#god i love how he stays the fuck down until butcher is gone

[ex0rin]

Hughie Campbell | The Boys S02E02

[macabr3-barbi3]

God, That's Good!

Chapter 5: Pentious' Miracle Elixir

A few weeks after Lucifer's arrival, Husk is witness to a couple spectacles at the market.

Tags: Sera is Still the Worst™️, Huskerdust Beginnings, Niffty Shenanigans

THINGS ARE PICKING UP IN THE NEXT CHAPTER RADIOAPPLE FRIENDS 📻🍎 here is a secret lil apology to Sir Pentious (I'm sorry, I love you, but the plot must plot) and here is my weekly thank you and handover of my heart and soul to @fraugwinska ily 💕

Act 1:  Chapter 1 🥧 Chapter 2 🥧 Chapter 3 🥧 Chapter 4 🥧 Chapter 5 🥧 Chapter 6  🥧Chapter 7 🥧 Chapter 8 🥧 Chapter 9

As soon as he saw the little kid running around and setting up a makeshift stage, Husk knew he was going to end up with a headache today, one way or another. It had been a few weeks now since that Morningstar character had come into the picture, and from behind the bar, opposite the wall to Alastor’s living quarters, he could hear the pair of them chatting all hours of the day. It was basically up to Husk these days to run the show since they didn’t have any ‘meat’ for the pies lately, not with Alastor so wrapped up in his new passion project that he didn’t have any spare time to scout for targets. The news was lamenting the fact that the Bayou Butcher seemed to be on vacation- great for the people he wasn’t killing, but bad for ratings.

He heard the story Alastor gave the man- that he valued ‘quality’ over quantity and waited until he had enough revenue from the bar to get decent meat rather than using whatever roadkill he could find like some others did. He didn’t tell him the truth, of course; only Husk was privy to the information about the real source of the filling of Lovett’s pies. He knew already, somehow, that this Lucifer was going to get sucked into it like he himself had.

Alastor wasn’t the kind of guy to get involved with if a person could avoid it, even before his extracurricular activities. He was too perceptive, too intuitive, too fucking good at getting people to trust him and then stabbing them in the back- whether that was literal or figurative. He didn’t know what the angle was that he was working with Lucifer, but it couldn’t be good if Alastor wasn’t even hunting because of it. If Alastor was interested then the guy was fucked.

And sure, Husk wanted to do the decent thing and warn him. He had tried to steer him right, steer him away, the first time he stepped into the shop; he had seen him outside looking at the place upstairs, abandoned for God knows how long, and knew, somehow, that Alastor would sink his claws in. His employer was borderline obsessed with the apartment above the pie shop, constantly going up there for no reason, checking the locks, making sure people stayed away, refusing to rent it out to the few people that did ask about it despite the stories that surrounded it. 

But Benjamin Husker was no fool- not when it came to Alastor Lovett, not anymore. He had made that mistake one time, and once was all it took.

They met at his speakeasy when it was still open- the height of Prohibition, he had a real popular one just outside of New Orleans, and Alastor had been a regular when he acted as the bartender. He went by Jack, keeping his real name off the record for both his business and his more pleasurable ventures, the weekly gambling parties he held in his back room where Lady Luck was his steadfast companion in keeping his wallet lined with bills and his establishment with flowing alcohol. Those with lesser luck were no fan of his, but he kept out of the public, kept his cheating on the low, and never let anyone close enough to betray him- before Lovett. They were friends, he and Alastor; good enough friends that when his place was raided, police pouring through every opening the building had and hunting down the bartender specifically, he had fled to Alastor’s newly acquired shop on the other side of town. He had expected support, sympathy, the normal things that one expects from a friend when their life had gone to shit.

Alastor had given him that shit eating grin and said, “why, they acted on that tip faster than I expected!”

He hadn’t so much as pulled his fist back before Alastor had revealed the dirt he had on him- “wouldn’t those you’ve bankrupted just love to know the real name of the man that’s been emptying their pockets?” - and he was backed into a corner. He was roped into helping Alastor with disposal of his hunting prizes, and while the Prohibition laws were now taken out of effect there were still members of the law trying to retroactively imprison those that had been operating the speakeasies; so Alastor still kept him under thumb by threatening to go to the authorities.

He wasn’t getting involved anymore. Whatever Alastor had planned for the poor guy, it wasn’t any of Husk’s business. He was only looking out for himself these days- caring about people, trusting them, it only led to getting fucked over in the end.

The kid he had noticed in the market had finished setting up their stage and now stood atop it, a drum that was far too big for them held against their body as they beat on it. “Ladies and gentlemen!” They called across the crowd, high pitched and feminine, waving their arms around to catch people’s attention. Looking closer, Husk realized it was a girl under the hat they wore, wispy blonde bits poking haphazardly from under it. “If I can have your attention! I am here to tell you about something absolutely stupid!”

A hush falls across the crowd and some laughter breaks out. From the curtain behind the girl, Husk hears a hissed, “stupendous! It’s stupendous, not stupid!”

She giggles. “Oh, right! Something stupendous! Do you, sir, have trouble growing hair?” She sticks her finger directly in the face of an older gentleman with a full beard, salt and pepper at the temples and seeming to have grown just fine. He raises an eyebrow at her and Husk stifles a chuckle- there’s a muffled sound behind the curtain, like someone smacking their palm to their face in frustration and another hissed whisper. “Ohhhh, the bald ones. You got it, sir!” She turns in place, finger still pointing out and redirecting to someone that might fit what she seemed to be looking for. “Do you have trouble growing hair?”

The man- properly bald this time, apparently- shrugs. “Sometimes, I guess,” he tells her, and she bangs on the drum harder, more eyes turning her direction.

“Excellent news! I have something wonderful for you then!” A basket is pushed from behind the curtain, overflowing with bottles of which she grabs one, holding it high above her head to show the crowd. “Introducing to you, New Orleans, Pentious’ Miracle Elixir! Hair falling out? Hair doesn’t grow at all? Take me for example- I was just as bald and ugly as that guy until I came across the illustrative-”

“Illustrious!”

“Oh, sorry! The illustrious barber and miracle worker, Sir Edward Pentious! He gave me this elixir less than thirty days ago and now look at me-” She reaches up to whip off her hat and tugs a little too hard. The hat sticks to the blonde hair beneath it, tugging back far enough that it starts to slip from her forehead- a wig, poorly applied, with luscious blonde curls falls to the floor before the girl can scoop it back up and tug it sloppily onto her head again, bits of a bright ginger sticking out from under it. “It’s grown back better than ever!”

The crowd laughs, likely thinking it was more of a comedy act than anything else, and Husk prepares to leave when he senses a presence at his side. “Whaddya think? Gonna get some of that miraculous elixir?”

Husk has seen this particular prostitute before, and has sent him off more than once- he always gets right into the innuendo and offers, so the teasing question is unexpected and maybe not entirely unwelcome. He’s taller than Husk by a good bit, lean muscles that fill out his buttoned shirt and too-short shorts well and fluffy blonde hair that hangs over his eyes. He’s looking away from Husk now, gaze trained on the girl on the stage, but it’s obvious that he’s chosen Husk as his potential mark.

Again.

The sleazy fucker that runs the brothel in town is watching the pair of them closely, thin arms folded across his chest and waiting for the young man to make a move like he does every week when Husk makes his way to the market for some bullshit or another. It’s the first time the man’s greeted him with a question about what was happening around them rather than a statement about what he could do for the right price- Husk doesn’t even know his name yet.

In answer to his question, Husk scoffs. “Fuck no,” he says, and the corner of the man’s face that he can see quirks up. “At best it’s river water with some food coloring in it. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s worse,” he adds, as a man steps out from behind the curtain of the stage. He’s pulled the young girl back from the edge, hissing under his breath at her to stop handing the bottles out without payment and fix her wig correctly, that she was embarrassing him.

“Ya’d think if she was doin’ such a bad job he would do the advertisin’ himself,” the young man says, gesturing to the long, black hair that flows down the salesman’s back, sleek and shiny and definitely not a product of the green stuff in his bottles. “I guess people are a little easier with their ‘fuck off’ sentiments when it’s a kid.” His eyebrow creases, eyes dark as he watches the man grab the girl’s upper arm and pull her out of the way to address the crowd himself- she stands to the side of the stage wiping at her eyes, loading her arms up with the bottles again. Husk notices, at the front of the crowd, is Alastor; Lucifer stands just to the side of him, some combative expression on his face as the man speaks.

“Well, whether my ‘fuck off’ is gentle or not, I know when I’m being sold to- whether it’s some bullshit medicinal crap or a warm body.” Husk says, and irritation flashes across the young man’s face when he turns to him. Even if he was still turning him down, this was a lot more interesting than the simpering whore act he usually put on, and for once Husk thinks there might be more to him than is being marketed. “Take your goods elsewhere.”

And wow, Husk might be sick of the propositioning but he would never get tired of those eyes. That Valentino always brought the same kind of guys and gals on board for his whore house, short and skinny as a twig with tits or an ass to round them out; this one was different. His eyes, for one, were different shades, a brown and a green that complimented the shade of his hair; a tiny gap between his two front teeth that made his smile seem genuine even when he was leering; and he was tall, unlike what the pimp usually favored.

“My goods, huh? Usually it’s ‘getcha ass outta here’ when you’re turnin’ me down. Aww, are ya warmin’ up to me?” He slides an arm around Husk’s shoulders, leaning his non-existent weight on the bartender, and bends to whisper in his ear. “I could return the favor, ya know- warm you up instead. Whaddya think?”

Husk sighs, but doesn’t forcibly remove his arm like he normally would, instead turning to meet his eyes properly. “Look, I know your boss keeps sending you over here when I’m out because I look like an easy mark or whatever but I’m not interested in paying for sex- especially not from someone that could be doing better things with his time than being a hooker.”

His face twitches and he laughs. “Val does say you look nice and repressed,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder where the pimp has been distracted by another one of his wards. “But he actually told me if I couldn’t get ya in the sack today that I had to stop tryin.’ Guess it’s been nice gettin’ to know ya, even if I do think we would have a lot ‘a fun together.” He winks his brown eye, and the smile he gives Husk is soft and genuine. “Ya ever change your mind, stop by the house and ask for Angel.”

It startles a laugh out of Husk. “No way that’s your real name.”

“Might as well be- sounds better for business than ‘Anthony’ anyway.” He shrugs and turns back to the house where Valentino stands outside with an unkind smile on his face, crooking his finger like a ‘come hither’ at the young man. “See ya around.”

“You ever find yourself on Fleet Street,” Husk says before he can really think about the words, “come into Lovett’s Pies. Can’t recommend the main dish but I can hook you up at the bar. Ask for Husk if I’m not around.”

Angel- Anthony- chuckles. “Is that your real name?”

“Stop by and find out,” he replies with a grin, and when he laughs and heads back to the whore house Husk doesn’t miss the nasty glare that Valentino is shooting his way before he swings it to Angel.

