#and the ends not helplessly dry from years of split ends

[skylordhorus]

i convinced my dad to cut my hair yesterday and gOD it feels so good for it to not be in the way!!

[the-whumpening]

My Own Worst Enemy, Part 5 [Son of Bat]

Prev | Masterpost | End (of this section)

CW: hospital setting, mood swings, reference to past abuse including forced hair-cutting

(continued directly from the end of part 4)

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In between the long periods of drowsiness and bleary pain management, he at least had the company of his friends to keep him lucid. Debby, of course, rarely left his side, but Eddie was never far behind, either. He didn't speak much, but that didn’t matter to James—silence was a comfortable part of their friendship. Debby and Molly caught him up on the outside world and reminded him of the bits of the day he kept forgetting; the concussion did a number on his short-term memory. And Vince, quiet and sullen as usual, kept watch from afar. He must be stewing on something again, James drowsily wondered as his attention drifted from Molly and Debby’s relaxed chatter.

“James, sweetheart,” Debby said, holding James’ massive hand in both of her tiny ones. “Do you remember what the doctor told you this afternoon?”

Pressing into his memories, all he got was fog and flickers. He shook his head just a hair and croaked, “No. Sorry.”

“That’s alright; I just wanted to remind you. It looks like your fractures are setting well, so they’ll want you to start trying to sit up more and walk around a little—rebuild your strength.” She met eyes with Molly, a silent exchange passing between the two of them.

“What?” James grunted. “What’s . . . going . . . on?”

Debby’s lips squished together in a tight, unsure line. “Well, honey . . . First of all, I don’t want you to overdo it, okay? Take things easy. Healing takes time, and we don’t want you rushing to get better and end up hurting yourself. Especially with the concussion; I don't want you falling and hitting your head a second time. Please, for me: be patient, and ask for help. Somebody will always be here to help you.”

Molly placed her hand over Debby’s on top of James’ fingers. “There’s . . . something else you need to know, too.” She pulled a compact out of her bag, clutching it to her chest almost protectively. "We're not sure of the specifics, but it seems like the paramedics had a hard time getting you out of the car. Your hair got caught in something, and . . . They had to cut a lot of it off." She opens the compact and angles it for James to see.

James could only stare helplessly at the image in the mirror. He couldn't even lift his arms to feel his hair for himself. It was bad. It was catastrophically bad; everything below the nape of his neck was gone—hacked unevenly in an obvious rush.

That was it: that was the breaking point.

The pain, he could tolerate. It sucked, but he had spent his entire life learning to endure pain, and a part of him felt he deserved it anyway. The embarrassment and the shame that waxed and waned with the hour—frustrating, absolutely, but he knew it would also pass. But this . . . this was more than he could bear.

Silently—without sobs, without words—streams of tears poured down his cheeks.

(Fuck's sake, why can't I keep it together?!)

He'd fought his entire life to keep his long hair. He'd been kicked out of schools over it. Some of his first and last fights with his parents had been over it. He still had scars from fighting against having his head shaved, a quite normal punishment in their household. When he'd shown up to Debby’s house with Eddie, his hair was as rough around the edges as him. Dry, tangled, in desperate need of a trim—but then Debby found herself “accidentally” buying extra hair products and leaving her magazines open to helpful articles. It took nearly a year for him to feel safe enough to let her trim the split ends. Every haircut then and since was still stressful, but Debby did her best to make it as positive as she could. Molly, too, had proven herself to be a safe person—although their relationship wasn’t exactly romantic, he regarded her much like a spouse, and certainly like a best friend. Aside from Debby, she was the only other person he allowed to cut his hair.

Debby interrupted his thoughts. "I'm so sorry, hon. We thought you should hear it from us rather than be surprised, you know? I promise—as soon as you're doing a little better, me and Molly will take care of it."

He trusted those two, implicitly. He knew they would do everything they could to help him when they were able. But in the moment, some great gash of his dignity had been stolen from him. Yes, it likely saved his life, but that couldn't totally erase the hurt. His eyes grew puffy and stung, and Molly dabbed at his face tenderly with tissues. Anger vibrated deep in his core, but it simply had no place to go: he could barely move, barely speak, barely even breathe without pain.

What do I even do with this? He thought back to those powerless, hopeless days when he was a kid—what did he do with all that anger back then? What did he do when he couldn’t break something or scream into the wind?

Duh. Of course.

“Eddie,” he mumbled, “headphones?”

Eddie grinned; it was nice to finally feel useful. He shooed everyone else out of the room—“James loves you all, but you’re smothering him!”—and dug out a pair of earbuds from his bag. Scooting a chair as close to James as he could, he stuck one earbud in James’ ear, placing the other in his own, and plugged the cord into his phone. He scrolled through his music for the perfect playlist, finally settling on an old favorite that always helped James manage his anger:

“FUCK THE SUN!!!”

As the angsty, ear-splitting melodies poured over them, James could feel the warbling frequency in his gut spread and shift. It wasn't leaving him, not exactly—rather, it was meeting Eddie’s own anxious wavelength, both being calmed by one another's presence and sharing in each other's pain. In sync, as they've always been.

So they basked in the memory of that angry summer spent together in high school: the one where they wanted to fuck authority, fuck school, fuck society, fuck everything, even fuck the sun itself. And just like that summer, James' heart began to heal little by little.

-

James realized, when his anger calmed once again and his little family returned, that it all felt so strange: all these people, going out of their way to be with him. Worried about him, losing sleep over him, driving through the night to get to him. Although he was still bleary and confused from the pain and medications, it occurred to him that this feeling was so foreign to him. He’d grown a lot in the years he’d spent with his friends, but somehow it still hadn’t quite sunk in how much he was truly loved.

[angry-geese]

Gojo Satoru x Reader

Warnings: nsfw. Fingering, oral (fem recieving), breeding mention, mating press, unprotected sex, creampie, sex pollen, minor praise kink. Minor mention of violence and injury, but nothing too graphic. Slightly dub con due to the sex pollen stuff. both parties are into it but im tagging it anyway just in case. Afab reader.

Notes: gojo and the reader are fighting a curse when they're hit with sex pollen, smut ensues

If it wasn't embarrassing enough being partnered with Gojo on a mission you could damn well do yourself, needing his help certainly was.

Everything that could go wrong, did.

Having recently taken up residence in an abandoned building, it was proving to be a pain in the ass for lower level sorcerers. The curse itself wasn't lethal. Everyone who had come in contact with it had survived. Those who did reported feeling ill, but symptoms varied from person to person.

He volunteered at the last second. Nobody tried to stop him. Very few things pissed you off more than needing Gojo's help. Anyone's help for that matter, but Gojo's specifically.

Early on in the fight you were incapacitated. It was a split-second mistake. Gojo distracted you. The enemy struck you square in the chest, knocking the wind out of you. Nothing fatal. Your pride took the most damage. Before he could manage to exorcise it, the curse hit you with something. A cloud- that's really the only way to describe it. The smell was sickly sweet. It was the kind of scent that's so strong you can taste it.

For the first few seconds it felt like hay fever: your eyes watered, your nose ran. It's not anything worse than a common cold. The taste lingers long after the smell has gone away.

"What the hell was that?!" You ask, although you already have an answer.

"If I had to guess-" he stifles a laugh, "that was sex pollen. It tasted sweet to you, didn't it? Yeah, that's the stuff."

"You've fought one of these before?" You ask.

"A few years back one manifested in an apartment complex in Tokyo." He says. "It was exorcised before it seriously injured anyone, but it made a lot of people 'sick'.”

“So you know how to fix this?”

He shrugs. “It’s not going to be pleasant, but try to wait it out.”

You can only sit back on the pavement.

When the effects hit you, they hit like a train.

All of a sudden your throat feels dry. Your clothes feel just a bit too tight. You helplessly claw at your neck as if you want to crawl out of your own skin.

The most horrifying of it all is the heat that builds in the pit of your stomach. It's slow to form, but unrelenting.

Now you realize why all those sorcerers fell ill.

Gojo was hit too, but not for as long. He looks fine. Maybe he'll get the easy end of this. You hate to think he feels the same way.

"Laugh and I'll kill you." You say.

It's not a joke. You might actually murder him for dragging you into this mess.

Gojo takes a seat next to you. Although he looks uninjured, a sheen of sweat forms on his skin. His breathing is shallow and shaky. His pulse races.

He feels it too.

He's never been this hard in his life. Lucky for him, his uniform hides it.

"I can carry you back to the car," he says, "but I don't think we can sweat this one out."

Well, at least you were both thinking it.

"Not to be dramatic but I feel like I'll die if you don't touch me." You say.

He only nods.

The car would be a lot more comfortable.

Gojo's on top of you in an instant, caging you in his arms. The smell of his cologne—the smell of him—makes you feel drunk. His touches are feather-light and intoxicating. It's as if your skin burns. His hands quickly work the button of your pants open, shoving them down your hips. You coax his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. Your own shirt goes the same way, forming a heap of discarded clothes.

If the circumstances were any different, he'd want more foreplay. Gojo always liked working his partners up to the point of no return. This would have to do. You're already soaked. The thin fabric of your panties sticks to you with your slick, a damp spot forming. Two of his fingers press against your entrance. They're long and thick, sliding into you with no resistance. The feeling of your cunt clamping around him makes his cock twitch.

You palm at the growing bulge in his pants. "Let me-"

"Not yet." He says. Gojo would love nothing more than to fuck you there in the stairwell. "Let me take care of you."

You're almost ashamed at the way his words make your cunt throb. Almost.

He works you open with his fingers. Even the slightest touches have you gasping and moaning under him, arching your back off the ground. Whatever that stuff is, it's made you a whole lot more sensitive.

His fingers pump inside of you, while his thumb gently circles your clit. The sight of your form writhing under him only makes him harder. His pace is unrelenting as he fucks you with his hand, stroking at your g-spot. Gojo's free hand palms at your breast, pulling down the cups of your bra. Your nipples harden instantly in the cold air. He takes one into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive but, gently nipping at it. The feeling is strange, but not unpleasant. There's an audible pop! as he releases your skin.

He leans down for a kiss. The action of it is so soft it almost catches you off guard. He tastes sweet. His free hand cups your cheek, running his thumb across your skin. He nibbles at your bottom lip; the wet, strong muscle of his tongue exploring your mouth. His lips are soft. That's what surprised you most, not that you've given this much though. You grind down onto his hand, ready to chase your own release.

Maybe that curse has made him a lot more bold. He's wanted this since the moment he laid eyes on you.

When he pulls away, a line of saliva connects your lips. The look in his eyes isn't what you expected at all. Gojo looks at you with such adoration that it makes affection swell in your chest.

You only get to enjoy the intimacy for a moment. The second you orgasm, you're ready for another round.

"Shit- that didn't help, huh?" He asks.

You frantically shake your head.

He presses a kiss to your forehead. Hair sticks to your skin with sweat. It rolls down your collarbone in small beads, pooling in the valley between your breasts. He's mesmerized by the way your breasts jolt with each shaky breath you take. He takes one of your nipples between two fingers and pinches harshly, eliciting a squeal from you.

You lift your hips enough for him to slide your pants—along with your panties—completely off. The cold air makes you shiver. Gojo licks a stripe from your bellybutton to your mound, his tongue just barely grazing your clit as he pulls away. Your skin feels feverish. Heat radiates off of it like a furnace. His arms hook around your legs, pulling you flush to him. He takes a moment to admire the mess of slick between your thighs, and the way your cunt glistens in the light.

He presses kitten licks to your clit, working his tongue over the bundle of nerves in soft, teasing motions. It only makes you more desperate. If you could form words, you'd be crying out for him to fuck you. Your thighs clamp around his head, pulling him in closer, your hands grabbing fist-fulls of his hair. Eventually he gets the message. His fingers continue pumping in you, stroking at your g-spot. The only sound aside from your own moans are the noises of a man who's very content with what he's doing.

When you cum, you cum hard, clamping your thighs around his head as a moan rips through your body. Your second orgasm provides no relief, only making you needier. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. He likes the way you cry out his name when you're too overwhelmed to say anything else. When he finally looks up, the lower half of his face glistens with your slick.

"Just fuck me, dammit!" You plead.

He frees himself from his trousers. His cock is about average; not too long, not too thick. But it's pretty, like a pornstar's cock. Curved slightly, clean shaven, with a very prominent vein running up the bottom. You're a bit disappointed; you wanted to know if the carpet matches the drapes. It's painfully hard, with precum leaking from the head. Gojo gives himself a few pumps before lining up, slowly pressing into you.

The warm, velvety feeling of your cunt only draws him in further. As he bottoms out, he pauses. He's not too worried about hurting you—you're already so wet—more that he's afraid he'll cum the second he starts moving. Out of his previous partners, he doesn't think any of them have felt this good around him.

"Please-" a strand of incomprehensible begs and pleads leaves you.

He presses a kiss to your temple. "You're doing so good."

He rolls his hips against yours at a lazy pace, his fingers digging into your thighs. Gojo takes note of the way your back arches off the ground when he hits a particularly sweet spot. His hands plant on the back of your knees, shoving your legs towards your chest, angling your hips up in a way that makes tears prick at your eyes from the pleasure. He can't pry his eyes away from how your breasts bounce with each thrust. He nearly has you in a mating press, fucking into you deeper than he ever has.

"Faster-" You plead.

You don't have to ask him twice.

He leans forward to coo praise into your ear, gently nipping at your earlobe. Goosebumps raise along your exposed flesh. The sound of skin slapping on skin echoes through the stairwell. Sometime during this his teeth find the soft muscle of your neck, leaving a crescent shape mark that'll certainly bruise in the morning.

"You're so good for me-" he groans at the warm feeling of your cunt, "fuck! You feel so good."

You can only whimper in response.

Tension pools in your stomach like a coil being wound tight. He can only sit back and admire the way your neck flushes as your cheeks do. You seem to like praise, he notes. Your skin is sticky with sweat—some saliva too—and has the same sickly sweet scent of the pollen. His lips find your neck, his teeth just barely grazing the sensitive skin. You'll have a collar of hickeys tomorrow; if you make it that long.

The first time he cums, he doesn't even realize he has. He shudders. It felt good—a bit too good—but nothing out of the ordinary. It makes him do a double take. His cock doesn't even go soft. Drips of cum run down your thighs, pooling on the ground beneath you. He's never been one to cum too soon; Gojo prides himself on making his partners orgasm before he does.

His thumb traces circles around your clit, moving in erratic, uneven motions. Gojo leans back down for another kiss. You can taste yourself on him, though it's not entirely unpleasant. Your arms wrap around his neck, holding him to your chest. The two of you can only fuck and cum until you're too exhausted to continue. You've never felt so full. The thought of using protection crossed your mind once—and only for a moment—the pollen leaving you too desperate to care.

The coil only winds tighter and tighter, past the point of snapping. Your entire body shudders, your legs clamping around Gojo's waist one final time as you cum hard. The coil has unraveled completely, the pieces picked up and put back together the wrong way. You're left sore and shaky, but sated, and far too exhausted to move.

It's another moment before either of you move.

He pulls out slowly so as to not spill any of his cum, but there's so much of it that it's hard to manage. Gojo commits the look of your fucked-out form to memory. It makes him wonder what you'd look like in his own bed.

Maybe he wouldn't have to wonder.

He zips himself back up, sitting back, pulling you into his lap. You lean into his chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart. His hand smooths over your hair, brushing any stray strands out of your face. It's oddly intimate.

He could fall asleep there if you’d let him.

It’s hardly a minute later when you crawl off his lap, gathering your discarded clothes.

“Ready for round two?” He asks.

You scowl at first, but can't pretend to be mad at him for long.

“Fine, but I want to try it on a proper bed this time.”

[nocturnalazura]

A Sudden Need

Todoroki x Fem Reader 18+ Minor Do Not Interact. (Unedited)

wc: 1.8k

Warnings: Fingering, cream pie, Breeding kink

Anon requested : Can I request a fic or something of Todoroki where he has a breeding kink, or Shower sex/Car sex with reader?

It’s been a long stressful day and right now nothing seems better than standing in a hot shower. Stepping into the steaming shower you let out a small groan as hot water pours over your sore body. Steam fills the room as you reach for your favorite shampoo to finally wash the day off of you. Massaging at your scalp softly you hum happily at the feeling and scent surrounding you. Turning to face the warm stream you work on rinsing out the suds. While you work on carefully rinsing your hair you’re unaware of the shower door slowly sliding open and someone stepping in behind you. Fear shoots through your body as soft large hands rest on your hips. Your muscles automatically tense at the feeling of a body slowly pressing against you.

“Relax love, it's just me.” Comes Shoto’s low calm voice. “Is it ok if I join you?”

“Shoto.” You sigh in relief relaxing back into his hold. “Seems like you’ve already joined me so might as well stay.”

You hear him let out a small huff of laughter as he lets his arms slide around your waist pulling you fully into his chest. Shifting the two of you forward he allows water to pour over the both of you. It’s times like this that make you thankful for his incessant need for an overly fancy rain shower head. The large shower head easily drenched the two of you in a peaceful shower.

The pressure and feel of Shoto against you releases all the tension in your body. You lay back against his chest allowing him to hold up the majority of your weight. Unwrapping himself from you to reach over and grasp your favorite body wash Squeezing out a small dollop he lathers it between his hands before working over your body. Large soapy hands glide delicately over you, officially washing your stressful day away. Strong fingers gently dig into your muscles as he moves across your body, sinking into your hips and arms as he goes.

You sigh happily as he palms your breasts, the pads of his fingers trace little circles around your quickly hardening nipples. Your head falls back against his shoulder, allowing the water to pour across your face as Shoto languidly tuggs and twists at your nipples. Pressing back into him you feel him rest against your lower back, hot and hard.

“Y/n? Can I have you?” Murmurs Shoto.

“Mm of course Shoto. I’m all yours.” You sigh, wrapping an arm around his neck to tangle a hand in his hair. One of his hands immediately drops between your legs cupping your cunt and pressing his middle finger between your folds.

“Good girl, already ready for me.”

“You expect me to not be ready when you’ve been feeling me up and I can feel this press up against me.” You giggle softly, reaching your free hand behind you to grasp him.

“Shit, don’t love. Let me take care of you.”

Nodding you let go of him and let your arm join the other one around his neck. Once you’ve settled, Shoto sinks two fingers into your slick entrance. The hand on your chest holds you tight against him as you lurch forward at the sudden stretch. You tug at his hair with one hand while the other hand's nails bite into the skin of his neck as you attempt to adjust to the sudden stretch of thick fingers. Grabbing your face Shoto forces you to turn your head allowing him to press his lips to yours effectively silencing the helpless whines you let out. The heel of his palm grinds into your clit as he carefully thrusts and scissors his finger inside of you.

“I’ve been carving the shape of my cock into you for years but you’re still so tight, love. You have to relax for me.” Whispers Shoto. You let out a pathetic moan as he works his hand against you faster, clearly eager for you to give him the go ahead. You can feel the eager twitch of his cock from where it’s pressed against your lower back.

“Shoto ‘m ready, please” you mewl into his neck.

“Good girl, turn around for me.” He whispers as he pulls his hands away from you.

Shoto carefully guides you to turn around before reaching up to change the angle of the shower head to face closer to the shower wall. Hands grip your waist turning the two of you quickly, you let out a shocked squeal when he pushes you backwards into the cold tile. Shoto quickly leans down, sealing his lips against yours as he grips your thighs, easily lifting you. Your legs wrap around his waist as your hands quickly grab his shoulders to steady yourself. His hips easily slot between yours allowing his hardened cock to slide effortlessly between your slick folds. The tip nudges at your sensitive clit as he ruts against you.

“You’re mine right love?” Grunts Shoto as he shifts to press himself into you. He leans against you pressing you firmly against the cool tile of the shower wall as your grip on his shoulders tightens as he sheathes himself within you, forcing all the air from your lungs as he bottoms out in one go. “I can take and give you whatever I want right?”

“YO-ours! Oh god yes ‘m yours Shoto. Whatever you want.”

You struggle to regain your breath as Shoto immediately builds a quick pace giving you no time to adjust. Forcing your eyes to focus you finally take a good look at him, his pupils blown impossibly wide, his mouth falls open as he pants heavily before pushing his head into the crook of your neck to mouth at the wet skin. His teeth sink into the soft skin of your neck while his fingers dig into your thighs, sure to leave bruises. The warm water falls over the two of you helping to create a loud wet slap of skin that easily covers up Shoto murmuring soft words into your neck.

“Sho, c-can’t hear you.” You struggle to get out. Adjusting his stance and grip on you he shoves you up the wall a little pulling his head away from your neck.

“Gotta fill you up.” He pants out, eyes hooded and hazy as he rests his forehead against yours. “Want to, to fucking see you full.”

You manage to let out a half conscious hum as the heat from the shower fills the room forcing you into a minor fog.

“Wanna see you full, round ‘n cute.”

He gives no chance to reply before he starts pistoning his hips into yours again. The new angle has the blunt tip of his cock pressing into that little spot inside of you with every thrust. His lips slam into yours, pressing the tip of his tongue into your slightly open mouth coaxing it open further. Letting his tongue press into yours you allow him to pant and groan against you. It’s different, he’s louder than usual today like he needs this, like he’s been craving this moment.

“Please love, wanna make you really mine.” His voice comes out strangled and forced as he continues to split you open with his cock. “Want you to make me a daddy.”

Shifting his hips again he snaps his hips into your faster. You whine loudly every time his tip hits against your cervix eyes going unfocused as pleasure courses through your body. Frantic thrusts mix with a slow grind allowing your clit to catch and press against him edging you closer and closer to your end.

“Wanna watch you swell so beautiful and round with my baby, everyone will know that you’re mine. Need everyone to know that you’re mine, that I’m the one that put it there.” He mutters again, giving you an almost pleading look as his hip barrel into yours. “Please love, can I?”

You’re briefly stunned by his all to honest confession. Looking up at him you take in his disheveled form, the water pouring over him plasters his hair to his face covering a portion of his eyes. Wrapping one around his shoulders a little tighter you let the other hand carefully push his hair out of his face. Admiring the soft blush the dusts itself across his checks, you can’t help the little smile that crosses your face as he lets his head lean ever so slightly into your palm.

“Please love, need to fill you.”Shoto almost whimpers.

All you can do is nod as his hips grind against yours again, stealing your breath away once more. Shoto’s eyes widen at your agreement, he lets out a low grunt before leaning into you and kissing you as he works to get you both to your ends. You moan helplessly into his mouth as he grabs onto you harder, doing his best to force his cock as far into you as possible. Your head tilts back smacking into the hard tile wall as you moan long and loud.

“C’mon, I can feel it love fuck please cum for me.”

“Shoto, oh god!” You scream out as you finally crash over the edge, walls flutter around him. The quiet whine in Shoto’s voice easily helps to pull you over.

“That’s it, good girl, ‘m gonna fill you up so nice love. Gonna make sure you’re nice and full, carrying my baby.” Grunts Shoto, burying his face in your neck again. “So good, can’t wait to watch you waddle around.”

His hips begin to lose their rhythm as he nears his end. You feel his muscles tense and begin to shake as his hips slam into yours with a final hard thrust. Shoto lets out a ragged moan as he grinds up into you letting a heavy flood of cum fill you. His hips push up into you giving shallow thrusts as does his best to fuck more of his cum into your welcoming cunt. When he finally stops moving he shifts away from the wall slightly, turning with you still in his arms he lets himself slide down the wall with you now seated in his lap. He rests his head against the tile still panting slightly as you lay against him. Neither one of you makes a movement to leave the warm stream of water that beats down on you.

“Shoto, the water’s starting to get cold.” You whisper while sitting up to look at him. Peeking an eye open at you he nods before easing you off his lap and reaching up to turn the water off. “Come on, we gotta get out.”

He stands up, stepping out of the shower to wrap a towel around his waist before grabbing a second one and helping you up to wrap it around you.

“Are you alright?” He asks timidly.

“I’m fine. Just hungry and wet. Can we dry off and order dinner?”

“Of course love anything for you.” He smiles down at you ushering you out of the fogged up bathroom.

[knuffled]

Just Practice - Chapter 18

it’s finally over. here’s the last chapter. important notes at the end for those that are interested. thank you all so much for your support. it’s been a wild ride, and i’m glad i got to see it through to the end. 

ao3 link

It was perhaps the first time that Annabeth had ever felt nervous standing in front of the Jackson residence. She shifted uneasily on her heels and wiped her palms on her jeans before knocking on the front door. Usually, she felt more at home here than anywhere else in the world, but she felt entitled to a little anxiety given the circumstances. Not long after, Sally opened the front door and showed her inside with a smile.

“Hi, honey. It’s been a while, huh?” Sally said.

Annabeth nodded and offered her a small smile. “Yeah. It has. Things have been pretty hectic lately.”

“Percy told me you were in the hospital for a while. Are you alright?” Sally said, closing the door behind her.

“Yeah, I just injured my leg at a meet,” Annabeth said.

“Oh no, what happened?” Sally asked, furrowing her brow.

“I, um, tore my ACL,” Annabeth mumbled. “It’s still recovering, but I can walk on my own now. It’ll be a while before I can start running again, though.”

“I am so sorry to hear that. I would have visited, but I’ve been out all month doing more of those goddamned book tours,” Sally huffed.

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Annabeth said. “I appreciate the thought though.”

There was a pause and Annabeth looked around the living room without meaning to. Sally gave her a smile and said, “If you’re looking for Percy, he’s upstairs in his room.”

Annabeth flushed and nodded. “Thanks. I’m gonna head on up then.”

“I’ll be taking Estelle out shopping, and Paul won’t be home until later today,” Sally informed her.

Annabeth blinked, somewhat confused. “Oh, alright. I’ll see you later then.”

“You should have plenty of time to yourselves,” Sally said, giving her a knowing look. “I’m guessing that you’ll need it judging by the sorry state that my son has been in the past few weeks.”

Annabeth’s face turned even redder and she nodded and made her way up to Percy’s room. She paused in front of his bedroom door and screwed her eyes and took a deep breath. Annabeth heard him in the shower, which diffused her nervousness before she stepped inside his room.

Percy’s bedroom hadn’t changed much, if at all, over the years. The room was sparsely decorated - almost nothing adorned the cream colored walls. There was still a full sized bed nestled against one corner of the room, draped with a fluffy blanket he hadn’t bothered to fold. Blue curtains framed a window overlooking the willow tree in his backyard, the one they used to climb when they were kids. On the other end of the room was an office chair, piled high with messy clothes, sitting in front of a well worn cherrywood desk. The desk was littered with stray homework papers, half-empty energy drinks, and a bobble head of some athlete Annabeth didn’t recognize.

