#at least i found out that he likes a wicker basket from that shelf

[mossiestpiglet]

Because it’s just one of those weeks where Everything Happens: started hearing weird clunking noises in my room, got up to check on on my snakes (they’re nocturnal and often loud at night) expecting to see them climbing in their enclosures. Nope! Somehow Oort figured out how to use his bulk to open his enclosure door enough to get himself out. Non-zero chance my neighbors saw me standing naked on a stepladder through my bedroom window because I was up there for A While trying to coax him down without hurting him and I certainly wasn’t gonna waste time getting dressed or closing the blinds. I did a very quick injury-check and other than being dusty he seems okay, so he’s back in (more securely) now.

[esta-elavaris]

Flufftober Day 22: Picking - Boromir/OC [1,366 words]

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here, and my currently ongoing main fic about these two is here 💜✨

Sybil cast a sidelong glance in Boromir’s direction for the hundredth time that day – and, for the hundredth time that day, was promptly caught.

“If you keep looking at me thus, I’ll begin to think you suspect me of planning a sneak attack,” he teased.

“I only worry that you’re-”

“I am not bored.”

He had been sitting on the same boulder for some time now – watching her pick her way through various patches of flora, discerning what she might take and what she would leave. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have been too concerned, but this was the fourth or fifth such perch he’d had to find so far, as they’d come here in the pale morning and now the midday heat was finally easing up. None could blame him if he sought a more exciting venture.

“And watching someone pick herbs and flowers is a source of fascination for you, is it?” she asked.

At present, she was picking her way through a patch of delicate red berries, depositing handfuls here and there into the wicker basket at her elbow. Her hair rebelled against the braid she’d bound it into that morning, and the knees of her breeches muddy from kneeling so frequently on the damp earth.

“When the one doing the picking is the most beautiful maid in all of Middle-earth, it most certainly is.”

She scoffed at him, but the flush that took over her cheeks ruined the effect rather.

“You think I jest?” he prodded as she worked.

He had to find his fun somewhere, and evidently he had decided that place would be in teasing her.

“When a man who has looked upon the Lady Galadriel says such things, he must know his words have the sound of a lie when he speaks them,” she replied.

“I should think that only proves the point in my words,” he countered lazily. “I looked upon the Lady of the Golden Wood, and in comparison to you, I found her wanting indeed.”

Sybil laughed. How could she not, in the face of such absurdity. It seemed her mirth was something he was hoping to pry out of her, for he grinned in turn as she dropped her hands to her lap and knelt back as she responded.

“Do not let Gimli hear you say such things. He’d challenge you to a duel on the spot.”

“I would take that challenge in a heartbeat - against any who might suggest my lady love has an equal that walks under this sun.”

“You are a dreadful flirt.”

As she levelled her conclusion his way, she stood and straightened.

“I speak the truth and she calls me dreadful,” he sighed fretfully to himself – with no shortage of melodrama. “What hope have I in winning her heart?”

“Plenty, considering you’re married to her.”

“Ah, but it would not do to grow complacent. I won your hand once, tis true, but I mean to never stop winning it.”

Sybil felt her smile soften.

“You do that solely by breathing, you do realise?”

“Come now, you mustn’t make it too easy for me. Name your challenge and I will take it on, all for the honour of your hand.”

Giggling a little, she shook her head and then looked up. Her progress across the course of the morning had brought her to the foot of a steep rocky outcropping, so steep that what was as good as a cliff face towered over her. There was a small patch of weeds, huddled together on a small shelf a few feet above her head – but she didn’t much fancy trying to climb while wielding sharp implements. Not least because if she fell, she’d land straight into the plants she’d just been sifting through, and most of them had thorns.

“Use your great height to fetch me those plants, then?” she suggested.

It looked as though he’d truly meant it when he sought a challenge from her, following her gaze and nodding readily as he stood.

“Here, take my shears – don’t pluck them, but cut them. At an angle, like so.”

As she spoke, she made to show him the ones she’d already collected, but he scarcely glanced at them, eyeing the shelf.

“I have a better idea. Set the basket down. I’ll lift you.”

“Lift me?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“One would think I’d never done so before.”

Her face heated. For she knew what occasions he was referring to, and they weren’t the ones that had occurred on their travels – not based on the lopsided grin that tugged at his lips.

“That is very different.”

“True – on those occasions I’m far more distracted. So if you can trust me then, you can trust me now.”

“I trust you always,” she snorted. “I’ve just no wish to fall while holding sharp, pointed objects.”

“Then do not fall,” he said with a cheeky grin.

Sybil huffed a laugh, but relented and set the basket down – out of fall-breaking distance, should she go toppling. It was unlikely that she would, he was right, but a basketful of squashed spoils would be poor reward for a day of gathering.

“How do you propose we do this, then?” she asked.

Rubbing at his jaw, he cast his gaze up towards the plants, considered them a moment, and then her.

“Here,” he said. “Stand straight, and keep your lower body tensed. Are you ready?”

Following his instruction, she turned to face the rock face and nodded. Boromir crouched down low – stupidly low, as he had to in order to wrap his great strong arms around her legs. Then, slowly, he stood, lifting her as he did so. Sybil wobbled.

“See, when I said to remain tense, I did not mean that you should go lax and do that. But it was an easy mistake to make, I suppose,” he teased.

“Oh, shut up.”

He barked a boisterous laugh in response, nudging his head against her hip, his arms wrapped securely about her legs, hands gripping her thighs. It was tempting to accuse him of having far too much fun – but it wasn’t as if she wasn’t enjoying it, either. After a moment she managed to gain her bearings.

“Steady?” he asked, upon feeling her muscles tense beneath his grip.

“A little higher, if you can?”

“If I can,” he echoed with a scoff as though offended.

Perhaps he had a right to be, too, for he obeyed with alarming ease – his strength never failing to thrill her as he heaved her upwards another foot or two. The move put her perfectly face to face with her quarry, and a few seconds were all she needed to snip what she needed.

“I’m done,” she said. “You can put me down.”

“What if I have no wish to?”

“Then your arms will grow very tired.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Absolutely not,” she said emphatically – for she knew better than to level challenges his way.

“Cast the scissors aside a moment,” he jerked his head, indicating where she should throw them.

“Why?”

“Because your lord husband commands it.”

And he should have known better than to say things like that to her. Sybil got her revenge by taking up a handful of grass from the shelf and sprinkling it down atop his head. He seemed woefully unbothered by her sophisticated method of attack. With a sigh – and the knowledge that she’d be up here ‘til sunset if she didn’t concede – she cast the scissors aside.

It was a good thing, too, for one moment he held her aloft and the neck she was plummeting down, some alarmingly swift manoeuvring on his part had him catching her in a bridal style carry before she could even cry out or brace for the impact of the ground.

“How did you do that?” she breathed a laugh.

The hand that hadn’t come to cling to his shoulders of its own volition still grasped her prize – and they weren’t even all that wilted in the fall. In response to her question, he merely grinned and then offered a very self-satisfied wink. The effect was not ruined by the grass that still clung to his hair.

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

[hiscyarika]

Landslide: Chapter One

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: Ten years after leaving her on their wedding day, Javier returns to Laredo and runs into Reader

Warning(s): Angst

A/N: Here’s the first chapter of the Landslide series! I’m really excited to share this with you and I’m glad that I was able to get it done. Any constructive criticism is greatly appreciated, as I want this to be my best work so far. There were a few tags that didn’t work and for that I’m sorry! Also, a  very special thank you to @aerynwrites​ for editing this chapter before its publishing! You’re the best, girl! ❤️

Masterlist

Tag Lists

No amount of time will ever change Laredo.

Stubborn as a mule, it refuses to move forward with the rest of the world. Some people, like you, come and go, but the vast majority stands still—a moment frozen in time. You’ve spent years trying to escape this place, but when inevitably you’re forced to return, everything is just the way that you left it: down even to the sharp creak in the door as you enter the mini market in town.

It’s still owned by the same family. You smile and wave at Anita Robinson from where she stands at the register, refilling the machine with a new roll of receipt paper. She’s an older woman, with a son your age and a daughter just a couple of years younger. Just like everyone else in this town, you’ve known her since you were little. Her eyes light up as she looks up to give an automatic greeting, and even from your distance you can see the crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes. For just a moment, she abandons the task at hand. “Well look who’s back! How have you been, honey?,” she asks, her deep Texas accent bleeding into every word.

You pick up one of the wicker baskets from the bin by the door, carrying it with you down the first aisle. The shelves are short enough that you can still see Mrs. Robinson as you start your quick grocery run. “I’ve been alright. I’m back in town for a while until I can find another publisher,” you explain briefly.

She shakes her head, picking up the receipt paper again. “Oh, sweetie. That’s too bad. Where were you this time? I think your dad said something about Seattle, but I can’t quite remember,” she replies. You can’t help the way that your smile falls to a more gentle expression at her words. Anita has always been a sweet woman, beloved by everyone she’s ever met.

“Yeah. I was in Seattle. But it’s alright. I’ve already contacted some other people. Hopefully things will pan out this time. How are Will and Sadie?,” you ask.

She closes the compartment on the register, laughing softly. “Oh, they’re both doing great. Sadie and Jason got married a few months ago. Then Katie and Will just had their first baby. I’m a grandmama now.” She beams, and you glance up from the jar of peanut butter you’d just placed in the basket to see her pulling out a couple of photos. “But I’ll quit pestering you for now and show you when you’re done,” she laughs, leaning with her side against the counter.