His distraction gone, Husk turns his attention back to the stage- Lucifer and Alastor are on it now, off to one side with a random townsperson in the chair with a face full of lather as they watch Pentious flick shaving soap onto the crowd as he wildly gestures and waves his hands above the person that sits in the chair before him. Lucifer looks almost offended by the display, eyes narrowed and his mouth half open in shock; Alastor, as usual, wears a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and seems to be more focused on Lucifer than the raving madman beside them. He stops waving his arms and holds his hand out to the girl- she’s not paying attention, her mind clearly elsewhere until he snaps, “Niffty! My razor!” He closes his eyes and holds his hand out.

She startles, reaching into the pocket of the jacket she wears and pulling something out that she slaps into his hands- he immediately brings it to the face of the man in his chair, only noticing when the crowd begins to laugh that she’s handed him a drumstick and not one of his razors that she’s opened for him. She apologizes with a giggle, diving back into the jacket and bringing out a folded razor that she opens carefully. He takes it, more hand waving and gesturing before he actually brings the blade to the man’s face and starts shaving him in short, sloppy strokes. There’s shaving soap everywhere, streaks on the poor man’s face that have been missed, stubble peeking through where the blade wasn’t angled correctly. 

A murmur ripples across the crowd as Lucifer opens his blade, finally tuning the flamboyant man out- and Husk sees the glint in Alastor’s eyes as the razor catches the light before Lucifer brings it down to swipe in swift, smooth strokes across his impromptu customer’s face. Excited cries fill the air, and even Husk is impressed with the dexterity and skill of the shave. Pentious doesn’t seem to realize what had happened yet, still jerkily shaving away until Niffty tugs at his coat and he drops his razor to the ground in sheer shock.

“Beadle Dempsey, if you would,” Alastor says, snakeoil grin in place as he steps aside so the Church official can come forward and place a delicate hand to the faces of both men.

“Mister Morningstar is the clear winner,” she says, wiping her hand off on the coat of the man that still had shaving soap on his face. To Pentious, she gives him a stern look. “Swindlers are not taken kindly to in this area, sir. I think it would be for the best if you move along elsewhere.” And like that she has dismissed him, turning back to Lucifer with a raised eyebrow. Pentious mutters something under his breath to the girl and her face falls.

Husk creeps closer, not needing to hear the salesman berate the young girl for her failed performance but ready to step in if needed. She’s perked up by the time he’s close enough to hear though- “this area was a bust, but maybe if we go the next town over I can practice my lines!”

“Niffty dear, I’m not sure your idea is accomplishing much more than giving me a reputation as a grifter. Perhaps we dispose of the bottles and go back to the demonstrative shaves!”

She tilts her head at him in question. “But you’re not any good at shaving, we have to give people a reason to come to you! Let’s brainstorm…”

The pair wander off behind the curtain, leaving Husk to wonder who the brains between the two of them was and allowing him to catch the end of the conversation between the Beadle and his own employer and guest.

“I think Judge Cain would be pleased to be attended to by such a fine barber,” she was saying, “but of course I shall have to come see the establishment myself first- as a man of both the law and the Church it’s important that he not be exposed to an unseemly environments. No disrespect to either of you,” she adds with a tone that drips insincerity, “but you must agree that Fleet Street is in the less desirable part of town. So many nasty rumors, and such colorful, dreadful history.” She looks Lucifer and Alastor up and down, the way they stand closely together, the clench of Lucifer's fist. “I suppose I’ll try to stop for an inspection of sorts in the next week or so. In the meantime- Emilia, Charlotte, come along.” She snaps her fingers like she’s summoning dogs, and two young women part the crowd to stand beside her.

The taller of the two, blonde haired and blue eyed, waves to Lucifer, and he looks as though he’s been punched in the stomach. He straightens up immediately- which still only put him at about Alastor’s shoulder- and looks Beadle Dempsey straight in the eyes; a feat many men in New Orleans struggled with even when they weren’t significantly shorter than her.

“I can assure you, ma’am,” Lucifer says clearly, “that both you and the esteemed Judge are welcome in my parlor anytime. I’ll be sure to make it extra welcoming, just for you.” He smiles and it doesn’t meet his eyes, and Husk feels unease run down his spine, like he’s looking at something that shouldn’t be witnessed. He thinks he understands now, Alastor’s unspoken obsession with the man- there was more to him than met the eye, something dark that lurked beneath the facade he put up. Something dangerous and raw- and from the way that he was looking at Lucifer, it looked like Alastor fully intended to bring that darkness clawing to the surface.

Act 1:  Chapter 1 🥧 Chapter 2 🥧 Chapter 3 🥧 Chapter 4 🥧 Chapter 5 🥧 Chapter 6  🥧Chapter 7 🥧 Chapter 8 🥧 Chapter 9

just poppin in here with the AO3 link just in case ❤️https://archiveofourown.org/works/57993799/chapters/147639037

[bougiebutchbinch]

OKAY SO THOUGHTS

obviously they ain't getting together until Monique fully calls it off with Marvin, because he is a FAMILY MAN and he would never DREAM of being unfaithful.

She gives him a call like. "Janine and I are staying in Belize. You're not welcome. Please don't contact us again" because she's just SO tired of all the Boys-related bullcrap and her n#1 priority is keeping Janine safe. MM feels the same way, but it hurts. God, it hurts. This isn't even the first time they've broken up - but it feels so fucking final. And he can't blame Monique; he really, really can't. A part of him thinks she should've done this years ago, though a far bigger part wishes he'd never pushed them to this point (wishes he knew how to say no to his friends and their doomed scrabble against Vought's authoritative chokehold on USAmerica).

So MM is grieving everything he's lost, when Reggie comes in and gives him that big speech about how MM has to stay and help them, because he's Reggie's inspiration, and the Boys need him Reggie needs him

And ofc, MM is feeling TOO MANY THINGS in that moment so he kinda brushes Reggie off, but he tears up the ticket once he's gone and decides not to fly away to find his family and beg Monique to change her mind.

Shit goes down, etc. etc. etc., all the Boys are on the run. MM gets cornered in a gas station washroom by his least-favourite supe of the whole rotten lot (Love Sausage). But before this poor guy's cleanliness-OCD can be triggered any more than it usually is on an episode-by-episode basis..... REGGIE TO THE RESCUE. He slams Love Sausage through the wall. Doesn't stick around to fight off him and his paramilitary back up - just goes 'hup!' tosses MM over one shoulder in a throwback to their hospital run, and nyooms out the gas station!

Turns out Reggie has already spirited away his own family, and was going to follow them when Ashley managed to sneak him a message to pass onto the Boys, that they were being hunted. He was gonna go help Hughie, before remembering that he has Starlight with her, and Frenchie has Kimiko to protect him. But who does MM have??

So, he saved MM. MM's still kinda wrecked over everything (Butcher's betrayal, the prospect of never seeing Monique and Janine again, his worsening anxiety attacks). But like fuck is he gonna sit back and let his friends get hurt. He and Reggie, fugitives, travel across the state to find and regroup with Annie and figure out how to get Hughie, Frenchie, and Kimiko back. Maybe running into a very dangerous virus-armed, tumour-brained Butcher on the way (aka: MM's ex lmao).

Aaaaaand all the while, MM is gradually regaining his confidence and surety in his own choices and morality! With the help of one bratty, slightly spoilt, cheeky speedster. Who is figuring out how to do this whole 'good guy... sort of' thing.

MM initially sees himself as a bit of a father figure to Reggie, I reckon! He's older, and Reggie comes off as immature (in a megacelebrity way). Plus, Reggie's still, uh, learning how not to be a prat, and needs reassurance and positive affirmation when he does stuff that's helpful 🥺

But he comes to appreciate that Reggie's faced his fair share of difficulties and has a bunch of his own traumas and interpersonal troubles to work through (Nathan still isn't talking to him, and is now mad at him for uprooting his whole family and whooshing them off to Alaska. Reggie yelled that it was for their own safety, but Nathan didn't really believe him. He thought Reggie was just mishandling things again, fucking up everything he touches, only now he's hurting Nate's whole family, rather than just Nate himself. And Reggie, thinking he doesn't deserve his brother's forgiveness, hasn't reeeeally tried to convince Nathan that he's genuinely changing and helping people and being the hero Nathan saw in him, when they were both kids too young to face the world alone). Reggie's trying to adapt to life on the run, while they're being actively hunted by the same people he used to call teammates (and even grudging friends).

Tease-flirting with MM (like A-Train does with Hughie in the show...) and making him fluster - or roll his eyes and shove him away - is honestly his only source of joy.

What a shame it would be...

If this....

Were to develop...............

Into something.........................

more?

By the time they find Annie, she has to ride along with them as THEE world's most awkward third wheel, watching her ex-team leader and her boyfriend's nemesis dance around the fact that A-Train wouldn't call MM 'dad', but he'd sure as fuck call him 'daddy'....

heyyy, are you still on the MM/A-Train ship? because you have got me intrigued by their dynamic. bratty bottom a-train sounds like such a jam so I’m just gonna slot this ask in and let you give a MM x A-Train ramble bc I gotta hear it from you (if you’d like of course)

I have no brain to ramble (tho I want to!! I will!!!! I hope to soon!!!!!!) but have some art......... fall in New York gets chilly, especially when you're having a post-run nap (yes, that is MM's coat over A-Train's shoulders 🥰🥰🥰)

[sugrbugz]

their reaction to you coming out as trans!! : BOKUTO, KENMA, AKAASHI, OIKAWA, TSUKKI, & ASAHI ♥︎

CW: this covers topics such as gender dysphoria, transphobia, and ignorant parents. please be safe my loves!!

transphobes get the fuck outta here right now

also i’m ftm myself so i’m writing from my own experience! if you want a non binary one or even mtf let me know! ♥︎

BOKUTO

would be so very excited to go clothing shopping with you but also giving you all of his hoodies in the mean time-

would love to show you off as his official boyfriend, would fight transphobic people for you

“hey bo, can we talk?” you asked softly, only causing him to open his arms wide from where he was sitting on your bed. you crawled into his lap like you always did, your hands shaking a bit when your wrapped your arms around his neck. “what’s up little owl!” he smiled wide, flashing you that beautiful smile of his. “it’s sorta serious love..” you mumbled making his smile fall only a bit, it falling completely when you started crying. “lovebug? what’s wrong..you can talk to me baby” he soothed making you nod. “i know we’ve talked about your preferences before and i don’t know where i fall but-“ you hiccuped, trying to figure out how to say it. “i’m transgender..i want to be a boy” you sobbed out, ultimately terrified he’d leave even though you knew he wouldn’t. “no..” he started making you cry only harder, not even three seconds later were calloused fingers there to wipe them, “you are a boy..not want, right baby?” he smiled softly, kissing your nose.

