian ya ke #wenzhou #wen Kexing #zhou Zishu

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doorsclosingslowly · 3 years

Text

Hell is just a beat away (2/9): Keen to show you the unhappy ones below you

Despite early promise, young Maul has turned out to be a disappointment, willfully delaying his training with secret attempts to make himself friends from scrap metal. He must be properly motivated, and so Darth Sidious sends him to a slave market on an impossible mission. It backfires. (A Star Wars: Darth Maul (2017) comic AU)

Warnings: accidental underage alcohol consumption, body horror, mention of sex slavery, violence against children, minor character death.

The attendant bends gracefully, smiling as she refills fine translucent cups. The first one is in front of Master Zalandas Fyaar, so the standard diplomatic protocol of privileging the Jedi emissary and guest apparently holds true even on this tiny corrupt world, and then comes that of the twi’lek’s own employer. The man who is Zalandas and Eldra’s new charge. His name is Martrey Woobudg, a tall harried human just like Fyaar, and the upstart frontrunner candidate for mayor of the capital of the Outer Rim planet of Teth. A second passes—a wriggling suspicion in the back of her mind, and then Eldra smooths it over—and then the beautiful twi’lek looks at Master Zalandas and bows and tops up the cup in front of Eldra, too, even though that one has barely been touched.

Woobudg and Master Zalandas pick up their drinks immediately, taking a break from hurried planning to praise the olid tea within. Eldra nibbles at the porcelain edge of her cup. The twi’lek attendant does not drink. She doesn’t even have a cup. Or a biscotti. Or a seat, and when fine hot droplets of tea splatter Eldra’s padawan tunic, and she realizes she’s actually biting down hard now on her crockery.

It’s not the fear of getting poisoned that holds Eldra back from enjoying her tea, although, considering they were called here after the third assassination attempt on Woobudg… maybe a little caution should be in order. It’s a serviceable excuse should Master Zalandas ask, anyway, even if it’s not the true reason, and neither is what Eldra privately decides is the painfully obvious and pointless braggadocio inherent in Woobudg serving imported Chandrilan tea, despite the well-publicized price-hike after last year’s ruined harvest there, and the fact that it absolutely genuinely does taste like unfiltered bantha piss. He’s serving his pricey swill to a couple of Jedi, moreover: to his protectors bound by duty, who do not revel in wealth.

It’s not that, though.

It’s not even really because this is only Eldra’s second diplomatic mission, and she’s sworn she’s going to take her job more seriously this time around. She’s going to make sure no-one, not even once, peeks in unnoticed through the doors and windows. That isn’t it either, and truthfully she’s paying attention far less than she means to.

It’s something far more petty and profane: the subtle spiced fragrance of the attendant’s perfume as she bends over Eldra to reach the china. Her dress, as expensive as the tea, made from rippling opaque silk in a slightly lighter shade of blue than the woman’s skin. It’s a fairly modest cut. Barely any flash of cleavage, despite Eldra’s vantage point. Chosen expressly for this meeting, Eldra thinks sourly, and who do you think you’re fooling?

It’s the attendant’s bearing, calm and open and as serene as any Jedi Master.

It’s the fact that Eldra’s still thinking of her as ‘the attendant’ even though she’s been flitting around the room for two hours now at least. It’s that she wasn’t introduced. It’s that she doesn’t have a cup. A biscotti. A seat.

It’s her teeth.

What would happen, Eldra wonders, if I asked her to come sit and have a drink with us? Besides the obvious, of course: Master Zalandas’ abject disappointment at Eldra’s dearth of diplomatic skill. Would the attendant keep smiling? Displaying her teeth? Or would she flinch the moment the hot nasty leaf juice hits them?

Because her teeth are white-lacquered, dainty, tiny, horrifying stumps. Eldra can’t stop looking at them. They’re almost worn down to the gums. Twice-sanded at least, probably. Once, to sharpen the natural edges further—Eldra runs her tongue over the edges of her own canines, her pointy incisors, like she’s been doing ever since researching for a class project the customs of the peoples of the polar tip of the northernmost continent of Ryloth, the place where she was told she’d been born—teeth sanded once, sharpened, and then, they were ground down again mercilessly to make them blunt.

“Another biscotti, Padawan?”

Watch your feelings, Eldra. Remember that you are a Jedi. Remember your duty. That’s what Master Zalandas means, and Eldra startles, self-conscious and guilty. She must’ve lost her bearing, been grabbing attention even with the question bitten back behind her lips. She nods, a quiet thanks for the reminder. She studies the window again, on guard for any assassin. She tells herself: this meeting is important. Martrey Woobudg is a reformer, an anti-corruption juggernaut, and his rise a chance to wrest Teth from out the criminal syndicates’ control and, ultimately, bring it into the regulatory orbit of the Republic once more. If he keeps his promises after he wins, the election will spell a sea-change for the poor, who’ll finally be able to go about their lives without paying massive bribes to every single government official they have the misfortune of meeting, and it will aid the rise of a stable middle class. It’ll keep out the Hutts, too. It’ll be a triumphant sign of progress. Woobudg is important. His safety is paramount. His fate determines the future of so many people; it’s so much bigger than the life of this one attendant. Eldra knows the brief.

And still, her eyes are drawn back to his twi’lek servant.

To his slave.

That’s why you sand down someone’s teeth until there’s barely anything left. Why you keep at it long after it hurts. Why the sharpest teeth are so popular on Ryloth in the first place.

No-one wants a sex slave capable of biting their throat out.

Dutifully, she attempts to listen again, to keep watch, but looking at Woobudg’s face it’s still all she can think of. Slaver, slaver, slaver. He’s important, and Eldra must protect him, and he’s a slaver.

Looking back at the attendant, she’s met by the serene smile again, full of awful tiny teeth.

Looking at her Master, she feels her own inadequacy.

Looking down at her own hands is no escape. They’re darker than the attendant’s, callused and oil-stained and nails half-covered with flaking black nail polish. They’re the hands of someone far too slowly growing into the knowledge that her body is a shell, a vessel, that she is a luminous being of higher purpose. They’re a Jedi’s hands, or will be, and through them the force flows and shapes the galaxy. They are the hands of someone who will know no emotion, but peace. They are the hands of someone who neither covets nor disdains expensive Chandrilan tea. They are the hands of a faithful servant of the Republic. They are the hands that will protect Woobudg from his enemies and facilitate the rise of Teth, come what may, because she knows right, and she knows duty.

She forces herself to meet Woobudg’s eyes when he looks at her, feigning attention, and hopes he didn’t just ask a question.

She fidgets with her twi’lek girl fingers.

⁂

Hiding and curled and dirty under the stranger’s ship in the now-deserted hangar, two hours after he crawled down there, Maul finally realizes he’s been underestimating his Master. This mission on Nar Shaddaa is not just a chance for the apprentice to prove himself. No, Master is wise and efficient, and he wouldn’t have a single purpose for anything He does when He could, instead, have a myriad. It’s not just a test of Maul’s skill and loyalty.

It’s also a series of lessons.

Yesterday, Maul had been so sure he knew the meaning of cold.

He’d read about it, after all, memorized all the ice worlds in the galaxy and the medical texts on hypothermia and studied the schematics of atoms bouncing ever more slowly off each other. He’d looked at holos of skin blistered and sloughing off from unwise exposure, and he’d been impressed. A little scared, maybe, and very excited to progress in his studies so one day he’d have a chance to experience winter. But Maul’s been hiding under the stranger’s ship for hours now, and Nar Shaddaa is cold. It’s not flashy, the cold, like the holos of icebergs and boiling water thrown up and coming down powder implied. It’s not exciting at all. The cold of Nar Shaddaa is quiet. It’s the floor leeching into Maul’s back and legs, until he can’t tell anymore where wet dirt ends and he begins. It’s uncontrollable shivering. It’s his nose leaking, leaking, leaking. It’s making him tired.

Mustafar bubbled and smoked, and even inside the training complex with its sophisticated uncounted layers of insulation—Maul had dug into the wall once, tunneling almost a quarter-way through with a droid’s breastplate repurposed into a shovel—even inside, during some of the periods that Maul had taken to calling ‘seasons’ after researching the planet of Naboo, it was often so warm Maul wished he was allowed to tear off his tunics, and an additional layer or two of skin with it. Sweating, panting, he’d read the word cold, and he’d wanted it badly. He’d dreamt, open-eyed, for so many hours, of himself rolling around in the cold white snow and chasing ice-weasels. But back then, on Mustafar, it was hot. And Nar Shaddaa is real, and it’s now, and it’s so so cold.

Maul can’t stay down here forever, or even for another minute. He wants to sleep. He wants to run, at the same time, to fight the Jedi apprentice until he meets victory or glorious death. He wants to have completed this mission already. He wants a lightsaber of his own, so he can hold it and bask in its warmth. He wants to sleep. Force, he wants to be asleep. He wants to wake up in his small boiling cell and realize this has all been a dream.

(He wants someone to hold his hand and say, “I’ll help you,” but that’s the most impossible thought of all.)

There is no point in wishing for anything, though. There has never been. He must act. He must stop sneezing. The slave auction will be in four days now, a short strip of time he just needs to overwinter somewhere, Maul tells himself, and even if he doesn’t want to go anywhere near Master’s Star Courier now that it has killed the teenagers that could have been Maul’s friends and the mangy brachno-jag besides, there are many other options. Many other ships. He’s curled down here, in the cold, under just such a ship.

He knows how to pick locks.

It’s not hard at all to gain entry to the ship, now that he’s thought of it. He could have done it in less than thirty seconds, if his hands were shaking less and he had the proper tools, the ones he’s been meaning to build himself for years but in Master’s complex on Mustafar there was little point and then he had to construct stilts and the vocoder-mask for his mission and he forgot—Maul could have sliced the lock in under twenty-five point five seconds, he decides, with the tools, but the ten minutes he actually fiddled with it were acceptable too, because neither the training-droids nor Master himself were there to witness it, and besides, he doesn’t have much practice yet. (He should lock the door again and re-slice it, and over and over, until he’s quick enough. He should. But there’s no-one here to watch, and Nar Shaddaa is cold…)

This one looks almost exactly like Master’s ship, on the inside. Maybe all starships do: a few red-plush benches around a low table in the main travelers’ compartment, overlooked by a massive idling viewscreen, two small side rooms with pairs of sleeping berths, a refresher with a sonic shower and a kitchenette and, most interesting of all, an unlocked engine room and a cockpit with a slightly different layout than the Star Courier had. Maul shall explore them in detail, as soon as he’s warmed up and fed and made sure there are no hidden traps in here. He didn’t dare take apart his Master’s property, but this ship belongs to someone who won’t, can’t, defend his claim against Darth Maul, heir of the Sith—soon-to-be Darth Maul, he corrects quickly—and power is the only true right in the galaxy. Through power he will gain victory, and what is victory in this situation but access to a stranger’s ship’s mechanics? A fuel tank blinks enticingly, and soon Maul shall learn its secrets.

Food first, though.

He upends his satchel over the low table and picks through his haul from the ill-fated convenience store visit. Bottles, ordered by color, to the left—a toxic orange looking one the furthest away, then brown, then the two water bottles with their beautiful waxing gibbous shape when seen from the top and the yellow labels with red writing—and the crinkly chips packages to the right, joined by the sandwiches and the jaw-mask and two pairs of huge glasses with dark lenses and wide red-black frames.

The orange drink is bitter and sickly sweet and probably poisoned, and when he pushes it away it tips over and spills all over the carpet. It deserved that ending, though. It was vile. It didn’t have the right to be drunken by a Sith Lord.

Trying to rinse the taste off his tongue is unsuccessful: the fancy water is bitter, sharp, oily, and Maul shudders. At least the sandwiches smell bright and meaty through their flimsi wrapping. They’ll mask the awful water he’ll have to sip from to avoid dehydration, and so he picks one, to devour while he explores the sitting area.