“Alright,” you reply, giving a soft laugh.

With nothing to distract you, you make your way a little faster down the aisles, going over your mental shopping list while muttering things to yourself under your breath. You’re so lost in your own little world that you don’t hear the bell over the door ring as another customer walks in, and you don’t notice the soft gasp that escapes Anita’s lips when she sees who it is.

A thought strikes you, and you realize that you’ve passed the taco seasoning. You turn quickly on your heels and take a step forward in what is nearly a single fluid movement, but collide with the broad chest of the man who’d been standing not too far behind you. You immediately step back and begin to apologize, but then your eyes meet his gaze. You go silent, save for the sharp gasp that leaves you as the breath is sucked from your lungs.

“Javi?”

Your blood is pounding so hard in your ears that you see your name formed on his lips but you don’t hear his voice. Every thought leaves your head as you try to form words again. But the effort is futile. You take another step back, putting more distance between the two of you. A glance in the direction of the counter shows that Anita is gone. Whether that’s to escape this awkward reunion or to go tell the rest of the town about it, you can’t be sure.

When you look back, Javier’s face has morphed from shock to a softer expression that you don’t have a name for. It’s somewhere between sadness and grief. Regret, maybe, though even that doesn’t feel quite right. But you hate the way that his gaze has softened, his eyes looking down at you like he deserves to feel anything as intensely as you do.

Your shock is quickly replaced by anger, and a hurt that you’ve never managed to fully extinguish.

“It’s...It’s been a while,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. It’s a poor choice of first words, so appalling that you have to hold back a bitter laugh as it bubbles up in your chest.

“Ten years does seem pretty long when you don’t bother trying to contact someone, doesn’t it?,” you seethe.

Regret is written clearly across his features now, but that’s no matter to you. “Querida, I–”

“Fuck off, Javier.” You cut him off before he can even begin whatever apology he might have come up with. You don’t want to hear it. You want nothing to do with him. Not anymore.

You push your way past him in the narrow walkway, returning the items in your basket to their places on the shelf. As much as you want to just drop the basket and walk out the door, you won’t leave it for Anita to deal with. You don’t hear Javier’s footsteps behind you, and for a moment you think maybe he’s smart enough not to pursue you any further. But just as you drop the wicker basket back in the bin, his hand wraps around your arm. He gently pulls you back towards him.

You whip around, pushing hard at his chest and yanking your arm from his grasp. His touch triggers a switch from flight to fight. “Don’t,” you warn, your eyes burning. You feel the heat of your anger flooding your body, the fury making you tremble. He doesn’t try to grab you again.

“Just let me talk to you, damn it,” he demands, his hands placed firmly on his hips.

Now you laugh. It’s humorless. “Oh now you want to talk? Well that’s too damn bad.”

He huffs out a sigh of frustration. “I need you to understand wh–”

“To hell with what you need, Javier. Your needs stopped being my concern when you left me on our fucking wedding day. Now if you’ll excuse me, I should be going,” you bite back. Without letting him have the last word, you walk out of the mini mart, back into the relentless Texas heat. Paired with your anger, it makes your skin feel like it’s being prodded by thousands of tiny needles.

You don’t look behind you. You don’t want to see Javier looking at you through the glass pane of the door. How he managed to come home to Laredo without you hearing about it is beyond you, but it would have been nice to know that he was back. It would have at least given you some time to mentally prepare yourself for the moment that you might see him again. Now you just feel jarred, out of place. Like your soul was taken from your body to watch all of this happen.

You try to take in a deep breath, in through your nose and out through your mouth. But your lips tremble as you exhale and your vision blurs with a new wave of tears. You force yourself to move forward, one foot in front of the other. With your mind in overdrive and your body on autopilot, you somehow make your way back to your apartment without losing your way.

By the time you make it to the front door, your tears have broken free, flowing down your cheeks. Your breath comes out in sharp gasps, and your hands shake as you take out your small ring of keys. They fall to the ground from your weak grasp, and you curse under your breath as you bend down to pick them up again. You force the apartment key into the lock, turning it and opening the door.

You all but collapse as you make it through the doorway, dropping the keys and falling back against the door as it shuts behind you. A gut-wrenching sob claws its way out of your throat, and despite your efforts to stifle it with your hand over your mouth, it’s no use. You shut your eyes tightly, sinking to the ground with your back against the door.

His face. His voice. You’ve worked so hard to leave them behind, to let him go. After so many years it felt like you had finally buried him in your past, never to be found again. And just like that, all of the pain and hurt and heartbreak has been dug up and hauled out for you to bear once more. To bear alone. This isn’t something that you’ll burden your parents with. You don’t want them to worry about you. You’re not a lovesick, heartbroken young woman anymore. You’ve changed and grown. You can handle this, no matter how difficult it might be. 

Mind clouded by the agony of raw emotion, you push yourself up from the floor, walking back to your bedroom and throwing the door open. You drag a suitcase out from under the bed, tossing it onto the mattress. A new resolve takes over you, and you start throwing things into the suitcase. You can’t stay here. There’s not enough room in Laredo for your grief and Javier both. And if it means you’ll never see him again, you’ll leave tonight.

You raid your drawers and your closet, throwing in random articles of clothing. Every movement is frenzied. In the back of your mind, you make sure that there is at least one professional outfit, knowing that you’ll need it for meeting with publishers should you ever get a call.

That in mind, you go to your desk next, pulling out the typed up manuscripts and outline journals. In the height of your fury, hot tears leak from your eyes. Though they go unnoticed by you. The only thing you can think about is leaving. The more miles between you and Javier, the better. You’ll drive as long as it takes for the distance to soothe the throbbing in your chest.

When there’s no more room in the suitcase, you put all of your weight into keeping it closed as you zip it up. You curse at the strain, but you’re too determined to make this any easier on yourself by packing a second bag. By the time you do get it closed, your energy is spent.

You grip the edges of the mattress until your knuckles turn white, finally beginning the descent from your hysterics. As you come down, you go quiet again. Your chest no longer heaves with labored breaths. No sound falls from your lips. Your tears have lessened, but still fall silently from your eyes. Exhaustion seeps into every part of your body, a bone-deep ache from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.

You crawl onto your bed, not bothering to move the suitcase or bury yourself under the covers. You lay your head down on your pillow as it begins to throb, the aftermath of your emotional release coupled with the never ending thoughts of the man that so easily erased any healing you’d managed to do in the last decade. The pillow is soon wet and stained with black mascara tears. But at least now you can think a little more clearly.

And as much as you hate it, you know that you can’t leave.

There’s nowhere for you to go. The whole point of coming back home was to have a place to stay until you could get another meeting lined up and save up some more money. More importantly, you can’t—you won’t—give Javier this power over you. You won’t let him be the reason that you uproot yourself before you’re ready. He’s the one that left town. He doesn’t get to be the one to drive you away.

Mind made up, you sink a little further into the mattress, groaning softly as the movement disturbs your aching body. Before you can fall asleep though, your eyes catch a glimpse of a piece of cardstock lying on the floor beside the bed. You sigh when you realize that it’s an invitation to Danny’s wedding, which you’ve already committed to attending, and it’s in just a few days’ time.  

Javier will be there. That you’re absolutely certain of.

But you’ll go anyway, because you could never disappoint the Peñas with your absence. Despite the fact that you never officially married into the family, they’ve always treated you like you were one of them regardless. And for that you’re grateful. They could have turned their backs on you the moment that Javier skipped town. Instead, they chose to hold you that much closer to their hearts. And you’ve done the same with them.

For their sake, you can endure being in the same room as Javier.

-

Chapter Two

-

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[chaos-ground-writing]

Intentions

Look… he’s a little confused but he’s got spirit

Warnings: minor animal injury, stalking(?), kidnapping, no yandere themes, Kiri has good intentions but bad execution. Also, this fic is pretty long lol

Reader: Gender Neutral

~

(Y/N) was a simple witch living in a nice lil’ cottage in the middle of a lovely meadow. They could hear the stream flowing nearby, the bustle of wildlife, and even greater was the lack of people. No one to steal, to lie, to interrupt and it was wonderful. Don’t get them wrong, it could be quite lonely in the middle of nowhere but small talk with a shopkeep while they purchased things needed around the house was enough. (Y/N) hadn’t even tried to entertain the idea of a lover, it was too troublesome and any person they had tried to court, hated their hermit lifestyle, that was if they even got passed the idea of them being a witch. But, it was their loss and (Y/N) stopped caring a long time ago anyway.

Now, when (Y/N) started to feel a distinct presence watching them while they harvested materials for their upcoming spell, they were only a little concerned. They were used to birds, rabbits, even full grown deer watching them from a safe spot far away, but this stare almost felt predatory, like a wolf, maybe a bear, what if it was a bandit? (Y/N) carefully but quickly collected the rest of the ingredients while keeping a careful eye out for any suspicious activity and swiftly stepped back into their home. Maybe a protection circle around their home would ease their nerves, but if it was a wolf or something, it would have lost interest and they’d have no need to waste their energy, but… that presence they felt… it didn’t even feel malicious, just determined but a little skittish. Like a young predator hunting without its mother for the first time. If it is a hungry animal, they had nothing to worry about, it has probably learned that this is not a good hunting area and would move on.

