#but the sweat rag is more special somehow....... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hlizr50 · 3 years ago

Text

Update: The Raven and the Songbird

Chapter 8 (It's a long one, y'all)

A choice, a conversation, and a question

Read on AO3

Azriel’s body was perfect.

Anyone who disagreed was surely blind.

Gwyn had been watching him for the better part of half an hour, choosing to sit in silence when he hadn’t acknowledged her presence. There was no possible way he didn’t know she was there – he would have scented her at the very least. Azriel was one of the most accomplished warriors in the history of Prythian, after all, and no-one could ever enter his sphere without notice. She had only managed a handful of times, and she had a sneaking suspicion that his shadows had been responsible.

Those shadows were coiled tightly to their master tonight, looking like they might snap from even the slightest brush of a finger. They mirrored the tension that rippled over the shadowsinger’s bare back. Gwyn smirked to herself as she silently cursed the Illyrian for focusing his frustration solely on the post in front of him, facing away from her and cruelly limiting her ogling. He’d opted for punches and kicks, no doubt requiring impact and pain to relieve whatever it was that had weighed on him today. She would have quite enjoyed the sight of that gloriously elaborate eight-pointed star, appreciating how the sweat would bead and trickle down his spine or between the muscled ridges of his stomach.

Mother above, he was beautiful.

Both of the Illyrians in her life were impossibly tall and built of solid muscle. They were the definition of power. But Cassian and Azriel were so utterly different. The general was brute force, hulking muscle, arrogant. The spymaster, though… He was leaner, strength hidden underneath an unfair amount of grace for a male of his stature. Gwyn had seen him shirtless many times, but rarely did she have the chance to appreciate the vision that he truly was. She wanted to memorize the tangled strokes of the tattoos that waterfalled down his neck and over his shoulders. She marveled at the ease with which he moved, even with his long legs and arms. His wings were magnificent, even as silver ribbons of scars streamed over the thin skin. She’d heard Nesta, Cassian, and Emerie talk about wingspan and how it related to other parts. That wasn’t particularly important to her, but it had still made her blush.

And his hands.

She knew Azriel was determined to hide and hate them, just as much as she was to love them and prove to him how special they were. She nearly crumpled in tears every time she recalled the cruelty that had marked them, fire and torment melting the flesh as quickly as it could be woven back together. The story of his childhood had shattered her heart, and she was even more awed that he had somehow grown into someone so considerate, noble, and kind. Gwyn longed to hold those hands, to trace her thumbs over the mottled flesh and make him feel her adoration for them. But she wanted them to adore her, as well. To feel those graceful calloused fingers gliding over her skin…

She felt warmth coil deep in her belly as it crept into her cheeks. Gwyn blinked away the haze in her eyes and chided herself. There was no reason to think things like that – she shouldn’t get ahead of herself.

The priestess scowled as she saw blotches of red blossoming over the strips of cloth wrapped around his hands. Enough was enough. She pushed herself up off the stone and strode over to where the Illyrian continued to batter the post, shadows still taut around his rippling shoulders and incredible wings.

“What’s wrong?” she called, making sure he could hear her over the echoing thunder of his fists against the padded wood. Azriel paused but didn’t turn to face her.

“Nothing.” He squared his shoulders again, but she would not have it.

“You’re a liar, Shadowsinger.” He straightened but didn’t respond. So Gwyn continued. “You were tense during training this morning and you skipped dinner. And I can only assume you were here instead because, violent and powerful as you are, it would take you longer than the last half hour or so to beat your hands to a bloody pulp.” She crossed her arms, the billowing blue of her robes tucking under her wrists. Gwyn bore into his back with her eyes, willing him to turn around and face her. She’d be damned if she let him shut her out, not after things had been going so well. She could feel her heart beating in time with his measured breaths, those toned shoulders shimmering as they rose and fell in the moonlight. She was so entranced by his breathing that she jumped when he flared his wings.

He finally turned around. His shadows had loosened, if only slightly. But it was a start. Gwyn shot him a grin, daring him to tell her that she was wrong – to deny that something was eating at him.

“It appears I’m caught, then.” Azriel’s voice was quiet and measured. Most wouldn’t understand how it differed from his usual tone, but it set the priestess on edge. She looked into the dark gaze of the spymaster, and somehow the angles of his face had sharpened. “Interesting training attire.” Gwyn ignored the lightning that seared through her as his eyes swept over her body, even though she knew there wasn’t much to see thanks to those robes.

“I didn’t come here to train.” She rolled her eyes. The shadowsinger’s cold stare flickered for a moment, a crack in that practiced stoic expression.

“Then why –“

“I came out here to make sure you were alright, Azriel.” Cauldron, he could be so dense. She cocked her head, watching his face relax as her words sank into him. And she might have heaved a relieved sigh as his shadows started twirling like candle smoke and hazel gleamed back at her in his widened eyes. Satisfied that she had been able to reach through his veil of detachment she strode toward him. Gwyn did not move her eyes from his, even as she stopped in front of him and pulled at one of his battered hands. She cradled it in both of hers, allowing her fingertips to caress the whorls of skin and blood-soaked rags. “Why don’t we go inside. I’ll take care of these and you can tell me what’s bothering you.” She kept her hold on him gentle, though she couldn’t help but tighten her fingers around his for fear that he might pull away. The priestess studied his tanned face, trying desperately to read any hint of where his silence was leading them. The spymaster mask had slipped, but aside from the pooling light in his hazel gaze and the easy wafting of the shadows there was no breath of what he was thinking.

Gwyn lowered her gaze, frustrated that he was still so reserved. But she would not give up – that was not her way. So she sighed as contentedly as she could muster and focused on his hand. She drew her fingers softly over his knuckles, surely cracked and stinging under the crimson stains she traced. Her fingers followed the paler lines of scars to the end of one finger, then the next, until she had attended to every piece of exposed skin she could find. Then she folded his fingers into his palm and raised his hand to her chest. She dared a glance up at him and found it difficult not to cower away from the intensity in his visage – burning liquid pools of hazel seemed to pierce straight into her soul. But she gathered her courage – from where she did not know – and stared back, lowering her chin and brushing her lips over his knuckles. Gwyn felt his intake of breath, even though his lips barely parted and his face betrayed nothing. The air around them grew thin and taut and she waited, once again, for him to pull away.

When his hand squeezed one of hers, she knew her cheeks had flushed a deep crimson. Mother, she was sure her face looked giddy with child-like hope, but she smiled up at that perfect face when she squeezed back. She earned a soft crooked grin in return.

“Lead the way, priestess.”

~~~

Azriel kept his wings tucked close as he was silently led through the house. It had not gone unnoticed by him that Gwyn had not released his mangled hand, choosing to keep those long fingers of moonlight tangled loosely with his own. He couldn’t quell the warmth that spread through him, and he couldn’t stop shadowy tendrils from circling down his arm and looping around the contact. If the priestess noticed she didn’t show it as she pushed open the door to the library.

“The library?” He raised his eyebrows, but his question was soft. He had assumed she would guide him to his room, but realized as soon as he’d voiced his surprise that it was a ridiculous assumption to make. Being alone together in his room would feel extremely intimate, and she was likely not ready for that.

“Is that alright?” Gwyn asked him as she turned to him with that lovely hand still grasping his own. “We could have gone to your room, but I know your privacy and space are important to you. I didn’t want to intrude on that.” Her head cocked as she blinked toward the ceiling, freckled nose scrunching in thought. Azriel felt the corner of his mouth quirk, unable to suppress his fondness for how expressive her features were. The warmth inside him took root as her words registered. She’d been thinking of him. Of his comfort and not her own. Irreverent and spontaneous as she was, her consideration for those she cared for was thorough and thoughtful. As surprising as she always was with her candor, Azriel was floored by the depth of her compassion.

“Actually, I’m not even sure I know where your room is so,” she shrugged and tugged him over to the settee, “the library will have to do. Now sit.” The spymaster dropped onto the cushions as if his body were unable to resist her command for even a moment, though she let go of him when he did so. The absence of her gentle touch left him aching and he looked up at her gleaming teal eyes. “I need some things to tend to your hands. Promise you won’t leave?” His heart pinched at the earnest plea as he tried to understand the emotions churning in that ocean-deep gaze.

“You have my word, Gwyn.” He hadn’t meant for his voice to be so rough, thick with other promises he wanted the priestess to ask of him. But he was inwardly smug as he watched the blush stain her freckle-painted cheeks.

“I’ll be right back,” she whispered and scurried out into the hallway.

Azriel allowed himself a chuckle at her reaction, running a hand through his dark locks. Then his mirth settled, a weight in his gut replacing the contentment he had felt only seconds before. He didn’t want to talk to anyone about his distaste for Illyria, least of all Gwyn. He didn’t want to see her eyes darken from his own sorrow, and he couldn’t bear for her to realize that just by being Illyrian he was a potential danger to her – a monster.

But, Mother above, this was Gwyn. He’d promised that he wouldn’t pull away, that he wouldn’t decide how she would react instead of giving her a chance. And somehow that beautiful warrior would not see the same things he did. Something inside him just felt it. So he would be brave and he would lay himself bare to her. Again. And he knew, terrifying as it was, that he would do it over and over – she need only pin him with that hopeful, caring gaze.

A clinkinterrupted his reverie, and he saw a porcelain bowl sitting on the coffee table, the water still rippling from its sudden appearance – no doubt a request to the house from Gwyn. As if on cue Azriel shifted his attention to the door and found the lovely copper-haired priestess pulling it closed behind her, a basket in her hands. He allowed himself a grin and let his gaze follow her as she crossed the room and placed the basket next to the bowl of water. Then she hiked up the waterfalls of blue robes and sat – somewhat unceremoniously – facing him on the couch. She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, surveying her supplies and formulating her strategy, and the shadowsinger could feel the heat coil low in his stomach at the sight. It was a small mercy that she gestured for his hand and released that lip from her teeth.

With less trepidation than he expected, Azriel placed his scarred hand in Gwyn’s alabaster grip, but kept his focus planted on where they touched. Her long fingers were nimble as they worked against knots to unwrap the crimson-stained rags. As he might have expected, the wounds had already closed, his Illyrian blood providing swift healing. When the priestess scowled playfully, nose scrunched, he couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

“I suspect I might not have required your medical expertise, Berdara.” But the priestess just shrugged a shoulder, unaffected by the turn of events.

“It was only an excuse to get you to stop and talk to me,” Gwyn admitted before looking up at him, beaming that her ruse had succeeded. “So I’ll wash off the blood and make sure everything is fine. And you’ll start talking.”

Azriel just stared at her for a moment, shadows flaring in his periphery at her unabashed statement. Her hair shone like flames in the fae light as it fell over her shoulders, her focus firmly on his hand. She had dipped a cloth in the water bowl and started dragging it gently across his knuckles, cleaning the red stains from his mottled skin.

“I’m waiting, Shadowsinger,” she cooed.

“I have to go to Illyria. Tomorrow. With Cassian and Rhys,” Azriel sighed, and had his hand been free he might have flopped dramatically into the back of the settee. When the priestess remained silent he whispered venomously. “I hate it there.” Gwyn still didn’t look back up at him, and he wondered if she did that purposefully, as well, so as not to make him feel more pressure than the anxiety that already gnawed into his chest.

“You don’t lead the armies. Why do you have to go?”

Cauldron, if she only knew how many times he’d asked the same damned question.

“For… status checks such as these my primary purpose is intimidation.” He let his eyes wander over the rainbows of book spines filling the shelves on the end wall, once-vibrant hues dulled by time and dust. “We present a united front, the leadership of the Night Court and their forces.” Azriel felt the warm cloth on his hand pause and he turned his attention back to the Valkyrie who now looked up at him, head tilted in curiosity.

“So you, Cassian, and the High Lord?”

Azriel nodded. “I believe the High Lady will be joining us, as well. Sometimes Mor accompanies us, as a representative of the Hewn City. We’ve tried a few different strategies regarding who makes these visits.” He couldn’t hide the contempt in his words. “But we’ve found a strong female presence is… rarely helpful. Even though it is proof of the point that Rhys and Cassian are trying to make.”

“Rhys and Cassian, but not you?” The shadowsinger inwardly cringed at the implication that he may not share his brothers’ beliefs about the value and potential of Illyrian females, but the priestess before him held no judgment in the depth of those teal pools. Azriel ran his free hand through his hair.

“My brothers have been quite insistent that Illyrian females have the opportunity to train, should they choose, as well as putting a stop to some of their more barbaric traditions and practices.” He stifled a gasp as Gwyn’s fingers traced over his now-clean knuckles, examining them for any remaining injury. Apparently satisfied, she set that hand in his lap before lifting her gaze.

“But you don’t include yourself in that effort?” Her eyes narrowed, but her lips lifted in a wry grin. “I know firsthand that you also believe that females should be trained and can be capable in battle –“

“More than capable, priestess, as you have proven.”

Gwyn’s smile widened. “So why is it that you separate yourself from them?”

“Of course I share their beliefs, and I would love nothing more for wing clipping to be a figment of a dead past and for camp leaders to stop insisting that weapons must be buried once females touch them. I just don’t have faith that the Illyrians will ever change.” He loved his brothers. They were the best males he’d ever known, their hearts and minds full of so much hope. But Illyria would always be a cesspool of brutality and carnage.

“You believe so little in their potential?” Gwyn’s face had softened, no lines crinkling her nose or the corners of her eyes, swirling orbs of concern. His shadows held tight to him, unmoving with his bitterness. Not a single tendril reached for the warrior who gingerly grasped his other hand and pulled it into her lap. “You and Cassian and the High Lord are all Illyrian, and the three of you have grown into quite exemplary males.” After that soft statement she turned her attention to the bloody wraps, sighing contentedly. He watched the top of her copper-tressed head.

“Cassian and Rhysand are the best of us. I’m not –“

“Azriel.”

His throat bobbed at the quiet reprimand in her voice. Gwyn’s grip on his hand had tightened considerably and the rest of her body had tensed. Silence thickened the air and it fell over him like a blanket, urging the shadows closer to him, to safety. When she looked up at him again his mouth nearly fell open at the intensity of her expression.

“Why do you do that?” He was taken aback by the roughness in her voice, usually a sweet, soothing song. “You are one of them. You are. Their hearts and souls are no more pure and precious than yours. And even if we spoke only of you, what about being Illyrian would damn you so?”

The shadowsinger gaped, and Gwyn’s bright eyes challenged him to prove her wrong. Just like he knew she would. But, no matter how many times she proved to him the depth of her empathy and understanding, he still felt the pang of shock simmer through him. His fingers tingled in her grasp.

“Tell me, Azriel,” she whispered her near-silent plea.

“Gwyn, you know how the Illyrians are. You’ve seen it with your own eyes and experienced it.” Azriel took a breath and shifted his gaze to their hands, still entwined in her lap. “Illyrians are bred to be brutal in all areas of their lives, violent and entitled and possessive and selfish. They take what they want without thought or regret. They… indulge themselves freely, taking females for their own pleasure with or without consent. And that is the heritage I share. I was created there, just like the other brutes, to be a monster. Powerful, yes, and lucky as fuck to have found myself under the care of Rhysand’s mother. But a monster, nonetheless.”

The spymaster kept his lidded attention on his bloodied hand and Gwyn’s delicate pale fingers tightened impossibly further around it. He focused on the contrasts – his darkened, ruined skin under the freckle-spattered moonstone of hers; her two hands unable to wrap completely around his much larger one.

“You’re not a monster. You’re not a brute. And no matter what happens, I will always be here to remind you of that.” Azriel closed his eyes, shuddering at her conviction. He felt her hands moving again but kept his eyes closed, unsure of how to continue. He felt the wet cloth against his skin and knew his priestess had resumed her ministrations, washing away the stains of his frustration and contempt.

Minutes passed in silence as he focused on the dampness against his skin and the soft, comforting breaths of the incredible female in front of him. Then the cloth was gone, his fingers guided to fold around her hand, and then he felt two fingers lifting his chin. Azriel took a breath to gather his courage and lifted his gaze, finding full lips in a soft smile, constellations of freckles dusting pink cheeks, and the most incredible, impossibly expressive teal eyes shining with emotion. The fingers left his chin but he barely noticed, lost in that ocean.

“When you go to Illyria, I want you to remember what I’m about to say.” He gave a nod when she paused, waiting for him. “Nobody is just one thing, Azriel. Being Illyrian does not doom you to a life of committing atrocities and causing pain. There is hope there. Remember Balthazar? He aided Nesta and Emerie during the Blood Rite. I know there aren’t many, but they are there. Think of Cassian and Rhysand, who you say are the best of males. They have far outshone the picture of damnation that you’ve painted.” Gwyn squeezed his hand and he squeezed back. His eyes must have been playing tricks on him, as he swore he saw a fine line of silver on her lower lashes.

“But what I really want you to think about is you. You’ve shared your history with me, Azriel. You have experienced pain and loneliness and darkness greater than most can even imagine, and your power is some of the greatest that Prythian has ever known. You had every reason and every opportunity to become a monster. If anyone could have become the most fearsome, brutal male it could have easily been you. But you didn’t.” Azriel felt pinpricks in his eyes, and the way the priestess smiled at him… that light seemed to breach his very soul. “You are here, a dedicated servant to your court. You do the things you must, to protect your family and your home. You are thoughtful and kind and more generous than you probably realize. You are not a monster, but you areIllyrian. And you are sitting here with me, holding my hand. Being Illyrian has not defined who you are. And there are likely others out there who are the same. Try to remember that.”

Azriel let out a disbelieving huff, but he felt his lips curl into the slightest grin. This warrior priestess was going to be the death of him – a certain death of broken-down walls and encouragement and fierce rebuttal of the self-loathing that had been with him far longer than he could truly remember. It was uncomfortable, and he almost didn’t know who he would be without it. But the way Gwyn looked at him, the way she saw him. Maybe he could find himself there.

“Well,” she patted his hand and gave it back to him. “Your wounds are healed, the blood is gone, and hopefully now you can get some rest.” She hopped up and began cleaning up her rags and water, only to give a soft ‘squeak’ as the house vanished them away. He snickered, earning a withering glare, which only made him laugh harder.

“I’m going to bed,” she huffed, sticking out her tongue at him before stalking to the door. Azriel rose quickly to stop her.

“Gwyn,” he called, halting her at the door. She turned to look at him, an expectant eyebrow raised. He reached for the back of his neck, suddenly nervous. “Thank you. For listening. And… and for your encouraging words.” Watching her expression change was like magic, like watching the sun transform the sky as it breached the horizon. The irreverence and playfulness fell away, replaced with that delicate gentle smile and burning compassion in her ocean depths.

“Thank you, Azriel. For trusting me. I am so grateful that you didn’t pull away from me.” She paused before turning back to the door. “Be safe, Shadowsinger.” And then she was gone.

Azriel just stared at the empty doorway, confounded and delighted and… awestruck. And there was nobody to hear his quiet vow when he finally spoke.

“Anything for you, Berdara.”