Perched in an overhead nook is a flickering holo of a weequay male kissing the top of a young weequay’s head, and he turns it off as quickly as he can.

The two blankets and five little pillows are far more welcome spoils, and so is the datapad wedged underneath one of the benches. Someone’s taped a scrap of flimsi securely to the back, too, with two neat rows of handwriting. A name, and then a series of numbers.

Maul types them into the datapad, and it lights up.

“Good evening, Johen,” the pad greets him.

There are pages opened already on the datapad, a search for restaurants on Coruscant and a school’s newsletter and—two catalogues. One of them is Grakkus’ slave auction, and Johen is already logged in.

It’s… in three days?

There must be a mistake. Master said it was in eight days, four days ago, and Master is never wrong, but there’s no slave auction on that date no matter which button Maul presses and where he navigates on the catalogue, just the one in three days, and then five days after, and another five days, and another…

Master doesn’t make mistakes. He knows everything, studied the secrets of the galaxy that the Jedi would keep suppressed, and the hidden weaknesses of far-off planets’ politicians, and every single one of Maul’s minute failures except for the secret dreams, and He would know the true date of this slave auction. He would not err, not when this mission is so vital to the grand plans of the Sith that he sent his own apprentice to complete it. He would never…

He wouldn’t…

But what He would do is test Maul.

A true scion of the Sith does not trust blindly in dates and dossiers, and Master knows that. He must have told Maul the wrong date to pass on this wisdom. He must have, and He didn’t even fear the risk that this momentous mission might fail, because He trusted that Maul would understand.

And Maul did.

Master made the right choice. It’s as if someone had pumped Maul’s chest cavity full up with helium, pulling him off the upholstery and into the cool air: he found the correct date, with time to spare. He procured food and drink and shelter by himself, anticipated the need to hide his childish face under a mask. He built a vocoder. He is powerful and devilishly clever, and more prepared to serve the Sith than anyone has ever been, in all the history he knows, and Lord Sidious knew this when He sent Maul to Nar Shaddaa.

Master has never put His true pride into words; despite the considerable skill of His tongue He likely never will, but this mission is plain proof of the sort Maul never dared to yearn for.

His Master trusts Maul’s skill.

The emotion is overwhelming, and Maul wraps himself up in his blankets, to trap the acknowledgement for a while before it can dissipate.

He is victorious already. He is vengeance. He is Sith.

He’s won three days early.

After half an hour, though, basking in his glory gets boring. His face is growing warm. He’s eaten two sandwiches, too, and forced down seven gulps of awful water. He should sleep, but he isn’t tired yet.

Maul doesn’t exactly know what to do with downtime. Or: he does know. On Mustafar, he had long stretches with nothing to do. Apparently, it’s physically impossible to keep training all the time. SRT-X (or Strut, as Maul had called it in secret) once put itself in front of Maul and showed articles to Lord Sidious, about a vain bodybuilder on Corellia whose arm muscles had eventually started breaking down from overexertion, and he’d nearly poisoned himself with the waste of his own overbulged dead muscle tissue. Strut didn’t survive that confrontation, which in retrospect Maul admits was completely fair. (At the time, he’d cried his eyes out, no matter how much Master had tried to make him to stop, but that too had been a valuable lesson: the Master is always right, and contradiction suicide. Even if the frequency of lessons had tapered off somewhat after that. Lord Sidious had probably independently decided to make Maul train less. He was wise that way.)

He’s had long stretches where he didn’t even feel like tinkering with his droid projects, or meditating, because occasionally the hatred just wouldn’t come. That was before Lord Sidious showed Maul what the Jedi had done to the Sith: nowadays, it’s much easier to feel hatred. (Or what passes for hatred, anyway. Mostly it’s nothing but protective anger, but that is just another failure he cannot admit even to himself.)

During those times when there was nothing to do, Maul often researched people. Master is a politician in His spare time, of course, as Maul overheard some years ago, and He makes people dance and shiver and obey with a single word. It’s almost more impressive than being a Sith Lord. To manipulate people… to talk them into being your friends… Maul might need that skill, especially in the future when he will become the Sith Lord and teach his own apprentice—he would need the skill just to find an apprentice—and so he started his research project. Which admittedly consisted of looking at the hololessons that Master left for him. But that was the best way to observe natural behavior. Which was why Maul watched them. Over and over.

He’s not brought the hololessons with him now, but he is in someone’s ship. Johan had a picture up with his child. Maul already learnt so much today, about cold and efficiency and never trusting anybody and stealing from supermarkets, and maybe there is something additional to learn here, about people. He wobbles back over to the small holo and brings it down to his nest.

There’s nothing else on the datadrive, though, nothing but the toddler cradled in her father’s arms. No instructions. No meaning. Maul tries to imagine what it would feel like, to be that small or that big, but nothing wants to move in his head except for the water strangely threatening to blur his eyesight.

His chest hurts.

His chest hurts, and pain is a message.

Maul wishes he knew what he’s being told.

He moves closer and closer to the holodevice—there must be some power trapped in there, to make him react this way—and then his nose bumps against the plasteel.

It hits the off button, and Maul is alone again.

He tries to fall asleep.

He counts: he nearly finished his mission. He learnt about cold, and efficiency, and not trusting, and probably something about babies. He found food and water and shelter. He nearly made friends with hooded aliens and a brachno-jag. He—

Maul shoots upright and logs back in to the datapad.

He’s forgotten to search the database for the padawan.

⁂

There is one location on Teth even worse than the tea room: the stage out in the open air where Candidate Woobudg is stubbornly campaigning for freedom.

That’s what he keeps shouting.

Freedom, with the might of the Republic guarding his back and his twi’lek slave kneeling at his feet.

Freedom, the people rallying below mutter. Eldra is walking amongst them, looking for threats, while Master Fyaar is standing grimly behind Woobudge. “Optics,” Woobudg had explained and Master Fyaar had acquiesced, and Eldra didn’t understand and did: the twi’lek attendant would look too much like a person, she thinks, if she was next to a Jedi who could have been her daughter.

Freedom! Freedom! All around her, and something pulls on Eldra’s sleeve. It’s the hand of a young red twi’lek man. He’s collared and his left breast is exposed, suckling a sullustan baby. The child’s family—slavers—are a few meters ahead, and that’s what must have given him the courage to beg, wild-eyed and hoarse, “Take me with you, please!”

Freedom!

“We didn’t…” Eldra looks away. “We did not come here to free the slaves.”

⁂

No padawan is listed anywhere in the catalogue for Grakkus’ slave auction. There’s no Jedi, no witch, no force-sensitive or force-null or Sith or any thing or any being in any way remarkable. Nothing, neither in any listing for any future auction nor in the archives of successful deals stretching six decades into the past. No padawan who is not for sale but just a member of Grakkus’ personal collection except a boy who died ten years ago. No references to a Jedi sold by a third party, or even any guest who might be a Jedi when Maul cross-referenced the user lists with holonet articles about his ancestral foes. Two Jedi artifacts, but it’s not like those count.

No person that could in any way be interpreted as the mission target that Master talked about, not even after Maul exploited a weakness in the catalogue’s search field to give himself access that Johen shouldn’t have had and scoured it all over again.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

No way to succeed.

He should have been afraid all along. Maul wasted two hours basking in premature victory and safety; he wasted three days being cautiously optimistic, when he should have been swallowing down his pleas for mercy ever since the very second Master announced He’d send him to Nar Shaddaa.

Send him to failfail.

There’s no padawan here.

What does it mean, that Master wants Maul to fail the very first mission he ever had? What did Maul do wrong? Why couldn’t He just punish—?

Master might have made a mistake, perhaps, Maul’s mind offers timidly. Maybe He’s seen news of a padawan that isn’t here, but Master does not make mistakes. Master knows everything.

Besides, it being a mistake—which it isn’t—wouldn’t make a lick of a difference to Maul’s chances of surviving his Master’s wrath.

Maul swallows a gulp of the oily water, then another, and it burns. That doesn’t make his mind stop spinning, makes him even more woozy and warm and nauseous, but his growing illness won’t matter anyway if Master wants him dead. If he doesn’t find a padawan, nothing will ever matter again.

He’ll be punished. He’ll deserve it. He’ll die.

Maybe this is another lesson. Maul is training to become the Sith Lord after all, and every true Sith must learn that failure is not an option. Their mission is too important for that. Revenge is too important.

(Even if it’s not really meant as a lesson, not truly, Maul has to believe it is. Otherwise, what else is there to do but wait for death?)

Maybe this is a lesson in improvisation. In overcoming terror. In never giving in.

There must be a padawan somewhere on Nar Shaddaa. Somewhere in this quadrant, at least. Somewhere in the galaxy. Master must have meant ‘Nar Shaddaa’ in some general sense that doesn’t just refer to the planet, or maybe the padawan He talked of was moved…

The one location where there definitely are some padawans is the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, Maul knows. But there are also several thousand armed and trained Jedi Masters there, and while Darth Maul will absolutely kill them all to avenge his fallen Sith brethren and sisters and siblings, he generally assumed it would happen at least one or two years in the future. That he’d have time to build a lightsaber before fighting to the death against the Grand Master Jedi, and also grow a little taller. His battle plans always took those things for granted.

Maul will just search the rest of the galaxy first for a suitable padawan, he decides, and keep the all-out assault on the Temple as a backup plan. That’s not cowardice: he only has a few more days and travelling to Coruscant will take a lot of time. It’s just efficient to try and find a padawan somewhere else first.

Maybe even somewhere on Nar Shaddaa. Maybe the owner of this ship just wasn’t interested in Jedi padawans.

Maul could get a different result on a different ship. He has to.

⁂

It happens too quickly for Eldra to process. The rally ends and the people disperse, and then there is a sound like static—and then she’s on her back with Master Fyaar’s heavy body on top of her. The air is shivering with the heat of blaster bolts and thick with the stench of burnt flesh and hair.

“Eldra,” Zalandas Fyaar rasps out. “Eldra.”

Eldra looks up at her. Master Fyaar’s blonde locks obscure her face, but they cannot hide the stripe of cooked skin at the very top of it, flecks of bone showing through. More than anything, Eldra wishes she could see her Master’s eyes, see the clear blue serenity that reminds her that all is as the force wills it. More than anything, she wishes she could see a mouth twisted in disappointment at Eldra’s failure to notice the ambush. Freckles. Worry-wrinkles. But Master Fyaar cannot raise her head, because she shielded Eldra with it, and—

“Eldra.”

Eldra raises her hand to Fyaar’s wound. She’s good at healing, she gets far better marks there than for diplomacy or geography or sports, and this is cauterized so there won’t be an infection, she just needs manipulate a few cells, to stabilize…

“You’re strong, child. You will not fall to the dark. I know it.”

That sounds like a goodbye. It doesn’t have to be. It won’t… “Master, please—” Eldra can heal her, she is healing her, the wound is closing a little.

“Always remember you are a Jedi.”

“Master—”

“Remember yourself.“

Jedi Master Zalandas Fyaar doesn’t die because she gives up. She doesn’t die because Eldra gives up, or because Eldra fails, or because survival was impossible: the man who pulls Eldra away from her dying Master simply doesn’t care that they need to touch.

He pushes Master Fyaar to the ground—“This one’s toast!”—and pulls Eldra upright by her left lekku, and no matter how desperately she fights through the pain worse than anything she has ever thought she’d bear, like her brain is being squashed and really that’s what is happening, like every thought she has has been replaced by puke-inducing pressure and she does retch and vomit, but still she fights, because if she can just get to Master Fyaar and save her then everything will be okay.

She fights until she doesn’t see the rise-and-fall of her Master’s chest anymore, and then she screams, and then she stops.