Eijiro’s eyes softened in disappointment when the attractive person in the field left his sight. He felt bad for using his hunting instincts to hide from them but not many people were very welcoming to dragons, even when he was in his humanoid form, the teeth and tail were enough of a give away to his true identity. But this person was so gorgeous and clearly had to be a witch, witches tended to be more open minded toward him. That one nice witch with the pink cheeks gave him snacks and played with him! Oh, if this witch is anything like her, he’d be the happiest dragon on the mountain. Eijiro gathered some pretty flowers nearby and started back toward his cave and determined that he had to prepare a nest for their arrival, of course he’d only work on it after he spent time admiring them from afar and collecting courting gifts.

For the next few days, Eijiro continued to watch (Y/N) and (Y/N) slowly became used to it, if the presence wanted to harm them, they would have done it already. But they noticed that since they started feeling the presence watching them, they also started finding gifts. They found sparkly stones on their porch, rare flowers on their windowsill, they even found a hand weaved basket of bread, different meats, and potatoes on the edge of the meadow. (Y/N) was sure it wasn’t a person watching them but an animal clearly couldn’t weave a basket and leave cut meats and bread in it. Despite their confusion, (Y/N) still appreciated the gifts and displayed the rocks and flowers proudly. The gifts continued for a few weeks, (Y/N) had to build a shelf to make room for all of them. All of a sudden, the gifts stopped, (Y/N) stopped feeling the eyes on them. They were a bit sad but tried to carry on as normal and prayed that the individual was safe and would return soon. 

(Y/N) traveled a little further from home to gather special ingredients for their favorite soup, just to get their mind of the mysterious entity, but still secretly hoped they’d feel the familiar stare. While lost in thought, (Y/N) cut their hand trying to harvest a tough herb. Before they could assess the bleeding, they heard a deep growl come from the trees. They looked up but didn’t immediately see danger, just every bird, squirrel, and forest dwelling animal nearby running away from the source of the growl. (Y/N) didn’t take a second further to question the purpose and trusted the animals’ instincts and ran back toward their home as fast as they could, abandoning the already collected ingredients in the gifted wicker basket they loved. (Y/N) heard a loud yelp behind them, but the thundering steps that continued in their direction kept them from slowing down or looking back. (Y/N) couldn’t help the tears blurring their vision as they tried to find home, were they crying because they could possibly die a painful death today or was it because they would die never knowing who watched them from the tree line and if they were okay. The burning in (Y/N)’s lungs begged them to stop but they couldn’t, they had to live to find that mysterious stranger, it was laughable, the ultimate introverted hermit, living for someone else. Just as (Y/N) started making out the outline of their home, their overjoyed haste caused them to trip. One thing was definite after that, they fainted, but was it before or after they felt something bite into their outer coat.

A few hours later

“God, that was a terrible nightma-” The ache in (Y/N)’s hand, the unfamiliar bedding under that aching hand, and the strange chill in the surrounding area immediately told (Y/N) that the nightmare they experienced was no nightmare, but reality. They hesitated to open their eyes for a moment, when they did, they were unsurprisingly unfamiliar with where they had just woken up. They were in some kind of large cave, surrounded by furs, precious crystals, gold, and other miscellaneous shiny objects. They were pulled from their thoughts but a deep rumbling snore at the entrance of the cave, however the fire was not close enough to highlight the large silhouette that laid across the opening. (Y/N) carefully got up and approached the large body at the entrance and couldn’t stop the surprised noise they made when they realized it was a dragon. They fell back on their butt and the dragon slowly woke up and looked back at them.

“H-Hey buddy, let’s not do anything hasty,” (Y/N) slowly scooted further from the crimson beast. The beast scooted across the stone floor trying to close the growing space with puppy-like eyes. (Y/N) tried to hold their hand out to keep some kind of distance and noticed the bandage wrapped around the hand they cut earlier.

“Wait, did you do this?” (Y/N) couldn’t begin to imagine how a giant lizard with wings could wrap their much smaller hand, yet the dragon… nodded? The dragon looked at (Y/N) and started moving it’s head in a circular, almost like it was telling them to turn around.

“You, you want me to t-turn around?” The dragon nodded again, and (Y/N) complied. Well, at least they won’t see the death coming. Suddenly, they were a bunch of crunching and cracking noises, like someone was breaking multiple bones, one after another. (Y/N) went to turn back around but the dragon let out a warning growl, causing them to stop and continue facing away from the beast. That growl sounded familiar, and so did the feeling of those ruby eyes on (Y/N)’s figure. Wait a minute…

“Hey, you can turn around now,” A raspy yet sheepish voice called out. (Y/N) turned around and took in the young man’s spiky red hair, matching red eyes, sharp teeth peaking through his lips, and his well built body, as well as the wrinkled pants he hastily threw on that he didn’t adjust over his large tail. Despite his striking appearance, he was almost cowering in front of them.

“Have you been the one watching me?” (Y/N) couldn’t help but blurt out the question, they needed answers, the red head’s face changed to utter surprise.

“H-How did you know that I was there?” Kirishima was baffled and slightly insulted, he thought he was perfectly hidden.

“I’m a witch that lives alone in the middle of nowhere, you silly lizard, I have to be very observant and aware of my surroundings.” (Y/N) chastised, now they were both offended. “Now what I want to know is why you kidnapped me”

“Kidnapped? I rescued you! You were gonna be eaten by that mean old wolf if I hadn’t stepped in, and you were injured! I didn’t even want to bring you back here until the nest was done but I had to.” Kirishima got closer to (Y/N) as they cocked their neck back. (Well now we know what made that yelp noise.)

“Wolf? Injured? I was just gathering ingredients for my soup and got a little cut on my hand, I could’ve out ran some lousy wolf.” (Y/N) huffed.

“Jeez, you sound like Bakugo” Eijiro muttered. “If I hadn’t swatted that wolf away, it would’ve devoured you when you tripped.” Hm, maybe he was right. “And I couldn’t let that happen, especially before I court you properly.” Court?

“Wait, those were courting gifts?” (Y/N) asked, exasperated.

“Yes, I didn’t give them to you directly because I was afraid of how you’d react to a dragon asking for your hand so I thought I’d leave small things to prepare you for all this.” He motioned to the furs, gems, and other gifts. “Oh, and I went back to get the basket you dropped, I’m honestly flustered that you carried it around, I didn’t think it was that well made, my momma taught me how to weave a long time ago.” Kirishima rambled.

“Oh, goodness, I didn’t realize you were trying to court me, I feel so bad. I don’t even know your name.” (Y/N) exclaimed and facepalmed.

“Ha! That’s ok, I should be embarrassed too, I went through all this and watched you for so long and I don’t know yours either. I’m Eijiro Kirishima, and you?”

“(Y/F/N) (Y/L/N). And… I happily accept your courting gifts.”

~

I went a little overboard with this one but it was so fun to write!

Thanks for reading!

(Gif not mine)

[warcats-cat]

False Idol (Good Omens Fanfic)

Hello again!!! Guess who’s back on her bullshit!! It Me!! :D This is my first Good Omens fic, and this chapter hasn’t been beta’d (My beta is really busy rn and I didn’t want her to feel super rushed) This fic has six chapters, and I’m hoping to post them every few days. You can also find this fic on ao3. Please feel free to scream at me!! I crave validation!!

TW for this fic in general: angst, violence, wing violence, blood, character death, depression, funerals, Gabriel being a prick,  and Divine Intervention.

Chapter 1 - Lots of Lovely Things

There were lots of lovely things in A. Z. Fell & co’s bookshop. The building itself was small, and old, but certainly not shabby. The inside was cozy, always warm, and the shop itself was enticing in ways humans simply couldn’t express. Even if the current owner had a tendency to be harsh when dealing with customers, and never seemed to want  to sell his stock, there was something that drew people in.

On a good day, if the shop was quiet and there was a light drizzle outside, you might be able to strike up a conversation with the shopkeeper. He would tell you stories of his treasures within; not the books, but other things, like black and white photographs, or curious objects he claimed to have inherited from his ancestors. Everything in the shop had a story; if one was determined enough, you might at least leave the shop with one or two words-of-mouth.

But one curious object had appeared rather suddenly a few months ago, after the shop had mysteriously closed for several weeks, the doors locked and no notice to be found in the windows.

A little oak box with a glass pane across the front was hung up above the register’s counter. If you looked carefully, you could see a small photograph, a set of keys, and a strangely-shaped pair of sunglasses within the narrow box. Customers had been wondering at the box for some time now, but never worked up the courage to ask about it. The shopkeep hadn't had his previous vigor in keeping the place clean and organized as of late, and was much more easily persuaded into selling his tomes than the months previous. Many assumed the box to be a memorial of some sort. And their assumptions were entirely correct.

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It was a lovely day for a stroll in the park. Ducks swam around merrily in the pond and entertained all manner of visitors, the sun was out and the sky was cloudless.

It was nice to have a little freedom in their days now, and today was a very important day in Aziraphale’s opinion. Today he was going to take a very large risk, and test the limits of that freedom that came in the aftermath of the Not-Pocalypse. Aziraphale was dressed in his comfortable cream-colored coat; what was the point of eternity if one was uncomfortable, after all? Crowley looked quite lovely in his light black jacket and skinny jeans. Long and tall, almost delicate, if the angel didn’t know better.