~~~

He was all but running down the ramp to one of the lower levels of the library. His long legs loped, carrying him closer to his goal – the sweet voice echoing a lilting melody through the stacks. Azriel kept his wings tucked close, knowing that if he unfurled them even a little he may be tempted to fly.

He was sure Clotho and the other priestesses would not appreciate such brazenness.

He didn’t think he would ever describe a visit to Illyria as pleasant, but even he couldn’t deny the optimism that had somehow permeated his soul. It had helped him open his eyes beyond his own bitterness. She had helped him. Of course he had been every bit the feared spymaster that he was required to be, but he had surprised Rhys and Cassian when he had joined them for every meeting and observation, choosing to utilize those few moments of downtime to execute his more covert tasks. They were to debrief immediately with the rest of the Inner Circle – given only enough time to wash before they were required at the River House. But as soon as he had smelled the air of Velaris all he could think about was the lovely Valkyrie priestess who seemed to be a balm to his scars.

He was breathing hard when he spotted her, shadows flitting at the enchanting picture before him.

“Gwyn.”

Her singing stopped as her head whipped to face him, face splitting into the brightest smile. “Shadowsinger! Welcome home!” If their relationship were different – if it were further along – he might have run to her, gathered her up and swung her around in his arms. Gods knew he wanted to. But he had to keep himself in check, at least for now. So he settled for a grin and walked briskly toward her. Her eyes darkened in question. “Do you need something? When did you get back?”

“A few minutes ago. I don’t have much time – we’re supposed to go debrief at the River House with Amren and Mor. But I do need something.” Gwyn’s smile had softened but she giggled.

“Alright, well I’ll do whatever I can –“

Her voice halted when she noticed that Azriel had extended his hands to her in silent question. He could never just grab her, but he prayed to the Cauldron, the Mother, to all the gods above that she would take his scarred hands in hers. Confusion fluttered over her features, but he grinned, hoping she was encouraged. He released the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding when she cautiously lifted those robed arms, placing her palms in his open ones.

“Az?”

“I do need something. I need to ask you… if you would join me for dinner tomorrow?” For once he could be smug, seeing the surprise light in her eyes and knowing this wasn’t what she expected. He was emboldened. By her. So he brushed his thumbs over her knuckles as he continued. “I know it’s only been a few weeks. And I’m sure I haven’t done nearly enough to prove myself, but I just –“

“Yes.”

His eyes had to be wide as saucers, and his breath seemed to have escaped his chest. But he didn’t need it. Not when Gwyneth Berdara, hands still safe in his own, smiled at him that way – corners of her eyes crinkling above flushing cheeks.

“You came straight here – knowing you were needed immediately by the High Lord – just to ask me to dinner?” Gwyn snickered but it caught in her throat, betraying emotions that stormed in her beautiful eyes. He released one of her hands, only to grasp the other with his scarred fingers.

“Yes,” he breathed, lifting that pale hand and brushing his lips lightly over the soft skin of her fingers. A shadow twirled down his arm and danced where they touched, but Azriel’s focus was pinned to her face. He was relieved to see no sign of discomfort, but a furious blush had painted her cheeks and the points of her ears. And he chuckled. She could not be more lovely. “I want to see what comes next, Berdara.” She shook her head.

“We need to work on your priorities, Shadowsinger.” She scrunched her nose and then gave him an easy shove with their tangled hands. “Go, you’re going to be late.” He kept ahold of her, jerking her forward lightly. Smirking, he kissed her knuckles again before letting her go.

“I’ll see you in the morning, priestess. I hope you haven’t been slacking in my absence.” Azriel winked at her – Mother above the things she made him do – and turned on his heel, moving much more slowly to leave than he had to find her.

“You’re going to wish we had!” she threatened. And he laughed, throwing his head back, reveling in the joy he felt. Whatever was next, he was ready to face it. And he wanted to face it with Gwyneth Berdara.

Tag List: @trashforazriel @tealnymph24 @secretlovelybeauty @meher-sumedha @imsointobooks @flora-shadowshine @positivewitch @tanvee1231 @imwritingthesewords @camreadsum @vikingmagic33 @katiebellf @shisingh @gwynrielsupremacist @sagureads @deedz-thrillerkilller16 @sv0430

#gwynriel #gwynriel supremacy #gwynriel fanfic #fanfiction #gwyn x azriel #azriel shadowsinger #gwyneth berdara #azwyn #ao3 #ao3fic

93 notes · View notes

bonnymori · 3 years ago

Text

𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐤𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐢 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

Word count: 1200+

Contents/Warnings: (1) Fushiguro Megumi x gn!Reader (2) Classic training but no fighting scene I apologise (3) A... dirty humor joke? (4) Idiot in love cough cough (5) Laidback romance, this may become a pattern on my fanfiction :3

A/N: Hello, I introduce myself as Hara! This is my very first written piece! I would like to apologise for any typos, english is not my first language; that being said, I hope this works out alright! :)

It's around mid afternoon, the sky painted in a vibrant blue with multiple clouds scattered around, Fushiguro recalls having started training right after lunch; he politely declined Maki's suggestion of training together, it wasn't about strength or fighting hand to hand today, the struggle was his shikigami. Lately, he's been having problems over teamwork - before, he thought such a thing was impossible, since all of the shikigami were under one will alone, being his. Yet the amount of times the divine dogs have bumped into eachothers, sometimes Nue would simply skip past the target, not paying attention to it at all.

Or perhaps, he himself was to blame. Fushiguro likes thinking about you, more than he'd admit, but now it's starting to distract for real. That's what he need, to think of you- I mean, concentration! And maybe, new group attacks, that would do nicely, too.

He's been beating a tedious dummy for a hour and half now, maybe more. After managing to make up a combo or two, he sits down on the grass, just to breathe for a moment. Breathing is nice, he observes as the divine dogs go slack like their owner, now playing around with one another rather than chewing the dummies stuffing. His black and white snake is watching the banter between the canine shikigamis, tongue coming in and out just like a real snake. Nue settles upon the dummies ragged body, eyes closed- peacefully enjoying sunbathing. Fushiguro had no idea they were so lively until now, now he knew why people constantly asked if they could pet his shikigami.

He glances down at the frog supporting his arm, it's like they enjoy just laying on grass, just breathing like him.

"How many buddies out! Are you training today, Fushiguro?"

At the sound of your voice, you bet his lips casually turn upwars in a casual yet small smile. Kugisaki saw it from distance once, says she it's almost a robotic response.

"Yes, I'm training their cooperation." Fushiguro replies, swiftly getting up. He notices the frog from earlier making a beeline to you, as if to say hello.

So you crouch down and pets it briefly, smiling at the small creature.

"That ought to be hard, specially with a innefective dummy." You approach its remains, chuckling at all the stuffing and cloth scattered around. "Make me your target instead!"

Say what?

"I uh, come again?"

"I'll do the running and dodging, it's much practical this way!"

He has trouble accepting that, even if it's true. You mean more than an ally on his heart, and besides, that's some Itadori-level-recklessy. So he groans, slightly irritated and obviously, worried for your safety. "You'll get hurt."

"Don't we get hurt everyday? Even if there is an accident, I know you'll call them out and help me quickly, you notice things fast."

He does, Fushiguro would help you in a heartbeat- probably faster.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, lash out on me!"

Putting 'lash' and 'me' in the same phrase got heat rising on his ears, but he complied nonetheless. "Just letting you know, I'll stand here and the shikigami attacks."

You protest. "Wouldn't it be better if you fought among them?"

"For today, I'd like to focus on their compatibility only."

"Oh, got it! Next time we can work on the latter option then!" Next time. He wants there to be a next time.

Even though you're the one troubling his mind in battles, he's head over heels. He remembers when it all started, your relationship is basically pools worth of quality time. You came along with Itadori, tangled into the mess back in Sendai. Strangely, Fushiguro clicked with you even faster than Itadori- your collected personality was a great factor, even though you are just as cheerful as the cherry boy.

"You're spacing out, what's up?"

Fushiguro's gaze snapped up to meet yours, realizing his mistake. "Ah, nothing, let's start." His hands folded as your guard rose, so it begun. If you noticed his lame excuse, you didn't comment about it.

The ravenette was pleasantly relieved how easily you could deceive and dodge his attacks, his shikigami may leave a tear or two on your clothes, that he didn't have to worry about, because they're easily fixable. Naturally, the toughest for you to dodge was mostly his snake, sometimes Nue would surprise you from above, nothing you couldn't handle. He started intensing up using the combined attacks, and immediately noticed your faltering steps, earning a bruise on your calf. Although neither he or you stopped, adrenaline rushing through veins nonstop.

You somehow finished training with a bite mark over your forehead, not deep enough to be worth worry. The instant your bodies came to slack, his shikigami ran to you like little children lost in a supermarket. At this point, it was pratically multitasking, to pet both demon dogs while trying not to run out of breath having Orochi wrapped around your midsection. Megumi flushed over the affectionate antics, knowing they were a manifestation of feelings within himself.

Now, you and Fushiguro are spawled on the training field, neither showered, coated with sweat sticking to your clothes, but it didn't matter much.

"I never realized, just how many cursed energy do you have? It's surprising how many shikigami you kept our for this long time." Fushiguro heard you shifting to sit up, and followed you up.

"A bunch." It was not a creative nor informative answer, but you took it in with a smile on your face anyway.

He watched you get up to fetch a drink, careful to not trip over the shikigami also scattered around -- Fushiguro always 'forgot' to put them away next to you.

You handed him a strawberry yogurt box, the same drink also sat in your hands. "Well then, why are you spacing out so much these days? You can be honest with me."

'She's oblivious enough, I'm in need of advice, it's convenient.' So he thought, figuring if he disguised it enough, you wouldn't be able to tell. It's not a big deal if you did, though, saves time actually.

"Something's on my mind, and it troubles me during fights."

"Simple, you can just come in terms with it."

He glanced down, "Why?"

"The sooner the better, when you accept something, it comes at ease on your mind. I'm a hundred percent sure it works!" You gave him a thumbsup, slurping on the pink drink.

"Such faithful source."

"I'm sure it does! The thought keeps coming back because you're denying it, am I wrong?"

Not really, no. Fushiguro wants to keep it as friendship for the sake of your both careers within the jujutsu world; he knows it's dangerous, yet a part of him just wants to say 'fuck it', like if he had the guts to. The ravenette thinks it's a way too much generic way to describe what he feels, but it's the easiest, so he goes with it anyway. The back of his brain fears rejection, part of the reason why he hasn't made a move yet.

"I'll try it out."

"Good!" And you're always supportive no matter what, to the point it charms him more and more everyday.

For now, he's okay keeping it platonic. But, when the day after tomorrow comes, he just might confess.

#fushiguro megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi+fluff #megumi x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu megumi #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x you

107 notes · View notes

kashimos-hajime · 4 years ago

Text

reunion pt. 2 (6/8) | r.b.

summary: The blue and white Wings of Freedom crumple as the cape falls, spread out by the wind like true wings. Or, the winter after Shiganshina is frigid with change.

WARNINGS: mentions of heavy injuries, depression, angst all around, swearing, levi gives some advice, blood pairing: reiner braun x fem!reader word count: 8.2k

a/n: we’re nearing the end!!! ahh thats crazy adnkasln. not much reiner this chapter unfortunately but he will return next chapter!!

masterlist

crossposted on ao3!

You land heavily on your left leg, hand on Jean’s shoulder to soften the blow to your right as you watch Hange wrestle Mikasa back. Eyes widening, you sweep the rooftop—from Levi, to Erwin, to the burnt corpse that has to be…

“Don’t tell me…”

“Armin?”

“It can’t be…”

Bertholdt. Your eyes fall to his steaming body, marks of his Titan still imprinted on his face and you fall forward. Limbs chopped to the bone, blood pooling underneath him, a cloud of steam surrounding him. You’re the only one left.

Rising to his feet, Jean’s grip is iron on your shoulder, clamping onto the joint so hard you’re sure it’ll break and you look up at him, watery breaths puffing past your lips. He stares down at you, regret sewn into his features, but even so, there’s a hard determination in them.

You know what has to be done, he seems to say. Covering his hand with your own, a shooting pain splits your chest open as Levi looks from Erwin to Armin, back again—an impossible choice. You’re not jealous at all of the captain, deciding the fate of two soldiers who are both just as important, but for some reason, you can’t even think about Armin or Commander Erwin.

You smell the terrible perfume of burnt flesh mixed with the smoke and dust of the ruins of Shiganshina, the blood in your mouth, the sweat lingering heavily around them. It reminds you of Trost, of Reiner holding you as he told you Marco had died. You somehow can’t think of anything else.

It’s not until Levi tells them to get that you can tear your eyes off Bertholdt’s slumbering face. He looks almost peaceful and you reach a limp hand for him but Jean tugs at your shoulder, and you look at him.