⁂

It’s the twelfth ship now. Same procedure as the last ones. Maul’s working through the entire shipyard ship by ship. Slowly, he crawls over and stands up and waits until the world stops wobbling, and then he slices the lock of the cargo hold. He searches for datapads and tries to access any slaver database he can.

Somewhere, someone must be selling a Jedi padawan. They just have to.

⁂

Something’s being shoved in front of her. A holocam, Eldra registers, to—shoot a picture for the ransom note? But why would they… it would suffice just to contact the Temple; they know where they sent Eldra and her Master; they know they haven’t been in contact; the must know that something went wrong.

Unless they don’t know she’s a…

“How do we want her?” the man holding the holocam asks. “Sultry?”

“Nah,” someone behind her back replies. “Feisty little Jedi like her’ll fetch more as a gladiator or something.”

So they do know. The Temple will ransom her, she’ll go home and everything won’t be okay because Master Fyaar will still be dead but—

“Growl.”

But she’ll go home—

“Growl, you little piece of shit!” the one behind her shouts, and she snarls. There’s a clicking sound. “Again!” she bares her teeth and gets another click, and another, and one more. There. They got the holo they don’t need, and then soon she’ll go—

Eldra screams when a hand twists her lekku.

She screams and screams, and when she calms down, she’s alone in a cell, on the ground, covered in fresh vomit and terrified and confused. I wasn’t fighting! I snarled for the camera, she thinks. I did what they asked me to do, there’s no reason… except they could. Because I’m alone right now.

Because they killed Master Fyaar.

They killed my…

And she…

“Remember yourself,” Master Fyaar said, her last words, and here Eldra is with her fists balled and gathering strands of hate around herself like a shroud. “Remember yourself,” and Eldra could hurt these people so easily if she felt for their cells and made them boil. Eldra could make it painful, and slow. It would be so easy.

So easy to fall.

“Remember yourself.”

⁂

Maul is sweaty and hot and he feels the way he did when he wasn’t allowed to sleep for days. He’s finished one half bottle of the awful water, and it hasn’t helped: everything is spinning and blurry and he’s still thirsty on top. He’s also inside his seventeenth ship and ready to give up on Nar Shaddaa. He’s been seeing the same nine slaver auction databases on repeat, and there’s considerable overlap between the offerings, and still nothing Jedi in sight.

I can’t fail, he thinks, and hits refresh again.

I can’t just fail my Master, and he’s about to exit the database and the ship and the planet when he notices the flashing window at the bottom right.

An alert!

An alert prominently featuring a twi’lek girl baring her teeth at the holocam, but the person is almost incidental to his interest.

“Jedi padawan for sale!” the headline screams in flashing red. “Freshly captured!!!”

So this is his enemy, his target, the prize he has to fetch to fulfill his destiny: she’s young, though probably older than him, and her blue face is badly cut up. There are deep purple bruises on both her lekku, and despite the anger and toughness she’s trying to display she mostly succeeds in looking terrified.

Hah, Maul thinks to himself. I knew the Jedi were soft. I wouldn’t be this weak, if I was captured, which never would happen in the first place because I am Darth Maul, heir of the Sith Order.

He looks at the picture again, trying to find his hatred. She and hers slaughtered the Sith on Malachor; they live in pampered safety; they know nothing of the Force. They—she would just as soon kill him, hurt him, traffic him if their fortunes were reversed. She is his enemy.

Still, she looks just like a person, alone and scared.

There is no point in looking at her image any more.

Maul studies the alert carefully. She is going to be sold tomorrow—not the date Master had told him of, but Maul already established that it was a test. She is going to be sold in the palace of Xev Xrexus, but maybe Master had misheard the name or it was yet another way of probing Maul’s skill. The terror Maul felt because of these tricks was a valuable lesson, a reminder of the utmost importance this mission held for the Sith Order and how inacceptable any kind of failure would be. Maul, moreover, has seen through it: he is completely equal to the task. He will bring the padawan to his Master, and not deviate from the plan for a single second. He is much more skilled than anyone else would be, anyone who isn’t an awesome Sith and therefore, he’ll perform admirably and easily, and Master will be proud. Master will pronounce him Darth Maul, and the many years of training will have paid off. He knows this. (Thinking it really hard, over and over, is the same thing as knowing.)

She’s been captured—

Master must have foreseen it. He is, after all, gifted in the art of clairvoyance he had told Maul, always already aware of the mistakes Maul might make at any point. So it makes sense, it does, that Master sent Maul to this planet days ago on a mission to buy a padawan that was captured two hours ago.

Master is wise that way.

He planned…

And…

By now, Maul is so tired and thirsty—his brain flashing Master knew and but why in quick dizzying succession—that even the relief of having succeeded can’t boost his energy anymore. He locks the ship, overriding any key fobs, and sets an alarm for well before the padawan’s auction. He takes a bite of the awful chips he acquired in the shop, and throws up.

⁂

“Smile.” He does. “Growl.” He does. “Not like that.” There is a slap, and then he arranges his facial muscles differently. He doesn’t know whether he’s succeeded, until he sees the approving nod, and feels the lack of punishment.

There is his body and there is him, and no connection between the two. If he had a mirror, he could make it look more natural, but only an approach. There is no joy here. No anger, or not the kind they would have him display. No future. There are no brothers to watch. There have been no brothers, ever since he was selected and taken off-planet, off-home, too many days or years ago now to count. These people’s expectations are a thick leather shirt, riverdunked and allowed to dry on the body, so tight that he can hardly breathe. There is no space inside for himself, let alone dreams or brothers or rage. There is only a face to rearrange, to the approval of a master.

A different master, soon.

Maybe that master will kill Savage. Maybe they won’t. One way or the other, this will the last ever auction he is sent to. Savage will make sure of that.

#darth maul #eldra kaitis #savage opress #dimtraces makes things #hell is just a beat away #i'm awful at crossposting but i actually managed to write something again!!!

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detroitbydark · 4 years

Text

Title: Play With Fire- Part 2

Characters: Migs Mayfeld/”Pockets” (OC)

Rating: T

Summary: First Impressions

Warning: Blood? but not gore

A/N: So apparently Pockets is now and OC and I have more ideas then I care to admit for this pairing. Thank you to @crimson-dxwn for being my beta extraordinaire and listening to my rants and raves. Anything ya'll wanna know about these two crazy kids? let me know and I might explore it. Also, 3 ABY is approximately one year before the battle of Endor and the second Death Star and their reunion ( the first part in this) takes place about 9 ABY sometime after the second season of The Mandalorian.

3 ABY

Sometimes you made the shot of a lifetime. Sometimes you didn’t.

Sometimes you made that once in millennia shot as Rebel artillery was destroying your nest and you went tumbling ass over blaster down a ravine with half a ton of loose debris and rocks.

You couldn’t win them all.

Migs got this. He understood it like he understood his unfortunate short stature or the hairline that had receded for too early in life. Those were the breaks.

You either lived with it or died with it and he was fully set on living until he was old and shriveled.

Some days it just sucked.

Today was one of those days.

“We got a live one coming through. Clear a table, will ya?”

The voice of his squad mate, Crikes, was too loud on his right as his weight pressed heavily into Smitty on his left. The rough outer rim accent bounced around in his bucket like a stray blaster bolt.

Kriff his head hurt.

Everything hurt actually, from his head to the tips of his toes. The slide hadn’t been that bad. Seven meters? Maybe ten? It was the sharp obsidian stone that had come down with him that had done him in. The razor sharp black stone had bludgeoned and gouged his armor, weaseling its way into the cracks and under the plastoid plating. It cut at his skin with each move he made. If the stims hadn’t helped numb him up he’d probably have passed out when the assault droid had helped yank him from the rubble. His gauntlets were both cracked and he could feel a cool breeze coming through the cracks in his back plate. He’d liked his armor. Command wasn’t gonna take to kindly with having to replace it.

It was nice to pretend his biggest concern was getting a new set of plastoid requisitioned.

“Hey medic!” Crikes’ voice cuts through his thoughts, “I said we need a hand over here!”

“Maker… do you have to yell so fragging loud? I mean-“

“What are you going on about?” Looking back he’s never sure what it was that he noticed first, but he likes to think it was her voice. Like an holomodel fantasy out of a good spice trip, she shuts that Hutt humping Crikes up, marching over with her hands on her hips and scowl on her face.

“We got an Imperial war hero here.” Crikes sounds chastened, but Migs doesn’t bother to look over to see if his face matches what he’s hearing because he’s in the presence of a fragging angel.

“Yeah? Look around. Got a lot of heroes here.” Sarcasm flows from her pretty pouty lips like water from a fountain. She sweeps her arm toward the other beds and the piles of bloodied plastoid littering the small field hospital. “This one ain’t any better or worse.”

Migs frowns under cover of his helmet. For a while he’s been wondering if he might have some bleeding going on somewhere. He feels a bit woozy when he turns his head too quickly to follow the angel as she grabs a datapad off a nearby cart. He was better then a majority of the scum around him. He was a sharpshooter, best of the best, and the bastard who single-handedly brought down the pair of x-Wings decimating their ground troops.

He tries to tell her as such but the words don’t come out of his mouth in any coherent thought. Angel freezes, looking up from the datapad she barks to his squad mate and Migs suddenly feels his bucket being pulled from his head.

“Designation number trooper.”

It’s an order not a question. He didn’t like orders, even from his own superiors but she’s damn pretty and his head hurts…

“Trooper? A number?” Angel looks up from the datapad. There’s concern on her face. She’s scanning his injuries. The ones she can see. Were they that bad? Migs reaches up and feels something warm and sticky against his temple.

“FO-593” Smitty offers for him.

“593… got it…” she takes a step closer, setting the datapad down and pulling gloves from her pocket. She’s got the prettiest hazel eyes, long lashes. Migs wonders if she’s seeing anyone. It’s probably one of those civvie doctors that signed on…

“593-“

“Mayfeld. It’s Migs Mayfeld.” He clarifies, ‘cause a pretty girl like her should be saying his name.

“Alright, Mayfeld, what happened?”

“He saved our asses is what he did!”

Crikes again. Maker, if the bastard kept stealing his glory he was going to deck him. Once the room stopped spinning.

“You know what?” The Angel looks about as amused with Crikes as

Migs felt. “I think it’s high time you two go get some rations in you and leave Mayfeld and I to our own devices.”

Smitty elbows Crikes, the plastoid of armor clattering as he tips his head toward the entrance.

“I’m good boys,” Migs offers the other two field operatives, “Let me get some alone time with the pretty girl.”

He ignores the raised brow directed his way and the crossed arms that follow. Nausea rolls through him as his buddies wander back the way they came.

“Frag… I think I’m gonna be sick.”

She does well. Manages to miss the first splash of vomit. The second retch hits her shoe.

“Son of a bitch… Maker fragging-“

The angel has a mouth on her. He could get used to that. Migs uses the sleeve of his under armor, exposed by the shattered plastoid to wipe his mouth.

“Sorry about that, Sweetness.”

Her eyes narrow as she reaches behind him. “My name is not Sweetness. I am FM-111 to you trooper. Specialist Coronette if you're lucky.”

The words slip out, some verbal diarrhea to go along with what he was starting to think was a concussion. “I am lucky and you’re beautiful.”

“That’s it-“

“Pockets? Have we got an issue?”

Wait- was that a-

“No Coric, I’m good.”

The older man looks at Migs and Migs looks right back. No shit. A clone. You didn’t see that everyday. Guy’s got a head of close cropped salt and pepper hair, looks real dignified. He’s also… glaring? Ok yeah, that wasn’t good.

“If he’s giving you trouble I can-“

Angel’s…. Specialist Coronette’s face softens as she looks at the clone. Migs feels a little jealousy percolate deep down - accompanied by the occasional flip of his stomach. She pats the other man’s cheek fondly and he gives her a soft look.

Some guys had all the luck.

Migs closes his eyes as the world takes a big spin. He doesn’t mean to groan but the axis has tilted and the poles have just flipped and… Fek… he really is starting to not feel good.