KENMA

his emotions would hurt him first only because he wouldn’t fully understand why you’re so upset

best hair stylist in the game!! he’d do your hair so you don’t have to deal with judgemental old ladies and weird barbers.

would 100000000/10 drop anything hes doing to snuggle you since he knows how much of a bitch dysphoria can be

it actually happened by accident. currently you were in the bathroom, shaky hands on a pair of scissors you’d found in the kitchen. it was one of those moments. you weren’t officially out to anybody, not even your boyfriend just simply out of fear of being disliked. however when kenma came to use the bathroom after doing a five hour livestream her heart almost shattered right then and there. you were too into your head to even notice his presence, snapping back to reality when he took the scissors from you. that’s when the tears started. he was quickly to pull you close, kissing your head. “i think i understand..but if i don’t, please explain..” he whispered softly into your ear. “i-i..” you stuttered, you didn’t even know how to say it. “i’ve been dealing with my gender for awhile and came to the conclusion that im a boy..” you sniff, snuggling into his chest since the comfort felt good. “okay baby, you’re still mine okay?” he spoke so soft it was reassuring. “but come to me instead of butchering your hair, you know damn well i could cut it better. dork.” he winked sitting you down to actually cut your hair properly.

AKAASHI

wasn’t totally surprised even though he is oblivious to most things

he would be so sweet about it??????? he wouldn’t even question you???? just accepting right away

after you were ready to come out? god he would be so overbearing with how supportive he was. “hey have you seen my BOYFRIEND?” or “are you doing okay, pretty boy?” he would do it all the time

he already knew. you’d asked him to pack your laptop in your book bag since you guys were going to study at the library. he usually didn’t snoop and honestly minded his business, but when he saw what he thought was a dildo his curiosity was peaked. you had millions of tabs open, all pertaining to the concept of gender identity. his heart softened sadly, upset by the fact you did this all alone. you came up to check what was taking him so long, face dropping when you saw what was open, “i-i promise i can explain-!” you rush forward but he quickly wraps two arms around you, kissing you softly. “shush. you don’t need to explain.” he smiled, “your preferred name and pronouns my darling?” he hummed in addition, grinning from the blush on your cheeks. “uhm..y/n..and he/him..please..” you whisper making him nod, “i’ve got the cutest boyfriend every yanno that?”

OIKAWA

would make fun of you for a bit until he realized this was actually serious

he would also apologize profusely for doing so.

would go out and buy you 67963334 slacks just to see you in them i know it

“tooru i’m serious!” you’d whimper, genuine tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. that’s when he knew he took it too far. “hey..i was just joking around…does me calling you girlie actually make you uncomfortable? why?” he was confused but then again you couldn’t blame them. you’d told iwa you were trans, hoping to get someway to tell oikawa but there wasn’t much acknowledgment of him at all. “yes..it does” you nodded wiping your eyes. “is it because you’re trans?” all the air in your lungs was knocked out of you at this. “how did you..” you’d ask softly, “i dunno! i’m just really good at this!” he giggled before kissing your head and getting off the couch you two were on. “one minute!” he ran upstairs and about five minutes later came back with all his old clothes he outgrew. “here! ‘ma saved them for donating to relatives but your more important” he hummed making you blush, “tooru you don’t-“ “and what’s your pants size?” “uh-i-“ “it’s okay doesn’t matter we’ll get all of them.” “ALL OF WHAT.” and that’s honestly how the rest of your night went.

TSUKKI

he wasn’t totally surprised but then again he knew how your parents were and would understand your hesitation for coming out

it didn’t really phase him at all. have you seen his gender nonconforming best friend? tsukki wouldn’t care unless you were authentically yourself.

would always give you reassurance, no matter how much you needed.

you’d come to your boyfriends house for the third night this week, his mom more than happy to let you stay. “he’s upstairs!” she’d smile from where she was making dinner. you already knew where to find his room, so coming inside and throwing your bags down casually wasn’t an issue at all. “y/n how many times do i have to tell your messy ass that you don’t put bags in the middle of the-“ he spun in his desk chair to look at you, his face falling the second he saw your face go red and tears streaming down your face. tsukki fucking SUCKED with emotions but he wouldn’t be pathetic and not try. “cmere moonie, what’s wrong” he frowned getting up and sitting on the bed, pulling you down with him. “i told them” you stated simply, his own anxiety kicked in. “and?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “they kicked me out.” you nodded towards the fourish bags you had dropped. “well..fuck them. here you’ll be loved and respected. they don’t deserve you. no one does. now, ill ask mom if we can move in the old dresser from akiterus room..you make yourself comfy. change, take of makeup, whatever it is. here? you’re allowed to be who you are.” and with that he was gone. tsukki may look like an asshole but he tries his best not to be for you.

ASAHI

wouldn’t initially get it, but it would take some explaining and he’d be absolutely on board

would probably smoother you in love and affection for being brave enough to tell him how you’ve been feeling

similar to akaashi he’d be quick to correct those who use incorrect pronouns (unless you tell him not too) while expressing love for his boyfriend

dating asahi had plenty of benefits, most importantly his ability to scare those off who were rude to you. you had come out to him a week ago, he needed some help understanding the process but soon he was very on board and understanding. now you two were eating lunch with noya and tanaka, watching a group of girls who ever now and then looked back at you to laugh and point. you’d just gotten your gender affirming hair cut the night before. you began to feel very self conscious about everything, just slowly tucking yourself into asahi who immediately realized something was wrong. “what’s up babe?” he asked watching you nod towards the group. with that he gently passed you over to noya who was very excited for the hugs he was allowed to give his close friend. needless to say asahi scared the living hell out of those girls. when all was said and done, he took you to the boys bathroom and locked the door. he simply hugged you, rubbing your back while you almost immediately cried. “it’s okay bunny..i’m sorry people can’t mind their own business-not that it’s my fault-i dunno why i apologized-sorry-i-“ he took a deep breath but his nervous rambling had made you giggle. “thank you, you giant teddy bear” you smiled leaning up to give him a nice soft kiss.

[sopxhiea]

Rules

Alfie Solomons X Friends with Benefits!Reader

Summary: She’s known as a dancer in a high end club but he’s known her for not so long. She decides the rules, he goes along with them but sometimes, he’s the one making the rules.

“If you interrupt me one more time, so help me god.”

“Obviously you have mistaken me for somebody who gives a shit.”

It’s late. 

Late enough to hear the dogs howling in the groggy streets of London as the black sky decorated the horizon. The room was quiet, only the sound of breathing filling the hollow walls of the apartment. The silence wasn’t unusual and it was more than welcomed. The owner wasn’t home, a familiar body was standing in the spacious entrance.

You weren’t home yet.

Feeling the soft material of the lacy undergarment residing around your upper thighs, you looked around to see who was still in the club. It was close to the weekend which meant that it was getting busier than usual. Men were mostly drunk or intoxicated by the movements of the ladies around. There was no one to entertain in the club anymore so you moved towards the interior rooms to get ready to leave.

The space was decorated with mirrors, make up clutter right in front of them as some of the girls packed the last of their garments to leave. The sun would approach soon, sunlight beaming through the groggy city but you hoped to make it home before then. Slowly gathering your stuff and stuffing them all in your bag, you looked at yourself in the mirror.

The club wasn’t the usual, much like you.

It was a place for rich lads, some aristocracy and the kind of men that had to be served in private rooms because of how high they were up in the pyramid scheme. Most of the work you did was talking, some dancing here and there and you were done. Nothing ever got physical since it wasn’t a brothel, but a place for fine entertainment.

The make-up was off, your natural skin color glowing under the countless bulbs that decorated the mirror. The club was mostly empty now, car sounds no longer audible. It was dead silent outside, the hour when the city would be asleep and you’d walk home on your own. It was a treat to say the least.

The cold weather attacked your skin a bit too quickly as you made your way down the street. Your flat wasn’t too far from the club, just perfect distance for a night walk. It was dangerous in the streets, especially for a lady like yourself but you had a gun hidden in your bag and a long needle that held your bun together and you knew your way around both of those tools.

The night seemed quiet as you walked, no sounds of chatter but a few drunken lads from a couple blocks away. You hugged your coat a little tighter and realized that you were less tired than usual.

-----

The inside of the house was quiet, an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach as he looked through the corridor. Your dresses were on the floor, a couple mugs here and there sitting on the piles of books. He saw a nightgown and your knickers on the floor and decided that you had gone to the club a little later than usual. As far as he was concerned, everything was normal.

The sound of keys jiggling outside the door made him turn towards the entrance and before he knew it, you pushed the door open with a gun in your hand that was pointed at him. Your breathing was even and the gun in your hand didn’t shake in the slightest.

He greeted you with a smile.

You lowered the gun down in a swift motion when you realized who it was. He was wearing his usual smile, broad as he walked towards you with dense eyes. He was wearing the usual attire but his prayer shawl was missing and you realized it was past saturday.

There he was, the handsome stranger.

He wasn’t so much of a stranger really, not since he’d made you chant his name until the sun was down and you had to go to work. He knew the way your body responded, what you liked in the bedroom and just how to kiss you to make you beg. 

He didn’t know anything about your family, where you’d spent your childhood or the way you’d silently pray each time you saw a shadow. Alfie didn’t know what meals you cooked, how you liked your tea or anything past your occupation and name and where you lived. 

He didn’t need to. 

And he wasn’t allowed to.

“What the fuck happened to sayin’ ‘ello, pet?” he said with an amused face that you didn’t mirror. You were still a bit tired from work and he never came over afterhours.

Those were the rules.

He was allowed to come anytime before your work and never after you’d just arrived home. He would usually call before and let you know. He wasn’t allowed to buy you things or take you out, even though he’d stayed over a couple times before. You knew limited information and about him and he the same, and he wasn’t allowed to break any of the rules.

“Sorry. I’m just a little..” you spoke with a soft tone and he could hear the tiredness seeping from your limbs as he took a look at you.

You looked tired but beautiful nevertheless.

Your figure was a bit slumped, the kind of tiredness that came from working too hard and not because he was the one tiring you out. You weren’t wearing any make-up or fancy clothes, it was his favorite version of you. He didn’t like all the make-up you had to wear for the club or the fancy lingerie but he had no say in any of the things you did. You had made that painfully clear for him.

“Ya’ alright?” he asked while walking towards you, voice a little concerned at your state but you were a bit too tired to care.

And you wanted to hug him, really badly.

Alfie was very rough around the edges, far too rude at first sight for any lady but it would take a split second to realize that he wasn’t rude at all, that was just the way he was. He brushed shoulders with gangsters, people of the underworld who had to do dirty things to get food on their table. He had blood in his hands and for a man of his kind, he was a gentle one.

You immediately leaned a bit closer when his hand came into contact with your shoulder.

“Fine.” you nodded, little bits of your hair framing your face and Alfie leaned in even closer, standing right in front of you with his hand on your hip.