“Come on,” he utters softly, and you let him help you up, hopping on your broken leg with a grimace. You can do this, you tell yourself as Captain Levi drags Bertholdt towards the commander by the scruff. Whatever happens, at least it’s for good, right? Please, just sleep, Bertholdt. I don’t want you to suffer anymore than you already have.

“Captain Levi, can I—“ Your voice comes out from your chest, surprising everyone there including yourself, and the bloody captain freezes, turning to look at you. You set your jaw, limping away from Jean who tries to stop you. “I just want to say goodbye.”

Levi’s eyes search yours, and then flicker to Hange, still holding Mikasa. A beat passes.

“Make it quick,” he allows. “The rest of you, scram.” The sound of ODM gear splits the air, iron wire screeching as the Scouts left head towards a distant rooftop. Walking towards the captain, you give him a weary look as he sets down Bertholdt’s body.

Crashing to your knees, you reach a hand to brush the dark hair out of his eyes, and his forehead doesn’t even crease when your fingertips brush over his brow. Overwhelmed, you can only gently trace the Titan markings on his cheeks, hollowed out patches of skin that outline his bones, reveal the muscle pulling his face together.

“Bertl,” you whisper. “Why didn’t you just kill me?” You wait for an answer that’ll never come, hand flattening against his warm cheek, and you feel his gentle breath against your fingers as your eyes begin to burn. “Why didn’t either of you just kill me? If we’re all devils, what made me so special?” You blink, and the tears fall down your face, land on his chest in gentle splatters. With your other hand, you cradle his face completely in your palms, and you bow your head.

“Nothing’s special about you,” Levi mutters, and your head snaps up to see him standing over Bertholdt’s body, nothing but a cold indifference struggling to find its place in his eyes. “They just decided you were. That’s all it was.”

His words sting, but nonetheless, you don’t let it faze you. You draw your hands back towards your lap.

“Captain, please keep it quick. I don’t want him to suffer,” you whisper, and you meet blue-grey eyes resolutely before pulling yourself up. “I don’t think I’ll survive hearing him scream.”

“Hurry up and go,” he orders. “I’ll be as merciful as I can.” Nodding numbly to yourself, you glance down at Bertholdt one last time, before heading towards the edge of the roof and launching yourself back towards the others. Mikasa helps ease you down to your knees and you send her a grateful look before shuffling in between Jean and Connie. Watching the captain’s green figure crouch beside the Commander’s, your nerves are shot and your headache only begins to intensify.

“Armin,” Eren’s muffled sob pricks at your ear but you ignore him, eyes trained on the singular figure arched over the apex of the roof.

“What’s taking him so long?” Jean mutters.

“Maybe the transformation isn’t instantaneous?” Connie suggests.

“If that were the case, the captain would’ve left and watched the commander transform from a safe distance.” Leaning forward, one of your hands plant on the wood of the apex on the gabled roof as the cloaked figure stands. Together, the Scouts watch as Levi turns around, walking to the other end of the roof towards a black, burnt body. Ragged, wet gasps tear the air as Eren lunges forward. Mikasa grabs his arm, hauling him back, and your eyes widen.

He’s going back for Armin, you realize distantly. He changed his mind. Why? How could he—

There isn’t time for questions. As soon as the captain seems to inject the fluid, he kicks Armin’s body off the roof before turning around and grabbing Commander Erwin’s body. Hange lets out a soft noise, sprinting off the roof towards their friend while the rest can only watch as lightning splits the air for just a flash of a second, destroying the back end of the home. Splinters and debris go flying as steam arises from the spot where lightning struck and the two senior officers retrieve the commander, retreating to a roof a distance away.

Only a few more seconds. Bertholdt has to stay unconscious for just a few more seconds. Jean’s hand on your shoulder is iron-like again, nails digging through your jacket, a silent warning that you don’t have to watch, but you’re frozen to your spot, waiting.

The shrill sound of wood ripping fills the air, even from where they watch, as one bony claw reaches through the steam. What follows—a blond head, a body more skeleton than flesh, and a gaping mouth.

Armin. His name sounds foreign in your head as he reaches Bertholdt.

You hear the first sob as he plants a hand onto his prey, lifting him into the air.

“No!” Raw and burning, Bertholdt’s screams brand into your eardrums as he thrashes as hard as he can in Armin’s grip but he’s nothing more than a limbless body and a head. Your world splits open as he’s raised through the sky. The fear fractures your chest, the desperation sinks into your skin, and you want to tear your eyes out but your fingers remain dug into the ridge as he screams wetly. Your hand is blistering, on fire along your fingers, and blood congeals on your tongue.

For the rest of your days, you will remember the moment his eyes found yours, bulging wide with untamed, unnatural dread.

“Guys, please!” Sobbing, his voice grows hoarse as Armin’s jaw unhinges. “Help me!” Head snapping, swinging, whipping any which way until he can free himself, the way his neck thrashes makes your stomach roll. Your legs are begging for orders, begging to spring forward to save him as the shadow of a Titan falls over his face.

Bertholdt screams your name and it pierces through, a bullet that shatters every nerve as your eyes begin to burn. Your teeth clench before you’re pushing off the roof, boots gritting against tile

“Bertholdt!” Pain spirals through your entire body as you take one step before an arm wraps around your neck, flinging you back. You fall onto your spine, the breath knocked out of you and your feet kick out, ODM gear clanking against the tile. Hands surrounding you, pinning you down, and you flail your arms and legs, nails clawing at anything you can make contact with, gasping for air, for space, for anything. “Bertholdt! No! No! Please!”

Vision blurring, you try to make out your captors as a knee presses into your wrist and another slams into your shoulder. Breath shuddering, your feet lash at the air, desperately trying to push yourself away from the others to save him. You have to save him—Captain Levi said it’d be merciful—

“Hold her down! Shit!”

“I’m trying!”

“Bertholdt!” Your throat begins to bleed and you taste the fire in your lungs as your head slams backwards, your back arching off the roof. Tears sear into your skin. Your eyes squeeze shut and you let out a furious sob, heaving and wheezing before your mouth falls open and a burning scream bursts from your chest. Ribs poking into every inch of your flesh, your hands fly up to dig into elbows. Whoever you hold onto do not wince and you hear a jagged voice, wrought with anguish.

“Go! Go get Armin and make sure he’s okay. I have her—“

“But, Jean—“

“Connie! Go with Eren and Mikasa. We’ll be okay.” The knee on your shoulder lifts and you immediately swing your fist at Jean, clocking him in the cheek and knocking him off you. Throwing yourself up, you scramble forward and wipe at your face but the tears still do not cease. You can barely see.

Your heart decays, a cold, throbbing agony filling you as you scan the square. You see the blonde Titan just in view behind the house, collapsed on his stomach, steaming more and more as someone erupts from the nape.

The agony numbs.

So, that’s it then.

Bertholdt’s…

Crumpling in on yourself, your fingers clasp at the base of your neck and you curl into a ball, eyes sliding shut. Everything inside you falls apart, shattering into a million pieces and the walls around you begin to fall in, the fatigue and pain and heartache piling on top of you, burying you, blocking out the sun, you’ve lost everything, you have no one.

You couldn’t even save Bertholdt—

“Jean, go to the others.” Fingers tightening around your head, your tears scorch as they fall into your hairline, disappearing in all the grime and dust and blood staining your body. “I’ll deal with this.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Shoulders shaking, your breath puffs hot against your face and you’re panting for air as your back kinks painfully. Stabbing sensations nestled right underneath your shoulder blades, you begin to wheeze, face beginning to flush, body beginning to grow number and number until you can’t even feel the pain anymore of shattered bones.

All you can hear is Bertholdt screaming for you to help him, the silence of your body.

Why couldn’t you move?

Failure, failure, failure, failure, failure, failure, failure.

It spells itself out, digs its talons into your brain and pries you open until you’re sobbing harder into the stone. Your heart thuds in your mouth, large and swollen, as hands grip your shoulders, wrenching you up. On instinct, cold air seeps into your chest and you let out a gasp, face in pieces as you lift it to the sky.

“Hey!” Your eyes spring open as the hands on your shoulders grow more insistent and you lower your wet stare to Levi who is already studying with his quicksilver gaze. You feel everything inside you drain out. His teeth are bared in a tight scowl, and you still tremble in the aftershocks but he only holds on tighter. “Give yourself a moment, then pull yourself together. We still have a job to do. After that, I’ll give you as much time as you want to cry your little eyes out.”

“Captain—“ Your voice breaks, and Levi’s eyes flicker as you stare right through him. He lets go, drawing his hands back to himself. “Do you think it hurt?”

He pauses, deliberates this. “I think the fear was probably the worst part. If it hurt, it was only for one intense moment. Arlert crushed his head open,” he informs and your heart becomes a stone in your chest. “Now, come on. I’ll splint your leg and then we’re moving Erwin.”

“But, but Armin—“

“Do you really want to see him right now?” he cuts off sharply, and you wince as he stands. “Hange will take care of the others. You’re coming with me.”

Weakly, you mumble out his name, but he doesn’t stop as you struggle to your feet, following after him. You wipe at your face with sweaty hands, but it doesn’t help at all, only smearing it all over your exhausted features. Lungs still spasming in the occasional hiccups, you let your smashed, bruised fingers fall uselessly.

Captain Levi leads you to a demolished square near the Wall where Hange is already piling supplies, Commander Erwin’s body laid to rest. Eyes widening, you look at his corpse before looking at Levi who only looks over the body in passing before walking to a crate and ordering for you to sit down.

“We’ll be going over the Wall. I need to know you’re in shape to keep moving.”

“The others are bringing Armin back here before we start searching for survivors,” Hange informs.

You nod as Levi cuts away your pant leg and you grimace when you realize how swollen it is along your shin. Shaking his head to himself, he yanks your boot off and begins to wrap a nearby piece of wood he found and broke into the right length to your leg, splinting the bones tightly. Your bruised and broken fingers dig into the crate with every wince but he keeps going and going as you look down at him.

He slips the final round underneath the layers of cloth before stuffing your foot back into your boot despite the pressure mounting as soon as he does.

He steps back and you stand unsteadily. The pain is even worse, now, but you’re just going to have to be stuck with it. You’re sure walking around on a broken leg isn’t good for the health, but it shouldn’t matter. There’s still work to do.

“How much gas do you have?”

“Enough,” you reply, patting your ODM gear and he nods.

“I’m refilling once we get over the wall. All our supplies are probably knocked everywhere so grab as much as you can on the way back.”

“Yes, sir.”

The battlefield reeks of the tang of blood and shit. The air is hot and heavy under the beginnings of a warmer afternoon, and your stomach roils at the bloody mist still tinting the air. This was a massacre—nothing less—and you swallow your nausea, picking your way through the battlefield.

They search for a singular thing, but with the amount of red on the field, you can’t pick out what used to be brown from what used to be green.

“It would’ve been closer to the houses than the others,” Levi mutters. “Forster said he was hit first.” You nod, turning around and examining the land they’ve already traversed.

Standing beside your captain, your eyes widen when you catch sight of the only white on the field. It reminds you of the flags they’d teach about in cadet corps—white meant fall back, white meant give up.

White meant nothing Commander Erwin stood for, and you let out a soft gasp. Levi’s gaze snaps to you.

“Commander Erwin’s horse,” you finally croak, lifting a dead finger to point at the steed. It lays limp, dirty, and the more you focus on it, the more you can make out its features. His eyes are closed, and you could’ve believed the stallion was asleep as you approach it and crouch down slowly, touching the horse’s cheek. “Sleep well.”

“What a fucking shitstorm,” Levi murmurs as you push yourself up. He tugs your elbow to help you, and you send him an appreciative glance but you find he’s already looking at everything else, haunted pale gaze searching for something.

He looks starving for his target, greedy, and you look away. There’s blood that hasn’t steamed away from his face, and you don’t want to think about whose it could be.

You turn to see where the dirt had been imprinted on in an odd-long oval shape, different from the thousands of hoofprints stomped into the mud. A drag mark, carved into the soft mud. Following the trail, your throat begins to close up as you hobble beside it, only stopping when you finally find what they’re looking for.

You see the green cape, soaked in red, dragging at the ground, muddied and soiled, stepped all over and half-buried.

Nonetheless, you reach down pick it up, flapping what dry crumbs you can off the fabric and folding it over your arm before glancing over to where Levi stands near the horse’s head, staring at the patch of blood soaking the dirt.

“Captain, I found it.” You tilt your head heavily. “Captain?” Returning to his side, you try to find what he’s looking at. Following his gaze, you frown warily at the patch where the mud is saturated red, the grass still drinking in the blood like it’s been stuck in a drought and it mixes like a sickly stew.

Commander Erwin’s blood, you realize after a moment. Nausea sluices through you and you blink away the burning. The idea of him, cold, lying in the blood and awake, listening to his troops die around him…

“Captain, I found it,” you whisper rawly. As if your words break the trance Levi has put himself in, he looks up, shaking his shoulders out.

“Finally, he’ll have something to cover himself with,” he mutters at last, grabbing the cape from you, and you only look at your captain. At the rough, deep quality in his tone you’ve never heard before as he clears his throat. “Idiot.”

“Sir, don’t you mean buried with?” you ask timidly, and he shakes his head. “We’re not going to leave him here, are we?”

“We’re not bringing him back with us. By all means, his dream lived here and he died here. He fought his whole life to get here—I’m not going to be the one to take him away from that.”

Take him away from his mission, you hear in your head. Who is Captain Levi to decide that? Who are you to decide? Erwin stays here. It makes sense. I stay here. They had a mission. Who was I? Who was I to tell them to stop because of me?

“I’ll come back,” Levi continues, promises, but not to you, “to bury him. When this is all over. He deserves a proper burial.” Lips pressing together, you swallow down your words, and bow your head. After an unknowable amount of time, Levi finally sighs, shoulders caving, and starts walking back to the Wall. The green is clutched tight in his fist. You stand by the blood stain, the tip of your boot beside the head of the horse who could’ve been sleeping and he calls out, voice sharp and normal again: “C’mon. We can’t hang around—“

“I want to help you bury him,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself and Levi freezes in his spot. Swallowing, you close your eyes for a moment, feel every nerve inside you pulse, before you fix your gaze on the Wings of Freedom printed on Levi’s back. “I know it’s not my place, but Commander Erwin gave me a chance to prove I wasn’t weak and I failed him. I need to make it up to him somehow.”

Levi sighs softly before continuing on and you limp after him as fast as you can, catching up after a few pained grunts. Your leg is blistering, burning from the inside out, but nothing has scorched you more than your tears, so in comparison, you almost feel relieved.

“Some things I have to do on my own, you understand that?”

Despite yourself, the faintest ripple in your lips that could’ve been a smile runs through your face before disappearing as if it were never there. It’s something he’s told you so many times during your suspension and you dip your head.

“Of course, sir.”

He nods numbly. “Okay, then.”

The others went to the basement and you’re left here.

Someone calls your name softly as you sit on the edge of the wall, looking at the ruins of Shiganshina hollowly. Raising your head, you see Armin standing, and you sweep your gaze for a moment before turning to look at the city again. He sits uninvited next to you and you barely resist the urge to ask him to leave you alone, reminding yourself you have no reason to be angry with him.

He didn’t eat Bertholdt on purpose. It’s just how the cards were dealt, how the dice was rolled. The pieces on the chess board lined up, and they had a chance to seize a game-winning piece.

Armin twiddles his thumbs. Your shoulders slump forward.

“I’m… I’m really sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” you intone quietly. “What matters is that you’re okay.”

“Yeah, but I ate Bertholdt, and I know—“

“Armin, don’t.” He falls quiet, and you look at him desolately. “There really isn’t anything we can do about it, now. At the end of the day, they’re gone, and I’m still here. You’re still here, and Bertholdt isn’t. That’s all.”