“Hey… Mayfeld?” The voice is soft and Migs focuses on the sweet, silvery words. Slowly he opens his eyes and notes that Coronette, is at his side looking more concerned then she has the entire time he’s been in the damn med bay. Over her shoulder the clone medic gives his own appraising look.

“You got this Pockets?”

Migs sees irritation flash in sharp green eyes, not just green but, like, Endor. So bright and alive there wasn’t any way he could think to describe them other than the greenest Kriffing place he’d ever seen in his life.

“I’ve got it, Sir.” Her tone is sharp but the clone, her superior, doesn’t seem to take offense to it. She must not just be blowing smoke. At this point he doesn’t give a wamp rat’s ass. He really just wants to call it a day, catch a cycle worth of sleep and lay in bed til the gut-rending nausea goes the fek away.

“Uh-uh,” she tuts, irritation melted away, “can’t fall asleep on me just yet. You haven’t even shown me a good time yet.” She teases and Migs wills his eyes wide open.

“You’re flirting.”

“Maybe… or maybe I’m trying to keep you awake because you’ve got a concussion. You’ll never know.”

Specialist Coronette pokes and prods, shuffling him toward the edge of the gurney. “Wanna go somewhere more private?”

“Trying to get me all alone, beautiful?”

She huffs. It sounds half amused. He can work with that.

“I’m trying,” she grunts, looping his arm around her shoulder and manhandling him into standing, “to get you in a private room so I can assess your wounds without the whole battalion seeing you stripped down.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” His head spins at the sudden change in momentum. “I’m not that kind of man. You gotta wine me and dine me before-“

She twists under his arm and sharp pain shoots through his side cutting off his words more effectively then any shushing ever could.

“Easy Mayfeld.” He hears a familiar voice but can’t place which slimy barve he knew it came from. “You can’t handle that one.”

A pair of voices, masculine and feminine, grunt in agreement as he and his medic slowly hobble past and to a clean, empty ‘room’.

It’s a room about as much as a room as a troop transport is a luxury yacht. Four ceiling to floor curtained walls block it off from the other rooms and the larger, open floor of the hospital. He manages to collapse onto the exam table as the world takes another vicious whip around. This time he manages to spew in the bucket shoved under his nose.

He apologizes after he finishes. “Thanks. You know, you keep showing me basic human decency like this and you’ll never be able to get rid of me.”

Coronette is pulling clean gloves on and hunting in a shallow drawer. She arches a pretty brow in his direction as she finds a pair of shears. “I have to clean up whatever mess you make. Don’t confuse decency with laziness on my part.”

“Whatever you say, Pockets.”

Her shoulders tense for a moment and then she takes a deep breath and lets the bait he’s laying out go to waste.

“I’m getting this armor off you. ‘Fraid it ain’t doing you any good anymore.”

Migs glances down at the cracked plastoid. His pauldron is long gone and both pairs of vambrace and gauntlets are thrashed. There’s so much under armor and skin showing, Migs isn’t really sure how they're still even on him. Pockets manages to get them off without much to it and little input from the guy wearing them. She begins on his cuirass and Migs thinks of half a dozen smart ass remarks about getting his clothes off, but there’s something going on under the armor and each time she begins working at the cracked and twisted chest piece it steals the air from his lungs.

“Karking hells,” he curses lowly.

“I’ve almost got it…”

Migs takes a deep breath and holds as still as he can. It kriffing hurts, burns hotter than two suns over Tatooine. Just when he’s sure he can’t handle a second more of it, the plastoid falls away in two pieces. It’s like a pressure he hadn’t realized was on his chest has finally been removed and he can breathe-

“Son of a mudscuffer-“

Migs doesn’t need to ask what’s wrong. He can feel it. Warmth spreading and staining the under armor across the left side of his chest.

“Karking thing was putting pressure on-“ she trails off again as she retrieves the shears from her pocket. She’s efficient and wastes no time slicing up the front of his under armor. The black fabric falls away from one side and clings to blood staining his other. Coronette doesn’t stop moving, flowing from one spot to the next. She doesn’t stop talking either.

“Fek. Fek. That’s not gonna fekking come out in the wash-“

He could laugh but she’s pulling the clinging fabric away from his chest and pressing bacta soaked gauze into the laceration. If that didn’t burn like the wrong end of a burner’s incinerator he didn’t know what did.

“Damn it! Is your kriffing processor pickled?! Warn a guy!” He's all bark and no bite at the mercy of the medic who continues to press hard on the wound.

“Shut it 593.” It’s grunted out as she continues to press with one hand and reach across him with the other for Palps only knew what. Sharp words fizzle on his tongue as he catches a glimpse of pale flesh down the top of her scrubs. Fek. He really loved a pretty pair of tits and judging by the rounded tops he can see and the slight jiggle as they move, Coronette’s were perfect. It’s better then any painkiller he could imagine… until she’s leaning back and catches the cast of his eyes.

“So are so kriffing lucky. You slimy little nerfherder- if I had two free hands.”

He should feel bad about being caught but Migs has had a day and he really can’t find it in him.

“Not my fault, maker gave you a gorgeous rack and Imperial uniforms don’t hide it.”

He winces as she yanks the bacta soaked gauze away, blood beginning to well up again immediately. She doesn’t warn him before pressing the gun into the open wound and squeezing the trigger. Bacta foam fills in the area as he hisses, sealing the laceration. She doesn’t stop to make sure he’s ok before she’s spinning and grabbing more supplies. A bacta patch gets slapped over the quick dry foam.

“Weasly stormtrooper scum…” she continues under her breath.

“Aww come on now, I’m sorry.” He tries to offer a weak smile but her back is turned as she furiously enters data onto a pad. “I really am. When’s the end of your shift. I’ll buy you a drink?”

The anger that flashes in those forest eyes when she whips back is the sexiest thing he’s seen in a standard cycle. If the stims weren’t beginning to wear off and his body beginning to hurt to Malachor and back, he’d be getting stiff in what was left of his armor.

“You think I’d have a drink with you?”

“Come on sweets, what really matters is if you think you’d have a drink with me.”

Her eyebrows skim her hairline. “Are you kidding me? Give up already. Karking little-”

“Not the size of the aak in the fight but the fight in the aak, Sweetheart.”

“Not in your life, Buckethead.”

Her ass looks almost as good in her scrubs as her tits but she doesn’t give him a chance to say so before she storms out.

#migs mayfeld #migs mayfeld/oc #the mandalorian

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stressisakiller · 4 years

Text

A Moment of Peace

Bucky Barnes x Reader Soulmate AU

(Hello Sunflower Part 12)

Summary: You finally get a day to rest after the craziness of the past week

Warnings: None really, fluff, like one cussword a little bit of spice

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: Small Edit 3/18 Fluffy chapter yay! Let me know what you think and if you have any requests for future chapters! Thank yall for reading!’

Series Masterlist

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Between being kidnapped by Hydra and worrying about the trial, there hadn’t been much time in the last week for you to relax. So after the final trial and final decision of not guilty you felt like you were going to collapse. Everyone was happy to be back at the tower but you all decided that celebrating could wait. The week had worn down on everyone. Leaning on Bucky as you headed to his room, your legs felt like lead, and the moment that your head hit the pillow you were out.

You were a little disoriented as you woke, it was dark in the room and outside, your eyes still felt heavy and there was a weight on your waist. Shifting to look to your left you found the weight to be your soulmate's arm flung over you as he slept, mouth open and small snores slipping out of his mouth. You couldn’t help but giggle at the image, in that moment it hit you that you are free. The government isn’t going to come after you and Hydra is in hiding again, at least for a little while. Allowing yourself to relax again you shuffle closer to Bucky, pausing when you feel him stir. He simply turns to his side and pulls you closer in his sleep resting his chin on top of your head as you bury your face into his chest. Breathing him in, you soak in the warmth of his chest and arm. Even with the super-soldier serum flowing through you, your body still runs a little cooler and you always enjoy the warmth that your space heater of a boyfriend gives off. You smile to yourself as you allow your body to drift back off to sleep.

The sun is the first thing you notice as your body slowly comes to consciousness. You must have slept all afternoon and night. Can’t say you're surprised, you hadn’t been this exhausted since you disobeyed and got a tattoo to cover your soul mate mark at eighteen. A soft kiss to your forehead pulls you out of your thoughts and causes your eyes to flutter open. The sight you are met with makes your heart melt, Bucky is leaning on his metal arm looking down at you with a soft smile gracing his lips. His flesh hand is tracing random patterns on the skin of your hip. You sleepily smile up at him.

“G’mornin’ love, wha’ time s’it? Your words are slurred with sleep, causing Bucky to smile a little wider

“9 am, the day is practically halfway gone.” he jokes, considering you normally end up waking up closer to 5:30 in the morning 9 is surprising.

“No shit? I can’t remember the last time I slept in this late.” you giggle at the noise that your tummy makes at that moment “‘M hungry.”

Bucky nods and goes to get dressed, at least enough for the communal kitchen as you stretch out across the bed, trying to release those last few knots in your body before getting up and putting on your baggy pj bottoms.

You are surprised to see Tony cooking bacon and pancakes when you enter the kitchen. You walk up and give your brother a hug,

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” he unsuccessfully tries hiding his smile as you raise your eyebrow at him, “and really, I’m only good at making a couple of things, breakfast being one of them.”

You give him a kiss on the cheek before you walk over to the coffee maker, pouring yourself a cup and making a fresh pot for the rest of the group. Sipping on the sweet nectar of life in your hands you hop onto the counter beside Tony, Bucky leaning on the island across from you.

“So, it seems like you’re the only one having to pay a fine for your actions, bro.” you make it into a joke but watch his face closely for any sign that he feels uncomfortable.

“Yeah, I get it though, I am the one with the most money and the one with the most agency to do whatever I want. So, I can’t really blame them for being a least a little frustrated with me.” You smile at his words, you wouldn’t say that they were only a little frustrated, but you weren’t going to say that to him. You sit there with your two favorite boys as Tony finishes with breakfast, helping set the table when everything was almost ready.

“Hey Jarvis,” you call out.

“Yes miss Stark.” You roll your eyes at the formal ways he addresses you.

“Could you please let anyone that is awake that breakfast is ready?”

“Absolutely miss.”

You nod satisfied as you pull some orange juice from the fridge and syrup from the pantry. You can hear voices approaching as you place them on the table. Sam and Steve walk in first, followed quickly by Nat and Clint whispering to themselves as they approach the table. Bruce slowly walks in from the lab, clearly lost in thought. Thor is currently off-world, per the usual. Conversation ceases as everyone stuffs their faces with the food in front of them, surprised comments at Tony making such a good breakfast are made and you could see the attention going to his head but you decided to allow it this one time.

Finishing up the food on your plate you lean against Bucky on your right, watching the people around the table as they begin to joke with each other. A sense of calm overcomes you as you allow yourself to realize that the people around you have become more of a family to you than your so-called dad ever was. Bucky looks down at you,

“You ok little sunflower?” you look up at him and smile,

“I have never been better, my star, I have my soulmate next to me and my family around me. And for the moment I have nothing to worry about except how I’m going to spend my day.”

His smile widens at your words, pulling you closer he nuzzles his nose against the shell of your ear,

“I think I have an idea about how to spend the day.” His voice was deeper and raspier than normal, sending a shiver down your spine as you smack his arm.

“James Barnes!” you threw your hand over your heart in mock outrage, “you kiss your soulmate with that mouth?”

“I want to kiss her elsewhere right now.” He murmurs, you just roll your eyes at him,

“At least let me finish breakfast first, yeesh.” Bucky laughed at your reaction, kissing your temple

“We don’t have to right now but I wouldn’t say no to later today.” shaking your head at his antics you smiled up at him, as an idea popped in your head.