“Do you want anythi-” you started speaking in a softer voice than normal and Alfie felt himself melt a little but his eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Nah,’m fine, pet.” he said, in a low whisper. He was very gentle at that moment, almost like in a daze.

He had met you in a very unusual way.

You had crashed into him, face on his chest one day when you were out buying groceries. The flowers in your hand were crushed when you bumped into him and he had no time to apologize before you’d started screaming at him for being so careless. He’d listened you shout while thinking about how lovely you were and then asked you out for tea that very same day.

You had said yes and then somehow ended up on his bed. You’d left without saying goodbye but then bumped into him a couple weeks later. He had talked charmingly the whole time and then it happened again, again and then once more before you established some rules so that he didn’t think this was more than a stress relief situation.

“What are you-” you started talking again with his face closer to yours but he interrupted you soon, speaking softly against your irritated face.

“I had a fuckin’ job, right, jus’ around the fuckin’ corner so I figured..” he spoke but trailed off with a smile and you finished it for him.

“So you figured you’d have a quick fuck-” your smile was less evident as you looked at him while speaking.

“A visit, lass. A fuckin’ visit is what ‘m here for, innit.” he said, interrupting you once more and he saw your blood boil which only aroused him.

“If you interrupt me one more time, so help me god.” your voice was stern as you looked up at the man. He was twice your size yet you did all the ordering around.

He didn’t mind.

He had been with his share of women, mostly in brothels but he’d usually leave out that part. He loved women, that was a given but he had never grown fond of one before. You had seem like the polar opposite of him when you’d first met and all that did was to draw him even further. He didn’t like the warmth that spread through his chest when he saw you, it made him feel young and defenseless again.

“Sorry, pet.” he said, face even closer to yours now. You knew what he was here for but it didn’t fit the rules, you had no problem sending him home.

“You came here for what?” you spoke against his lips, not kissing him just yet but simply teasing. He was a sucker for that.

He smiled when your fingers caressed his cheek and your lips almost touched his. He wasn’t here for a fuck this time, he had simply dropped off. He had business around the corner with a butcher’s shop that was causing him some trouble and realized that you’d be home soon.

He also wanted to ask you a question but that would come later.

“To see ya’.” he said, simple as that while your lips ghosted over his. Your eyes were locked into his and he didn’t seem to be lying from the way his face relaxed.

“Hm.” you said, humming before you leaned closer to plan your lips on his.

The kiss was slow, not the usual teeth against teeth you had with him. His hands were on your waist while yours resided on his chest and cheek. He was savoring the moment since this was rare with you, very rare. You wanted some relief on most days and that’s when you’d see him, not when you wanted a hug or a small chat.

But you weren’t complaining in the slightest.

You broke the kiss, a bit hesitant at first while staring at his lips. He was searching for your eyes when you parted but you wouldn’t look with the fear of him catching something in there. You slowly walked away from him, taking your long coat off and throwing it on the sofa. The house was a mess but that was the usual. All you and Alfie did was fuck anyway so the only place he would be concerned with was the bed.

You sat down on the chair in the corner of the room and looked at him, standing near the entrance with his broad form. He was here for something, you could tell but he wasn’t so keen on giving it to you. It wasn’t like you were dying to know but Alfie was not someone who’d usually ask for anything, let alone anything from you.

All he would ask was a fuck and that was the arrangement.

“You’re gonna talk?” you said, watching as he made his way to the corner you were sitting on and sat on the sofa next to you.

He didn’t speak for a while. His hand tugged at his beard while he looked at you, lost in thought. He wasn’t really looking at you but through you, which was unusual considering he was one of the first people to ever see you for who you were. You didn’t like to think about it, he was good in bed and that’s all you were concerned with.

“Ya’ hear what’s goin’ on in these fuckin’ streets?” he asked, head motioning outside for a split second before he directed all his attention to you again.

Your eyebrows furrowed and you spoke, not a care in the world as he looked at you. “Seeing as I arrive home at this hour, no.” you said, eyes searching for his for a second before finding them.

He seemed uneasy.

“There is a fuckin’ war, yeah, a dangerous one, lass and it ain’t gonna look pretty for ya’ when they realize ya’ fuckin’ know me.” he said, measuring each and every word.

You didn’t know why he cared.

In your eyes, you were just a woman he fucked. There were no strings, no seeing each other romantically or any kind of involvement. You weren’t his, not by any means and he wasn’t yours. You’d speak to him if you saw him outside but there was no other involvement other than being with each other for stress relief. For all you knew, he was still making regular visits to the brothel.

But he wasn’t.

He had stopped right after he had first met you. He still had his needs but you were more than capable of taking care of him if he were to knock on your door. He knew the rules, was very well aware of the lines you’d drawn for him but he’d still protect you. Not because you were his fuckbuddy but because he genuinely cared about your wellbeing, even if that wasn’t allowed.

You smiled at him at first, almost felt like he was mocking you. Why did he care? You tilted your head to the side and spoke with an amused voice as he looked at you with concern in his eyes, not something you were used to seeing. He still listened as you spoke. “Obviously you have mistaken me for somebody who gives a shit.”

He shook his head with an amused chuckle. You really had no idea. The Italians didn’t know of you yet but if they followed Alfie enough times, they could easily make out the equation. He looked at your still form for a moment and spoke, saying what he’d been wanting to say since he arrived and you saw the weight being lifted off his shoulders.

“I can fuckin’ protect ya’, pet, if ya’ come live near me, that is.” he said, word by word and he saw your face change.

It was absurd.

“No.” you said, not even taking a minute to think about it as you looked at him. Before he said anything else, you spoke up again with a shaking head. You were still seated, less angry than he’d expect you to be. “I can’t move away from work and I don’t even know how to find another apartment at this time.” you spoke, voicing all your concerns.

He was a gangster and knew the ropes better than you so you opted on trusting him. If it turned out to be a mistake, you would blame it all on him but you didn’t want to get killed because you’d been fucking some bloke. Except that he wasn’t some bloke and he had his own gang.

“I got that figured ou’, I did, yeah.” he spoke to you while leaning back on the sofa. You looked at him with a curious expression. He was amused at it for a second before speaking up again, hand tugging at his beard. “I got ya’ a fuckin’ place of yer own, near where I fuckin’ live, pet...” he said and watched your eyes burn.

Who did he think he was?

The rules were clear and your blood was boiling because this man was breaking every one of them. He wouldn’t care if you were dead, you had thought but the more he spoke, the more you changed your mind. He had already taken care of everything without even asking you and he heard you scoff while his words still filled your ear.

“I’ll have one of the lads to fuckin’ drive you..” he said, done with what he was saying and you snapped back immediately.

“You’ll have someone drive me in the evening and pick me up at 4 in the morning from a gentlemen’s club?” you spoke, eyes stern as they bore into his.

He just nodded.

You scoffed once more and got up, hand on your hip as you paced through the room. He just watched. He could see the questions forming as you looked at him every now and then as you paced. There was a look of panic in your eyes as you walked through the corridors and realized that he was probably right at having you move, you could easily be killed. Even if you weren’t seeing him, it was common for someone to be killed just because they were living in a dangerous area.

“Will they kill me?” you said, and spoke once more before he could answer. “If I don’t move, I mean..... Will I die?” you said, eyes wide with confusion and panic.

So he spoke up almost immediately, not liking your frantic eyes as he was used to seeing your calm features after a good fuck. “I won’t have that fuckin’ happen-”

“But If I refuse to move?” you said, waiting for him to properly answer the question with hand on your hip. He knew you were measuring all the possibilities.

“I ain’t gonna lie to ya’, pet, ‘s very possible, it ‘s.” he said while looking at you. He was still sitting in front of you.

He watched you nod.

This didn’t change anything in your eyes. It wouldn’t mean that you were dependent on him or that he would have any power over you. You’d just be protected and the chances of you getting killed because of him would decrease. You measured it all in your mind and realized that it was probably for the best.

“Fine.”

------

His movements were fast, feral almost as his skin came into contact with yours every other second. The bed creaked, not too loud while your panting filled the room. Hands holding onto him by the shoulders, you let out a shaky exhale when he adjusted the angle. His hair was messy as it fell on his forehead, moving each time he thrusted into you.

“Fuck.” you whispered against his lips when he started moving faster, hand on his back and neck while his remained on your waist.

He groaned against your neck with each movement, holding your legs up on his knees in the process. A thin layer of sweat was apparent on your skin even though it was freezing outside. You watched him lift his head, facial expression covered in bliss while the morning light hit his face.

It had been a week since you’d moved into the apartment and 4 of those days had been spent with you and him testing the new bed. You had gotten a new one for yourself and he’d joked about how you’d have to break into it so that it was comfortable and you had given him one look and there you were, four days later with your legs wrapped around him.

Your back arched off the bed the faster he became and he was soon becoming erratic, gasping for air and you felt your body slowly tense and give in. Your hands dug into his back as he moved, reaching his climax soon after. He stayed like that for a while while you regained your breath, feeling your body grow tired with each passing hour. You swallowed as he slid out of you and collapsed next to you on the bed.

The rules were still in place.

You stared at the ceiling while he stared at you while laying on his stomach next to you. Your hair was messy, the tie no longer holding it together and tangles here and there. He watched your heaving chest, breath a little lost as you locked your lips. 

And then you turned to him.

His eyes had already been on you but you hadn’t realized. He was staring, not gawking but looking with some sort of softness in his gaze. You didn’t smile as you inspected him and the way he was looking at you. You didn’t do the same to him, feeling yourself grow a bit too uneasy at the feeling of being watched.

And if you looked for too long, you were afraid you’d get lost.

Slowly lifting your body off of the mattress and sitting next to him, you came to realize that most of your lower body had gotten sore in between days of tidying and arranging the new flat and Alfie not wasting a second to get you alone so that he could spend the rest of the day tiring you out even further. 

He watched your hair fall across your back when you got up, messy from the events that had just taken place. You were not wearing anything so you grabbed your cardigan and wrapped it around your body when you got up. The whole time, he just watched as you moved around your new space.

It already felt like home.

He’d spent most of the days either helping you out or making sure that the lads didn’t damage any of the furniture or simply making you pant on the bed. It had been wonderful if he was honest, he wasn’t as angry and there was no feeling of uneasiness in his chest. He still saw dangerous man from day to day but knowing that you’d be home before you left for work, telling the lads how to put the sofa made him feel look forward to the time he’d get to see you.

He didn’t think much of it, or so he convinced himself that he didn’t.

“Alfie.” you said, you had been speaking to him but he was in his head so he hadn’t heard.

“Huh, what, luv?” he said, lifting himself off of the mattress and sitting on the soft material instead.

“You want tea?” you said, licking your lips while standing next to the door’s frame with nothing but a cardigan on. 

“Hm.” he said, nodding as he got up to put his pants on. He didn’t dress himself any further even though it was cold outside, he felt warm after laying on the bed with you.

