#I’ve woken up and chosen Violence today

[ageofzero]

Oh I love when advertising fucks with the website UI so that instead of clicking the website’s usual buttons, I can only click on their dumb fucking advertising gimmick. /SARCASM (aggro)

[machinepixie]

loud and clear i’ve been called out

attention everybody! this random internet post has really woken up today and chosen violence, that’s right i’ve been called out!

idk if it’s the mental illness but sharing literally any information feels like oversharing. i’ll be like “i skipped breakfast this morning” and immediately im like “i might as well have told them where i buried the money”

[babyloniastreasure]

I have woken up today and chosen violence.

I’m seeing the doctor again today and this time I am bringing a list of grievances. Specific terminology to use, prepped explanations of the pain, noting the dismissal of pain from previous doctors, the works. I am going to also bring up more severe things that have happened over the long term of being ignored, such as muscle atrophy (i’ve lost 15 fuckin pounds of muscle alone l m f a o), worsened depression and anxiety, terrible dysphoria, resurgence of my old ED (yay :/) and a HOST of other problems.

If being nice and cooperative isn’t working, maybe being a bit of an unyieldy bitch will do the trick. gods know I’ve been struggling with this for 15 months and haven’t gotten anything more than a wrong diagnosis and a “Have you tried not doing what causes it pain?” fuck you

[zelenacat]

When We Were Young- Chapter 10- An Obitine Story

“I feel so stupid and worthless.”

“No, Your Grace.” Parna whispered, helping Satine into bed.

“I’ve made a fool of myself.”

“Your Grace,” her lady sighed, “Marrick is dead, you’ve been betrayed twice now.”

Satine leaned back, “It’s a terrible feeling.”

“It must be terrible, Your Grace.”

Satine patted the bed next to her.

“Have you heard anything from your brother recently, Parna?”

The lady smiled, “Apparently, Mara is quite the proficient at mind tricks.”

Satine tilted her head, “Is she?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

That brought Satine some comfort at least, knowing that there were beings, Obi-Wan’s children, her children, that she could love without judgement.

“I’m glad your quarters are next to mine, Parna.” Satine nodded.

Parna curtsied, “I’m happy to serve, Your Grace.”

In the morning, when they arrived on Coruscant, Satine disembarked with Parna behind her as if she wasn’t shaken to the core over what transpired over the last few days.

“How surprising to meet again,” Satine said, approaching Obi-Wan involuntarily, “only to find we’re on opposing sides.”

“The needs of your people are all that matter, they couldn’t be in better hands, with you to guide their future.”

“Kind words indeed from a mindful and committed Jedi,” Satine stepped forward with a smile, “and yet-”

“I’m still not sure, about the beard.”

“Why,” Obi-Wan’s voice was garbled, “what’s wrong with it?”

“It hides too much of your handsome face.”

Then she left him, grinning as powerful as she felt. Senator Robb winked at her as she got on the transport, Satine winked back. 

“Your Grace,” Parna whispered as they disembarked, “you seem happy.”

“I think he might still care for me,” Satine whispered, “deep down, somewhere.”

“Be careful, Satine.” Parna placed her hand on her lady’s.

“I will.”

A woman and two ladies came forth to greet Satine and her party, smiling gayly as she did so.

“It’s been a long time, Your Grace.” she said when she finally reached Satine.

“It certainly has Senator,” the Duchess shook Padme’s hand, “you’ve grown much since your queenly days.”

“I should hope so,” Padme winked, “I was quite small then.”

“Your contributions to your people however, are gargantuan in size.” Satine commented.

“The same could be said of yourself, Duchess,” Padme offered Satine her arm, “I am behooved to ask one of my standards to accompany me for a tour.”

The Duchess took Padme’s arm, “You are most kind, Senator.”

They dined together that night, along with Senator Onaconda Farr and Senator Bail Organa. Satine was surprised at the informal setting, but she was certainly pleased.

“Your Grace,” Senator Organa bowed, “how wonderful to see you again.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Senator,” Satine responded as he kissed her hand, “Senator Amidala tells me you have quite the help to her recently.”

“We only hope to do our duty, Duchess,” came the eloquent response, “Padme tells us it’s poor business that brings you to Coruscant.”

“Unfortunately yes,” Satine frowned, “though I appreciate the kindness you all have shown me.”

“It is our honor to finally meet you, Your Grace,” Senator Farr smiled, “Padme has spoken of you with a great deal of regard.”

Satine turned her head, “Has she now?”

The female senator blushed.

“I’m overjoyed at the notion.” the Duchess grinned.

“Let us sit down to our meal,” Padme gestured, “there is much catching up to do.”

The evening was pleasant and happy, but Satine noticed how often Padme looked towards Master Skywalker, who happened to be guarding them for the evening. The Jedi for his part, was doing a great deal of looking at her as well, but the rest of the night he spent whispering to his padawan. Satine could only wonder what they were talking about.

Senator Farr retired early, he was showing his family around Coruscant before the senate commenced. Senator Organa confessed that as an old man, he was tired.

“Oh, but Bail,” Padme laughed, “you aren’t old.”

“Still, I take my leave of you ladies.”

As the Senator left, General Skywalker did as well, likely to escort her back. His padawan stayed.

“Padme,” Satine turned, “may I speak to you as a friend.”

“Of course,” the Senator frowned, “have these assasination attempts frightened you?”

“Yes,” Satine admitted, lowering her voice, “but that’s not what I wanted to discuss.”

Padme leaned forward, so did Satine.

“Be careful with that Jedi,” the Duchess whispered, “it won’t end happily.”

Padme looked shocked, then recovered.

“Your Grace, I-”

“Please believe me,” Satine pleaded, “I know.”

After a quiet moment, Padme embraced Satine. Though it was unexpected, the Duchess welcomed it.

“Tecla,” Padme turned, “please send for the Duchess' lady.”

“Of course, My Lady.” Tecla nodded.

“Ahsoka,” the Senator turned to the padawan, “wait outside and look for Anakin a minute.”

A little suspicious, the padawan left. Padme took Satine’s hands in hers.

“I’ll be alright,” the Senator assured Satine, “I don’t know if I should tell you this, but, we’re married.”

Satine’s eyes flew to her forehead.

“It’s true, and he old me about you and-”

“It’s a secret then?” Satine wondered aloud.

“Yes.”

The Duchess squeezed Padme’s hand, “I thank you for trusting me so, I hope you can rely on me in the future as well.”

Padme actually smiled, “And I hope your happiness rekindles.”

Tears stung Satine’s eyes, “Thank you, Padme, for your kindness.”

“Of course, Satine,” Padme winked, “we could be sisters-in-law, you know.”

Leaning her head back, the Duchess laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“You flatter me, Senator,” Satine sighed, “although I fear I may never see that day.”

Padme grinned wickedly, “If Anakin and Ahsoka get their way, you certainly will.”

“And are you going to help them?” the Duchess asked.

With a sly smile, the Senator answered in the affirmative.

“Your Grace?”

Satine stood and kissed Padme’s cheek, “Your hospitality has been most lively, Senator, I hope to see you soon.”

“And I you, Duchess.” Padme winked.

On their way back to their rooms, Parna asked Satine how she was so close with Padme after one night.

“I have a sister in experience, Parna,” the Duchess smiled, “and she is a most talented lady.”

Once they got back to their rooms, Parna undressed her lady. Once Satine was ready for bed, she dismissed Parna to her room next store and climbed under the covers, perhaps this wouldn’t be the most terrible thing at all.

Satine was woken up too early for her liking by Parna, who’d informed her that her alarm had gone off already.

“Why’d you let me sleep then?” Satine groaned.

Parna leveled her lady a look, “You needed it.”

Satine dressed quickly, yet double checked herself in the mirror three times, she was representing her people today. She must look the part. 

“Are you ready, Your Grace?” Parna asked.

Satine sighed, “I never quite got over the nerves.”

“Nerves mean your heart is in it,” Parna smiled, “I’ll be waiting for you in the wings.”

Satine nodded and headed off to the Senate Chamber, her lady trailing her.

“It grieves me to say it,” Chancellor Palpatine began, “but Death Watch, is now a significant, deadly threat.”

Satine urged her pod forward, “Mandalore is making great strides to locate this terrorist movement, they are not strong enough to overpower our government. We will resolve this without conflict.”

“If the Republic gets involved in our affairs, it would only lead to further violence,” Satine continued, “thus, I shall reassert our position of neutrality.”

“Talk of an idealist.” huffed the Chancellor’s right hand.

“No,” Satine shook her head, “those are the words of a pacifist and a people who have chosen non-violence.”

“That may be so, Duchess,” the Chancellor frowned, “however, this message was delivered to my staff just this morning. I think you shall find it most illuminating.”

Satine watched the transmission with wide eyes.

“Do you know this man, Duchess?” asked Senator Amidala, coming near her.

“Yes, Deputy Minister Jerrick,” Satine tried to keep her voice even, “he’s a good friend.”

“Stop!” Satine cried.

With earnest remorse, Satine explained that the Mandalorian Government held no secrets from its people.

“If only that were true, Duchess.” said the Chancellor sarcastically.

“Death Watch is far stronger than we once thought,” continued the hologram, “if we are to combat them directly, we must have republic assistance, instead this government acts out of pride and rejects the help of the Jedi-”

“It’s not true,” Satine ejeculated, “it is not needed-”

“Duchess Satine will ultimately cause our defeat, make no mistake,” continued Jerrick, “Republic intervention is absolutely necessary.”

“This isn’t right,” Satine cried, “something here isn’t right, I wish to speak with Deputy Minister Jerrick immediately!”

The Chancellor then had the kindness to inform the Senate that the Death Watch had bombed Krewella this morning.

“Let us insure that his death was not in vain,” the Chancellor continued, “let us commit our military might to defending the Mandalorian people.”

“Defend,” Satine scoffed, “you mean to occupy our home and trample our right to self determination.”

“We mean to save your people.” Chancellor Palpatine said calmly.

“You will turn our planet into a military target which will bring the war to us,” the Duchess, argued, “Mandalore must remain a neutral system.”

“The vote shall commence in the next session.” is all the Chancellor said in response.

Satine was fuming when she stepped off her pod, fortunately, Parna was there waiting for her.

“I know,” she said, taking Satine’s hands, “we won’t let it happen.”

Padme met Satine in the hallway soon after that exchange.

“I’ll try to convince my friends not to send troops to Mandalore.” she assured.

“He acts like I don’t know my people,” Satine shook her head, “why is he so intent on sending soldiers?”

“I won’t let it happen, Satine,” the Senator stated, “nothing good will come of it.”

“You are honest, Padme,” the Duchess smiled sadly, “I thank God you chose this line of work.”

Satine’s next interaction took place on the loading platform, when she heard her name called.

“Duchess,” the voice paused, “Satine!”

Slowing down for Obi-Wan, the Duchess felt her anger subside at his tone. No, she couldn’t let herself focus on anything but her people.

“Wait!” Obi-Wan grabbed her arm.

The royal guards pointed their scepters at the Jedi.

“I just heard what happened in the senate.” continued the Jedi tentatively.

Sighing and pushing the weapons away from Obi-Wan, Satine turned.

“You’re sweet to be concerned, but I promise I’ll be alright.”

“I am concerned,” Obi-Wan’s voice softened, “we’re friends are we not?”

“Yes,” Satine felt all her hopes crash at once, “friends and nothing more.”

“Satine, as your friend,” the Jedi continued, oblivious to her struggles, “I don’t think you should make any decisions in this state of mind.”

“This state of mind,” the Duchess dropped her formal mask, “and what state of mind would that be precisely?”

“What I’m saying is,” Obi-Wan clarified, lowering his eyes, “any person would be hysterical by now-”

“Hysterical,” Satine gasped, “the Republic is attempting to enforce its will upon innocent people-”

“I only meant-”

“Frankly,” the Duchess continued, her voice shrill, “I’m surprised you’re not hysterical, perhaps if more citizens got hysterical, they’d be more inclined to speak up when the Republic tramples on their rights.”

“Rushing in like this,” Obi-Wan’s voice tremored, “it’s foolhardy.”

“Ironic words coming from a man who spends his days running hither and yon,” Satine spat, “wielding his lightsaber with deadly force as if, on a crusade!”

“Why should I listen to someone who so frequently relies on violence,” Satine asked, “in my opinion, you’re the one who’s foolhardy!”

Storming away, Satine got on her cruiser. Obi-Wan was no longer the man she loved, he was someone new now. The Duchess cursed herself that she hadn’t seen this earlier. Saddened, Satine let her thoughts consume her. Then, the cruiser shook.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“It’s the navigation system,” was the answer, “get her out of here!”

It sunk in, someone was trying to kill her again.

“There’s a platform over there, I’ll try to steer near it!”

“Aramis, no!” Satine shouted.

But the guards formed a phalanx around her and jumped, so did she. Sitting up just in time, Satine was just in time to see the explosion.

“Your Grace,” a guard huffed, “we must return you safely to your chambers.”

Luckily, she was housed in the same building Padme Amidala was, and by the time Satine and her entourage arrived at the sprawling tower, the Senator, her two ladies, and Parna were all waiting at the door.

“Your Grace,” Parna ran up and embraced Satine, “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

“Thank you, Parna, it warms my heart to see you.”

“Senator Amidala told me about your accident soon after it happened,” the lady turned and gestured, “she has been most worried.”

“You are a dear one, Padme,” Satine reached out and took the Senator’s hand, “I stand by my early assertion that the galaxy is lucky to have you in the business of democracy.”

“Oh, Satine,” Padme looped her arm through the Duchess’ and tugged her along, “I really think we should discuss safety precautions in these situations. I myself know the fear of assassination.”

“I will defend myself,” Satine agreed, “but I already carry a deactivator.”

“Satine,” Padme smiled, “a deactivator can only do so much.”

“I stand by my pacifist principles.” the Duchess articulated.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t teach you how to throw a punch.”

“I’m Mandalorian,” despite herself, Satine smiled, “I know how to punch people, although I find it rather grisly.”

“Dear friend,” the Senator sighed, “you are worth more to the world while you’re still in it.”

They had been walking for some time now, and Satine noticed they had crossed the bridge from the housing quarters to the senatorial offices.

“The Chancellor’s office is on the highest floor,” Padme pointed, “I believe you should report this incident to him.”

“I shall,” Satine agreed, “thank you for your wisdom, Padme.”

Parna elected to wait outside while only her guards accompanied Satine into the Chancellor’s office.

“He’s too slimy for my tastes.”

Satine snorted, “How kind.”

The door opened wide and the Chancellor turned from his window.

“Duchess, please take a seat.”

He seemed pleasant enough, but in a few minutes, Satine was riled up.

“What do you mean no charges are to be filed,” she asked, trying to keep cool, “none at all? Someone tried to kill me, the controls on my speeder were compromised.”

“Sadly, my dear, there is no proof anyone tampered with anything,” the Chancellor replied calmly, “it might’ve been just an accident.”

“An accident,” Satine’s hands curled around the armrests, “and it just happened to coincide with me defending my home world?”

“I agree with Satine,” Chancellor Palpatine’s aide interjected, “it proves what I’ve been saying all along, Death Watch is out of control, the Republic must step in and help.”

“No, wait, I didn’t-”

“You can’t keep them reigned in, obviously, so we will.”

“This is patently offensive, you can’t do this!”

“Unfortunately it is up to the senate now, I know they will make a reasoned and thoughtful decision.”

With bile rising in her throat, the Duchess smiled politely and with a steady gait, left the Chancellor’s office.

“Satine,” a familiar voice called, “I just heard about your accident.”

He was standing beside her now, yet Satine still felt cold. Her earlier realization came to mind, and she let her anger flow.

“Those two are,” Satine spat, “this government, it’s just, ugh!”

“Satine,” Obi-Wan reached out and took Satine’s arm, “tell me what happened.”

Poor Jedi, he looked so earnest.

“I’m fine, I wasn’t hurt,” Satine confessed, “I didn’t want to worry a friend.”

“Well on that count,” Obi-Wan’s eyes saddened, “you’ve failed spectacularly.”

Satine wondered if this estrangement was killing him as much as it was her. No, itt couldn’t be, he didn’t know about the children.

“Look what happened-”

“Look what happened,” Satine repeated, suddenly angry, “this attack proves I’ve upset someone! I must be on the right track.”

“This attack proves your enemies are here even on Coruscant,” Obi-Wan countered, then, his eyes widened, “you’re not going to let Republic authorities handle this are you?”

“You’re not backing down.” Obi-Wan continued to observe.

“Republic authorities, certainly not,” Satine spat, “I’m on my way to the ministry of Intelligence right now to meet my contact.”

Suddenly, Satine was whirled around, Obi-Wan’s hands rested on her arms.

“Don’t you see, you need your friends with you, not held at arm's length,” the Jedi was too earnest and involved for Satine’s liking, “in your quest to be self-reliant have you decided to cut your friends out of your life?”

“I,I,” Satine stuttered, her foolhardy heart palpating at Obi-Wan’s closeness and choice of words, “I don’t know.”

Suddenly, her Jedi stiffened.

“Senator.”

Satine turned, “Padme, it’s good to see your face.”

“I have bad news,” the Senator frowned, “the Senate has decided in favor of occupation.”

With invigorated fire, Satine remembered her purpose, “When, how did this happen? The vote was supposed to be tomorrow!”

“It was during your meeting with the Chancellor, I’m afraid your accident accelerated the situation,” Padme stepped forward, “Republic forces are set to leave for Mandalore at sunrise tomorrow.”