“Sounds good love. Hey, wanna go to the farmers market today? We haven’t gone in such a long time.” Bucky’s smile grew at your request, he couldn’t say no to you, especially when you looked at him with those big expectant eyes.

“Of course Sunflower, let’s have a day out.”

After eating and getting dressed, and a couple of breathtaking kisses you both headed out for the day. Bucky insisted that you go back to the Farmers Market in Brooklyn so you piled onto the back of his motorcycle. The wind and sun on your face felt amazing as he weaved his way through the traffic, this, you think, is exactly what I was missing.

Walking towards the market you noticed Bucky glancing at some barbers as you walked past. You decided quickly to find out exactly what he was thinking about.

“Thinking about getting a haircut, handsome?” you tried to keep your tone playful as you asked. Bucky looked at you, eyes swimming with a thousand emotions.

“I am but I don't think I’m quite ready today.”

You just nodded and looped your arm through his, leading him to the market

While looking at some of the vegetables on display you decided to make a big super for everyone that night. As shity as the man you called father was, he had taught you how to cook traditional Russian meals. Mainly so that he could feel more at home, but you didn’t want to think about that right now. Right now you wanted to make a meal for your family that you remembered from your childhood.

You quickly told Bucky about your plan, dragging him around as you found all of the ingredients you would need for the food as well as stuff to make dessert. Luckily you were able to hold all of your groceries while on the motorcycle as Bucky drove you back to the tower after spending the majority of your day galivanting around Brooklyn. Pulling into the garage below the tower Bucky helped you take everything up to the communal kitchen so that you could get started.

You put Bucky to work as you cooked, having him peel veggies and potatoes so that you could chop them up and put them into the pot for the Borscht, a Russian vegetable soup. Also making some Kartoshka, Russian cake pops, for dessert. It took about 3 hours for you to completely finish cooking everything but you hadn’t felt so at peace in a long time. Cooking and baking had always been your escape from everything that was happening around you while at Hydra. Of course, your sexist father hadn’t minded, he enjoyed having a good little daughter that knew her place to cook for him. His duality always surprised you, he wanted you to be a typical girl while also making you into a super-soldier. You wonder how fucked up his brain had really been before your bullet went through it.

The cool feeling of Bucky’s metal arm wrapping around your stomach pulled you back to the present. Leaning into his warmth you looked up at him with a soft smile.

“Hey, lovie could you help me set the table? I need to finish this and I’ll tell Friday to let everyone know that it is ready.” Bucky left a soft kiss on your head before nodding and heading to the cabinets to grab everything.

“Hey Jarvis, could you please let everyone know that I made dinner and it’s ready?”

“Yes, miss”

“Thanks J, and you know that you don’t need to call me miss?”

“Yes miss.” you rolled your eyes, who knew that AIs could be so sarcastic, leave it to Tony to create one that was.

Everyone filed in, looking confused yet excited about the food on the table and absolutely shocked at Bucky’s haircut. They quickly commented on how good he looked before looking to you to explain what they were about to eat. You explained that it was a traditional Russian meal that you had been taught to make when you were younger. You didn’t miss the misty look in Nat’s eyes when she saw what you had made. She gave you a small smile when she noticed your eyes on her. You were proud to note that she had eaten three full bowls before leaning back stuffed.

Everyone was overly full at the end of dinner, shuffling over to the living room to watch a movie. Lord of the Rings was put on the table and you, Bucky, and Steve all looked at each other confused, you had never heard of that movie before. Everyone else looked at you in shock,

“You haven’t seen this?” Tony asked incredulously, “I mean I know you didn’t have a normal life but even I’ve seen them and I was in a type of jail for half my life.”

“Sorry, Stark but random movies weren’t high on my priority list as I tried to escape Hydra and then worked on getting my soulmate free.” The sarcasm dripped from your voice as you raised your eyebrow at him.

Tony was right, of course, the movie was amazing, you were hooked and by the end of it you couldn’t wait till you would get to watch the rest of them. But by the looks of everyone else they were ready for bed, and you could feel your eyes getting a little heavy as the credits rolled. You slowly stood, stretching out for being curled up by Bucky for the last couple of hours. He followed you to his room, since your kidnapping incident you spent more nights there than not.

Stepping through the door you were surprised to be pushed against the wall, door slamming behind Bucky as he crowded against you. His lips were rough against yours as he trapped your arms above your head and leaned his whole body against you. You couldn’t help the moan that escaped you at the feeling of him against you. Of course, he wouldn’t have forgotten your conversation and testing kisses from earlier. He pulled back panting slightly, breath fanning over your face,

“You looked so beautiful today, and then you made such amazing food that reminded me of the good things in my past. You are amazing and I feel incredibly lucky to have your mark on me.”

At his words, you couldn’t help but pull your arms from his grip and lift his shirt to kiss along his tattoo.

“You’re the one who looked distractingly good today and I’m the lucky one Buck. I don’t deserve you and your heart,” he growled at your words, not liking how self-deprecating you sounded. He lifted you easily and threw you on the bed, deciding that he would spend all night showing you exactly how much you deserve each other.

Tagged users: @calwitch @writerwrites

#hello sunflower #Bucky Barnes #James Buchanan Bucky Barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky fanfic #winter solider x reader #winter solider fanfiction #soulmate au #avengers fanfiction #marvel imagine

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popatochisssp · 5 years

Text

Happy (Belated) Valentine’s Day!

I’m a procrastinator and then also I needed to sleep at one point, RIP anyway

Soul Searching

Your partner takes you aside on Valentine’s Day, somewhere nice and private.

You can guess at his intentions, especially when he tells you there’s something he wants to give you, but the chocolates and flowers you’re half-expecting don’t come.

Instead…

Instead, he talks to you, telling more than you already know about monster customs, monster relationships, monster milestones.

He thinks it’s time to do one of those right now, on your cute human love-holiday, a specific show of intimacy and trust like no other.

He touches his phalanges to his chest and his soul—the culmination of his entire being—comes forth.

And he wants you to hold it.

Sans (Undertale):

His smile is relaxed and easy, even lit from below by the soft white glow of his soul.

“Are you sure?” you ask him, and his grin widens.

“of course,” he replies without hesitation. “it’s you.”

Sans trusts you, wholeheartedly.

The thought makes you feel soft, and for lack of any kind of answer to it, you reach for his soul.

Your fingers brush against it and you’re immediately overwhelmed with…impressions, feelings, synesthetic thoughts as your mind attempts to translate this thing of pure magic into something you can understand.

A crisp breeze, blowing by your face.

Sliding into a freshly-made bed, rumpling a clean set of sheets for the first time.

The gently spiced sweetness of gingerbread, and the tart burst of blueberries.

A single, resonating chime of a bell, fading out into stillness.

“well?” Sans asks, drawing your attention back to his face. “what do you think?”

It’s said casually but it’s obvious your answer is important.

“I love it,” you tell him. “It’s you.”

Papyrus (Undertale):

“I’M! NOT NERVOUS ABOUT THIS, BY THE WAY! IF YOU WERE WONDERING.” Papyrus tells you.

…Which is an obvious lie by the way his leg is bouncing a mile a minute.

But you’re not about to call him out on it.

“It’d be okay, if you were nervous,” you say with diplomacy. “This seems like a pretty personal thing…”

“OH, VERY MUCH SO. BUT,” Papyrus beams at you, just the barest edge of nerves in his smile, “IF THERE’S ANYONE I’D TRUST WITH MY ENTIRE SELF, IT WOULD BE YOU!”

So saying, he nudges his soul forward; closer to you, wordlessly inviting you to touch it.

You’re not nearly rude enough to decline that invitation.

Papyrus is…

Polished marble beneath your fingertips.

Warm, gentle sunbeams on your skin.

The snap of a pretzel and the zing of cold, fresh lemonade, ice cubes clinking against the glass.

Waves, crashing onto the beach, rhythmic and powerful.

“Papyrus,” you breathe. “You’re amazing…”

He blinks at you a moment.

And then he laughs, boisterously, proclaiming, “YES! O-OF COURSE I AM! NYEH-HEH-HEH!” like he knew it all along.

He might not have…but you certainly did!

Sky (Underswap Sans):

“…COURSE YOU DON’T HAVE TO, IF YOU FEEL IT’S TOO SOON—I UNDERSTAND COMPLETELY!—BUT I WANTED TO OFFER BECAUSE…WELL, IT’S ABOUT THE GESTURE, AND OBVIOUSLY I TRUST YOU, SO—”

“Sans,” you interrupt, laughing a little despite yourself. “You’re…you’re rambling a little…”

Sans’ mouth shuts, a faint tinge of blue coming across his face.

“I…YES, I WAS, WASN’T I? HEHEHEH… I’M SORRY,” he sighs, a touch rueful. “I’M JUST…A LITTLE EXCITED! I KNOW YOU LACK THE CULTURAL CONTEXT, BUT THIS IS…KIND OF A BIG DEAL?”

You look at the upside down heart, bobbing before you in mid-air—Sans’ soul.

“Yeah, I kinda figured.”

“IT’S JUST…I LOVE YOU,” Sans admits. “SO…I WANT YOU TO LIKE IT…DOES THAT MAKE SENSE?”

“It does. ” And the least you can give your skeleton beau is an honest answer, so… “I am ready. I’ll do it.”

Sans’ eye-lights brighten happily as you reach out and cup his soul in your hands.

Just like he warned you, in as much magi-scientific detail as monsterly possible, it’s…weird, an utterly bizarre sensory experience for your brain.

It’s the soft, cloying sweetness of marshmallow, cut with the sharp, icy tingle of mint.

It’s the tickling bubbles of carbonation from a freshly cracked soda can.

It’s the swoop in your stomach at the top of a rollercoaster, just as you start to fall.

It’s birdsong, ambient and melodious.

It’s Sans.

So, “It’s perfect.”

Paps (Underswap Papyrus):

Such a bold invitation from your favorite shy skeleton is unexpected, to say the least.

But far from unwelcome.

The pale upside down heart is like a magnet for your fingers, your hands itching to touch the very core of the man you love so much.

But you have to be certain.

“This is…really okay?” you ask. “You’re okay…with this?”

Papyrus, with his ducked skull and fidgeting hands, looks utterly bashful, but the way he meets your eyes is nothing short of resolved.

“yeah,” he says. “i want to share this with you. i want you to know me…like this.”

He reaches for your hands and you let him take them, pulling them to closer to where his soul hovers.

“it’s okay,” he promises.

So you reach, and find…

The trickling sound of a quiet stream, flowing steadily forward.

Lacquered wood, smooth and sturdy.

A hot shower after a long day, filling the room with soothing steam.

Heavy cream, thick and sweet…with the faintest hint of hazelnut.

It’s probably rude, or at the very least extremely cheeky…but you can’t quite stop yourself from bringing Papyrus’ soul up to your lips for a chaste little peck.

He shivers, an enticing cerulean dusting his face.

Your intent must have quite clear, because he chuckles.

“i…i love you, too…”

Jasper (Underfell Sans):

“figured it was about that time,” Sans is saying with a shrug. “one of those things ya’ gotta get to sooner or later, y’know?”

His tone is blasé, perfectly casual; verging on cocky, even.

You might’ve bought it if he hadn’t stuffed his hands into his pockets, trying to hide their trembling from you.

Real emotion—vulnerability—scared the hell out of Sans and you both knew it.

With his soul laid bare before you, utterly exposed in the truest sense possible, he really couldn’t get any more vulnerable than this.

…but he’s showing you anyway.

He chose to be vulnerable to you, for you, and there aren’t words for how special that makes you feel.

“Thank you,” you tell him, hoping he understands what you mean and reaching slowly, carefully for everything that makes him…him.

The magic that settles in your palms feels like dry heat, almost insistently warm.

It feels like static, like peeling apart a pair of socks stuck to each other, fresh out of the dryer.