Annabeth wandered over and looked at the four photos he had taped to the wall above the desk. One of them was with his mother at the beach in Montauk from back when he was a freshman. Another was one of the entire family at an amusement park. There was one with him and all of their friends sitting in front of a bonfire at Piper’s birthday party that past summer. And the final one was one of him with her, his hand thrown carelessly around her shoulder as she leaned into the crook of his neck, a contented smile on her face. The soft look on his face, like she had just hung the moon for him, brought a lump to her throat.

“Annabeth?”

Annabeth jumped back and turned to see Percy standing in the doorway, towel drying his hair. He was wearing an old swim team shirt from middle school and his penguin pajamas. The familiar scent of his body wash clung to his skin, unmasked by the cologne he usually wore. There was a careful expression on his face, like she had caught him unawares.

“H-Hey,” Annabeth said breathlessly.

“I, uh, wasn’t expecting you for another hour,” Percy said cautiously.

“Sorry,” Annabeth said, rocking on her heels. “Should I leave?”

“No, it’s fine,” Percy said quickly. “Why don’t you sit down?”

Annabeth nodded and sat on his bed. Percy rushed over to gather the clothes that had piled on top of the chair and hurriedly stuffed them in his closet. He hung the towel from his open window sill to dry and sat across from her in the office chair.

There was an uncharacteristically nervous look on his face, but it actually comforted Annabeth. She would have felt awkward if she was the only one feeling apprehensive.

“I, um, didn’t see you at school this week,” Annabeth said.

Percy rubbed the back of his neck. “Needed some time off. I haven’t been feeling very good.”

Guilt bubbled in the pit of Annabeth’s stomach. She knew that was her fault, but that he was too nice to tell her that.

She cleared her throat and said, “Sorry to hear that. Are you doing better now?”

Percy breathed a laugh and shrugged. “More or less.”

There was an awkward pause before Percy gestured to her leg. “How’s your knee?”

Annabeth glanced down at it and quickly looked back at him. “Oh, um, it’s fine. I had surgery done a few weeks back and it went well. I’ve started doing physical therapy now, but it’ll still be a while before I can start running again.”

“But you should make a full recovery, right?” Percy asked tentatively.

Annabeth nodded and stared down at her lap, playing with her fingers. “Yeah, the doctors said there shouldn’t be any issues since it was only a partial tear, but we won’t know for sure until I finish therapy.”

“That sounds like good news,” Percy said carefully.

Annabeth mustered a smile and said, “Yeah. About as good as I could hope for anyways.”

There was another brief pause and then Annabeth said, “I, um, also talked to the coach at Berkeley and told him about my injury.”

Percy’s leg bounced up and down. “And what did he say?”

“Well, he wasn’t happy about it,” Annabeth began. “But they’re not rescinding my scholarship.”

Percy made to move out of his seat and give her a hug, a grin splitting across his face, before he thought better of it and sat back down. A crushing sensation formed in the hollow of her chest as his grin waned into a sheepish smile.

“That’s wonderful, Annabeth,” Percy said softly. “I’m sure that’s a huge relief-”

“I’m sorry for how I acted at the hospital,” Annabeth blurted.

The smile slid off Percy’s face, but Annabeth powered through anyways. “You were only trying to help, and I lashed out at you for no good reason. That was awful of me, and I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for that.”

Percy nodded in a clipped manner and said, “Apology accepted.”

Annabeth was surprised that Percy hadn’t tried to downplay the whole thing by saying it wasn’t a big deal. A lump formed in her throat - her words must have cut deeper than she realized.

“It really hurt, hearing all that, but you had every right to say it,” Percy continued.

Annabeth shook her head and said, “No, I- I was just being cruel.”

He offered her a strained smile and shrugged helplessly. “You were still right though. About all of it. There’s no excuse for me not telling you about Kara, for hiding so much from you.”

Annabeth pursed her lips and resisted the urge to argue with him.

Percy hunched forward in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair violently. “I’ve been thinking about it non-stop, trying to figure out why I did that, but I still don’t really get it. I want to tell you, so badly, but there’s a part of me that just can’t. It’s really fucking frustrating and confusing.”

He paused and exhaled forcefully. “Honestly, the only thing it’s made me realize is how fucked up I am.”

The pain and bitterness in his voice tore up Annabeth inside. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” Percy said, shaking his head insistently. “I wish I could just show you somehow. Make you understand-”

“Percy, good person,” she stressed. “Maybe you can’t see it, but I can-”

“Well, you don’t actually know me,” Percy snapped.

Annabeth must have looked as devastated as she felt because Percy’s eyes immediately swelled with guilt and repentance.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” he said quietly.

“No, you’re right,” Annabeth admitted shakily. “I don’t really know you. I thought I did, but I was wrong.”

“That’s not your fault,” Percy insisted. “I’m just- it’s fucking impossible for me to ever let anyone actually see me.”

Then who have I been seeing this entire time?

The thought hung heavily in her mind but she forced herself to ignore it. Still, she found it hard not to let despair swallow her whole. She couldn’t help thinking about how Reyna had said that at a certain point, you had to accept that there was really nothing that you could do. She was clearly out of her depth here. Honestly, she stood a snowball’s chance in hell of actually saying something helpful.

She sat there in silence and watched the conflicted look on Percy’s face. His lips were pressed in a thin line and his eyes shone with focused intensity, like he was at a swim meet. If this was only going to cause him so much pain, she never should have told him she wanted to talk. At the same time, she couldn’t help feeling like she needed to do something for him. Whatever he was holding inside was clearly eating at him. She couldn’t just leave it alone and act like it wasn’t her problem. Percy never would have done so if their roles were reversed.

Percy surprised her by punching his leg in frustration and releasing a shuddering exhale before he looked at her and spoke.

“No- No matter what, I can’t help thinking this all points back to Gabe.”

Annabeth furrowed her brow. “Your step-father?”

Percy nodded and said, “I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately. It’s weird, but he’s wrapped up in all this. I just know it.”

Annabeth dug her fingernails into her palms. Percy never talked about Gabe, but Annabeth had more than an inkling of what he did - how some days Percy came to school with a sullen look, wincing when he sat down, and gingerly probed parts of his body when he thought nobody was watching; days when he hardly smiled or even said a word to her and she would wordlessly slide him her homework at lunch to copy.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Annabeth said.

Despite what Piper said about needing to press Percy, Annabeth knew there were some wounds that were better left untouched.

Percy balled his hands into fists and shook his head. “No, I have to. Otherwise, I’ll lose you for good.”

Annabeth’s heart squeezed in her chest, so she took his hands in hers and said, “Look Percy, I don’t want to pressure you into doing something you’re uncomfortable with. It’s fine if there are things you can’t talk about. You have nothing to prove to me. No matter what, you’re still my best friend, and you’re never going to lose me. Okay?”

“Really?” Percy asked quietly.

The way his voice sounded, raw and bleeding, made self-loathing fester in the pit of her stomach.

“Yes, really,” Annabeth said tersely. “I’m so sorry that I forced you into a corner like this. I was wrong about what I said at the hospital. I did something terrible to you.”

“Don’t say that, Annabeth,” Percy said tightly. “It’s not your fault. At all. You’ve been nothing but endlessly patient with me. I- I’m just not strong enough.”

Annabeth shook her head. “You’re the strongest person I know, but you don’t have to do this all on your own. There’s probably not a whole lot that I can do to help, but at least I can help share your burden and listen.”

Percy was quiet for a minute before he looked at her with a hard gaze. “Are you sure about this? It’s not a very fun story to listen to.”

“Yes,” Annabeth said immediately.

“If it ever gets to be too much, let me know,” Percy said sternly.

Annabeth took his hand in hers and squeezed it. “Don’t worry about me. I’m here for you.”

Percy exhaled forcefully and nodded before staring down at his lap. A minute or two passed before he was ready to speak again, and Annabeth could see conflict and pain swirl in his eyes like whirlpools of emotion.

“He was nice at the start, you know?” Percy said quietly. “He wasn’t all that bad the first few months after they got married. Sometimes he’d get me some candy on his way home from work. Teach me how to throw a baseball. Normal stuff like that. But then, at some point, things changed. Still can’t figure out why. Like, was he just hiding how awful he was the entire time or did something change in him? Guess it doesn’t matter now.”

He paused for a moment and said, “The first time I remember him hitting her, I was eight years old. He was really tearing into me about getting in trouble at school, telling me how much of a fuck up I was, how I was a stupid kid who couldn’t do anything right, and mom defended me.”

“At some point, he got so pissed he chucked a plate at my head and barely missed. It shattered on the wall and gave me this,” Percy said, tugging down his shirt sleeve to reveal the crescent shaped scar on his shoulder.

Annabeth traced the scar with trembling fingers and tried to stomach the nausea and rage she felt brewing inside her.

“Mom went ballistic after that, but that just pissed him off,” Percy said slowly. “Gabe hit her so hard her head hit the wall and started bleeding. You can still see the dent downstairs in the living room. Then, he grabbed me by the hair and forced me to look at her, crumpled on the floor. I can still remember the stink of cheap cigarettes on his breath and him whispering in my ear, ‘This is all your fault, kid.’”

“Christ,” Annabeth whispered.

“Yeah, I know right,” Percy said, smiling wryly. “And that’s just one story - I have hundreds of them. Like, remember how I forgot my field trip form to the zoo in 5th grade?”

When Annabeth nodded, Percy said, “Well, they had to send me home because there weren’t any teachers at school that day. Mom was at work, so Gabe had to pick me up. He was super pissed that I made him miss his poker game, so he was bitching at me the entire ride home. At some point, I snapped and told him to fuck off. Next thing I know, he punches me in the stomach so hard that I puked all over the floor of his Camaro. Of course, that only made him even angrier, so he beat the shit out of me and made me clean up the mess.”

Annabeth tried to keep her voice steady. “Tell me you told somebody.”

Percy smiled humorlessly and said, “And who would I tell? My mom? The woman working three jobs, married to an abusive piece of shit that hits her, with a kid who only ever seems to fuck up at school and embarrass her? No, she had enough on her plate as it was. I couldn’t add more.”

“Then the teachers-”

“Annabeth, you remember how it was for me in school. The teachers hated me,” Percy said bitterly. “To them, I was just a trouble-maker. How could I turn to them? And besides, even if I did, what good would it do? Gabe would just deny it and take it out on me or mom later.”

Percy leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Eventually, I just got used to it. He was smart about it too. Always made sure my mom wasn’t around and that the wounds wouldn’t show anywhere someone might see. And over time, it just become something normal, and I got used to never telling someone about it.”

He paused for a moment and clutched at the fabric of his shirt, over his stomach. “Even telling you right now is like physically painful for me. Like my stomach is in knots and every cell in my body is telling me to run. A part of me keeps whispering, no matter how much I try and ignore it, that I’m not allowed to ask for help, that I- that I deserve this because it’s my fault.”

Annabeth took a sharp inhale and bit her quivering lower lip to keep from crying. She had always known Percy had had a troubled life, but she had never expected that it would be this horrific. He was the best person that she knew and he deserved so much more than this. It was profoundly unfair and tragic and wrong and she didn’t know how to fix it or if it was even possible to fix it.

“None of that was your fault, Percy,” Annabeth said tersely. “He was a sick, twisted piece of shit, and you shouldn’t believe a single word that came out of his mouth.”

“I’ve been telling myself that for the past five years, Annabeth, but there’s some part of me that doesn’t believe it,” Percy said softly. “That fucked up shit he did and said to me is still there, rattling around in my head, and I can’t make it stop.”

He balled his hands into fists. “He sort of beat into me that I was responsible for everything. It was always my fault because I was a bad kid or a fuck up. And he was kind of right too. Mom was having such a hard time back then and I never made things easier for her either, always getting into trouble at school. I tried to be a good kid. I really did. It just wasn’t ever good enough. I just kept letting people down and that hasn’t ever stopped.”

Before Annabeth could interject, he looked at her and said, “You asked me at the hospital why I never told you about Kara. The truth is that I hate myself for being so shitty to her. Like, I drove her into a corner and made her feel so insecure and alone that I forced her into cheating on me. I should’ve been a better boyfriend to her-”

“Percy, what Kara did was her own decision,” Annabeth interrupted. “Maybe you could have done a better job, but you can’t force someone to cheat on you. Kara even admitted that it was her fault and said she wanted to apologize to you for it.”

He stared at her for a few beats and a myriad of conflicted emotions flashed in his eyes before he shrugged noncommittally and turned away. Annabeth ground her teeth together and moved off the bed before she even realized what she was doing. She framed his face with her hands and forced him to look into her eyes.

“Listen to me, you are a good person,” Annabeth said tightly.

Percy averted his gaze. “I’m really not, Annabeth. I’m just trying to make up for the fact that I’m- well, me.”

“And I’m telling that it’s okay not to be perfect! Because that’s the standard you’re holding yourself to! We all hurt and let each other down, Percy. That’s fucking normal!” Annabeth fumed.

“What’s the fucking point if nothing ever changes?” Percy shouted, his voice cracking. “I try and try and try, and I still keep hurting the people I care about, and I’m just- I’m so fucking sick of it, Annabeth.”

“People hurt each other all the time, Percy, sometimes just by existing! You’re looking at a prime fucking example of that,” Annabeth shouted, jabbing a thumb at herself.

“Like, how many times have I hurt you through my own carelessness? And yeah, it breaks my heart sometimes knowing how awful I’ve been to you, but I’m trying to be better because you’re the most important person in the world to me and I don’t want to lose you. And I learned that from you! Because isn’t that what you’ve always done? Tried to be better?” she demanded.

At this, Percy was silent, and Annabeth sat back on the bed, sighing. “That’s what actually matters, Percy: the fact that you’ve never stopped trying. You don’t always have to nail yourself to the cross anytime you fail.”

There was a pause before Percy quietly said, “I- I don’t know how not to.”

“Well, it starts by acknowledging that it’s okay to put yourself first sometimes,” Annabeth said, softening her voice. “Your mom once told me that you would rather put yourself in pain to ease someone else’s suffering, that you feel responsible for how others feel. Like, I know that Gabe was the one that taught you that, but that’s really fucking unhealthy. You need to see a professional therapist or counselor to help you process all the shit he put you through and teach you a better way to handle it.”

“And what if that doesn’t work? What if it’s too late to help me?” Percy asked.

“Then we’ll figure it out when the time comes,” Annabeth said, repeating what he had told her at the hospital.

“I’m not sure I’m worth all that effort,” Percy said tightly.

“Well, I’m your best friend and I think you’re the sweetest, kindest boy there ever was and that you’re worth the whole world,” Annabeth said.

She thought he would argue with her again, but she was surprised when Percy scrunched up his face and looked away from her, blinking back tears. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand and nodded with a sniffle. Her heart welled up inside her chest and she felt a sense of fond exasperation rush through her, making her smile to herself.

Oh, you dumb, stupid boy.

“Thank you,” Percy mumbled.

Annabeth shook her head, even though he couldn’t see her. “There’s nothing to thank me for.”

It was a while before he looked at her again, and when he did, he looked up at her shyly through his stupidly long eyelashes.

“D-Did you mean what you said in the hospital?” he whispered.

“Hmm?”

Percy’s face turned a gentle shade of vermilion. “Um, about being in love with me?”

Annabeth’s face turned serious. “Yes. I should have chosen a better time, but I meant it. One hundred percent.”

“Oh.”

She couldn’t help the way her lips curled upwards. “That’s all you have to say to me? ‘Oh’?”

Percy’s face turned even redder. “Um, I’ve been dreaming about this moment for like seven years, so you’ll have to forgive me for the fact that my brain is kind of fried right now.”

Annabeth raised an eyebrow and tried not to look smug. “Seven years, huh? That is a long time to hold your peace.”

“In my defense, you always hated it when people said anything about us dating, so I tried to kill off that part of myself and fully commit to just being friends,” Percy said.

“I’m sorry about that,” Annabeth said seriously. “I must have hurt you a lot.”

“It was painful,” Percy admitted. “But I was happy enough staying by your side.”

“The whole fake dating thing was super tone deaf then on my part, huh?” Annabeth said quietly.

“I should have refused, but I couldn’t help myself,” Percy said, grimacing. “I wanted to pretend, even if it was just for a little while, that you actually liked me back. It was a pretty bad idea, but I even tried dropping a bunch of hints since I couldn’t tell you how I felt, in the hopes that it might change something, I don’t know.”

“Well, it wasn’t all bad,” Annabeth said. “It got me to realize a whole bunch of things. Without that whole fiasco, I don’t think we’d be where we are right now.”

Percy cleared his throat and said, “And where is that exactly?”

Annabeth sat up straighter and folded her hands on her lap. “Well, for starters, I’d like to start dating you. For real this time.”

“Are you sure?” Percy asked, furrowing his brow. “We’ll have to be long distance once the fall rolls around.”

“I’m sure,” Annabeth said firmly. “Besides, we’ll be in the same state.”

“Would be nice if we were closer instead of on opposite ends,” Percy said, sighing.

Annabeth shrugged and said, “It’s a five hour and forty-two minute drive, so not all bad.”

“And you know that off the top of your head?” Percy asked, grinning.

“I, um, checked on Google maps.”

Percy gave her a smarmy look and raised an eyebrow. “Hmm, so you came here today planning expecting to ask me out, huh?”

Annabeth shoved him and bit back a smile. “I checked back in December, you jerk.”

Percy made a show of wincing and said, “Alright, alright, take it easy.”

There was a pause before Annabeth folded her arms over her chest and said, “You still haven’t properly answered me, by the way.”

“I thought it went without saying that I would say yes,” Percy said, blinking.

Annabeth’s face turned a little pink. “I- I still want to hear you say it.”

Percy ducked his chin for a moment and looked at her shyly. “Yes, I would love to go out with you.”

Her heart beat a little faster in her chest and exhilaration washed through her. “Nice.”

Percy blinked for a moment and nodded sagaciously. “Yes, nice.”

Annabeth shoved him again and ended up tackling him off his chair and fell on the floor with him. He wrapped an arm around her and laughed, and the sound reverberated through his skin and warmed her right through her bones. They lay like that for a while, tangled in each other, while he played with her hair.

Eventually, she looked up at him and cleared her throat. “So what happens next?”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “Why are you asking me?”

“You’re the one with all the dating experience,” Annabeth protested hotly.

Percy tried for a shrug and said, “Beats me. We could go get some celebratory shakes at Martha’s maybe?”

When Annabeth was quiet, he looked down at her and said, “Did you have something else in mind?”

“Well, um, if you were open to it, I would like to kiss you now,” Annabeth mumbled.

A beat passed before Percy bit back an enormous grin. “Sounds agreeable to me.”

“Don’t make me deck you again,” Annabeth warned.

“Alright, you absolute terror.”

“Dullard.”

“Always so mean, Chase.”

“Shut up, Jackson.”

“Are we gonna kiss or what?”

“You’re supposed to be the one leading, dumbass. I’ve never done this before, remember?”

“Okay well, for starters, don’t bash your nose into mine like that.”

“Oh my god, I actually hate you.”

“What you have a problem with the way I’m ‘leading’?”

“Just shut up and kiss me, you idiot.”

“Alright, no need to get so testy.”

....

“Okay?”

“U-Um, yeah. Could we, uh, do it again? You know, just for practice?”

“Sure. Just for practice.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Just so you know: it’s too late for take backs.”

“Too late?”

“Yeah, way too late.”

....

“I love you.”

“I know. Now, can we go back to the kissing, please?”

....

“You’re not gonna break my heart, are you, Annabeth Chase?”

“I won’t.”

....

“And I love you too.”

[asweetprologue]

window to the soul

Octoberfest 3: ghost (from geraskier hollow) + stare

“It’s drawn to strong emotions,” Geralt said, and Jaskier knew that he was about to become bait.

The monster of the week was a wraith, but of an unusual type. Over the years of traveling together, Jaskier had seen plenty of wraiths - noonwraiths, nightwraiths, even a plague maiden once. He probably could take one on himself, knowing what he did about the process of destroying them, though it would be difficult without the use of yrden holding them in the physical realm. Luckily it was Geralt’s job to dispatch them. Jaskier usually didn’t even go along to watch anymore, unless the story behind the haunting was particularly ballad worthy. 

This time, the wraith was different. Geralt had quickly identified the lost soul, a young woman who had recently died. She’d been deeply in love with a merchant that had regularly come and gone from the town, and had tried to cast a spell to trap his heart. Jaskier knew, after everything with Geralt and the djinn, that there was no curse or potion that could truly emulate love. Her spell had made the merchant obsessed with her, the man driven slowly mad by a fixation that he did not want and could not escape. In the end he had killed the girl and then himself, to escape from the madness that she had struck into his mind. The strength of her grief and the magic of the binding spell had changed the spirit of the woman into something else entirely, something extremely dangerous. 

“It’s a sort of hybrid between a vampire and a wraith,” he explained. They were in the field beyond the village, and Geralt was meticulously checking over his potions. His blades were laid off to the side, the slick oil that he used to slay spectres shining across his silver blade. It was nearing sunset, the twilight hour that made it easier for apparitions to make themselves seen in the material world. Jaskier was sitting across from him, nervously stripping leaves from a small twig. Geralt continued. “The emotion she felt and her unrequited love turned her into a heartwraith. Sometimes people call them ‘hungry ghosts.’ They’re never satisfied, and they feed off of people’s emotions to try and fill the void in them.”

“Sounds like a truly awful existence,” Jaskier mused, watching Geralt. The evening light played across his broad shoulders, turning his hair from silver to gold. Jaskier thought he might be able to understand where she was coming from, even if he’d never have tried to bind Geralt to him unwillingly. It was a terrible thing, to be so deeply and unfortunately in love with someone who didn’t want you. 

“I need to draw her out,” Geralt said gruffly. “She’s seeking out powerful emotions, like the couple that were attacked and the man who was beating his wife. I’ll need your help.” Jaskier sighed. Of course, it didn’t make much sense for Geralt to try to draw her out. Though Jaskier didn’t subscribe to the notion that witchers felt less than regular humans, Geralt was what Jaskier would dub repressed. The man couldn’t look an honest emotional conversation in the face without getting flustered and running away. 

“Whatever you need,” Jaskier said, like he always did. He didn’t love playing bait, but he knew Geralt would never let anything bad happen to him. 

Geralt nodded and picked up his silver sword, his steel one still securely in its sheath on his back. “Come on. We need to build a fire to destroy her locket.” The girl had kept a locket with a small lock of the merchant’s hair inside, which Geralt had guessed helped tie her to this plane. Over the next few minutes, the two men built a small pyre. Geralt pressed the locket into Jaskier’s palm, his fingers brushing over Jaskier’s skin. He tried not to blush at the contact. 

“When she’s distracted, throw this into the fire. It’ll weaken her,” Geralt said. Jaskier nodded mutely, clutching the warm metal close. The fire crackled merrily beside them, painting the landscape around them in swatches of ocher and dark blue. It was truly approaching night now, only the barest hint of sunlight still left on the far horizon. 

“What do you need me to do?” Jaskier asked. “To get her attention, I mean.”

Geralt gave him an odd look. “Nothing. I’m going to draw her in.” Geralt’s face was pinched in a way that Jaskier had come to realize meant he was experiencing some kind of emotion, though it was always hard to tell which one. Anger, frustration, sadness and pain all translated into relatively the same expression - tight jaw, drawn eyebrows, thinned lips. Jaskier wanted to reach out and sooth the tension from his friend’s features, but luckily the locket demanded his hands’ wandering attention. Geralt gestured to the soft earth beside the fire, clearly bidding Jaskier to sit. He did so, flopping gracelessly into a crossed legged position, back straight from tension. It was hard to forget that a wraith could appear any moment to wreck the quiet evening. 

Geralt settled next to him, dropping into the kneeling position that he favored for meditation. His eyes were grave as he looked over Jaskier’s face. “Just… sit still,” he said softly. Jaskier wasn’t sure what to do with that tone, so he just tried to do as Geralt asked. He settled in, waiting for something to happen, but Geralt just stared at him. 

For a moment it was awkward. Jaskier felt a blush spread across his cheeks as those golden eyes regarded him, sweeping over his face and following the line of his neck. Geralt was a man who always split his attention half a dozen ways at once, one eye always on the door and an ear out for trouble. Jaskier had accepted long ago that Geralt never fully listened to him, and that was alright. It wasn’t in his nature, and Jaskier didn’t need participation to hold a conversation. Now, though, he felt the full force of Geralt’s focus on him, looking back at him as if trying to see beyond a mask. Geralt’s own face was impassive, that slight frown still marring his features. 

What could he hope to accomplish through this? If he wanted to elicit strong emotions, there were certainly easier ways to do it than a staring contest. Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever elicited strong emotions in anyone that he wasn’t actively singing to. It was he who was often overtaken by the whims of his own heart, prone to fits of temper and weeks of lovesickness by turn. Geralt never seemed to feel anything other than mild annoyance. Gods, what if Jaskier annoyed him so much that just looking at him made the witcher angry enough to summon a spectre? Jaskier knew he could be infuriating, but surely if Geralt detested him that much he would just leave Jaskier behind. Right?

Anxiety filled his chest, but he’d been instructed specifically not to move. Forcing himself to relax, Jaskier found himself taking the opportunity to just look back for once, something he so rarely had a chance to do. He absorbed all the details of Geralt’s face that he never allowed himself to - the way Geralt’s left eyebrow was ever so slightly interrupted by a tiny scar, the slight wrinkles on his forehead from years of frowning and the even fainter ones around his eyes, the ever so slight part of his lips. The dramatic light of the fire and the moon overhead made his face into a patchwork landscape of color, the valley of purple shadow in the hollow of his cheek highlighted by soft gold. Jaskier committed every feature to memory, thinking of the notebooks he could fill with songs dedicated to Geralt’s eyes and lips and brilliant white hair. He loved him so much it felt like it was going to drown him, leaving no room in his chest for his lungs. 