Although he couldn’t see the demon’s face, there was a slight twist to his mouth that, to the casual observer looked like mere amused disinterest, but  looked like a glowing smile to the Angel. The pair were standing shoulder to shoulder, silently enjoying each other’s company, and Aziraphale casually rolled is shoulders as if to stretch them His wings fluffed and spread in the ethereal plane for just a moment.

This was it. This was the opening Aziraphale had been looking for.

Carefully, and without looking anywhere but straight ahead, Aziraphale reached slowly to his left and took Crowley’s hand in his own, gently intertwining their fingers.

Crowley stopped for a fraction of a second, a near imperceptible blush jumping up on his cheeks. Aziraphale chanced a glance from the corner of his eye, but the demon hadn’t stopped walking. He hadn’t even pulled away. In fact, Crowley seemed to worked up a little extra courage himself, and gently stroked Aziraphale’s thumb with his own. It was acceptance; this was really happening, and it was ok.

Aziraphale knew Crowley had been waiting for this moment for a while, but never would have initiated anything without asking Aziraphale a few dozen times to ensure the Angel’s comfort. If Aziraphale was really ready for public affection, and maybe a closer relationship, he would have to initiate it.

They walked for a while, just holding hands. Aziraphale began to lead Crowley away from the crowds, towards a shady spot at the end of the park. A small miracle was waiting for the pair in the form of a little wicker basket and a red-white-check blanket. There was an easy silence between them as Crowley spread the blanket and Aziraphale began to set out a small plate of tasteful sandwiches and two flutes of champagne. It was the first picnic of the rest of their eternity together. They could figure it out together.

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“Good news!” a voice startled Aziraphale out of the pleasant silence of the bookshop, “We’ve found a way to fix the mess you made!” Gabriel appeared in the doorway, tight faux-smile and clean gray suit adorning him. Aziraphale found himself at a loss for words for a few minutes, blinking owlishly at the archangel.

“O-oh? I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean…” Aziraphale stutters as he idly fixes a series of books on the shelf that didn’t need fixing. He felt incredibly uneasy just being in Gabriel’s presence; this wasn’t supposed to happen. It had barely been two months since the apocalypse had been averted, and the sham-trials of Heaven and Hell, and Aziraphale had really been hopeful that their trick had been successful. Crowley outright refused to speak about the trials, which left Aziraphale even more on edge wondering what exactly Gabriel had been willing to do then. And what would he be willing to do now?

Gabriel’s smile tightened even further, his face appearing almost like over-stretched plastic. “I think you know exactly what I mean, my annoying little Principality.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard and took a steadying breath; niceties were over then, it appeared. He turned to face the archangel fully, and lifted his chin just slightly before addressing his ex-superior.

“I did what I believed would be right. I will not apologize that bloodlust didn't have the opportunity to satiated.” He said simply, with as much confidence as he had. “I am not interested in destruction for the sake of destruction. And clearly, the Almighty isn’t either, because She hasn’t caused me to Fall, nor any other Divine punishments.”

“A punishment doesn’t have to come from God to be Divine.” Gabriel retorted, his smile falling into a sharp glare. It was a threat, but Aziraphale refused to take the bait. He refused to let Gabriel intimidate him. “Anyway, we are willing to overlook your past failures and welcome you back into the Heavenly Army, blah blah blah, be in Megiddo in three days.” The archangel clearly wanted to leave, and was beginning to look both bored and mildly frustrated that he couldn't affect Aziraphale like he used to. He straightened his silken tie and began to turn before a single word stopped him in his tracks.

“ No .” Aziraphale’s answer was quiet. His hands fiddled with his coat behind his back, but otherwise he was the picture of calm and steady. Had Crowley been there, the demon would not have been able to believe his ears; the typically timid and overly-loyal angle openly defying the Archangel Gabriel directly.

Gabriel spun on his heel, straightening taller than (humanly) possible and fixing Aziraphale with a venomous stare, as if he could ignite the principality with his eyes alone. "Excuse me?" All pretense of friendliness or propriety was gone from his voice. This was the most dangerous position Aziraphale could imagine himself in, and he had stared into the face of Satan himself. “I think you should rethink that response.”

Aziraphale squared his shoulders, lifted his chin a little higher, and met the archangel’s eyes. “I don’t believe in bloodshed. I don’t believe in war. And I will not help you destroy the Almighty’s creation over nothing.”

Gabriel set his jaw, huffed, and crossed his arms over his chest. “The Great War of Heaven and Hell is not nothing. We will win.” Suddenly, Gabriel was inches from his face, one hand fisted in the front of Aziraphale’s shirt. “You have no right to disobey direct orders. And if you tell your little traitor friend about this, or if either of you interfere, you’ll both learn what Divine Punishment really means.” and with that, the Archangel was gone, leaving Aziraphale alone in his bookshop.

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“Ok, angel, what’s wrong?” Two days later, and angel and a demon were having tea in the back of a quiet bookshop. Crowley looked concerned, at least as far as Aziraphale could tell. His mouth was turned down just slightly, the clock in the little kitchenette was ticking softly, and it occurred to Aziraphale that he had no idea how long they had been sitting at the table, nor how long the shop had actually been empty.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean?” He asked. Crowley’s face set stern for a moment before softening again. He sighed dramatically, before reaching for the spoon in Aziraphale’s hand.

“You’ve been staring at this creme brulee for six minutes, and your tea went cold almost ten minutes ago. Ya’got something going on up there. What’s wrong?” he asked the last two words more pointedly, and set the forgotten desert aside. The angle fidgeted in his chair for a moment, trying to decide what to say.

“They’ll be having their war tomorrow morning. It seems all the work we did was for nothing…” He stood, as if to begin cleaning up and putting away the dishes by hand, before Crowley put out a hand to stop him.

“What war, angel? Where are they having it? We could still--”

“We can’t stop them!” Aziraphale half-shouted over the demon’s speeding words. “Gabriel--” He worked his jaw for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Gabriel stopped by a few days ago. He wanted to leave me a warning. To not interfere.” He pushed past Crowley towards the sink, not feeling up to the act of a miracle. Crowley was out of his chair in a moment, his movements silent as a snake.

“Did that prick threaten you?!” Crowley spat the ugly word. Aziraphale flinched, involuntarily, which caused the demon to soften just a touch, and lower his voice. “Did he threaten you, Aziraphale?” When the angel hesitated, Crowley moved around him to dry the dishes with a towel.

“In so many words. We have instructions not to interfere tomorrow. I already denied him my own metaphorical sword in the fighting.” there was a beat of silence before Crowley spoke.

“You’re afraid.”

“Of course I am. I thought we would have time . I thought the earth and humans and Creation would be safe! At least for a few years . But there’s a war that begins tomorrow at dawn and somehow the powers of Hell and Heaven have at least agreed upon a time to have their war and I feel absolutely powerless !” His hands had begun to tremble, and Crowley took him by the forearms and guided him to sit on a couch in a room off from the kitchenette. “I don’t like the thought that all of our effort was for nothing. And I don’t believe this is part of the Almighty’s plan!”

“Then we should do something, Angel.” was Crowley’s simple answer. Aziraphale shook his head, unsure that it would be possible to stop a second time.

“I don’t think we can. And I don’t know if we should.” he responded, quietly. “I don’t even know if I want to.” Crowley watched the angel carefully, as he sagged against the demon. This was much closer than they had been before, but Crowley was trying not to ruin the moment. His angel was clearly hurting. And then Aziraphale grabbed onto Crowley’s midsection and buried his face in the demon’s chest.

“ I’m so tired .” he mumbled, barely a whisper. Crowley tried his best to be comforting and tender, feeling like nothing but sharp lines and points while trying to hold onto an absolute marshmallow of an angel. He took a slow breath and moved a hand to rub Aziraphale’s back.

“I know angel.” And they stayed that way well into the night, even into the following morning. One of their first real moments of closeness happening on the morning of a war.

Read chapter 2 here!!

[johnsbleu]

Hold My Hand: John Wick & Reader Chapter 4

Warnings: None

The next week drags on as you're not able to talk to John. The store is having its annual fall sale on Saturday and you've been busy getting everything ready for the weekend, which luckily you have off. Thankfully, Tess works with you, making the days fun and not as long. It's a Friday afternoon, and you and Tess are rifling through the books for the sale.

"Hey, I haven't really gotten the chance to properly ask you, because of all this," she waves her hands around all the books, "how was your date with John?" 

“It was good." you sigh and frown. 

You missed him, and the sound of his name made the ache in your chest hurt even more. You hated how quickly you were falling for him.

"Good? That's it? Come on, tell me more." Tess begins pushing you, knowing that you'll give in and tell her everything. Sliding the books aside on the table so she can sit, she looks at you until you finally begin to speak.

"It was really nice, we went to this fancy restaurant that I can't even begin to imagine how much it cost. The hostess kept giving John looks and flirting with him. Didn't like that." you look over at Tess and she's nodding, encouraging you to keep going. You shift on your feet and pull up a chair sitting down. 

“Keep going!”

"He held my hand, that was pretty cute. Found out he restores books, who knows, he could have some books here. Then, we went for a walk along the river before the rain ruined that." 

You look around the dingy little shop in which you work before you look down and start playing with a loose thread on your sweater. Tess can tell something is bothering you and she scoots closer to you.