He walked towards the kitchen to see you waiting for the water to boil. You looked at him when he appeared on the door and you gave him a gentle smile which he returned with a warmer heart. He walked next to you while you poured the water in the tea cups and his hand met your hip, squeezing gently.

This was not something you usually did.

In the last week, the lines had become blurred. It was hard to tell what he was to you. He had found you an apartment and had even picked you up in the morning when you were done. You had joked around with him during the ride and he’d even made jokes to make you smile, he had succeeded, too.

You shuddered a little when his lips met the space between your ear. He knew your body like the back of his hand, no matter how much you’d want to deny it. You kept your eyes on the water that was pouring out to the cups but his lips had your attention.

“Alfie, I’m gonna burn myself.” you said, in a breathy voice and he stopped with a smile. You didn’t even see his lips soften but you knew he was smiling.

After putting the tray on the table that resided in the middle of the living room, you sat on the soft chair you had brought from your previous place. He sat on the sofa on the opposite corner while waiting for the tea to cool down. He wanted to say something, it was hanging at the back of his mouth but he couldn’t get the words to come out.

And you so took it upon yourself to make him.

“If you wanna say something, just say it.” you said, almost a whisper but he had heard since the rooms were silent. You wore an annoyed expression that he often saw but it only amused him further.

He wanted to ask you if you’d work today and he already knew the answer.

He didn’t like it, the sticky feeling in his stomach each time you would go to work. He had no say in what you did, either for work or on the daily and he knew that but it only stirred him further. There was the fear of you getting hurt but he knew you were more than capable of taking care of yourself.

And then, there was the other issue that wouldn’t leave his mind.

Other men got to see you in fancy lingerie, things that didn’t cover you up all the way and it made him mad. He didn’t quite know why, just that he was annoyed with the whole thing. He wouldn’t say it but you’d see the relief on his face when you’d be back from work or when he’d come to pick you up. He had been fucking you a little more carefully lately, ever since you’d moved in closer to him. He was almost tender, painfully soft with you when you’d let him show you a good time. It wasn’t the animalistic, rough Alfie you were used to but there was complaint, only curiosity.

He didn’t speak, just hand tugging at his beard and you knew he’d wait until the day was over and you’d be back from work to see him still in the same position. “You’ve been in me, Alfie, I won’t get mad.” you spoke, almost sensing the reason for his hesitation and his eyes locked into yours when you were done speaking. 

He figured he’d trust your word.

“Yer goin’ to work?” he asked and saw your features change.

You knew why he was asking but that didn’t change anything.

You had a vague idea as to why he had been more gentle with you lately, why he kissed you deeper than usual and why he insisted on giving you hickeys even though you’d told him not to on numerous occasions. He was more touchy, almost always around with the excuse of ‘making sure you were settled in’. You were just a girl but you weren’t stupid.

And this wasn’t something you could allow.

Men got jealous, they got protective and thought they had some sort of power over you the moment you’d become ‘ their girl’. You hated that anyway, being someone’s girl and knowing how dangerous Alfie’s line of business could be, you didn’t see sense in pursuing the possibility of anything happening with the man. You shook your head and he watched you lick your lips before you spoke.

“Yes, I am.” you said nonchalantly, as if you were trying to tell him that no matter how much he’d ask, you still wouldn’t want it. “You don’t need to pick me up.” you said, expressionless as he looked at your standing yet somehow small form. You hugged the cardigan tighter as he spoke, he watched you put some things into space. Things he’d knocked out of its place when he had been feverishly kissing you.

“I fuckin’ will, though.” he said, eyes stern as he looked at your face. You were a little taken aback but no evident sign of surprise.

“You don’t have to.” you said again, agitated with his need to make sure you were alright when all you needed him for was a quick fuck.

It didn’t work like this, not with you so you wouldn’t entertain the chance of being with him.

“I want to, lass, yeah, so I fuckin’ will.” he said one last time before getting up to walk towards you.

He would be jealous, you told yourself. He wouldn’t like the fact that other people were able to see you in such little clothing, you thought and he certainly wouldn’t appreciate the little dances you would give. Sure, he was a good fuck but he was also a cruel gangster and the balance seemed almost even.

Almost.

You walked away the moment his breath his your face and made your way to the bedroom to tidy up. There were clothes on the floor and books everywhere, you grabbed one and put it on the shelf and he was right behind you when you turned back.

“Alfie, move.” you said, not able to penetrate through his large form as he blocked your way.

“Tell me.” he said, finger under your chin as he lifted your face so you were looking at him.

“Tell you what?”

“Why?” his voice was a whisper as he looked at your small form, chin still between his fingers as his eyes bored into yours.

Your eyebrows furrowed at the question as he looked at your face, Why what? you thought. The question had so many ways of ending and yet, only one question popped into your mind.

Why were you still going to work? Why, when he was the one keeping your bed warm?

You didn’t answer, you didn’t know if there was an answer. It would not work, he would be a jealous man, jealous of the other ones that got to see you in work and it would get unbearable like it always would with any relationship you had. You didn’t say anything and walked away, he just watched.

He left soon after that, not a word or a forehead kiss like he’d usually give you. He wasn’t hurt or broken by anything, he was just waiting for you to make up your mind. The words had stirred something in you, he had seen that when you had looked at him. He just needed an answer now.

Laying on the bed as you watched the street lights dance on the ceiling, you realized you had the answer.

But it would put you in a lot of danger.

-----

Tagging: @clairecrive  @parkbearum @sourirez  @vetseras​ @mollybegger-blog @babylooneytoonz @peakascum

A/n: Hi!! This was something that had been in drafts for a while now so i wanted to post it at last. I hope you enjoyed it and let me know if you’d like another chapter!!

[jadelynlace]

Ivar & Children Part II / Ink Drinker Modern Vikings AU Request [Ivar x F!Reader]

catch up on the porno, I mean series, here.

requested by: @quantumlocked310 ♡ (both of them, even better!)

author’s note: thanks to this post, you’ll all be subjected to the written requests. Ivar with kids. That’s it. That’s the whole warning. also, another prompt request from @quantumlocked310 “tugging on someone’s shirt”

requested prompt one: Ivar with kids ( read another edition here )

requested prompt two: “tugging on the bottom of someone’s shirt.”

synopsis: it can never just be a quick trip to the store, can it?

✎

There’s a tug at the bottom of Ivar’s shirt, sending the fabric to stretch lightly and his first response was a word of mean natured curses but when his eyes fall on the unfamiliar child, they dissipate. 

“I can’t find my mommy,” The little boy says up to Ivar and he’s suddenly very confused as to why this random child pulled his shirt, out of all of the other patrons in the grocery store. “You have Capitan America’s shield on your shirt,” The child says and wipes his eyes again. Ivar bends down gently, leveling himself with the boy and smiles.

“Do you remember where you saw her last?” Ivar asks him and the little boy shakes his head.

“I was looking at the red spaw-get-ey,” He mumbles and Ivar’s brow furrows. “Where the big cow is,” He says and points to the wooden sculpture on the wall over the butcher’s counter.

“By the ground meats?” Ivar asks and the little boy nods quickly, sucking snot up through his nose. “Do you know what she’s wearing?”

“She has jeans on like you do.” He mutters.

“What’s your name?” Ivar asks.

“Jayden—what’s your name, Mister?”

“My name is Ivar, how about we go back to the butcher’s counter and see if she’s there?” Ivar asks and the little boy nods, taking Ivar’s hand without fail, without a second thought and Ivar leaves his spot, the few cans of Red Bull on the shelf as they walk. “What color is your mommy’s hair?” 

“It’s light, like mine,” Jayden answers. “You have drawings on your skin,” He then peeps. “My daddy has drawings on his skin too. What if we can’t find my mommy?” He whimpers suddenly and Ivar is still so shocked at how quickly young minds can float from one emotion to the next, one extreme to another and all of the times he’s seen Floki’s eldest have the same conniption, it still amazes him. 

“We’re going to find her Jayden, alright? I’ll stay with you until we do,” Ivar says, ruffling the blond waves on the kids head. 

You round the corner to the aisle and Ivar isn’t there anymore, and you’re about to pinch the bridge of your nose. One job, you gave him one simple task and he’s still missing from the spot and now you’re on the hunt for him through the entire store. You have a speech, a lashing prepared on your tongue if you so dare to find him wandering through the baby clothes again with the excuse for Floki’s youngest—when you know damn well he’s in the wrong size section. And Floki’s youngest son doesn’t wear dresses. And he knows damn well that excuse doesn’t work. Ivar has imaged the two of you having children together—having a daughter let alone, breaking the Ragnarsson curse (that everyone so lovingly calls it), of boy after boy after boy. Ivar was one of five. He has five nephews. Torvi’s pregnant with her and Ubbe’s third child and they don’t even bother to throw gender reveals anymore, because it’ll be a boy. And Ivar is god damn convinced when he has a child he’s going to pray, to beg every God about having a little girl. Because with him for her father, and you for her mother, and in the company of five—six boy cousins, no fucker will dare to touch a hair on her head. He’s still going to teach her how to throw a punch though.

You catch him in your sight at the butcher’s section, little boy latched onto his hand for dear life and you’re as confused as all hell. A blonde woman comes up to him quickly and the young boy dances happily as he jumps into his mother’s arms. You watch Ivar tell the woman about how her son found him, and said he couldn’t find his mom anymore.

“He has a Capitan America shirt on, Mommy. And drawing on his skin like Daddy does!”  The little boy said and Ivar only smiles as the woman thanks him time after time.

“He’s never in the same place, I turn my back for one second and he’s gone,” She sighs.

“Sounds like you, Ivar,” You say as you come up next to him.

“Thank you so much, I really appreciate it,” She says again.

“My pleasure,” Ivar smiles and they start back off. “What?” Ivar asks as he looks down at you.

“Nothing…” You sing and there’s a cocky grin on your face. “Thought maybe you tried to kidnap a child,”

“Oh—oh my fucking God,” Ivar groans, rolling his eyes and walking around you.

“Where are you going?” You call.

“To get my God Damn Red Bull,” Ivar calls back.

“Can we look at baby clothes after?” You ask as that man nearly trips over his own two feet per your request.

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full masterlist can be found here.

[wtnrscap]

It never stops

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: A lead in the ruins of Sokovia brings a face from the past back.

Ask:

Warnings: Set post-Endgame, swearing, a lil angst.

A/N: I have a bad feeling I’ve butchered your ask @badasseddy​ but I hope you still like it. Feel free to complain if you hate it. Currently writing a request a day, so I will get to everyone’s.

I cannot for the life of me remember who made this divider, so if it’s yours or you know who’s it is, please tell me so I can credit them.

81 years had passed since Bucky had last gone dancing, and he felt as though his eardrums were going to burst. Adrenaline shot through his veins, the alcohol having no affects. Sam nodded his head with the beat and Bucky groaned. Is this really what music passed for nowadays?

It took several punches to the arm for Bucky to realize that Sam was trying to get his attention, and he whipped his head around so fast they almost knocked each other out. Sam yelled and smacked Bucky’s metal arm, before screaming in pain.