After he’d finally taken in all the abstract elements of Geralt’s face that he could in the low light, Jaskier’s eyes dragged back to meet Geralt’s. The gold of his irises were nearly consumed by dark pupil, his eyes expanding to take in as much light as possible in the darkness. In this lighting he looked both more and less human, and it made Jaskier feel helplessly fond. Their eyes met, and suddenly the situation struck Jaskier as a bit funny. Two men sitting in a field, silently staring at each other, one pining away like nothing else while the other tried to summon a ghost. It was ridiculous. He quirked a playful eyebrow at Geralt, as if to say, Aren’t we just a couple of fools?

Jaskier watched Geralt’s face shift, a second of surprise flitting across his face. And then, without warning, there was something new there, something Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever seen before. A softening in Geralt’s eyes, in his brow, as he looked at Jaskier, open and affectionate. The expression hit Jaskier like a punch, or a kiss, demanding and devastating. Geralt’s mouth opened on a low exhale, and Jaskier leaned forward, wondering if he dared, if Geralt might - 

There was a screech, and the wraith was upon them. 

Geralt was up in an instant, silver sword flashing as he blocked a clawed hand from coming down on Jaskier’s head. Jaskier yelped as he scurried out of the way, clutching the locket he’d almost forgotten. There was a sudden burst of purple light in the field, making the shadows around them dance and twist eerily. The wraith made a horrible noise, like flint scraping across metal, endless and clearly annoyed. Geralt pushed her against the wall of the magical trap, cutting off bits of wispy energy with his sword. 

Jaskier wasn’t sure when the exact right time was, but the wraith was certainly distracted. Jumping forward, he tossed the locket down into the fire, watching as the clasp popped open and the little lock of hair fell into the embers. It caught quickly, and Jaskier heard the wraith shriek again, this time a haunting and mournful sound. When he turned back it was just in time to see Geralt shove his sword in her chest. The strange, cottony fabric of her ragged dress seemed to dissipate in the wind, her dry flesh cracking and falling away like old paint. After a moment there was nothing left but a pile of ash. 

“Go in peace,” Geralt said, and turned to Jaskier. Dropping to one knee, he said, “Are you hurt?”

Jaskier pushed himself into a better sitting position. They were close, too close. He hoped the warmth of the fire would mask his blush. “I’m fine, thanks to you. Is she really gone?”

Geralt nodded. “Should be. She has no tether to this world anymore without the locket.”

“Right,” Jaskier said. He paused. “So. Um. What you did there seemed to work, at least.”

Geralt leaned back away, out of Jaskier’s space. He missed the proximity immediately. “I wouldn’t have exposed you if I could think of another way.”

“Well, it’s not easy to find someone as irritating as me on such short notice,” Jaskier said nervously. “Hardly efficient.”

Geralt gave an almost comical shake of his head, surprise slapped across his features. “What do you mean?” he asked. 

Jaskier shifted, uncomfortable. Giving a forced laugh, he said, “Well, I can only imagine that you were conjuring up strong emotions of the, ah, annoyance you so often display when I do something like, I don’t know, sing or eat or breathe. I know you’re not so easily swayed by my charms.” He tried to pass it off like a joke, but he knew it fell flat even as he was saying it. There was too much hurt in his throat to make it come out anything less than bitter. He stared into the fire, watching the locket turn a liquid red from the heat. 

A warm hand suddenly came up to cradle his jaw, and Jaskier blinked in surprise as Geralt’s fingers urged him to look up. “It’s not that,” Geralt said forcefully. “You must know, Jaskier, you have to - When I look at you, it’s so...” He cut himself off with a frustrated sound. Words had never been his strength. “I feel many things for you, bard.”

Jaskier swallowed. “You do?”

Geralt’s eyes were hot on him, and Jaskier wondered if one could be branded by a glance. It certainly felt like it. “Yes,” Geralt said. “Intensely.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier stammered. “Um. I’m not sure if I’m reading all this right, but assuming that you’re saying you don’t hate me, then, ah -”

Geralt gave an annoyed huff, and Jaskier was just about to comment, say something like, see, I am irritating, but then Geralt was kissing him, and he decided to let it go. He leaned into the press of lips, gasping softly. It was brief, nearly over before it began, but Jaskier could feel the warmth of it after Geralt pulled away, breath ghosting over his skin. Jaskier shivered.

“Quite the opposite,” Geralt said softly. His eyes were molten gold, hotter than the locket still melting in the fire at Jaskier’s side, and Jaskier never wanted to look away. 

“Oh, well, that’s a relief,” he said, and leaned up to kiss him again.

~~

this fic was heavily inspired by Somedrunkpirate’s piece A Lover’s Lament, which is one of my favorite stories of all time. If you read it you’ll be able to see exactly what scene I borrowed from, and I need you to know that it lives in my head rent free. 

edit: for some reason tumblr ate everything but the heading for this fic and I didn’t realize until this morning, so thanks to the ten people who liked it with no content LMAO. yall the real

[zmediaoutlet]

fic: there will be better days

I’m so glad about the ending of Supernatural. It found its way, in the end. This fic is me drawing out that sensation as long as I could. I hope y’all like it, but it was written in a small way for a special group in a special discord, because I’m so glad we got to experience this dumb happy thing together. <3

title: there will be better days pairing: Sam/Dean rating: E length: 9500 words tags: Post-Season/Series 15, Spoilers for Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Heaven, First Time, Pining Dean Winchester

summary: Sam and Dean settle into their heaven.

(read on AO3)

They stand on the bridge, in quiet, for…

How long? It doesn't matter. Dean keeps his hand on Sam's back and Sam's shoulder tucks against his side, Sam being kind enough to slump down against the railing so that the position works, at all. The view's beautiful. Some woods, a river. A place Dean doesn't recognize but that hums with steady life. What a miracle, that death can bring them something new.

He's splitting his attention, though. The trees, the flowing water, the late-summer feel where the bright gold of everything burnishes down toward fall, it's a sweet goad toward peace, but. Dean's eyes drag away, every few minutes, and it's just—Sam. His eyes steady on the rush of the receding water, and his hair tucked behind his ear, and his back, steadily rising and falling under Dean's hand. Not pulling away. Not fidgeting, or impatient. Like he'd be content with this, exactly this, as long as eternity stretches out in front of them.

A bird flits by, blue-and-white against the green of the trees. Sam's eyes follow it and he smiles, just barely, a pull of lips that makes Dean's heart thump sorely against the inside of his ribs. His body keeps thrilling, reminding him, over and over: Sam. Sam. He slides his hand up to Sam's shoulder and squeezes, and Sam's eyes slide to his face. "Ready?" he says.

Sam doesn't ask for what. "Yeah," he says, soft and easy, and Dean drops his head, laughs. Something that had been knotted in his chest, for years and years, loose now—everything in him, free.

He steps back, and Sam turns to keep him in sight. Dean spins the keys to the car in his palm, grinning. "You want to drive?" he says, tipping his head at the car.

Sam blinks. Shakes his head, and swallows, and when he speaks his voice is thick. "No," he says, and clears his throat, and shakes his head again. "No, I want you to drive."

*

On the road Dean gives Sam a version of the same explanation that Bobby gave him. "We can go see him," Dean says, glancing across the seat, and Sam smiles and says, "We will," but he says, "Later," and Dean's—yeah, he's good with that. Later. They have forever, to do anything they want.

It's hard to wrap his head around. He doesn't know how long he waited, for Sam. A lifetime. The length of a drive. It felt—feels—like infinity, like every second is stretched and slow and exactly as long as it needs to be. The roads out here are gorgeous, empty, room for the Impala to stretch her legs, and Dean knows in a strange and centered way that if he wanted he could drive forever, and at the same time if he parks it'll have been ten minutes, as far as his mind's concerned, and he won't have missed a thing.

The radio's playing Zeppelin, quietly. Has been since Sam got into the car. Tangerine, right now—does she still remember times like these?—and Dean looks over to find Sam looking right at him. Dean's not sure Sam's turned his head, the whole time. He could make a crack—it rises to his lips, take a picture or what, got something on my face?—but it feels distant. He gets the impulse. Sam smiles, his back against the passenger door, and Dean smiles back sort of helplessly before he turns it back out on the road, and leans back in his seat, and settles into the drive.

*

Anything they want. Anything they could need, or dream of. There doesn't seem to be any real requirement to sleep, or to eat, or to do—anything. Time, slipping strange, and a stasis of a kind if they want it. That isn't what Dean wants, but he's not totally sure, about Sam.

The world changes around curves. Massive trees obscure the turns and it feels like a new road with every switchback. A short way past and there's—a house. Not a house Dean's seen, but he rolls slower, and Sam finally looks out the window at something that's not Dean, so—a house. Okay, Dean thinks. He can deal with a house.

Two stories, and a basement, and an attic full of dust. Dean goes into a sneezing fit when he opens up the hatch and Sam sniggers at him. It's not perfect, by any means. There's a sagging porch, and the sink in the first floor bathroom doesn't work, and there's some seriously fugly wallpaper that's peeling, and a stained carpet in the rear bedroom that, yikes, did something die on it? Would that even be possible? But Sam says, "This'll work," with content in his voice, and Dean looks around and tongues the inside of his cheek and thinks, well, yeah. This'll work fine.

There's food in the fridge, when Dean opens it. "I'll fix something," Sam says, and Dean looks at him in total surprise. A lifted shoulder, like Sam's been able to make anything other than eggs and bacon and bad, bad pasta his whole life. "What? I learned."

He did. They have chicken, roasted broccoli that Dean admit doesn't taste entirely like farts, these crispy potatoes that are—well, goddamn. There's not a dining table and so they sit out on the porch, a six pack of cold beer between them, watching the night settle in. It's cool but not cold. The lamp on the porch flickers, and Dean smiles, because he's damn sure that's not a ghost and instead that he's gonna have to rip out the wiring and start fresh.

Sam leaves his empty plate on the step behind them. He leans his elbows on his knees, and looks out at the darkening sky. The treetops are shadows against deep purple and Dean wants, very badly, to put his hand in Sam's hair, to feel his neck, his back. To settle himself against the fact of Sam's spine, his ribs and lungs, all of him here. Breathing, and here. "You learned to cook, huh," he says, instead of doing anything else, and gets to watch Sam turn his head, just a little. He's still wearing the same clothes he showed up in. Strange things, that tug a little at something Dean feels like he used to know. Sam turns his head but he doesn't look at Dean; Dean just gets his three-quarter profile, and the shape of his mouth turned a little solemn, and his eyes as they flick over the view of the dark, surrounding trees.

"Yeah, I did," Sam says, after too long. "I…"

That's all, for a few minutes. Dean puts his plate down, too (mostly clean, other than some broccoli he's not gonna be forced to eat), and shifts down one more step so they're sat right next to each other, and presses his knee against Sam's. Sam looks at their knees instead of at him.

"I wanna hear everything," Dean says. He reaches and gets Sam's hand, and squeezes it, and Sam's eyes close. Shit he wouldn't have done before, but hell—he's dead, he gets to. "Everything. Okay? Every—dumbass repair you screwed up on the car, and if you took Chinese lessons at a community college, and who won the World Series, okay, because I remember, we had a bet, and I need to know if I owe you or you owe me."

Sam swallows. "Jesus," he says, under his breath, and then laughs, a little. "Jesus, we did have a bet. That was—uh, that year it was the Dodgers." He swallows again, and when he opens his eyes they're wet, and a tear rolls down very slowly, against the crease of his nose, and his mouth hitches up at the side in a piled-up dimpling fold, and his chin creases, and Dean squeezes his hand very tightly. "Dodgers. But I can't remember which way you bet."

God, Sam. Dean knocks their shoulders together and lies: "Damn, I bet they were gonna lose. How's that figure, huh? I go down and my team does all in the same year? Shitty luck." Sam shudders out another laugh, wet, and nods, looking down at their clasped hands. "Guess I owe you, Sammy. Whatever you want, okay? Figure, we got time up here. I can figure it out."

Sam's chin is still shaking. A tear falls onto the back of Dean's hand, shockingly hot. Sam takes a deep breath. "I'll think of something," he says, when he can get his teeth out of his lip. Their knees grind together, close enough that Dean might get a bruise, if there's still such a thing as bruising. Sam sniffs, hard. He always was a sloppy crier. He looks at Dean a little sidelong, and smiles kind of embarrassed. Like Dean isn't an inch from losing it himself. "I kinda—I watched a lot of soccer."

Dean rolls his eyes, theatrical, and releases Sam's hand. "Of course you did," he says, layering on the disgust, and it's enough that Sam snorts and dashes his hand over his face, and when Dean gathers up their plates Sam's enough together that he can repeat his old dumb argument that there's a lot of strategy to find interesting in soccer, and anyway over the years the U.S. got better so it wasn't even really like rooting for foreign teams. Dean brushes it off, like he always did, and the argument's dumb but it feels—right. Something locking in, something solid. He washes the plates by hand in the sink and Sam dries them, and stacks them in the rickety cupboard Dean's definitely going to build a replacement for, and then he braces his hands on the countertop and closes his eyes again and breathes, slow. Calm, now, but still something built up inside that Dean doesn't know.

It doesn't bug him, like it might have, before. Dean chews his lip, and drains the sink, and tosses the dishrag over the faucet to dry, and says, neutral, "Hey." Sam makes a small noise, so he's not in some other universe. "Just—one thing. How long?" Sam turns his head, looks at Dean, and Dean lifts a shoulder. "It's—with how the time works, up here, I got no idea. How long was it, for you?"

He looks the same, is the thing. The same as he did when Dean was standing there, in the dark, with that strange numbness everywhere south of his spine and a stillness creeping up in his heart. The terror of that moment has already faded but the rest of the feeling is right there—looking at Sam and loving every single part of him. Pinning him into memory, exactly as he was, with his goddamn stupid haircut and his wide mouth. A few greys, at his temples. His body, lean-but-muscled, trim from running. His eyes, beautiful, even as panicked as they were, even as he told Dean that it was okay.

It wasn't. Dean knows that, now. Sam's cheek sucks in, on one side. "I was 68," he says. Dean feels the air go out of himself, a little. That's—jesus. Sam doesn't look sad about it. Not exactly. He slides his hands into his jacket pockets, tipping his head. "I was—I was in bed. It wasn't bad."

Dean bites the corner of his mouth. "Guess that makes you the older brother, then, huh?"

Sam smiles, just a little. "No," he says, and doesn't elaborate more than that.

*

There are two bedrooms, upstairs. That first night they sleep in the living room, watching old movies on an old TV, Dean in a recliner that's ridiculously comfortable when he kicks the footrest out and Sam on the couch. He wakes up at dawn to Sam still sleeping, his arms folded around a pillow like he always used to do, still in that old jacket, that hooded sweater bunched up and twisted around his waist. Dean recognizes it, now. He dreamed it. His heart feels like it can hardly take knowing, but there it is, anyway. His face is soft, sleeping, and Dean gets up with his back aching just a little—turns out that there are still aches—and he crouches down, and he settles his hand on Sam's jaw, and runs his thumb over the sharp-angled turn of his cheekbone. Sam opens his eyes, slow but not like he was even really asleep, and he looks at Dean looking at him, and Dean just—it's enough. If it was just this, for eternity and past it, that would be—that'd be good.

There's a library, in the house. A small office kind of room, off the kitchen, but Sam says the books change, when he goes in and out, so it stays fresh. The fridge always seems to have something in it. There's always gas, in the car, although sometimes little things need fixing, and in the garage there are things that Dean can use to fix it, so he gets to spend afternoons contented under the big black bulk, while Sam hands him things from the toolbox, and is distracted half the time from reading so that he hands Dean the 3/8s wrench instead of the 5/8s wrench, but that gives Dean an opportunity rag on him so it works out, either way.

"Mom and Dad are here," Dean says, one day. He's doing the wiring, on the porch. As good a place to start as any. Sam's helping, kind of—actual electric work apparently wasn't one of the things he learned, over the years. "They've got a house, Bobby said."

"That's great," Sam says, and when Dean looks down he looks like he means it, soft smile and all, but Sam doesn't suggest they visit, and Dean thinks—well, later's still always on the table. They haven't gone anywhere, really, except for drives sometimes through the mountain roads, and Sam's gone for his runs in the early dawn before Dean wakes up, and Dean's found on a path through the trees a good creek, where he's fished with Sam mostly ignoring him, reading again in a lawnchair with his bare feet kicked out into the soft grass, but still paying just enough attention to smirk behind his book when Dean doesn't catch anything.

They don't really stay apart for more than the time it takes to leave a room and come back. Even with those runs, Dean only knows they happened because as he's waking up Sam comes back with sweat in his hair, and Dean gets to make fun of him for stinking up the place before Sam rolls his eyes and clatters into the bathroom to turn on the creaking ancient shower, and he leaves the door open when he does so Dean can hear the water running, and the splashing, and how Sam's apparently started to hum. He doesn't sing, but Dean recognizes the tunes anyway. When Sam comes out Dean has breakfast ready—they take turns on dinner, but for some reason Sam doesn't like to make breakfast, anymore—and they eat, and then there's some project to do or a movie to watch or a book to finish, and—Sam's right there, solidly content. Like he's making up for lost time, and taking his sweet time in doing so.

Whisky, one night. In the cupboard. It's good—some Scottish blend Crowley had left in the bunker, once, sharp and sweet and rolling smoke down the throat—and they're out on the porch again, on the new bench this time, watching the sunset come down. Sam's mostly holding his glass, rather than drinking, but he looks okay. Head leaned back against the wall, and his shoulders relaxed, broad and strong. He doesn't seem to mind that Dean watches him as much as he does the sky, but he's looking thoughtful, and finally Dean says, "Tell me." Sam rolls his head against the wall, and meets Dean's eyes. "It's been on your mind, all day. Spit it out, man."

The corner of Sam's mouth lifts. "You would've made a good therapist, you know that?" he says. Dean raises his eyebrows. "I've been… I had a son."

Dean's jaw drops. "That's—" he starts, and his brain doesn't supply anything else. Shock—bewilderment—joy, and it's the joy that wins out, and he punches Sam in the shoulder and says, "Frickin' mazel tov, dude! That's—what was his name?"

"Ow," Sam says, half-laughing, clutching his arm. "What do you think? I named him after you."

"Great choice, pick the handsome brother," Dean says, nearly automatic, and Sam rolls his eyes like he's supposed to, but Dean's still spinning through it, taking it in. Sam—with a little boy—and Dean wants to know everything, everything, but Sam's gone from content to content-but-pensive, and Dean makes fun of him for going emo a lot, but this is… "He a good kid? Doing the name proud?"

"Yeah, he is," Sam says. He huffs, after a second, like he's remembering something—some memory that Dean doesn't share. There's been a lot of that, really, although Dean's not sure Sam notices when it happens. "You'd hate his taste in music, though. And he drives an electric car."

"Heathen," Dean says, and Sam raises his hands in surrender, and then leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Dean looks at his back, broad in the grey t-shirt. He sips at his scotch. "We could—probably see him. I'd like to meet him. And you must…" Miss him, is what he wants to say, except that his heart seems to catch up to what it means, what Sam's saying. That he had a boy, a kid, and he was old enough to drive and have shitty taste in music, and it was a whole life—that the kid had a mother, and Sam had a world separate to this one, and of course Dean knew that and Dean always wanted that for him, and that was true, that wasn't ever a lie no matter what else Dean felt, deep inside where he never, ever intended for it to matter, but. Dean misses Jack, sometimes, in a soft sore way—misses Ben, even, when that pain's far-distant and not even truly his to feel—but what Sam's going through, that's different, and Dean doesn't know how to touch it.

Sam shakes his head, though. "I do," he says, answering what Dean couldn't say out loud. "But I—no, I don't want to see him. Not yet. He's living, and I think—I hope he's doing the best he can. I was kind of an old dad. Old-fashioned maybe, too, but I taught him right, I think, and he'll be okay. I want to just—let him live. In my head. You know? And later, when he's finally—god, he'd better be really old—then. I'd want to see him then."

Dean gets it, and doesn't. He's not sure he could've waited another minute for Sam, if he'd been forced to. He picks up Sam's glass, abandoned on the bench between them, and holds it forward. Sam takes it, and accepts Dean's clink when it's offered. "To Dean," he says, and Sam huffs and gives him a slanted look back over his shoulder, but he nods, and repeats it, and they finish the bottle between them that night.

*

Funny, that they ended up in the mountains. Kansas was all flat prairie and farmland and endless horizons, and Dad used to joke sometimes when they'd drive across the country's flat middle that you could roll a marble all the way from Abilene to Lincoln and the only way it'd stop is if someone picked it up. Up here it feels—different. With the hills, and the trees. Like they could be hemmed in, if they were feeling bad about it, but instead it just feels like shelter. A place of their own. A place to make their own.

Sam left the bunker, he says, one day. A fishing day, when Dean's got his cooler full of cheap beer and Sam's working on yet another friggin' book, though this time he's at least enjoying the cool air, watching the birds and the river more than he's got his nose in some old dude's ancient wisdom. "Couldn't stay," he says, and Dean—yeah. That makes sense.

Little revelations, now and then. Sam doesn't seem to be in a hurry to tell them, but he doesn't seem to feel bad about them, either. Like they're sorrows mostly dealt with, or details that don't matter in the grand scheme. Dean never had a place, when Sam was gone from him, but even the car—he couldn't drive it, when Sam wasn't there in the passenger seat beside him. He gets how the bunker could've been less a shelter than a prison, when the halls were empty, and the silence got too thick. "I left it to him," Sam says, after a little while. He tucks his bookmark into his spot, tucks the book under his arms. Dean's just holding onto the fishing pole at this point, barely paying attention to the line, but Sam's watching it for the both of them. "I didn't—take him there, ever, but I told him about hunting, about the job, and I left a letter. Explaining it all, with the key and everything. It's there if he wants it."

"Good," Dean says. Sam glances at him. "Someone should use it. He's a legacy, too."

"Yeah, he is," Sam says, and it's quiet for some reason, and then he nods down at the creek. "You're getting a bite, dude—" and oh damn it, see, this is why Sam's a distraction on fishing trips, and Dean fumbles the rod and cusses at his brother and Sam just laughs, and the afternoon's easy, and Dean finally does get a damn fish and brings it home and considers leaving the guts under Sam's pillow, but instead he fries it up with dill and cornmeal and Sam makes nearly orgasmic noises, eating out on the porch because Dean still hasn't built them a table, and Dean says, "Jeez, dude, get a room," and his ears are pink but—he's happy. Sam's happy. That's been the only goal, this whole damn time. A falling-down house in the mountains, with the two of them totally alone, turns out to be as good a place to be happy as any. Go figure, Dean thinks, watching Sam suck his fingers and then turn his eyes hopefully toward the kitchen for more.

*

A drive. There's a road that snakes up high, ending in an empty lookout point, and Sam convinces Dean to come further—a hike, up to the very top of the mountain, where the trees start to thin and there's a view like—

"Holy shit," Dean says, when he heaves himself up over that last friggin' boulder, and Sam says, "Right?"

A vastness. The forest is thick and the sky's this clear, depthless blue, and the valleys and hills spread out in front of them untouched. Like they're really the only people in all of heaven, nothing but them and the trees and the house. Sam stands with his hands on his hips, looking out, looking like a damn model for that weird orange hiking jacket he's wearing, and Dean sits down on a handy flat rock and feels the sun on his back, takes it in. "You know, I thought the memory thing would've been okay, honestly," Dean says. Sam glances back at him. Instantly knows what Dean means, from the way he's furrowing his massive forehead in disbelief. "I mean, maybe it would've gotten boring, I don't know. Stuck on our hamster wheels forever. But there was good stuff, in there, and we—I mean. We would've been together. Right?"

It had been brutally painful, at the time, but in later years Dean had thought about it. Approached it cautious, like something that would break if he touched it. Soulmates, he thinks, now, deliberate inside his own head, and Sam smiles, like somehow he heard it. "Yeah, I guess so," he says. He tips his head. "Could've watched that memory of you turfing it into the pasture on that wraith hunt about a hundred times, I think."

Dean raises his eyebrows, says, "Ha," while Sam grins at him, but then Sam looks back out at the view. "Would've been some choice ones of you, too, you know," he says, but then shakes his head, even if Sam's not looking anymore. "This is—better, though. Glad Jack did it like this."

"And Cas," Sam says, and, yeah. Cas.

Dean takes a deep breath. He hasn't gone there, in his head, really. Castiel, free of the death he'd cursed himself to, free of darkness. Dean drags his hand over his stubble, remembering. The dark, reaching out. He looks out at the clear, bright day. "He was in love with me," he says.

Sam turns his head, but Dean's focused on the trees—past them—through to that day. All the time after, Dean never said anything about it, out loud or even in his head. They hadn't had a body to burn, and Sam hadn't asked questions, careful and kind in that way Sam had learned to be once he was older, and it had been an old bruise, unhealed, that Dean didn't like to press on because what was the point? It doesn't hurt now, but it's…

"He told you?" Sam says, and Dean nods. A pause, again, and Sam comes and sits down on the rock, too. His hands are clasped between his knees and Dean looks at them instead of the trees. Broad and tan, and big, and calm like everything in Sam is calm, now. "And you didn't know?"

Dean looks up, sharply. "Did you?"

Sam's mouth tilts. "I wondered," he says, and Dean huffs, leans back on his hands, looks up at the clear sky. A breeze, just chilly enough that he's glad of his jacket. Sam shifts, beside him. "Did you want to see him?"

It's asked—a little careful. Like Sam doesn't want to influence him either way. Dean imagines it—praying, and saying—what? He doesn't answer, and Sam doesn't press him, and they sit there for a while, in quiet, with the breeze bringing the smell of the trees.

"I didn't marry her," Sam says, after a while. Dean lifts his head—another revelation. Sam's slowly rubbing his thumbs back and forth, a dry chafing, looking out at something Dean can't see. "She was a really good person. Good mother. I wore a ring so people wouldn't ask questions, but I—I think she would've said yes, if I'd asked, but I didn't ask. She moved across town, when Dean was ten. We got along fine—hooked up a few times, even, after we split, but it just…"

"Never came together?" Dean offers, when the pause has gone too long, and Sam lifts a shoulder, his mouth curling wry as he looks at Dean. "I know the feeling."

Maybe it was some cruelty of Chuck's. To make it impossible for anything else to feel true. Dean tips his leg out so it touches Sam's, and Sam huffs, and touches Dean's knee, and the heat of him sinks right through the denim before he pushes to his feet, and offers a hand to help Dean up, too. They walk back down the trail, back to where Dean parked the car, and they drive down the winding roads with sunset spilling through the valleys behind them, and when Dean parks in front of the house the porch light's on like they left it, and Sam's getting out and saying something about maybe burgers, for dinner, and he'll make potato salad if Dean'll take care of the cooking, and Dean has to pause, with his heart suddenly thick and full in his chest, and thinks—well, if it was intended to be a punishment, then shit if Chuck didn't get it wrong.