“I know.”

“I really am happy that you’re okay, Armin. I’m so grateful that you could come back, and that our side managed to get another Titan power. Maybe we can turn the tides, but…”

Knowingly, he finishes it for you, “But the price was too high for you.”

The words make you flinch and you don’t correct him.

“They could’ve killed me so many times. I’m starting to wonder why they didn’t,” you whisper mostly to yourself. A doe blue gaze fall on your cheek, and you close your eyes, pressing your lips into a thin line.

“Because they care about you. I could never try and kill Mikasa or Eren. I can’t even imagine it, so the fact that you tried to put those feelings aside for duty, I think that’s saying a lot more than you’re giving yourself credit for.”

You scowl at his words, hating the tears threatening to spill over your cheeks again. You’re drained, dried out, yet still, more tears are always coming even when you think you’re done.

“Armin, if I took the multiple chances I had to kill Bertholdt, to kill Reiner, I think both you and Commander Erwin would be alive. Captain Levi would’ve never had to make such an impossible choice, and—“ And maybe I could remember how to breathe without all this weight on my chest. But you don’t say that. Instead, quietly, you plead, “Can you just… leave me alone? I don’t want to talk, right now.”

Armin’s lips upturn into a hurt frown, but you only stare at the space just in front of your knees, focus fixed on some imaginary spot. Before long, he’s pushing himself to his feet and walking back to Sasha, and you clasp your hands, watching the city blankly.

For some reason, you can’t stop thinking about the time you and Annie had walked the walls the day before graduation, finding Reiner and Bertholdt up there, too. How had that only been a few months ago?

It feels like years, now.

Without a second thought, you pick yourself up slowly, your splinted leg awkwardly colliding with the stone. Levi told you to get some rest, but…

You begin to walk away from the others, not quite sure where you’re going. You go past Floch, who’s taking watch, and when you close your eyes, you can hear footsteps behind you—two, light and fleeting, one more sure and steady.

“Have fun in the MPs, Annie. I’m sorry I couldn’t come with you.”

“You won’t be missing much.”

“Yeah, but—“

“Hey, the military ranking shouldn’t determine whether or not someone can join the MPs. What if someone’s just as good, but didn’t make it into the top ten because of how limited the spots are? It doesn’t make sense.”

A sharp laugh. “Someone needs to wash Bertholdt’s mouth, creampie. Look at him, renegading against the government.”

Eyes snapping open, you turn to look over your shoulder.

Nothing but still air.

The next few days pass in nothingness.

You’re moved to the old Scouts headquarters—where Section Commander Miche died, you still feel his ghost lingering the halls—away from the others. It’s mostly empty besides a few Garrison Regiment officers who keep an eye on you—Captain’s orders, and they’re your main source of news, even if it is just catching hints of gossip. You don’t speak to them, mostly because you’re sure they think guarding a teenager with broken bones who doesn’t even talk back is way below their pay grade.

Most of your friends aren’t keen on talking to you either, with a fair few forced exceptions, but at this point, you’ve written your report, detailing everything you did during the campaign, and you don’t want to talk to them either. You haven’t since their ride back.

They know you went back for Reiner, and, instead of striking him down, you tried to pull him free. It doesn’t matter.

You roll onto your side. Everything feels grey, time passing by inconsequentially in the rise and fall of the sun. You mostly stay in your room, content to let Shiganshina crush the ruins of your memory into dust, and you don’t recognize what day it is. Your nights are plagued with flashes of Bertholdt, the sounds of his screams ringing until you’re deaf. Reiner’s bare, burned face, steaming, eyes covered in a blindfold too tight over his skin.

The ragged gasp of your name.

There’s a knock on the door. You don’t budge from where you stare out the window, at the sun gleaming in through. It dapples on the cotton of your sheets, gentle pools of gold, and you trace one of the warm shapes absently with your wrapped, splinted fingers.

It nearly frightens you how much you don’t feel, how much you don’t care what happens to you next. The world is hollow, everything inside it scooped out and replaced with black coldness.

“I know you’re awake in there.”

Levi.

“You better be decent. I’m coming in either way.”

The door clicks and swings open.

They had a ceremony two days ago, honouring the survivors of the expedition before they could move on to a far more somber occasion today—a service for Commander Erwin at the end of the week, and the government going into a state of mourning. Flags are raised, speechs are prepared to be given, and you’re pretty sure the empty casket will be closed and buried somewhere in Mitras, empty words carved into a plaque.

Levi’s sigh breaches your ears. “Have you at least eaten today?”

“Yes.” You don’t move nor start at the creakiness in your voice. Blinking slowly, you examine a ripple in the bedsheet. “Doctor said if I didn’t, he’d break my other leg.”

“Good.” He walks to the window, and you see his shape lingering at the edge of your eyes. Tilting your head, you look at him. He looks rested, as well as he can be, but there’s a raggedness in his stature, the exhaustion engrained in his face that only comes with grief.

“The memorial is today,” you point out unhelpfully. “Will you be speaking?”

“Have to,” he mutters brusquely. “Not exactly excited to eulogize Erwin in front of a bunch of stuck-up bastards. Don’t think he would’ve minded either, if I didn’t.”

“So why are you doing it?” You shift a bit, sit up a bit straighter. There’s a pulse of silence where Levi seems to debate how to answer. His lips press into a thin, white line, and he scowls at his reflection in the pane of glass, before he exhales sharply.

“I don’t know,” he says before shifting the discussion blatantly. “Either way, you won’t hear it. You don’t need to come.”

“Sir…”

“You didn’t come to the ceremony two days ago, either,” he snorts. “I’m sure it’s no skin off your back.” He’s right, and you smile grimly. “Focus on healing.” Tugging at the lapel of his formal Survey Corps coat, he continues, “It’ll be a waste of time, anyway. Most of them spent most of their careers hating him. I doubt her Royal Majesty or any of your friends will want to be there, either.”

You swallow, sitting upright and adjusting the pillows against your back. He glances over, and rakes his gaze down your body with a critical glare.

“Would you look at that? You haven’t moulded to the futon, yet. I was starting to think you had lost your body back in Shiganshina.” He steps away from the window and turns, standing at the foot of your bed.

Clearing your throat, you reach up to scratch your collarbone and find blue-grey fixed on your fingers. “When do you think we can go back for him, Captain?”

Levi frowns, gaze flickering up to your face again.

“I don’t know. At this point, it could be months before the state declares that Wall Maria is free of Titans, especially with how small the Survey Corps are. Garrison soldiers can only help so much,” he adds grudgingly. “And the MPs are pretty much useless. Most of them. And Hange… is doing their best. Let’s just say that.” You nod again. He glances at the clock airily, then at you again. “Get some rest.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply, and he studies you quickly, gauging how honest you are with your promise, before he sticks his hands in his pockets and turns around. Your stomach is a thousand stones in your stomach as he glances at the splintered wood of the wall, and his footsteps slow to a stop. Watching his profile, you wait for him to say something as he lowers his gaze to the waste bin by the door.

He doesn’t. He simply continues out the door, speaks to the soldier on guard outside your room, and disappears from your sight.

“Lunch will be in two hours,” the soldier says before closing the door. You turn to look out the window.

Two days earlier, Connie and Sasha had come bearing a bolo tie, green gem gleaming, expression somber.

“It’s yours. For your services to the Survey Corps and to Historia.”

You had the grace to wait for them to be gone before flinging it with all your might at the wall and listening to the wood splinter as it clattered to the bottom of the bin.

The snow melts as soon as it touches your nose, and you glance at Levi uneasily as he jams the tip of the shovel into the dirt. His jacket’s been shed, and you swear he could be steaming with how much sweat drenches his entire body. He had insisted on laying the Commander’s bones to rest and burying him yourself which meant you had perched yourself on the roof overhanging the little clearing they’d found. It’s off-track in an already trampled ceremony—his grave now the singular headstone in a field of a thousand bodies—but it’s somewhere he can rest, you’re sure.

Adjusting your grip on your ODM gear, you look up at the blindingly grey sky. The snow slows to a stop as you fall to one-knee, examining the terrain.

Returning to active duty had been difficult. Rehabilitation even harder. You felt like there was scrutiny everywhere you walked, and there was a strange air lingering as the summer faded and fall began.

Even now, you’re sure Levi and Hange are the only people who bother to check up on you because they want to, not because they’re obligated to remember whether or not you’re still alive.

You scratch at your neck. Eventually they had to clear out the old barracks where you’d been staying which is what you’ve been doing for the past few months to avoid any clashes with your friends, and you’d come across the chess set, untouched, the pieces still in place as if the players had simply forgotten the game.

Your fingers had brushed over the piece Reiner had called a pawn, and it felt that much heavier.

A foul poison erodes your heart as you glance down at Levi again. He’s crouched in front of the tombstone, and you look away again, at the Wall. Beyond that—

Reiner is still out there. You wonder if he thinks of you half as much as you think about him, and whether if it’s just as laced with rage and longing. Half the time, you think you could scream into his face before tearing his head off his shoulders. Other times, you just want him back. You want to see Bertholdt’s smile again. You want to hear Annie’s dry jokes.

You could cry yourself to dehydration if you thought about it enough.

A sharp whistle cracks the air and you look down. Levi’s looking up at you, shrugging his jacket back on and you lower yourself back to the ground with a burst of gas, landing beside him.

There’s a quiet in which he gives you a sharp nod and you know what to do.

Accepting the handkerchief Levi offers you, you wipe at Erwin’s grave where some mud had been kicked up on the letters before laying down the flowers you had cradled in your arm. They’re dry, the petals already crumbling, but still, despite how gloomy everything seems, it almost feels right.

You step back, squinting a bit, the handkerchief clutched tight in your hand. The tombstone is a marbled grey, polished smooth and rectangular in shape, the corner sharp enough to puncture skin. Carved into the surface is his name, birth and death date, his title—and underneath all of that:

HIS FATHER’S SON

The epitaph is almost haunting the more you look at it and you salute the headstone before letting your hand fall to your side. Staring at the tombstone too small for a man of the Commander’s stature, you feel something hot sear through your chilled body. It’s nothing he deserves.

“Do you know why you were placed under my watch for a month?”

You blink, turning to look at the Captain. He’s paled so much in the winter months, it’s hard to think you aren’t looking at a ghost. The only exceptions are his red nose, his lips, and his flaring cheeks. That and those knife-point eyes.

“Because everyone around me was a traitor,” you murmur blankly, unsure of why he’s asking. Your hands ball into tight fists as you add, “And it only made sense that I should be one, too. Who better to watch me then Humanity’s Greatest to make sure I didn’t shift into a Titan, too?”

“It’s because Commander Erwin insisted not to leave you alone,” Levi agrees, “but not because he didn’t trust you. I doubt someone like you would turn around against the only people who are there for you. I read your file. Orphaned at birth, you grew up on a farm with no close known relations.” You turn your face away, teeth gritting together, and Levi tilts his head. “The 104th were all you had. Human nature insists that we latch onto those we have left.”

“Even you, Captain?”

Levi doesn’t answer. When you look at him again, his stare on the stone is darker, laced with noxious grief. “This job isn’t pleasant. You lose enough people—even those you didn’t care for—and you either grow numb, tired, or so damaged you can’t even wake up to another day. Most people find life meaningless after a few years.”

“Right…” Struggling to find the words, you cross your arms over your chest, fingers wrapping tight around your biceps. “I don’t know where you’re going with this. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

A heavy sigh. Levi shifts his boots in the grass.

“And what are you going to do after? What’ll you set your mind to next? Working as a Scout? I doubt you’ll find any fulfillment in working with people you don’t trust.”

“That’s not true—“

“You have a knack for isolating yourself when you believe you’re unneeded. Exiling yourself to an abandoned building under the pretence of ‘cleaning it out’ can only last so long,” he cuts off sharply, eyes finding yours dully. You clench your jaw, swallowing hard. He looks back at the tomb. “Look, I’m going to tell you something, and I expect you not to speak of it again, got it?”

You nod tightly. “Of course, sir.”

“I’m aware of people misunderstanding or making assumptions of where I’ve come from. To put it simply, I was a criminal in the Underground and I ran a network with two others. They were as close to me as I assume Hoover, Braun, and Leonhart were to you.”

You nod again, slower this time.

“We joined the Survey Corps because the Commander insisted it was a better alternative to a life time’s sentence in Mitras dungeons. I’m still waiting on that promise, Erwin,” he adds without any bite. Instead, his tone almost softens. “When they died on our first expedition outside the walls, I wanted to be left alone. He was only Section Commander at the time, and Shadis insisted I should be left to the MPs.

“Erwin refused. He forced me to come to training for the next expedition, to drills, and to the events the military held every once in a while just so I wouldn’t stay in my room all day. I lashed out. I screamed at him behind closed doors, was an outright violent son of a bitch and an unpleasant one at that, but he persisted.”

Levi scoffs. “It took me a long time to grasp what he was doing besides being a nuisance. It was when I realized I was constantly at his right hand when he was promoted to Commander did I understand. Every human dies. Whether or not they sacrificed themselves for a greater cause, it will always be a selfish act in the end.”

“Selfish?” you echo. “But, Commander Erwin died for the Scouts to survive, didn’t he? If he never did, you never would’ve stopped the Beast Titan. We’d probably all be dead.”

“And who’s left to clean after his mess, huh?” he cuts coolly. “That’s what’s selfish about death—those corpses get off scot-free. Their last moments may be guilty, or afraid, but they won’t give a damn the minute they stop breathing. It’s the living who have to deal with the consequences. Grieving alone sends you into a pit that’s hard to crawl out of. You either sink, or you come out of it strong like hell, but it’s easier when something’s at the top, so to speak. Telling you to get off your ass and climb out.”

He scowls, and his glare narrows at the epitaph as he half-heartedly kicks some of the disturbed dirt at Erwin’s headstone, but it’s less malicious and almost as if, even now, Levi wants to point fingers at Erwin. “I don’t know. Metaphors were always this idiot’s strong suit. All I know is how to cut down Titans.”

Your shoulders sink. “Captain Levi…”

“He’s why I volunteered to supervise. I remember what our gracious Commander told me,” he says quietly. “It’s a lonely life we walk. The people who stay are the ones we have to hold onto with both hands and all our might.”

You soak in his words silently, tracing the carved E in the stone with your eyes. Levi sighs, lowering his head and shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. He seems to shake his head to himself, pale eyes darkening, lips twisting into a furious scowl. You know that scowl well—it’s the type of face one pulls when they’re trying to hide how real fucking sad they are.

You look away. You shouldn’t be seeing this.

“Suppose that doesn’t matter, though,” he murmurs. “They can slip through either way. What you need to do now is keep moving. You keep them in your memory, and you keep moving, but stop letting them haunt you. Find a new purpose, or it’ll be meaningless and you’ll realize you should’ve died, not those poor bastards who devoted their hearts to what they wanted.” He tilts his head back to the sky. Softly, then: “No one else can do that for you.”

You slide your own hands into your pockets, pull it tighter around yourself. “What if I don’t know what to do? What I want with my life?”

The first raindrop hits him first. A gentle splash against his nose that makes his eyes flutter, but not close. The next hit you, tapping against your skull that soothes the ache in your chest.

“Keep moving on, anyway, until you find it. It’s no good to stand around thinking about what should’ve been or what you could’ve done. Regret begets regret—have enough and it’ll start affecting your choices. Don’t have any when you go, and maybe you’ll live a life happier than most.”

You nod. Your neck feels tired. For lack of anything else, you manage to say, “Captain Levi… I’m really sorry for your loss.”

He doesn’t answer.

You stand there, fixing your gaze at the gravestone for a moment more, before bowing your head and saying your thank you to the fallen Commander. You turn around.

“I’ll wait for you by the Wall, sir,” you murmur. He nods, still staring up at the sky as if he can see something you cannot. You study his profile for a moment, then begin to walk away.