“You see,” Satine sighed, devastated all at once, “I was right before, counting on the Republic is a mistake.”

Parna was most kind when Satine returned to her quarters.

“I need to be inconspicuous.” she told her lady.

Without questions, Parna nodded and picked out a plan frock.

“I will make arrangements under my time so you may get into the city.”

Later that evening, dressed in a heavy red robe, Satine met her intelligence contact.

“I don’t have much time,” he said, “they’re following me.”

“You’ve put yourself in great danger,” the Duchess said earnestly, “I will never forget it.” 

“I had to come,” her contact pulled out a file drive, “this is worth it.”

“Where did you get this?” Satine gasped.

“This evidence was hidden at the ministry, it was not easy to find, believe me.”

“You were right,” her contact continued, “the recording shown to the senate wasn’t in its full form, someone faked the evidence. You must show the senate-”

“Dabu,” Satine gasped as the man was shot, “no!”

The next few minutes that followed were blurry, she was accused of murder, someone was shooting at her, and Satine had to escape. Hiding in an alleyway below a dripping air conditioner, the Duchess relinquished her pride.

“Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan come in.”

“Satine,” the Jedi responded, “where are you?”

“I need your help, Obi-Wan,” the Duchess swallowed, hating herself, “please.”

It took her twenty minutes to arrive at the meeting point, but Obi-Wan was already there.

“Nice disguise.” she heard him say.

Then he walked towards her and sat down.

“Seeing you alright,” Obi-Wan began, “well, it’s a relief.”

The Duchess melted at those words.

“You should turn yourself in-”

Satine frowned.

“We’ve both sworn a loyalty to the Republic.”

“Believe me,” Satine rolled her eyes, “neither one of us is breaking our oath, and this will prove it.”

“But Republic guards are hunting you, which means-”

“That whoever docted this recording is in the government itself.” Satine concluded.

“If you set foot inside the senate they’ll take you.” Obi-Wan added.

Satine growled, “And the disc will be destroyed before anyone can see it, which is why you must take the disc to Padme.” 

A patrol came near and Obi-Wan pulled Satine up and began meandering.

“Where will you be while I’m in the senate,” Obi-Wan asked suddenly, “What if they find you?”

“They won’t,” Satine sighed, “I’m going to turn myself into them.”

“What-”

“Your concern is heartwarming Obi-Wan,” Satine smiled softly, “and you’ll need a distraction to enter the senate freely. I can’t risk them searching you just because you and I are associates.”

“I’m a Jedi,” Obi-Wan crossed his arms, “they wouldn’t dare.”

“Things are changing,” Satine turned, “my dear.”

Then the bomb, and Obi-Wan thrust her forward. Groggy after the explosion, Satine reared her head just as her Jedi’s lightsaber was knocked out of his hands. Fearful, the Duchess ran up and grabbed Obi-Wan’s lightsaber.

“Obi!” she called.

The assassin escaped, but the Jedi and his Duchess made it back to the Senate just in time.

“Excuse me,” Satine smiled, removing her hood, “I believe you’re looking for me?”

With a nod, Obi-Wan disappeared into the senate building. She didn’t see Obi-Wan again until later, after the Senate voted against the occupation of Mandalore. In her joy, she reached out and embraced Obi-Wan, and because her Jedi was kind, he indulged her with a spin.

“Thank you, Ben,” Satine smiled brightly, “I know I can be stubborn-”

“Worse than you know-”

“But, thank you.” the Duchess finished.

“All in a day’s work, my dear,” Obi-Wan winked, “I keep to my oaths.”

Satine looked at the Jedi a moment longer.

“What?” he asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“I’m so grateful, Ben,” Satine placed her hand on Obi-Wan’s, “you helped me save my own people. How can I ever repay you?” 

“There’s no need to repay me.”

“Well,” Satine tilted her head, “you could shave that beard.”

[ask-the-ex-hyperionintern]

I’ve woken up today and chosen violence against the system.

[obey-me-ocs]

As the two lay for what seemed like a couple seconds his alarm went off. After it went off it was almost signal. He opened his eyes once more looking around and sitting up. When his eyes met Fang’s figure his expression hardened. He instantly withdrew his wings and arms from Fang.

“Oh..so you’re here? How did you manage to get into my house? No that’s a stupid question, theres gotta be some rich prick here to right? I wouldn’t let just anyone in here. So I’d have to had known him if he let you and himself in. I hadn’t hosted any parties…or perhaps my memory is failing me.” He refused to acknowledge him and Fang doing anything despite the bite marks on Fang. He got up from his bed, he was at least wearing boxers.

“Well it doesn’t matter, he probably left, based on the suspects in mind. I’m sure you’re clothes are somewhere around here. I’ll find them, and you can leave those here and I’ll just figure the rest out.” He sighed deeply taking a labored breath as he walked out of the room not allowing Fang to get a word in. While he wasn’t straight up cursing at him there were lots of backhanded comments that his past friend wouldn’t dare make.

Damien stopped at the door a notification going off on his phone. He pressed it much to frazzled with it all really. As he pressed it Fang could hear Asmodeus voice clear as day. The lust demon was ranting about a missing photographer of his that was clearly suppose to be Damien and talks of him taking a certain sleazy envy demon back to his place.

Damien damn near crushed his phone at the mention. People knew about this, everyone was judging, he could lose his career over this. Fang could hear him mumble under his breath how he knew he should have stayed far away and how Asmodeus had warned him. A clear indication of just how far Asmodeus had a hand in everything that had to do with his suffering.

(I’ve woken up and chosen violence today. I can only say i’m half sorry. The drama it calls to my soul!- ❣️anon)

*He gave Damien a small smile when the alarm first went off, but started to frown softly when damien pulled away*

Um... no.. it's just us.. unless you have someone hide away in your closet~ but last time I check you invited me, for some.. fun times~

*He chuckles softly, trying to the lightened mood a bit*

What... what about breakfast... I was going to make something for you.. anything you want! but.. uh.. if you want me to leave then.. I will I suppose...

*He sighs softly when he leaves, getting up slowly but paused when he turn on the phone. He looked down, a few tears forming in his eyes*

O-oh... I see... that's why you've been avoiding me... I understand.....

*He gave Damien a forced smile*

You should go see Asmo... Tell him you were trying to murder me or something.. I'll avoid you so this doesn't happen again... and I.. I really did enjoy the time we had together.. and I hope you continue to be a cool, attractive big shot photographer....

*He starts to look for his clothes, trying to not cry in front of Damien*

[stefciastark]

Hallucinations ~ Webpril Day 19

A/N: WARNING (briefly mentioned graphic violence, but nothing extreme, just putting a warning in case). After a hallucinogenic gas explodes in Peter's face during a mission, he is plagued by nightmares and flashbacks. Tony steps in to help. Apologies for any inconsistencies or general bad flow on this one, I had to write in a bit of a hurry before an early A.M class tomorrow and I haven't had a chance to give it a once-over. Hope you guys enjoy this one :) x

~Read it on AO3

~Read it on FFN

“Kid, kid! Stop!” Tony grasped Peter’s wrists as they flew once more towards his face, and he staggered forwards with an ungraceful jerk, almost falling onto the bed. How the hell was the kid this strong?

“Get off me!” Peter thrashed on the bed wildly, eyes open but looking feral and petrified. Peter’s response was purely instinctual, and nature had chosen ‘fight’ as his defense mechanism. It was too bad Tony wasn’t in his suit to help contain it.

After an incident a few days prior involving a gaseous compound that caused vivid hallucinations, Peter hadn’t gotten a good night's sleep since. Neither had Tony. The kid had been caught right in the face with the gas during the few seconds that his mask was down, whilst Tony was lucky enough to have his built in air filtration system save him from the hell that ensued.

Peter didn’t talk about what he experienced. At least not to Tony, but Tony couldn’t quite think of anybody else that Peter would go to. Tony really wished the kid would open up to someone.

The dim light from the ensuite bathroom cast light on Tony’s forearms. They were covered in bruises that looked like scattered wine stains with the varying shades of deep red and purple.

Peter’s struggles dissolved in intensity, and his eyes slid shut again. The poor kid was exhausted, and each - almost - sleepless night was taking its toll.

Once Tony was sure Peter was asleep once more, judging by the now even breathing, he slid to the carpet below, back leaning against the side of the bed. Feeling powerless to help the young Avenger, he stared blankly into the wall, suddenly transported back to a time when he suffered much like Peter was.

---------------------------------------

“Good morning, Peter. It is currently 9:30 A.M. Today it will be slightly overcast with a high of 73.4 degrees. You have no upcoming events. Enjoy your morning.”

With a groan, Peter rolled over and covered his head with an adjacent pillow. This was the first time in a long time that F.R.I.D.A.Y had woken him up. Closing his eyes once more, he prepared to re-enter the world of sleep.

That plan immediately was foiled as “Thunderstruck” blared over his room’s speakers.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y…” Peter whined, sounding more like a spoiled toddler than he cared to admit.

“I apologise, but this is part of Mr Stark’s ‘Couch Potato’ protocol. If you do not leave the bed in the next thirty seconds, I will have to initiative Phase 2, which involves-”

“Okay, okay!” Throwing the sheets to the side, he swung his legs off the side of the mattress. As soon as his feet touched the floor, the music stopped, and he sighed in relief. At any other time he would have loved the sound of classic rock, but he felt overstimulated and irritated by almost every sound, sight, and whatever else assaulted any of his senses.

The rational part of his brain told him that Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was a probable culprit. Maybe it was spending so much time around Tony “I’m Fine” Stark, but Peter didn’t particularly want to address the issue. He was strong, he could brute force his way through it, no problem. As far as he was concerned, none of the other Avengers were getting psychological help - although in all fairness they needed it - and he didn’t want to be seen as weak. He didn’t want it to seem like he couldn’t handle the mental duress that went with being an Avenger.

Half-conscious, he went through the automatic routine of having a shower, brushing his teeth, and throwing on a basic outfit. Today’s choice consisted of jeans and a Hawkeye T-Shirt that Clint had unironically bought him last Christmas. Blearily shuffling into the kitchen, Peter considered taking up drinking coffee in the mornings; it seemed to be universally known as the almighty bean juice that provided a form of liquid Carpe Diem.

He half expected the whole Avengers team to be in the common kitchen area. They usually were in the mornings, but today it was dead quiet. Dead quiet except for Tony, who was flicking through the latest issue of Wired magazine. In his left hand was a mug that said “World’s Okayest CEO”. Peter had to guess that that mug was courtesy of Pepper. If it were up to Tony, ‘okayest’ would have been swapped with ‘best’.

“You know, these photos don’t really do me justice. I’m much sexier in person. I mean look at this,” Tony flipped the magazine around, showing Peter an article that summarised Tony’s latest successes and blunders. The photo Tony’s finger was tapping on was of Tony at the Stark Expo a few months ago. His smile blatantly looked like he would have rather been anywhere else.

Peter opened his mouth to send a smart remark in response, but instead he froze in place, air stuck in his lungs, his throat jumping as he struggled to get words out. The sound of percolation coming from the coffee pot dredged up the memory he was trying to forget: the dripping of blood - Tony’s blood - creating a macabre mosaic on the pavement as he hung suspended by cables and wires. Steve’s hand had been wrapped around Peter’s ankle in a silent beg for release from life, a large shard of glass having punctured through his chest. The worst of all of them was Aunt May, eyes staring open and lifeless, neck bent at an unnatural and gruesome angle that was burned into Peter’s retinas for the rest of time. On all sides, marching towards him, had been an army consisting of Doombots, Chitauri, and the remaining Avengers. Those he had come to trust had come to betray him.

“Whoa, whoa, you’re alright, c’mon.” Tony’s brow was furrowed, and although his voice sounded distant and miles away, it was gentle and full of understanding. Peter shook his head, shaking the visions away with it.

“Grab your phone and wallet, kid, I’ve made you an appointment.” Tony swept up his sunglasses - this time tinted orange with a silver frame - off of the coffee table and tucked his phone into the inside of his jacket pocket.

“An-an appointment? For what?” Peter was taken by surprise, fully expecting - and hoping - to vegetate on the couch that day. The TV turned his mind off, the white noise drowning out the visions that replayed in his mind over and over again.

Placing a comforting hand between Peter’s shoulders once Peter had returned from a quick phone and wallet retrieval mission, Tony guided him towards the elevator. Pressing the ‘down’ button, he turned towards Peter. “Taking you to a psych. I don’t know how to-” Tony gestured vaguely, lost for the right words he wanted to say. He sighed, and started again. “I didn’t exactly deal with my stuff the right way. Didn’t think I ever needed a shrink, but let me tell you, one conversation with Bruce and it changed my mind completely.”

“Isn’t he not that type of doctor?”

“Don’t interrupt, I’m trying to have a heartfelt father-son moment with you here and break the whole cycle of shame about…” Tony trailed off again, seething internally at his inability to string a semi-coherent sentence together. “My dad didn’t really believe in that kind of stuff,” Tony continued, eyes darting to the elevator display and then returning back to Peter. “Anyways, you’ve been having nightmares. You can’t sleep. I can’t sleep because you can’t sleep, and,” Tony winced, “I don’t think the whole counselling shtick is my forte.”

As the elevator doors chimed open, Peter stepped forward and promptly wrapped his arms around Tony in a heartfelt hug. Clenching his eyes shut against tears that threatened to overflow, he murmured, “thanks, Mr Stark” into the fabric of Tony’s jacket.

[greylunar]

Hey!! I'm a hot mess right now who cant enjoy art anymore so if you could help me solve this out I would appreciate but i understand if you can't so here's the deal: Is being rich while people are starving unethical? And if so how can I enjoy my favorite artists, rich people, knowing this? I mean it's obvious you want you and your loved ones to live comfortably but there's a point where is just too much, right? And all these big artists that I love they are way above the threshold of too much.

This is probably my favorite ask I’ve ever gotten only because I wasn’t really expecting anyone to ask me about this particular political and philosophical question, and I, an anarcho-socialist English major, have some thoughts on the subject, to say the least. Let me preface this by saying there’s no right answer to this question, as much as I wish there was one, and I can only give my opinion and how I’ve chosen to go about my life. That said the majority of people on this site are still pretty young. I’d encourage you to take my opinion with a grain of salt and ask other people you trust and read more theory so you can form what you think is the right way of going about consuming art for yourself! Regardless, I’m really proud of you for asking this and interrogating these sorts of topics within yourself, it can be hard to maintain the balance of keeping hope while attempting to live ethically within capitalist society, but the fact that you are trying is commendable, and it’s my hope that more people asking questions like this will bring about the change we wish to see in the world c: 

Alright, answer under the break!

For starters, yes, I do believe being rich is unethical. While there is a multitude of reasons for this being the case, the one you brought up (hunger) is more than enough reason on its own. Now, no one rich person could end hunger, or at least not permanently. Estimates on how much it would cost to end world hunger range from 7 billion to 265 billion USD annually according to the IFPRI, which sounds wild right off the bat, since those are two unfathomably different numbers, but basically the difference boils down to the 7 billion dollar approach aiming to reduce malnutrition to World Health Assembly goals in about 15 years, and the 265 billion plan aiming to actually end world hunger (reach a “zero hunger target”) within about 20 years by targeting the sources of hunger, mainly being poverty and agricultural infrastructure. 

So when you hear people say things like “why doesn’t Bezos end world hunger” one short answer is that he can’t. But the fact that he can’t doesn’t really matter because what really matters is he’s not trying. Without getting into liquidizing stocks and all that nonsense, if the ten richest people in the world made a one-time donation of 60 billion each, we would have enough and then some for the first two years of that zero hunger target plan by that alone. And the “poorest” of those ten billionaires would still have a net worth of 15 billion, which is still an unfathomable amount of money. 

I say all of this to point out why it still matters to say the rich aren’t doing enough to end world hunger, and not to say that this is my ideal plan for solving it (which involves a lot more social restructuring and abolishing the value-form). I think if someone wakes up with billions in assets it a capitalist society in which the median “living wage” (which includes covering basic expenses, building savings, and having “fun money”) in my country is roughly $67,700, they must have woken up on one of those days and thought “oh hey what if I ended hunger in my home town” or “oh hey what if I funded a food co-op in a food desert nearby” or maybe even “what if I fucked around and tried to end world hunger” and then they didn’t. They turned around and went back to sleep, or went to a business meeting where they continued to exploit their workers or did whatever it is they do that I will never understand. And I think that is unethical. 

Here’s the thing, and I’m sure some people will disagree with me on this one (I’m more than happy to read anyone’s replies and take them into account going forward) there’s a difference between corporate wealth and celebrity wealth. Do I fucking hate looking at pictures of Drake’s mansion? Yes, completely. Do I think that, like Mark Zuckerberg, he should be tried for crimes not limited to aiding and abetting ethnic violence in Ethiopia and failing to remove a militia event in Kenosha in which people planned to kill BLM protesters and then did, proceeding to lie about it in order to continue to profit off of the traffic and internet buzz white supremacists provide his site with? No, because Drake is not Mark Zuckerberg and there is a difference between what crimes it takes to make and uphold a 170 million dollar net worth versus a 98 billion dollar one. While I’m not jazzed to say the least about millionaire celebrities lounging in their wealth, in a way they are a very successful worker being rewarded by a capitalist society in exchange for a service they provide. So yeah, I feel more comfortable cheering on John Boyega for succeeding in a system set against him than I do any corporate capitalist.