They have burgers, and potato salad. Sam doesn't put in enough mayo and Dean tells him so. They watch The Right Stuff, and Sam listens mostly patiently to Dean filling in all the extra details about the astronauts before he tells Dean that he's a nerd, and Dean says, "Oh, if anyone's the nerd—" and they bicker, and wash the dishes, and Sam's beautiful, is the thing. Beautiful. Whole and healthy and content, in the lamplight in the house they're building. Beautiful his whole life, from when he was a little kid and Dean was wiping his snot-nose with the edge of his t-shirt to when he was a bitchy asshole of a teenager to when he was a high-handed and distant adult to when he was just—Dean's brother, paying him half-attention in the mornings, getting all his jokes, being bossy and being kind and being himself, and himself is all Dean ever wanted him to be.

Sam picks up one of the endless books that he's left on the kitchen counter. "You going to keep watching old nerd movies?" he says, a dimple tucked into his cheek.

Dean's chest feels somehow tight and full of molten gold, all at once. "Sammy," he says, and Sam hears the change in his voice, and blinks at him. Dean knows what Cas had meant, those years ago. How it could feel so entirely perfect, just to hold it like this, under your heart. To acknowledge it and know it for true. "You're it, for me. You know that, right?"

A slight tightening, around his eyes. He searches Dean's face but Dean—he doesn't know what expression he's wearing. It hardly matters.

"Our whole lives. I never—there wasn't ever really an option, for something else, but I don't think I ever even really wanted something else. Ever since I was little. It was you and me in my head, no matter how I thought about the future. I wanted you to have more but I never pictured anything else for me, not really. Even when I got the chance. Never came together, you know? But I don't think I wanted it to. All I wanted was you." Sam's lips have parted. Confusion there, but concern too, and Dean smiles at him. "I guess this sounds—this isn't like a goodbye or anything, or a… I don't know. I just… wanted you to know. In case you hadn't guessed."

Sam lays his hand on the counter, like he's looking for something steady. "Dean," he says, and then doesn't seem to know how to follow it up.

Dean shakes his head. "Didn't mean to drop a bomb on you," he says, and it's that loose knot again, an untangled free thing. Easy, when this had never, ever been easy. When he'd died for it, and lived through way worse than dying. Here, looking at Sam's expression—shock but also not quite shock—his other hand still clutched around his book—it feels like nothing but right. He smiles, looking at Sam's eyes. "After the life we had, man, this is the cherry on top. I don't need anything more than this."

He goes to bed. Sam's still standing there, in the kitchen, when he does.

*

Time moves more because they expect it to than because of any rules. Sam's been studying it, sort of, out of curiosity more than anything else, and he says he thinks that if they wanted it to be it could be about two pm in a warm July forever. Dean's noticed, even if he doesn't much care. How long have they been here, and still it's those last days of summer creeping into autumn, where it's cool in the shade and the sun's warm, and it doesn't snow, and if it rains it's just for long enough to make the house feel cozy and right, and then when the sun comes out again the world's washed-new, and he doesn't have to dig his car out of the mud.

It's raining the next morning, and Dean lays in bed with the covers pulled up around his shoulders and enjoys it, knowing there's nowhere to go. His room is his room only because it's the bed he picked, with the north-facing window and the view of the car, if he wants to glance down and see it; they leave their doors open, almost all the time, and they hardly have possessions that need keeping anywhere. He lifts up on an elbow after a while, and looks over the foot of the bed down the hall, and on the opposite end by the stairs Sam's door is open and he's a solid lump, in his bed, still snoozing through the rain, and Dean's heart folds up in his chest, looking. It tends to do that.

He goes through some morning things. Making the coffee, and sipping at a cup while he eats a slice of toast. He goes into the library and picks something off the shelf, and carries it back upstairs, and then it's the solitary, strange contentment of a morning crap (the door closes for that at least, and he'd wondered why that was something that stuck around in heaven until he experienced the weird peace of an unhurried morning), and then a coffee refill, and then it's still raining and he thinks—yeah, back to bed, crawling in with his coffee and his book, his back to the headboard, the house warm, the sifting rain outside nothing but soothing.

"Hey," he hears, and looks up.

Sam—oh. In his flannel pants and one of those v-neck sleeping shirts, black this time, his hair rumpled, leaning in his doorway. He closes his book and lets it fall down by his leg. Sam's eyes follow it, with a small frown.

"You really went for the beauty sleep, huh?" Dean says, as though the clock means anything. Even in heaven, he feels weird when Sam catches him reading. In that time in the bunker—after Jack disappeared—he'd started again, like he used to when he was in his twenties. Dumb stuff, nothing like what Sam would pick, but he liked the stories. Sam's never made fun of him for it, but he still—well, still.

Sam's still looking at the book but the silence has stretched, with the patter of the rain filling the space between. "I stayed awake for a long time, last night," he says, finally. "Thinking about stuff. What you said. Other things, too."

He seems okay. Not bitter, or angry, or even particularly stressed about it. Still, "Sorry," Dean says.

Sam shakes his head, and looks up at Dean's face. "Don't be sorry." He pushes a hand through his hair, sort-of smiles. "Figures, you wouldn't say anything until you knew I was a sure thing."

Dean snorts. He moves the book over to his bedside table, leaves it with his empty coffee mug. He pulls his knees up under the blanket, making room, and Sam comes and sits at the foot of the bed, one knee pulled up onto the mattress, looking at Dean steady and—and okay. They're okay.

"I had a dream last night," Sam says, finally. Dean nods—the dreams come pretty steadily, up here. Never nightmares, just invention, and memory recontextualized. "It was about… when Azazel had Dad. You remember that? Forever ago. All I wanted was to kill him. All you wanted was for us to be together. Remember?"

Of course, Dean remembers. The way he'd dragged Sam away from another fire. Sam looking at him with almost-pity, when he'd finally admitted what he wanted.

There's not a trace of pity in him, now. He pulls his knee up against his chest, comfortable. "You know, I thought about it," Sam says. "After you were gone. How everything felt—incomplete. Half-a-loaf. Even…" He shakes his head, and Dean wonders what goes there. He'll find out someday. "We were always breaking the world for each other. Normal siblings don't really do that. I don't know if you realized."

"I bet Mary-Kate and Ashley would give it a shot," Dean says, and Sam smiles at him, but rolls his eyes, too. "Sam—"

"I wondered," Sam interrupts. He lifts his eyebrows, a little, and Dean hears it as the echo it's meant to be. Despite everything he can feel his cheeks going pink. "If it wasn't just that we couldn't find something that was better, but that we never would. If you'd…"

He trails off. Dean picks at the blue yarn-ties on his blanket, watching Sam's face. Turned now, toward the rain outside, lit beautiful with morning. "I wouldn't have said anything," he says. Sure, somehow. "Even if we'd had—hell. Another decade, just you and me. When I said this was enough, I meant it."

"I know you did," Sam says. "And I know you wouldn't have. Because you wouldn't have wanted to ruin anything for me, right? If I had some outside shot—some kind of normal I might've dug up?" Dean nods. Sam nods, too, and then reaches out and flicks his knee through the blanket, hard it enough that it nearly stings. Dean claps his hand over the spot and smacks Sam's hand away, but Sam's already retreating, hands up, smiling. "Truce, truce. Just saying. I wouldn't have tried for anything, if you'd been there. It would've just been me and you and the dog."

The dog. "Did he—" Dean says, distracted, and Sam says, "Old and kinda fat, and happy as he could be."

Sam's just looking at him, along the length of the bed. "Sammy," Dean says, and chews his cheek for a minute. Sam's patient. "I know it wasn't easy, that I was gone. But I'm still glad you got that shot. Glad I didn't ruin it."

"You didn't—" Sam starts, and then closes his mouth. He smiles at Dean with his lips closed, and then breathes out slow through his nose. "I'm glad you're glad," he says, instead, and maybe that's all the compromise they'll ever get, on the subject. Dean's not sure Sam gets it, smart as he is. That Dean would've always wondered. That there would've been some horizon, distant and gold, that Sam might've always looked to, and imagined something different.

The rain's slacking, outside. Sam looks out the window again, at how the sun's drawing out, the light changing. "Do you want to try to figure out the cabinets today?" he says.

God, Dean loves him. "You can work the band saw," Dean promises, and Sam rolls his eyes again, and stands up, and says, "Let me shower first, before all the excitement," and Dean watches him step into the hall and then into the bathroom and hears the shower come on, through the open door, and he thinks it'll be a good day. Inevitable argument over what color to stain the cabinet doors notwithstanding.

*

It sits between them. Dean didn't feel tense about it but saying it aloud nevertheless makes him feel almost weightless. He knows that Sam's thinking about the conversation—going over past conversations, and things they've done, and choices they've made, over and over, because Sam's an egghead who had to puzzle things out forever before he can come to some kind of peace with them—but that's okay. They're still together and nothing's ruined, and the house comes along. They work on the kitchen for a while, Sam pulling down the horrible wallpaper while Dean does the woodwork, and there's a week nearly where they build a fire outside every night and dinner's what they can rig up over the flames—hotdogs, and kebabs, and mac and cheese even that gets a weird smoky flavor to it, and honestly it's about the best version Dean's ever had.

When Sam starts talking he comes at it obliquely. They're watching a movie—Moonraker, just as dumb and wonderful as Dean remembered it—and right over the top of the scene where Jaws is whaling on the guards, Sam says, "I didn't sleep with anyone for almost fifteen years."

"Makes sense, your game is terrible," Dean says, and grins when Sam sighs. "What do you mean? After the breakup with—"

Sam still hasn't said her name. "It just didn't…" Sam shrugs. "It wasn't important somehow."

"Plus you would've thrown your back out," Dean says.

"Yeah," Sam says, dry. "Plus that." A pause, while they both watch the end of the fight. Roger Moore was a way better Bond than people gave him credit for, Dean's always thought. "How long for you?" Dean makes a sound. "Before… You used to brag about it, you know? But you didn't come home bragging for a long time."

"You trying to get me to say just looking at your goofy mug every morning was enough?" Dean tips his head on the couch to find Sam raising his eyebrows, actually surprised. "Hah. Well, it was."

"Seriously?" Sam says.

Dean shrugs, not sure why it's coming as a shock. He doesn't actually remember himself, even though it's closer in memory for him, when he last had that urge—to just go for a hookup, to let off nervous energy. On the screen, Bond's punching someone, and Holly Goodhead's in trouble. "No need to try to fix what ain't broke, as they say," Dean says, and he can tell Sam watches his face for a while before Sam turns his attention back to the movie.

Later: Dean's peeled back the scary carpet and it turns out there's good wood flooring underneath. Go figure. He's trying to decide whether he wants to cut it out in pieces or roll the whole thing up and see if he can get Sam to carry it. Sam brings him a cup of coffee, while he's standing in the doorway to the bedroom and frowning, and then says, "I never thought about being with a guy."

Dean slops the coffee, a little. Good thing he's tearing out the carpet either way. "Uh, okay."

The corner of Sam's mouth tugs up. "It just never occurred to me," he says. "Not really."

Dean takes a sip from his mug. Even in heaven Sam manages to screw it up, somehow—this time, way too strong like he used three times the amount of grounds needed—but it's Sam's coffee, and Dean's so damn gone for him that he's fond of the sludge, too.

Apparently he's been silent too long. Sam tips his head, leaning against the doorframe, opens his mouth and closes it again.

"Do you really want to know?" Dean says, after a minute. He'd answer, he thinks. If Sam asked. What would be the point of keeping it secret, after all, with what they both already know?

"I think you just told me," Sam says, quiet, but shakes his head, and then jerks his chin at the carpet. "If you think I'm carrying that whole thing downstairs you're insane."

"Worth a shot," Dean says, and they put it away, for another day.

Later: they're painting, in the hall between the kitchen and the living room, and it was a long bickering session to come up with the color but Dean thinks that Sam was really arguing just to argue and not because he cared, at all. It smells like paint, which in theory is unpleasant but which really Dean's always kind of enjoyed—because it means there's a project being done, and progress being made, and that always settles something, in his bones—and Sam's got a full on handprint of slate blue on his ass that Dean thinks somehow he still hasn't noticed, and which should cause some entertainment when he does—and Sam says, standing back and squinting at his edging work, "How did you know?" Dean grunts, not following for once. His brush needs to be cleaned. Sam reaches up and fixes a line, carefully swiping blue away from the ceiling, and says, "About us. When did you know?"

Dean pauses, fingers all tangled with the brush in the murky water. Sam's frowning up at the ceiling, patiently doing his part. That's a question he never really asked himself, and he doesn't know the answer. Too easy to say always, even if sometimes that feels like the truth. November 1983 is another answer, but of course that's wrong, too. From the first time Sam smiled at him. From the first time he guided Sam's hands around a gun and helped him pull the trigger, and they nailed that empty Coke can like it was a vamp, at thirty paces. From the day Sam left, at that shitty house in Utah, and Dean stood in the dark street with his heart bleeding out 'til it was empty. From the night Sam died, and Dean knelt in the dirt with him and understood how it felt to die, too, and yet still be forced to stand up and keep living, and to have his whole body reject it, everything in him knowing: no.

Sam crouches down by him, and nudges Dean out of the way, so he can clean his own brush. "I didn't get it, I don't think," Sam says, when Dean hasn't responded. He riffles his fingers through the bristles, blue blooming up so that Dean can't see his skin. "Not for… Man, I don't know. It might've been when I thought we were going to lose you to Amara. Maybe earlier." He draws his brush out of the water and squeezes the wet out, and Dean watches his hands, like he does so much of the time. Capable and square-palmed and long-fingered. Blue paint stuck under his fingernails. He rests his brush on the side of their paint tray and his hands lace loosely between his knees, where he's still right there, inches from Dean. "Wish it hadn't took me so long."

Dean looks at him. Sam's looking back, not really smiling but with his face soft. He stands up, after a few seconds, and from Dean's crouching vantage Sam looks impossibly tall. "C'mon," he says, easy. "Let's finish this up. I want to watch you fail at fishing at some point today."

Later—

*

There's no real time, and therefore it's no particular day. Days have passed and yet the days are still gold, and beautiful. Sam goes for a run, and comes back, and they have breakfast, and they shower, and it rains briefly midday and so Sam reads in the armchair while Dean watches a movie—Godfather II, and he tells Sam he's a barbarian for reading through it, but Sam calmly ignores him like he always does—and then the rain stops, and Dean thinks, maybe a drive, and so they go for a drive, with the late afternoon sun pouring down. They park, in front of the house, and Dean gets out, and he's thinking about dinner—Sam's turn to cook, but Dean wants steak and Sam's never actually gotten the hang of steak—and Sam says, "Hey," and so Dean turns, and there with the driver door still open on the car, Sam steps up close to him, and takes Dean's face in his hands.

Dean's heart thuds slow, in the base of his throat. Sam's been this close before but he hasn't had quite that look in his eye. He stands still, waiting, and Sam's mouth twitches into a quick smile, like he's had some funny thought that he'll share with Dean, later—and Sam leans down, and when their mouths press together it's...

Sam pulls back, after not long enough. "Is that okay?" he says.

Really asking. Dean's holding Sam's forearms, his lips warm. "You're supposed to be the smart one," he says, and his voice comes out raw. "You figure it out."

His eyes are closed. Sam laughs, softly, and Dean takes a breath, and then there's Sam's mouth, again, soft but insistent, just the right amount of pressure. Sam's very good at this. Who knew. Dean's hand slides to Sam's chest and he parts his lips, and Sam takes the invitation as it's given, licking just barely inside. They're both unshaven but the scratch of Sam's chin feels good. Sam's nose brushes his. Dean pulls back, and tilts so their foreheads are touching, and there's an infinite universe of time around them and he could just stay—here. Right here, with Sam's breath mingling with his, and Sam's hand on his face.

Once they've started, though, Sam doesn't seem to feel the need to stop. "Bed?" he says, quiet, and Dean nods, and then—Sam's room, with the sun coming in the window and the thick blue blanket soft under Dean's hand. Sam sits beside him and leans in and they kiss—again—for ages, Dean's arm around Sam's neck and no sound but their lips meeting and parting, and the breeze soughing against the house.

Sam's—happy. That's the only thing Dean can think, over and over, his heart thrilling for it. "Is it weird?" Dean says, at one point, and Sam touches his cheek with two fingers, and drags them soft along Dean's stubble to his jaw, to his chin, and shakes his head and then laughs and says, "Yeah, but who cares about weird," and Dean says, fervently, "Not me," and Sam laughs again and presses him down to the bed and kisses him, again, and again.

Clothes go away, slowly. Boots, and jackets, and Dean pushes Sam a little upright and unbuttons his shirt, careful, while Sam watches his face. "Do you know what you want?" Dean says, not pushing either way. When the shirt's open he spreads his hands on Sam's chest—god, even through the undershirt, it's—but Sam's shaking his head, and Dean tries to focus, even if focus seems a billion miles from here. "And you never…"

But no, because Sam told him. Sam lays his palm on Dean's stomach, warm. "What did you want?" Sam says. Gentle almost. "The first time you—when you thought about it. What did you picture?"

"Who says I pictured anything?" Dean says, and Sam just smiles at him, and, yeah, okay. So Sam knows him better than anyone. So what.

Naked, Sam is… It's not like Dean never saw it before, but he never let himself look, like he's looking now. Never with the sense of right, that he feels now. Sam's looking right back, which somehow comes a surprise. Dean lets Sam tug off his jeans, his boxers, and he's left on his back on the bed, and Sam stands there and his eyes go all over—from Dean's chest to his dick to his feet, for some reason—and Dean feels himself flushing, but it's more because—

"I didn't think it'd be like this," Sam says, and yeah. Yeah, that's it. Sam's flushed, too, a little red come into the hollows of his cheeks. His dick's half-hard, swinging heavy against his thigh, and Dean wants it. Wants Sam. It should be complicated but it isn't. He spreads his legs, and Sam kneels on the bed and then fits himself there, so Dean's thighs can slide against Sam's, and there's the warm glance of his belly, and his chest against Dean's, and how his nose brushes Dean's cheek and how his hair falls forward, and the dense familiar physicality of him. How he's Dean's brother and how he's—everything, everything else that ever mattered.

They rub together, kissing. Sam's fingers find his nipple and play with it, slow and insistent. Sam's hard, thick, pressing into the crease of Dean's thigh, and Dean nudges under Sam's jaw, kisses his throat, drags his thumb down between Sam's pecs. "Do you want to," he says, against Sam's skin, and Sam's hand cups over the back of his head and he doesn't have to say anything for Dean to know.

There's lube, in Sam's bedside table. Dean laughs, while Sam blinks surprise at it. This perfect house. He pulls Sam in close again, and he doesn't think it'll take much—hell, they might not even have to bother—but he wants it, like this is a first time they might have had, some perfect day that never existed on earth. He drizzles the lube over Sam's fingers and Sam knows what to do, reaching below, and Dean spreads his legs wide and sinks into the pillow, into how it feels. "Do you like it?" Sam says, curious and a little pleased, and Dean hooks his arm around Sam's neck and drags him down for a kiss so Sam won't ask such dumb friggin questions. The slow drag and stretch of Sam's knuckles inside—and he's not going far enough or deep enough, because he's done this to women maybe but never to a guy, but it feels good, anyway.

They don't move from that position. Dean reaches down and tugs at Sam's wrist, and gets a slick dragging hand on his hip, instead. Sam kisses his cheekbone, shifts his weight, and the press inside—ah—thick, and just that first bright sting that makes it count for something, but it doesn't hurt beyond that, and it's just the slow parting drag of Sam, inside him, until he's as far as he can go and stops with his hips pressed right up close. Dean holds him there, feeling. Sam's breath against his cheek, and his weight held tense on one elbow, and their chests rising and falling together. Dean's dick presses against Sam's belly but it doesn't feel important, right now—it's more that they're—finally, they're—

"Please say I can move," Sam says, breathless, and Dean gasps in and then laughs, dizzy, says, "Jesus, you've been waiting on me? Get the lead out, come on—go—"

It lasts—

For the time it takes Dean to curl his hips up and feel how Sam jolts, hard inside. For the time it takes Sam to lift up higher, getting enough space between them that he can see Dean's face, and for him to fit his hand around Dean's jaw and press his thumb against Dean's lower lip and look him in the eyes, startled, like even after everything he's learned something new. For the time it takes Dean to wrap his thighs around Sam's waist and arch, and for Sam to bury his head down into the curve of Dean's throat, and for Dean to hold Sam's shoulders, and for it to be…

Perfect, Dean thinks, after.

They're on their sides. Dean's leg is still caught around Sam's hip. Their heads are on the same pillow and Dean's got his hand on Sam's chest, and Sam keeps tracing some nonsense shape into the skin over Dean's ribs, and the sun's still out, and the breeze is still gentle, and it feels in a way like no time has passed, at all. Like this is still their first day in heaven. That first moment, when Sam appeared on the bridge, and Dean's heart thumped into place, like it was beating again, at last.

Sam's hand settles flat on Dean's side. Dean looks up from Sam's chest, and Sam's waiting there, to meet his eyes. A smile, small. "Good job, tiger," Dean says, and Sam's smile goes deeper, and Dean rolls his eyes, and tugs Sam's chest hair in retaliation. Sam mimes pain but all he does is pull Dean an inch closer, and sigh.

"Do you think we could've made it work?" he says, eventually. Dean hmms, asking. "Before, I mean. When we were alive. It feels like…" He shakes his head, a small movement against the pillow. "I don't know. Like we wasted time."

"Maybe," Dean says. He shifts, stretching out his legs, and lifts up on one elbow. Sam tips his head back to keep looking at Dean's face. Dean looks back, unhurried. The straight line of his eyebrows, and his tip-tilted eyes. His mouth, relaxed in contentment, and the slope of his nose, and that mole that Dean feels the weirdest fondness for. He touches it, and Sam blinks, and Dean smiles at him. "It worked out, though. Don't you think?"

Sam's mouth tips, a dimple peeking up in his cheek. He looks as glad as Dean's ever seen him. "Yeah," he says, finding Dean's hand. Their fingers tangle together, caught warm against Sam's chest. "Yeah, it worked out okay."

[flowercrown-bard]

To give without knowing (16/?)

word count: ~6k

read on AO3

previous / next / masterpost

content warnings: self-doubt, fear of rejection, trust issues

Jaskier’s hand was warm in Geralt’s as Jaskier pulled him along. It was a pleasant contrast to the cool air of the night embracing them.

Nervousness rolled off of Jaskier in waves, but stronger yet was the excitement he emanated.

“You know we’d be faster if you’d let me open my eyes,” Geralt grumbled after Jaskier tugged at his hand once again impatiently.

“Don’t you dare peek,” Jaskier said and Geralt could practically hear his narrowed eyes and smirk. “Besides, you don’t need to see. I am perfectly capable of guiding you. I won’t let you trip.”

Geralt only hummed, but he couldn’t keep the hint of a smile off his face. He had no idea if Jaskier was even looking at him to see it, but a small part of him hoped he was. And that maybe Jaskier was smiling back at him.

And wasn’t that a tempting thought? For just a moment, Geralt’s eyelids fluttered, ready to open and try to catch a peek at Jaskier, just to know if he was giving Geralt that look of fondness that he craved so much. Jaskier’s smiles shouldn’t go to waste. They should be treasured and kept safe in memory, not getting lost when no one was around to see.

Geralt opened his eyes just slightly. Just enough to see the warmth on Jaskier’s face.

He was breath-taking. Wherever Jaskier was leading him to, it couldn’t possibly be better than the sight of Jaskier himself. If it were up to Geralt, they would just stay here and Geralt would take in the softness of Jaskier’s expression for hours.

He must not have been too subtle about it, for it didn’t take Jaskier longer than a split-second to open his mouth in indignation.

“Geralt!” Outrage tinged his voice. “No peeking!”

Geralt’s lips curled up even further. “I’m not,” he lied, even while now meeting Jaskier’s eyes full on. He couldn’t resist. The open emotion in them was too beautiful not to look.

“Alright. Fine,” Jaskier huffed. “You asked for it.”

Jaskier let go of Geralt’s hand, leaving him feeling empty and cold. Sudden regret washed over Geralt and he reached out to catch Jaskier’s hand, but he had already pulled away.

“Jaskier,” he began, not knowing what to say to fix this. He hadn’t wanted to ruin this for Jaskier who had been so excited. He shouldn’t have peeked. He shouldn’t have been so weak for Jaskier’s smile.

A smile that strangely enough hadn’t dropped yet. If anything, it became even wider now, tinged with mischief.

“Oh no,” Jaskier said slyly. “You reap what you sow.”

In one swift motion, Jaskier stepped behind Geralt and something soft fluttered over Geralt’s eyes. Fabric. A scarf.

Geralt could hear a muffled chuckle from behind as Jaskier tied a knot into the make-shift blindfold, careful not to get any of Geralt’s hair in the knot.

“There,” Jaskier said and his breath ghosted across Geralt’s neck, sending shivers down his spine. “That’ll prevent you from cheating.”

When Geralt felt Jaskier round him again he scowled, though his heart was pleasantly thumming in his chest.

“You had that prepared,” he accused. “You wanted me to peek.”

The soft laugh those words earned sent tingles all over his skin and a warmth though his chest.

“You can’t prove that,” Jaskier teased and took Geralt’s hand again, this time threading their fingers together. A silent promise to not let go again. “Perhaps I just know you too well.”

Geralt grunted, but there was neither amusement nor disbelief in it.

“Perhaps you do.”

What once would have been terrifying to him, now made Geralt feel unexpectedly safe. For years there had been nothing worse than the possibility that Jaskier might one day see through the image of Geralt he had created in his mind and songs. That he would see who and what Geralt truly was; someone who wasn’t worth sticking around. Someone who was scarred inside and out and who would cause everyone around them to be scarred as well.

But Jaskier wore the scar on his forehead with pride. He looked at Geralt in a way that made him want to be seen. It made him think that perhaps there was a part of him that was worth being known.

Willingly, Geralt put his trust in Jaskier and let him lead him further towards the sound of the sea. Geralt tensed as memories of darkness, cold and fear crashed over him like waves. But beneath his feet wasn’t the rock of the cliffs but soft sand.