"What's wrong? Oh, my god, was he creepy at the end of the night? I hate when that happens, you think they're all nice and sweet and then..." she starts rambling on, presumably from past experiences. You let out a laugh and reassure her that she was a perfect gentleman the whole night.

"No, no, no, it was just...when I asked about his job, I don't know, he seemed a little restrained. It was almost like he wanted to tell me more, but he couldn't or something.  All he said was that he restored books..." you get up from the chair and distract yourself with your work, “It's probably nothing, maybe he just hasn't dated in a while, so he isn't sure how to talk about himself."

Tess gets up and grabs a stack of books in her hands, “Don't be so hard on yourself. He's totally into you. Remember, I know everything” She winks at you and places them on the table.

It's a little past 2 when the bell above the door alerts you of the customer entering the store.

“I got it.” Tess hops up and heads to the front of the store.

You hear Tess calling your name and as you round the corner, you look up and see John standing looking at some books on the rack. Having no mirror you fix your hair as best as possible, tucking it neatly behind your ear and walk over to him. When he turns to see you, his face brightens and you can see the adoration in his eyes.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” you ask and he pulls you into a hug. Against his warm chest, you feel safe, and you realize this is the first time you've hugged. Backing away so you can look up at him, he looks around your store.

"I just wanted to stop by and ask if you maybe wanted to go with me tomorrow to Central Park. I bring Bleu there sometimes and let him run around. I thought we could pack a picnic." His dark locks look especially soft and fluffy today, and you want so badly to run your fingers through his hair.

“Yes, I'd love that.” You feel a smile tugging at your lips and you blush.

“Perfect, I thought you could come by around noon and we can make some sandwiches to take.” 

He takes a book off the shelf and carelessly flips through it and places it back where he got it, then moves over to you, pulling you into a hug that lasts long enough to cause Tess to clear her throat.

 “I'll see you later.”  he says, with his lips pressed against your head. The scent of his cologne lingers in the air after he’s gone.

“He is so into you,” she starts to fan herself, “I could feel the sexual tension from this side of the counter.” 

You laugh and roll your eyes at her, retreating to the back office to continue divvying up the books for the sale.

__

The next day, you wake up and hop in the shower taking your time to get ready for your date with John. Peeking out the window and checking the weather, you see it’s warm and sunny. 

You pull out a thin sweater and some black leggings, and pull on your favorite boots and give yourself a once over in the mirror. You reach over to your phone and check the time. 11:46. You grab your bag and head to the door, knowing you'll be a little early, but you can help make the food, plus it's extra time you get to spend with John.

You knock a few times and hear the familiar sound of his footsteps as he makes his way to the door. He opens the door so fast, the sudden rush of air blows his hair away from his face and you notice a light bruise near his hairline. 

“Hey, come in, I was just getting the stuff out for sandwiches.”

When you walk into the bright white kitchen, you see all the fixings for sandwiches laid out on the center island.

“Wow you really went all out,” you say and John looks over at you. For a moment, he almost looks sad and you reach out to touch his arm reassuring him, “You could have just had peanut butter and jelly and I would have been fine with that, but this is good too.” 

Packing everything into the wicker basket, which you assume John purposely went out and bought just for today, you grab Bleu's leash and tuck it under your arm. John grabs a brown leather jacket and puts it on and fishes his keys out of his pocket. 

Opening the door, John gestures to the front porch, “After you...” 

__

After walking for a few minutes, you find a nice little spot under a tree and unfold the blanket that John had packed and sit down. John groans as he sits down next to you and rubs his knee. 

You furrow your brow and look at his knee then back up at him, "Are you okay?" 

John looks at you, a little shocked that you even noticed him rubbing his knee, "Oh, yeah, it's nothing. Just work..." 

He looks up and readies himself for your questions. You shrug it off as Bleu starts whining for your attention. He's growing more and more impatient as he sniffs the wicker basket, knowing there's a sandwich John had packed for him. John opens the basket and hands you a sandwich, then places Bleu's down on the grass and he begins to devour it happily.

He looks over at you and perks up, “Favorite flower?”

You pretend to give it a hard thought, tapping your finger on your chin, “Hmm, well, I really love sunflowers and as cliche as it is, I love roses too.”

John looks as if he's filing all the information away in his mind, “How about your favorite color?”

“Blue. Every shade of blue, really.” 

He nods, agreeing it's a great color and pats Bleu on his head.

There's a lull in the conversation and you look over to see a couple getting their pictures taken for what you assume is their engagement announcements. John notices you staring and turns around to see what you're looking at.

 At the sight of the happy couple posing, he clears his throat and it brings you back to him, “Tell me about your family?”

“Well, I grew up with a single mom, no dad. Long story. But I do have 1 brother. They live back home, so I don't get to see them much, but I talk to my mom quite a bit. I actually told her I was going out on a date today.” 

John smiles to himself and pops the last bit of his sandwich in his mouth, then wipes himself clean with a napkin. 

“She asked what you looked like, I told her that you're very handsome and that I'll have to snap a picture because I don't think describing you would do you justice.” you look over at John and smile. His eyes are kind and appreciative at the sound of your compliment and his cheeks become flushed.

Finishing your lunch John suggests running the basket back to the car which is parked on the street only a few feet away. You stand up and brush the crumbs off your pants and grab Bleu's leash hooking it to his collar. 

As John makes his way back over to you, his hair is blowing in the wind and you catch a glimpse of the bruise on his forehead again. He notices you staring and you look away.

“How about you, what about your family?” you ask, as he takes the leash from you and grabs a hold of your hand, and it feels so small compared to his and butterflies start floating around in your stomach.

He clears his throat, almost hesitating, “I, actually, uh..don't really have a family.” You stop walking and John stops and turns around looking at you and smiles, “What?”

Shocked, you shake your head, “How do you not have a family?”

“I was put into foster care when I was young, and kind of just drifted from home to home. When I was 19, I was lost, so I joined the Marines.”

You look at him up and down thinking about how this man, who is soft as can be, was once a tough Marine. Then, you remember the day you touched his bicep and nod to yourself.

“I met a man named Marcus while I was in there and he helped me out a lot. He was the closest thing I ever had to family.” he looks down at you as process it all.

“I mean, at least you have him. That's good.” 

As soon as you speak, John looks off into the distance and you immediately know you said something wrong.

“Actually, he passed away a few years ago.” 

Your right hand comes flying up to cover your mouth, and you let go of John's hand and sit on the bench that's nearby.

“Holy shit, John. I am so sorry. I didn't mean to bring up any bad memories.” 

What an idiot. 

You start to ramble like you do when you get nervous, apologizing profusely and John sits down next to you while Bleu lays on the ground at your feet. He grabs your hand and brings it to his mouth, pressing a small kiss onto it and his lips linger there for a moment.

“It's okay. I know you didn't mean to. I brought up your family first.” John laughs and squeezes your hand. 

You let out a big breath and lean back on the bench scooting closer to John, resting your head on his shoulder. You sit there in silence for several minutes before John pulls a tennis ball from his pocket, and at the sight of the lime green ball, Bleu is standing and waiting for John to throw it. You stand and walk with John over to the patch of grass, and you take turns throwing the ball for Bleu.

__

On the way home, you're stuck in pesky New York traffic and the car is silent, but outside, you can hear the city booming with life. You begin to apologize to John again, feeling like absolute shit. 

“John, seriously, I'm sorry if I brought up any bad memories. It certainly wasn't my intention. If I had known, I never would have asked.” 

Rubbing your forehead with your hand, John looks over at you and takes your hand in his. He keeps his eyes on the road, and when you're at a stand still again, he shifts in his seat and leans over pressing his hands against your face.

“Seriously, it's okay. I promise.” he smiles.

As his hand descends back down to find yours, it grazes your left breast slightly and you both look at each other. John's lips part as he starts to lean towards you, and a loud horn ruins the moment as the jerk behind you is getting impatient. You burst out laughing when you see how red John's face has gone, clearly embarrassed.

__

Pulling up the long gravel driveway to John's house, you half expect him to say goodbye when he invites you into his house, “If you want, I can show you some of my books.”

Touched that he'd even offer such a thing, you immediately agree, also knowing you want to spend as much time with him as possible.

Following behind John down the stairs,  you reach the bottom step and see all the books along the wall to the left and immediately, a smile begins to grow on your face. 

“Wow, you..really have a lot of books.” you gasp when you see Thomas Bewick's Fables of Aesop. “No way, you have this? And it's a first edition.” 

You're impressed, realizing how much it probably cost him.

“Yeah, these are just some I've collected throughout the years.” he gestures over to the other shelf and pulls out a book. A book full of fairy-tales. “I don't know why, but I feel like you'd like this.” 

He hands the heavy book to you, opening it you notice his stamp inside the cover. You're becoming more impressed by the minute.

“I want you to have it.” he says as he looks you deep into your eyes. 

You shove the book into his chest, “I can't. You worked so hard on this, I can't just take it.”

“You're not taking it, I'm giving it to you. There's a difference.” his voice calm and soothing to your ears. 

He starts to move in closer and when he's inches from your face his phone rings. You sigh and close your eyes as he excuses himself to answer the phone.

You bend down to look at the books on the lower shelf and find Bleu standing next to you begging for your attention. You scratch the dog on his head and rub his ears. You can hear John's deep voice coming from upstairs but can't make out the words. Is that even English?