That said, there are ways to support the art you love and strive to consume art more ethically. Support local artists, black artists and other creators of color, artists who support sustainable printmaking or give part of their proceeds to charities you care about. In terms of music, for every band you like that has problematic views there are thirty small bands with similar sounds you can support if you go looking. If you find a band you think is doing great work, support them on Bandcamp or buy a CD, and if you really want to listen to Kanye’s Power because its just that kind of day, listen to him on Spotify, where they’re literally paying people jack shit for it.  If you’re going to participate in a capitalist society (and if you’re not, let me know how since I haven't figured that one out yet haha), reward the people you feel good about supporting. 

Speaking of which! One of my favorite rappers noname has an online bookclub that uplifts POC voices by featuring two books a month.  It’s awesome, noname is awesome, and I feel good whenever I listen to their album for the thirtieth time because telefone is the best. There’s art out there for you to feel good about loving. Sometimes it just takes a little digging to find.

I think my last note is going to be this: art is human. Art isn’t capitalist. People have been making art before capitalism and they’ll be making art after, art is an expression of the pain and hope and past and future of us, and we need it. To try and cut yourself off from consuming art to distance yourself from capitalism won’t work, because we need art to be human, and it was never capitalist in the first place. You aren’t evil or unethical for wanting to consume art, that’s the most natural urge in the world. It is a sign that our system is unethical if it makes us feel guilty for the things that make us human. So consume art, love it, love the people who make it, because its the good stuff. It’s the stuff that makes the rest of this more hopeful and more worth it. I know this can all feel like so much sometimes. But you’re not alone. There so many people out there working to make the world better and brighter, and making art to get us through it. I love you, and I hoped this helped even a little bit and I’m sorry its so long haha. I hope today is a little better for you than yesterday, and tomorrow’s even better than today c:

[mikenewtonhateblog]

Hi, today I have woken up and chosen violence so if you’re one of those dumb fucks who breaks quarantine and is having gatherings bc you want normalcy fuck you. I’ve been in my house since March 1st bc this virus will kill me. Even once I’m vaccinated you know what I havw to worry about? MY FUCKING SERVICE DOG. DOGS CAN GET THIS VIRUS TOO AND HE CAN’T WEAR A MASK OR BE VACCINATED!!! So now I’m going to be faced with the choice of staying inside with him, or going out without him but that means I have to be with my mom and cannot go places alone anymore, sacraficing the whole purpose of having a service dog.

Fuck yall who think this virus isn’t a big deal

[lamujerarana]

for the prompt: Geralt/Jaskier, 9

Geralt was behaving very strangely.

He was speaking, somehow, less than usual—which Jaskier truly hadn’t thought possible—and he was…skittish.

Yes. That was the word.

Geralt had, admittedly, spoken quite a lot this morning when they set off to investigate the rash of missing children in the area. It had mostly consisted of profuse swearing, filled with some words even Jaskier, surprisingly, hadn’t heard before, although he could gather the general gist of it, which was that Geralt did not want Jaskier to accompany him on this mission.

Geralt had been known to complain endlessly about being accompanied by Jaskier on dangerous missions in the past, but Jaskier had always been sure that it was mostly for show and that Geralt was secretly pleased to have company during his lonely travels.

This morning, however, he’d felt for the first time since their initial meeting that Geralt genuinely did not want Jaskier to go with him.

Jaskier was hurt. Hurt and offended.

Especially since Geralt had seemed in fine spirits the day before—he’d even asked Jaskier if he wanted to go drinking at the pub with him, which was a first. Normally, Jaskier had to badger Geralt into doing anything that even vaguely resembled the average person’s idea of what constituted fun and entertainment and didn’t involve beating monsters to a bloody pulp for money.

But then, this morning Geralt was fidgety, couldn’t meet Jaskier’s eyes, and seemed generally uncomfortable in Jaskier’s presence.

The only logical assumption Jaskier could make was that something had happened between them last night.

Unfortunately, Jaskier also remembered nothing about last night after, oh, about drink number three.

He’d woken up alone in his bedroom, stumbled downstairs, caught Geralt trying to sneak off without him, and insisted on going with him.

They’d argued, but it had ended with Jaskier declaring, in no uncertain terms, “If you don’t want me to go with you, Witcher, you’ll just have to—tie me up or something.”

He hadn’t stomped his foot, but he’d felt like it. He did so enjoy high emotion and melodrama, although generally not before he’d guzzled down whatever breakfast he could afford.

Geralt had—it seemed so unbelievable now—lowered his eyes, grunted once, and then, bizarrely, fled from the pub.

There wasn’t really any other way to describe it—of that Jaskier was certain.

Jaskier fixed a puzzled frown on Geralt’s broad shoulders as they rode through the countryside toward the site of the most recent abduction and tried to make sense of it all.

The Butcher of Blaviken, the White Wolf of Rivia, a daring, strong, fearless Witcher who struck fear into the hearts of all who laid eyes upon him, who had slain monsters capable of making lesser men piss themselves in terror, had fled from a beautiful, soft-spoken, gentle, stylishly-dressed bard.

Jaskier simply did not understand why. Geralt had never been frightened of him before. Certainly Jaskier’s mien was anything but menacing.

Jaskier decided to confront Geralt about his suspicions directly. He could not depend on Geralt to do anything other than avoid the issue to an irrational degree.

Words were the medium in which Jaskier excelled, in which he chose to create his transcendent works of art; Geralt’s chosen medium was violence. And brooding. And this was not the sort of issue that could be settled through violence or brooding.

So that meant that this was up to Jaskier to set right.

What could he have done? Stolen Geralt’s purse from him? Spent what little he had on food, women, and wine? Geralt should thank him for that, if that’s what he’d done.

Perhaps he’d said something tactless about Yennefer, the enchantress with whom Geralt had been tortuously in love for years, but of whom Jaskier disapproved intensely—he did not think that her decision to cheat on Geralt with her ex or leave Geralt so abruptly said much about her general character.

If Jaskier had ever been so lucky as to be able to call the Witcher’s bruised heart his own, he certainly wouldn’t have squandered it as carelessly as Jennifer had. He would have cherished it and treated it with the care and love it so richly deserved, and he would have given Geralt every ounce of love and adoration he bore in his own soul.

They could have had one of those epic, soaring romances that lived forever in the hearts and minds of the people: the White Wolf of Rivia and his own true love, Jaskier the Bard. Geralt would perform various acts of astonishing bravery, skill, and nobility, and Jaskier would dutifully chronicle them for posterity through various songs and poems. Working together, they would ensure that no one would ever forget either of them, bard or Witcher. A perfect pair.

Of course, there would also be a number of deliriously happy love ballads that would be equally popular.

But, alas, while Jaskier was all too willing to fall in love with Geralt, the Witcher had never betrayed the slightest hint of interest. And he had known Jaskier for years now.

It had been difficult, but Jaskier had eventually, as the years passed, accepted that their epic romance was simply not to be—except in those adoring, wistful love ballads that he had written in secret and never played to anyone, ever, out of fear that they would somehow find their way back to Geralt and Jaskier would end up losing some treasured parts of his anatomy.

It was a shame, really, since they were some of his best work. Perhaps he’d publish them someday, when he was very old and Geralt was much less likely to track Jaskier down and commit various acts of violence upon his person.

Today, however, he was more interested in ensuring that he could retain Geralt’s general goodwill and friendship.

Jaskier squared his jaw determinedly and urged his horse forward until he was riding side by side with Geralt and Roach.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said firmly, “we need to talk about why you’re acting like this.”

“Like what?” Geralt replied gruffly. He still wasn’t looking at Jaskier, and Jaskier found that he hated it. “I always act like this.”

Jaskier shook his head vehemently. “No, no, no, you don’t. I’ve known you for a long time, Witcher, and I know all of your moods, and this is a new one.”

“No, it’s not. I’ve been in this mood many times throughout my life.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“You don’t know everything about me, bard.”

“You know, someday I am going to get very offended at the way you spit out the word ‘bard’ as though it were an insult.”

“That’s because I am insulting you,” Geralt growled, teeth bared like the white wolves after which he was named.

Jaskier wanted to tell Geralt to go perform several unseemly acts, but he decided against it. He hadn’t started this conversation in order to get more furious at Geralt. “Well, this is just getting us nowhere! Why don’t we try—”

“I agree. Talking with you is always pointless.”

“It is not! You know, there are people out there who admire me and are actually interested in what I have to say and—” Jaskier caught himself, sagged in his saddle, put a hand over his face, and took several deep, calming breaths. Geralt could be so unbelievably taxing sometimes. “Geralt, I just want to know what’s bothering you and how to fix it. You don’t need to snap my head off. Or make insulting and very hurtful remarks.”

“Insulting and very true, you mean.”

Jaskier was tempted to ride off in a huff, but he knew that would just be giving Geralt exactly what he wanted, so of course, it was the last thing Jaskier was going to do.

“Why are you being like this? What did I do to piss you off?”

Geralt silently contemplated the sky for a few moments. “You don’t remember last night, do you?” he said at last.

Jaskier was left rather speechless, but eventually, he managed to say, “I remember parts of it.” Geralt gave him a skeptical look. “Very early parts of it.”

“Hmm. Well, if you don’t know, you can find out from someone else. I’ll not tell you.”

And with that, Geralt gave a particularly vehement twitch of his reins and he and Roach rode off well ahead of Jaskier and his poor, thin horse.

Jaskier was left staring after him, more lost now than he had been when the conversation began.

What the devil had he done?

***

Jaskier was soon distracted from his troubles by the arrival of a bizarrely clad, monstrous Pied Piper, who, it seemed, lured little children away from their homes with lovely, hypnotic music, imprisoned them, and, eventually, had them for supper.

Jaskier was particularly offended at the idea that the Piper had used the venerable art of music for such ignoble ends. How dare he? Didn’t he know that music was sacred and beautiful and…

Suffice it to say, he ranted the entire way back to the pub and inn at which he and Geralt were staying.

The moment they arrived, Geralt fled (again) upstairs to his room, leaving Jaskier to entertain himself for the rest of the day.

Jaskier spotted the burly old innkeeper sweeping up the mostly empty pub (it was still much too early for drinking).

The innkeeper had been here last night, he remembered. Perhaps he had witnessed whatever sin Jaskier had committed.

Jaskier headed directly toward him. “Good afternoon, my good sir!” he said cheerily. “I was wondering if I might, perhaps, have a word with you?”

The innkeeper, who was rotund, balding, and had a horrible mustache that resembled the pelt of a dead rodent more than anything else, straightened up, looked Jaskier over disapprovingly, and said, “If it’s about your bill, young sir, I expect you to pay in full or you’ll ‘ave nowt but trouble followin’ you.”

Jaskier waved that notion away. “No, no. Nothing like that.”

The innkeeper’s displeasure morphed into confusion. “Well, what, then?”

Jaskier mustered up all of the dignity he could, rose to his full height, and declared, “I would like to know what I did last night.”

There was a glint of mirth in the innkeeper’s eye of which Jaskier did not approve. “Don’t you know, sir?”

Jaskier cleared his throat. “As it happens, no, I do not.”

The innkeeper, damn him, had the colossal gall to smirk.

Jaskier scowled. “I imbibed rather too much of your ale, and my memory of last night is…poor. So I would like to know if I did anything untoward. Or, perhaps, embarrassing.”

“Oh, aye, that you did.”

Jaskier almost didn’t want to know at this point, but it did seem that his friendship with Geralt was perhaps at stake, so he had no choice but to ask, “Specifically?”

“Well, now,” the innkeeper said amiably, scratching his nose, “where to begin?”

“With anything concerning my friend, the Witcher. Was there any…” He waved a hand around as he searched for the right word. “…embarrassment related to him?”

“Hmm.” The innkeeper frowned. “You mean apart from the two hours you spent serenading him?”

Jaskier’s stomach dropped. “Serenading? What…what did I sing? Nothing too embarrassing, I hope?”

“No, no, the songs were very good. Had me poor wife bawling, they did, and all of my serving girls. All about how much you love that lad an’ how bewitchin’ he is, an’ ‘how sad you were that he din’t love you back.” His eyes twinkled. “The Bewitchin’ Witcher. That’s what you called ‘im.”

No. Oh, no. It wasn’t possible. Those were the secret songs Jaskier had been writing for Geralt these many long years. He couldn’t speak of his love to Geralt—or anyone else, for that matter—and ultimately he had poured all of the feelings that were roiling about inside of him out into these songs, but he certainly had never intended to sing them to Geralt. While he was present and in mortal danger.

Jaskier fought to keep his expression calm. “And…how did Geralt take this?”

“Thought it was funny, at first, then ‘is face got darker as the singin’ went on, and he was very put out, I must say, when you threw up all over ‘is clothes and passed out on ‘is lap. All covered in your own sick, you were. You both were. He carried you upstairs, cursin’ all the while, and that’s the last I saw of you.”

Jaskier had awoken alone in his bed and mostly clothed, so he assumed Geralt had simply deposited him on his bed and left.

He hoped that was all that had happened. That he hadn’t woken up and made an awkward situation even more so.

“Ah,” Jaskier said awkwardly. “Well. Thank you. I believe that’s all I needed to know.”

Jaskier turned to make his escape, but was brought to a halt when he heard the innkeeper say, “Oh, and you did kiss ‘im, you know.”

“On the mouth?” Jaskier asked without turning around.

“Aye. And for a long while at that. That’s right before you emptied your stomach all over the Witcher’s clothes, now that I think on it.”

Jaskier shut his eyes. Of course it had been. Of course.

Then it was Jaskier’s turn to flee up the stairs, his heart pounding loudly in his chest all the while.

He had told Geralt the truth of how he felt about him.

How could he have been so—so stupid, and careless, and—a dunce, that’s what he was, a dunce.

He swore to himself that he would never drink another drop of alcohol, ever again, and promptly realized that he craved a drink more than anything in the world.

Curse his luck.

He didn’t think he would ever be able to look Geralt in the eye again ever. This was the rather ignominious end of a friendship that had endured through so many long years that it grieved Jaskier to think of them.

A drunken serenade and an embarrassing kiss, that was all it took to unravel a friendship it had taken them years to build.

Jaskier paced back and forth in his room for hours, agonizing over what he should do, how he could fix this.

He supposed he could go to Geralt, apologize, and do his best to downplay the feelings to which he had so stupidly confessed.

Or he could pack his bags and run away and hope that time would lead Geralt to forgive and forget, so that the next time they ran into each other, things would be less awkward.

Significantly less awkward, he hoped.

Jaskier was conflicted about which course of action to take until he recalled how sharp and pointy Geralt’s sword was and how easily he had beheaded that impudent Pied Piper.

Jaskier’s hand went to his own throat. He rather enjoyed having his head attached to his body and wasn’t eager to risk the loss of either.

Well. That settled that. Jaskier would pack up and be on his way tonight.

He’d find some obscure town to hide in—no, wait, Geralt tended to favor those. A royal court! Now those Geralt loathed and rarely frequented.

Yes, a lavish royal court sounded ideal. Somewhere peaceful, where there were few monsters who would require the arrival of a Witcher.

Jaskier knew just the place and set about preparing to leave immediately.

Given that he had such few possessions, it didn’t take him long at all to set off down the stairs, lute slung across his back.

The inn was far busier now than it had been earlier that afternoon, but still Jaskier had little difficulty picking out the portly form of the innkeeper.

He made his way through the crowd, attracted the innkeeper’s attention, and asked him very politely to tell Geralt that he had been called away unexpectedly and would be gone for a long time.

Possibly a very long time.

The innkeeper nodded his head. “You and your lad had a fight, then?”

“Not at all. I was called away. Urgent business,” Jaskier sniffed. Who did this innkeeper think he was to be prying into Jaskier’s private affairs—or, more accurately, the lack of them?

“Odd that I din’t see no messenger headin’ up to your room.”

“I suspect, my good man, you must have been busy and missed his arrival.”

“Oh, aye, I suppose that must be it.”

The manner in which the innkeeper was looking at Jaskier was entirely too knowing and downright disrespectful.

“Well,” Jaskier said with a curt nod. He placed a few coins in the innkeeper’s hand. “For your troubles. Do see to it that Geralt gets my message.”

The innkeeper nodded.

Jaskier all but bolted for the door, headed for the stables.

The stables were curiously empty, given the number of customers in the pub. Jaskier supposed that few of them were planning to stay the night, or they mostly lived near enough to walk home. Or stumble, as the case may be.

Jaskier strode directly toward the stall that held his own little mare and was busy strapping on her saddle and his luggage when he heard Geralt’s unmistakable growl say, “Going somewhere?”

Jaskier cursed softly under his breath, gathered himself together, and then rounded on Geralt. “I thought you weren’t talking to me,” he said shortly.

Geralt was leaning in the doorway of stable in a simple shirt and trousers. His long white hair was distractingly loose and lovely as it ringed his dimly-lit face, and his perfect, muscled arms were crossed casually across that wonderfully broad chest of his.

“Perhaps I changed my mind,” Geralt replied, oblivious to his own loveliness.

“Oh, so you’re not angry at me now?”

Geralt took a step toward Jaskier, who couldn’t help but think that this was some kind of trap that was going to end with him thrown into a pile of manure. “I take it you know what happened last night?”

Jaskier saw no point in denying it. “The innkeeper told me.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows expectantly. “And?” he prompted.

Jaskier wasn’t sure what Geralt was expecting him to say. “And…I’m sorry I ruined your clothes?”

That seemed to amuse Geralt for reasons Jaskier could not fathom. “And?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and sighed wearily. “And…I suppose I am sorry if I embarrassed you in any way.”