Jaskier squeezed his hand and pressed closer to his side as they walked. “I’m here,” he seemed to say silently. “I am safe.” Geralt didn’t need him to actually say it and neither did he need to see Jaskier. It was enough to feel him. To know him. Jaskier might be reckless, but never when it came to Geralt. He wouldn’t wilfully do anything that agitated him, like bring him to a place where painful memories resided.

Slowly Geralt relaxed and let himself get lost in the feeling of having Jaskier so close to him.

Finally, they came to a halt.

“I need to let go of you,” Jaskier said, “but I’ll be right here. I’m not leaving you.”

Still he didn’t let go. Not yet, not until Geralt gave him a brisk nod. Even then did Jaskier’s hand leave his with the greatest hesitation, his fingertips lingering against Geralt’s skin until he couldn’t possibly excuse the contact any longer.

While Geralt was left to helplessly stand there, he perked up when he heard Jaskier hum softly. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough for Geralt to locate exactly where he was going.

Jaskier had always been incapable of keeping quiet, but somehow it felt as if it was different this time. This wasn’t absentminded singing, it sounded purposeful in a way.

Some tightness in Geralt’s chest loosened and he turned his head towards where he could hear Jaskier, as if that would somehow get him closer to him.

There was a strange sound Geralt couldn’t place and then the humming broke off, ending in a string of curses.

Geralt was just about to lift his blindfold to make sure Jaskier was alright, when Jaskier shrieked “Don’t look! I’m not done it yet!”

Slowly, Geralt let his hands fall back to his side, his worried frown turning into an expression of amusement.

After listening to nothing but the waves and the sounds of Jaskier’s struggles for a while, Geralt nearly flinched when Jaskier finally let out a triumphant shout.

Judging from the way the sand crunched under his feet, Jaskier must be skittering in his hurry to get back to Geralt.

His fingers fumbled on the knot of the blindfold and right before it fell off, Jaskier said “Close your eyes. I want to see your face.”

Geralt did as he was bid and only when Jaskier came to stand in front of him again, did he open his eyes.

At first he couldn’t even see what Jaskier had prepared. His mind and body were drawn in by the sight of Jaskier himself, a nervous yet excited gleam in his eyes and a grin so bright it almost lit up the night. His cheeks were flushed red and a soft orange light flickered over his face, making his eyelashes throw long shadows on his skin.

Only when Jaskier blinked and broke the eye contact for a second, did Geralt’s mind catch up and he turned around. His eyes widened and his heard fluttered like a winged thing.

Surrounding them candles and torches were stuck in the sand, carrying dancing flames. A blanket was stretched out on the sand, just big enough for two people to sit on and another blanket was folded neatly on top of it.

“Jaskier, what…” Geralt couldn’t finish that thought. His mouth went dry and his tongue refused to form words.

This couldn’t mean what Geralt’s foolish heart wanted to see in it. This wasn’t romantic, as much as it looked like it could be.

“Essi helped,” Jaskier answered sheepishly and he toyed with the sand with one foot. He gave Geralt a lopsided grin. “As if I needed any help with that.”

“With what?” Geralt croaked the words out more than he spoke them, too desperate yet apprehensive of what the answer might be.

“With doing nice things for you, of course. Giving you beautiful things.” Jaskier looked down and played with a loose thread on his sleeve. “You were so worried yesterday. I know you barely slept, so maybe it wasn’t the best idea to keep you up all night again, but I really don’t want what happened yesterday be the thing you think about when you remember the coast.” He abandoned the task of pulling at the thread and touched Geralt’s arm gently. “And I really didn’t want to miss my chance of going stargazing at the coast.”

Something sharp and cold pierced Geralt’s chest.

“This doesn’t have to be your last chance.” The word came out quiet and forced. “You could stay here. With your friend.”

They had discussed this before. Essi had told him Jaskier wanted to leave with Geralt. The next morning, Jaskier had told Geralt the same thing. And Geralt wanted it, more than anything.

Yet some small part of him still insisted that this wasn’t fair to Jaskier, that by taking him with him, Jaskier would be forced to miss things like these; things he so obviously wanted and needed to be happy.

“No I can’t,” Jaskier said firmly. “You need to go back to the Path.”

“You don’t.”

Jaskier gave him a long look. It would have made Geralt nervous, but there was not a hint of doubt or contemplation in Jaskier’s eyes. His choice had already been made. Perhaps even before he had ever asked Geralt to come here with him.

“Yes I do. If you’re going than so am I.”

Geralt’s forced his breathing to continue as it should. Hearing Jaskier say that he was going to stay with Geralt during a rare peaceful moment on the Path was one thing. It was something entirely different hearing these words while they were somewhere else, somewhere Jaskier should by all accounts want to stay.

Geralt’s fingers twitched and he gave into the urge of putting his own hand over Jaskier’s, giving it a little squeeze.

“This will still not be your last chance,” he said gently, every word getting him closer to believing that this was real, that Jaskier truly chose to be with him. “You get to watch the stars all the time when we camp outside. Just because we leave tomorrow doesn’t mean that you’ll never get to see them again.”

“But this is different.” Jaskier bit his lip and gestured vaguely. “It’s not about the stars. They are the same wherever you go. I like watching them with you. Not because we’re already outside, but because we are making the choice to watch them.” He let out a dry laugh and looked away again. “It sounds silly if I say it like that.”

Geralt couldn’t tear his eyes away from Jaskier’s face, the gentle curve of his nose and the soft blush of his cheeks.

He swallowed thickly and shook his head. “It sounds exactly like something you would say.” His lips twitched up. “It sounds beautiful.”

They went over to the blanket and sat down, close enough that their shoulders were touching. Geralt watched with this all-encompassing feeling in his chest as Jaskier leaned his head back to watch the stars. Every once in a while, he threw a glance at Geralt out of the corner of his eyes and every time their eyes met, he gave Geralt a small smile. His hand inched closer to Geralt’s until their pinkies were touching.

Geralt didn’t dare move. His breath got stuck in his throat and his eyes were searching Jaskier’s face for a hint of what he was thinking, but Jaskier just looked back at the sky, his head all the way back in his neck. It couldn’t possibly be comfortable.

Perhaps it was the cover of the night, the dancing light of the candles or the fear of yesterday, but without thinking about it, Geralt put an arm around Jaskier’s waist and pulled him closer until they were flush against each other.

“You can put your head on my shoulder,” he whispered into Jaskier’s ear that was suddenly so close.

If Jaskier thought it was a weak excuse Geralt had come up with just so he could be closer to Jaskier, he didn’t comment on it. Instead he complied, leaning his head against Geralt, but no longer did he watch the sky. He was studying Geralt’s face, looking up at him through his eye lashes.

Something squirmed inside Geralt’s guts. It was equally exhilarating and terrifying having Jaskier so close, studying him as if he wanted to figure out everything there was to know about him. It made him want to bare his heart and soul to him.

There were reasons he couldn’t do it. Reasons that he had always thought were good and important. Why was it so hard to remember those reasons now?

“You don’t have to give me beautiful things,” Geralt said. It was close to the reason, but not quite there yet.

He could feel the vibration of Jaskier’s answering hum. “Neither do you.”

Geralt’s heart stuttered and his hands balled into fists. “I’m not giving you anything.”

Nothing Jaskier knew about at least. And he couldn’t know. If Jaskier knew, it would break something. Trust. Their friendship. That brittle wall between them that shielded Geralt from rejection.

A part of him wanted that wall to shatter, for the slither of hope that it wasn’t rejection and heartbreak he would find on the other side.

“Don’t you?” Jaskier lifted his head and shifted so he could look Geralt in the eyes. “I’d say you’re giving me more than anyone else ever has. How can you not know?” He tilted his head and his lips parted in a disbelieving smile. “You’re giving me adventure. Places I never would have seen, songs I never would have sung without you.” His fingers began playing tenderly with Geralt’s, dancing over his hand and caressing his palm. “You’re giving me someone to lean on and moments like these.”

With each of Jaskier’s words, the fear weighing down on Geralt disappeared more and more.

“This moment was your doing. You’re giving it to me.”

Jaskier’s eyes softened impossibly. “It’s better with you here.”

Geralt’s chest clenched and without meaning to, he said, “The Path is better with you too.”

Jaskier’s smile widened, crinkling his eyes. “Then you better get used to it being better. I don’t care how often I have to tell you, but I’m pretty hard to get rid of.”

Without warning, images of Jaskier falling off the cliff flashed through Geralt’s mind. Jaskier’s pale hand in the water. His too slow heartbeat. The feeling of his lips cold and unmoving against Geralt’s as he tried with all his might to give Jaskier his life back.

“I don’t want to get rid of you.” It was an admission, a plea, a certainty and so much more. More than Geralt could ever put into words.

Silence fell over them once more. As before, Geralt’s eyes were drawn to Jaskier. The serene smile dancing over his lips, the soft orange glow of his skin, the way his free hands idly played with the sand.

Jaskier halted. His eyes followed the movement of his own hand, lighting up when they found what his fingers already had. Jaskier lifted the seashell he had stumbled across and shook the sand off. Excitement made him glow as he ran his fingers over the rills almost in wonder.

“Look at this!” he beamed as he presented it to Geralt who took it in his own hand carefully, unsure of what to do with it. It was a shell like any other Jaskier had found on the shore over the past days. Some he had collected, but most he had declared ‘not special enough’ to take with him, though Geralt had no idea what criteria Jaskier used to determine that.

“It’s pretty?” He offered, uncertain of what Jaskier wanted to hear.

Jaskier rolled his eyes good-naturedly. He tapped Geralt’s hand, drawing his attention back from himself and back to the shell. “What else?”

Geralt frowned and looked at the shell closer. When his eyes caught on a small detail, they darted back to Jaskier, uncertain how to say it without disappointing Jaskier. He swallowed.

“It’s broken.”

At that, Jaskier actually laughed, unfurling the knot of worry in Geralt’s chest.

“Not broken. It just has a hole.” Jaskier put his hands around Geralt’s, guiding them until he held the shell in a way that made the light of one of the torches shine through the hole. “Essi says that those kinds of shells are gifts from the sirens.”

“No they’re not,” Geralt snorted without missing a beat. A second too late he realised that maybe that had been a stupid thing to say. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin this for Jaskier by taking away some of the wonder he saw in the world.

But Jaskier only grinned back. “Of course not,” he agreed. “No need to hold a lecture on how sirens don’t like people. I know well enough they wouldn’t give gifts to humans.” He gave a small shrug. “But sometimes it’s fun believing in fairy tales. It’s a nice thought that there’s someone looking out for you. Those living near the woods have the fae and those near the shore have sirens.”

Geralt could do nothing but nod silently. He didn’t dare speak. What Jaskier was saying came dangerously close to a truth he couldn’t know about. One wrong word by Geralt could shatter the small happiness he had collected in form of fae-gifts.

Jaskier contemplated him for a moment, before reaching out. Had he been anyone else, Geralt would have snarled at him, but as Jaskier’s fingers came close to his face, Geralt did nothing but hold his breath in anticipation of what was to come. Gently, Jaskier let his fingers glide through his hair until they reached his hair band. He pulled it off, mindful not to tug uncomfortably at Geralt’s hair as he did.

The tresses spilt free, falling forward and shielding Jaskier from Geralt’s view, until Jaskier tucked them behind his ear. His knuckles brushed softly against Geralt’s temples as he gathered a strand of hair and separated it into three parts.

Geralt relaxed into the familiar tugging at his scalp as Jaskier plaited his hair. He closed his eyes and had to resist letting out a content hum. He didn’t need to. Jaskier’s humming as he worked was more beautiful was anything Geralt could ever produce.

Unexpectedly, a small weight was added to the braid and Geralt’s eyes opened again, glancing at Jaskier’s creation.

“Really?” he asked in amusement. “You don’t have flowers so now you braid a seashell into my hair?”

Jaskier’s swatted a hand at his chest. “It’s not just to make you look pretty. Folks here sometimes put bands through these kinds of shells and put them on things that are important to them. For protection.” He hesitated and toyed with the end of the braid. “Most people hang it over the doors of their homes.”

There is was again. Home. The thing neither of them had. The thing Jaskier kept insisting on calling their shared rooms or the clearings they sat up camp at.

There was a seashell in Geralt’s hair and words hanging in the air and Geralt wanted so badly to make it mean what the flicker of hope in his chest told him it could mean.

Home. Something you trusted. Something you’d come back to. Something that made you happy.

Geralt’s lips moved before he had time to think about what he was doing.

“I have something for you too.”

He could hear Jaskier’s breath hitching and his heart speeding up.

“What is it?” His voice sounded eager and strangely reverent.

Geralt hesitated only one second longer. Essi’s words came back to him, swirling through his mind, urging him to do this.

Slowly, he pulled out the figure of a fox he had crafted this morning while Jaskier had been still asleep.

Geralt cleared his throat as Jaskier’s eyes went wide, his fingers hovering over the figure as if it there was more to it than there had been to any of the others.

“Geralt…”

“I found it in the woods,” he blurted out the lie Essi had unknowingly presented to him. It felt wrong, so unbearably wrong to lie to Jaskier so callously, but at the same time it soothed the sudden spike of fear in him. Jaskier wasn’t going to reject this gift. He wasn’t going to read into it and realise what Geralt came so dangerously close to revealing. “Yesterday. I thought you should have it.”

“Oh.”

Geralt’s chest twisted at that sound. It was impossible to discern whether it was disappointed or excited. It felt like a mask for something bigger than either emotion.

For a split second, Jaskier’s face fell, but then his fingers touched the wood and when his eyes snapped back up to meet Geralt’s, they were strangely shiny.

Panic curdled Geralt’s blood, but then Jaskier’s beamed at him, his hand coming up to touch the seashell in Geralt’s braid once more.

“Thank you,” he said shakily, as if too overcome by emotions to keep his voice from trembling. “It means – Geralt, you have no idea how much it means to me that you gave this to me.”

Geralt swallowed and it felt like eating shards of glass.

“It’s nothing.” It was everything. “I have no use for it. And you like them-”

“I do,” Jaskier said so urgently that he almost cut Geralt’s words off. “I do like them. All of them.” He looked down at the little fox. “It’s different getting one from you, though.”

“Different?”

However desperately Geralt wanted Jaskier to elaborate, to tell him why it felt different – to tell him that maybe it wasn’t just the act of being gifted something like this but it coming from Geralt – Jaskier just nodded silently.

With the force of a wyvern slamming into him, Geralt felt the crushing emptiness he hadn’t allowed himself to mourn before. Having Jaskier winding himself out of Geralt’s arms to braid his hair was fine. But now that both of Jaskier’s hands were around the little fox, Geralt felt so empty, so bereft.

He didn’t know what to do with his hands.

It was a small mercy that a gust of wind almost pushed Jaskier into him. It wasn’t that strong, but Jaskier had been preoccupied and not been balanced enough to withstand the push. Geralt wasn’t going to complain about Jaskier staying exactly like that, with his side pressed against Geralt’s and his one hand resting over Geralt’s heart for balance.

For a moment, Jaskier too seemed not to have a problem with this position, melting against Geralt. Then he stiffened.

“No!”

Geralt almost flinched at the sudden shout. Instinctively, his hands flew to Jaskier’s hips, pulling him closer yet and scanning the surroundings for threats. He found nothing.

“What’s wrong?” Jaskier was so close that Geralt’s lips almost brushed the shell of his ear as he spoke.

The reply came in the form of curses. It took Jaskier a second to compose himself enough to explain. “The damn wind blew out all the candles. It took me forever to light them!”

Geralt let out a low chuckle.

“You want me to light them again?”

Jaskier’s face lit up and he began nodding eagerly, but then his gaze dropped to where they were practically pulled flush against each other and he shook his head instead.

“Don’t go,” he said quickly. “It would be too cold without you.”

For good measure, Jaskier spread the extra blanket over the both of them, effectively making sure Geralt would stay in place. As if Geralt would have been able to even consider pulling away from Jaskier’s touch. He couldn’t keep the soft smile off his face when Jaskier snuggled tighter into the blanket when another gust of wind ruffled his hair. The sight of Jaskier trying in vain to keep his fringe where it was supposed to be was more endearing than it should have been. It made Geralt’s chest ache with a longing he wished he were allowed.

“Don’t,” Geralt said softly and gently caught Jaskier’s hand, as he once again tried to make his hair stay on his forehead.

Jaskier looked up at him, eyes wide and his lips slightly parted. Yet for the first time, Geralt’s eyes were drawn to neither of them.

His gaze was firmly fixed on the thin scar on Jaskier’s brow.  It almost marked him as someone who walked the Path, someone who willingly chose this life. For the inspiration, the adventure and, Geralt began to understand, for Geralt himself.

Human eyes probably wouldn’t have been able to make out the fading scar, but to Geralt it was as clear as if it were painted on Jaskier’s face with a brush. It shimmered silver in the moonlight.

Geralt must have been staring for too long, for Jaskier’s smile fell and he pulled his wrist out of Geralt’s grip to jab a finger at his chest.

“Don’t you dare say anything about how I got hurt because of you again.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Geralt replied and to his own surprise he found that it was the truth.

The hatred and guilt that had risen in him like bile whenever he had seen the reminder of his failure to protect Jaskier was all but gone, still slumbering in the back of his mind but no longer able to turn Geralt’s blood to ice. Now, a soothing warm spread through his chest and his lips curled into a smile.

Tentatively, he lifted his hand to caress the scar – the proof of Jaskier choosing Geralt, of staying with him despite the ugliness of his life.

"You never hide it," Geralt said softly.

Jaskier's chin jutted forward defiantly and the look the gave Geralt promised a challenge.

"And I don't intend to start doing so." Mischief and something Geralt couldn’t name flashed through his eyes. "Besides, as long as I have a scar, you can't claim that your own scars make you anything other than beautiful, because then you'd implicitly insult me too."

Geralt let out a grunt, but his heart gave a jolt at Jaskier's words; like a horse jumping mid-run when running wasn’t enough to enjoy the feeling of the wind in its mane.

"You say that as if I had a problem insulting you," he teased with neither heat nor malice and nudged Jaskier’s ribs with his elbow.

Jaskier's eyes narrowed. "I dare you to tell me my scar makes me look ugly. I dare you."

"You look," Geralt said without missing a beat, his face a blank mask, "like you didn't look where you were going and ran into a tree."

Jaskier let out an exaggerated gasp and even beneath the blanket Geralt could see the movement of him clutching his heart. "You! That was one time! And in my defence I was distracted. It’s not my fault that you looked beautiful with your hair braided back." With a fond expression, he ran his fingers over Geralt’s small braid. Geralt wasn't sure he even realised what he was doing, but he'd be damned if he pointed it out and made Jaskier stop.

"No, wait," Jaskier said in a tone that made it very clear that he hadn't actually forgotten what he was about to announce. "That was fully my doing, because out of the two of us, I am the one with a sense of style." He gave Geralt a cheeky grin and added," Which is why I don't trust your judgment. I think my scar makes me look roguishly handsome."

When Geralt didn’t reply Jaskier’s brows rose. “I don’t hear any protest. Geralt, could it be? You agree with me?”

Geralt snorted. “Something like that. ‘Roguishly handsome’ sounds stupid, but it’s better than ‘foxy’ at least.”

“Excuse me, are you telling me that you could find better descriptions than a poet?”

He couldn’t. But looking at Jaskier’s eyes being illuminated by the torches and the moon, his smile challenging, easy and so breathtakingly familiar, Geralt knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that there wasn’t a single person on this continent who could capture Jaskier’s beauty in words.

“Besides,” Jaskier went on and wiggled the fox figure in front of Geralt’s face. “I’d say this is proof that someone out there agrees with me that I am foxy.”

Geralt groaned and shook his head with a fond laugh. “You’re an idiot.”

Jaskier bumped their shoulders together playfully, but when his eyes fell back onto the fox, he sighed wistfully.

“How’s that for a name? Idiot.” His lips curled up. “Sounds about right, if you ask me. My idiot.”

He said it so unbearably fondly and Geralt ached.

More than anything did he want to be that. He wanted so badly to be his. Jaskier’s. His witcher. His friend. His…. anything that Jaskier was willing to let Geralt be for him. He wanted it all. He wanted to be all. Just like Jaskier was everything to him.

Everything a witcher shouldn’t want, shouldn’t get, shouldn’t keep.

And yet he was. He was right there, leaning against Geralt, snuggled up with him beneath a blanket with a gift Geralt had given to him in his hand.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked quietly, all traces of humour and teasing vanishing slowly, like fog clearing away, leaving something vulnerable and raw.

“Hmm?”

“Do you think the fae are like the sirens in the stories?”

Geralt’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Jaskier’s gaze wandered over to the sea, to the stars and back to Geralt. “They like to pretend that they don’t like humans.”

Geralt’s breath hitched and he had to force his heart to remain steady. Jaskier was too close. He might feel it if it started racing.

“Maybe they have good reason not to show themselves,” he offered slowly. “Fae are creatures. It doesn’t matter whether they like humans or not. Humans are afraid of what they don’t understand.”

Jaskier contemplated him for a long time.

“What about you?” He asked finally.

Geralt’s lips quirked up and he poked Jaskier’s side, earning him an indignant squeak. “You know I don’t like humans. Not a single one.” His tone made it more than clear that his words couldn’t have been less true.

Jaskier huffed and rolled his eyes. “I meant the other thing. If you don’t understand something…say, if someone was to feel something that you don’t understand…” His voice trailed off and his hands tightened on the fox. He lowered his head until his mouth practically disappeared in the blanket, leaving his voice muffled as he mumbled, “Forget it.”

An iron band wound itself around Geralt’s chest, squeezing tightly, making it impossible to breathe. He didn’t want to forget. Whatever it was that Jaskier had come so close to telling him, he couldn’t forget. He wanted – needed – to know what it was and why the sudden melancholy had fallen over Jaskier.

Tentatively, he reached out, pulling one of Jaskier’s hands off the fox and linked their fingers.

“You know,” he began slowly, unsure himself what he was about to say, “I think you have ample proof that the fae like you.”

A hesitant smile tugged at the corners of Jaskier’s lips, but the strangely lonely look in his eyes didn’t disappear. “Do I? Because I’ve been given gifts before. From lovers, from benefactors, from my parents. I know this is different. I want it to be different. But they all left. And the one giving me these gifts doesn’t even trust me enough to – I just want the fae to look me in the eyes and tell me why they give me those gifts. I want to stop getting my hopes up only to start doubting myself again. I just want the truth.”

The tightness around Geralt’s chest got worse. “What if that’s the one thing they cannot give to you?” He whispered, though it broke his heart to deny Jaskier this. “What if they know that once you see them, you will shun their gifts as you will shun them?”

“I just want them to trust me that I won’t hurt them.” Jaskier’s shoulders shook in a silent sob. “Why can’t they trust me? Why am I not enough?”

Geralt watched helplessly as Jaskier gasped for breath in between sobs. He wasn’t taking about the fae anymore. Essi had warned Geralt. She had told him that Jaskier was afraid for his heart. That he doubted it would remain unbroken. And Geralt had promised to be there for Jaskier. He wanted to be there for Jaskier. He had seen Jaskier’s mood shift unexpectedly before. Just days ago, he had seen Jaskier go from being laughing and singing joyfully to crying into Essi’s shoulder.

Geralt had hoped that he would never have to see Jaskier that distraught again, but candlelight, banter and stargazing could only distract Jaskier for so long. Geralt knew what it felt like to care about someone so deeply that nothing could distract him from the thought of his smile for long. He understood and his heart shattered as he was forced to watch Jaskier fall apart as he was overcome by the fear of rejection that Geralt understood better than anyone.

Jaskier turned his face away from Geralt, hiding his watery eyes, but Geralt gently pulled him closer, cradling his head as Jaskier melted into his embrace and pressed his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck.

There was nothing Geralt could do about Jaskier’s heartbreak. But…perhaps he could soothe his fear of rejection, of not being trusted with the truth.

Talking about the fae wouldn’t get rid of the problem, but it could be a first step.

There were words. Words that Geralt could say. Easy words. Ones that would cut his throat and this thing between him and Jaskier like swallowing glass. It’s me. It’s always been me.

He could say it. He should say it.

He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

He couldn’t do it. Not when Jaskier was like this. Saying the words now that Jaskier was choking back tears, would do more harm than good. Perhaps Jaskier wouldn’t even believe him. He might think Geralt was just telling him what he wanted to hear out of pity.

It wasn’t even what he wanted to hear. What Jaskier wanted was hope and wonder and a fairy tale. All Geralt could offer him was the grim reality of a broken man who loved more than he had ever thought possible.

“We’ll leave tomorrow,” Geralt said. It was redundant and it was no consolation. But Jaskier looked up at his words with the hints of a smile, though it was still watery. “We’ll leave this behind us.”

This. The coast. The secrecy.

Jaskier needed to know. He deserved to know. And he deserved to have it told to him in a way that he would believe.

“Where will we go?”

No matter what was about to happen, whether he rejected Geralt, despised or ridiculed him, it wasn’t important.

“Don’t know. Doesn’t matter.” Geralt’s squeezed his hands. “It’ll be Home anyway.”

No amount of heartbreak and inevitable loneliness could ever be worse than Jaskier’s misery. Jaskier needed to know that he was enough. That he was so much more than that. That to Geralt he was everything. That he could be everything to someone else out there too.

“Yeah,” Jaskier agreed softly. “That it will be.”

Humans were afraid of what they didn’t understand. And witchers…witchers were the opposite. They understood the sticks and stones, the shouts and screams.

Witchers knew what they themselves were, they knew what others saw in them. They feared it too, because in contrast to everyone else, witchers understood.

Geralt understood. He understood what he had to lose if he told Jaskier. He understood why Jaskier wouldn’t travel with him anymore after he confessed everything.

He understood that he could never be to Jaskier what Jaskier was to him.

Jaskier squeezed his hand back and repeated the word that made Geralt ache and yearn.

“Home.”

Geralt understood and it made him more afraid than any witcher ever should be.

But more than any of that, he understood one thing: It didn’t matter how much he feared the outcome, he had no choice but to give Jaskier one last gift, the one he should have given him from the very beginning. The one that would tear them apart.

The truth.