Riding back to Trost, the weight slowly returns, bearing down on your shoulders as if you can already feel the thousand-pound stares. The elevators are lowered and they step on, dismounting quickly to ease the horses. Garrison soldiers are posted along with a singular Scout, and you frown when you reach the top.

“Jean?”

He smiles grimly. “How was it?”

“Shitty, I guess.”

And you leave it at that. Jean watches you critically, surveying your form, but you only stand on the edge of the Wall, looking at a world that’s about to get much bigger.

In truth, you don’t know how to answer. Your whole body is heavy, only going through the movements as Levi climbs up next to you. He takes the reins of your horse as well and heads off without a second word. You watch him go as he walks towards the nearest building, presumably to find the nearest elevator down the other side of the Wall.

Sighing, you turn around to face the land you’ve just travelled. Wall Maria stands in the distance. Your gaze fixes on nothing, staring through, and you wonder if you’re just as ghostly as you think you are. All you can hear is the sound of Bertholdt, screaming for you to save him.

The land is barren, desolating to even look at it with the faint rain muddying everything and dulling all the colours. The grass is brown, the trees frail and empty. Nothing like a few months ago when everything seemed so promising of life.

“One day, we’ll be eating like this every day,” you had told Annie during a visit to Trost once. She was quiet, her blue eyes focused on the cream bun but softer than you thought was normal. Her lips curved into a faint smile as you added, “Just imagine it. Us as the dream team in the MPs, solving assignments together, and eating sweets in the inner Wall. It sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

“I guess.”

How did that dream turn into this nightmare? It’s like every part of you has been chopped off until you’re nothing but a bleeding body and a heart struggling to find the energy to pulse another second. Your limbs are gone, bleeding, ravaged, your head’s aching, and you feel every shadow held back by Annie’s fierce stare, Bertholdt’s arms, Reiner’s body shielding you, swarm you all at once now that they’re no longer there to protect you.

Joining the military had numbed your body, and Bertholdt and Reiner had cut you off at the knees. And Annie…

Annie had spelt out tragedy on your throat in blood. If only you hadn’t ignored the red dripping down your neck, staining every word you breathed, maybe you could’ve stopped this.

You are wrestling for a way to keep crawling towards the light, but you will never be fast enough. Captain Levi had been right. Now that you’re alone, the pit is steeper than the walls, steeper than your fear, and the idea of waking up, of walking side by side with people who you’ve turned your back on for traitors, makes you nauseous.

They don’t deserve your half-hearted loyalty.

Your shoulders fall at that revelation, and your eyes close when you realize what you want.

It’s something you told Reiner, a million years ago.

No more bloodshed, no more war. There didn’t have to be water, there just had to be him—but even so, that can’t happen anymore.

The former, however…

“We don’t hate you, you know,” Jean says. “None of us blame you for what happened. You can still come back.”

“That’s really nice of you, Jean,” you murmur blankly as your hands move on their own accord. “But I just can’t let this go.”

You reach up to your neck, and pull the green cloak away from your throat. Drawing it off your shoulders, you hold it in your hands, the blue and white wings of freedom dull in the pale light. You run a hand through the fabric, over the stitched insignia that once meant so much to you before you step closer to the edge. Jean’s eyes snap to you.

Freedom feels like nothing when everyone who was supposed to stand next to you the day you achieved it is gone.

Fists tightening in the green, you clench your teeth and with a silent exhale, you fling it off the side of the wall. Jean lets out a strangled noise, and together, the two watch as it flutters to the bottom of the wall.

The blue and white Wings of Freedom crumple as the cape falls, spread out by the wind like true wings.

“What are you doing?” he asks roughly as your hands move next to your belt. Undoing the clasp, the metal collides with your frigid, mended fingers, and your skin begins to burn as he grabs your arm, trying to stop you. “Hey—“

You jerk out of his grip, not looking at him. You don’t think you can.

“I need to find a new life, Jean,” you murmur, your stomach flipping, your heart wilting, your words carrying in the wind. “This one is finished.”

“No. No, your life is here.”

Your face burns as you blink, something warm trailing down your cheeks, but Jean only grabs you by the shoulders, trying to make you look at him but still, you continue to detach yourself from the contraption. He turns you, shaking you gently, but not even an immovable object can stall the unstoppable force of your hands.

Throat cinching shut, you stare at his chest as your ODM gear falls to the ground in an ungraceful crash. The hollow thud of the containers rattles your body and you look down at your gear that’s brought you so far.

“Don’t do this,” Jean murmurs. “You’re a Scout. Don’t let them make you give up.”

“No one’s making me give up, Jean.” You finally look up, look right through him, and Jean flinches back, his hands loosening and you take the opportunity to twist, shoving your gear off the wall with one swift kick. Heat shoots up your leg and the pain warms your entire body.

ODM gear falls, nothing more than deadweight, and it clanks against the wall before bouncing off the stone, and Jean jumps off, deploying his own gear to try and catch the tech before it can crash, damaged beyond repair, at the bottom.

Staring at his figure for a moment, you wonder if the harrowing feeling in your chest will last you forever, or just for now while you wait for something to take its place.

You’re not sure. But you do know a part of you feels lighter. You do know that a part of you just wants to go home and sleep.

Turning, you walk after Captain Levi, follow his trail to the building, and when Jean reaches the top of the wall again, you’ve disappeared.

143 notes · View notes

messwriting · 4 years ago

Text

Written for The Smut Pile Collab: Mafia AU | MASTERLIST HERE.

SCARRED HANDS

Iwaizumi Hajime (Older) x Female Reader

Rating: E for explicit | Don’t read this if under eighteen.

Warnings: Mafia AU related plot, including drugs. gun traffic and homicide. Violence. SERIOUS TALK ABOUT GAMBLING, ADDICTION, DEBT AND FAMILY ISSUES/FORGIVENESS. Hajime is older, about early forties while Reader is in her twenties, so: Age gap. Slow-burn (I think?). Presence of an OC named Rei in a side-ship with Mattsun. In this first part there’s no smut.

Part One | Part Two (soon) Word count: 7.5k

Note: This is my second contribution to The Smut Pile Collab, hosted by the lovelies @present-mel, @pleasantanathema and @linestrider. Thank you so much Claudia, @thisisthehardestthing, for beta-ing this and all your amazing comments who have made me scream so much i’m pretty sure my neighbors are wary for my sanity. There’s a side OC/Mattsun here that is my small gift to @mixedhell for everything she has always done for me and for being such a great beta, friend and enabler. <3

I was trying to not break this in two parts, but as it seems my brain keeps hellbent on putting more plot in this, it has become unavoidable. Uh, enjoy? This is my excuse of a fic to just love Iwaizumi at any and all given opportunity! Second part in the works but with no release date yet. <3

Iwaizumi never wanted this life.

He thinks about it while cleaning his bloody knuckles with a wet cloth, taking care to surround the parts where the skin had broken, scars over scars to the point that he practically did not know what was old and what was recent. The pain didn't bother him anymore, a constant in his life to the point that he barely registered the new injuries. That was the life of the second-in-command of the Seijoh Mafia.

He lived a poor childhood, violent teenage years. At the time, he didn’t have much choice in resorting to crime. It was easy, even; he was good with his hands, fast and built broad and strong since he was young. When his only and best friend told him he wanted to be the Boss, he’d almost laughed before seeing that familiar glint in his friend's eyes – that pure, fierce determination Oikawa had been practically born with– and, void of a dream for himself, he pledged himself to that of his only family.

“Take him to the back,” Hajime tells his trusted duo, who watched over him and the man they’ve been working for the past hour. Matsukawa nods shortly and puts out the cigarette he was smoking, still in half, on the nearest surface, before addressing the bloody man tied to a chair.

“What are you going to do now?” Hanamaki asks from the entrance threshold, not looking at him but rather to the night sky above them outside the deposit in the outskirts of the town. His joint is ending, sweet smoke blowing out and swirling up.

“I’ll tell Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says like it was obvious. “He’s gonna have to be more careful with his companies.”

Hanamaki snorts while smiling. “Not that he’ll listen.”

Hajime shrugs, throwing the blood-stained rag back without a care for where it’ll land. “That’s his problem.” Then he sighs, looking up at the smoke from Hanamaki’s joint swirling around the wind. “The mole is ours.”

Iwaizumi has a special place, if he could call it that.

He discovered the owner had died with consternation, when he went to the place at his usual time and found it, for what was probably the first time in more than a decade, closed. The diner operated until the ignoble hours of the night, which is why, since Iwaizumi was still a soldier, he used to spend the last hours of his day or the early hours of his mornings there, in what he’d call his little break in between work; his moment of calm even on the most eventful nights of his violent life.

Since he had risen the ranks rather quickly, the habit had given way to certain care with the frequency in which he visited the place, although the time had little variation and was always after two in the morning.

It was the moment when the night calmed down, the clubs and parties booming, the restaurants that opened at early hours already closed; the brave few passers-by running to their safe places on empty streets while the cars running through the streets lessened by the minute. This was the time when night-shift policemen were already tired of both the events of their shift and the long worked hours, nodding off in their cars.

The diner was on a street just a few blocks away from the heaviest area of the city, where clubs and parties continued until the bright hours of the morning; the drug traffic in these places had been feeding the old mafia veins for decades, since before Iwaizumi, and he was certain he would meet his end way before it did.

The place was small, nothing much, two big windows beyond the door showing the old, almost vintage interior, careless by the owner who never paid much attention to the decorative aspect of the place. Twenty years ago, when Iwaizumi went from being a simple associate to a soldier, just beginning his life as a man, the place was busier, almost famous - and even then the nights were always the quietest shift, the time where degenerates inherited the city.

Iwaizumi didn't know exactly what had disappointed him so much when he found out that old Lou had gone for the better. Lou wasn't even the old man’s real name - he just adopted it once the name of the diner -- Lou’s Diner -- ended up merging with his in the daily life of being the business owner. Iwaizumi was a constant presence in the place enough to know that Lou, in fact, was the name of the old man's wife, who had died young.

In fact, Iwaizumi spent the days following the discovery of the man’s passing trying to figure out where the place would end - Lou had never said anything about family, but there was always the possibility that the business had been pledged in warrant of some debt and if not, there was the bank. The old man wasn’t exactly what you’d call an exemplary business manager.

A surprise came again when Iwaizumi drove past the place during the day and for the first time in three weeks, there was movement inside the diner - and his first thought is theft.

It wouldn’t be surprising, considering both the neighborhood and the fact that with the place closed three weeks before, every thug in the street knows that everything is still there.

Iwa sighs, then makes a u-turn so he can park close to the alley on the diner’s corner. He’s surprised, but he realizes it is, in fact, not the case. Unless the young woman holding a broom and looking around as she rolls up the sleeves of a loose oversized T-shirt over normal jeans shorts were, somehow, a phenomenal smuggler.

Against his better judgment, Iwaizumi gets out of his BMW and steps carefully onto the sidewalk, checking his surroundings with practiced ease. The glass doors of the diner are wide open, sidewalk wet and leaking soapy water into the street. Iwa crosses through it with little care, pausing for a moment while the oblivious girl inside keeps brushing away.

“Hello,” Iwaizumi salutes from the wide open doors, perhaps to also let the place breathe some air after the days closed. You startle, the broom in your hand flying to the floor with a loud crash.

“Holy fuck!” you yelp, turning around with both hands in front of your body. “Are you trying to kill me, dude?”

Iwaizumi almost chuckles, the corners of his lips turning up.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He takes his hands out of his pockets, showing them in front of his body as a sign of peace. And it isn’t like he can’t easily kill you and anyone you may have inside with just them.

“Oh god. My heart,” you murmur, clenching your shirt over your chest while sucking in a few breaths. Your eyes finally come up to his. “Sorry, I think I was just too distracted.”

Hajime nods. He isn’t a man to say sorry twice. “I was just passing by and noticed the diner open. It’s been closed for some weeks, so I was just checking.”

“Oh, sure.” Your mouth opens in a small ‘o’, and Iwaizumi is surprised at how it got his attention. Pretty lips on an even prettier face. “Yeah… I’m reopening it this week. I just need to fix some things around here.”

Iwaizumi gives you a once over. Discreetly. He leans against the doorframe, curiosity winning him over. “So, you bought it?”

“What?” you laugh, hand coming to wipe the sweat from your brow. “No. I inherited it."

Iwaizumi assumes that he was unable to hide his surprise by the way your lips move to form an amused smile.

“Ha, yes, most people have the same reaction as you.” You bend to grab the broom in the ground and Iwaizumi’s eyes tread for a second too long along the spanse of your body while you’re not looking. “Which is funny, and also tells a whole tale about the old man.”

“I suppose it does,” Iwaizumi nods once while speaking.

He looks over the place, sees the few changes being done; the paint cans on the ground, the boxes by the corner, the shelfs being replaced and the new color of the upholstered sofas. You in the middle of it all -- the new and the old.

“I’ll leave you to your cleaning, then. It’s good to know the place isn’t closing.”

Before you can say anything else, he’s already taking his leave.

You turn around to thank him but Iwaizumi is already far down the sidewalk, not sparing a glance at you once his back is turned. Your head bends sideways almost involuntary, eyes threading the expanse of his broad back, clad in a beautiful light blue social shirt, rolled sleeves over bulging forearms, with black slacks and expensive looking shoes. While you hoped you didn’t stare before, now you are free to do so and wow, that is a beautiful male specimen if you ever saw one.

Your first thought is that he didn’t belong in here -- the scenario of a beaten up street and a mildly abandoned diner, in the middle of the day on the foul part of the city. Then again, he looks rather at ease, familiarized, and it isn’t like you can know someone from just one look.

If anything, a good looking man like that always comes with a catch.

“Hey,” your friend comes through the kitchen doors, looking pretty much like you, tired and sweaty after the morning deep cleaning. “What's going on here? I heard something but I was on the phone”

“Oh,” you say, then grin mischievously at her. “A hot piece of man just passed by asking about the diner.”

“No!” your friend almost cried, lips pressing together in a pout. “See! This is why I keep being single! I never get to see any hotties from the fucking kitchen.”

“Hey, not my fault you decided to be a cook.”

Iwaizumi tells himself he’s just checking on the place he likes.

It’s out of a weird misplaced sentimentality, he reasons. He’s been going there for years after all. He’s checking out the new owner, that’s it. The young woman who somehow inherited Lou’s bar. The pretty young woman who was redecorating and cleaning the place that probably didn’t get any love for the last fifteen years. And that’s what Iwaizumi is telling himself when he crosses the city at late hours of the night because the first thing he needs to know is if you’re stupid enough to actually open the place until the ungodly hours of mornings like the old man used to.

And, sure enough, you are.

It’s past three in the morning when Iwaizumi parks on the other side of the street, but the regulars pour in like clockwork at the sight of the open diner -- old fellas, mostly, and some passersby who work at night. The whores, and the tired workers, all mingling the later it gets. Iwaizumi counts five clients, which is a busy night, and somehow he struggles to find security in your arrangement.

It’s a weird feeling to have for someone -- worry -- and for all the constant preoccupation he has going on in his life with Oikawa, he’s sure he hasn't felt that particular brand of it in some time.

For that same reason, Hajime turns around and leaves.

A week later and he’s back.

This time it’s earlier in the night, just past midnight and the diner is empty save for three regulars he knows well enough. Iwaizumi hates to admit it, but he’s curious; Matsukawa told him that the place had been closing at four and reopening at eleven, with not exactly lots of clients, but with enough patrons to not be discouraged.

But it was the fact that the man depicted the place as “nice” that got Iwaizumi interested. Mattsun is not the kind to throw empty comments like those and there was a glint in this man's eyes that made him suspicious. If a small hint of jealousy sparks on Iwa’s chest, he says it’s for the place.

He signals for Makki to turn a curve so he can get off on the other side of the street and tells him to park somewhere out of sight. He doesn’t like to have the BMW close, working as a beacon; the fact Iwa already dares to have a routine place is trouble enough.