Finally, you hear him making his way back down the stairs apologizing for having to take a call. Standing up, you cross your arms in front of you, holding the book tight against your chest.

“It was just work. Something has come up and I'll need to go out of town for a week or two. Could you possibly do me a favor while I'm gone?”

He spreads his legs out and lowers himself so you're almost at eye level. He places his hands on your elbows and you feel your knees giving out from under you. Willing to do just about anything for this man that you barely know, you nod your head.

“Would you watch Bleu while I'm gone? He hates staying in the hotel and he doesn't like staying at any of the boarding places. And he obviously loves you.” 

You both look down to see Bleu looking up at the two of you wagging his tail. You gladly accept knowing April and Tess will love having a dog around, especially one as cute and cuddly as Bleu. John thanks you and you head upstairs where he starts packing a bag for Bleu.

“I usually bring him for a walk in the morning and once again in the evening, but if he only gets one walk, that's fine too.” John makes sure to pack all of Bleu's favorite toys and hands it to you, “I figure you can take this now, I won't be leaving for a few hours, so I'll bring him over before I leave.”

The realizations that you won't see John for a while starts to set in, and John can see that you're getting upset and is making his way over to where you're standing. He grabs your chin with his index finger and thumb and raises your head slightly so you're looking at him.

“Hey, I'll try to get this done with as fast as possible and I'll be back before you know it.”

You start to pout and he laughs, leaning down to press his lips against yours. Firm, but soft. You feel like you're floating and your hands trail up his chest and around his neck to keep yourself in place, and he pulls you in deepening the kiss.

His hands are engulfing your ribs and are slowly moving down your waist to your ass. Finally, you break away from his kiss, almost gasping for air and he presses a kiss to your forehead, then to your cheek and finally back on your lips.

“I should probably go pack.” he says, softly

You nod, not wanting this moment to end yet, but know he needs to pack. He lets go of you and backs away, and you find yourself missing his touch already. You grab Bleu's bag and your book from the kitchen table, then make your way to the front door.

“I'll be by with Bleu in a little bit.” he smiles at you and gives you one last kiss.

__

A few hours pass and you're laying on your bed looking at the book John gave you when you hear a knock at the door.

“I got it!” April yells out as you quickly got up and walked over to the mirror making sure your hair isn't too bad. 

You hear John introducing Bleu to April when you start making your way down the stairs. You can't help but get butterflies when you see John in a dark blue three piece suit and his hair slicked back out of his face.

“He doesn't beg much, but sometimes he put on his sad face in hopes it'll help him get some food.”  

April kneels down to pet Bleu and looks back up at John, “I have a feeling you're not one to turn him down. It works, doesn't it?”

John takes a big breath and lets out a laugh moving his hand to cover his mouth, “Yeah, actually it does.”

As you reach the bottom step, John turns to face you and you raise your eyebrows and point at his suit and then his hair, “Not bad. You look very handsome.” 

A slow redness creeps onto his cheeks, and he looks down at his feet and smiles. You look over at April who is already on the couch with Bleu showering with him cuddles and kisses, and both of them loving every minute of it.

John looks over at his dog and walks over to say goodbye. He grabs his face and plants a big kiss on his head. “I'll be back soon boy, I think you're in good hands.” 

Walking onto your porch, you close the door behind you and turn around to face John who is standing on the sidewalk. You're standing on the steps and you're at eye level for once. He wraps his arms around your waist and brings you in close. Placing your arms around his neck you stare into his eyes as you both smile.

“Oh, I want to give you this before I leave,” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key, “I thought you could get my mail for me and leave it on the table. I have a lot of books too, you know if you're bored or something.”

You take the key from John and smile as you walk John over to his car and prepare for goodbye.

“Again, I'll try and call you. Hopefully I can get all this done and be back sooner.”

 You lean against his car and cross your arms, “What are you going out of town for?”

He swallows hard and looks away from you, “There's a client that needs me to, uh,” he starts playing with his car keys, “Come check out some of his books, and he wants me to track some down as well.”

Even though you work in a book store, you don't know much about tracking down rare books so you shrug it off. You reach out to grab his hand, “Okay, well I'll see you soon.”

He takes both your hands in his and brings them to his cheeks to cup them, feeling his scruff against your delicate skin. His big, calloused hands on your back and he pulls you for a hug, and you stand there for what seems like an eternity before he lets go and kisses your temple. He gets in his car and you lean in the window pressing a messy kiss on his lips.

“Don't forget about me, okay?”

“That's impossible.” He says smiling against your lips.

[neganandblake]

I think I liked you better when you didn’t have a knife in your hand, Peaches... Chapter 139 - Seeing red

When Blake finds herself sold out to the Saviours by her abusive fiancé, she realises that she’s certainly not on her own anymore and finds an unlikely friend in Negan. And Negan does NOT like men who beat their girlfriends, one tiny bit….

MASTERLIST

Chapter 139 - Seeing red

[Searching the rooms of the abandoned house, Blake’s primal instincts kick in when a sudden figure shows up...]

Blake followed Negan swiftly back into the living room, gazing about.

Negan was right, the place did indeed look pretty looted. With all that was left being a few items of rickety furniture and the dusty old decor of a family long since departed one way or another.

The blonde woman gave a small sigh, picking up a well-out-of date trashy magazine showing pictures of z-list celebrities Blake barely cared to remember, before flinging it back down again, making her way over to the door on the far side of the hallway, which Negan had checked just a few short minutes ago.

It looked like a bedroom, dark and gloomy with a small twin bed sat in the centre and the drapes drawn tightly.

It smelled of dried blood in here and Blake didn't care to linger on thoughts of what might have happened here long ago.

From behind her she could hear Negan still shuffling about in the living room, from the sounds of it, flicking through a stack of CDs which she had noticed had been sat on a shelf near to the fireplace.

Blake tried the next room, the large family bathroom with a pretty, if not a little dated, shell-shaped tub which filled one corner, next to a washbasin and toilet.

She checked the small mirrored medicine cabinet which hung over the sink, but found it empty, much like the rest of the house, save for a couple of pink-fairy-covered band-aids. But Blake pocketed these nonetheless, thinking of Mia, before heading into the room just across the small hallway.

The door was slightly ajar and Blake gave it a sharp shove open to see that inside was a small child's bedroom. With soccer balls painted onto the light green walls and a small twin bed squashed into the corner beside a nightstand adorned with a star-shaped nightlight.

Blake hovered here for a long moment, her digits tensed around the door handle, but she didn't venture in, giving a small gulp, before pulling the door shut-to once more.

But as she turned around she noticed a door just to her right which she hadn't noticed when she had first entered the small shadowy hallway.

Had Negan?

The door was indeed closed, unlike the other rooms that Negan had searched.

She turned her head, still hearing the sound of Negan flicking through CDs and records in the other room.

"Baby, you tried this room?" she called through to him gently.

But before he could answer she had moved tentatively over to the door, shuffling along the small windowless corridor, her fingers tensing around the brass door knob.

"What you say, Darlin'?" he said suddenly, his head appearing around the doorway that led into the living room, just as Blake tried the door handle, feeling it twist beneath her grasp.

It was obvious that Negan hadn't noticed this room either, the handle stiff beneath her grasp, like it hadn't been opened in years.

He was at her side in a flash, pulling his knife from his belt swiftly.

But as the door relented and swung open, to both of their relief, they found the room to be devoid of any walkers…

….but instead, Blake gave a small blink, staring around, her lips parting gently.

This was the reason she had been right to search this place...

...her eyes widening.

She took a step inside to see a small room painted all in white, with beautiful pink and purple vine-covered flowers hand-painted onto the walls.

And inside the very centre of the room sat a small white, empty crib.

Blake stared at it, as did Negan, both of them silent for a very, very long moment.

After a long few second had passed, Blake silently moved over to it, peering down inside to find a gorgeous hand crocheted comforter and a small brown teddy bear.

The woman who lived here, part of that family, had been pregnant….

...or perhaps she had had the baby before the world went to shit, but Blake doubted it...

The entire room looked unused and undisturbed, like a shrine to a child, unborn.

There was a closet and a changing table on the far side of the small white space, with at least two boxes of what looked like diapers and other baby supplies in baskets stored underneath.

And beneath the the large net-covered window, sat a small rocking chair made of wicker, with a fleecy blanket draped over it.

Blake felt tears welling in her green eyes, unsure of whether this was happiness or sadness now, as she stared around.

But she didn't get the chance for any tears to fall, as she felt Negan's sudden strong arms wrap around her waist from behind, angling Lucille away from her as his stubbly chin dropped down onto Blake's shoulder.

"You alaright, Peaches…" he muttered in a low and serious voice, as always, reading her like a book.

But she nodded.

"Yeah," she replied gently, moving her hand over his, as his calloused digits skimmed over her abdomen

And she was.

She was here, alive and so was Mia and the baby growing inside her.

She had a chance here that few others had. A chance to love something brand new in this dead and decaying old world.

She felt Negan press a scratchy kiss to the place just below her ear before he pulled gently away, letting out a hot sigh against her skin.

"You think we should take some of this shit back with us?" he uttered with a hum. "Shit looks like its fresh from the store."

Blake pondered this for a lengthy few moments before nodding again.

"Yeah I think that would be good," she murmured back in reply.