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[lcnelyinthesky]

admiration - tsukishima kei

a/n: okay hi?? im ellie?? heres this??? i worked on it for like four? days?on and off? and its longer than any oneshot ive written but yk shes cute ig. pls be nice pls enjoy... but also my last piece got 2 notes and im really hopin in not shadowbanned here lmao

genre: fluff, angst, rivals to lovers!!

pairing: bisexual!female!reader x tsukishima kei (yes bi reader its a vibe)

warnings: a break up with a beautiful woman i made up myself, swearing

word count: 3.7k (ahhhh!!)

enjoy!! :D

Elementary second year. Your newly-assigned seat was next to a much taller, blond kid. He was smart and bright, rivaling the sun in terms of unbridled joy. Now, none of that can be seen by eight year old eyes, but looking back and comparing, it's easy to spot that he changed. 

Tsukishima Kei was an excitable kid, just as everyone was, but he was still snarky; his arrogance seemed to be something that just festered within his soul, no matter the trauma that brought it out. 

Childlike wonder is still alive and well at eight. 

The teacher you had back then was quite rude. She was pushy and angry, and she assigned way too much homework. Everything she uttered made you huff in disappointment, crossing your arms and hoping for some sort of reaction from someone. The kid next to you was named Koji--or, at least, that's what you called him. He was your best friend, spending every moment with you like you were siblings. You'd be able to crack a joke with the smallest glance and you’d talk constantly. As soon as your handwriting was legible to people of your age group, you'd pass notes back and forth and cackle at their contents. Until, of course,

“Tsukishima, will you switch seats with Kojikata today?” Your teacher sounded exhausted, huffing her sentence out on a sigh before going back to the multiplication tables on the board. Suddenly, your little world was interrupted.

“Y/N, right?” He didn’t look at you, placing his folders down on the desk and pushing his glasses back up as he sat. His words were hushed and quiet, but the class had moved into individual work--he wasn’t interrupting anyone.

“Yeah. Can I call you Tsukki?” You were angry, gripping your pencil tighter in your little hand as you wrote numbers down on white paper. One times one is one. Two times two is four. This is easy.

“No,” he was long doing the same thing, but writing quicker than you. That’s how it is, huh?

Three times two is six. Four times five is twenty. Six times three is eighteen. Five times six is thirty. This is easy-

“Miss, I’m done.” His voice was always so dry. Uninterested. 

Four times three is twelve. “Me too!” Your hand shot up with the paper in it, sending a death glare at the boy next to you.

That's how it is, huh?

This pattern continued for weeks. Tsukishima didn’t move from his seat next to you, as your teacher had made the realization that you worked far harder without friends around. Tsukishima lit a competitive fire under you; everything was now a race.

It started with handing in assignments. Who would go up to the front desk first to have their work checked over? Who would finish this quiz faster? Then it transferred into everything. 

Who would get to class faster? Who finished their lunch quicker? Who could read faster? Who scored higher on spelling tests? Who could run faster in gym class?

And then it was middle school.

Middle school brought in Yamaguchi Tadashi. 

It'd be an understatement to say he warmed to Yamaguchi quickly, but the basis behind that was strange. Tsukishima was never one for friends, even though everyone wanted to be friends with him. He was cool in the eyes of a handful of eleven year olds; letting everything roll off your back seemed to be an admirable trait. Yamaguchi worshipped him, and Tsukishima took him under his wing to teach him the ropes of being a cool kid.

At heart, though, Yamaguchi was kind and attentive. He could tell when things were going wrong, and supposedly it was him that changed the rest of your life.

The rivalry continued just as it had in elementary, just with higher stakes. You'd fight for answering questions first, working ahead of everyone else to just beat him. He’d never bat an eye at it, and sometimes you thought it was all over, but then

“Y/N.” Tsukishima Kei stood three steps behind you, looming over you with the height he was seemingly born with. The hallway was emptying by now, kids walking into their classrooms once again. The white floors rung with the quiet sounds of soft-bottomed shoes and a light above your head flickered calmly.

“Yeah?” You spun around to meet his gaze.

“What’d you get on that lit essay?”

“A 96. Why?”

“No reason,” he smirked and tilted his head up, looking down at you, “I got a 100.”

A huff and a stomp away gave him the answer he needed as he followed you into the classroom, sitting down behind you and next to Yamaguchi just as he did every day. The little shit.

Tsukishima was never better than you, technically speaking. On average and on paper, you were always both roughly the same. You'd fight for being top of the class, the position switching between both of you every day. You excelled in creative things while he excelled at sports, but both of you dabbled in the other. When people in your year began dating, everyone came to assume you two were. It was embarrassing, really, because Tsukishima Kei was a little shit know-it-all who will never beat me at anything ever and people need to stop thinking he will because he won’t I’m better than hi-

“Hey?” Oh right. Friends.

“Koji!” He never left, at least not yet. His nimble fingers tapping on your shoulder brought you back to reality, making you jump and turn around to face him, wrapping your arms around his body for a split second.

“You looked zoned” his face was riddled with concern that was easy to write off.

“Oh, whoops” a small blush heated your cheek as your hand migrated to rub your neck. “Did you want something?”

As you walked into the classroom a bit further, Koji sat on your right; he seemed to buckle down more when you had moved away from each other way back in the day, so there were less mid-class comedy shows. He grew up just as you had, and with the closeness of the two of you people began to think you were dating. At twelve, it was incredibly necessary to date someone--anyone. Theories bounced from everywhere and anywhere and with you it was either your best friend or your biggest rival. Your lack of attraction to either of them became the center of many late night crises. 

“Not particularly,” his gaze switched from you to the board again, beginning to write something down when he turned his head. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah! Of course I am,” you smiled at him, the kind of smile that made your eyes crinkle at the corners, and suddenly it was high school.

-

“Tsukishima is really cute! And he's smart, I heard that Kageyama wasn’t too bright somewhere.”

“But Kageyama’s so much hotter! His being a little dumb sometimes is endearing.”

“Are we not going to talk about that third year setter, Sugawara?”

“No, he’d never go for a first year. Besides, that Hinata kid is more of an enigma.”

“Have you even seen them play?” A howl of angry “yes”s fell over the crowd, trying to prove something. None of them had ever seen them play.

That asshole Tsukishima getting popular felt like a stab in the soul. None of them knew him or how much he sucked, but the amount of girls fawning over him was horrific.

-

There's something consistently poetic about young love, no matter where it comes from. Something extra sweet about holding pinkies in school corridors when no one is looking and seeing them every day, smiling loudly as the sun broke over the horizon all bright and early. The raging hormones and dumb, fake social hierarchies of fifteen make emotions run wild, and only the deeply immature end up helplessly infatuated. Others are more cautious, but there's only so many precautions one can take at fifteen. Sometimes some of us just want to be loved, no matter the sincerity of it.

Cared for, and whatnot. No harm in that, in the long run at least. 

“Y/N, right?” Her name was Mei. She was in your class; 1-4, just like Tsukishima. She was pretty. Long, black hair was preceded by two green streaks at the front. She’d always have those down, making her features look like a photo in a perfect frame. She had a collection of hair clips with small shapes on them that she’d have somewhere on her person at all times. Her more mid-sized body was paler than most, and she was covered in freckles and moles. Her eyes were an unusual shade of blue that looked deep enough to swim in. Her cheeks were always stained with a peachy blush that moved up her collarbones and into her ears, making her look like she was always smiling no matter what her face was doing. Karasuno’s school uniform did wonders for her curves, the skirt swaying up on occasion and making her look so damn perfect.

“Yeah! You’re…” a second of dumbfounded pause felt like years in your mind, coming to the conclusion that she was the most beautiful girl you had ever met. “Ojiro Mei?”

“Yep! I just wanted to tell you you looked really pretty today!” Her voice always had an upward inflection, and was higher than most. It was cute. Incredibly cute.

“Oh.” A moment of confidence fell over you like you weren’t in control of your actions, “you’re beautiful.”

“Thank you very much,” she bounced back on her toes and then rolled back to her heels, hands intertwined behind her back, “You’re too kind, Y/N.” Her sentences were always punctuated with an eye-crinkling smile.

Later that day, you found her on every social media account you could; she messaged you first.

When you don’t know you’re interested in women, it’s hard to notice that they’re flirting with you, but after a handful of supposed gay panic, you asked her on a date.

She was two inches shorter than you, and somehow that persisted no matter what shoes she was wearing. Every small outing with her felt like cloud nine--watching the sunset, small conversation over tea at a nearby cafe, cuddling in your bedroom with only a string of Christmas lights on. She always looked so wonderful in soft lighting, the potential cold of winter disappeared with pale beiges that made her freckles look like stars. Every action Mei ever did was soft and full of care. She could send every single emotion through her fingertips on your jaw, deepening a kiss you started moments before. She was like magic, until she wasn't anymore.

You supposed, when thinking back, that things fell out around month thirteen. The rose colored lenses everything was viewed through faded a bit, and it's easy to notice her pulling away. There were less late night phone calls and less recommended music and less hands running through your hair. Everything has a natural progression to the end, right?

“Do you still feel it?” It was raining. Large drops of water fell down to the floor, smacking the pavement at speeds you couldn’t even try to measure. She was wearing a bright yellow raincoat that looked almost dull in the four pm light. 

“Feel what?”

“Anything, baby.” All of her words ended with a huffed out sigh, like she was tired of something. Lying, maybe. 

You pondered the question, and it seemed like your hesitation gave her all the answer she needed. 

“Ya know, Y/N.” She looked down and grabbed your hands with hers, rubbing her thumbs on your palms as you grabbed around them. “This was fun. We had a good run.”

A solemn tear fell down your cheek at the ending, but there was no use in self pity or anger now. She was so sweet and kind, and it's truly unthinkable how she continued that kindness in the end.

“Yeah. A good run.” The pink in your cheeks grew as you choked out a laugh, pulling her in for one final hug under the dim fluorescent lights on the front door overhang of the school.

Fifteen came and went with love, and when sixteen rolled around you wondered if you’d ever be loved like that again.

-

A spirit can't be broken overnight, and if you’ve spent the last eight years of your life having a strong, consistent rivalry with someone, it won’t leave any time soon. Tsukishima and you were on similar playing fields for most of your life, but you had one thing he didn’t: relationship experience. In that way, you always counted yourself one point higher, like a boy scout badge. 

For a spell, however, your intensity changed. There was nothing more driving you than spite, and there was nothing you wanted more than to beat him. You were well into your second year of high school at this point, and--volleyball notwithstanding--you had wins over Tsukishima. You had seen him play volleyball, every match in his second year, and you deemed he was simply okay. You refused to count his success onto the list of wins for both of you.

June fifteenth. Tournaments were coming up around the corner when it happened, which explained every reason why he was there. You weren’t exactly prepared for the rain, so the best bet seemed to be sitting at the front entrance of Karasuno High School and wallowing in a little bit more self pity before you went home. You were just dumped after all, the tears weren’t done falling. 

The feeling between sadness and shame overflowed you, shades of yellowish green painting the world around you and churning your gut into oblivion. And the tears fell. It felt like a scene in a movie; in a few seconds, a strong, capable man would show up to your rescue.

“Y/N?” what the fuck?

He was sweaty. His face was matte from a light film of saltwater. He had a grey umbrella over his head, keeping himself dry from the still-pelting rain. His six-foot-two frame was covered with a black tracksuit, and he still had his sports goggles on.

Those fucking sports goggles.

“Tsukishima.” you deadpanned, trying to get him away as fast as possible. His words were snarky, as always, but this time laced with concern. Like he actually cared.

“What are you still doing here? It’s almost six,” he stood under the overhang with you, crouching to take a few feet off of his incredible height. 

“Sulking?”

“Ah,” he huffed and sat down next to you, “it’s not great for your posture, ya know.”

“Oh shut up, Tsukishima.”

“Remember when we were eight,” he looked up, studying the moths as they flew around the lights on the ceiling, “and you asked if you could call me Tsukki?”

“Vaguely, but we were eight.”

“Yeah, true” his head dramatically fell to his lap, staring at his knees as he chuckled, “but you can. Call me Tsukki, that is.”

An uncomfortable laugh fell from your lips, and he spoke for you, “this one kid, Koganegawa, the setter on Date Tech, calls me that too. It's not a Tadashi-only nickname anymore.”

“You say Tadashi-only like I wasn’t there first.”

“He never asked.”

“Would you have said no?”

“Probably” he hasn’t actually looked at you yet. 

“Should I not have asked?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Okay, Tsukki” you drew out the last letter, giggling at the situation before you had time to think about your emotions.

He noticed that you weren’t crying anymore and helped you stand, grabbing your hand and pulling you up. Tsukishima and you lived closer than you thought, walking the same direction and only splitting up seconds away from your home.

You walked in silence the whole time, but it was comfortable. While he was your rival, he was always a friend. There was nothing scary or intimidating about him, as is with most people when you’ve known them forever; it was almost like his facade just didn’t work on you. You were huddled close to him to stay out of the rain. 

The second you parted ways, you ran home. The rain was more of a drizzle now, but the temperature began a free fall--getting out of the cold as fast as possible was your first priority. Upon entering the front door and taking off your shoes and jacket, leaving everything to sit in the entryway, you took a shower. The rain didn’t do enough to wash away the pain of the day, and warm steam would let the rest evaporate. The expected unrelenting sadness wasn’t really present as much as was expected, though. Everything felt fine. Content. Okay.

-

And it continued that way. He sent you a snapchat asking if you had gotten home safely, which prompted a memory of you never giving each other your phone numbers. After a quick yes, tsukki. no need to worry ;), you sent him your number asking to play some game.

Whatever is meant to happen does, right? Any excuse for falling for him. You didn’t want to, of course, but things happen. Time changes. Thus, the excuses. Thus, the ignorance. Thus, the five stages of grief. 

It started with the denial, because no Y/N you can’t like Tsukishima Kei. He’s so competitive and mean and snarky and horrible and you hate him! Then, the anger, because Tsukishima sucks and he’s horrible and you’re going to punch him in his stupid cute face. Next, the bargaining, because please don’t let this be happening you’ll do anything to lose these feelings, even if it means letting him win at something. Going into the depression, because all you’ve ever wanted was to be free of this assclown and now you’re stuck thinking about him at three in the morning when you’re supposed to be dreaming about anything other than him. And finally, acceptance, when you scowl at him in the hallway because fuck, you like Tsukishima Kei.

The worst bit of acceptance is getting over it. Now you had to confront your feelings. Now you needed to tell him. 

It was roughly five months since he found you sulking on school grounds, and you regretted most days the way you let him text you every morning. It’d always be something stupid, like a joke about the novel you were reading in lit or sometimes he’d tell you, off hand, something dumb Hinata and Kageyama did at practice. Sometimes he’d text you, within the first twenty minutes of the school day, pointing out something little you did with your hair. They were never really compliments as much as comments; he’d say “your socks have a pink ring at the top” and give you nothing to work with from there. A simple yes would suffice, you always supposed, because “yes, tsukki. they do.”

He’d linger at his desk during the break between classes and would stay there if you didn’t leave, but would leave a few steps behind you if you did. He wouldn’t follow you, but he’d watch to know where you were going. Everything he did was concealed though--you'd only notice if you really wanted to know.

Yamaguchi was the only one to notice, even after a while of it. You’ll never know what he said to his friend, but the conversation you had with the aforementioned friend a day later gives some guesses.

“Y/N?” Tsukishima was never the shy type, and you knew him in the days where everyone was shy. He wasn’t loud, but he was bold. His words were always pointed and important. Everything he did always had purpose and intensity behind it.

“Tsukki?” You were sitting under a tree, enjoying the late spring weather of the beginning of your third year. Nothing became intense yet classwork wise, so there was ample time to chill on the school grounds. Overlooking the soccer field was a large oak tree. It was big enough to comfortably have multiple groups of people under its shade, but it was empty at the moment; save for you and the book you were reading.

“I was just wondering if you’d like to maybe go out sometime?” He somehow didn’t pause while talking, but his words came out more something akin to word vomit. You we’re more shocked than you should have been, if you had picked up on the signs. But you were feeling the same as he was, as far as you could tell.

“Sure, when?” You looked back down at your book for a second, placing the bookmark in it and folding the pages shut.

Tsukishima looked dumbfounded, standing there with his eyes bugged out and his mouth slightly agape. He started making unintelligible babbling noises, hoping to get something out that had any meaning at all. You took the reins instead, gaining confidence in his lack thereof.

“I was planning on getting coffee or something today after school. It gets really cold at night now, huh?”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“Would you like to join me?”

“There's a break before practice today so” he hesitated, letting the pink in his cheeks finally catch up to the beating in his chest. “Sure.”

You wouldn’t have ever pegged Tsukishima Kei as the flustered type.

-

There was never a drop in conversation, as there never really was between you two. A whole life together and you still had things to talk about, mentioning everything from your individual childhoods to recent developments. Turns out he never knew what genre of books were your favorite. Or what kind of music you listened to. Or what any of your hobbies were. 

Turns out you both had more in common than you thought, competitive spirits notwithstanding. Tsukishima Kei was a strange man in every sense of the word. He was arrogant and snarky and disinterested and bright and passionate and smart. He was your rival, smug look plastered on his smug face making your chest bubble in anger just as it had a million times before--or was that admiration this time? The world may never know. 

All that was real right now was the deck of cards on the table, being separated out into a card game both of you learned as kids. The small, round, cafe table shook with every slap of your hands, but the basis of your relationship would always be competition. It's just that now the anger behind that competition was gone. All that was left was admiration. 

[vesuvian-american-fics]

better with time. Ch 18

i'm home.

You ride with Reiner to Conny's village, exactly where the titans are coming from. (AO3)

Words: 1,841

Hours earlier within Wall Rose .

Panic shoots through you like ice. Goosebumps raising on your neck and a steady tremble overtakes you. Cold sweat dampens your forehead, your eyes dart between your friends. You can call Sasha and Conny that now, friends. Conversation with Bertholdt and Reiner was a bit strained and forced but interesting nevertheless. Historia and Ymir were damn near strangers to you but that didn’t stop you from turning to them and gauging their reaction to the bad news. They looked stressed of course. You breathe in deeply through your nose and slowly out your mouth.

Calm down. Just breathe.

You can handle this, you had nightmares of this day coming. Of course, they always ended in your painful death, but you’re not alone now like you are in your dreams. These are trained professionals. That also happen to be children much younger than you, even despite being a hundred years their senior. Stuck in your own haze of anxiety and panic you’ve missed everything Nanaba said, all the instructions she just gave.

“Y/N! Stick with me!” Reiner shouts, already headed out the door with the others. You almost trip over your own two feet in your haste to catch up to him. He is as reliable as he claims. You don’t know his history with Bertholdt, but you trust him. Bertholdt is intelligent and his quiet nature is welcome in the sea of young boisterous teens. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, so you’re happy to stick with these two. Even if Bertholdt would rather keep you at arm's length. A twinge of relief calms your jitters, that is until, Conny being distracted bumps into you. You snap your head to him, waiting for an apology before that look of horror much like yours moments ago is mirrored onto his once cheery face.

“My family is to the south... And the titans are... Coming from the South...” He says, large owlish eyes unblinking, mouth slack, unshed tears budding on his lashes. Your heart sinks. You have no words to offer him, you can imagine what he’s thinking and there's no way you can comfort him the way you’d like when you all are headed to board your fleet or horses and head South towards said titans.

You just gave him a sad look, a look he seemed to recognize through his fog by the way his bottom lip trembled in the way they do when you know someone's about to let loose and cry. You were about to speak before you were cut off by Nanaba’s voice cutting over the crowd.

“Get those horses ready, stat!” She barks, before using her gear to shoot up to where Miche is on a rooftop overhead. They looking towards the south. Can they see them from there?! Awkwardly you twiddle your fingers and bounce from one foot to the other, watching helplessly as Reiner saddles up his stallion. He’s quick with his work, he gets on the horse and pulls you up behind him without waiting for you to be ready. With that he snaps the reins and the horse pulls away from the base you all are abandoning.

You wrap your arms tight around his middle, turning your head to get one last glimpse of the safe haven that was just shattered. What will the day bring? Will you survive it with what little skill you possess? You feel like a burden, you miss the you that was locked away in the dungeons for only a moment before steeling your resolve. You can't waste your new life feeling useless. You don't want to be worthless to Hange... To Levi.

I’m not dying before I see them again.

...

Hours later within Wall Sina.

Only minutes after Levi was alerted of the situation in Wall Rose.

“Damn those things. Nothing for weeks and weeks on end and the second-–” Levi cuts himself off with a grunt as he forces open the door to Hange’s makeshift lab here.

“There's titans in Wall Rose. They came this morning and only now are we finally hearing about it, get ready to go...” He says, a cold bite to his tone but it doesn’t faze Hange. It stressed them a bit of course, the rush, and complications of it all. They’re worrying most about you, but at the same time in their gut they know your safe. Or so they hope at least. As a friend, they’d hate to lose you. Fuck the scientific advancements that could come from studying you, now in their heart, Hange just wants to see you safe by sunrise.

“Any word on where Y/N is?” Hange asks, their large brown eye still staring down into a microscope eyeing a piece of the wall at a molecular level. They hear Levi click his tongue in annoyance, probably upset that Hange can read him like a book. He’s worried about you.

“Everyone headed south and after that, if any of them are still alive they’re doing a perimeter of the wall to find the hole.” He informs, grimacing at the prospects of your survival and the rest of the scouts.

“They’ll be okay, those are some of our best out there and Miche is with them of course.” Hange muses, changing out the slide in the microscope with one that holds some of that odd crystal Annie is encased in.

“They haven’t seen Miche since this morning... He was holding off the titans.” Levi mentions, voice flat, an octave deeper than usual. Hange’s lips form into a flat line, and their brows furrow in concern, but they don’t speak. They silence between to two is understood. They hope he’s okay, only time will tell.

“Anyway,” Levi clears his throat to change the grim subject. “I’m going to get the priest ready to come along with us.” Levi says, pulling his coat closer over his shoulders.

“The priest?” Hange asks, confusion lacing their words.

“I want to show him what his silence can bring...” Levi said, and without another word he was stalking down the hallway.

“Be ready in half an hour or we’re leaving without you.” He calls, not bothering himself to wait for an answer, Hange knows well enough that time is ticking.

...

Back in Wall Rose.

The early afternoon sun was torturous on the back of your neck that was exposed to its rays. You could see the beginnings of a sunburn on Reiner’s neck, his cheeks were flushed from the heat, his shirt was starting to feel damp against you. Gross. Miche spoke in hushed tones to Nanaba and the others at the head of the formation. Nanaba looked stressed but she quickly regained her composure and gave Miche a curt nod before he pulled away from her and towards the crowd of titans running now in a full sprint towards you.

The thought of sacrifice made your mouth grow dry. Miche was heading towards the titans to buy everyone some time. You had heard previously, from Hange of course, that he was second only to Levi himself. Being clueless as you are to how things work here; you don’t know if that’s a good enough or not. You just hope that he’ll survive this. He seems strong, and Levi seems even stronger. Something about the way he carries himself make you feel like he could protect you. Protect the scouts, rather... you’re more of a burden to him right now, you think. He wouldn’t waste whatever skills he has to help you, someone who's hardly any help to him, right? You pouted at the idea of being abandoned, it was a recurring though you had recently. Just cooking and cleaning horse stables wasn’t enough to secure your life here. You needed to be more useful to them all, especially now, seeing as Reiner was so kind as to carry your extra weight around and keep you safe. You want to repay he scouts, Erwin, Hange... and repay Levi. You want him to see you as useful. You wanted him to need you around-––

You were taken from your thoughts as Nanaba gave orders to split up. Since you were on the back of Reiner’s horse you had no choice but to go where he wanted, and he wanted to follow Conny to his home town. Conny was grateful, and so was Sasha as she would break away to go back to her home deep in the woods. You prayed she’d make it back to you safe by the end of the day. Somehow, seeing her brown hair grow blurry the farther and farther she rode away gave you anxiety. You didn’t want this to be the last time you saw her.

You too were moving in another direction, pulling around the titans’ flank and heading straight to Conny’s village. You watched as he stumbled over his words, describing how to get to his home, his Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed loudly.

“Please! Can I check on my family first?” He pleaded, of course he was allowed to go find his home first. Any sane person would want to run straight to their house with news like this and see if his family was alright. It would be cruel to deny him that right, seeing the way he is now. A shadow of him former, childish self.

You were studying his features as you noticed his large eyes widen just a fraction more. He snapped the reins to rush his horse forward, Reiner and Bertholdt did the same. The village was eerily quiet, the homes were destroyed and your heart dropped so hard it felt as if it had fallen onto the beaten path beneath your feet.

Conny rush to the center of the town while Reiner and Bertholdt follow the sound of Conny’s voice. He’s calling for anyone to come out, his family, a neighbor, hell even a stranger to show themselves. You watch as he pulls his horse quickly around a corner and out of sight.  Reiner nearly crashed into Conny’s horse, not expecting him to just be frozen here, staring up in horror at what you could only assume was his old home.

His childhood home that now was a blonde-haired titan flattening it.

And it might be crazy, but this titan’s eyes, they’re so round and golden they look so much like Conny’s...

“Conny! Get back!” Reiner barks, pulling on Conny’s arm. But he’s ignored, Conny just continues to mumble incoherently.

“Conny...” You say, quieter now, you rub his back to coax him out of whatever haze his mind is in right now.

“It’s... My house. This is my house...” He finally whispers, his eyes glossed over as unshed tears begin to build up in his eyes. His voice is trembling as he fights to hold his composure. Your heart sinks, you swallow thickly as you try to gather your thoughts. You share anxious eye contact with Reiner, sweat is beading at his brow.

“It’s... my house....”

[lovelikedestiny]

1. Nile: I will break down the gates of heaven

I'll hold you close,

and share my heat.

In her life, Nile has already heard many terrible things: the news of her father's death, the heartbreaking sobs of her mother, the crying of her brother, fuck, the breaking of her own bones.

Joe's piercing scream as Nicky dies digs into her ear like a hot needle and she knows that she can never forget that sound. He wails as if his beating heart had been torn from his chest while he was alive, an animal sound, broken and shattering, from the depths of his soul.

Final. That word hurts like a merciless lash, and the meaning behind it is even worse. This death is final. 

After the two shots nearly killed Nicky, they had been so eager to protect him and prevent what seemed to be becoming more and more inevitable. It is unbearable that Nile has disappointed her new team, which has already grown dear to her like a second family, now so much.