 ‘Serves his right for dragging me to this hell’, thought Bucky. He watched as Sam pulled out a photograph and waved it in front of his face, “We’re looking for this girl. She’s undercover. Locate her and contact me on coms.”

 Bucky yanked the photo out of the air and stared at, memorizing the girl’s face. He vaguely remembered her, but he didn’t know why. Her Y/H/C hair was tied in a lose ponytail, with striking Y/E/C eyes and a distinctive smile. Her arms were wrapped out Sam’s shoulder, while Steve’s arm rest on her shoulder. Bucky tried to ignore the youth of his friend and chose to focus on the fact that the girl was pretty. The natural kind of pretty that all the girls wanted but compensated with layers of makeup. Bucky tucked the photo into his jacket with slight reluctance. It was the type of photo where he would have cut the girl out and tucked it into his army uniform, reminding himself what he was fighting for.

 The pair separated, Sam heading towards the dancefloor and Bucky the bar. A beacon of escape, Bucky decided. Sam had said no drinking on the job, but fuck Sam, if he wanted to drink, then he would. Bucky was immune to the addictive buzz anyway.

 The bar was empty aside from a man in a suit at the end, but he seemed a little distracted, a girl on his lap, giggling at something that probably wasn’t very funny. The girls in this club knew how to make their living. Bottles were stacked almost floor high, dirty looking glasses and a few dripping taps. A girl stood at the end, scrubbing a smeared flute with a grubby cloth. Bucky tapped his fingers and she sauntered over, “What can I get ya, pal? Looking a bit lost there…”

 “Well, I don’t really fit in. You see a lot of faces here?”

 “As a bartender? More than I care to count. Need help with something?”

 Bucky pulled the photo out, folded out Sam and Steve, and slid it across the wet bar, “I’m looking for this girl. Have you seen her?”

 The girl lifted it up gingerly, letting it drip. As she analyzed it, Bucky gave himself a chance to look at her, weighing her up. Her hair was black with green highlights, ending on her shoulders. Her eyes were the same as the girl’s in the photo but the smile, it wasn’t the same. This wasn’t who they were looking for.

 The girl slid the photo back, “She’s pretty, but I’ve never seen her. I think I’d remember her if I did.”

Bucky tucked the photo back into his jacket. The girl straightened up, a crease forming across her brow, “Are you sure you don’t want anything? A dry martini?” the girl looked up at him almost expectantly, but Bucky shook his head, “I’m good. I’ll probably be here till closing time, so if you see her, pull me over.”

 -

 “We can sink no lower…” mumbled Bucky, the toilet creaking dangerously below him. Sam hushed him quickly, “The girl is here. We have to stay ’till we find her.”

 “And that means hiding in the toilets?” snapped Bucky, meriting another hush from Sam. Bucky frowned, “Hey, this is your fault! This was your idea! She never turned up, we could have come back another day, but no, we’re here, hiding in this hell hole.”

 A thump from outside silenced him. Carefully, Sam left his cubicle, closely followed by Bucky, and propped open the door, enough for them to see and hear what was happening.

 “Club’s closed boys. You need to leave…” the voice of the bartender echoed around the room. Several guffaws responded, “We weren’t satisfied with our service.”

 “Not my problem. I run the bar, not the brothel.”

 “I don’t think Batroc will be very happy with that. He employs you, does he not?”

 “Yes…” the bartender’s voice trailed off nervously, “What are you going to do to me?”

 “Show you what we do to unwilling workers. Grab her and strap to the table… That one, in the corner…”

 Without hesitation, Bucky grabbed onto Sam’s arm, mouthing, “I can’t listen to this. We have to help her!”

 Sam’s hand flew over Bucky’s mouth, “We’re not here for her… Stay put!”

 Bucky pushed against Sam, trying to free himself from the Falcon’s grip, but Sam held him fast. A brief squabble broke out, Bucky and Sam fighting against each other, until Bucky used his metal hand to break free, rushing through the door to shocking sight.

 The bartender wiped her lip, staring down at three men, “Touch me again, and I will fucking kill you.”

 “Fuck…” thought Bucky, ‘I should not be this turned on…’

 “Hey, pretty boy? Pretty boy? Pay attention to me!” the bartender’s voice snapped Bucky out of his daydream, “Meet me in the alley in 5 minutes. Bring Sam.”

 -

 The dingy alley smelt of piss and sick, but the bartender seemed unperturbed, flinging her arms around Sam’s neck, “Oh, I’ve missed you Birdie!”

 “I’ve missed you too! We’ve been looking for you all night! Where have you been?”

 “At the bar! Your friend approached me, I thought he would recognize me, but no, and when I said the words, he didn’t reply with the code!” the bartender shot Bucky an angry glance. Bucky snapped, “What words? I wasn’t told of any words. And why would I recognize you? I’ve never met you in my life! This is so stupid!”

 The bartender huffed and pulled on her hair until it come off in her hand, revealing Y/H/C underneath. The black hair was a wig. Next, she pulled out the photo from Sam’s pocket and pulled up to her face and copied the smile. Bucky saw the resemble immediately, “It’s you…”

 “My name’s Agent Y/N L/N, I’m undercover here. You probably don’t remember me, we didn’t really meet, but I helped Steve and Sam disappear in 2016. I saw you from a distance, but you were kinda wiped out, no metal arm and longer hair. As for the words, I was told to offer you a dry martini, and you should’ve responded with ‘I don’t like my martini’s dry’.”

 “I hate martini’s altogether! And I gave you a photo of yourself!”

 “I’ve had 4 people give me a photo of myself today alone! The people after you are on your case!” Y/N’s chest heaved with anger and frustration, “Baltroc will be in the old Sokovian church tomorrow at midday. He’s made several attempts to take over the Sokovian people after the country fell with Ultron. We’ve tried to enlist the help of Wanda Maximoff, but we’ve had no response.”

 “She’s gone MIA… No one knows where she is…” responded Sam slowly, “If what you say is true, not that I am doubting you, then we need to get moving now. You are relieved of your duty. Where will you head?”

 “To New York. I’ll go to the compound.”

 “Well, I’m looking forward to seeing you there…” Sam pulled Y/N into a tight hug before turning to Bucky, “We leave in 10.”

 Bucky nodded his head and looked down at Y/N, “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”

 “Not your fault. I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

 “Not your fault…” Bucky shifted awkwardly. Y/N smiled slightly, “Do you miss him?”

 Bucky’s eyes widened almost comically. He hadn’t expected that from her, the mention of Steve. He noticed the way her shoulders slumped at the question, her eyes losing their sparkle slightly. He wondered how the snap had affected her, and, for the first time, wondered what an Agent like her was doing here, in the burned ruins of Sokoiva. He tried to match her smile, “Everyday… It’s hard… I know that he is still alive, but the whole world believes him dead, and I don’t actually see him very often now, so sometimes, it’s like he’s dead to me too. It just never stops, this life. It’s fast and hard.”

 “I understand…” Y/N nodded her head, and Bucky spied a tear, and felt a pang in his heart, “Did… Did you love him?”

 “Oh God no!” gasped Y/N with a chuckle, “Me and Steve were more like siblings or best friends. He helped me and I helped him… I wasn’t snapped away, so spent the last 5 years with him. I trained with Natasha, and when Scott came back, Steve sent me away. To protect me, he said. I don’t doubt him, but I wonder, if I stayed, would’ve I been able to stop him from leaving?”

 “No. He had his mind set on it…”

 “Why’d you ask if I love him?”

 Bucky cheeks reddened, “Well, after I messed this up so bad, I wondered if once I got back to New York, you’d like to go for drinks… or not?”

 “Sargent Barnes, are you asking me on a date?”

 Bucky shivered at the use of the title, but tried to cover it, “Would you be opposed to the idea?”

 “No…”

 Bucky smiled at her as Sam yelled at him to hurry up. There was another moment of awkwardness before Bucky turned on his heel. Y/N stood still for few seconds before gasping, “Bucky! Wait!”

 “What?”

 It was Y/N’s turn to blush as she pecked a kiss on his cheek, “Be safe. Baltroc has a rep for maximum of casualties.”

 “I promise, doll…” Bucky smiled at took her hand in his, “Never thought the night would end like this. And now, I must really go.”

 -

 Sam frowned as they stepped onto the Quinjet, “How do you do it, man? 5 minutes ago, you barely knew the girl, and now you’re going on a date with her?”

 “It’s called charm, Birdbrain, you should try it some time.”

 “I have charm! And a wingman.”

 “Redwing does not count.”

 Sam huffed and sat down in a seat, “He so does. Besides, when she realizes you have a cyber-brain, she’ll be gone.”

 “Nah, I’ll just charm her again.”

 “Not with that grouchy face. If the wind changes, your face will be stuck like that.”

“I hate you…” muttered Bucky. Sam burst out laughing, nudging Bucky’s shoulder, and the man let out a small snort, smiling gently. 

It might never stop, but Bucky couldn’t deny, when it did, it was nice. Steve was gone, but he had Sam and now, Y/N too. Yeah... All was good.

[previousloversandmuses]

Slow Burn - Prologue

Part I | masterlist

A/N: This is a “must read” precursor to the whole series. Please read it to know what the origin story is. 

Pairing: Y/N x Obi Wan Kenobi

Words: 2048

Warnings: None. Brief mentions of violence. Low self esteem.

I am always one to experience emotions at a heightened frequency. Dangerous for a Jedi in training I know, but the council never took it as a sign of caution, just a minor set back. Happiness is bright, and beaming, even painful. My cheeks hurt for days after, smile lines sculpting my skin too early in life. Anger is powerful, my skin becoming vicious, and hot. Ripping through me like a silver bullet, and tearing my already unrelenting gut apart. I am loud, I am violent, and most of all, passionate. I would later become grateful of this curse, turning it into a blessing. Sadness is so deep. Tears crash like an ocean, and my heart would ache in my chest. The physical symptoms of my despair become overwhelming, and make me sick.

A fresh eighteen myself, my graduation is only a year or so away. Compared to other padawans, ones that don’t deal with the same struggles as myself, have already been graced with knighthood. They make their masters proud, and have already completed more missions at sixteen than I think I ever will in my entire career. 

I had the choice to become independent, to take my morals by the throat, and shove them deep down inside me, never to be seen again- but it really just isn’t that easy. See, I’m taking this time for meditation, or even a “behavioral therapy” of sorts. I have meetings with other council members, more powerful, and more prominent than my own master, who is often off tending to matters elsewhere. A mighty general he is, but they see me as someone who would cause more of a distraction, so I stay here at the temple left to my own devices. Sometimes I think it may be because I’m a woman, and other times I just take a good look in the mirror and recall the outburst that has stained my face only minutes before. 