“Worse has been done to me.” Geralt took another step toward Jaskier. “Those songs…what were those songs?”

“Oh,” Jaskier said as casually as he could, “they were…nothing. Just. Some new songs I’ve been toying with, but nothing, really.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a pity.”

Jaskier was speechless for a beat, but gathered himself together quickly enough to say, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I was angry about the very public serenade, I did not enjoy being vomited all over—some of it fell in my mouth, Jaskier, and in my hair. I had difficulty getting the taste of it out of my mouth, and it was foul.“

Jaskier winced. Oh, god. He had thought this couldn’t get any worse, but apparently he was being optimistic. “Yes, um, sorry about that. If it helps, I have sworn off liquor forever. Permanently. It’ll never happen again.”

Geralt shook his head and smiled fondly. “You, give up the bottle? I find that difficult to believe.”

“I have!” Jaskier placed a hand over his heart and held up a hand. “I swear it.”

“We’ll see,” Geralt replied, with far more skepticism than Jaskier felt was entirely necessary.

Jaskier belatedly realized that Geralt was standing very close to him now.

Jaskier braced himself internally. This was when he was going to get thrown into the filthy manure, he just knew it.

Geralt took a deep breath, almost as though he were steeling himself, and said, “I objected to all of that, bard, but…I did not object to the sentiment behind the songs. Or the kissing. Or any of the filthy things you whispered you wanted to do to me, right before the vomiting began.”

Jaskier was a master of words, but his facility with language seemed to have departed entirely, precisely at the moment when he needed it most. “So. You’re saying…what?”

“Many things.”

“Geralt.”

Geralt’s hands were…they were on Jaskier’s hips and…his face—no, his lips were drawing closer to Jaskier’s own and…then Geralt kissed Jaskier with more gentleness than Jaskier had thought him capable of.

When Geralt drew back, Jaskier’s mouth was hanging embarrassingly wide open, and his brain couldn’t seem to string together a coherent thought.

“Ah,” Geralt teased. “So that’s what it takes to get you to stop talking. If you’d told me that earlier, we could have saved a lot of time.”

Jaskier’s jaw snapped shut as he scowled. “You like it when I talk.”

Geralt smiled that overly fond, sweet smile again, and Jaskier’s heart convulsed.

Geralt lowered his lips to Jaskier’s once more, and this time, he lingered. This time, the kiss was passionate and eager.

Jaskier was breathless, his face flushed pink, by the time Geralt was done.

“Maybe,” Geralt allowed. “But I like kissing you more.”

“You do?”

Geralt nodded.

Jaskier still couldn’t believe any of this was happening. Perhaps he had hit his head somehow and this was all a dream. A wonderful, wonderful dream that he hoped would never end.

“Our romance,” he announced, “must be truly epic, so that bards will sing of us for centuries. I’ll write the songs myself, of course.”

“Yes, I heard last night that you’d already gotten a head start on that.”

“Yes, those songs were very good, weren’t they?”

Geralt drew closer to Jaskier, and for a moment Jaskier was convinced that Geralt was going to kiss him again. His eyes were closed and he waited breathlessly to be kissed once more…and then he felt Geralt’s breath brush against his ear.

“If you ever call me the Bewitching Witcher again, Jaskier, you will regret it.”

Jaskier pulled back far enough for Geralt to see his smile. “But you are bewitching, Geralt.”

Geralt scowled in a manner that surely would have stricken terror into the heart of anyone he had not kissed breathless a minute or so ago.

“Jaskier,” he growled.

Jaskier plucked his lute and his small bag of clothing and assorted poetry books from his mare’s saddle.

He strode out of the stable, strumming his lute and cheerfully singing “The Bewitching Witcher.”

“Jaskier. I will break your lute if you don’t stop this.”

Jaskier grinned cheekily at Geralt over his shoulder and said, “Make me.”

Geralt did—although he did so pleasantly, with his mouth and his hands.

Hmm. Perhaps Jaskier had been wrong. Perhaps violence wasn’t the art in which Geralt excelled. Perhaps it was love, and sex, and kissing.

Yes, Jaskier mused as he sighed, entirely content, into Geralt’s passionate kiss. Perhaps it was kissing.

He would have many long years to find out.

[helaintoloki]

apocalypse {f.h.}

pairing: number five x reader

warnings: death, some angst, lots of language

notes: trying to fight my writer’s block and finish pieces I’ve forgotten aha im posting this at midnight rn

/inspired by the song apocalypse by cigarettes after sex/

you’ve been locked in here forever and you just can’t say goodbye

your scraped knees and twisted ankle were the only things you could feel as you limped along the abandoned roads. they used to be a freeway, you think, but it’s hard to tell considering everything looks the same in the new post apocalyptic world: destroyed and desolate. death wasn’t a very good decorator, but it probably had other things on its mind.

today marked one week since the apocalypse had swept away any and all life from the earth, besides you, of course. somehow, you’d been (un)lucky enough to survive. who knew hiding in the dryer during a game of hide and seek with friends would pay off in the long run. and now, here you were, injured and alone-

“shit.”

or so you thought.

“hello?” you called out desperately, and the voice you had heard seemed to vanish in thin air. “i-i need help. my ankle’s twisted and i just need a place to rest.” nothing.

with a sigh, you sat yourself down amongst the rubble and pulled out your water jug from your flask. yet as you held it over your mouth you were met with nothing but air. only a few drops landed on your tongue, escaping the jug once you tapped the bottom with your palm. at this rate, you’d be dead in a few days. it’s almost impossible to survive the apocalypse on your own... unless you’re number five.

with a gun suddenly pointed at your face, a voice on the other end of the barrel demands, “who are you?”

“y/n,” you reply calmly, a sense of tiredness in your voice. he notices, but maintains his death grip on the weapon and his finger on the trigger.

“are you alone?”

“i was, then you showed up.” the boy, as you can tell by now, narrows his green eyes at you. “listen, if you’re gonna kill me, all i ask is that you do it quick. put me out of my misery.”

he’s quiet, his brows furrowed as he contemplates his next move. then, with the gun lowered, “i’m not going to kill you.”

“that’s too bad,” you reply calmly, setting your jug aside before letting your back rest against the piece of debris behind you. “guess i’ll let Mother Nature do it herself.”

“are you always this depressing?” he asks slightly annoyed.

“not usually, but when the world you once knew goes to shit... well,” you shrug, “people change.”

“self-pity isn’t a good change.”

“yeah, well neither is violence.”

“trust me, that’s the one thing that’s stayed the same,” he murmurs, almost as if he’s speaking to himself. his posture has relaxed significantly and the gun is on safety. “i’m Five.”

“well, Five, looks like it’s just you and me.”

~~~

it had been three years ago since you had first stumbled upon five, and since then you two had been inseparable. you were the apocalyptic duo (plus delores), and nothing could get in your way. in fact, it was safe to say you were in love with him, and unbeknownst to you, the feeling was somewhat mutual.

today had been like any other day. you’d woken up next to each other, eaten breakfast, gotten ready for the day, then continued your trek to god knows where. you sat in the wagon with Delores while five pulled, admiring the post apocalyptic beauty of everything around you. it was kind of poetic, really. how things seemed prettier when destroyed. or maybe you were just a big masochist. you wouldn’t be surprised after all the time you had spent with five.

“i’m hungry,” you stated aloud to no one in particular. “you hungry, Delores?”

“...”

“five, we’re hungry,” you chimed, causing him to roll his eyes in slight annoyance at your whining. honestly, he sometimes thought of you as a big baby he had to take care of. a small being who needed constant care and attention otherwise they’d die. but for some reason, five always took care of you. always. if he wasn’t such a tough guy, he’d consider it to be love. but to five, it was a silent agreement the two of you had come to; he’d take care of you and you’d make things less lonely. to five, this was enough. there was no place for love in the apocalypse.

“what do you want?” he grumbled, continuing to pull the weight of you and Delores as well as your few belongings within the wagon.

“hmm... spaghetti!”

“why do you two insist on making things so difficult?” five huffed, stopping for a moment to scan his surroundings. “i think there used to be a super market a few blocks from where we’re standing. they might have something there.”

the super market, once known as john’s grocery, was nothing but rubble and broken building, but a good survivor always knew not to judge a book by its cover, which is why you and five managed to find some pretty good shit. it wasn’t spaghetti, of course, but a can of Pringle’s and beef jerky sandwiches was like heaven to your rumbling tummies.

while Five was busy evenly splitting the sandwich Delores had so graciously offered to the two of you, you rummaged through your bag and pulled out your find: a Polaroid only slightly damaged from the blast. it only took a minute for you to insert the film and a few seconds to snap a photo of an unsuspecting five concentrating on the precision of slicing the sandwich.

“what the hell was that?” he asked, looking up at you and scowling slightly at the sight of the camera. he hated pictures.

“i found it,” you grinned, snapping another photo.

“Jesus, enough with that,” five scolded, blinded temporarily by the glare. “you’re going to get us killed.”

“no one’s out here, you’re being paranoid,” you said dismissively, smiling at the developed film. “besides, look at how adorable you look!”

five merely rolled his eyes and took a bite of his jerky sandwich. you were too trusting of the world, too naive. believing that no one could touch you, that nothing could go wrong. it’s what had gotten you killed.

it all seemed to happen in slow motion, really. one minute you’re smiling, the next there’s a bullet in your chest and you’re struggling to breathe. the blood is oozing freely from the wound, dribbling down from your mouth as you fall back with wide eyes and a terrified face.

“y/n!” five yells, not recognizing his own voice as he quickly scoops you into his arms and desperately clutches you to his chest. “shit, shit, shit.”

“five?” you gurgle, and his eyes begin to well with tears.

“you’re going to be okay, you’re going to be fine,” five repeats over and over into your hair, and he’s not sure if this mantra is for him or for you.

he feels the warm liquid spreading in between your bodies, staining his jacket and seeping through your clothing. it’s so warm, it scares him, scares him as if it’s the first time he’s seen blood in his life.

he’ll never forget the strangled cry that left his mouth as he felt you slump against him, the sudden chill he got from the cold of your body. it was what kept him awake for several nights, what kept him going, what caused him to go rouge when he had learned of the commission’s true power, their true crimes. the blood on their hands, your blood on their hands. they’d pay.

~~~

“shit.”

after explaining what was basic science to his now much older siblings and coming up empty handed in his search for caffeine, five hardgreeves decided to take a drive. a scrawny thirteen year old driving a car would have been comical if not for the situation and stakes at hand.

griddy’s is the only place he can think of to go for a decent cup of coffee, and he hopes it’s still there. and it is. it’s comforting to know that some things have remained the same since his departure into the future with you..

it’s almost empty when he walks in, except for a truck driver at the front and a girl at the very back in her own booth. books are scattered around her, a clear sign of procrastination. she reminds him a lot of-

“Y/N?” five asks bewildered. you peek up at the sound of your name, eyebrows furrowing in confusion at the sight of a stranger asking for you.

“do i know you?” you ask and shrink back against the booth as he approaches quickly. this boy you’ve never met before may be cute, but he’s approaching like a mad man.

“y-you’re here, you’re alive!”

“last i checked,” you say with an uneasy laugh. “h-how do i know you?”

“it’s a long story, i’ll explain it as we go home,” he rushes, grabbing hold of your wrist that you quickly pull back.

“go back?? i-i don’t know you!” you sputter. he sighs annoyed, impatient. he knows it’s not your fault that you have no idea who he is, but he doesn’t have a lot of time to waste.

the bells over the door chime, and five is on alert immediately. he thought he’d have more time before they found him.

“listen, i know you don’t know me, but i need you to get under the table right now, okay? you’ll be safe.”

you didn’t have time to protest as he was shoving you under. but as you watched the next scene unfold in front of you, you were suddenly very grateful you had chosen the corner booth that night.

[cryoculus]

Taste Test

Pairing: Kuroo Tetsurou/Reader Setting: Tokyo, aged up characters, Soulmate AU Possible Triggers: Mentions of Death Word Count: 4,100 Cross-posted from AO3

In your years of pursuing a degree in Biology, you eventually learned along the way that the human being's most crucial sense is their sense of smell. It's heavily linked with a single human's memories since the olfactory bulb and the limbic system are heavily correlated. That alone might make a regular joe assume that smell really is the most powerful sense that a human being can obtain. You believed in that notion for as long as you could remember, too, but that was until last night.

Having slept considerably earlier than you normally would, being woken up at one in the morning didn't aid to your precarious temper at the time. More often than not, the reason for you being so rudely roused at this ungodly hour would be the Golden Ret you kept around your cramped apartment. He's always had a tendency to bark when he hears a car passing by outside, regardless of what time of day it is. However, in this case, your dog was sleeping soundly on the rug you kept at the foot of your bed and the only nuisance to your slumber being that terrible flavor that exploded in your mouth, seemingly out of nowhere.

In hindsight, it wasn't atrocious to the point where you doubled over. You tried flushing out the taste by swallowing your own saliva, but when you've swallowed faster than the time it took for your mouth to produce the sticky liquid, the taste still lingered. With a groan, you padded blindly through the darkness of your room, trying to reach the en-suite.

When you flipped the switch on, the fluorescent light made you flinch for a sliver of a moment. You blinked away the spots in your eyes and stuck your tongue out to check if you happened to forget to swallow the spaghetti you had for dinner. The idea sounded more ridiculous when you realize that there is absolutely nothing in your mouth. When you tried evaluating that twinge of flavor once more, it seemed to have petered out at the slightest -the strong astringent zest being diffused into a weaker taste.

Still, you didn't appreciate that vexing relish, no matter how minimal, so you grabbed a bottle of mouthwash from your display of imported toiletries and poured a hefty amount into your mouth without a spare thought.

You gurgled for the next five minutes, eradicating anything that might've caused this inconvenience, and it seemed to work better than you initially expected. Baring your teeth in front of the mirror, you inspected every crevice for any residue, but your teeth remained the sparkling white they have been before you went to bed. A frown settled on your face, still aghast with that strange endeavor.

However, just before you decided to catch some more Z's, the disgusting taste tormented you once more and you were about to reach out to your good ole' friend, Listerine, out of reflex, but the zing of bitterness was gradually replaced by a familiar taste... Was this apple juice? No, it had a little more spice, but you could definitely taste apples.

"What in the nine hells is going on," you whispered pathetically as you slid your body down to the bathroom floor.

You waited -waited for the flavors to come toppling all over you once more. But seconds, then minutes, then hours passed before slumber came back to claim you in its waiting arms.

"Your soulmate's pret-ty considerate," your co-worker, Oikawa comments dreamily as he opens up the breastplate of the most recent victim of yet another Tokyo car crash. "The first time I tasted something, it was probably just as terrible as yours, but Iwa-chan didn't even bother to rinse it off. I've forgiven him, though~"

You roll your eyes. "I can't believe we're talking about this while we're doing an autopsy."

He shrugs without letting his eyes wander from the body in front of him. "You brought it up. Can you hand me that rib cutter? Thanks."

Your gaze shifts to the girl Oikawa is currently cutting up. You've long gotten over the bothersome sensation that comes along with being around a dead human body (you've been doing post-mortem for years). But this doesn't stop your mind from drifting into the could-have-beens for this poor soul. According to the report passed down to you, her brother was the one driving the vehicle. The brother survived, but this one didn't, unfortunately. What a shame. This kid could have made it as a celebrity with her looks.

You try to recall her name -because you're not very good with names, even if it was written in the report- but it's as if your brain halts all activity for a split second. In the next proceeding moment, you swear that a familiar, steak-flavored snake slithers around your tongue, causing your salivary glands to produce even more. A groan makes its way past your lips and Oikawa's eyes dart to you for a second before continuing to saw away at the withering bones of a dead girl. You force yourself to stay put. Of all the times that your soulmate could have chosen to have that Salisbury steak from that fancy restaurant at Ikebukuro, why did they have to do it now?

"You alright there?" You can hear the budding concern in Oikawa's voice. The ghost of savory gravy haunts your tastebuds, which causes you to squirm even further in your seat. Oikawa is about to put the saw down, but that's until his phone vibrates in the pocket of his trousers. Arching his brow, he removes one of his gloves to check it out. "Huh. Bokuto posted something."

You try your best to pull yourself together to be able to form coherent sentences. "B-Bokuto, as in that comedian-Bokuto?"

"Yeah. Look." He proceeds to show you what's displayed on the screen of his phone. You squint a little to read the caption for his Instagram post.

bokutoe Out for lunch with the boys!

♡ bokutoe, kei_tsukishima, hinatatas, and 67 others like this.

In the picture is the aforementioned Bokuto Koutarou, looking like an owl on steroids as usual, the actor Akaashi Keiji, Bokuto's best friend, with the ever placid look on his face, and lastly is that breakout artist, Kuroo Tetsurou, who isn't even looking at the camera and is just poking at the steak on his plate...

Wait, what?

Before you give another thought to it, Oikawa speaks up. "Weird how Akaashi and Bokuto are in Ikebukuro, don't you think?" he asks as he spares yet another wistful stare at the girl on the autopsy bench. "They must be there to cheer Kuroo up."

"Huh? Why would they have to do that?"

He casts you a look that suggests that he just labeled you as a really dumb person. "Did you seriously forget? This girl-" He gestures vaguely to the body. "-is Kuroo Teruha, Kuroo Tetsurou's little sister."