It was time for her to start thinking about this sort of thing.

It had taken them long enough to get Mia's room in order, and the baby currently growing inside her belly would be here in a few months and they would indeed need things for him or her...like any other healthy baby outside of this damn apocalypse would have had.

So they might as well start somewhere.

"You think we can get all this in the truck," Blake asked, placing her hands to the side of the white painted crib.

"No fuckin' problem," said Negan pushing himself off of her with a huff and arching his spine, marvelling at the piece of furniture, before standing up once again and pointing a finger towards her. "But I'm doin' all the heavy liftin', no arguments."

Blake gave a smile, lifting her palms up to either side of her shoulders in a gesture of defeat, rolling her eyes.

"Fiiine," she said in a happy, teasing voice, making to open her mouth again to speak.

But before she could do so there came a sudden creak of floorboards behind the pair of them.

Instantaneously both Negan and Blake swung around, with Negan lifting his barbed wire- covered baseball bat, just as the click of a gun was heard.

And Blake's eyes seemed to widen in their sockets as her gaze fell on the figure of a man with long brown hair and a dirty brown beard.

Neither of them recognized him for a moment, until a stark realisation suddenly washed over Blake.

For she saw that it was the man from the photograph, now sitting on the mantelpiece above the fireplace back in that living room in there.

But he looked a lot different that he had done back then that was for sure.

Now his hair was far longer, a unkempt matted mess, his clothes were filthy and torn and coated in sweat and grime. And to Blake it looked as though he had long stopped taking care of himself. Surviving out here alone for years.

He stood there now, pointing a gun at them with one hand, holding a knife, blackened with crusty blood, in the other. But there was no sign of the rest of the family that Blake had seen in the picture. With her realising it was likely that they had died a long, long time ago. The house still left like a shrine of sorts, a tell-tale sign of that sorry fact.

"You're trespassing," the man suddenly barked, his eyes wild and staring.

He looked completely unstable at this very moment swaying back and forth on his tall, stocky legs.

Blake gave a gulp, placing a hand protectively to her stomach, as Negan took a sudden step forwards.

"Whoh now look. at. you, big guy," Negan snarled, a hint of a narrowed-eyed grin etching its way across his face, cocking his tanned head to the side. "With your big, weighty fuckin' balls steppin' up to me an' my-"

But the man cut across him suddenly, before Negan could finish.

"This is my house!" the brown haired-man shouted. "Y-You come into MY house and y-you think you can touch my things...my wife's things...my kid's things….."

Blake gave a worried frown, as she saw Negan lower his chin darkly.

"We weren't-" she began in a soothing voice, but the man cut her down taking a sudden and unpredicted step forwards, staring at her with wide, blown eyes.

"You were trespassing!" shouted the man again, sounding as though he was close to tears, dragging his sleeve across his sweaty brow. "O-On my property...y-you're both gonna die for that."

At her side, she heard Negan let-out an angry growl.

"Only one fuckin' fucker is gonna die today," said the dark-haired Saviour furiously. "An' that's gonna be you, asshole."

Negan took another step forward, sliding in front of Blake and shielding her from harm's way.

But Blake had a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach, worried not only for herself and the safety of her unborn baby, but for Negan too.

This man looked unstable and it seemed almost impossible to predict what he would do next.

The man stared to Negan suddenly, pointing his gun square between the Saviour's eyes.

Fuck.

Blake felt her blood run cold. And before she could stop herself, she took took a quick step towards the man.

"Your wife and son," she said suddenly. "W-Where are they now?"

She noticed he still hand his gold wedding band on one finger, as his wild eyes shot her way.

But the man faltered for a second, his gun trained on Negan.

"M-My wife and son?" he repeated, gaping at the air a moment, before blinking several times in quick succession.

He hovered for a lengthy moment, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet.

"They're…." he began, frowning slightly. "...well, they're…"

But he stopped, blinking again in confusion, before suddenly and without warning turning the gun on Blake.

"Shut up!" he yelled suddenly, his hand shaking. "Shut up!"

Beside her, Blake saw Negan tighten his grip on Lucille suddenly, his hackles raising.

"Don't you dare speak to me," shouted the man again, his finger tensing around the trigger. "Don't you dare stand in my house, touching my things, OUR things."

And it was in that second that Blake felt her heart stop, fear coursing suddenly through her, terrified now of dying and not being able to see the baby that was growing inside her. Realising just how much love she felt for the child she had never ever met yet.

Suddenly Negan let out a roar, lifting Lucille above his head and swinging it back down.

But the man was quicker than either of them thought he would be, and dodged out of the way as the bat swished through the air.

Negan staggered for a moment, teeth gritted and wild-looking himself, just as the man gave a yell of his own and made to lunge knife-first at Blake.

But the blonde woman saw red quicker than she had ever done before in her life.

There was no logic here.

No time to be sensible or think this through.

So she did what her instinct told her, tugging the gun suddenly from her belt…

...pointing…

….and shooting.

The gunshot rang through the small house, ringing through Blake's ears.

Negan gazed up as the man stared up at her too….

….blood flowing on his sweat stained shirt, as he dropped suddenly to his knees, lips mouthing pointlessly at the air.

But Blake watched and kept watching as he slumped sideways, falling to the floor, his gun and knife tumbling from each of his hands.

But Blake felt no remorse now as she watched him die.

For no one was ever going to threaten their unborn baby. Not ever.

Negan stood up straight, placing his hand to her arm and lowering it, sliding the gun gently from her fingers, his other arm wrapping around her.

"I ain't even gonna bother askin' you if you're alright, cause I know what the damn answer is gonna be, Darlin'," he said with a heavy sigh.

But Blake's eyes found his, as she frowned slightly and shook her head.

"I'm good," he said in firm voice, gazing at him reassuringly. "Really I am."

And she was.

Truly.

She was the queen to his king. And nothing, NOTHING was going to get in the way of that.

They were a family now. And the baby growing inside her only served as a reminder that the two of them would go to the ends of the earth to protect, not only each other, but the life growing inside Blake.

Their life.

Her hand slid to Negan's leather-clad sleeve, her fingers tightening around the stiff material.

"Come on," she said giving his arm a squeeze. "Let's pack this stuff up and get out of here."

And with a nod, Negan brushed his own coarse fingers gently over her cheek affectionately.

"Mhmmm," he agreed "...lets go home, Peaches."

(Gif credit belongs to the owners.)

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[mon-blanchetts]

We Fight Ourselves (Part 2)

Jon never truly belonged to her, but she knew that already. Fate had cast its die a long time ago—everyone, including herself, had to live with the outcome. At least she had her babe; at least she had her home. Sansa re-evaluates the state of marriage after brushing too close with death, but she’s not the only one whose views have changed [Rated M, post-series; deals with events from S7 and leaks from S8].

It was utterly foolish, she realized, having to go from one end of her home to another like a mouse evading the presence of a prowling cat. Still, it was the lesser of two evils, when it came down to it—any scenario where Jon happened upon her while she skittered towards her destination would be even less ideal. True, the glass gardens were on the westernmost side of the castle while the armory was in the opposite direction; the chances of running into Jon were slim to none, but Sansa just couldn’t shake off the paranoia that clung to her. She might have come out of her fever slightly worse for wear, yes, but she came out alive, breathing. If only Jon would see it that way, too.

“You must understand that his lordship’s had a terrible fright, my lady,” Maester Payton explained to her when she complained about his obsessive behavior in confidence. It was a rare occasion, being alone with her advisor; Jon was always lingering about, never out of sight, an additional limb she really didn’t need. “He’s spent so much time suffering over the possibility of your death that he needs to be sure you’re not leaving him. No matter how many times one has been exposed to death, one never gets used to it—the gods didn’t fashion that way.”

Because the gods aren’t merciful enough to do that. Maester Payton’s wisdom wasn’t easy to swallow, but she preferred it over her own beliefs, none of which held any ground, anyway. At the least, it gave her hope that things would return to normal soon; her life had been upended enough.

Sansa hurried through a narrow alleyway, Ghost following close behind. The western courtyard opened before her only a moment later, quiet and still as she remembered it, not so different from the godswood. None of Winterfell’s other courtyards were ever as deserted as this one; of course, none of them were purported to be haunted, either. It was nothing but the wild imaginings of children and superstitious Northerners, but the tales had been eerie enough to keep most away.

She looked up to stare at the face that had been rendered from iron and bronze, a fairly accurate depiction as far as she could tell. Daenerys’s statue rested in the center of the courtyard where she stood proud and erect, just as Sansa remembered her, frozen in time. Despite the upright, confident pose she held, there was something naked and vulnerable associated with the statue. The craftsmen she had commissioned had varying ideas about the placement of her dragons; in the end, they had been incorporated as a motif on the crown she wore.

As she studied the statue that loomed over her, Sansa realized how she never knew exactly what to make of Daenerys Targaryen—there simply hadn’t been enough time to reflect on any personal opinion she might have forged. In the eyes of most Northerners, the Mother of Dragons had been a paradox from the start, an ally and an enemy, until the Night King’s march towards them destroyed any such distinction. Now that Daenerys was but a memory, Sansa’s feelings towards her were just as convoluted as they had been when she had first step foot in the North. It was so easy to hate her, but there was another part of equal strength that admired her, too. Daenerys must have been a force to be reckoned with—after all, Jon had fallen in love with her, had done it with all his heart and every fiber of his being. Sansa wondered, with displaced yearning, what it would have been like to be the recipient of such breathless, passionate fervor, whether she even knew how to respond to it. Probably not, but maybe that was for the best.