Today was like any other; wake up, meditate, exercise, study, combat training, study, try and find time to eat something, and study. I walked down the main hallway with Master Yoda. He spoke to me about how he once struggled with his emotions as well, but with enough meditation, learned how to keep them at bay. Looking down at him and his vacant expression, I was surprised he had ever even felt an emotion a day in his life. That was until seconds later…

Stopping in my tracks, my hand flew over my heart. I recalled feeling out of breath, like my heart had physically stopped beating in my chest, or at least was trying to catch up with the rest of my body. I was shaky, yet somehow managed to take a knee. Something was off, that feeling in my chest grew and grew until I was faced with the blackest black I had ever felt. The darkest emotion to ever run through my body, as cold as ice, and heart stopping. It was deep, I felt it within the darkest abyss in my soul. It wrapped around my insides and nestled itself a home deep within the most shielded corners of my subconscious. That’s when Master Yoda felt it too. His hand flying over his heart, and steadying himself on my own shoulder. His face morphed into a snarl, gasping at the sudden pain that now infected his unwavering calm aura. 

...

After a painstakingly slow recovery, I sat on the edge of my bed. My quarters were neat and tidy. My bed, usually made up in the morning, because I have always been one for a routine. My walls weren’t bare, in fact they were almost completely covered in photographs I have taken from my travels as a Padawan. I'd go to the library, and butcher borrowed books, clipping photos of different words, and alien fauna. But today, those bright colors capable of producing fantasies for hours and hours, seemed black and white. 

I had been staring at the floor for sometime, desperate in trying to heal the ache in my chest. It felt as if I had a cold, like the burn after a deep cough. I felt so tight, so tense, an actual living embodiment of rigor mortis. Yet, at the same time, I hardly felt all there. It was as if my existence was floating all around me, and my shell was sitting vacant on an uncomfortable mattress. The knock on my door was enough for me to engulf myself again. 

“Y/N, are you decent?” The voice asks. 

“Yes,” I reply, rolling my shoulders back. 

“The council has requested an audience. Please report downstairs within the next few minutes.”

I nod my head, as if whoever was behind the door could see me. 

“An audience,”  I think. “Let’s add another year to that training plan, shall we?”

...

Walking downstairs to the council room, I can’t help but feel that all eyes are on me. They cut through me like a hot knife, slicing me thin. I feel so vulnerable. Like everyone around me can feel what I feel, and if I’m being honest, they probably do. A good Jedi who is in tune with the force, and especially in tune with others, can sense an intense emotion from a mile away. I’m sure at this moment I pretty much equate to an open book. No reason to try and hide it, force knows I struggle with concealing even an inkling of agitation. 

Seeing the council room in sight, I take a deep breath. This is it. I’m done for. This reaction was way too over the top. I’ve scared people, I’ve scared Master Yoda. Might as well just turn in my saber now and call it a day.

I walk into the door. Only a few masters sit scattered around. Master Yoda of course perched dead center, Master Windu waiting patiently to his right. But my master was nowhere in sight. You’d think if they were going to terminate me, that maybe my own mentor would be among them? Shaking his head, sending me glares that one could only compare to fucking daggers. He was tough on me for sure, maybe he was too ashamed of what I’d done to even bear to see me in this moment. 

“Coming here so quickly you did,” Starts Master Yoda. “Grateful we all are.”

I smile and bow my head. 

“Y/N,” Master Windu starts. “We’re here to discuss the events that happened earlier.” 

Oh god here it comes. This is it. I’m totally done for. I can’t even keep myself calm now. My face, getting hotter and more red by the second, is going to be the biggest tell. At least let me go out with some dignity. 

“Your reaction, what you felt at least, was not just brought on out of the blue. Master Yoda had the same experience, as did all of us on the council, and most Jedi and padawans in the temple.”

“I don’t understand.” I say. 

“At around 1 Coruscant time, an enemy bomb was detonated on Nal Hutta.”

Then it hit me. My heart sinking, I began to shake my head. 

“Unfortunately, Unit 505, and Master Cato were all killed on impact.”

My ears ring. Slowly, I move over to a chair, bracing myself. 

“That’s,” I start, trying to find the words to say. “He would’ve felt it, all of them would, I don’t understand.”

“We have a feeling it was planted by a Sith. That’s the only way it would’ve clouded any judgement.”

I slump into it, my vision going black, my head spinning. 

Master Cato has been with me since I was a very little girl. Although rough, tough, and brutally honest, he has done nothing but be a father to me time and time again. Everything I do is a reflection of him. He had been so busy at war, fighting day in and day out, I caught myself missing the commands, and demands I once so passionately despised. I took our whole relationship for granted, and now, is this the price I have to pay? The last time we spoke he told me how disappointed he was in my outburst in my Alien Fauna lab. I was being stubborn, I was bratty, and rolled my eyes. We had argued that entire call. He didn’t even attempt to say goodbye. Now, for an eternity, I will have to face the catastrophic guilt of my actions. Live with the fact that I never, ever told him how much I appreciated him. And even, how much I loved him so. The closest thing to family in my life, gone, in the snap of a finger. 

Both Master Yoda and Master Windu continued to talk but it all felt like empty words. I couldn’t hear them anyway. 

“Although this situation isn't ideal, we and the rest of the council applaud you for being able to feel something most of us haven’t been able to experience yet.” Claimed Master Windu.

I don’t listen. I stand up again. 

“What am I going to do? I don’t feel comfortable with being knighted yet. I had- we were working on so many things I-,” I stumbled on my words. 

“You’ll get placed with a new master.”

“There are no new masters. And even if I had been trained a certain way, I don’t know how to learn otherwise.” 

There is silence. 

“The force works in mysterious ways. Meant to happen, I feel.” 

I scoff. “Meant to happen,” what an evil thing to say.

I begin to walk off, stopping of course, only to get in the last word. 

“Not only have you told me that my master has been killed, but you lack any empathy. There is no emotion in your eyes. Nothing.”

“We mourn your master y/n, just as much as you do. You know what we stand for. You know our view on attachments.”

“He's like-,” I choke. “He was like my father.”

I can’t even begin to explain the pain I feel. Disgust in myself, I should’ve been better. I could’ve been better. The last few years of our relationship I’ve just been behaving poorly and rebelling, and then getting angry at him when he made me face the consequences. Like I wasn’t aware of the job I was made to do. I should’ve been nicer, I could’ve been nicer. It’s all going in a circle, all the things I should’ve done just morphed into things I couldn’t do. Maybe I was too emotional. Maybe my tears that fell leading up to this moment was all part of the plan, the final kicker to show that I wasn’t apathetic enough for this job. My empathy, my burning passion will always be my biggest flaw. This hole that gapes inside of me will never be filled, and now it grows bigger. It’s like a disease. Am I enough? Will I ever be enough?

“Put you with Master Kenobi, we will.” States Master Yoda. 

Master Windu is quick in turning his head. He glares at him. 

“Master Yoda, General Kenobi has just finished his training with Anakin. It is far too early to give him a new Padawan, if at all.”

Yoda nods, almost giggling. 

“Yet so freshly knighted, a Padawan Anakin already has. Obi Wan will have no problem with taking on a student. Graduates soon, she will.”

“But General Kenobi and I have two completely different methods of combat, let alone ideals.” I scoff. 

“All Jedi have the same ideals.” Adds Windu. 

“He is a Jedi guardian, I am a Jedi sentinel-“

“Train with General Kenobi you will. Not long ago he also lost his master too soon.”

Master Yoda nods to me. He stands up and walks over to the large windows behind him. Looking out over Coruscant, he takes a deep sigh of relief. 

“Master Windu,” says Yoda. “Get in contact with the 212th battalion.” 

I watch on as my fate now rests in a stranger's hands.

[samstree]

splash of the waves, and the sand castle crumbles (1/?)

Geraskier, Prince!Jaskier, fairy tale elements but with a twist, fluff and angst, 6.9k, rated T

Read on AO3

Geralt finds himself drawn to the prince despite himself. As he and Jaskier grow closer, war also looms on the horizon. It's the stuff of fairy tales, but can a witcher find his happily ever after in the time of heartbreaks and deaths?

“Ma?”

“Hmm?”

“What happened next?”

“The farm girl became a princess and married the prince. They lived happily ever after,” she smiled, her eyes so warm in the candlelight.

“But what next?”

“Happily ever after, sweetie. It means there will only be happiness for the rest of their lives.”

She places a kiss on the top of his head and blows out the candle. Her hands are soft and gentle when she tucks him in.

“Ma?”

“Yes?”

“Will we live happily ever after?”

She pauses in the darkness.

“Of course, my darling. Now you need to close your eyes—”

“Like the prince and the girl?”

“Even better.”

“But she married the prince. How can it be better?”

She sighs. The warmth of her palm brushes across his forehead, making his eyelids droop heavily.

“Your future holds much more, my sweet boy. You will find out tomorrow when you wake up.”

Sleep overcomes him. Indeed, he dreams of fairy tales and royal balls, magic spells and grand weddings.

The next morning, he wakes up believing in those happy ever afters.

*

Sometimes, when stones are thrown and pitchforks raised, Geralt regrets ever doing so.

*

The crown prince of Aedirn is a beautiful thing.

His pale blue doublet shines under the bright morning sun, the silvery embroidery sparkling in the light. A big smile —that ever-so-friendly smile that Prince Julian is known for— spreads across his face as a man with blond hair riding next to him speaks. Windswept brown hair brushes over his eyes, obscuring his youthful features.

Everything about him screams royalty. Privilege.

Even his horse is the most nicely-groomed white stallion Geralt has ever laid eyes on.

Prince Charming needs the whole get-up. The witcher snorts behind the bush, observing the royal convoy. It’s too small and moving way too slowly. They must have let down their guard because of the proximity to the castle. If Geralt were to assassinate a royal, he would choose to do it here as well.

It doesn’t take long for the first one to approach from the side of the road, hiding behind the shrub just like Geralt. The man in black works silently and quickly, but not as quickly as a witcher.

Geralt strangles him from behind, gripping tightly until the man passes out. A crossbow falls to the ground. The convoy travels ahead, unaware of the witcher disposing of a deadly threat to their prince’s life.

The swoosh of an arrow pierces the air.

“Protect the prince!”

Two dozen assassins in the same black suit appear out of thin air, charging into the royal guards’ formation. In an instant, the heap of pale-blue is tackled to the ground. Swords clash as more men start yelling.

“Fuck.”

Dodging a stray arrow, the witcher rushes into the chaos. The small convoy being overwhelmed by the incoming force, they hardly notice one of the assassins circling around the battle and moving directly to the prince. With a few long strides, Geralt stops the man with a clean strike.

“What—” the prince scrambles back at the sight of blood, looking at the witcher’s towering form with disbelief.

“You need to come with me,” Geralt says, before hauling him up by the collar of his doublet.

*

He half drags the prince to the hide-out. It’s only a cave where he left Roach earlier, but it should be enough. The young man slumps down against the wall, breathing heavily.