You try not to let the fact that your soulmate is a hot singer get to your head. The man isn't even aware of your existence. Okay, maybe he somehow is, because when you had oatmeal for breakfast this morning, the faint bitterness of medicine teases your tongue. Out of sheer curiosity, you looked up one of those autobiography blogs about Kuroo (made by his thirteen year-old fangirls, you presume) and that's when you find out that he's allergic to oatmeal. God damn oatmeal.

When you think about it, isn't it a little too much of a stretch for him to take anti-allergy meds because he tasted something he's allergic to? The actual food itself isn't even inside his mouth in the first place, so why the hell...?

But still. If you were going to have a soulmate, you'd never expect it to be someone famous in a million years. Just your luck, your soulmate is a grieving musician, and you only found out that he was your soulmate the night his sister died. The universe really does have interesting ways of bringing people together. However, you're pretty sure you won't be dropping by his house anytime soon, telling him, "Hey, whaddup! It's ya soulmate!" while giving him the jazz hands. You'll try to give him some space and avoid eating oatmeal for the time being.

Work today progresses rather quickly, since you and Oikawa are simply finalizing some details with Teruha's autopsy report. But since it was his turn to be the lead pathologist, he does most of the work and you're only there to offer up better wording for his sentences.

"There," he declares as he places his pen on the table. "Finished."

A small smile plays at your lips. "Well, you wanna get some lunch?"

He shakes his head. "Iwa-chan's the lawyer for their case, remember? He's invited to the funeral today, so we're heading out...right now, actually. Wanna come with?"

You consider it for a moment, but then you remember that Kuroo might be there. Your breath hitches in your throat at the realization. Nope. You're not quite ready for the confrontation stage just yet.

"Ah, I forgot I had plans this afternoon," you reason out rather pathetically and you can see that Oikawa isn't buying your shit at all. But, being the good friend that he is, he only shrugs before placing the reports back in the manila folder. He hands them to you.

"Could you drop this off by Chief Azumane's office? I still have to get ready."

You scowl. "Why are you trying to be fashionable at the funeral of the girl you cut up yesterday?"

He winks. "Why not?"

Chief Azumane's office isn't too far from the forensics department -thank God- so when you swing by to hand him the files, you take your time to engage him in small talk.

Though he has the stature of a bear, the Chief is easily one of the most peaceful people you've met. In critical scenarios, he prefers not to exert violence of any sort as long as criminals in the picture can still be reasoned out with. In TV shows, the policeman who refused to get his hands dirtied would've been a failure but that definitely isn't the case with Chief Azumane.

"So just pop the lasagna in the oven for thirty or-so minutes -depending on how much you're going to cook- then you're good to go," he instructs with a cheery grin.  

"All noted, Chief." You tap at the temple of your head.

He laughs the most lighthearted laugh you've heard all day and proceeds to tell you about that one time Sawamura fell asleep while baking lasagna and almost burned their house down. You're all about hearing Superintendent Sawamura, one of the most uptight officers in the station, almost burn his own house down because he was cooking up some pasta. But then another spectre hauls your attention away from the man in front of you. You feel as if there's some powder on your lips, so you try to lick it away but the sensation wouldn't disappear. A lemony zest balanced with just the right amount of sugar teases your mouth, and wait... You can't put your finger on what this is, but you know you've tasted it before...

"Whoops," the sound of the Chief bumping into his desk as he abruptly stands from his seat breaks you out of your reverie. "I just got a call. There's some thief that needs disciplining in Akiba. As much as I want to continue this conversation, we'll have to save it for later." You don't miss the slightly disappointed ring to his words, as he strides out of his office. But you're so busy trying to recall what food has the taste in your mouth, you don't even notice Chief Azumane leave the room.

Oikawa calls you as you commute back to your apartment.

"You should have come along with uuuus," your friend drawls. "It was a funeral, but their lemon squares are to die for!"

You snap your fingers in conclusion, waking up the elderly man sleeping beside you on the bus. He gives you the stink eye before settling back into his comfortable position. Lemon squares; that's what they're called!

Without thinking, you agree, "I know right?"

"Huh? How do you know?"

You bite your lip. Shit. "U-Um, I heard that they got those lemon squares from the bakery near the park, hahaha. They taste really good!"

Silence. "They were made by Kuroo's mother."

Forgoing all reason, you hang up on him.

It's been a month since you've known about the bond you shared with Kuroo, and since there hasn't been a rockstar knocking at your door for the past month, you draw a conclusion that he's yet to know who keeps on eating ice cream for breakfast. When Oikawa found out, he went into a fit, stating all the health hazards that came along with ingesting that much of a sweet so early in the morning. You really wish to tell him your reasons for your strange breakfast choice, but reluctance overshadows your honesty. Besides, it's not like you're jeopardizing your health on purpose, right? You only do it to excite a reaction from Kuroo because every time you have that delectable treat for breakfast, he counters it with bacon and eggs.

Furthermore, you've pretty much painted a clear picture of his eating habits over the past month. Kuroo likes eating mints. He likes it far too much for your own comfort. Well, it kind of saves you from the burden of buying your own, but you really want to drink a glass of orange juice without feeling like you just brushed your teeth, every now and then. You know that he wakes up far earlier than you do because more often than not, you don't taste your morning breath. Instead, he's already eating his goddamn mints.

As mentioned before, he probably eats breakfast around the time you do. (You like to think that he's waiting to taste the ice cream on his lips before he eats his bacon and eggs, but that seems to much of a pipe dream at the moment.) He drinks a lot of energy drinks, too. From the build of his body, you wouldn't be surprised if he was actually a part-time bodybuilder or even an athlete. Other than that, he's really fond of meat, exotic burgers especially. At least once a day, you can taste a savory beef patty on your tongue, accompanied by some vegetables that you'd normally take out in your burgers, and condiments that you would rather not taste again. You let him know that you don't like it when he eats burgers by rinsing the taste off with some mouthwash, but he doesn't seem to be as lenient as he was during the first night.

Speaking of which, you're now sure that he was drinking that night. Alcohol wasn't something you enjoyed, so you steered clear of it as much as possible. So you were immensely delighted when Kuroo decided not to drink any more intoxicating substances now that he's aware that his soulmate wouldn't appreciate it.

However, you get another bitter round of intoxication that doesn't belong to you the following night.

You've only ever been drunk once, and it was because of a beer that had the lowest alcohol content you've heard of. But you do remember the haze of intoxication bringing about both the happiest moments of your life and the most miserable of your memories. Assuming that Kuroo is experiencing the same thing, he can't really be brimming with glee, since his sister just died a month ago (and you're more than sure that he still blames himself for it). So, when he tries to drink away the sorrow and guilt that still plague his chest, you don't interrupt him via using the mouthwash solution. You let him drink all the alcohol his heart can take, until your own throat burns and your vision starts to swim. You're left wondering how this bond goes way deeper than the phantom flavors that haunt the two of you.  

"You're hiding something from me," Oikawa accuses you.

Not really capable of casting him a sideways glance, since you're focused on trying to cut a Y-shaped incision onto the torso of your newest post-mortem guest, you tell him, "If I was hiding something, what would you think it'll be?"

Silence encompasses the autopsy room, and you shudder for some reason.

"You found out who your soulmate is, didn't you?" he guesses, and surprisingly there's no hint of hostility to his tone. He kind of sounds like a mother that figured out an innocent secret her child has been hiding.

With a bated breath, you finally spare him a look. "It's complicated."

"You met him yet?"

"No...But I know who he is."

Oikawa nods in understanding. "Does he know who you are?"

You place your instruments on the tray beside you and contemplate about your reply for a moment. If Superintendent Sawamura is here, witnessing you purposely delaying an autopsy, he would have whopped your ass. You whisper a silent apology to the dead man on the table before training your eyes on Oikawa's. "I don't think he's ready yet."

His brow arches questioningly. "How ready can one ever be when it comes to their soulmate, honestly?"

You sigh. "You've got a point, but... I don't want to rush him."

Your friend processes your words for a moment, and when the flash of realization sparks in his brown eyes, you immediately pull your focus back to sawing off this man's ribs and getting his internal organs out. Oikawa surprises you once more when he doesn't flail about like a fish out of water, demanding you for answers. He waits patiently, very patiently. Not another word is uttered within the four corners of the room until you've analyzed what you can about the body -he died of head trauma- and stitched it back up.

As you are washing your hands in a nearby sink, you feel a comforting hand on your shoulder.

"Iwa-chan told me he also likes lasagna," Oikawa offers you a sly smile. "Why don't you try...eating some?"

You heave a deep breath before turning off the faucet and drying your hands on your stained lab gown. You turn to him and return his grin. "That just might be a good idea."

Despite Chief Azumane sharing a rushed How-To-Make-Lasagna tutorial a few months ago, you couldn't find it in yourself to cook your own and eat it, knowing that another person at the end of the bond could very well taste your potentially horrible cooking. So, instead of splurging money to gather ingredients for the dish, you utilize the services of an Italian restaurant nearby, instead. You initially intended to drag Oikawa with you, but he apparently had movie night with Iwaizumi. You were very cool with that, but having to eat all this lasagna all by yourself seems like a heavy task, even for a bulk eater, such as yourself.

After saying your thanks for the food, you're about to stick your fork in the dish but that's until you taste the pasta before you can even start eating it. It's the perfect blend of cheese, beef, and tomato sauce and your mouth starts to water even if the food is right in front of you. What the hell? Is Kuroo here?

Your eyes dart around to the rest of the restaurant, whose current occupants considered mostly of families and teenagers on dates. You nearly miss the rockstar if it weren't for his unruly hair and very noticeable outfit. He's wearing a red flannel over a white shirt, paired with loose jeans. He looks like a ranch owner, yet he still manages to look just as dashing as you already know he is.

The two of you are locking eyes from the opposite ends of the room, and your heart is beating off the charts. To make matters worse (or better?), he begins to stand up, carrying an entire platter of lasagna in his arms, and proceeds to walk towards you.

Shit. Shit. Shit. SHIT.

You try to act natural. Well, as natural as one can be while their hot soulmate is walking towards them. When Kuroo finally gets to your table, he showcases a lopsided smile.

"Is this seat taken?" he asks you in a voice that sounds like velvet in your ears.

In the midst of your mild shock, you remember to speak. "Uh, no. D-Do you wanna eat with me?"

His lips stretch into a grin before he slides himself into the seat next to yours. Your face feels warm all of a sudden, and you suddenly remember the high school crush you used to have on Matsukawa. It kind of felt like this, but your heart didn't beat as wildly back then than it is now. Kuroo doesn't chow down, contrary to your expectations of him. Instead, he pulls out a container from his pocket and offers you a mint.

"My name's Tetsurou," he introduces sheepishly. "Thanks for tolerating me."

You stare at the mint in your hand. He always chooses the brand that you're not very fond of but, nonetheless you consume it with a smile, a wave of warmth suddenly pulsing right through you. The spearmint spices up your mouth, and you only discern how much of a terrible idea that was when your eyes drift back to your lasagna.

"You, dolt!" A groan escapes your lips, and the flustered feelings from earlier disappear in a blink of an eye. "How am I supposed to eat now that you made me taste those goddamn mints again?"

He gives you an incredulous look. "You don't like it when I eat mints? Oh, shit. Sorry. Why didn't you let me know?"

For the time that's passed, it's been a mutual agreement for the both of you to resort to mouthwash when one person at the end of the bond consumes something that the other is not very fond of. But with the case of his stupid mints, there's quite a problem to that feat.

"How was I supposed to wash out the taste of mints with menthol mouthwash, genius?" you rebutt with a snarky tone.

"Couldn't you have eaten spoiled food to give me the hint?"

"You're not serious, right?"

He shrugs. "Beggars can't be choosers."

"Oh, so I'm a beggar now?"

"What? No! I'm -ah fuck. Lemme start over," he raises his hands in defense before taking a deep breath. "First off, I wanted to apologize for not looking for you right away. That night -w-when Teruha was hospitalized- I went out drinking and at my first glass, I could already feel something scraping at my tastebuds. That's when I realized. But since I was so...devastated, I couldn't spare the time to find out who you were... If you don't mind me asking, how long have you known?"

You remain silent for a good while, and you can almost see the raw discomfort on his face. With a sigh, you tell him about everything.

He's the one who keeps his silence this time, carefully assessing every word you just told him. He didn't strike you as someone calm and calculating but your assumptions prove otherwise. You expect him to get up and bail out on you. You've known for this long, but didn't even have the guts to face him even if he was just within your reach. If you hadn't come here today, maybe you would have chosen not to meet Kuroo at all.

To your surprise (cough, relief, cough), his mouth curls into a small smile. "Man, I owe you a lot, don't I?"

You shake your head insistingly. "You don't owe me anything, Kuroo. I've been in forensics for as long as I can remember. I've dealt with lots of grieving family members. From all the years that passed, I learned that the best thing one can give them is space."

He freezes. "You're a forensic scientist?"

"Pathologist, actually." You cock your head. "You didn't know?"

He lowers his head and chuckles. "Iwaizumi only told me that I'd meet my soulmate here..."

"Iwaizumi?" you echo with incredulity. If Iwaizumi told him to go here, and Oikawa planted the idea in your head...

Your fist collides with the table and the silverware clinks at the force. A budding flame of childlike rage courses through your veins. Kuroo looks at you with sheer concern and amusement at the same time.

"We were set up!"

[reddeadmort]

Arthur Morgan X F Reader | Outlaws, all of them | Part 3

Part 1, Part 2 Head’s up @yeehaw-jooce , @gloriousgam3r, @r0xy-w0lf , hope you enjoy this part too :) The list of gang members in the later stages of this one is deliberately vague, so you can *insert your other favourite cowboys/girls here*. Also, you might be interested to know the horse is based on one my mother used to have, he used to do all sorts of weird stuff.   Guidance: This one’s a layer cake of violence, light torture and angst, with fluff icing and sprinkles of smut.  Summary: This whole ‘saving your life’ thing is becoming a habit you’d like to break.  Words: 3.9k (this shit’s getting longer...) --------

Arthur hadn’t slept well. He never did when he was angry. When he woke, he still wasn’t sure who he was more pissed at; himself, for not being brave enough to tell you how he felt, or you, for snapping at him. He sighed. I must have done somethin', he thought. He resolved to apologise, though he wasn’t too sure what for, maybe try and cheer you up with a cup of coffee. Groaning as he sat up, he thought about how he was a dumb old man, out of practice with women.

Looking across his tent at yours, he noticed your bedroll was gone. Shit, had you been so mad with him you’d moved to sleep with the girls? Shaking his head, which he immediately regretted due to the drinking, Arthur stood up and walked over to the main campfire.

--------

You’d ridden as hard as you could, and your entire body ached, especially your leg. Once you were past Valentine, your anger had started to fade, and sadness had started to take its place. You were so close to leaving your old life behind; not having to be alone anymore, friends to help you survive. Maybe something more than friendship? You chastised yourself for that last thought. This was how it would always have to be. You couldn’t trust anyone else, and certainly weren’t going to be so kind to strangers again.

It was late morning as you approached the area of forest where you had hidden your stash. You slowed down, moving into the trees. Listening, you could hear faint voices alongside the birdsong. Getting out your binoculars, you looked towards the hidden cave you wear heading for. Shit. The O’Driscolls had done the opposite of moving along it would appear – their camp, only a few tents and a wagon when you last saw it, had grown substantially. They were still a little way from the cave, and you were sure they wouldn’t hear you as you collected your things, but you were going to have to be careful. If you waited until the evening, it would be dark enough for you to slip by, but not so quiet as to make you easy to hear. You turned and trotted off to find a quiet spot to wait out the day.

------

“Tilly, you seen (Y/N)?” Arthur asked as he grabbed some morning coffee. She said she hadn’t, and Arthur asked the next person he saw. Then the next, then the next. He was growing increasingly more concerned, as more gang members woke and appeared from their tents; no-one had seen you since the previous night. John was one of the last to wake, as usual; he strolled towards the campfire, still waking up, when he suddenly remembered what had happened as he returned from his nighttime piss. He didn’t have a chance to escape before Arthur was repeating his question again, this time to him.

“John, you seen (Y/N) anywhere? Ain’t no-one seen her since last night.”

“Errrrr (Y/N)…which one’s that again” John blustered, panicking.

“John, you dumbass, stop messin’ around.” Arthur growled.

John was not looking forward to this. He knew everyone thought he was stupid, but even he had noticed Arthur’s behaviour around you.

“She…. She’s gone Arthur. Left in the night, I saw her.”

Arthur’s heart sank, and his worry was immediately replaced by fury. “Marston, what the hell did you do! What did you say to her!” Arthur had closed the gap between them fast, and grabbed John by the front of his shirt, practically lifting him off the ground. “What did you say to make her leave?!” Arthur practically yelled the last sentence in John’s face. Everyone was staring, John was getting more embarrassed, and, if he was honest, scared. It was way to early for this shit.

“It weren’t me Arthur! It was you! She said so, I tried to stop her.” Arthur’s grip relaxed slightly as his anger at John started to fade.

“What do you mean, it was me?” Arthur frowned.

“She said… she said it had been made clear that she had overstayed her welcome. She wanted to leave before she was pushed. Now let me go dammit Arthur.”

Arthur finally released John, stepping back. “I… I didn’t say that?” he muttered, confused.

“Arthur, dear, what did you say?” Mary-Beth asked.

“I…. I told her that Dutch needed to speak to us about movin’ to a new camp, and if she’d like to stay with me… I mean us.” Mary-Beth stared at him, as realisation slowly dawned on Arthur. “Only… I don’t think that’s how it came out. Oh, I’m a damn fool!” Arthur exclaimed as he slammed his fists on one of the tables.