For a few seconds, which feel like a yawning eternity, in which Nile can hear her own pounding heartbeat, she stands frozen in the brightness of the headlights. She tells herself that the blinding light makes her eyes water. The others are almost swallowed up by the shadows, which feels like they're getting thicker and thicker, and Nile involuntarily takes a step towards the people who gave her a home after her life went downhill. Because suddenly Nile is gripped by the fear of being abandoned. Even though she can see the others, she feels...alone. Incredibly alone and Nile resists the urge to curl up and cry and sob so hard that she can no longer breathe.

I do not want to be alone. I want to see my mom and my brother.

But she is or was a goddamn Marine! She cannot allow the events of tonight to crush her like a boulder. For the sake of her team, Nile has to take charge of the situation and keep going. While Joe screams and pleads in the background, Nicky in his arms, and while Booker and Andy frantically try to secure Quynh, Nile goes to the wreck of their car with wobbly knees.

Bending down reminds her of collecting stones with Nicky and she sniffs breathlessly, her fingers curled around the phone. "Oh fuck, oh fucking shit...”

"Nile? Is that you?” Copley. Copley is still on the phone and heard everything but has no idea what exactly happened. "What's happening? Was that really Quynh? And...is that...is that Joe?”

She doesn't want to answer him, chokes on the lump in her throat and clears her throat several times. Lord in heaven give me strength to get through this.

Quynh comes screeching back from the dead, a fury in human form, and Nile tenses as Quynh starts to fight back, but Booker quickly shoots her in the head.

Tears run down Andy's face, which looks so ancient that Nile almost expects to find dust and cracks in the ancient, porcelain-like skin. Barking, she instructs Booker to get something to tie Quynh up and he stumbles past Joe and Nicky's corpse - oh god - past Nile, grabs a bag and hurries back.

"He's not breathing!" Joe screams, rocking the lifeless Nicky back and forth and Nile has to support herself on the wrecked car, gasping helplessly into the phone. At the other end Copley slowly starts to figure out what happened through Joe's desperate shouts.

"Good lord...” He breathes. "Is Nicky dead? What the hell happened?"

"Q-Quynh,” Nile chokes out, the name burns on her tongue like embers and her body has not forgotten the wounds Quynh inflicted on her earlier. The blood that Quynh let flow in her furious rage - all of their blood - is gradually drying on Nile's skin and she wants to scrape it off, remove the traces of today and stop thinking about it. “Quynh r-rammed us and she killed Kozak and attacked us and then k-killed Nicky. And fuck, Copley, he's...he's dead...” Saying it out loud is even worse because it makes what happened true and the truth has a fucking habit of going right between the ribs like a deadly dagger.

"HE IS NOT BREATHING!" Joe howls and with his hectic, wild look, the tears that run into his beard, the blood-stuck curls and the broken, headless screams, he offers a picture of absolute panic.

No, Nile corrects herself mentally. This is what it looks like when you're devastated.

“Andromache! Sebastien! Help me! Nicky...Nicky isn't breathing! Please! Please...“ Joe stammers, floundering several times as if his tongue were suddenly no longer able to form words properly.

With an ash gray face, Booker looks up from Quynh, whom he is tying up, infinite sorrow in the downward curved corners of his mouth, before he asks Andy with a nod of his head to go to Joe.

This is probably the right decision, because Andy looks more helpless than Nile has ever seen. Andy needs something to focus on instead of thinking about the devastating reunion with Quynh. They're all bloodstained, but Andy is mortal, and Nile makes a mental note of tending to her wounds when they're in safety. Now that Nicky is no longer here, the rational part of Nile's brain whispers, and she mentally beats it several times because she can't stand it.

Andy is visibly reluctant to leave Booker alone with Quynh, who kicks around again, but Joe's whimpering "Andromache" is decisive and Andy crouches down next to him and Nicky. For a split second, her hand hovers over Nicky's body, drowning sadness in her gaze, before she places it on Nicky's, which is tightly gripped by Joe. Nile turns away from Andy and the gentle words with which she tries to talk to Joe, taking a deep breath. She has the feeling as if the blood that has been spilled makes the air heavy, suffocating.

"Nile? Nile, listen to me,” Copley speaks to her, and Nile blinks confused because she has apparently zoned out. “You will now take Quynh's car and drive to the safe house. I'll be waiting for you there and then we'll see. We will find a solution, all right? Everything will be fine, Nile.”

Nothing is going to be fine.

They are both aware that this time it is not a small problem for which a suitable solution can be found quickly. But Copley's calm, matter-of-fact tone helps Nile calm down a little and concentrate only on the next steps and nothing more. Not the loss, which is the undeniable, invisible weight that has begun to lie on them.

Your strength, my sweet girl, Nile's mom used to tell her. Is to keep your head up when the crown is too heavy for everyone else.

"I understand," Nile replies in a much firmer voice. "Where's the safe house?" Now that Quynh has found them, further secrecy is pointless.

"I'll give you the address."

After hanging up, Nile braces herself as best as she can before turning to the tragic scene that's taking place on this remote country road. There is a large blood stain on the hoodie that Joe gave Nicky as a gift and colors the words Look Irresistible in a grotesque red.

Nicky's sweet smile when he told her the hoodie was given to him by Joe two years ago tugs at her control over herself. The thought that the ...and I am taken on the back of Nicky's hoodie is now being cruelly fulfilled because death got Nicky into his pale hands, making Nile breathless.

Keep going. You have to keep going!

Continue reading on AO3 ;)

[luninosity]

Catching up on @evanstanweek ficlets again! Here’s Day 3, prompt: on set.

Read at AO3 here - 2,336 words of on-set love confessions, set during The First Avenger - or read on tumblr below!

#

Sebastian’s watching Chris. He often is, can’t seem to help the track of his gaze—can’t pull away from the magnet-tug that’s Chris Evans’ loud laugh and gesturing hands and philosopher’s eyes, and if he’s honest he doesn’t want to. Right now the low hazy grey lighting of the broken bar sits on Chris’s shoulders and turns him into a grieving supersoldier: a man hollowed out by loss, left with a gaping hole right through his chest.

 Chris is so good. So brilliant at emotion, at getting character. So thoughtful and so generous with his feelings, the kind of bravery that holds nothing back. He is Steve Rogers, through and through: a hero, shining blue and gold.

 Sebastian’s not that brave. Not that brilliant. Good at angst and pain, or dry humor, or intensity, maybe; but he’s in character for it. He does love people and stories, and he thinks he’s funny, sometimes, and he thinks he might want to be a writer, sometimes, and he can shove an entire pizza slice in his mouth when he’s comfortable around friends, but.

 It takes him a while. Exhaling. Stepping out. Speaking up. He wouldn’t say he’s shy, because he isn’t, not once he knows people. He’s just…not Chris Evans, who wears joys and vulnerabilities openly, with pride, unafraid.

 Sebastian looks at Chris, and aches with emotion, and says nothing, every day and every minute on this film so far.

 He’s technically done for the day, though he’s not at all done on this film; he’s spent the morning running around with Howling Commandos and being a young and terrified sergeant thrown into war. They’d filmed Bucky’s fall from the train the day before; Sebastian had honestly loved it. The emotion’d been easy: love and loyalty, throwing himself in to fight alongside the other half of his heart, the moment of sheer shock, a small but gloriously physical drop onto thick mats. They’d let him do that one, because it wasn’t a long fall and they needed to see his face. He hoped it’d been good; everyone seemed pleased, at least.

 He shifts weight, wishes he had a pillar or a wall to lean on. He watches Chris some more.

 They’d caught the stunned disbelief on Chris’s—Steve’s—face at the fall, yesterday. Chris is so incredible at nuance, at blazing emotions, even in a few-seconds-long shot. Sebastian had said, after, “That felt really good, that last take?” and had meant, I think you’re a genius, I think I want to work right next to you forever, I think I love you.

 Chris had gotten kind of pink-cheeked because Chris is too damn self-deprecating, and had said, “Oh—um, thanks, man, you too, I mean it felt good to me too, I mean we’re fuckin’ awesome, obviously,” and had nudged Sebastian’s shoulder, somewhere between a punch and a quick resting of a hand. “Craft services? They got blueberry bagels, someone said.”

 Chris, bagel-focused, clearly had not heard Sebastian’s internal monologue. And if he had, wouldn’t reciprocate.

 Which is fine, of course. Chris never needs to know, and Sebastian’s ridiculous emotions will calm the hell down and go away. Any day now. Sometime. Soon.

 But he’s watching Chris, and Chris is pretending to try to get drunk, pain visibly shredding him inside; Chris is Steve and Steve can’t believe it and has to believe it and wants to scream, to shout, to punch a hole through the world—

 The scene’s fantastic, of course.

 They get it in maybe three takes, rapid-fire, Chris laying out his heart for the watchers. His voice cracks; it’s getting rougher, the third time.

 They do it a couple times more for different close-ups. Sebastian takes a step closer, between takes. His boots—he’s changed; they’re his own boots—are louder than he’d recalled that morning; Chris looks over at the sound.

 And maybe Chris looks surprised, or relieved, or grateful, for a split second; maybe it’s all in Sebastian’s head, though, because the next second they’re right back into it, capturing Steve’s heartbreak.

 It’s a wrap for the scene, eventually. And Chris is done for a few hours too, though he’ll need to stick around; he’s got some close-ups to do inside a mock airplane, being bounced around, for what’ll be the big final self-sacrifice. Sebastian loves the heroism and pain of it; he’s always loved good writing, and he’s got a good feeling about this script and about this universe, which he’s a tiny part of now.

 Chris doesn’t get up right away. Just scrubs both hands over his face, shoulders slumped. Hayley Atwell’s gone off to talk to the director; Joe’s nodding, listening to her. Nobody’s checking on Chris.

 And that’s wrong, that’s wrong and not good and not right—Chris has just been hurting, the way that Chris hurts for the world, and Chris should never be hurting, not while Sebastian’s alive—

 Sebastian’s legs move before his brain makes a conscious decision. He’s picking his way across artistic rubble and taking a few running steps and putting a hand on Chris’s shoulder. “Hey.”

 Chris actually jumps a little, which isn’t the best start. “Oh! Uh, hey, hi, did you, um…have a question? About Steve and Bucky, or somethin’?” The Boston comes out extra-strong; it does that when Chris is feeling a lot, or tipsy, or simply exaggerating to make someone laugh.

 “No,” Sebastian says. “Or, well, yeah, we might want to talk about some of those flashback sequences, so we’re on the same page with emotion and all, but.” He licks his lips, realizes he’s doing it—a nervous habit, one he’s had for years—and stops. He can taste chapstick on his tongue. “I just. Wanted to. I don’t know. Are you…I mean, that looked like a lot.”

 “You…” Chris trails off. He’s looking at Sebastian’s face with astonishing intent; Sebastian would say even desperation, but that’d be ludicrous. Chris doesn’t have any reason to feel desperate about him.

 He tries, “I know you, um, like tea? Not coffee? We could go grab, um, tea. If you want.”

 “Tea,” Chris says, a little blankly. “But you like coffee.”

 Sebastian’s starting to get kind of worried, here. “I do, but you gave it up? We could maybe head back to your trailer, and you can, um, relax for a minute, and I can…try to make tea?”

 Chris stares at him some more.

 “Or not,” Sebastian throws in helplessly.

 “Yes,” Chris says. “Yes, yeah, yes—you—fuck. Okay. Jesus, Chris, get it together,” and he even shakes his head like a puppy flinging off water, and Sebastian kind of wants to grin and also scratch his tummy.

 Well. Maybe not scratch. He can think of better things to do with Chris’s stomach. Mostly involving his tongue.

 And he should absolutely not be thinking of that when Chris needs his help. He sticks out a hand. “To the end of the line? Or at least your trailer.”

 Chris looks at the hand, and then takes it, hauling himself up out of the chair. His fingers are large and strong and a little cold, and they squeeze Sebastian’s for just a little too long, as if wanting to hold on.

 No. Must be Sebastian’s heart thinking that. Wanting what he can’t have.

 He walks with Chris through behind-the-scenes set-ups and teardowns, props and people rushing to and fro, the corners of trailers and the shouts of movie-making going on. The sun’s warm, if light; the ground’s hard beneath his boots. He keeps stealing glances at Chris, who doesn’t seem too talkative. Sebastian’s poor overworked heart wants to take each sensation, each sight and taste and scent of this backstage moment, and fold them up safe deep inside.

 Chris is letting him help. That feels like sunshine.

 Chris’s trailer’s simple, unpretentious, unfussy; script copies and notes lie scattered around, and he’s got some weights, and some Disney-movie DVDs. Sebastian smiles, because that’s so very Chris: delight in the magic, always.

 Chris, still in costume, sits down on his sofa. He breathes out, and looks up. “Thanks.”

 “For what? How do I make tea with this?” He’s poking Chris’s electric kettle. He does sort of know how it works, in theory. His mother has an old-fashioned kettle; he’s got fancy coffee-making machinery; he should be able to combine all this knowledge. “Where is your tea?”

 “Seb,” Chris says. “I—hang on, does anyone actually call you Seb?”

 “Um. Not really? You can. I don’t mind.” He doesn’t. Chris uses last names often, an affectionate Boston-bro shorthand for friendship; Sebastian’s somehow always been Sebastian or Seb, in Chris’s voice. He’s wondered why, though he’s thought maybe Chris just doesn’t feel that close to him. Not deserving of the bro-status.

 “You don’t mind, or you don’t like it, and you’re being nice about it?”

 “I don’t mind,” Sebastian says, too quickly. “I like it.”

 “Sebastian,” Chris says.

 “Really,” Sebastian says. “Either. Whatever.”

 “Jesus,” Chris says, face back in his hands. “I’m sorry. I just…just tell me if I’m sayin’ something stupid, okay? Please.”

 “But you’re not!” Sebastian comes back over to the couch. That damn magnet again. Tugging his bones. “You’re not, it’s fine, we’re good, Chris. I swear. Really.”

 Chris doesn’t look up, so Sebastian drops to both knees, right there at Chris’s feet, and tries not to think of all the times he’s wanted to do exactly that. It’s easier not to think of it, right now, because he’s genuinely concerned.

 He peeks up at Chris’s face. “Hey. Kinda worried here. Not about you, I mean, about your kettle, it’s got all these buttons, it’s like a rocket ship, I’m afraid if I touch the wrong thing it’ll explode.”

 Chris snorts, almost a laugh, and then does look up. His eyes go right to Sebastian’s, so close and so blue; and then all at once he’s moving, leaning forward, one hand reaching out and cradling Sebastian’s head, and then—

 They’re kissing. Oh, god, they’re kissing, Sebastian on his knees in front of Chris and Chris bending down to claim him, hand in Sebastian’s hair—

 Chris kisses like reprieve, like the release of storms, like the dive into a heated pool on a chilly day: wholehearted, devoted, anxious to lick and taste and plunge into every part of Sebastian’s mouth. Sebastian, who’s been kissed before, has in fact never been kissed before, because no other kiss has ever been a kiss, compared to this.

 His knees dimly register the hardness of the trailer floor, and his neck’s at kind of an awkward angle, and Chris is still mostly in the Captain America suit. None of that matters. Nothing else matters at all, because Chris wants him and Sebastian’s whole self yearns for Chris, and Chris’s tongue and taste and tug at Sebastian’s hair are all white-hot gloriously perfect.

 Chris pulls back almost as abruptly. They’re both breathless; Chris whispers, “Oh, fuck…” and takes his hand out of Sebastian’s hair, but then touches Sebastian’s cheek, cups his face, as if unable to stop touching. “I…fuck…I didn’t…I’m so fucking sorry, I just…”

 “Why?”

 “What?”

 “Why’re you sorry?” Sebastian tips his head into Chris’s hand. “I’m not.”

 “You’re…not.”

 “Chris,” Sebastian says, and then runs out of words. He hopes Chris can see it, can read it, in his eyes. On his face. “Yes.”

 “Yeah?” Chris reaches out with the other hand too: framing Sebastian’s face now, tender and awestruck. “You mean that.”

 “I mean it,” Sebastian says. “But—”

 “Oh god,” Chris says, “I’ve fucked this up, haven’t I—”

 “No! No, just…are you okay? I mean, from earlier.” Somewhere amid the kissing his hands’ve ended up on Chris’s thighs; apparently they just want to be there, and now rub along Chris’s legs, soothing and caressing and learning all at once. “I mean, I wanted to—”

 “To help,” Chris groans. “You came over to help—because you’re the sweetest fucking person I know, god, you’re perfect, Seb, the nicest and the warmest and the best—and I fucking, Jesus, practically mauled you—”

 Sebastian cuts that anguished recrimination off by diving forward and getting his mouth back on Chris’s. After some in-depth affirmation, he breathes against Chris’s lips, “Don’t think you’re doing any mauling I don’t like.”

 Chris’s eyebrows go up.

 “Really,” Sebastian tells him.

 “Huh,” Chris says. “Huh. Okay. You—okay.”

 “No,” Sebastian says patiently. “Are you okay?”

 Chris stares at him, and then bursts out laughing. Mid-laughter, scoops Sebastian off the floor. Flops them both down across the sofa, holding on. “God, you’re incredible.”

 “The best, you said.”

 “And I mean it. You just make it all…feel better, kind of?” Chris strokes a hand down Sebastian’s back, over his t-shirt. “That’s what it was, earlier. Like…being Steve, losing Bucky, but that’s you, and all at once I was thinking about losing you, and I just felt like…like someone’d dropped me off a train, y’know? Like I’d never get up again.”

 “I’m here.” Sebastian wriggles against him. They fit together: bodies pressed close, every piece of them learning each other. He’s half atop Chris, but with one of Chris’s legs tangled through his. “I’m here.”

 “I know.” Chris rubs his back again. “And you were there, too. You were right there and I could look up and find you, and it was like I could remember how to breathe. And then you were here, asking about tea and looking at me like—and I just had to kiss you. I want to kiss you. Seb. Sebastian. God, I fuckin’ want—everything. I know it might get complicated, I know we’re in the middle of making a movie, but I can’t not want everything. Together. With you.”

 “Well,” Sebastian says, “good to know,” and stretches to kiss Chris again. It’s that simple, if not easy: the future’ll change, but it does that anyway, sprawling out in all sorts of directions. And he thinks it’ll be a good direction, with Chris at his side. “Because I want everything with you too.”

[lore97a]

      slumber  envelopes  him.    completely  unaware  of  the  outside  world  as  he  lies  powerless,  unconscious.    battles  rage  inside  his  head,  five  decades  worth  of  bloodshed  fighting  to  be  the  dominant  memory  on  display.    [  tiny  hand  with  equally  tiny  fingers  wrap  ‘round  his  twin’s  hand  ;  it’s  quickly  swatted  away  by  their  father.    the  following  sting  is  manageable  .  .  .    but  it  was  so  sudden  that  it’s  scared  him.    a  small  malachai  looks  up  to  joshua  parker  with  shock,  hurt,  tears  welling  in  his  eyes.    ‘i  told  you  you  can’t  touch  anyone!’  ---  then  he  is  all  grown  up,  his  coven  is  in  shambles  amidst  the  ruined  wedding  ceremony.    once  smacked  away  from  human  contact  that  same  hand  now  reaches  forward,  beckons  the  bloodied  and  limp  form  of  joshua  toward  him.    ‘vodux.’    so  helplessly  gliding  along  the  floor  .  .  .    ‘here’s  to  being  different,  dad.’    a  single  finger  swipes  at  the  blood  pouring  from  joshua’s  forehead  ;  the  smear  of  red  completes  the  transition  to  a  heretic.  ---  just  moments  prior,  he  is  watching  what  most  consider  to  be  a  tear  -  jerking  ceremony.    it  makes  his  stomach  turn.    white  covers  a  happy  and  pregnant  josette  laughlin  as  she  faces  her  almost  husband.    kai  approaches,  waits  for  the  right  moment.  .  .    fuck  it,  he’s  impatient.

    the  knife  in  his  hand  plunges  into  her  from  behind,  then  again,  then  again.    a  sense  of  victory  floods  him,  and  he  can’t  help  the  smile  he  feels  creeping  to  his  lips.  ---    ‘you’re  not  fit  to  lead  the  coven  and  you  never  have  been.’    ‘you’ve  never  even  given  me  a  chance!’    ‘i  don’t  need  to!    you’re  a  parasite!    a  stain  on  the  family  name!’    kai  laughs,  bitter  and  enraged.    ‘all  because  of  something  i  have  no  control  over.    don’t  hold  your  breath  for  any  mommy  of  the  year  mugs  in  your  stocking  this  christmas,  you  fucking  failu-’    smack!    not  strong  enough  to  send  him  back,  but  there  is  a  hot  pain  along  his  face  after  the  backhand.    fists  clench  at  his  side.    ‘    you’re  a  disgrace,  malachai.    don’t  you  ever  speak  to  me  like  that  again.’    it’s  then  he  decides.  .  .    he’ll  never  feel  defeated  again.  ---  blood  is  splattered  over  his  shirt,  douses  his  shoes,  stains  his  hands.    red  is  all  he  sees,  rage  is  all  he  feels.    no  pleas,  no  amount  of  begging  will  stop  him.    a  boy  is  trying  to  retreat  into  the  wall  for  safety,  a  hand  held  up  as  if  it  will  hold  kai  off.    split  skin  along  the  boy’s  cheek  oozes  blood  ;  he  intends  to  spill  more.    ‘kai,  please!’    another  connect  of  his  fist  to  joey’s  face.    now  his  noze  bleeds.    ‘stop  it!’    pound,  pound,  pound.    it  passes  in  a  daze.    adrenaline  courses  through  his  veins,  prevents  him  from  feeling  the  throbbing  ache  in  his  knuckles.

      he  beats  joey  until  coherent  sentences  are  no  longer  possible,  until  the  boy  is  hardly  recognizable,  until  no  breath  leaves  his  body.    and  then  he  is  left  there  in  a  pool  of  his  own  blood,  swollen  eyes  staring  lifelessly  to  the  floor,  hair  matted  with  already  drying  blood.    beaten  to  death  by  someone  he  trusted.    kai  moves  on  to  one  of  his  sisters.  .  .    her  noose  is  already  prepared  on  the  stair  banister.  ---  all  alone.    nobody  to  torment,  nobody  to  talk  to.    months  (  years?    it  all  blurs  together.  .  .  )  have  passed  in  this  place,  each  day  equally  as  miserable  as  the  last.    hopefully  it  ends  now.    at  last  he’s  found  the  guillotine  ;  a  real  guillotine  as  opposed  to  the  fakes  a  lot  of  museums  hold.    kai  draws  in  a  deep  breath.    he’s  ready  for  this.    anything  is  better  than  this  hell.    rope  in  hand,  blade  awaiting  the  fall,  he  crouches  in  the  head  space.    as  he  opens  his  palm  the  blade  falls  through  the  air  with  a  hiss  and---  ]

      why  is  he  reliving  all  of  this?

      kai  awakes  with  a  start,  gasping  for  breath.    unusual  for  him  to  appear.  .  .    startled.    shocked.    there  is  a  touch  on  his  temples  ;  he  whirls  around  violently.    fire  blazes  in  his  eyes  as  they  set  on  the  nearest  living  being  to  him.    hope,  in  close  proximity.    and  a  vampire  nearby,  to  assist  in  the  unwarranted  head  dive,  no  doubt.    his  face  sets  with  the  bubbling  anger.    clenched  jaw,  furrowed  brows,  frown.    “what  the  hell  do  you  think  you’re  doing?”

[thrillridesz]

[ to start from the prologue - click here ]

n/a: unedited!

The classes after this morning’s fiasco passed relatively quickly amidst a flurry of more confusing classes and an increasing amount of homework assigned with each class, it felt like such a relief when lunchtime finally rolled around.

As you purchased an egg sandwich and a can of soda from the lunch lady, you couldn’t help but survey the courtyard with dismay. It seemed as if every table was occupied and everyone had someone to eat with. If you were to either jump in or sit alone, you would stick out like a sore thumb. It would be embarrassing to say the least - to be the only one in the courtyard eating by your lonesome. You considered eating in class but quickly decided against it - most students who spend their lunch breaks taking naps usually sleep in the classrooms and you didn’t want to risk disturbing them. Eating in the toilet would be too unsanitary as well.

There was only one more option. You sighed as you climbed the steep steps to the rooftop, immediately getting second thoughts. Maybe you should have accepted Hyunjae and Hyunjoon’s offer. Though they weren’t the ideal lunch partners to have, you would have at least had some company.

Creaking open the door to the rooftop, you breathed a sigh of relief when you found it empty. By now, the sky had cleared and a bright sun hung high in the blue sky and though there were still a few puddles here and there, the ground was mostly dry enough to sit on.

As you sat down on the ledge of the rooftop, you couldn’t help but find this quietness and tranquility to be relaxing. Though you probably should not  be sitting on the ledge, you liked the feeling of your feet dangling fifty feet above the ground. In a way, it felt like a sort of mild adrenaline rush - to feel like you are on edge and free from everything. Below you, your fellow schoolmates and teachers alike were seated in their groups, all huddled together with their lunches in front of them. To your left, you could see the football field where the football team was having their extra lunchtime practices - running across the field and doing workout exercises. To your right, you could see the school gates from a distance away and you could barely suppress a snicker when you saw a few figures scaling the fence behind the unsuspecting security guard’s back, no doubt sneaking out for lunch outside.

Looking at the sandwich and soda in your hand, you shrugged. It wasn’t the ideal lunch you would have liked but it was good enough. Just then, a slam behind you caused you to jump and very nearly drop your soda can which would have fallen to the ground below. Your heart was pounding by then and your legs almost felt weak, you could have sworn you probably had a full five years shaven off your lifespan. There were so many ways how that could have ended so badly.

Turning around, you tried to peel yourself off the ledge but to your horror, you realised you were frozen stiff. You just couldn’t move from the shock you felt earlier. You felt your stomach sink and your hands were becoming sweaty with anxiety.

“Please, no…”You whispered to yourself. You were near tears at this point and mentally kicking yourself for deciding to sit on the ledge in the first place. Whatever it was you said about an ‘adrenaline rush’, fuck that. Your life is way more valuable than risking it all for a moment of ‘adrenaline’.

At that instance, you felt yourself being lifted from your frozen spot. Your eyes widened as your bottom left the ledge and your legs were in the arm. A pair of strong arms were looped around your body, carrying you bridal style before setting you down on the ground. The shock and exhilaration of it all left you stunned and speechless as you stared up at the guy who had carried you off.