A high-pitched whine made her look away from Daenerys’s statue. Ghost pressed his nose against her thigh, urging her forward. Did the courtyard frighten him as well? “It’s only stories,” she protested, shaking her head. “She doesn’t come to life at night, you know. Or do you?” Sansa winked at him.

Fed up, or just bored, Ghost loped past her and out of the courtyard. Sansa glanced at the statue one last time before she hurried after him. Maester Payton told her that the courtyard was where she had been found, lying unconscious at the foot of Daenerys’s iron form. No matter how hard she tried to wrack her mind, Sansa couldn’t remember why she’d been there in the first place. The events prior to her collapse were nothing but a burst of saturated images and misplaced sounds, the line between truth and fantasy a blur. A shame she still had her memories from earlier that day…  

Sansa had never walked into a raging fire before, but setting foot inside the glass gardens must have been a fairly close experience, she thought; heat drowned her as soon as she passed through the doorway, licking at her face and leaving a sheen of moisture that was beginning to gather while she hurriedly pulled off her gloves and cloak. The greenhouse contained a dense silence that was so unlike the world beyond it, but she found that it made her time inside so much more memorable. True, it would never be as aesthetically pleasing as the gardens she remembered while she had lived in the Red Keep, but it had its own charm to it—a simple, Northern kind of attraction that she’d learned quickly to appreciate. The glass gardens housed more plants and flowers than Sansa knew the names of, but her favorite would always be the winter roses of her home; row after row of their shrubs had been planted in the center of the greenhouse, making them an impossible sight to miss. Even better, many of the roses her eyes caught sight of were in their mature state, their colour a pale, frosty blue that was mesmerizing to look at. They would make a lovely addition to her bedchamber, she thought, retrieving a sheathed blade and a wicker basket from the supply shelf nearby. Half a dozen roses would be enough to brighten her room—Sansa could already picture herself as she sat up in her bed, pulling away the curtains and being greeted by the sight of those lovely flowers.

Another thought came to mind while she set to work; the more she entertained it, the harder it was to repress that childhood giddiness she thought had long been snuffed out. Sansa pictured her daughter, one not yet conceived, but there was no doubt that she would possess dark hair so characteristic of her Stark heritage. Her daughter’s voice would ring through the narrow halls of Winterfell, together with Bran’s, and top of her head would be a crown of blue roses that Sansa would make, lovingly woven together with the prettiest pick of the bunch. The image was farther out of her grasp, but not impossible.  

Her feelings were chased off by an eruption of noise somewhere behind her. Sansa jolted to her feet, eyes wide with alarm. Her heart nearly stopped when she turned around to find Jon standing beneath the lintel, breathing loudly through his nostrils. The dense silence of the greenhouse, once benevolent and comforting, now felt like it was trying to strangle the life out of her.  

“What in Seven Hells do you think you’re doing here?” he demanded, his voice like the snap of a whip.

Sansa stared at him. “Hello, Jon,” she greeted gently. All her plans were rushing back now, together with the acute knowledge that she’d failed to follow through with them. Wasn’t it only moments ago when she’d stepped out? It must have, she thought, rather stubbornly; she couldn’t have been away from the keep that long. Could she?

What was it he’d asked her again? Oh, yes. “Many of the winter roses are in full bloom now,” she explained, bending down to retrieve her wicker basket. Sansa realized that there were more than the half dozen she had initially planned. So, she had lost track of time after all. “I thought it would be nice to have a few of them in my rooms, you see. They’re quite lovely, aren’t they?”

She plucked a rose from her basket and held it out to him, a hopeful smile painted on her face. Sansa hoped her peace offering would suffice, but she knew better; it would take a lot more than a pretty flower to placate Jon.

He stared at the blue rose before fixing his gaze on her face again, his eyes stormy. “You said you would be busy with your letters,” he said, and there was no mistaking the accusation lining his tone. “You said you wouldn’t be far.”  

“I just wanted to clear my head a bit,” she reasoned, gripping the handle of her basket. Sansa wondered how long it had taken Jon until he’d been struck with the possibility that she might be here, until she remembered that she’d passed through the western courtyard earlier. “Do you really think my actions criminal, Jon?”

The look he gave her might have been enough to make any man crumble. “You should have sent for me if you wanted to step out,” he reprimanded. “You know you weren’t supposed to be wandering off by yourself like this, but you did it anyway. What if you collapsed again?”

A stab of frustration ran through her body; Sansa could feel the grip on her patience slipping. She knew where his concern stemmed from, but it didn’t make his obsession with her whereabouts any easier to swallow.

Sansa lowered her arm, rose still in hand. “You and I both know the fever’s too well and gone for me to succumb to it again,” she said, her tone patronizing. “I won’t let you talk to me like I’m a child, Jon. If I want to spend time by myself outside the great keep, then I will.”

“Even at the expense of your concerned husband?” he fired back. Maybe it was the light that flooded the glass garden, or maybe it was just a change in scenery, but for the first time since she’d regained consciousness, Sansa was realizing Jon’s changed appearance; his beard was noticeably unkempt, wild and untamed, and the dark crescents under his eyes were more prominent than she had ever remembered them. Sleep was difficult to come by for many people these days, herself included; her mind was constantly abuzz with matters of state and the concerns of her subjects, but there was also the memories to deal with, those drenched in blood and sorrow, those ripe with that question that time had watered: what if? All those thoughts and speculations, like a set of blocks placed one on top of the other, until their weight became too much and they came toppling down—just like the bright comet that had once blazed across the skies, towards the far north, so bright and grand that when Sansa first saw it, she thought the sun had gained wings. Down they all went, those thoughts of hers, until finally she descended into a fitful sleep that left her groggy and drained beneath the morning light that sliced through the thin gap between the drawn bed curtains. Was it all the same for Jon? Or was there something else she wasn’t accounting?

Sansa frowned in response to his question. It just wasn’t like him to bring up their marriage in such a context; Jon was her husband in name only, their union an image drafted from the need to bolster the morale of not just their Northern subjects, but all the survivors of the Great War, those who were desperate for proof that some sort of normalcy was attainable. Her temper flared at the thought of Daenerys’s statue in the center of the western courtyard and the primary reason behind Jon’s self-imposed exile.

“Don’t twist it like that,” she admonished, shaking her head disapprovingly. “It’s not like you at all, you know, pretending we’re something we’ve never been.” Jon was threatening the success behind their partnership; Sansa didn’t like it one bit. She circled around him to leave, eager to extricate herself from this strange encounter before it worsened, but his hand on her arm stopped her from escaping.

“What do you mean by that?” he ordered. Sansa pursed her lips, glaring at him. “Tell me,” he pressed, tugging her closer.

She rolled her eyes. “You once told me you weren’t the husband I deserved, remember? You set the rules, Jon. I’m just following them.” Sansa caught him trying not to wince. How could he ever forget that it was all she could do in order to bring him home?

It felt like such a long time ago when he had said that to her, so much so that she thought the pain had dulled, but the way her chest tightened told her otherwise; there were just some heartaches that could be temporarily displaced, but never forgotten. Sansa accepted that the romantic love she used to dream about was simply not in the cards she kept being dealt with, a gamble that always had disastrous results for her—it was safer to take refuge in the things she had, rather than those she wanted. Jon was never going to love her the way she used to imagine he could, but that wasn’t his fault.

Whatever was on his mind made him loosen his hold; Sansa tried slipping away, but her attempt was futile. Jon was like the first spark of a flame come to life, his fingers clamping down as he pulled her closer toward him, bodies pressed together in a way that was too intimate, too foreign.

“Maybe I don’t care for these rules anymore,” he said in a low voice, rough as bark. There was a wild, desperate look on his face that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand. If she was feeling hot before, now she felt like someone had just thrown ice water at her.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You think I’m play games with you?” There was a hard, determined light in his eyes. “I’m not, Sansa.”

She regarded him warily. It was clear he wasn’t going to back down, but it would take more than a few heated words to convince her that he was actually being serious. If Jon wanted something more out of their marriage, what was he looking for? Was she even willing to give it to him, after he’d broken her heart the way he had?

Sansa didn’t want to think about the possibilities. She didn’t want to deal with any of this at the moment, especially when Jon was standing so close to her. She was tired all of a sudden; the tension between them was wearing her down, and she very badly wanted to lay her head down on her pillow and rest. Maybe when she woke up, Maester Payton would deem her well enough that she could finally see Bran again, hold him tight against her chest like she always did, reminding her that the love she bore her son was a thousand times greater than any love she might have bore Jon, once. That ship had passed; the empty space Jon left inside her when he came back North with Daenerys Targaryen had been properly filled, and he only had himself to blame for that.

“Come back to the keep with me,” she offered, hoping this would soften him up a bit. Instead of escaping his hold, she placed a hand on top of his— a sisterly touch, one she knew he would recognize—before guiding him out of the glass gardens. A woman’s armor is her courtesy. “I want to know what Elyot’s been up to. And I’ll tell you what Lady Brienne has written to me about, but you must keep it a secret. Can you do that?”

AN: Hello, it’s me—and I’m not updating ten years after the last one! How’s that for character development? =D