He was about to walk back to his tent when John spoke again. John had properly woken up now, and was pissed that Arthur had tried to blame him. 

“That wasn’t all she said, golden boy. She said you didn’t want her ‘cause of her messed up leg. She took that bullet for you, Arthur.” John couldn’t resist the last bit, for once it wasn’t him being the dumb one.

Arthur felt his blood run cold. You hadn’t. Oh please, god, say you hadn’t overheard him and Hosea. Why hadn’t he chosen his words more carefully? He knew there was no such thing as privacy in the camp.

“I’ve got to go find her, she can’t have gone far. She’s still struggling to ride properly.” Arthur turned to run towards his tent.

“MR MORGAN you’ll do no such thing.” Dutch had appeared behind him. “You’re forgetting what today is. We have it on good authority” Dutch nodded towards Kieran “ that Colm O’Driscoll will have moved to that camp in the Grizzlies. We are hitting them today, and we need all guns to hand”.

Arthur opened his mouth to try and object. “Don’t make me start questioning your loyalty, Arthur.”

Arthur’s nostrils flared as he gritted his teeth. The gang came first, he had no choice.

“You know me Dutch, always ready to shoot some bastard O’Driscolls.”

“Excellent. Eat well, and don’t go wandering off…. We’ll leave soon. I want to hit those idiots  at night, but it’s a long ride.”

------

The day had gone past slowly. You were in a lot of pain; you were paying the price for staying on the horse all night. You didn’t dare sleep, even though you were exhausted; O’Driscolls weren’t the only things in this wood to worry about. No matter how hard you tried, your mind kept on going back to Arthur. Why the hell did you miss him? He didn’t care for you. But every time your mind wandered, it went back to those evenings by the fire. Your head on his shoulder, the heat from his body keeping the evening chill at bay. His smell, musky with hints of horsehair and gun oil; his eyes….

Finally, it was time to move. The O’Driscolls were celebrating something, either that or they’d found your inordinately large stash of booze in the cave. You sure hoped it wasn’t the latter, though that was the least valuable thing in there. Either way, they all seemed pretty drunk, and you were glad of anything that would make them less likely to see you. You left your horse a little distance away, made sure your knife sheath was full and checked your pistol. 

You managed to make it to the next tree before falling over. God damn leg! You crawled back over to your horse and hoisted yourself up, pulling the cane from your saddle. Well, at least you could always use it to hit them. You smiled slightly for the first time since the previous day, and slowly started to make your way around the camp towards the cave, keeping as close to the rockface as you could.

-----

Arthur was bringing up the rear of the group as they thundered into the Grizzlies. He normally rode up front with Dutch, but Micah was up there and wouldn’t stop talking shit about (Y/N). Arthur was too down to give more than half-hearted curses to Micah; it was easier to move to the back, where he could be alone with his thoughts. 

In the little time he had before he left camp, he tried to search for a trace of you, some clue as to where you had gone. He’d found nothing. The further away from camp he got, the more he missed the comfort of having you by his side. He was a fool, an old, stupid fool.  

-----

You were so close. You’d had to move much slower than you liked; partly because of the pain in your hip, partly because of the cane. You had set your recovery back weeks with that riding, you knew it. You should have rested it, not go so fast that you had to grip the saddles with your thighs hard enough to leave bruises. You should give up, you knew it; but it was too late, you needed that money. You needed supplies, to eat; no way you could steal anything or hunt in your state.

Crouching, assessing the distance to the next tree, you’d been too distracted by the pain to notice the movement behind you. You felt the excruciating blow to the back of your head, heard the shouts, as once again you slipped into darkness.

-------

“Hold up boys. Let’s leave the horses here.” Dutch said as he brought the convoy to a stop. The men hitched their horses in the trees, gathering their weapons and crouched around Dutch. Arthur wasn’t surprised Dutch had brought so many of the others; he knew how much Dutch wanted to see Colm dead, and he was glad of the extra firepower. Arthur focused on Dutch as he outlined the plan and initially barely noticed Charles’s elbow in his side.

“Arthur!” Charles whispered forcefully. “Isn’t that (Y/N)’s horse?”

Arthur’s head snapped round in the direction Charles was pointing. “It can’t be, surely not out here.”

“Arthur, how many other horses do you know sleep leaning against a tree?!”

Charles was right. God knows where you’d got that horse from, Arthur thought, it was all kinds of special. Arthur and Charles broke away from the group, ignoring Dutch’s angry mutterings.

“She’s not here Arthur.” Arthur’s heart was pounding – what the hell were you doing? He and Charles had just started moving back to the others when a scream pierced the evening silence.

------

You screamed as the blade of the hot knife seared against the skin on your arm. Your cry was cut short as your cane was slammed into your stomach, winding you. You were fucked, and you knew it. Even tied up, you could maybe have escaped if there was only 2 or 3 of them; but there were at least 20, and your leg felt like it was on fire. You were on your knees, back to a post with your hands tied to the pole above your head. You didn’t know what these bastards had planned for you, but you suspected. And you knew they were going to take their time.

You hadn’t been awake long, but had already taken a decent beating. But now the O’Driscoll’s had gotten bored. They wanted to hear you scream, and they sure as hell knew some good methods for achieving their goal. The one with the knife was leering at you as he heated it again in the fire.

One of the other O’Driscolls grabbed you by the hair, pulling your head back. “Now remember lads, leave that pretty face alone. Colm likes ‘em pretty when he starts. They ain’t that way when he’s done though.” That last line was sneered right in your face.

“How much longer he going to be? I wanna have some fun” whined another greasy bastard. 

The one with the knife stood up, starting to walk back towards you. “He’ll be back soon. He saw a nice farmhouse a little way off, gone to get some….supplies.” Your head was held up, forcing you to look at your torturer, as he brought the knife closer to your skin.

You were about to shut your eyes, try to distance yourself from the pain, when his face exploded.

------

“I don’t give a goddamn shit about your plan Dutch, we have to go NOW!” Arthur didn’t even wait for a response as he surged forwards. The others paused for a brief moment until Dutch nodded and they followed, fanning out through the trees.

Arthur slammed into cover behind a tree. They must have heard him, he thought, but he didn’t care. He could still hear your scream, long since faded, in his head. He was seeing red, filled with rage. These bastards were going to pay with their lives, every.single.one.of.them.

He leaned out of cover and brought his rifle to his shoulder. Breathing slowly, deliberately, he took aim and fired.

-------

The O’Driscolls had been so pre-occupied with you they hadn’t noticed the group running through the trees. The ones that did didn’t last long enough to warn the rest. The assault was over quickly; the Van der Linde gang were only outnumbered 4 to 1, it was more of a slaughter than a fight.

You had yelled out to Arthur as soon as you saw him, and couldn’t help but emit a sob as he cut you free. You fell forwards onto your side and groaned, as he hoisted you up in his arms.

“Where’s Colm dammit!” Dutch was furious, yelling.

Between deep breaths, you told Arthur what you heard, barely able to do more than whisper.

“He ain’t hear Dutch” Arthur called out. “And if he was nearby, he certainly ain’t comin’ back now.”

Dutch swore, kicking a nearby corpse.

“I’m sorry Arthur, I’m sorry. I must have ruined Dutch’s plans.” You started to sob, as another wave of pain overtook you.

“It’s okay (Y/N), it’s okay” Arthur said as he gently put you down, leaning you against a few crates. “You’re alright now, it’s over. Sorry I wasn’t here sooner.” 

He gently stroked your face, soothing you. You threw your arms around his neck, pulling him close, as the shock of what just happened started to fade. When you finally released him and started to move away, he pulled you back in, kissing you passionately. You kissed him back, breathing in his scent, feeling his stubble against your face.

“I ain’t never letting you out of my sight again darlin’” he said as he broke away, smiling. “I’m sorry for what I said….what you heard. I’m goin’ to keep you safe, I promise.”

“Arthur….. I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have left like that, without talking to you. It’s just.. I haven’t had a family in so long, I broke at the first sign of a problem.”

“I got news for you darlin’, this family’s got all kind of problems. But you ain’t one of them.” He leaned forward, gently kissing you on the forehead.

“Arthur, get Dutch. I’ve got something that might take the sting out of not getting Colm.”

Dutch was bouncing like a little kid when he came back from examining your stash. Even with your detailed instructions, you were pretty sure they only found it because of Charles’ skills as a tracker. You let the gang split it as they normally would; half for the gang, the rest between the group, yourself included. While a part of you ached to see it go, Arthur’s hand in yours reassured you that you were doing the right thing. You owed them your life twice over now…. you hoped this would be the last time.

The gang moved quickly, and soon the cave was empty and the horses loaded. Your horse was more than happy to be loaded up with the crates of whiskey and rum; there was no room left for you, but there was no way you were riding on your own in your state anyway. Aside from the burn on your arm, you were mostly just bruised, but your leg hurt like hell. With some help, Arthur carefully lifted you onto his horse, into the saddle in front of him.

“Mr Morgan, we’re making a habit of this.” 

Arthur laughed softly, as he urged his horse into a gentle trot. The others went off ahead, while Charles stayed behind with you, Arthur, and your bottle laden horse. They could move much quicker than you, and the quicker they got back to camp the better.

It was a long ride back but you and Arthur filled it with chatter. You were both so much more relaxed now, able to open up to the other. Every so often, you squirmed in the saddle as a particularly brutal burst of pain hit your leg; when this happened, Arthur would gently squeeze your waist and kiss your neck, reassuring you.

“Easy girl, nearly home.” His voice was low, rumbling, and comforting. But as you passed Valentine, you stopped talking as the pain became more constant.

“You alright, darlin’?” Arthur whispered in your ear, concerned.

“Yeh…. Just hurtin’. Wish I could forget about the pain, just for a moment.” 

Arthur’s hand rubbed your thigh reassuringly, as he kissed your neck again. This time, the kiss hit that point where the base of your neck meets your shoulder, sending a shiver down your spine. You sighed, and suddenly you knew exactly what would take your mind off the pain. You placed your hand on Arthur’s, gently sliding it up towards your crotch. Arthur resisted slightly until you whispered to him.

“I think that a little…distraction may do me good, Mr Morgan.” Your voice was low and soft, and it made Arthur unintentionally push his hips forwards against yours.

“Mhhmm.. anything you want darlin’.”

You undid the button on your trousers as Arthur carefully slipped his hand down. He was gentle as his rough hands rubbed you slowly. You breathed out quietly, letting your body relax, as he continued to run his fingers in gentle circles over you. Charles was only a little way ahead, so you tried to stay as quiet as possible, but every so often a little moan escaped your lips. Every time you did, Arthur ground his hips into you, letting out a little growl. You could feel him getting pressed against you, getting harder and harder, and the thought made you smile. 

You continued on like this all the way back to the edge of the camp. Neither of you wanted the moment to end; this was pure relaxation, carefully washing away the tensions of the last few days. As you drew near to camp, Arthur withdrew his hand and attempted to adjust himself the best he could; large gun belt buckles certainly came in handy for moments like this.

That evening’s party was already in full swing by the time your little group arrived. Everyone was pleased to see you back, and Miss Grimshaw was careful to thank you for your generous contribution. You stayed with them for as long as you could, drinking and laughing, but it wasn’t long before you asked Arthur to help you to bed. He carefully walked you to his tent, placing you on the chair.

“You can take my cot (Y/N), it’ll be easier to get in and out of. I’ll just grab my bedroll, I’ll sleep on the floor in yours.” You grabbed Arthur’s shirt before he managed to step away, pulling him towards you, making him frown.

“Mr Morgan, you’ll do no such thing. I need some more……distracting.” You bit your lip, staring up into his gorgeous eyes.

Realisation dawned on Arthur’s face and he grinned. He quickly pulled the flaps down around his tent, giving you a modicum of privacy, before he carefully picked you up and placed you on your back on the cot. He swiftly joined you, kneeling between your legs and leaning forward to kiss you.

“Just let me know if having your legs like this hurts your hip darlin’.”

You laughed. “Arthur Morgan, you might be wide, but you ain’t as wide as a horse. I’ll be fine. Now shut up and get that shirt off.”

Arthur didn’t need to be asked twice. He sat up, pushing the suspenders off his shoulder and pulling his shirt off over his head. You placed your hand on his chest, preventing him from leaning forwards again, allowing you to admire him for a moment. The sight of his hands resting on your spread knees, and those wide shoulders, made you shudder with excitement.

“Now that’s a view I could get used to” you sighed.

Arthur bit his lip, smiling, as he leaned forward and kissed you, harder this time. You yelped as he ground his hips into yours. He immediately stopped, and pulled away, looking at you with concern.

“Arthur Morgan, I swear to god, if you stop I ain’t going to be the only one in pain.” 

Arthur grinned as he leaned forward once again. Your hands ran over his back as he kissed your neck, his hands fondling your breasts through your shirt. He gently rubbed himself against you as you both got lost in the moment.

“Arthur, Dutch needs ya’” Sean’s voice from outside the tent made an unwelcome entrance into your little world.

“I’m busy Sean, tell him I’ll speak to him tomorrow” Arthur growled, barely moving his lips from your skin.

“Arthur, he’s very insistent. He’s yellin’ for ya”. As you listened, you could indeed hear Dutch calling Arthur in the distance.

Arthur sighed, resting his forehead on your chest.

“Won’t be long darlin’. If I don’t go he’ll only come over” Arthur said as he stood up.

“I’ll keep myself warm for you sweetheart” you said, as you slowly slipped your fingers under your waistband.

Arthur paused, biting his lip, gaze transfixed on your hand, before striding out of the tent, almost bowling Sean over.

“Dutch, what do you want, I’m a little busy right now” Arthur huffed.

“Arthur, there you are! You have to see this book (Y/N) had in her collection, it’s a beauty” Dutch replied excitedly, without looking up. Hosea was sat in Dutch’s tent with him and was staring at Arthur in the entrance.

“Really Dutch?! A damn book!” Arthur exclaimed.

“Don’t be like that Arthur, you know that….” Dutch, still looking at the pages in front of him, didn’t finish his sentence before Hosea’s elbow connected with his arm.

“Dutch, goddammit, look at me! Do I look like reading a book is what I want to be doin’ right now!”

Dutch finally looked up at Arthur. He was naked from the waist up, hair in a mess, sweating ever so slightly. He looked exactly like an illustration out of one of Mary-Beth’s books, albeit with a few more scars.

“Son, I’m terribly sorry” Dutch laughed. “Please, go resume your evening’s activity.” Arthur rolled his eyes and jogged back to his tent. Normally, he’d be embarrassed, he was a private man. But right now only one thing was in his head; you. There wasn’t enough blood left in it for any other thoughts.

Arthur opened the flap to his tent and smiled at the sight that greeted him; he was exhausted, but the happiest he’d been in a long time. And he was about to get a whole lot happier.

[caffeineivore]

Cheer up emo fic!

For @vchanny-og. This will tie in with one of the fics I wrote for the @ssrevminibang. M/K. Rated a strong PG13 for brief mentions of sexual situations and a hint of violence.

The flashbulbs and paparazzi harassment she took as a fair trade-- a necessary evil for her background as well as her chosen profession. Even the gossipy tabloid stories, or anonymous, hurtful online comments and speculation. Morgan, having seen many a child actor and teen starlet fall from grace, stays out of the spotlight for the most part. No drugs, no inappropriate videos or pictures, no information on her personal life for the avid army of vultures online to devour and speculate over. It isn’t too difficult avoiding the paparazzi, either, when one lived in a Beverly Hills mansion surrounded by electronic gates and a dense circle of tall hedges, or when one was a minor working under the very protective wing of one Raven Huntley, nee Fletcher, whom Morgan was fairly sure could scare an armed robber into submission with little else than a scathing comment and a well-placed glare. Her agent was a nice lady, the way a fire-breathing dragon might have a soft underbelly, but it was well hidden under a generous layer of diamond-hard New York City sharpness. 

The lack of privacy and the intrusive nature of the general public did not become an issue until she’d turned eighteen, and well on the international fashion circuit. The pretty hotels in Milan and Paris, picturesque though they certainly were, offered little protection against the outside world. The first time that she’d gotten manhandled by a particularly determined and sleazy paparazzo, she’d been eighteen. Raven had none-too-gently yanked the man off of her and driven the business end of her stiletto heel into the man’s instep before getting in his face and letting out a blistering diatribe lavishly peppered with F-bombs. The paparazzo had backed off, but Raven had ushered Morgan up to her room, barged in after her, and unplugged all electronic devices before making a sweep and checking for anything out of place. Whatever she might have thought of the incident, she did not say to Morgan at that particular moment, but she already had her phone to her ear before she’d even left the room with stern injunctions not to order room service, go online, or let anyone in that she didn’t know.

Whatever arrangements Raven must have made that night, Morgan had woken up three days later to a knock on the door. One glance through the peephole revealed her agent, and a tall stranger wearing a plain black suit. 

Raven let herself in when she opened the door, but the man stood there for a moment, looking down the hall in what Morgan deemed to be an assessing sort of way before following Raven in and shutting the door behind him, taking the time to secure the chain latch as well as the lock. He was almost a head taller than Morgan’s willowy five-foot-nine, with wide shoulders and big hands, but what drew Morgan’s attention right away was his face, all watchful gray eyes and an impassive mouth and strong features, quite a departure from the fresh-faced, pretty male models she worked with on a regular basis. He had a square jaw and blond hair so pale it was close to silver, and a hint of an old break in an otherwise patrician nose saved him from being almost too handsome. 