“Bring me a coffee when you come back.” The strawberry blonde tells him while perching himself over the car window, driving off before Iwaizumi can give him a nasty stare. Iwa takes his time on the pavement directly across the diner, lighting a cigarette while moving to cross the street.

The bell that rings when he crosses the door threshold surprises him for a moment, bringing the stares of everyone inside to him. Some of the old regulars nod his way, and Iwaizumi nods in return, a stiff greeting but one they grew used to in the years of sharing the space.

You look eager, eyebrows shooting up as if you’re not expecting to see him standing in the middle of the place like that. Then, your lips turn up into a smile and Iwaizumi almost misses the sentiment behind it. It’s been far too long since someone looks this pleased into seeing him anywhere.

Well, with the exception of Oikawa. But that’s because he normally shows up to save the man’s stupid ass.

Iwaizumi walks over to his usual spot, in the back, by the window and sits on the newer looking red sofa. The scratched old table looks bright with new polishing. He notes the changes, appreciates them even: the cleaner looking designs despite the vintage diner ambience, the cream walls, the new smell of good food and well brewed coffee.

The ground is clean for the first time in a few years, the glass windows and doors looking good and there’s an overall different air around the small place. It feels good. Iwaizumi isn’t used to it. You come close to him, no uniform but jeans and a loose white shirt with a black apron tied around your middle, a coffee pot in one hand and a cup in the other.

“Hello there. Good night -- or day, depending on how your life works.” Your smile is disconcerting. You signal with your head to the coffee. “Want some coffee?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“No worries.” You pour some for him and ask if he wants milk or cream, which he doesn’t. Iwaizumi likes his coffee black. “Can I bring the menu?”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say no. But he’s curious about what you’re doing with the place, so he nods. Again, you smile while nodding and leaving, and Iwaizumi is baffled by your disposition to be nice at this hour. The old mas was more of a fuck-it kinda person, so it’s a small whishplash to have actual service in here.

Before you leave, however, you turn back and smile at him in what Hajime can only define as playfully.

“Glad you finally decided to come in and give us a shot.” Your eyes are bright with mirth, proud of yourself for being so observant, and in the late hours of night he feels charged. “I promise you it’s not so bad.”

Oh, Hajime thinks as his face feels slightly warm, a twitch on his fingertips while he looks at your pretty face. This can’t be good.

You wait a bit. Seeing as the whole movement inside the diner changes with the small addition of one man at the corner table. You realise people haven’t sat on that table during the late nights, even when Iwaizumi had yet to even enter the place before.

So, you brace yourself with all the courage you’ve been mustering, and pretend to offer him a refill of coffee while walking over. You’ve been conjuring up theories for him since you saw him the first time, perched on the doors while you were cleaning, and it didn’t help that you kept seeing his car passing around the place for some time before he finally decided to come to the diner.

“Are you an old regular or something?” you ask while refilling his cup with hot, freshly brewed coffee. You’d lie if anyone asked if you did a whole new coffee pot just to find an opening to talk to him.

“Why do you ask?” His eyes are always so deep, the musky green color seemingly pulling you in, black irises eating you up. Your pulse quickens but you hold his eyes on yours even as your face grows warm.

“It’s just that you’re always here.” The words tumble out of your mouth quickly as you deposit the coffee pot on the table, looking at him almost eagerly. “Most of my regulars seem to know you and leave you alone. So I thought that maybe, you know, you may come here for the old times sake.”

He holds your eyes with his for a moment, then looks down to the cup of coffee while he brings it to his lips.

“I guess you could say that.”

It feels like a period. Like he isn’t much for small talk, so you pat the apron in front of you, pick up the coffee pot from the table and nod while looking back to the counter to mask your disappointment with such a short conversation.

“Hmm, got’cha.”

“So, the old man was your father?” His voice picks up a tone higher and you turn with big eyes to him. He looks quiet, observant while he looks up at you and somehow, without nothing to hold on, you decide you want to talk to him some more.

“No, I never knew my dad. The stupid man was my grandpa.”

“Hm,” Iwaizumi nods, his eyes still on you. For some reason you can’t stand the silence, so you keep talking.

“He’d left the business for me and if I'm honest things were not going great where I was so,” you shrug. “I thought about giving this a shot.”

“And your mom?” His eyes on yours make you feel pressured and also lacking, your mouth working before your mind can really think. “She’s been dead since I was a kid.”

He blinks, surprised, and when he speaks he sounds so genuine you smile, “sorry to hear that.”

“No problem. It’s life, right?” you ask rhetorically, an unwavering smile on your face and bright eyes despite the forlorn subject. Hajime’s chest does something weird at the sight, eyes moving down to the coffee mug by his hands.

Is it? Hajime doesn’t know. But he also hasn't had parents or any kind of family besides Oikawa and the trouble duo, so he nods, murmuring agreement. You leave him alone for the rest of the night, but not without getting his name and introducing yourself; and you do it mostly because you’re still unsure about the man. He’s quiet, mostly keeps to himself while drinking his coffee and sometimes ordering something he never finishes, but other than that, he doesn’t do much. Which, despite that, doesn’t change the fact he sticks out like a sore thumb in the middle of the place.

His clothes are expensive even if they’re simple; his watch and rings glints under the diner lights, catching attention; and his eyes are like two black gunbarrels pointed straight at you in a face with a jawline sharp enough to cut.

He makes you feel slightly unnerved and a whole lot interested.

Hajime wonders, as he exits the dinner and walks the short distance to where Makki has parked the car, if he has enough reasons to be worried about you. He enters the back of the expensive black BMW, gives the annoying blonde his promised coffee and nods so he can start driving. Iwaizumi settles on the backseat and turns to look at Hanamaki, eyeing him through the rearview mirror.

“Makki.”

“Yes, Boss.” The answer comes immediately.

“Is this place in anyone's rotation?” Makki’s eyes thread to the mirror to look Hajime back.

“Old Lou’s dinner?”

“Yes.”

Makki’s brows furrow in thought while he seems to think it over. “I’m not sure, but I don’t think so.” His eyes lock on Hajime’s figure through the rearview mirror and Iwa counts the seconds until he asks, since his curiosity always wins. ”Why?”

“Check it for me.” It’s the end of conversation, and Makki knows. He nods.

“‘kay, Iwa.”

Iwaizumi’s thoughts are brewing, his brows furrowing deeply while he thinks over the whole exchange from earlier.

In a short conversation of a few minutes, you already unsuspectingly told him that you had no family left, no one to miss you if you’re gone. From that he can infer the easy things -- that you probably live alone, seeing as he’s never seen a boyfriend in the restaurant or calling you while you’re working the counter; that you must either live in your grandpa’s house or a small apartment if you’re trying to make more money by renting the old man’s place; that you probably leave alone after closing the dinner -- and he got all that by an easy small talk over coffee.

Iwa’s lips turn sour while he turns to watch over the streets late at night, the dangerous things that lie in the dark. He ignores that he, himself, is one of them.

Yes, maybe he should check on you.

Iwaizumi observes with a frown while Oikawa waltzes inside his penthouse with his new friend. The woman is, much like all of Oikawa’s partners, beautiful. Luxurious hair and curves, all wrapped in an equally expensive package the color of bright fucking red. Tonight things are less busy in the place, with Iwaizumi and the duo in the living room, while Kunimi keeps watch on the door from his position bended over the counter. Like with everything in his life, the man looks bored and done at the same time.

“I have to give it to him, he does have taste.” Hanamaki points it out unemotionally, his eyes threading along the lady of the moment hanging off Oikawa’s arm. Mattsun looks up from his phone in time to catch a look, his arched brow doing an appearance.

“Yeah, but that’s not new.”

“The idiot blows through women as you do with joints.” Iwaizumi scoffs, twirling his cup of whisky and enjoys the moment to sip his drink. “Which is stupid, both of you.”

“Couldn’t hear your criticism over the sound of you downing that whisky.” Hanamaki pipes in and Mattsun laughs but quickly retrieves himself back to his phone once Iwaizumi gives both of them a nasty glare.

On the other side of the room, Oikawa parts ways with his company, probably telling the woman to go somewhere inside his apartment while he handles business. His companion’s normally don’t ask much about what he does -- the less they know, the less they lie.

While Iwaizumi does understand the appeal of having someone to warm his bed at night like that, it just seems ridiculous to parade them around as Oikawa does; as if they’re a walking vitrine of his power and money, clad in so many brilliants, Hajime wonders if Oikawa can even see them through the shine.

Iwaizumi sighs when Oikawa finally moves in their direction, crossing his leg over his thigh as he stretches his back against the chair backrest. He drinks the rest of the whisky in one go.

“I see you already treated yourself to some beverage, Iwa-chan.”

The ridiculous nickname stuck, even after all these years, no matter how many glares and curses Hajime threw his way– and Oikawa has seen Hajime kill men before. Still, the brunette stays unwavering in his teasing -- and Iwa has made arrangements to make sure no one but him feels free to use that denomination.

“Good whisky ain’t making me nicer, shittykawa.” There’s also the fact Iwaizumi maintains his mockery with his friend, even as most of the Mob now call him Boss. He supposes it’s good to have few good childhood memories, if one can.

“At least it makes you less grumpy.”

Iwaizumi wonders if people would believe him if he told them the Boss pokes his tongue out and flops on the sofa then again, Oikawa’s charm is in being unwavering himself. When Oikawa crosses his leg over his knee and blinks feral, focused eyes over Iwaizumi, it’s easy to see the beast that brought him into the position as the chief in command of the Seijoh Mafia. “So, what did you have to tell me that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

“You’re being reckless,” Iwa starts, calm. “I’ve told you about being careful with your companion’s while I’m busy handling that subject.”

Oikawa pretends not to listen, falling back on his big chair without a care in the world.

“She’s a friend!” His face turns smug, even while there’s a small whine in his voice. It’s a stark difference from the feral Oikawa Tooru that put fear in the hearts of every Mafia in the bordering neighborhoods where they acted and climbed the ranks so fast, he became the head of Seijoh mob while only closing in on his early thirties -- and that was ten years ago. Still, around Iwaizumi, Oikawa keeps being the same brat he ever was.

“You need to get laid, Iwa.” The brunette laughs a bit, pouring more whisky for both of them. “How long it’s been, huh? Two decades? That’s how long your frown has been etched onto your face.”

Makki and Mattsun try to hide their smiles, but it’s futile.

“Don’t worry about my love life.”

“Love life?” Now Oikawa laughs, hand smacking his knee in his amusement. “I’m talking fucking, Iwa. We don’t have time for love.”

“Another reason why you shouldn’t worry about what doesn’t pertain to you.”

“Ohh~” Iwaizumi hates that he saw the singsong coming, “such big words. Gosh, that must mean it’s been years without action down there.”

“Why the worry, Tooru?” Iwaizumi asks, voice turning deep, eyes threading over Oikawa’s face. That has happened -- and ended, but it didn’t mean the two men didn’t play around it sometimes.

“Is the sex you’ve been getting so bad, you’ve been worried about mine?” Iwa scoffs, drinks a full mouth of whisky and turns to look at Oikawa once again.

“You look too old to be getting any action,” Oikawa mocks him, snickering behind his glass. “Look at those lines and wrinkles, oh gosh Iwa, we’re the same age, you’re making me look bad.”

“Shut up, trashykawa,” Iwaizumi grumbles. “I’m just going to tell you this time: fucking behave. I’m looking into the mole, but you need to watch your back.”

“I thought that was your job, though.”

“Makes it a bit fucking hard when you bring home a diferent friend every night. Babysitting a toddler would be easier than you.” Iwaizumi grumbles and scoffs, finishing his drink in one go. “I’m doing my job. Now listen to me so that I can do it well.”

Iwaizumi slams his glass on the wooden coffee table and stands, the sound loud but not enough to disturb the rest of the men around the place. Maddog does look at Iwaizumi as if thinking what’s the cause for his distress, but the man has learned long ago that Oikawa rattles on everyone's nerves at some point -- Iwa just happens to be ticked more than the rest, a consequence of being friends with the man, he assumes.

Iwa pats his slacks, re-doing the button on his suit and walks away, moving a hand in the air as a way to say goodbye to Oikawa. “Your friend is waiting for you.”

Hanamaki and Matsukawa are behind him before he stops in front of the elevator doors, Kunimi not even looking up as the three of them leave. “Try not to be dead by the morning.”

“I’ll do my best~” Oikawa singsongs back, a carefree smile on his face.

Mattsun is driving tonight and that means Hanamaki is speaking the whole time, going on about how the Karasuno Mob is growing, potentially able to slip between Seijoh and Shiratorizawa’s territory if they’re not careful. Iwaizumi listens, but doesn’t really offer anything to the discussion; he’s too caught up in his head, wondering about what he’s going to do with Oikawa and how he can flush out the mole as fast as possible until something catches his ear, every thought in his mind freezing at the mention of the diner neighborhood.

“What did you say?”

“Huh?” Makki stops, looking back through the seat. “Oh, some of ours have been talking about seeing Shiratorizawa around downtown territory.” Makki turns serious, and it happens so rarely that the moment his demeanor shifts, Iwaizumi actually grasps his worries by the simple difference in the air surrounding the blonde. “Johzenji too.”

Now, that’s worrisome. While Seijoh and Shiratorizawa have some shared business in downtown and somewhat of a truce on those places, Johzenji is way too far from its limits, crossing borders they know they should not. Iwaizumi catches sight of how his frown actually caves lines on his forehead and Oikawa’s snickers pops in his mind as if the male was right there, he scoffs but his look is serious.

They can’t leave it that way.

Hajime tells himself that the fact that your face pops in his mind and the thought of a territorial war a few blocks away from the Diner makes his hands constrict into fists, has nothing to do with how fast he decided he must handle it.

But it gets a little less believable as he orders Matsukawa to keep an eye out on your street, like if it wasn’t clear that by your street -- he meant you.

You notice the man staying around.

Actually, you doubt anyone hasn’t noticed the tall man who likes to linger just a bit too much around your diner as if he’s your hired security guard or something. He’s taller than most people, broad and built enough for you to see it in the way his clothes cling to his form, and has this fixation with metal, because both his ears are pierced and his knuckles are always adorned with thick rings. He looks bad, and has a cigarette pending from his lips to crown the look. Which, of course, prompts half the women population who enjoy your diner to look. It probably doesn’t help that despite his aloof behavior he can be quite the charmer.

And you’re suspecting your cook and friend is falling for it.

“If you light that cigarette right now after I’ve just told you to leave and smoke outside, I swear to god I’ll use the fire extinguisher on you, Matsukawa-san.” You always chastise him out of the Dinner once he starts smoking, since Issei has no respect for the very big, very red “no smoking” sign you had to purchase just because of him. He grins at you from his high seat on the counter and lifts his hands in a sign of rendition.

“Okay, honey. I’ll drop it.”

You eye him very sharply until his fingers finally close around his cigar and he takes it out the clasp of his lips. You watch until he pockets it again in his metal case. Then, you finally blink and nod, turning to enter inside your kitchen. You’ve made the mistake of trusting him before, letting him out of your sight once he signaled defeat when you reprimanded him, just to come out and find him smoking anyway. So, now, you take the extra precautions with him, reason why you open the door without warning to check on him, finding him calmly studying the menu.

He eyes you and blinks, a big grin splitting his face.

“I’ll behave,” he crosses a finger over his heart like a scout. ”Promise.”

You snort, but turn around and enter the kitchen space, yelling at your friend the newest orders, to which she just yells back a fine.

You grab the done plates– buttermilk pancakes and swiss omelette with orange juice and black coffee– and push the door outside with your hip, while calmly balancing everything on your tray.

It’s a quiet late-morning, most of the regulars have already left for work and you’re dealing with the unusual clients, just three if you count Mattsun.

Once you’re back at the counter, Matsukawa is signaling with the menu for you to come over.