“You alright? You are frozen stiff. I called out to you several times and you didn’t respond.” His face was etched into a frown as he waved a hand in front of you. His dark hair fell over his ears as he stared at you with a questioning look. Somehow, he looked really familiar but you had no way of telling where you had actually seen him before. You could only stare at his lips as he spoke, not hearing what he was really saying from the adrenaline that still coursed through your veins. What kind of guy had lips that were that thick? You turned slowly to look at the open door and realised with a start that that was probably what had caused the loud slamming noise that nearly tipped you over the ledge. The cogs were turning in your mind and as you turned back to the guy, you realised he was what caused you to almost fall.

In a split second, the anger in you boiled over faster than anything else in the world and you shoved at him as hard as you could, pushing him to the ground. As he landed on his bottom with a loud thud, he looked up at you in complete surprise and alarm.

“What the- What did you do that for?!”

“You scared me! I could have died!” You yelled, glaring down at him and he shot you an incredulous look.

“Since when?! I got you off that ledge and this is the thanks I get?” He scrambled back, his bottom dragging across the cement floor as you advanced menacingly.

You pointed angrily at the door to the rooftop and as he turned to look, you said, “The door. You slammed it and nearly shocked me off that ledge, did you know that?”

“I... “ The guy turned back to you, unable to find the right words as he spluttered helplessly before he gritted his jaw and held your gaze defiantly. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t be sitting on the ledge of all places?”

Shit, he’s right.

“W-Well, still you shouldn’t have slammed that door!” You snapped, refusing to concede and he scoffed, pushing away from the ground and dusting himself off. Rolling his eyes, he planted his hands on his hips and a look of recognition flashed across his face. Tilting his head and leaning down to your level, there was a surprised tone in his voice as he asked.

“Y/n?”

You frowned, inching backwards. “Do I know you?”

“You can’t be serious. We’re in the same chemistry class!” He exclaimed, eyes widening.

“We are? How come…” That was when you caught a glimpse of his nametag. “Kim Sunwoo?”

So this was why he looked so familiar to you. How did you not notice? You must have echoed your thoughts out loud because Sunwoo snorted, all while regarding you with a ‘have you been living under a rock’ look.

“Imagine being so buried in your books that you can’t even recognise someone who was in the same class as you.” He scoffed. “Can’t relate.”

“Of course, you can’t. You spend half the time skipping classes or outside the lab, how would you?” You shot back and Sunwoo’s jaw ticked but he didn’t say anything in return since there wasn’t any fault in what you just said.

“Whatever.” He said simply. “What are you doing here alone anyways?”

You were quiet for a moment as you deliberated whether to tell him or not before you decided you had nothing to lose.

“I had no one to eat with and I didn’t want to look like a loser eating alone.”

Sunwoo raised an eyebrow questioningly, pursing his lips as he did. “Aren’t your friends around?”

You gave him a tired look. “No, they’re busy today.”

“Huh.”

“What about you? Why’re you here?”

“Well…” There was an uncomfortable look on his face as his brows furrowed together. Quickly, he peered over the ledge and curiously, you followed suit. In the courtyard below, all you saw were students and teachers going about their usual lunchtime business - eating, chatting and some trying to get some last minute work done before classes start. You squinted, not too sure at what you were supposed to be looking out for. Just then, you noticed it.

From the building where the two of you were at, a group of boys rushed out, their heads swivelling in all directions as their sneakers skidded against the gravel floor. Even from above, you could tell that the anger simply radiated off them, their mannerism brusque and full of aggression. Their steps were heavy and threatening and at the sight of them, some people steered clear of their way. As the two of you watched them stomp away, you lifted your head slowly to look at him.

Sensing your eyes on him, he turned to you with an annoyed expression.

“What?”

“You wanna explain?”

He gave you a pointed look before he threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. “They were bothering some weak freshman and I saw it. Couldn’t just walk away so I stepped in. We might have exchanged a few punches but they were kind of weak so I wasn’t really hurt.”

You looked at him, without saying a word as he ranted and for a brief moment, you noticed a slight wince in his movement as he wrung his hands.

“You sure you’re okay?” You asked softly, giving him a careful look.

“I’m fine.”

“Okay…” You trailed off, unsure of what to make of him. Clearly, he wasn’t unscathed but judging from his reactions, it wasn’t like he would admit to it readily either. Him and his pride. Just then, you picked up on a faint growling sound and Sunwoo’s face reddened. You had to stifle the giggle that threatened to gurgle up as he frowned at you, pouting petulantly as he did.

“Have you never heard someone’s stomach growl?”

“Here, take my sandwich” You said, handing him the food. Narrowing his eyes, he looked at it and then back at you. Though every inch of his demeanour indicated a distaste for it, you could tell in his eyes that he definitely wanted the sandwich. Before he could even say no, you pressed into his palm.

“Just take it, I’ll just have my soda. I’m not that hungry anyways.”

“But-” He started but you were having none of it.

“I mean it. I’m not that hungry anyways, I’ll see you around.”

As you walked away while he stood with the sandwich in his hands, he called out, “Hey, y/n!”

You swivelled around.

“What is it?”

He held up the sandwich, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks.”

You shot him an awkward tight lipped grin and a thumbs up. You may not be very close to Sunwoo, you didn’t know him all that well and this could have very well been the first time you were having a conversation but it seemed like the right thing to do.

After school as you were shoving your books and notes into your backpack, you suddenly got a text from an unsaved number. Confused, you tapped on the notification to see a text from Sunwoo.

hey y/n, i just wanted to thank you for the sandwich earlier. you rly didn’t have to but you did anyways

it’s nothing… how did you get my number?

the chemistry class groupchat?

oh… HAHAHA right, sorry i rly actually forgot for a moment right there

lol srsly did you think i stalked you or something

maybe 🤔

wow nice to know what you rly think of me 🙄 i have btr things to do than stalk you

SORRY LMAOOOO

haha anyways i wanted to ask if you would be down to hang out for lunch this weekend

You stared at the text on your phone, eyes widening in surprise as your fingers flew over the mobile keyboard.

wait why??

to repay you for the sandwich earlier

omg dude it’s just a sandwich, dw bout it

nah i feel weird

….

cmon i insist

..fine where are you thinking

how’s sunday afternoon at stray creamery?

you’re talking about that new ice cream place?

yeah

i might need to stay home and touch up on my geography report tho... it’s due monday

ah ok gotcha!

it’s not a no, i just said i might

well, if you change your mind you can just hit me up any time i don’t have any plans at all this weekend

haha ok sure! 👍

With that, the conversation ended as you went about the rest of your day, barely even checking back at all. The rest of the day flew by relatively quickly - going grocery shopping, doing homework and eventually falling back into soft linen sheets of your bed. It felt like Saturday had barely even begun and before long, it was Sunday morning.

As you plopped yourself down on your study chair, you couldn’t help but groan internally to yourself as you stared at the geography report before you. There was this sudden dread in you that bubbled up and just made you want to push it away and completely forget about it. You’ve had quite a week in school and on top of your disastrous shift yesterday at the diner where you worked part time, the last thing you wanted to do was homework. You shuddered at the memory of what had gone down during your shift yesterday

The new guy who was supposed to show up had to bail last minute, leaving you as one of only two other servers that afternoon and it didn’t help that the lunchtime crowd was one of the busiest, especially on a weekend. It would be an understatement to say that that turned out horribly - it was complete chaos. From Karens yelling into your ear for not pouring water fast enough to accidentally dropping a plate of food, yesterday had to be the worst service yet.

The murky green file that contained your report sat waiting as you simply sat soundlessly at your desk, unable to bring yourself to flip it over and get the grind going. It wasn’t like you didn’t care but you just cannot find it in you to focus on the task at hand.

Peering out your window, you pouted as you leaned your face against your palm, cupping your face while you watched your neighbours’ children outside playing basketball. Suddenly, you remember the conversation you had with Sunwoo on Friday.

well, if you change your mind you can just hit me up any time i don’t have any plans at all this weekend

That was what he said. Pursing your lips, you considered your options.

Do you forget about working on your geography project and meet Sunwoo, or do you push through and continue working on it to ensure a perfect grade?

➳ Call Sunwoo

➳ Work on your geography project

[lakemojave]

Land of Falling Sun 9

The Aurans thought themselves a solitary people. There were very few Auran strongholds, settlements, or major civilizations, especially in this part of the world. Their families rarely lasted long past the maturity of their offspring, who were often sent off into the world alone at age. They tended to be selfish and withdrawn: self-reliant at best, lonely at worst.

Yet, they possessed a strong sense of tradition, a natural compassion for the weak and downtrodden, and often traveled in flocks.

Auran children tend to grow up with a sort of split identity; they will often seek companionship from many a stranger, but will maintain what they believe to be a healthy distance, often drifting apart from their close friends. They will seek out a life of service, acting as a caretaker or as a paragon of justice, rendered somewhat ineffectual by their gravitation towards their own self interest.

Chipper was particularly worse off than most of their kind.

Born from a father they didn’t know, raised by two mothers--Seed and Pine--in the mountains far to the east of our plateau, Chipper’s early life was typical for an Auran child, for the most part. Their mountains were tall, craggy, and dry, filled with natural prey and good hunting. A small river flowed through the base of the mountains, which brought their families good fishing. They had to hunt and struggle to survive, though the mountains always provided, and they asked for little else.

Since Chipper was a hatchling they remembered sharing the mountains with others. There were many lone Aurans flying the wilderness as well, some of whom even taught them how to harness magic--though it was their Mother Pine who etched the distinctive runes into their feathers. There were many settlers and travelers passing through this country, some of whom sought to live there themselves, despite being helplessly unfamiliar with it.

This was all well and good for years. The Aurans and other humanoids got on well enough, sharing the land but mostly keeping to themselves. They knew who ruled the mountains at heart.

At least, until the company men came to the mountains.

See, these hills were rife and rich with copper, tin, and rumors of gold. There was money to be made here to folks who sought this sort of thing. Swaths of workers and machines and bosses and dynamite and money and blood came in and out of the mountains, excavating massive craters and boring deep holes in the quiet, sleeping land. The homesteads and settlements were quickly absorbed into the operations, adding to their horde of supplies and bodies. The forest--sparse as it was--shrank in the blink of an eye, and most of the Aurans’ natural prey were overhunted and overfished. Much of the Aurans’ hunting grounds were planted over or developed.

Relations between the Aurans and the company men were tense and boiling. Sabotage and theft were common, leading the company men to treat the Aurans less as an occupational nuisance to hostile opposition. When things were at their worst, the miners were given orders to shoot on sight if any of them came too close to their work sites. Many of them were shot down out of the sky without a second thought.

That was not how Mother Pine died.

Mother Pine was tracking a pronghorn one day. She picked up its tracks half a mile outside of a small patch of forest, and as far as she could tell it would make a good meal. Perhaps it would lead her to a herd, letting her uncover new hunting grounds and find sustainable food for months. Instead, She found a logging site, where company men were clearing forest for a new mine. Mother Pine’s grief at the dead forest was palpable, but she wouldn’t be deterred from her hunt. In a moment of weakness, she swooped down to the nearest logger she saw, hoping to ask if he had seen any signs of her prey.

The logger clipped her wing with a rusty sawblade in panic. She died of infection a week later.

Mother Seed was a firm woman, and always wanted Chipper to fly on their own two wings. She loved her partner very dearly, but knew they would part ways once Chipper was of age, which was another four years to go. She mourned very briefly, then set Chipper to practice their magic. Their talent for divining water and food and their skill at warding off the elements was not only essential for their survival, but also quite impressive for their age. With a bit of nurturing, Chipper’s magic would be sufficient for their own survival.

Chipper didn’t stop mourning Mother Pine for years.

-----

Two years later, Chipper was ten years old. Under Mother Seed’s watchful eye, they had met under Auran sages from across the mountains, learning how to inflict their Will in harmony with the world around them. Their favorite sage, a boorish and matronly Auran named Meolu, was the first to answer the question that tortured Chipper more than anything else:

Why?

More on that another time, though. For now let’s just say that much of what Chipper imparts to the wanderer now, they learned from Meolu.

Because of this, Chipper’s magical talent would be sufficient for their survival long before they were of age to leave the nest--at least, as expected. Chipper still hadn’t quite recovered from the loss of Mother Pine, and wasn’t ready to leave Mother Seed just yet. Whenever she went hunting on her own, Chipper’s thoughts would turn to isolation and despair. They would do whatever they could to distract themself. Mediation helped for maybe fifteen minutes, but they found themself tumbling listlessly down the nearest hill for hours on end.

One day, someone found them.

“Hey lil fella,” said a smooth, polite voice coming from somewhere above Chipper’s curled up body. Chipper looked up to see a crouching, human man, resting a rifle on the ground like a walking stick. He wore a beige overcoat over miner’s overalls, along with an overstuffed backpack and an easy, charming smile. “You lost?”

Chipper looked up, dumbfounded. Unsure what to say. They had never spoken to a human, let alone a human man, outside of from under their mothers’ wings. They opened their mouth to speak, but no words came out.

“Take that as a yes,” the man said with a grin. He reached out to touch Chipper’s runes. “Nice feathers ya got there lil fella. You do magic?”

“I…” They never knew fear like this. “I…” What if they answered wrong? “I…” What if he knew they were lying? “I don’t know…” “Hm. You don’t know.” He stood up on his feet and reached for Chipper’s elbow, lifting them up to their feet. “Your parents’ nearby young…I’m sorry, I don’t want to assume.”

This was new. Most outsiders either didn’t know the Aurans’ relationship with gender, or simply didn’t care. That he took the time to ask Chipper’s preference showed respect and reverence for their kind.

“I’m uh, neutral, sir.” Chipper coughed, their voice weary and soft. “Mother Seed is out hunting, I think.”

“You think? You don’t know that either?”

“They do.” A matronly voice came from behind the strange man as Mother Seed descended upon them, two dead rabbits clutched in her talons. She flapped her wings powerfully, steadily, casting a dark shadow over this interloper accosting her child.

“Woah woah, pardon me ma’am!” The stranger stumbled back at the display. “I don’t want trouble or nothing, not at all! In fact,” He took off his hat to reveal neatly combed hair. He brushed it, and lowered his hat to his chest. “I was hoping to talk. I’ve heard from your friends in the area that Chipper’s skill is exceptional for their age, yes?”

Chipper looked at their mother with pleading eyes from behind the strange man. He knew their name--how did he know their name? Mother Seed kept her wings flapping wide, and looked at the man with suspicion and intrigue. Was he looking for Chipper? Why?

“That’s right,” Mother Seed said inquisitively. “What does it matter to you?”

“How old are they? They look old enough to stick it out on their own--at least by your standards, yes?”

Mother Seed paused before her answer. “Almost.” She was flapping more gently now, seeming as the man meant no harm, and they could converse in peace. “They have a few more years left.”

“Well,” The man set down his rifle and hat on the ground and clasped his hands together. “I understand you have fallen on a tough time, what with the miners movin’ in. My group have moved in as well--down by the valley, a short hike west of here. We’re a small community, and we brought plenty of supplies with us.” He turned back towards Chipper. “It’s comfortable for now, but we need more hands to help grow. An attuned Auran such as them could make a tremendous difference to us, and one so young could use a stable community to keep learning.” He turned back to Mother Seed. “You would only have to hunt for yourself, and your child will be safe.”

Mother Seed leaned in close, now towering over the stranger. “You wish to take my child from me?”

The stranger tucked his head into a deep bow. Mother Seed almost fell back. An Auran pledge.

“I want to help you.”

-----

That was the last time Chipper saw their last mother.

[lookingthroughmirrors]

I’m Not A Serial Killer - Chapter 1

Alex Centric - Willex & Jukebox

His dad was never there to cheer him on, his Mum was never there to wipe away the tears. There’s always been something about him that was just never enough, he was never enough. Not for the perfect family, not for their image, not for anyone it seemed.

‘I’m sorry I can���t be perfect’

Everything had been going downhill since the second he woke up. It spiraled until he wound up barely coherent in an alley that looked like it had walked straight out of a horror movie. He doesn’t remember much except for the yelling, and the pain. HOMELESS seems to flash like a neon sign above his head, maybe luck is why Julie chose to walk home through there but he’s not about to jinx the only good that came from the day.

AO3 Link    

~~~~~~~ Chapter 1 ~~~~~~~~~~

Julie kicks a pebble and watches as it rolls along the pavement, the sun shining down harshly causing a bead of sweat to roll down her face. Normally she’d be in school but with the heat wave it was decided to have school break early so there isn’t a risk of heat stroke. Julie’s dad is stuck at a shoot and was unable to cancel when she called him to make sure he knew she wasn't skipping. Adorning sunglasses she strolls happily down the street despite the heat. Not paying attention she rams straight into somebody hitting the deck with a solid thud. “Shit, wait-er sorry?” the person she collided with rambles slightly frantic.

Looking up she met with a boy her own age grasping a helmet in one hand and an old, slightly dingy looking skateboard in the other. Dropping the helmet he extends his hand out and she takes it with an appreciative smile hoping she doesn’t look too pissed. His wrist is adorned with multiple cord bracelets complementing his darker skin tone, hair as long as her own cascading down his back as he effortlessly pulls her back up onto her feet. “Thanks um-” “Willie, I’m Willie” he introduces with a charming smile “Julie”  “Sorry for running into you” he mutters sheepishly through a mischief filled lopsided grin.

“Don’t worry about it-shit, Flynn is going to kill me” she breaks off into a grumble forgetting about the guy that just flattened her scrambling to pick up the trashed sunnies. “Oh for fucks sake” she grumbles looking at the cracked lenses, one side of the frame snapped in half, a chuckle breaks through her mutterings and she whips round with a piercing glare. “Hate to break it to you but you can’t make me melt” the asshole continues to chuckle at her misfortune “ See ya Sunglasses” he calls cheerful getting the bird flipped in his direction, his laugh echoing as he skates off down the streets.

“Chivalry isn’t dead my ass” she grumbles, turning down an empty street only a few minutes away from her house, stopping short when a groan sounds in the desolate open street. A shriek escapes her mouth as she stumbles upon a boy her age looking half dead blood and dirt caking his body. He flinches at the sound but that doesn’t stop her from slowly approaching him, his eyes flickering open his gaze following her movements nervously. “Are you okay?” he lets a low groan at her words, clutching his rib tightly and she puts her hands out infront of her as she gets closer. “Will you let me help you?” Julie holds her breath realizing it after a few seconds pass and he gives her a jerky nod. Sliding an arm under his Julie helps him up, barely stumbling along as she tries to support most of his weight. It takes 10 minutes for her to stumble and limp to her house, knees nearly buckling under the other teens weight. Julie glances at the barely conscious teen with a huff “Here’s to hoping you’re not a serial killer” she mumble managing to get them inside the studio ignoring the wave of emotions that crash over her deciding to focus on the injured guy slumped over her lounge.

Since mystery boy is decidedly not going anywhere she deems it safe to leave him for a minute to track down the first-aid kit stashed somewhere. The only sound is Julie’s quietly muttered curses and the groaning from the injured boy every few seconds. Finally digging it up, it’s pretty trashy looking, washed out paint and a thick layer of dust making up the cover. Putting the case down and checking that he’s not dead she goes to get a bowl of water and a face towel. Coming back into the room she barely manages to skid to the side, nearly sending the bowl flying , as mystery boy barrels past emptying his stomach contents into the bin.

‘Mental note, get new bin for the studio’

“What is it with people and body slamming today?” she mutters with a roll of her eyes before her expression softens once again as she turns to the boy, arms hugging the bin close to his chest as dry heaves sounding in utterly pathetic. placing a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder, he still flinches but not as bad as before. “ L-lu-” the boys mumbles his hands shaking, “ R-reg-” filing the names away for later she bites her lip staring helplessly as he gets more frantic mumbling unintelligibly. Making a split second decision she drags her fingers through his hair and the tenseness seems to melt away.

She’s not sure how long they end up sitting there in the silence, tension melting away from the boy as more time passes. As the golden hue of the afternoon light starts to shine through the window the beaten up teen starts to become coherent, eye’s not as unfocused and cloudy as before. He never quite passed out, almost vomiting every time he seemed to relax but he wasn’t really aware either.

His eyes flutter open and Julie only has a split second to register his eyes widening in panic before she stumbles backwards and the other teen darts to the other side of the studio eyes scanning the room frantically. “Hey, it’s okay” Julie says and the guys eyes dart to her still wringing his hands together nervously “I found you in an alleyway looking pretty beat up, I only brought you here to patch you up” while still radiating nervous energy he seems to calm down slightly at her words while still extremely wary, eyeing her suspiciously “How do I know you are telling the truth” without missing a beat she responds “How do I know you aren’t a serial killer?” eyeing her warily for a couple more seconds he finally lets his shoulders sag slowly walking towards her.

“Thanks” he stutters out “I mean-um for uh h-helping me and-and not leaving me in that alley” he rambles out through one breath bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “It’s okay, I’m Julie” she tries to give him what she hopes is a comforting smile, he returns it with a faint smile “Oh uh, I’m-I’m Alex” Julie puts her hand out and he grasps it with his much larger one, shaking it gently.

“Um d-do you want me to leave?” Alex's voice squeaks at the end of his sentence, looking like he wants to do anything but leave and her mind flashes to what he looked like when she found him and she can’t find it in herself to make him leave when he obviously isn’t in a good spot. “Nah, we can chill out here if you want to, we can watch T.V?” he looks at her incredulously, obviously not believing her.

“Seriously it’s fine, as long as you don’t want to leave you don’t have to” she gives him a kind smile flopping down onto the lounge flicking the T.V on, Alex, albeit hesitantly, follows her lead sitting on the other end of the lounge. About 30 minutes pass of them mindlessly watching T.V before he speaks up, face littered in prominent bruises “You’re oddly cool with a random person at your house” he comments looking at her in slight amusement and she replies with a smirk “Well I figure if you planned to do anything to me you would’ve done it by now” he huffs out a laugh, stopping short with a grimace of pain Julie wincing in sympathy “I don’t think your ribs are broken, I tried to check but i’m not the best with this stuff so i’m not sure but i think it’s only bad bruised” Alex nods and they both turn back to the T.V talking back and forth.

“Julie!” her dad’s voice echoes Alex freezing panic, sitting up ramrod straight as Julie flounders “In the studio!” she calls back shrugging at Alex’s glare. Her Dad freeze’s when he sees that she isn’t alone, his gaze melting to concern when he sees Alex’s state, Julie immediately shooting up beelining towards her dad “Dad please don’t be mad, Alex and I are partners for a school project and I told him we could work here. When I was walking home I found him like this and helped him get here, I think he could be seriously hurt and I didn’t know what to do, please don’t send him away” Ray makes a shushing motion, placing his hands on Julie’s shoulder “Calm down mija, I’m not mad. Alex? That’s your name?” that jolts Alex making him jump up from the lounge that he’d previously been trying to sink into “Um. yes s-sir. Alex Mercer”

“Call me Ray. Why don’t you come in for dinner, you look like you could use some food, we can discuss everything afterwards, assuming you don’t have to go home?” his words end in a question and Alex ducks his head, scuffing his shoe against the floor “Yeah, uh, my parents aren’t exactly happy. They told me not to come back, they’ve never really cared, I guess” Ray looks absolutely heartbroken while Julie can’t stop herself from linking his fingers with hers.

“Come on, dinner’s getting cold. Let’s just eat first and talk everything over later” Ray nods towards the house, leaving Julie and Alex to scramble after him towards the house. Alex grips her wrist, tugging slightly to get her attention “Why’d you lie?” he asks and she looks at him with a raised eyebrow “You think he’d let some random person I just met stay in our house?” Alex rubs his neck sheepishly “Yeah, good point. If it helps I have actually seen you around at school before, I’m in year 10” Julie smiles at that, she thought she recognized something about him “I’m in year 10 too, at least we know it wasn’t a full on lie, only a white lie” Alex seems to relax at the idea of outright lying to someone opening their home to him “Thanks, I mean uh, again, yeah uh, thanks again” he stumbles on his words Julie laughs as they continue into her house.

Dinner passes incident free with everyone getting to know Alex, Carlos barely took a second to breath while asking Alex question after question. Carlos heads off to play some ghost hunter video game that he hasn’t stopped talking about while Ray moves the conversation to the lounge. “Okay” he claps his hands together in front of him sitting on the coffee table as Alex and Julie take a spot on the lounge, Julie hugging one of the throw pillows to her chest. “Now mijo, I’m not going to send you away but the spare bedroom isn’t set up so I was thinking you could use the pull out couch in the studio until we work out everything. You are going to need to talk to your parents, I don’t know you well enough to say anything about it but you will need to talk to them, I won’t push as it’s not my place but you get it. Both of you have school tomorrow so don’t stay up too long, Julie you can only help set everything up out there before coming inside, both in rooms by 11, no later. Now I’ll leave you to watch a movie or something. I promise we will work everything out” with that Ray shakes Alex’s hand and placing a kiss on Julie’s head before going to his office to finish up some photo edits from a recent shoot.

“That went better than I thought” Julie mumbles and is immediately swooped up into a massive bear hug blonde hair flying in her face. “Thank you, thank you, thank you” he mumbles repeatedly into her hair, she doesn’t say anything letting him hug her tightly. “Sorry, ‘bout that” he mumbles pulling back sheepishly “I get it, today’s been all over the place” Julie reassures, she knows his emotional outbursts are just from whatever happened to him that’s ended with him having to sleep in the garage of a girl he’s never met before, not exactly what you would call normal.

An embarrassed blush taints his cheeks, though Julie just gives him a smile and flicks on ‘ Ghostbusters’. Slowly they build up a conversation and in the end the movie is forgotten as the two are immersed in a debate of whose better ‘ lady Gaga’ or ‘Ariana Grande’, Ray could barely make out what they were saying with how fast they’re talking. He watches from the kitchen, he stuck his head out to check and his brain nearly short circuited when he heard the music discussion. Since his wife’s passing 2 years ago Julie never touched the piano and would never even mention anything to do with music, she would just shut down. Now there she was sitting and talking about music, a bright smile on her face with the bruised and beaten looking blonde teen.

Speaking of the blonde haired teen, Alex seemed more carefree too like he’s in his element talking about music. It’s the first time he’s seen Julie look so genuinely happy in so long then surely the kid can’t be too bad. Despite his beat up, border lining on homeless appearance he can’t imagine the kid was out getting into fights or a laundry list of other things he could be doing. It’s nice to see that light return to Julie’s eyes, sparked with happiness.