“Morgan, this is Kane Wallace. Kane, this is Morgan Austen. I’ve known him since we were kids, before our paths veered in completely different directions. He works for a security firm out of Manhattan these days, but I figure this would be a nice change of scene for him, and there’s no one I’d trust more. You need a security detail, and someone who’d not only be able to make sure no one gets to you out in public, but won’t sell you out to the top buyer, if you get my drift. Kane’s mom and my dad were in law school together, back in the day, and we pretty much grew up in the same circles. He went to West Point and I went to NYU, and we lost touch for a while, but… here we are, and here we go.” 

“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Austen.”

He has a deep, measured voice, and wherever he might have been between West Point and a boutique Parisian hotel, he’d lost the New Yorker accent that still rang, sharp as a chime, in Raven’s voice. Morgan smiles, and offers her hand, and his fingers are rough and warm against hers. 

“You can just call me Morgan. If we’re to work together, we should be on easy terms. May I call you Kane, or do you prefer Mr. Wallace?”

“Kane is fine, Miss Austen.”

Morgan’s quite sure that he caught the eye roll she’d given Raven at that, but Kane doesn’t say anything, and if she’d have known that fateful meeting would ultimately change the whole course of her life, perhaps she would have been more nervous, or excited. But at the age of eighteen, the supermodel daughter of a Hollywood A-Lister, meeting a man who’d become her security detail was nothing more or less than just a matter of course, a fact of life. So she’d mustered up her cheekiest grin, tilted her head to the side, and beamed up at him with all the power of a megawatt heat lamp. “Well, hopefully this is the beginning of a long and beautiful friendship, Beefcake. It’s nice to meet you, too.”

He didn’t so much as crack a smile in response.

**

“Awww. I just got a text from Zack. Him and Noah just landed at Heathrow.”

“That’s good. I’m glad they made it safely to their destination.” 

“Don’t you think it’s romantic, Beefcake? This grand gesture he’s doing, this love at first sight thing. I really hope it pans out for our boy.”

“I’m sure he’s happy to have you in his corner, Miss Austen.”

It’s been five years, two months and ten days, and perhaps three hours since Morgan had first met Kane Wallace, and if that made her a bit like the one girl in Love Actually, she’s resigned to the fact. Kane does know that she exists, of course. But the chances of anything, even a hot makeout session that amounts to nothing, ultimately, are probably even slimmer. She’s turning twenty-four in six days, and he still calls her Miss Austen at least fifty percent of the time, and it would probably be infuriating if that buttoned-up propriety wasn’t such an intrinsic part of his disposition that it’d be a bit hard to it wouldn’t be fair to take it personally. She can’t help but needle him a bit, though. Certainly no one else would have the nerve to call him something so ridiculous as Beefcake to his face. 

They have fallen into a comfortable routine at this point-- he’s never far, whether she’s home or out, in LA or Milan or some picturesque tropical beach for a photoshoot. She has a sometimes-brutal schedule, going between sessions with the personal trainer and photoshoots and fittings and interviews, making the necessary appearances at the necessary well-publicised premieres and galas. He’s always in the background, as unobtrusive as a broad-shouldered, six-foot-three man wearing a dark suit and an earpiece could possibly be, and if he’s ever felt that the long days and the jet lag wore on him in any way, he certainly never says so. The one time, perhaps two years ago, that Morgan had apologized about a particularly long and strenuous photoshoot, he’d simply said that military training had prepared him for a lot worse, and then managed to somehow find her a Döner kebab stand still open despite the late hour. It wasn’t quite LA taco truck fare, but at midnight, still fighting jet lag and after a day of Luna bars and low-cal Vitamin Water in between grueling costume and makeup changes, it had been the best thing she’d ever tasted. 

And if she’s come to depend on him in far more than just as hired muscle to get rid of creepy paparazzi or overly-enthusiastic fans, or if she finds herself thinking about him in ways that aren’t at all professional, that’s no one’s business or problem but her own. 

She smiles up at him, wondering if he knows-- notices-- that it’s not quite the same smile that she always gives the cameras and the reporters and the fans, not even the same smile that she reserves for friends like Zack or Noah. “At least it will be an easy day for us today. Just one appointment. Ace Kato has a waiting list the length of my leg of models who want in on his photoshoots. I’m honestly shocked that he picked me out of the pile.”

He glances down, just for the space of a second, at her comment, from the bottom hem of her breezy yellow skirt to the no-nonsense red pedicure on her toes, but when he looks up again, he’s not smiling. “I’ll be right outside the studio door if you need me.”

**

The ‘easy day’ ends in disaster in very short order, after Kato corners her in the dressing room between costume changes and puts his hands on her naked back, all while smarmily whispering against her neck that he could take her career to new, astronomical heights, if she’d meet him halfway. The insinuation is obvious, and the slap Morgan delivers to his face is reflexive and shocks her as much as him. A moment later, Kane is in the room-- Morgan doesn’t even have time to wonder how, precisely, he made it through the electronically-locked door-- and pulling the photographer off of her the way a wolf might drag off a deer by its neck. It’s a blur after that, sort of-- somehow, she’s bundled up into the back of her driver’s car, and Raven, not a cuddler by any stretch of the imagination, is holding onto her the way a protective mother might soothe an injured baby chick, smoothing down her hair with one manicured hand even as she barked into her phone, clearly on the line with the agency’s in-house counsel. 

“It’ll be a settlement, probably. No one wants to drag this through a courtroom shit show. But as of this minute, no one in any of our offices will work with him ever again. It’s doubtful that he’ll press charges, even if Kane did break his jaw while pulling him off of you. I’m cancelling your appointments for the rest of the week.”

Morgan holds it together all the way home, waves off her assistant and the housekeeper and even her mother, all of whom have heard some heavily edited but possibly exaggerated version of what had gone down, and goes for a bubble bath complete with candles and wine, and it’s only after she’s bundled up in her robe alone in her room, skin pruney from the too-hot water and hair a wet and tangled mess over pillowcases meant for dry-cleaning only that it hits her. And with his usual quietly uncanny timing, Kane knocks on the door, and even as she opens it, she smells the distinct scent of fresh Animal-style In-n-Out fries-- her favourite comfort food as a child-- and that’s when the tears come. 

Without any question, the housekeeper will have something awful to say the next morning about greasy fries on the furniture, but neither of them are worried about that at the moment, and though it takes perhaps a minute or two, Kane eventually steps forward instead of back, and certainly she’s looking her worst just then-- wet and bedraggled, without a speck of makeup, wearing nothing but a fuzzy pink bathrobe. She’s also undoubtedly getting tears and snot on his shirt, but for a man of few words who rarely even smiles, his arms are strong and gentle just as she’d always imagined, and the rumble of his breathing and heartbeat, steady and low beneath her cheek, is what finally calms her down. Her hands are clenched around handfuls of his shirt and he sits her down on the bed, brings her the now-cold fries, and makes her eat them, not stepping back until she manages a ghost of a smile. 

“Raven said you broke his jaw.” Her voice is slightly scratchy around a mouthful of messy sauce and potato. An ominous glint enters Kane’s eye, and he raises his chin.

“Might have. Would’ve done worse, too, if I had to.”

“I know.” He doesn’t speak much on his background, though he’d mentioned before that he had decided against making a career out of the military due to a dislike of politics and killing people on the orders of people with selfish motives. Nonetheless, if nothing else, she knows that Raven would not have appointed him to this role were he not anything less than completely capable, and in this case, capable might as well have meant deadly. Kane still walks like a soldier, and scans a room and its occupants the way an officer might, and in those last few moments, the arms that had held her had been hard and solid as steel. “This is so hard.”

His jaw clenches, and he looks down at the spotless plush carpet underneath their feet. “You’re entitled to whatever measures you must take to recover and heal. I’m sorry I wasn’t there, earlier.”

He couldn’t have been there any earlier unless he’d had superpowers and teleported into the room. As it stands, Morgan’s still fairly sure he’d broken down the door, but she wasn’t even referring to that, at least not completely. She laughs, but it’s a hollow, almost desperate sound. “Kato’s a creep who will get his ass sued and blackballed, but he’s just one of many creeps in the world. I’m not going to let a creep ruin anything more than one day out of my life. But it’s so hard to be around you and act normal and not like I’ve been trying to fall out of love with you for the last few years, because I can act normal around you, unlike everyone else, and you don’t care if I’m looking pretty or acting charming or if I’m a mess, and you’re the only one who always knows what I need. And I have no business even having this conversation with you. It’s not fair, and I’d be no better than Kato, using his position to coerce something out of another person.”

His breath escapes in a stutter, and Morgan doesn’t have it in her, just at that moment, to look up into his face, see consternation in those usually-unflappable features, or hear any hasty apologies. This, too, shall pass. She is Morgan Grace Austen, born and bred to handle anything life threw her way with a perfect smile on her face, and she’s already cried once today in his presence. It takes every bit of practiced poise she can muster, but she manages to square her shoulders, turn away with her head held high. “I’d like to be alone, now. Please. I will be quite safe.”

He doesn’t make a sound, exiting the room and shutting the door behind him, but the solitude of her space without him in it weighs in the air like the gloom before a cold rain.

**

One can almost always find the strength to carry on, and moreover, this day had been inevitable since the day they’d first met, all those years ago. Morgan finds herself able, after a sleepless night and a day of avoidance, to act almost normal again around him. She’s cordial, and so is he, and both of them cautiously never mention the incident, and if he notices that she is careful not to needle him or call him Beefcake or touch him in any way, he doesn’t remark upon it. But she feels the weight of his eyes on her, always watchful and protective but hotter, heavier somehow at odd moments. She throws herself into work and gets a contract as the spokesmodel for an up-and-coming cruelty-free cosmetics brand, and shoots a series of PSAs against bullying in schools and online. Her twenty-fourth birthday comes and goes without much fanfare, though she throws the expected no-expenses-spared party for the occasion, inviting along a few dozen of the most tolerable and non-problematic of the glitterati for an evening of champagne and fancy finger foods in an exclusive club. Heavy security keep out enterprising paparazzi, but Morgan does select and sell one carefully-taken group selfie to People Magazine and arrange to donate the proceeds to a charity benefiting victims of sexual assault. 

True to Raven’s predictions, Ace Kato settles out of court, and though no details of the case are leaked, his demand and popularity as a fashion and celebrity photographer seem to vanish almost overnight. Raven makes a few scathing comments that he would soon be leaving town in disgrace and perhaps end up taking baby pictures in a Sears somewhere. 

The new year comes and brings with it the usual flurry of activity in Hollywood as Awards season kicks off and the deep, intellectual films of the winter months-- a far cry from the CGI-and-explosions-laden summer blockbusters-- have their premieres. 

Kane takes a week around Christmas as personal time, and travels off to some unknown destination, returning the day after New Year’s preoccupied and morose, though still impeccably polite and considerate and thorough. Morgan lets it go for all of two days before she corners him, and plainly asks him what is wrong.

He hedges, and looks down at his phone, and Morgan knows that she’s pouting by that point and doesn’t care. “You know everything there is to know about me, Beefcake. Down to how much Chipotle I scarf down every time Shark Week rolls around and how much I secretly hate Pilates to the fact that I still can’t watch The Lion King without crying. You can tell me what’s wrong with you for a change. Give me something to do to help.” He’s wearing a cotton t-shirt rather than the usual perfectly pressed button-down underneath a suit jacket, and of their own volition, her fingers curl into the soft cloth, wrinkling it. “Let me in. Please.”

He wraps his hands around her slim wrists, wide palms warm and calloused against her skin, but doesn’t pull her hands off of him, and acquiesces.

**

C’est La Vie is the type of arthouse film with a limited release, produced by some bigshot actor and featuring the usual dichotomy of virtual unknowns in leading roles and cinematography dreamy and lush as a French Impressionist painting. Morgan does not generally attend these premieres-- they inevitably run late, and she unfailingly gets cornered by either pretentious auteurs looking for a Muse du jour or well-meaning but nosy pillars of the industry from her mother’s generation, at least as inquisitive about her personal life as the most determined of the paparazzi, and more likely to be closer to the mark with it. But this evening is, as she admits to herself, a labour of love.

The gown that she has on is golden silk, Yves Ste. Laurent couture, and she’s got a good ten carats of yellow diamonds dangling on her neck and ears. But the question that Morgan gets asked the most, down the stroll of this red carpet, is who is the frail old lady there with her, hooked up on oxygen and being pushed in a wheelchair? 

“She’s a friend of a friend, and she’s never been to Hollywood before.” She gives the answer with a warm smile for the cameras, and though she’s certainly wearing impractical shoes for the occasion and her entourage is not far off, she pushes the wheelchair the whole way herself, bending down periodically to make sure that the occupant-- Kane’s grandmother, Doris, is comfortable. 

There’d been a lot of strings to pull, important people in the industry to sweet-talk, but ultimately, Morgan had prevailed in her goal. They’re seated quite close to the front, and on Doris’ other side is a legend, recognizable even though his black tie differs quite a bit from the rugged garments he’d worn in some of his most famous roles.

“My, my, aren’t you Mister Harrison Ford?” Doris whispers, the blush on her papery cheeks as charming as a schoolgirl’s. “You were my favourite, when I was younger. That Han Solo was such a dashing rapscallion.”

“Why, yes I am.” Harrison winks over Doris’ head at Morgan; this seating arrangement had been cleared with his people well in advance of this evening, and comes as no surprise. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

The movie premiere is surprisingly enjoyable, and by the end of the evening, Doris has opened up to the actor and the two are chatting away like old friends. They don’t attend any after-parties, but Morgan pours Doris a half-glass of Dom Perignon and toasts her happiness, and at a perfectly decent hour, takes Doris back home. The private plane will take Doris, in the end stages of heart failure, back to Upstate New York in the morning, to begin hospice care. 

The limo ride back is mostly quiet, and for a moment, Morgan thinks that Doris might have fallen asleep, but Kane’s grandmother coughs, then looks at her with eyes that might have gone rheumy and soft with age but are the same shade of gray as her grandson’s. “You’re a nice young lady, Miss Austen. I can see why he loves you so.”

Morgan can smile and laugh on command, but she can’t control the quick gasp, the heat creeping up her neck and face. “He’s become… a friend. We’ve known each other for six years now. But surely you’re mistaken.”

“I’m not worried about hospice care, much as Kane might fret over it. It will be peaceful, you see. I’m hoping to live long enough to watch the leaves change colour-- sorry, dear, but California autumns have nothing on the East Coast, but if that isn’t meant to be, I’ll be seeing Kane’s grandfather again soon. He looks just like my husband did when he was young, too, though Calvin’s eyes were green. He’s a good boy.” Doris reaches across the aisle of the limo, pats the back of Morgan’s hand with her quavery fingertips. “I’m glad that he won’t be alone. He’s always been such an independent boy, but it doesn’t do for one to have no one to share their hearts and lives with.”

**

Doris leaves the next day, and Kane goes with her, and though Morgan throws herself into work for the next four days, his absence feels like a void in the center of her world. She wraps up some ad-work for the cosmetic brand, makes a brief appearance on one of the late shows. Needless to say, in the space of a five-minute interview, she gets questioned about her unusual guest to the movie premiere, but she keeps it simple, stating that it’s a friend of a friend, shamelessly invoking Harrison Ford and stating to the host, charmingly, that certainly many women would love to meet Han Solo and Indiana Jones himself before they passed, and she couldn’t blame her friend one bit. Of course, as is expected, the host segues into asking her about her own love life, and Morgan simply smiles. 

“Of course I love somebody. I love a lot of people. For a lifestyle and a career that could be built out of artifice, I feel like I am blessed to know some of the best people, as friends, or colleagues, or associates. I am the luckiest girl in the world, and it has absolutely everything to do with the people I love, and not my work or my connections.” Somehow, she knows that Kane will watch this segment, though he is hundreds of miles away, and the smile she aims for the camera is the one she generally reserves for him, alone. 

She arrives home from that studio appearance the same day as Kane, though he flies commercial and lands a good two hours after her. She’s slightly jet-lagged, and relaxing in her wing of the house in her pajamas when he comes in, looking far too good for someone who’s just left a loved one to their final rest and flown from coast to coast. Morgan clasps her hands together so they don’t reach for him, but just for a moment, after he greets her-- Morgan, for once, and not Miss Austen-- his eyes soften almost imperceptibly, and that alone gives her the courage to clear the air.

“I owe you an apology, I think.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why would you say that?” 

“Because… I promised myself, long ago, before I met you, that I would never take advantage of anyone who worked for me in any capacity. That I wouldn’t overstep my bounds, either in thought or action, because so many people do, and get away with it, and that’s just not fair.” She has to be honest with him-- he deserves no less than the complete truth, and if her smile is shaky at the corners, she at least still manages to look him in the eye. “I can’t not love you. It’s not possible. But I won’t do anything out of line. You have my word, and I’m a woman of my word.”

“I know.” He steps closer, almost too close. He smells fresh, not at all like someone who had just been sitting in a tin can breathing recycled air for hours. “I’m generally a man of my word, too. But I think I’m about to break it.”

Before she can asks him what he means, he reaches for her, and takes her hands in his. Her hands are slim and dainty, currently sporting a shimmery pink manicure and a Pandora bracelet. His are tanned and wide, with rough palms and a utilitarian black watch, and his fingers are warm wrapped around hers. “I promised myself, when I took on this job, that I’d never touch you. That I would never even think to put my hands on you, or behave in any way that could be construed as unprofessional.” He tugs her in, then lets go of her left hand to cup her cheek, and she’s almost close enough to count his eyelashes one by one, and her breath catches somewhere between her throat and her lips. “I’m about to break that promise. And, speaking of, I quit.”