“So, what’s your order, Matsukawa-san?”

“First, I’d like you to drop the san, it makes me feels fucking old.”

You tease him just the bit by giving him a pointed look with a very arched eyebrow.

“Stop it,” he hisses at you, eyes narrowing. “Don’t you fuckin-”

“You are old,” you tell him, pleased with yourself when he hisses as if burned, making you sport a big smile while on it. He’s glaring at you. “See, this is how I feel when I catch you smoking once I tell you not to.”

His lopsided grin is a panty-dropper; too bad you’re thinking about how it would be if someone else grinned at you like that. “Valid.”

The seconds tick by while you wait for Matsukawa to say his order but he just stares at you as if you’re slowly losing your mind. You sigh, resist the urge to facepalm but do press two fingers into the middle of your forehead in an upwards motion to help with the stress, to look at him again and smile.

“Your order, Matsukawa-san?”

“Again with the -san? Let me make a deal with you. You call me Issei and I’ll never smoke inside again.”

You eye him suspiciously but ultimately decide it’s a nice deal.

“Deal,” you say, while jutting your lips out to hide a smile, still looking for hints he may be lying. “And if I catch you smoking inside again I’ll start calling you Jiji.”

Issei’s eyes go large, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline until he coughs and sputters, “you wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

The stare-down goes for a few seconds until you end it by saying, “I’ll get your regular,” and turning around to leave.

“This isn’t over!”

“Yeah, yeah, just behave.”

Once you’re in the kitchen, the clattering and noises are loud.

“You should chill a bit before you end up completely mutilating the pans, Rei. Half my money is in your kitchen.”

She throws you a nasty glare from across all the other way by her stove, doing God knows what but whatever it is smells heavenly.

“Do you believe the gall of this idiot outside?”

“Yep,” you chirp, but you eye her closely while she continues. You know her enough to know what’ll happen next.

“He had the fucking nerve to say my food was too salty.”

“Uh,” Escapes your lips, but you narrow your eyes at her, taking in the redness of her face, the way she looks overheated and the gesticulating arms while she walks around using too much strength while opening and closing the kitchen cabinets.

“SALTY!” She hollers to the emptiness of her kitchen, which pretty much makes it echo through the walls. You’re half certain you can hear Matsukawa chuckling outside. You wait for it, by now you know it’s coming. “I’ll show him what the fuck being too salty means.” She keeps going, cranky and beating the pans with that bit too much strength so that the clanks and tinkling sound loud even to you. You wait just a little bit more. “That handsome motherfucker, I’ll fucking deck him with my frying pan!”

And there it is.

You snicker just the tiniest bit, and put the order for his regular. She snatches it from your hand and points a paring knife at you.

“Don’t you dare say anything.” She does look fairly threatening, but the thing is that you’ve been on the other side of that knife one too many times to care now.

“Hey, if you like insufferable assholes, who am I to judge?”

“Fuck you.”

The movement is slow tonight, the cold weather with a drizzle makes your regulars stay home and the streets stay empty. It’s just a bit past midnight and you already know you’re closing early. Iwaizumi has been seated at his usual spot for a good twenty minutes already and, much like every other night, he’s just doing nothing -- looking over the street, reading the paper, sometimes a book or daring to look at his phone. Rei is still moving around in the kitchen and there’s only one other person in the diner -- an old man eating his soup calmly on the whole other side.

You feel restless; your eyes keep darting to him as if waiting to be caught, definitely not being the subtle person you hope to be, nothing catches your attention when Iwaizumi sits calmly by the window reading the paper and sipping on fresh coffee. Your eyes thread through his broad shoulders, poorly hidden under the fitted black social button up, rolled sleeves showing big, veiny forearms leading to strong, broad hands that seem even bigger when they engulf the coffee mug.

Hajime wears one ring, thick, black and a matching watch that probably costs as much as this whole place. You don’t need to see it to know his dark grey slacks are fitted; you’ve caught sight of it when he entered and you think there’ll be hell on earth before you forget how perfectly it hugs his frame, how delicious his ass is and how his waist is marked, beautifully, by the black belt. You thank the gods that he had already disposed of his suit jacket, or you’d be unable to survive so long.

You’re probably drooling, so you tear your eyes from him to make yourself a hot cup of coffee and hope that you can pretend the flustered feeling in your insides is from the steaming caffeine quickening your heart. However, seeing as your eyes drag slowly back to him, you think that’s a lost battle.

You drink a bit, breathe some more and decide to say fuck it. You’re not risking anything -- if he doesn’t want to talk, he can just say so. So you wash your hands, shed your apron and pick your coffee mug back up while walking to him. Before you even tread more than two steps, his deep, hard green eyes are already looking at you. They’re so impenetrable and focused, you wonder if he looks long enough, will he see your mind?

The thought makes your face heat up and you swallow the saliva pooling on your mouth before speaking,“mind if I sit?”

He nods no, but still answers, “go ahead.”

You slide on the seat in front of him, and for a second you regret your choice. Up close and with nowhere else to look, he’s even bigger -- his frame engulfs anything past his shoulders, his eyes demanding the sole focus of yours and you give it to him. But there’s a thought in your mind that helps you fight back the urge to let yourself slide and drown in the pool of deep green.

“So, I've been meaning to ask,” you tread carefully, knowing it’s a minefield ahead. You’ve been alone in this world with just your grandpa for a long time, and he was no saint. You’re no stranger to the fact that his diner has always been in mob-controlled territory. You’ve seen him bullied into paying back gambling loans too many times to not know how a bad man looks, and still, here you are, body warming and trembling just by the sight of what must be the baddest of them all. “Were you friends with my grandpa or something?”

Iwaizumi looks at you, blinks and then hums a question, slightly furrowed brows his only sign of confusion. “Hm?”

“It’s just that I’ve noticed… that you seem like you’ve been taking care of this place… of me.” You speak while your eyes keep darting between his face and down, a warm feeling seeping from your eyes that makes his brain slow down, too caught up in watching you until he realizes he walked into a tricky question.

Fuck. Think fast, Hajime.

“We weren’t exactly friends. But he was a mean card player and he got a lot of money out of me.” Iwaizumi speaks fondly, which is probably the only thing indicating that he isn’t here for some wicked king of payback. You nod while your brows slide up.

“I’m sure you also took a lot of money from him.”

“If I was lucky,” he pauses, “I don’t like to bet. But it was nice to play against him, even without betting.”

“I’m surprised he wanted to play without betting.”

“Rare occasions.” Iwa muses with a small smile in the corner of his lips.

Iwaizumi looks at you again, that deep stare as if he’s trying to catch your soul intent. “What I mean with that is… He never talked about you. Or having a family, for that matter.”

“Well… it’s like you put it. He was a gambler. And before he got good, he was bad. We struggled a lot with his debt while I was growing up. Once I left the house and I was working and got into college... he called me, asking for money. He knew I had a college fund -- small, but you know, enough to get by for a few years. I gave some of it to him and I told him that if he was going to call me for money, it’d be better if he didn’t call at all, so… our relationship was pretty strained this last few years.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t know what to say. So he tests around something he hasn't used in a long time, “sorry.”

“It’s fine. I just couldn’t possibly deal with his debt on top of mine, you know. And it was his choice not to call me for other reasons, so.” You shrug your shoulders, eyes downcast for a moment. If Iwaizumi ever knew how to console someone, he’d forgotten it a long time ago, but he’ll swear on his gun and every god above that he wishes he was sensible enough now to offer any kind of words that can resemble solace. He doesn’t know what you find in his face that makes you do a funny face, nose wrinkling, while smiling.

“It’s ok, I don’t hate him, you know. I just... He’s dead and I can’t help but think these things are in the past. Which may be fucked up but I’ve made my choice not to go through life with these demons.”

Iwaizumi nods, solemn. He knows a thing or twelve about going through life with demons and he wishes that you didn’t have to bear this even for the smallest of seconds. It gnaws inside your being, and the places where their claws sink usually fester. But, he doesn’t even risk thinking about what it’d be like for him to live without them -- they’re the closest to penitence for a whole life of sin he’s ever gonna get.

Talking to Hajime makes hours fly by like minutes.

He’s not very talkative himself, but he’s a great listener and he gives you fair, honest answers so you try to do the same. You ask him about the old man, what he’d been doing, and Hajime doesn’t even blink while saying that he kept gambling until his death; tells you how he’d been worried that the diner had been offered as collateral to some debt and would fall victim of your grandpa’s addiction even after his death. You tell him about life after college, how disheartening and anxious it was, how you’ve struggled without finding a job and hustled your way together with Rei. You tell him how you’ve felt good to win the Diner -- the new ideas and purpose, the excitement and how fun it was to think about life like this -- a business owner.

The one thing Hajime doesn’t tell you about is his job, which you feel is answer enough; and when you ask him about the late nights at the Diner, his lips quirk up and your heart quickens, whole body warming at how he tells you the diner has a special place in his life and that he doesn’t likes to sleep, only crashing once the sun come out.

He stays with you as you bid Rei farewell and close the restaurant, walks you to his car and drives you to your house. His car doesn’t move until you make it safe inside and only when your face comes to the window, does it starts to move away.

[to be continued]

#iwaizumi hajime x reader #iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi fic #haikyuu fanfic #iwaizumi haikyuu #mafia au #thesmutpilecollab

288 notes · View notes

notabloodmage · 3 years ago

Text

Anders Clinic: early Act 1

hello! i am handers trash! here is the first time my hawke helped Anders around the clinic! thank u!

The clinic was crowded today. There was another fever burning its way through Darktown. Anders was stretched thin as it is, with very few volunteers in recent days to help him keep the clinic running and safely hidden. As it turned out-- operating for free meant that help was hard to find. His mana was low, even with the extra reserves that Justice granted him. The clinic was overrun with patients-- his little corner of Darktown a filled with a cacophony of retching and the groans of the ill. He shuffled tiredly, but with purpose, from patient to patient. He was grateful that Justice wouldn’t let him rest until the job was done. It wasn’t good for Anders, sure, but it helped save the lives of all these people, so it had to be worth it, right?

“Uh, Anders?” A familiar voice broke through the crowd. Hawke was… unexpected. The little rogue had weaved her way through the crowd somehow to make it to his side. He didn’t even look up from his work to greet here, focusing on blue fade-energy pulsing at his fingertips.

“Sorry, Hawke, but I really don’t think I can be of any help to you today,” Anders said balefully. He was knelt over an old woman, a Ferelden refugee not unlike the rogue before him.

“Er, actually, I was wondering if I could help you…”

That made him look up, and the sight was so beautiful it made his head spin (or perhaps it was the fact that he was going on 50+ hours without sleep).

Hawke was looking down with her signature crooked grin, brow cocked with concern at his appearance. She wasn’t wearing her armour like usual, he’d never seen her without it before, all that tan freckled skin in the open. She was wearing a casual peasant shirt with a hastily lased collar and simple trousers torn at the knees. He snapped his eyes onto her warm brown gaze to keep them from wandering. Her eyes always had a twinkle in them, somehow, like she knew something you didn’t.

She just had a way with people, Anders supposed, even the woman he was treating seemed to relax at her mere presence.

And more than that, he realised, she may as well have been handing him a pot of gold. She was holding out a basket of fresh picked herbs. Elfroot, Embrium, Blood Lotus-- everything he could possibly need to treat this flu. She beamed when he looked up at her incredulously.

“Bethany is here too, somewhere-- healing isn’t her speciality but Father did teach her the basics. And I may not be a mage, but I do know my way around a cauldron.” She winked down at him, turning toward the back of the shop. “You do have a cauldron, right? Or at least a pot I can cook with?”

“I… What?” Anders gaped--half-convinced the exhaustion had finally gotten to him and he was hallucinating. Hawke giggled.

“A cauldron, Anders, so I can make some healing potions for these people. Father used to make this awful potion for us whenever we were sick, it tastes like the void itself but it always works! I’m not as good as he was but I do know the recipe!” She looked back at him quizzically.

“There’s a cauldron on the fire near the back, miss.” One of his other patients, a young boy who had been in the clinic before spoke up for him.

Anders still couldn’t believe this was happening. This couldn’t be some kind of stress-induced hallucination, could it? Hawke wasn’t really just sweeping in to solve his problems again was she? First with Karl and now this...

“That’s… I…”

Before Anders could fully process the situation he was whisked back into his work.

The sunset bled the day into night, the work still hard but going significantly more smoothly now. He’d bumped shoulders with Bethany a few times throughout the day, who’d always given him an encouraging smile before returning to her work, she may not have been as adept as he was at healing but she did better than fine. Her proficiency with the elements kept the fire burning and kept them supplied with clean water so Anders could focus solely on his healing abilities. The atmosphere of the clinic had changed, it was no longer so frantic, and although he felt as though he was about to collapse with exhaustion, Anders was cautiously optimistic. With all the help they’d been able to give it looked like most of the refugees would actually survive this.

Plus, Hawke wasn’t kidding. She did know her way around a cauldron. Between patients Anders caught glimpses at her slicing up herbs at an alarming speed, Anders hadn’t considered that he proficiency with daggers would translate to something as mundane as chopping up potion ingredients. She’d brought more than enough, too. With this potion a little goes a long way, she’d assured him, and she proved herself right. Sip after agonising sip of the sludge-like fluid had patients perking up already. She’d even been able to slip in a lyrium potion or two to keep Bethany and Anders running late into the evening.

She hummed a cheery little tune to herself as she stirred away, serving patients with a smile and a joke. She made it look so easy, but she had to tired by now...

The clinic finally began to slow around midnight, most of the patients had cleared out and those that remained were asleep. Hawke had sent Bethany home before sundown-- Leandra got nervous when Bethany was out late, apparently-- so it was just the two of them that remained, in the back of the clinic. Anders was warming himself by the fireplace, hands gripping his mug tightly to keep them from trembling with exhaustion, as he sipped the tea Hawke had pushed into his hands. It smelled like like home somehow-- Ferelden.

Mint, fennel and elfroot, sweetened with honey.

Hawke bit back a yawn, she was sat on a stool, scrubbing out his old cauldron-- he’d gotten it second-hand after he’d set up shop down here.

Her curly brown hair was tied back with a white rag, and at some point she had lost her overshirt, leaving her in tight camisole. Anders tried desperately to ignore how it gave him the perfect view of the way her chest heaved as she worked. Her toned, tanned arms were in full view, every inch of her skin patterned intricately with freckles. Sweat dripped down her neck into the valley between her breasts and Anders cleared his throat in an attempt to clear his thoughts.

“Thank you for today, really. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.” He fixed his gaze on hers once more. She was smiling at him with something that looked like admiration her amber eyes, and he didn’t know if that terrified him or turned him on.

Maybe both.

“I can’t believe you do this every day… I don’t even think I can stand back up…” Hawke leaned back, setting the cauldron aside so she could stretch, letting out a sweet sound of satisfaction at the relief on her sore muscles.

Anders nearly cursed aloud when Justice forced him to avert his gaze.

“It’s not always this bad…” He stammered out, as Hawke stood focusing his eyes on the hearth, where the fire had burned down to coals. She was looking at him again. He could see it from the corner of his eye, she was studying him intently, it seemed.

The silence hung over them--warm, wanting, and not quite comfortable.

Anders wanted to thank her again, but he couldn’t find the words. He still couldn’t believe she’d come at all. Completely unprompted, unasked. He’d asked her a few hours in what she was doing there and all she’d said was that Varric told her was busy at the clinic and she wanted to help. She didn’t say how she got the herbs or found the time, in her busy schedule though, and Anders thought that maybe he should ask if he could pay for those... not that he could afford them, he thought bitterly.

The silence was broken by Hawke bursting into a fit of giggles.