A puff like cinnamon and the tang of a tart apple, sour and sweet and spice all at once.

A distant rumble, like from a far off storm…

Sans’ eye-sockets go wide when you pull his soul closer to you, holding it against your chest.

You know what it probably looks like, like you’re aiming for an even more intimate type of sharing, but really, you just…want him near to you.

Because…

“Sans…you feel like home…”

Pyre (Underfell Papyrus):

“I’M SURE YOU’RE INCREDIBLY FLATTERED. TO HAVE WON SO MUCH OF MY REGARD IS NO SMALL FEAT—EVEN FOR AN EXTRAORDINARY HUMAN SUCH AS YOURSELF!”

He’s probably been talking for a solid two minutes now, blustering about how intimidated you must be by such a bold, romantic gesture; how loved you must feel to have such an amazing partner, willing to trust you with his soul; how he understands if you need a moment to process all this overwhelming information.

If you didn’t know better, you might’ve thought Papyrus was projecting a bit, stalling for time…

But you do know better: surely, the fact that he can’t seem to meet your eyes right now is just to…keep you from feeling nervous.

Surely.

“…AN HONOR, REALLY—”

“I am,” you say, cutting into his long-winded tirade.

Papyrus’ jaw clicks shut.

“I…WHAT.”

“You’re right,” you clarify. “I’m honored. Really.”

Ah, Papyrus hadn’t prepared a script for that response: you can tell by the way his cheekbones go the palest shade of pink, and by how he all but thrusts his soul at you.

“I! JUST…JUST TAKE IT!” he demands.

And well…you’re not often one to tell Papyrus ‘no.’

You carefully grasp his soul.

Sharp spice like ginger, dripping in rich dark chocolate, riding the line between bitter and sweet.

A razor’s edge beneath a fingertip, safe only for a careful hand.

Fine silk that flows and ghosts against your limbs, the barest whisper of touch.

Crackling, like the tamed fire of a well-stoked hearth.

You let go.

Papyrus looks uncertain, too proud to ask for your thoughts outright but obviously dying to know.

You opt not to leave him in suspense, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him down to meet you in a kiss.

Your partner is a fascinating man…

Mal (Swapfell Sans):

You startle when Sans grabs your hands in his own, intercepting you.

“Is…Did you change your mind?” you wonder, attempting to pull back. “It’s okay, you don’t have to—”

“NO. NO, IT’S FINE,” Sans assures you. “I TRUST YOU, DEAR. I DO.”

But still, he holds your hands, his grip firm.

“……I don’t—”

“JUST…YOU CAN…GO AHEAD. I JUST NEED…THIS……WHILE YOU DO.”

Your beloved Sans—ever emotionally-constipated—probably can’t do any better than that strained and halting explanation.

It’s a good thing that (you think) you understood it.

You can hold his soul.

He wants you to hold his soul.

…But the faint shred of control in such a vulnerable act, holding onto you while you hold onto him, is something he needs to have, too.

If it helps him feel comfortable, you don’t mind in the slightest.

You reach for his soul, with his gloved phalanges still curled around your hands.

Sans allows it.

A subtle yet persistent hum, background, like a nearly-forgotten device in a silent room.

A…strange sort of sweetness, bitter like licorice, or sour like raspberry—impossible to separate from one another, either way.

Pressure, intense and purposeful, bearing steadily downwards.

Crushed ice, stingingly, numbingly cold…

You’re not sure what to make of it…at first.

But then, you remember the last time you’d felt a wisp of this magic.

When you’d been hurt, not badly but enough to make Sans dart over to scold you, even as green light started to pour from his claws—easing your pain, putting you back to rights.

It was the same.

You release your grasp on Sans’ soul, taking no offense in the way it immediately retreats back into his chest.

You turn your hands in his, lacing your fingers together and squeezing tight.

“Thank you…for trusting me.”

And then, you lean in for a kiss.

Rus (Swapfell Papyrus):

You can’t believe it sometimes.

How you ever managed to snag yourself such an adorable, goofy sweetheart of a skeleton.

“i-i mean, if you don’t…y’know, ‘cause, i-if it’s weird, for you, uh…i wouldn’t want you to feel…obligated??? that’s…mmmaybe not the right word…”

Poor Papyrus is absolutely babbling by now in a way that could only be more endearing if he didn’t look so nervous.

“i don’t…i dunno, whatever, uh, whatever you want, to do, i just…wanted it to be…out there, if—………”

He goes dead silent when you make your answer to his proposition clear, taking his soul into your hands.

It’s…not what you expected.

The sensation of a thick plume of faux fur against your cheek.

Lukewarm wax cooling, growing tacky on your fingertips.

What rain sounds like when it’s falling outside, while you’re safe and dry indoors.

Dripping, overwhelming sweetness, dense like marmalade and sticky like caramel.

No…not really what you expected…

But somehow, it suits him wonderfully, this odd, clingy duck of a skeleton you’ve chosen as your own.

Papyrus visibly jumps when you raise his soul up to your face and give it a tender little nuzzle.

“I love you,” is all you have to say to make his whole skull glow violet.

It’s true, though—you really do.

Slate (Horrortale Sans):

He doesn’t look particularly…happy…about this.

In fact, Sans looks pretty much the opposite, a grimace on his face and his single red eye-light pointedly averted from the sight of his own soul, hovering there between you.

You manage to tear your eyes away from the sight of it, looking at him instead.

“Why?” you ask.

His frown deepens, confusion obvious.

“Why do you want me to do this?” you try again, hopefully clearer. “If it’s… If you don’t want to…”

“……no,” Sans says at length. “it’s not… you should get to……you…deserve to………to know it.”

“But…if you don’t want me to—”

“not… no, that’s not it.”

Sans looks at his soul, his expression visibly pained.

“i just…wish it weren’t…like this…”

Finally, it clicks.

He’s talking about the state of his soul, littered with cracks and fissures, marks of damage from all the horrible trauma he lived through.

He’s…

Sans is ashamed of it.

His own soul.

…

Something…comes over you.

Without hesitation, you reach out and take the manifestation of the skeleton you love into your hands.

It feels like…

Oil dripping over your fingers, dark and slick.

Plush velvet, soft and smooth.

A sharp burst like grapefruit and the warring bitter and sweet of burnt sugar.

Intermittent cricket chirps, on an otherwise still and silent night.

Just like you thought…

You pull Sans’ soul in, bringing it to your lips to pepper it with kisses—one for every little crack and imperfection on its surface—even as Sans shudders and goes that soft gray-blue color you adore so much.

He only manages to hold back the tears (relief? Joy? Disbelief?) until you speak.

“It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

And then, well…you’ve got plenty more kisses to give.

Papy (Horrortale Papyrus):

“So! If You’d Like… You Can Just Go Ahead And…”

Don’t mind if you do!

The soft white soul in front of you is utterly enchanting, lovely to look at—and that should be no surprise at all, knowing the man it belongs to.

You lean in closer, admiring it just a moment longer…

“Wait!”

You look up.

Papyrus, his smile gone tight all of a sudden, is reaching for his own soul too…calling it back?

No…

Just…turning it, slightly, a minor little adjustment.

Which is, quite frankly, deeply suspicious.

“Uh…what are you doing?”

“Nothing!” Papyrus assures you. “Don’t You Want To—”

He cuts off abruptly as you lean to the side, testing.

Sure enough, he re-angles his soul for you again, almost on instinct, and when he realizes how badly he’s given himself away, a nervous drop of sweat beads along the side of his skull.

“Papyrus… Why are you trying to ‘dark side of the moon’ your soul?”

“………”

You frown.

“Papyrus.”

“It’s! Not Very Nice, To Look At, Over There,” he confesses, admitting defeat. “Wouldn’t You Rather Just…Look At The Light Side? Like The Moon? The Moon Is Lovely, Nobody Needs To See—”

“I want to see,” you tell him, firmly.

His meddling hands…reluctantly retreat.

Leaving you free to take Papyrus’ soul in your grasp and see what all the fuss was about.

He was right, that the deep scar on the other side of his soul wasn’t particularly pretty—imperfectly healed, a gnarled silver streak across glowing white.

But when you touch him, his innermost self, it’s also…

Soft and impossibly delicate, like holding a single page of scritta paper between your fingers.

Cold steel, stainless and nigh unbreakable, fit to outlast anything.

Malleable marzipan and slippery olive oil, sweet and light and…weird, just a little offbeat.

A steady thrumming, beneath your fingers, like a heart; a strong, steady pulse.

“Thought so,” you say at length, gently trailing your fingers over Papyrus’ soul.

“Thought What?” he asks.

His hands are wringing in his lap, already anxious, so you decide not to make him wait for your answer.

“I love all of you,” you explain. “Not just the ‘pretty’ parts.”

And oh, Papyrus’ eye-sockets sparkle.

Ash (Undergloom Sans):

The way Sans looks at his own soul, you’d think he’d never seen it before.

His eye-lights are blown wide in their sockets, that soft shade of gray you’ve come to love so much filled with nothing less than total surprise.

Like he’s not even sure of what he’s seeing.

It doesn’t look like anything out of the ordinary to you.

It’s just…a normal monster soul, an upside down heart shape made of glowing white light.

Maybe…he sees something you don’t?

“Everything okay…?” you ask, and Sans finally blinks.

“huh? oh…yeah…yeah, nothing’s……”

He trails off a moment.

“i just……never seen it this bright before…”

Oh.

If you had to make a guess, you’d say that that’s a very, very good thing.

…and it makes you want to hold his soul in your hands even more.

“So…can I…?”

“oh yeah, sure. heheh, go for it—just be gentle.”

As if you would do anything less.

You scoop Sans’ soul up, cradling it in your palms.

It feels like…

Standing in the rain without an umbrella, letting the droplets pelt your skin.

A window pane under your hand, cold, flat, and even.

Soft white noise, unidentifiable yet soothing.

A glass of milk and a fistful of semisweet chocolate chips, plain and simple—uncomplicated.

“This is…beyond cool,” you say, because frankly, it is.

Sans smiles.

You love it when he smiles, the way the expression seems to weaken the dark circles beneath his eye-sockets.

Apparently, it also makes his soul glow just a little bit brighter, and you like that even more.

You think you’ll just have to make Sans smile as much as you possibly can.

Yrus (Undergloom Papyrus):

“SO…YOU’RE CLEAR, YES? WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN?”

You nod.

Papyrus’ concise explanation of the synesthetic experience that was holding a soul had been as well-crafted as one of his lectures, and just as informative.

Perceiving all of him, through all of your senses at once, is an exciting prospect to be sure.

“AND…YOU UNDERSTAND? WHAT IT MEANS?”

“I think so…” Which of course, makes you wonder… “Are you sure you want me to…?”

Papyrus smiles, the corners of his eye-sockets crinkling with gentle amusement…and a hint of self-deprecation.

“IT’S SWEET OF YOU TO ASK,” he says. “BUT…DO YOU REALLY THINK WE’D BE HERE IF I WASN’T ABSOLUTELY SURE?”

………

He has a point.

You remember how terribly flustered Papyrus would get, back at the beginning of your relationship—unable to hold your hand without starting to sweat and stammering over his words like you’d suggested something lewd instead.

He seems perfectly calm now, not even blushing (…you think—the pale, pearly color of his magic makes it nearly impossible to tell).

“Alright… You’re sure.”

Without further ado, your grasp Papyrus’ soul with careful hands.

He’s warm, steaming chai, sugar cubes dissolving within.

Picking an autumn leaf up off the ground, bright yet fragile.

Fingers trailing over smooth, worn leather.

A soft, slow sound, like breathing beside you in bed in the middle of the night.

You gently stroke your thumb over the surface of Papyrus’ soul.

He sighs when you do, eye-sockets falling shut.

Trusting himself wholly in your hands.

“Oh Dear-Heart,” he breathes, his voice going quiet. “I Love You…”

You know.