Before she can say anything in response, his mouth is on hers, and he doesn’t kiss her in the gentle, easygoing way of a casual but enjoyable date. He hauls her in, lifting her slightly off her feet as his lips all but devour hers, as though she’s his air and water, one hand cupping her nape as the other anchors at the base of her spine. She feels herself moan, but the sound of it is blushingly wanton in the quiet of the room even as she sinks her fingers into his shockingly soft hair. 

It could have stopped there, maybe, if this hasn’t been building for so long, so intensely. But neither of them seem capable of letting the other person go. She goes for his shirt buttons first, ripping one off in awkward frustration as her nails get in the way, but then he laughs and lifts her up and carries her into her room, kicking the door shut behind them between more kisses-- on her lips, tracing a path from her jaw and down the length of her neck. Her own bed feels new somehow when he joins her on it, but he doesn’t touch her until she reaches up and kisses him again. She knows that he knows that she’s never slept with anyone before, and yet, after sharing everything else in the last six years, it doesn’t even feel awkward when he slides the last few pieces of clothing off her shoulders and legs. Morgan’s not self-conscious as a rule-- certainly, in the name of fashion, she’s been photographed wearing some fairly risque pieces before, often in the company of strangers, but she finds herself looking up into his face timidly as his eyes rake over the length of her, from the blonde hair fanned out over her pillows to the toes curling into the sheets. 

“God. You’re the most fucking beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.” His words are blunt and a bit abrupt, but it coaxes a smile out of her, and then his mouth and hands are wandering over her bare skin, and there’s no time to overthink it any more. 

Much later, as night falls over Los Angeles, Morgan cuddles into his side, feeling slightly sleepy and warm and very, very loved. “You quit, hmm, Beefcake?” It should feel awkward to tease him when she might have possibly squealed his name at an inopportune moment in the recent past, but then again, she’s never felt more safe or comfortable than when they’re together, so maybe things hadn’t changed so much, after all. “I guess you must, for the sake of both our reputations.”

“I quit working for you. I’ll never quit protecting you, whether or not I get paid to do so. I can do remote work on security systems or whatever. That’s all just details to figure out.” He tugs her close and runs his fingers down the length of her bare back, and she leans into the touch like a cat. “Go to sleep. We can figure this out in the morning.”

“Mmm. You’re warm. You don’t snore or talk in your sleep, do you?”

“If I do, too bad. You’re stuck with me.” He presses a soft kiss to her temple and tugs the covers up over them. “I love you, Morgan Austen. I figure now’s the time to finally say it aloud.”

She feels her mouth curve into a smile against the skin of his shoulder. “I love you too, Beefcake. And now’s the perfect time.”

He doesn’t snore or talk in his sleep, but he doesn’t let go of her all night, and he’s still holding her close when she wakes up in the morning. Morgan opens one eye, texts her assistant to cancel her hair appointment, and curls back up into his arms. Today, she’s sleeping in.

[averageagenderjoe]

Every night you dream that you talk to a genie, when you wake up you can't remember what you wished for. One morning you wake up with a giant crab pincer replacing your right arm. What do you do?

Finally.

My whole life, I’ve been plain. Ordinary. Unremarkable. The genie finally fell through—and sure, I could’ve asked for something just as boring and average as me—maybe more wishes, or money, or to have pink hair like the main character of an anime, but I know what this means for me.

This morning marks the first day of the rest of my life. As the freak of nature I am, I’m gonna overthrow the president, and I’m gonna do it with THIS.

Today, I have a crab pincer, holding my plane ticket to DC. Tomorrow, though, I’ll have an iron fist clutching the nation. I have woken up and chosen violence.

Dreams really do come true.

[stormylofi]

2.8k, mostly fluff with a small bit of violence somewhere. G/T rating.

This is from the HC that Valkyrie absolutely loves Disney songs. This is written so that each scene is about a different Lion king song, but it was this one that basically inspired it; (We are one- Lion King 2) https://youtu.be/glDGAo9SIqs

This is also a birthday fic! I hope you have a very happy birthday Silky, and I hope you enjoy!!! Also side note, I love all your headcanons and I agree that these two are flipping adorable. Sorry if they at all seem ooc to you.

____________

The first time Ela had ever come across the woman, she was singing a damn Disney song. Not that Lion King wasn’t amazing, but she honestly didn’t think her timing was the best.

They were meeting at a busy cafe under the guise of school friends for an intel hand off, but when when Ela wandered over, pretending to be excited, the woman just grinned goofily and continued humming some random song as she stood to pull her into a hug, slyly dropping something into her pocket.

“Amanda! It’s been far too long wow, I’m glad I found some time to see you while you’re in town.”

“I’ll actually be here for a bit! Jack’s got a job in one of the law firms downtown so maybe a few months?”

She made up something about loving to show her around if their schedules match up, before starting to gossip about something one of their supposed ex school mates had gotten up to.

The woman she knew to actually be the Seal ‘Valkyrie’ started humming the same tune again as she talked, and it finally clicked in her mind what it was.

Hakuna Matata, what a wonderful phrase.

She paused and squinted her eyes into an accusatory glare.

“Are you humming… Hakuna Matata?” She regretted asking the minute humming changed to singing. Loud, obnoxious singing. Immediately she sprung across the table to slap a hand across the woman’s mouth.

“What are you doing?” She all but hissed as laughter bubbles under her palm. They were meant to be inconspicuous and believable, she doubted bursting into Disney counted as that.

“Ok, ok.” She removed her hand, settling back into her seat as she glared off looks from other customers. “Sorry, I’ve had it stuck in my head all day.” A disarming smile was shot her way and she sighed, deciding to let it slide.

They met again a little while after operation Orange Sky and it soon occurred to Ela that it wasn’t a one off. No, it seemed to be a regular thing around the operative.

The next time it happened, they were on their first practice operation as Rainbow Six members in a killhouse.

They had both wandered from their objective room and had ended up in a small room with a hatch on the floor and two windows, one of which was half busted open. Ela had her gun aimed steadily through it and into the yard below them when it started.

“Be prepared for sensational news! A shining new era is tiptoeing nearer.”

She moved from view in seconds, spinning to glare at her teammate for giving away their location.

Valkyrie hadn’t moved from her careful angle on the doorway, hardly even moving as she continued to sing, doing the next line in a silly voice.

“But, where do we feature?”

Ela couldn’t help herself as she said the next line with a growl.

“Just listen to teacher.”

The smile she received was blinding and she rolled her eyes in response, turning back to the window to peek. At least she shut up.

“I know it sounds sordid, but you’ll be rewarded-”

She spoke too soon.

With a huff she gave up and left the room.

__

Despite the usually ridiculous timing of her Disney songs, Ela realised she found it amusing. It bugged her at first but Valkyrie more than proved herself plenty of times as a fully capable operator who never got stunted by her silly habit. If it wasn’t causing issues then Ela didn’t see it as a problem.

As a matter of fact, it was kind of endearing.

Today they were both laid across the couches in the Rec room, Ela quietly drawing while Meghan scrolled through some app on her phone.

It happened gradually. She didn’t notice at first, too focused on her drawing.

The tapping was quiet and repetitive and so she passed it off as a bit of boredom. After a little bit she recognised that it was a regular beat and not just random, around the time she also decided it was distracting her from her work. She glanced up, ready to tell the other woman to shut up, only to catch a gaze that was locked on her with a playful smirk.

Meghan was sat upright, tapping against the table and waiting for Ela to finally look up. When she did and met her gaze, humming started to match the beat.

It look her a second to recognise it, but when she did she wanted to literally facepalm. Huffing a short laugh, she gave the Seal her ‘are you serious?’ eyes, before giving in.

After all, she didn’t doubt the woman’s persistence. She probably wouldn’t stop until she did.

“I’m gonna be a mighty king, so enemies beware.”

“Well I’ve never seen a king of beasts with quite so little hair!” Valkyrie immediately jumped in for the birds part- Zazu if she remembered correctly.

“I’m gonna be the main event, like no king was before. I’m brushing up, I’m looking down, I’m working on my roar.” She couldn’t help but return the amused smile the blonde sent her, snorting when she exaggeratedly threw out an arm for her next part.

“Thus far, a rather uninspiring thing.”

She couldn’t help humouring her as she leapt to her feet and shouted “Oh I just can’t wait to be king!”

Meghan stood too, dancing her way over as they continued the impromptu duet, slowly getting louder and louder until they were basically belting the lyrics, arms waving around as they ‘acted out’ the song.

Toward the end, Sledge appeared in the doorway with an eyebrow raised and yelped in surprise when he was immediately drawn in, the two girls bouncing around him like idiots as he joined in for the final lines, arms wiggling above him like one of the inflatable tube men some stores use.

As they came down from laughter, Sledge decided it was time for a party and put music on, leading to all three dancing until they tired themselves out, much to the amusement of the crowd they gathered. Other people continued to dance while Ela dropped back to the couch she originally was in, sending a cheeky wink to Valkyrie as she fell to the floor and spread out, winking and wiggling her eyebrows back only after situating herself in an appropriate starfish position.

_____

A few months later they were in a boat on the way to an op, and Ela was nervous. This wasn’t the sort of operation she was used to. No, she’d never been comfortable on the water so securing an oil liner that had been overtaken and planted with a bomb wasn’t ideal for her.

Heck, the only reason she was chosen was because there were so many opfor and they felt that her mines would be ideal for disorienting, especially as they were on high waves.

Her sister unfortunately was on another mission so that left her. There were two teams, both lead by the Rainbow Six Seals. Alpha was tasked to clear and secure hostages while her team, Bravo, disarmed the explosives. Bravo included herself, Echo, Jäger, Rook, and-

“Deception, disgrace, evil as plain as the scar on his face.” Valkyrie sent her a wink before lifting her voice a little. “Deception-”

“An outrage.”

“Disgrace!”

“For shame.”

Everyone laughed at Echo joining in, clearly knowing the song well. Jäger looked a little confused but still amused by the antics, clearly not used to Valkyrie at all.

“He asked for trouble the moment he came!”

Their boat bounced over the water but Ela didn’t even think about it as the whole team morale lifted and they all carried on singing to random songs, tapping beats on the metal of their vessel.

They fell silent, serious modes engaging as their comms came to life to announce their approach. All the same, Valkyrie send a reassuring smile to the girl next to her, squeezing her leg before responding to her radio to say their team was ready for boarding.

The boat stopped and they climbed outside, shooting two grappling hooks upward before starting their ascent.

_____

The mission was successful overall, but due to a mild explosion from an undetected bomb, Valkyrie and Jäger had been injured, the latter more drastically. All the same, they were both returned to base unconscious and now resided in the medical bay.

It was really a shame that IQ wasn’t available for their mission. Really, Ela was angry at their superiors for their planning despite the fact that she knew they couldn’t simply send the German girl back for immediate redeployment.

Still, as she sat by Meghan’s bed, she couldn’t help her grumbling. The beeping of her heart monitor was as irritating as it was relieving. The injured woman had woken briefly earlier but fell back asleep shortly after from her pain medication, but all the same Ela was glad because, much the same as the beeping, it meant she was ok.

A ruckus out in the hall caught her attention as she heart the raised voice of Doc.

“Bandit, Dominic! Don’t you wake her!”

The GSG9 rushed through the doorway, Doc tailing him. He stopped in the doorway when he caught sight of her repositioning herself to the end of Valkyrie’s bed and crossing her arms, radiating hostility.

The Bandit completely ignored her, marching past her- or attempting to. Her hand shot out to grab his arm and push him back, causing him to stumble in surprise before turning his dark glare to her. She merely returned it with her own.

“Get out of the road, arschgesicht.” She didn’t need to understand German to know he was throwing insults so she bristled a little at the word.

“Leave.”

“Your friend here is the reason Jäger is in the room over! She has some fucking explaining to do.” Her fists were clenching and unclenching in hopes of keeping calm, for Doc’s sake, the man watching exasperatedly from the door.

“No one noticed the bomb. We’re all to blame and have all been chastised.” Her voice was cold but calm and her words measured.

Clearly that wasn’t the reply Bandit wanted.

“She should have seen it, Jäger could be dead and it’d be her fault! Maybe she’s not a fit team l-“

Ela’s fist met his jaw before he could block it.

He stabilised himself and came back in heavy retaliation, more than ready for the fight Ela would happily provide.

Doc rushed in and yelled for them to stop, trying to push himself in between them without success. When he realised they weren’t going to stop, he rushed out to get another ops assistance.

They traded a few blows before Bandit took them to the ground, punches landing across Ela’s ribs and face before she rolled out from under him and wrapped her elbow around his throat in a choke hold.

The bastard squirmed valiantly but he couldn’t escape and in moments he was out cold. She dropped him unceremoniously for the others to deal with when they returned, sparing him a kick to the stomach before she moved back to her chair.

Valkyrie was awake, merely watching the fight through hazy eyes. When she turned her gaze from Bandit to Ela she frowned at her bruises, getting a careless shrug.

“It’s the circle of life.”

Meghan blinked and confusion and she laughed.

_____

She never got an apology from Bandit but she never expected nor cared for one. She understood worrying for a friend and the desire to defend them, despite the fact that she was sure those two were more.

Doc told Valkyrie to abstain from exercise for a few weeks while her bruised rib healed, but still she lingered around the gym. It was easily noticeable just how much she wanted to be working out but she did as told without complaint.

Ela of course noticed her friend lingering and invited her over to talk whenever she could, trying to distract her and keep her entertained.

By the end of the second week she had an idea.

She waited outside the gym room, lock pick in her pocket and cheeky grin on her face. Sure enough, Valkyrie rounded the corner at her usual gym time, eyes on the ground as she listened to Blackbeard talk. She snorted and punched his arm in reply to something, causing him to laugh.

He met Ela’s eyes and she respectfully nodded, getting a wide and goofy smile in response. He mumbled something else, causing Valkyries head to snap up. Her cheeks were slightly flushed as they stopped in the doorway.

“Hey,”

“I’ll leave you girls be. I can feel my arms going floppy-” he nudged Meghan but ignored her scowl. “Nice to see you Elżbieta.” He ignored Ela’s scowl too as he strut off with a laugh.

“What a dick.”

“Yep.”

They both looked at each other before breaking into laughter. They both loved the man and couldn’t deny it, he was like the big brother neither of them ever had.

“So anyway, I’ve got an idea.” She wandered across to the staircase door just beside the gymnasium entrance.

“Are we going to get in trouble?” Ela shrugged as she knelt and started picking the lock.

“It’s possible, but I’d say it’ll be worth it. Especially because I saw Buck and Jackal enter earlier.”

“…Buck and Jackal? What have they got to do with anything?”

The lock clicked and Ela quickly opened the door, ushering her friend inside.

“You’ll see.”

The climbed up to the room that looked down over the full area, moving to crouch along the furthest wall to cross to the room out of sight. When Meghan spotted the sound system she frowned before a mischievous smile lit her face.

“Oh, we’re not, are we?” Ela merely grinned over her shoulder in reply. “What song do you have?”

“Just wait. You’ll love it, I promise.”

They stopped next to it, Valkyrie watching over Ela’s shoulder as she plugged her phone in and brought up her song of choice.

“Oh my god. Wait I’ve gotta bring up my camera.” She laughed as she grabbed out her own phone and moved to the windows corner, laying on the ground to hide as best she could still.

Throwing a thumbs up to the green haired girl, they both giggled as the songs swapped.

“I can see what’s happening, and they don’t have a clue. They’ll fall in love, and here’s the bottom line, our trio’s down to two!”

‘Can you feel the love’ filled the air and caused everyone to stop, looking around in confusion.

As predicted, Buck’s face lit with red as Jackal winked at him, sitting down his weights to start shimmying toward him exaggeratedly. Buck just buried his head.

They didn’t miss the look shared between Sledge and the new member, Maestro, which definitely intrigued them.

Some people decided to continue working out while others started singing the song and dancing in a silly manner. Blackbeard glanced up to them while laughing, causing Rook- who had been spotting him while he did bench presses- to also look up and spot them. He shook his head while the two continued to record, giggling as Jackal draped himself over his flustered boyfriend.

_____

Ela had noticed something the other day. Valkyrie loved Disney and often randomly sung songs from it but… never Lion King. That was only for when she was around. It had unintentionally become their thing.

The idea warmed her heart and cemented her choice.

She wandered through the halls, seeking out her friend as she hummed the song that had been stuck in her head all of the past week.

She already knew to go to the shooting range, had been told where to meet the woman.

The air was warm when she stepped out into it, eyes meeting Valkyrie’s that had turned to see who had joined her outside. Thankfully, no one was around. She was confident in their relationship but she couldn’t help the small amount of anxiety bubbling in her.

Nonetheless she strode forward, humming the Lion King 2 a little louder to distract herself, the upbeat tune drowning out the nerves.

Of course, Meghan shot her a strange look as soon as she was within hearing distance, most likely recognising the song.

Ela didn’t stop, marching until she was within arms reach where she reached out and pulled her friend in, clasping their lips together. It took a moment for Valkyrie to respond to the kiss, most likely shocked. Still, she gradually melted into Ela’s hands, soft lips returning the movement before they broke apart, resting their foreheads together.

Meghan mumbled the next line with a fond smile.

“Upendi, it means love, doesn’t it?”