He looked at her, brow creasing. She was… Odd. Always smiling, always laughing at something or other. She’d tripped over her feet on the way up the Chantry steps that first night they’d met and he could’ve sworn her laugh echoed through all of Hightown, far too loud for someone as small in stature as she. In that moment she’d put him at ease, and even though his meeting with Karl went as terribly as it did she stuck by his side, even inviting him out on jobs with her in the days after, knowing full well that he could use the money, and time out of Darktown.

Her eyes glimmered with mirth as she turned to him.

“I just realised I never told you my name.”

Huh.

So she hadn’t.

It was strange, given how much they’d been through together in the, what, few weeks? Since they’d met? Anders found himself laughing alongside her.

Maybe they were delirious-- maybe the fever had finally caught up to them-- but Maker did the two of them laugh. A gross, hard day full of grief and sickness that had left them both worn and covered in vomit and the pair laughed themselves to tears.

Justice was confused. Anders was laughing. Why was Anders laughing?

Anders didn’t quite know the answer himself, but he figured it didn’t matter as Hawke extended a hand to him.

“I’m Minerva Marian Hawke, and you are?”

He took her hand in his. His handshake was a little too firm in an attempt to disguise how his hands were trembling.

“Anders. Just Anders.”

“Just Anders, hm? Coooool~” She grinned, voice regaining its familiar teasing quality. He couldn’t help but return her grin. “Well, Just Anders, I’ll come by tomorrow, okay? I think it’s time to get some rest. Both of us, okay?” Her eyes flickered over him, an expression of genuine concern on her face. Anders didn’t know what he’d done to earn such kindness from her, but he couldn’t deny the way it made his heart pound in his chest.

She smiled her farewell and turned to leave.

“Goodnight, Minerva.” Her name tasted sweet on his lips. “And thank you.”

#we r VIBING #my chronic pain is acting up like mad so i can't work but at least i can write fics and play dragon age ajshfdvbjkadsvfhasdfs #my writing #ok to rb #handers #f!handers #female hawke #dragon age #dragon age 2 #da2 #da #anders #anders dragon age #anders x hawke #act 1 #bethany hawke #varric tethras #it's abt the mutual pining babey!!!#slow BURN!!!!

37 notes · View notes

trynatalktou · 4 years ago

Text

Baby, give me your hand and let me take the lead - I don't need the burning, I just want the heat.

@koreandragon pratically obliged me to write this fic with all their recent posts

The title is from another song I have not finished writing.

Special shout out to @chayenzo because she knew it about it first.

This sucks btw, I was having a writer's block and this was the method I found to try to get out of it - thus, it is quite unpolished (and non-edited lol sorry I´m tired).

Also this is somehow dirty, read at your own caution.

Goodness gracious, this is finally it.

''You're so naughty'' She can't help but tease, because after all, this is some kind of foreplay isn't it?

Her heart is hammering in her chest as she marches her way to the door. The build-up to this moment has been nothing but torturous, but she has a feeling it will be worth it - damn, he looks like he will make it worth it.

She opens the door.

What the actual fuck.

Cha-young has been turrning and sighing for a while now, and it is not like Vincenzo feels he will manage to fall sleep with her at such close proximity - but is certainly discouraging his efforts.

''May I help you, Mrs.Hong?''

''I've been hoping you would.''

There is an undeniable sultriness underlying in the way she whispers those words that has a rush of heat quickly makes it's way through the entirety of his body, until it reaches the point where the very pressure of the floor against his back becomes overwhelming.

He sits up.

''Excuse me?'' he all but chokes it out.

''I'm not feeling very comfortable, I'm sorry for not asking for it before, but could I perhaps take a shower?''

Vincenzo does not like the way she looks at him while asking what should be a simple question, breaking visual contact, he is promptly on his feet heading off to grab everything she might need.

''The shower is right over there as you might have already imagined'' he points ''Call me out if you need anything.''

He mentally slaps himself. Idiot

''Don't worry, I will'' she smiles.

Not before long after she closes the door, it is possible to hear the shower head running. Vincenzo closes his eyes just to be rapidly mortified by the images flashing through his head.

Mouths occupied; miles of skin; hands searching and finding; bodies intertwined; him on his knees.

Lord help him, he is not a hormonal teenager.

He kicks off his duvet in frustration and turns around in search for clearance.

And then, just then - he hears it.

That awful sound overlapping the buzz of the shower.

A moan.

Have mercy.

''Mr. Cassano,'' she calls from the bathroom. ''Can you help me over here?'' she asks innocently.

They both know she isn't.

Vincenzo's feets are moving before he even gets a chance to think. H

Of course.

With droplets of water decorating her skin and wet hair clinging to her neck, Hong Cha-young looks the very definition of ethereal.

Alluring.

He tries not to look -not to stare - at the view of her only wrapped in a towel (his towel, his mind supplies) but he does; and imagines if he looks as wretched as he feels. He foolishly attempts to move his hands in order to hide his (barely concealed through the thin fabric of the sleepwear) desire. It is a terrible mistake as it only brings her attention to the area.

She bites her lip.

''I'm a bit wet, sorry'' that elicits a snort out of him. ''I could not figure out the temperature of the shower, I almost burnt my skin off.

''Oh yes, I see, the trick is to open the whole valvet out, but you can close it up a bit if it feels too cold for you.'' he says, striving to sound put together. ''It is always a pleasure to help.''

Vincenzo makes a hasty move to get as far from that bathroom and Hong Cha-young's graviational force as soon as possible.

She had other plans.

''Wait!'' she takes his hand in hers, interlacing their fingers. ''Can you show me?''

He groans.

''Ms. Hong, don't do that.''

''Do what?'' she retorts instantly, pulling him in.

Play with a devil.

''Tempt me.''

''I don't see what you mea-''

He doesn't wait for her to finish the sentence - there is only so much he can take.

Hands gripping just beneath her ass, Vincenzo hoists Cha-young up and presses her against the wall and she angles down to meet his lips, the kiss is hot and messy - each of them trying desesperately seeking how to tame the fire flaming from within on each other - eventually they are obliged to come back to the surface, their lungs seem to unfortunately not be able to match their want; their need.

He immediately latches for her neck, kissing and sucking every little piece of skin available to him - between all the fumbling, her towel starts to untagle itself - soon becoming a rag on the floor.

Neither of them mind it.

With her new state of undress, Vincenzo can't help but to take his time to give an appreciative stare down that leaves her blushing - she grinds down on him solely to distract him, but ends up finding friction as well.

They both see stars.

She is moaning, panting and almost screaming - of course she would be just as loud in bed. He relishes in the feeling of her cursing and worshipping his name on the same breath.

But not so fast; he grip her hips to restrict her movements and she cries out with the lost of contact, he turns to focus his attentions to her nipples - giving throughout ministrations to each one of them.

''Vincenzo, please - please - I need more'' she begs, until the sequence of whispers where she repeats ''touch me'' over and over again turn into hot puffs on his sweating skin.

And how could he possibly dare to not oblige?

#this was fun to write but horrible at the same time #is this some sort of catholic guilt?#anyways take this I don't wanna dwell on it more than I already have #vincenzo #chayenzo

68 notes · View notes

elliestormfound · 4 years ago

Note

okay, prompt, I'm happy for you to change any detail of this because it might be too complicated? lmao. So, Jaskier is rummaging about Geralt's things when he's been told not to. He 'thinks' he breaks one of Geralts weapons, and is in a total panic all day about it not wanting to mention and trying to hide it? Turns out it's just something Geralt has modified to the weapon so that when someone touches it they can't use it? like to stop people touching/stealing his things? haha.

thank you @hailhailsatan for this wonderful prompt! I had to think about it for a bit. It was fun to write! Sorry, I had to make it fluffy and it got kind of long...

read on ao3

---------

Jaskier knew he was in trouble.

Geralt had left two hours ago to take care of a nekker nest and because the bard had seen him fight nekkers at least a dozen times by now, he had opted out to stay at their campsite. Imagining a relaxed day, lounging on his bedroll in the sun and working on a song or two.

But he couldn’t find his quill, even after he had emptied out all of his bags on the forest floor. Maybe it had gotten into one of Geralt’s bags?

The witcher had told him numerous times not to touch his stuff. “Don’t touch Roach”, “don’t touch my swords”, “don’t touch my clothes” and “don’t touch my bags”. And Jaskier tried. But it was hard for someone who liked to share everything. Not that he just took from others, he loved to share his belongings, a warm blanket on a cold evening, the dried fruit he had bought on the last market they visited or his lavender soap.

And Jaskier knew Geralt had good reasons to tell him not to go through his belongings. A few weeks ago Jaskier had been thirsty in the night. Standing up to walk to the nearby stream had felt too much of an effort, so he had rummaged around in Geralt’s bag for his water bottle and in the second he placed it on his lips, Gerlat, who had been asleep a moment ago, had slapped it out of his hands.

“The fuck, Jaskier”, Geralt had grumbled angrily, “what do you think you are doing?”

Confused the bard had replied, “I just wanted a sip of water.”

“That’s not water, you idiot, that is griffin decoction, one sip could kill you.”

Jaskier had just stared at the witcher with wide eyes, “I’m sorry, I thought…”

“Don’t think, ask me next time,” Geralt had growled.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Jaskier had said in a small voice.

“You drinking poison and choking to death would definitely have bothered me more than you waking me for water. I told you not to touch my stuff,” the witcher had said, thrusting the actual water bottle in his hands.

But today Jaskier’s head was full of words and phrases and melodies he had to write down before they would escape. And for that he needed his quill. So he had very carefully opened one of Geralt’s bags, not reaching in, just looking. When he did not see a trace of a quill he moved on to the next bag. There was something silvery glittering in the morning light, just like the nib of his quill. Very carefully he reached in the bag, trying not to touch anything else. His hand closed around something he instantly knew was not his quill. But he had touched it already, so it wouldn’t hurt to have a look at it, would it now?

To his surprise Jaskier pulled a beautiful dagger out of the bag. The hilt lay comfortably in his hand as if it had been made for him, wrapped in soft leather for a better grip. The sheath was made of sturdy dark red leather with an intricate floral pattern. From farther away it would not stand out, would look nothing special, but Jaskier could see and feel that it was of high quality and only in close proximity did the floral pattern show it’s full beauty. Jaskier looked closely, carefully tracing the pattern with his finger and after a moment he was sure that it was a stylized depiction of buttercups. Very slowly he drew the dagger out, revealing a beautiful silver blade, reflecting the sun in his eyes. There were words carved into the blade. He angled the blade to have a better view and as his finger touched the gleaming silver to trace the words, the blade crumbled to dust - to his utter horror.

He drew in a shaky breath as he watched the dust drift down and - caught by the wind - disappearing. His eyes were wide and his mouth formed a perfect o as the shock settled in. The knife looked to be expensive, probably custom made and he had just single handedly destroyed it with the touch of his finger.

He was fucked. Jaskier knew Geralt would be furious. This was not an accident, but he had deliberately opened Geralt’s bags against his explicit command and touched one of his belongings, also against his explicit commands.

Would this be the straw that broke the camel's back? Would Geralt now send him away for good? Cold dread creeped down his neck. Should he put the hilt and sheath back into the bag and pretend nothing had happened? Should he tell Geralt directly at his arrival? Should he wait till Geralt was in a good mood? When was Geralt ever in a good mood? Fuck, fuck, fuck…

He stood petrified for a while, like a deer caught in headlights, not able to decide what to do.

Then he heard it, footsteps. Geralt was returning. Jaskier whirled around facing the witcher, hiding his hands with the evidence behind his back. He plastered on a (hopefully) cheery smile and said louder than intended, “Geralt, you are back early!”

“There were only a few nekkers,” the witcher replied, who was cleaner than expected after a fight.

Jaskier could practically feel the suspicious gaze burning on his skin as Geralt beheld his unusual arm positioning. The witcher narrowed his eyes, “what are you holding there?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Jaskier stammered, “nothing of importance. Ahm, tell me everything about the fight, how many nekker were there?”

But Geralt was not distracted and just growled, “Jaskier…”

The bard started to sweat, “you know, it was not really my fault, I just had a teeny tiny look into your saddlebags…” his voice got quieter with every word, “and I might have...ahhhm, broke something…” He looked down, cheeks red.

The bard heard the witcher approach and breath in deeply. Now would be the moment he would tell him to pack his bags and leave, to never bother the witcher again. His stomach felt like it was clenched in a cold angry fist.

But Geralt stayed silent and after a moment the bard looked up. He did not look particularly angry...not more than usual, and he had his head tilted.

A moment later the witcher said, “it’s the dagger, isn’t it?” and turned away as if nothing had happened. Jaskier still did not move, looking at Geralt, who just went around camp in his usual after-fight-routine. Unstrapping his swords from his back and setting them down next to his bedroll, drinking a few gulps from his water bottle, cramming some dried meat in his mouth and getting a rag to clean off the few bits of nekker guts that had landed on his armour.

Jaskier let his arms fall to the side and said, “aren’t you going to say anything? Yell at me?”

“You want me to yell at you?” Geralt asked.

“No, I’m...ahm… quite okay with not being yelled at.”

“It’s your birthday present you managed to destroy, so you should be the one angry,” the witcher said.

“What?” the bard’s mouth hung open and when Geralt raised an eyebrow at him he continued, “birthday present? But….I thought you didn’t know when my birthday is.” Geralt just stared at him. “You told me three times in the last month,” Geralt said, “I don’t forget that easily.”

Jaskier looked from Geralt to the hilt and sheath in his hands, eyes still wide and damper than a minute ago. “And you got me a present,” his voice was barely audible, “and I just broke it…”

With a sigh the witcher walked over. Jaskier could not bear to look him in the eyes, his own glued to the broken dagger. With the next breath he could barely suppress a sob. Geralt was in front of him and then Jaskier felt Geralt’s hand on his, the one holding the hilt and slowly lifting it. “Jaskier, look at me,” the witcher said softly.

Jaskier looked up and a single tear ran down his cheek. “Just take a deep breath,” Geralt said in his deep voice, “nothing is broken.”

Jaskier did as instructed and Geralt carried on, “you did not break the dagger. You demonstrated how well it works.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “what…”

“I brought this dagger and asked Yen to put a defensive charm on it,” Geralt said, “ it can only be used by the ones I imprint on it, so it cannot be used against you in a fight if someone managed to take it.” Jaskier just looked at his witcher in awe. He had not expected the witcher to even remember his birthday let alone buy him a gift, especially not such a thoughtful, beautiful and expensive one.

“I planned to give it to you on your birthday next week and to imprint it, so you can use it.” Geralt was still holding his hand and that was somehow grounding Jaskier.

“But…” he managed to say in a small voice, “I already broke it…”

“Yen thought about that, with a simple spell it can be revived,” Geralt said, “that is also how the imprint happens. It has to be broken to be imprinted on someone new.”

Geralt took the sheath from him and said, “put both of your hands around the hilt.” As Jaskier had done this, Geralt covered the bard’s hands with his. He breathed in deep and said a few words that sounded like elder speech, but Jaskier could not quite catch them. With a strong scent of magic small whirlwind started to dance above their hands and after a moment the silver blade was back, gleaming in the sun as if nothing had happened. Jaskier’s smile stretched from ear to ear.

“Geralt, that’s amazing, I have to thank Yen as well!”

Geralt chuckled and slowly took his hands away from Jaskier’s. Then he had to take a few steps back because Jaskier swished the blade around a bit. With a cheeky smile the bard drew his hands with the blade carefully to his chest as if to hug the degger.

“Geralt, this is an absolutely amazing present, but wasn’t it… ahm … a bit too expensive?” He looked anxiously at the witcher.

“A cheap dagger would only cause more trouble than it would help,” Geralt grumbled, looking away from the cornflower blue eyes beaming at him.

Jaskier took a few steps towards the witcher, took the sheath from his hands and pushed the blade safely back in. A moment later he threw his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, squeezing him tightly. After a moment Geralt sighed and also wrapped his arms around the bard and murmurd, “happy birthday, buttercup.”

453 notes · View notes