The feeling is very much mutual.

Brick (Horrorfell Sans):

“So…I just…touch it?”

Sans’ big phalanges curl, his wrist flicking twice—“yeah.”

Seems simple enough, you suppose?

Under Sans’ watchful red eye-light, you reach forward…

“wa—it…!”

You jump, your eyes going wide, and the soul darts away from your fingers but you don’t care about that.

Sans’ pained grimace is far more important to you right now, seeing his knuckles pressed against his throat as if to soothe the ache.

“Use your hands!” you exclaim fretfully with concern, grasping at his claws and pulling them out in front of him.

You’d learned sign for a reason, and it wasn’t so Sans could hurt himself trying to make words out loud with a voice that seared and stung him so painfully.

“i know,” he assures you, looking chagrined. “i know, i… sorry. i…panicked, a little.”

More than a little, you almost say, but don’t.

You’re sure it was hard enough already for him to admit, even peripherally, that he’d been…scared.

“Are you okay now? Because…we don’t have to—”

“no,” Sans signs, forcefully. “i want to. i just…i wasn’t ready. i am now. you can… you can go ahead.”

Well… so long as he’s sure.

You reach again, moving slowly this time so Sans can see exactly what you’re doing, where your hands are going…

Wrapping ever so gently around the faintly cracked white soul glowing before you.

It feels like…

Tightening your grip on a handful of hot sand, making it slip away though your fingers even as the heat starts to hurt.

The high, droning cry of cicadas in the dead of summer.

Wool, clean but unprocessed—a thick tangle of softness just shy of raw.

Earthy rye bread and sharp black coffee, warm and fragrant.

Just as slow and steady as you took it in your hands, you pass it back.

Sans takes it, absorbing it back into his chest.

His grin is crooked, almost sheepish.

“so…what’s the damage?”

You sigh, regretfully.

“I’m so sorry…I don’t know how to tell you this, Sans, but…I think you might be baby.”

“…what,” Sans signs, even as that cute hissing sound you’d come to realize was his laughter fills the air, his shoulders bouncing.

“I’m sure this is very upsetting news,” you continue. “It’s a terminal condition, to be just baby, but—mphmh!”

Sans’ hand settles over half of your face, muffling your words.

But he’s still laughing, so you think you’re alright.

King (Horrorfell Papyrus):

“YOU REALIZE, OF COURSE, THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THIS,” Papyrus says.

His needle-sharp phalanges locked tightly around your hands, the stern and imperious look upon his skull as he tells you so…

You’d be hard-pressed not to realize that this was important.

The scarred yet lovely white soul hovering almost hauntingly between you, awaiting your touch, only adds to the gravitas of the moment.

Papyrus releases your hands.

You don’t move.

He stares at you a moment, taking you in.

And then he reaches for you.

The backs of his claws light carefully on your cheek, stroking slow and purposeful.

“…I LOVE YOU, MY JEWEL,” he says, quietly; matter of fact. “THERE ISN’T ANOTHER SOUL ALIVE I’D ALLOW TO DO THIS. YOU KNOW THAT…YES?”

“Yes,” you answer, because you do know it.

As aloof and closed off and even mean as Papyrus once was…once he let you in, you were in, and he never made you doubt that.

You take his soul in your hands.

The sound of wind, gale-force, rushing past your ears.

Pressing down on a healing bruise, testing the fading soreness.

More heat than sweet, peppery cayenne overpowering a faint hint of juicy pomegranate.

Curling your fingers around the stem of a rose, just lightly enough that the thorns don’t prick you.

Papyrus is…a singular sort of skeleton, not the easiest to get close to by any means of the word.

But you’re here, holding all that he is in the palm of your hands, at his own invitation.

You raise his soul and press a kiss to its scuffed and wounded surface, feeding all your intent into the gesture.

I love you, too.

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yandere-society · 5 years

Text

Day 7 | Hypothermania

Synopsis: Normal people don’t find an upside to dying of hypothermia. But then again, normal people don’t wake up in the afterlife and find they’re able to freeze anything with a mere touch. Of course, you would never use this power for evil… not until hell freezes over. Time to spice up the underworld, just in time for the holidays.

The 12 Days of Black Christmas Event Masterlist

Pairing: Demon!Jungkook x Female Reader

Admin: @psycho-slytherin

Trigger warnings: yandere themes, mentions of death and dying, blood, strong language

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

Cold. you’re cold. Your breath, your blood– you’re made of ice. You’re… sleeping? No, your limbs are too light, your heartbeat too quiet. And you’re cold.

“Where…?” It’s dark. You can’t see your hand in front of your face. The darkness is eternal, as though it’s trying to eat you alive–

Hope. you see a pinprick of light in your mind, and you hear a plea almost destructive in its grief.

Come home. Come home to me.

“I’m coming,” you whisper, your voice echoing from every corner of the darkness. The voice will save you. You just need to follow it. Come home to me.

“Ah!” You open your eyes and cough, feeling as though your lungs were filled with water. Where are you? You’re surrounded by trees, the dim sky growing darker.

Your eyes catch the unnatural blue-purple tinge of your fingertips. Your joints feel stiff, frozen, as you stand up. What’s going on? The last thing you remember is playing hide-and-seek with your friends and family at your annual holiday party.

Your boyfriend was It, and you had found an abandoned animal burrow to hide in. Jungkook had this habit of always managing to find you, but not this time. You felt yourself shivering, the cold seeping through your layers. Maybe you should get out. But when you pressed against the snow-covered entryway, you encountered resistance. You were… trapped?

Okay. You must’ve passed out or something during the game. But then… why are you alone in the woods, and not in the hospital? And why is there a circle of stones surrounding you? You pick up a stone to examine it, when suddenly–

“The hell?” You blink, for the stone has turned silver-blue and freezing cold. Ice. The rock… the rock is made of ice. Is this a prank? Special effects? You drop it and stare openmouthed as it shatters against another stone.

You stand, staring at the shards of rock-ice. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it… You need to get home. Yes. That’s what needs to happen. Your family, your friends, your boyfriend–

Jungkook. Will he know what to do?

You pat your pockets– of course you don’t have your phone on you, but maybe Jungkook…

Your thoughts are interrupted by a freezing weight settling on your shoulders, spreading upwards from your pockets. What? Your arms have become stiff, restricted by your suddenly immobile sleeves.

Off, get off… you wriggle out of your coat and watch as it, like the stone, falls to the earth with a solid, icy clunk.

“What the fuck. What the fuck.” You stumble towards a streetlight, now visible in the darkness. You’re closer to civilization than you thought, and you reach the road quickly. In your stupor you manage to trip over a crack in the sidewalk, catching yourself on some loose cobblestones which, just like your coat and the rock, promptly turn to ice. “No, no, no– what’s happening?”

Come home to me. Every instinct is pulling you to Jungkook.

“I’m coming,” you murmur, your voice raw. You don’t understand what’s going on, but you know you need to find Jungkook. He’ll help.

As for your hands… you examine them closely as you walk, scared to touch anything. What if you freeze the whole neighborhood? Your fingers seem normal, albeit numb and stiff from the cold.

Wait, you know this street corner. Jungkook’s house isn’t far from here.

Holding your hands away from you, you speedwalk down the snowy streets. The neighborhood is alive with twinkling lights and festive music, and the cold, which you remember like an ache in your bones, doesn’t seem to be affecting you as much– even without your coat.

Jungkook has always believed in you. Sure, it’s only been a few months, but you can trust him. You remember where his house is, but in the time you’ve dated, you’ve never been inside. Jungkook has always bemoaned his messy tendencies, and you understand. But it’s an emergency– and you need him by your side.

You walk up the steps and you’re about to knock on the door when you stop. Will the door turn to ice? You can’t risk it. You open your mouth to call out Jungkook’s name, but a voice from inside stops you.

“Accursed game… humans and their games… well, look what happened. And the summoning, it didn’t even work! Fires of Hades, why didn’t it work?”

That… that sounds like your boyfriend. “Jungkook?” You call cautiously, in case he has company over. “It’s me, y/n.”

“Y/n?” You hear heavy footsteps before the door swings open, and your beautiful, brilliant boyfriend stands in front of you. The sudden relief at finally seeing him makes you want to cry.

“Y/n. Oh, hell, it really is you. I thought I lost you.” Jungkook reaches out to hug you and you step backwards quickly.

“Don’t touch me,” you say, your heart clenching at Jungkook’s puppydog eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You could never hurt me, sweetheart,” Jungkook replies, but withdraws. “Here, come in, you must be freezing.”

You gratefully follow him into the living room. Contrary to what he told you, it’s perfectly tidy.

“I just need to know what happened,” you tell him, settling on the couch. “I don’t remember anything after playing hide-and-seek.”

“Ah.” Jungkook pauses. “Well, to be perfectly honest… you died.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry, what?” You ask politely.

“You died,” Jungkook says again, louder.

“No, I heard you.” You go to rub your temples before remembering the whole ice thing. “I’m just waiting for you to say you’re joking. It’s been a long day, Jungkook, I don’t need to be teased.”

“Angel, I’m not teasing.” Jungkook reaches for your hand and you flinch, moving away. “We dug you out hours after the game ended. It was too late.”

“What?” You croak, the weight and grief in his voice overtaking you.

“You died of hypothermia last week, y/n.”

The darkness. The voice. The cold, oh, the cold. You were gone, so far from the earth, and yet never having left.

“Okay, stop.” You wave your hands, blinking hard. “You can’t keep saying I died when I’m sitting in front of you like this!”

“Well, yeah.” Jungkook looks at the ground. “That’s sort of my doing. It took so long that I thought it didn’t work at all, to be honest.”

“You… what, you want me to believe you resurrected me?” You start to laugh, but Jungkook continues staring at you earnestly, his gaze filled with such devotion that you actually begin to believe him. “How?”

Jungkook stands, nodding to a flight of stairs that you could have sworn weren’t there a moment ago. “Let me show you.”

You follow him downstairs into the basement, careful not to touch the wall or banister. How are you going to tell him you turned into Elsa postmortem?

“What do you know about dying, y/n?” Jungkook asks, switching on the lights.

You blink in the sudden brightness, adjusting to the empty basement. “Uh, it’s bad?”

“Do you know how people die?”

“If you’re my great-aunt Leslie, you get knifed by your partner after they backstab you during a bank robbery. And if you’re me, I guess…” you shiver, clenching your fists. “You get cold.”

“To die,” Jungkook says, lightly tapping the bare basement floor. “A soul must be summoned to the afterlife by a demon. Or an angel, but usually a demon. We’re all sinners, y’know.”

“Uh-huh…” you decide to play along as Jungkook seems to lose himself in his thoughts. “Now what if a demon summoned a soul, but that demon was on Earth?”

“I guess the soul would remain on earth,” you reply. “But what does this have to do with–”

Jungkook snaps, and you freeze. At his movement, splashes of color reveal themselves: ragged lines of red paint all over the walls, runes decorating the floor, and in the center of it all– a table, on which a bright red circle surrounded a set of items you don’t recognize. But none of this was there before. “What… wha…”

Your boyfriend saunters over to the table. “It was harder, way harder than just summoning you downstairs. I had to make certain sacrifices. But I’ve made a life for myself up here, and I needed you with me. I figured, if dying for humans just means bringing you home to the Underworld, nothing’s stopping me from bringing you here.”

Come home to me. That voice. So it’s real? He’s telling the truth?

“You’re a demon?” You manage.

Jungkook bows. “At your service.”

He can do magic. He’s a demon. Maybe he can help you with the ice?

“Jungkook, I…” You stare at your hands. “I didn’t come back right.”

“What do you mean? Of course you did. Satan himself wrote the summons.”

“No, I mean-” You sigh and look around, eventually reaching for the table. With the deliberate action, you at last can feel the cold flowing through you, pouring into the table and freezing it solid. You step back and see Jungkook, his eyes wide as he looks between you and the now-ice table.

“Hades below…”

“Can you fix it?” You ask simply. Sure, your boyfriend is a demon, and sure, you apparently froze to death a week ago, and the red paint on the walls kinda looks like blood, but you’re pretty certain that if you asked nicely, Jungkook would do anything for you. He’s just that kind of guy. Demon? Whatever.

“I…” Jungkook furrows his brow. “Of course, angel. Even if I have to go to Hades and back. Which, by the way, is an eternal flight.”

“Now you’re just messing with me,” you laugh, about to punch him playfully before you remember. Your hands. “So, uh, how did you bring me back?”

“Usually the summons just requires an incantation,” Jungkook says, examining the ice table. “The dead hear our voices and follow us down. But to bring you back to Earth, where you already lived…” he nods to the array of things on the table. “The summons was more complicated. Some orphan tears here, a bit of a virgin’s flesh there– that one was so easy to get, I can’t believe people are into that stuff– some of your hair, a bit of blood I had stored in the back, y’know.”

“What?” Blood? You step back. “Did you– Jungkook, did you kill anybody?”

A beat. “No,” Jungkook says eventually.

“That was a fucking long pause, Jeon Jungkook,” you reply.

“I thought about it, I really did. Your mom, those friends of yours we were playing with, I mean your damned dog for not finding you sooner. But then I realized…” Jungkook cups your face in his hands, his lips almost brushing yours. “You were hiding from me. So your death was my fault, no one else’s. The only one who should have died is me, and–” Jungkook chuckles quietly. “I can’t even do you that favor.”

“Well, I like you alive,” you say fiercely. “But if you killed my dog I would freeze you before you could say sorry.”

Jungkook raises his hands. “Noted. Anyways, I just talked to the great Master Satan himself, and…”

“Wait, what? When?”

Jungkook taps his head. “All in here, angel. He says we can fix your ice thing, we just have to wait until sunset. And we’ll need a blood sacrifice.”

“We just missed sunset,” you complain. You’ll be stuck with these hands until tomorrow?”

“Guess I’ll have to feed you, if every fork you hold turns to ice,” Jungkook laughs. “In the meantime, Christmas is coming up. Want to use that new ability to decorate? And surprise your family?”

You crack your knuckles. Ignoring everything else, you’re alive, and you’re magic. Jungkook may be a demon, but he’s your demon. And he brought you back home– how’s that for a Christmas miracle?

#bts #yandere #yandere!jungkook #jungkook #jeon jungkook #yandere bts #yandere!bts #boyfriend!jungkook #demon!jungkook #jungkook x reader #yandere jungkook x reader #demon!jungkook x reader #bts x reader #bangtan

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bleufrost · 4 years

Note

Can I please request a h/c for Keanu/F!reader, where she is pregnant and how they manage that at different stages and their life in the public eye/public events etc. Thanks so much, I love your work! 💙

Keanu Reeves x Reader: Your Road to Her (pregnancy)

masterlist

a/n: I hope you like this lovely! I focused more on the stages because I genuinely feel like Keanu wouldn’t be the type of guy to allow for the public to get too involved in something so important for him. He seems really protective of his privacy and a baby would tenfold that in my mind, i hope thats okay with you!

**i also want to apologize, i thought i had this queued for a week ago and didnt notice it never went up :(

warnings: pregnancy, mentions of miscarriage (this is fluff tho dont worry!)

From the moment you and Keanu find out the news, he’s ready and willing to do whatever it is you need. At first there aren’t many signs that the baby is even growing in your tummy, you almost get worried at the lack of morning sickness and cravings. Keanu is always there to reassure you that everything is okay though.

He takes you to doctor appointments constantly the first month of your pregnancy. The first few are your idea, wanting to do everything right and keep track of the little one. The next seemingly hundred are definitely his idea. He is way more nervous than you are, but he does his best to not let it show through. You need someone to be a rock, and who better than the father?

If the first month was almost completely normal, the second brings forth hell. There’s a constant feeling of nausea and fatigue radiating through you. Every little thing and smell causes your stomach to churn. Keanu tries at least a thousand different recipes to find something you can keep down, but nothing really works. At the very least, it’s still easy to go out in public and only be put in tabloids for grabbing coffee with your boyfriend. You aren’t quite showing yet and you enjoy not having to hide your baby from prying eyes for the moment.

The third month gets a little easier than the second physically. Mentally is a different story. There was a panic in your mind that you hadn't shared with Keanu the first two months, but in this third you almost feel as if you have to.

Miscarriage typically occurs within the first trimester of pregnancy and you're so close to getting out of that, but you can't do it alone.

"I'm scared I might lose the baby." You say it one day after your emotions catch up to you. Keanu finds you a sobbing mess on the floor of the bedroom when he comes home one day. His heart thuds in his chest when he catches sight of you in pain and he worries instantly that something terrible must have occurred.

"What is it? What happened?" His hands come up to cup your face and he wipes your tears away gently. You shake your head, tears still falling, and he wraps you in his arms. You're safe here. The baby's safe here. Everything is okay as long as you don't have to leave. Eventually of course, you do have to.

The fourth month leads to the second trimester, and the second trimester means new discomforts. Finally able to eat again, you discover that you really don't have any boundaries when it comes to what you'll happily consume. When one moment you couldn't keep anything he made down, now you were becoming a guinea pig for every new baked good and meal that Keanu feels like testing out. One time you even accidentally eat something that may or may not have been for people, but that's not something you want to think about.

The random food only fuels the inevitable heart burn and constipation you get though. A large part of you feels gross for the way your body reacts to the pregnancy, but Keanu reassures you time and time again that he finds you to be nothing but gorgeous.

Now it's not so easy to hide. You both spoke about being in the public eye the first week of your pregnancy. It was a mutual agreement that you really didn't want to be photographed while carrying your baby. There was so little privacy already, your child doesn't deserve to be exposed to the world before they're even able to open their eyes. You stop going out places with Keanu as much, and when you do go out, you're both heavily covered.

Months five and six are miracles. One night, while Keanu is sitting and reading to you, you feel it.

"Oh my god." Your hands fly to your belly and you can't stop staring. Keanu drops the book and stares at you with wide eyes. "What's wrong?" You look to him and laugh in both delight and confusion. Without saying anything you grab his hands and place them down so he can feel. It takes a moment, but then it happens again: the small little kicks of your baby as they remind you that they're here and excited and just can't wait to meet you guys. Both of you cry that night, anticipation and joy radiates between the both of you and you know this is exactly where you're meant to be.

The seventh and eighth months get a little difficult again. News outlets have caught on to the fact that you're carrying and they truly are relentless in their endeavor to get a peek at your baby bump and confirm suspicions.

In a few interviews Keanu is asked to comment on his feelings toward the pregnancy, but he gently declines each time. He hates disappointing people, but you and the baby mean way more to him than any fan or public image

One night an interviewer pushes a little too far. Keanu was near ready to leave the set altogether, angry that someone would so easily ignore his requests for privacy. Luckily, he was able to calm himself down pretty quickly with one thought of you watching at home. Once more, he smiles and declines the questions.

By the time the eighth month is closing and the ninth beginning, Keanu has gotten into a rhythm of rubbing your feet and back almost daily. The extra weight puts a strain on your joints and it sometimes feels like you're lifting heavy dumbbells every time you move. He's very patient and gentle as he always is, but now he watches every move you make with uncertainty. It's about this time that going into labor can be unpredictable and he desperately needs to be ready for anything.

With great hesitation, he takes on a new role at this time. He received the script in the mail a few weeks earlier and was ready to decline immediately, but you wanted him to take it. It would help him get his mind on something else and relax. Besides, hearing him research the role and practice lines soothes you in a way that you could never describe.

You laugh the most at this time. The baby can hear their daddy speaking. His animated voice lights up the room and Keanu can always tell when the baby is responding by the giggles that leave your mouth. His heart beats faster at the thought of his child already being so happy with you guys. It calms any nerves he has about his new role as daddy.

There's bags ready and packed by the door for weeks. Keanu sleeps with a protective hand over the baby and the other wrapped around you tight. He wants to feel if anything happens and sleeping this way comforts him and puts his mind at ease because he knows that if you or the baby stirs, he'll feel it.

It happens one day in the kitchen. You're sitting on a chair by the counter that Keanu had pulled up so you could be with him comfortably while he cooked. The two of you are laughing over a playful argument you were having on how much spice to put into the dish when you feel something wet.

Your laugh stops suddenly and your cheeks blush with intense embarrassment, but you just sigh and move to get up. Wetting yourself is humiliating, but you know the man standing before you would never make you feel bad for something you can't control.

He spots the wet floor and instantly his eyes light up. "Can you help me clean this please? I'm sorry." Keanu bolts over to help you stand. He shakes his head in shock and starts leading you over to the front door. "Babe, I need to go change and clean up the mess, where are we going?"

He laughs in confusion and slight panic, leaving you by the door and grabbing his keys. From the kitchen you hear him call, "Sweetheart, I'm pretty sure that was your water breaking!" You look down in disbelief, surely you would know if that was your water breaking...right?

A jolt of pain knocks any thoughts out of your head and all you can do is breathe until he gets back to help you.

All the way to the hospital, Keanu is guiding you through the periodic pains that plague you. Sometimes it doesn't hurt as badly, but then a new wave will wash over you and leave you gasping for air.

The actual hospital arrival is a blur. One moment you see him rushing to check in, the next you can feel yourself being wheeled down a hall. You think you pass out for a moment, but can't be sure. All you know is that you're now in a room being told to breathe deeply. The contractions are not yet close enough together to initiate anything, so you just have to stay as calm as possible.

There isn't a second in your confusion that he isn't there by your side. You can tell he's scared by the way his eyebrows knit together and his hands tremble, yet his smile still lights up the room and his voice brings you down from the discomfort. He reads to you until you feel as though the waves are no longer coming one at a time. They all feel like they're happening at once and he instantly calls for a doctor.

Giving birth is agonizing. The exertion compares to nothing you've ever felt before and you can feel an endless flow of tears stream down your cheeks as you continue to get told to breathe, push, relax, push again, breathe…

Your eyes lock with his, hand reaching out for the strong grip you always seek for support and he wraps it around yours with no hesitation. Unlike most stories you'd heard, Keanu isn't panicking or on the verge of passing out. He's always been highly attuned to both life and death, and as much as he hates seeing you in pain, he knows that this is a fleeting moment that will lead to the most beautiful child both of you have ever seen. Your pain destroys him, but your love and willingness to endure it builds him back up even stronger than he was before. Just one look into his beautiful, deep eyes gives you strength to keep going, so you do.

As soon as your screams die down, a new one begins. It is by far the most lovely noise that has ever graced your ears, and although you knew it would keep you both up for months, you wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. The nurses clean the baby off just a bit, the real bath could wait. Right now you both need to hold the little one just as much as you need to breathe.

You are given her first. She is gently placed into your arms and your lip trembles as you can't stop the onslaught of tears that overflow your eyes. She is stunning. Nothing in life could have ever prepared you for just how gorgeous this tiny little baby would be. Her eyes weren't open, but you knew that one look into them would make you gladly give up the world for her.

In that moment, Keanu feels as though his lungs give out. Nothing matters outside of this hospital room right now and he feels no need to be anywhere else but here. His arm remains where it has been the whole time, protectively holding you. The other, though, is free. He has a strong urge to protect the little girl. His shaky hand comes over to brush the soft hair on her head. As soon as he feels her delicate little head under his fingertips, his heart swells and he lets the tears fall down.

The little bundle of joy was safe and warm and oh so loved. When the nurses came in, they found the three of you asleep. Keanu held you protectively in his arms, a hand still gently petting the baby's head. Your arms were holding your little angel as your head leaned against his strong chest, finally getting some rest after your long journey to get to the little girl that now felt like home.

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