“Why are you—”

“Shh.” The witcher quickly crouches on the ground and presses his palm over the prince’s mouth. Distant footsteps disappear in another direction, before he slowly lets go. “We should be safe for now.”

In the quiet of the cave, he can hear the prince’s pounding heart, his eyes blown wide like a startled deer. Specks of blood smear across his cheeks, making him appear even younger.

“My men?”

“These are hired assassins. They will disperse once you are gone.” Geralt is surprised at how gentle his voice comes out. “Are you all right?”

“I—” the prince swallows, and looks down to his bicep where the flesh is grazed by an arrow. The wound is shallow and slowly seeping blood into the torn fabric. Geralt reckons that it should be fine left alone. “I’m fine. I—I’m…fine, yes. I’m alive.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, both in shock and relief. The prince tries to appear unaffected but the overwhelming panic in his scent betrays his seemingly neutral expression.

“You are lucky it didn’t go through your heart.” The witcher leaves him to check on Roach. Sensing the danger in the air, the mare has stayed quiet this whole time. He pats her mane in thanks. “Didn’t think the prince of Aedirn was this careless.”

“I didn’t think witchers got themselves involved in political squabbles either.” Cornflower blues meet Geralt piercingly, despite his shakiness. “I know who you are,” he chuckles tightly. “The witcher, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt grunts.

“I didn’t get involved.”

The prince only gestures to himself, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ve saved your ass. Now you can return to your castle and pretend we’ve never met, your highness.”

“Please, call me Jaskier.” The prince stands, patting the blue silk to get off the dirt and wincing when the movement tugs at his arm. “Aren’t you curious as to how I learned about you? Your fame precedes you, witcher.”

The young man meets his gaze assuredly. There’s no trace of fear in his scent.

People usually learn about Geralt one way—his moniker is not something to be escaped. But the prince doesn’t act like everyone else who meets the Butcher. Or at least, he hides it well.

“Are you not scared for your life, prince?”

“It’s Jaskier. And no, I’m not scared by the Butcher, if that’s what you mean.” There’s a knowing glint in his eyes. “I know you from a… mutual acquaintance, let’s say.”

“Oh?”

“Filavandrel mentioned you.”

“The elf king who hides in the mountains?” Geralt frowns. “I never really knew him. Not for more than a day.”

“No? He spoke of a white-haired witcher who was paid to hunt his people. Only that witcher left his own coin purse to them upon finding out about their circumstances. It showed compassion that no human had ever shown them, witcher. From his description, I thought the elven king and you shared a moment that day, or rather, an understanding.”

“Only of men.” He pauses. “Haven’t you come to the same understanding? Or why else would the prince of Aedirn make a target of himself by providing shelter to elven refugees?”

Geralt remembers his encounter with the elf king vividly, his anger and despair. The path took him back to Lower Posada years after that day. His curiosity drove him back to Dol Blathanna, only to find a much larger settlement and an exploding population of elves and other non-humans. Not only that, everyone there spoke of the kindness of the prince, who gave equal status to all sentient creatures on Aedirn soil.

“I see someone did homework on me.”

“People here sing your praises on the street day and night. It seems half the country has fallen in love with you,” Great admits begrudgingly.

“And the other half dislikes that I’m giving land away. Land that could have been providing for humans. The other half of my country believes I’m crazy just like all the other kings and queens in the north.”

The prince steps into Geralt’s space.

“You see, Geralt of Rivia, I cannot change the war that others deem just. I cannot stop the Lioness of Cintra from slaughtering elves and non-humans alike on the other side of the Yaruga. All I have is a piece of land in the Blue Mountains and, perhaps, I can provide them the means to rebuild. Those settlements are only a start.”

“It sounds like a noble cause, prince, but I’m not sure how much you can achieve.”

“Sometimes,” the prince’s attention shifts to Roach. “I wonder the same thing. The continent won’t change overnight just because one kingdom decides to show them a little bit of decency. The same decency that we humans are treated with all along.”

The young prince falls silent, his hand reaching out to touch Roach’s mane but retreats when she snorts anxiously. Geralt shushes the mare with a carrot from the pack.

“And I think, my friend,” the young prince continues. “Despite your claim of neutrality, you are on my side.”

“I’m not your friend.”

“No? But I wish to become yours. After all, you just saved my life so selflessly and gallantly,” he proclaims dramatically. “You should have seen yourself, Geralt. So brave with a sword, like a knight from the stories! If we were in a fairy tale, this is where I offer myself to you in eternal gratitude.”

“Are all princes this cheeky?”

“I don’t know. Are all witchers this heroic and beautiful?” Blue eyes roam up and down the witcher’s body, before meeting his gaze with clear interest.

Geralt grunts, ducking away from direct eye contact with the prince. Suddenly the air in the cave feels too warm. He clears his throat uncomfortably.

“Are you being shy, Geralt the witcher?”

The teasing comes so naturally for the prince. Gods, is that why all the maidens out there are so enamored with him? With those easy smiles and dreamy blue eyes, as soon as he throws in some flirtatious words, any inexperienced country girl would swoon upon meeting with him.

What fools they all are.

“We are not in a fairy tale,” Geralt says, palming his face. “Don’t expect a happy ending from this, my prince.”

“Jaskier,” the prince repeats insistently. “Although I do like the way you call me ‘my prince’. I’d certainly like it more if we were in a… different situation.”

He raises an eyebrow suggestively, and Geralt wonders if he can un-save this ridiculous man’s life.

“Fine then. Jaskier.”

The prince, who insists his name is a flower, smiles smugly for having gotten his way.

“But why?” he then faces Geralt head-on, his voice steady. “Why help me? If you don’t seek the favor of a prince, and the conflict never concerns you?”

Geralt blinks.

He’s not sure what drove him to the decision. The only emotion he had upon hearing about a price on the head of the crown prince was unease. The witcher has seen the war and how all the non-humans were killed with little reason, their corpses a feast for ghouls. The prince of Aedirn made himself an enemy to many realms by taking in all the refugees.

It wouldn’t sit right to let him die.

“I was in Cintra a month ago,” Geralt answers.

Jaskier tilts his head.

“So was I. I went to negotiate the relocation of the defeated elves with Queen Calanthe.” Something dawns on him. “You heard something, didn’t you? Was this assassination ordered by her? The negotiation ended up a complete waste of time, but never have I thought she could resort to such a dishonorable way of killing. No matter how much she must want to get rid of me permanently… Oh, I—I never thought…”

The prince—Jaskier trails off, his face drained of blood.

“I only learned about the bounty on your head,” Geralt explains, confused by the prince’s sudden show of weakness. “Hired swords get quite loose-lipped after a few drinks. As to where the order came from—"

“Wait, I…"

A pained grunt escapes the prince’s throat. He sways on his feet ever so slightly, but steadies himself with a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. They both look down to where the wound is still trickling slowly, soaking his sleeve with a patch of dark crimson.

“Wait, I thought…” Geralt reaches out to hold Jaskier’s arm. His palm comes away covered in blood. “Shit, it shouldn’t be bleeding this much.”

“You followed all the way from Cintra, just to stop them from killing m—" Jaskier breaks off for air as Geralt rummages through his pack for bandages. The prince clenches the fabric over his chest, as if something is hurting him from within. “So much for… n—not getting involved.”

“Shut up, prince.” Geralt’s fingers reach the bandage. “Or Jaskier, or whatever flower you prefer.”

A strained smile contorts into a grimace on the prince’s face, his knees buckling.

“Shit.” The witcher barely manages to catch his limp body before his head hits the ground. Blue eyes become unfocused as his head sags against Geralt’s shoulder. “Jaskier? Prince? Can you hear me?”

Geralt inspects the wound on his arm closely for the first time, and that’s when his witcher senses pick up on the faint trail of bitterness.

“It’s poison,” he mutters and curses under his breath.

Jaskier whimpers weakly upon hearing the words, his eyes filled with full-blown panic. For the first time that day, the witcher senses potent fear in the prince’s scent.

Or is it his own?

Geralt can’t tell.

*

Roach is almost at her limits. The weight of two grown men puts a lot of tires her way too quickly, but Geralt doesn’t dare to slow down, not until he can see the castle walls.

“Don’t die now,” the witcher murmurs into the prince’s ear, who is slumped against his chest, half-delirious and slurring nonsense. The make-shift tourniquet on his arm is soaked through with specks of blood.

The poison is attacking his heart, Geralt notices. It’s also speeding it up, disrupting its rhythm. It’s the vicious kind, one that is designed to make the victim suffer before they die.

Jaskier’s face is white as a sheet, and his lips are turning a sickening purple. The trembling comes and goes, making it harder to keep him in place. His blue eyes roll back, and for a moment, Geralt thinks he’s lost him.

“We are here, prince. Do you hear me?” The gate opens when the guards realize that their prince is brought back injured. A lot of people are shouting but it’s all a blur when Geralt carries the prince down from the mare’s back. “Just hang on, Jaskier.”

Jaskier clings, his heartbeat fluttering dangerously.

They take Jaskier away with force, his limp hand slipping from Geralt’s grip. Someone kicks the witcher behind the knees, sending him to the ground. Weapons suddenly appear at his throat, stopping him from going any further.

“G’ralt…” Jaskier protests, his hands grabbing blindly.

“He needs a healer!” he shouts at those guards who only seem to be interested in restraining him.

Cornflower blues are fixed on golden yellow. The prince’s skin is covered in sweat, his lips quivering, struggling to form words. It takes a second for the witcher to realize that he’s talking to the guards.

“He saved my life. Don’t… He saved…me,” Jaskier chokes out a breath, and Geralt feels those guards release him.

The witcher is left kneeling as more men surround the prince and rush him inside. They’re either fussing over Jaskier or calling for help. His faint heartbeat gets lost in the commotion.

“Wait, is he going to—"

The gate shuts in his face. The last thing he sees is Jaskier collapsing in someone’s arms.

*

No word about the prince comes out for months. Not about the assassination. Not about his poisoning.

Rumor says that he was gravely injured during the attack, and that he has been bed-ridden since returning from Cintra. Some even suspect that he’s already dead.

*

“…I opened the envelope and it was an invitation from the prince!”

“It was magical, wasn’t it? He doesn’t show up for ages and suddenly we are all invited to a ball! In his castle! A royal ball where anyone can attend, no less! I heard he will choose one to marry tonight.”

“Although I heard he’s sick for quite some time…”

Geralt ducks his head while listening in on the two women’s conversation. They are each dressed in a luxurious ball gown, their faces powered and lips painted. Like everyone else in the room, they are trying to impress the prince at his first outing in months.

But that is not why he is here.

Geralt has been lingering in Aedirn since that day, when he sent Jaskier back to the castle with poison coursing through his veins, not knowing what would become of him. Months of dead silence only make his stomach sink further.

A chance presented itself when news came out that the prince will hold a ball to the public.

It only makes sense that he should go and check, just to make sure Jaskier is all right. After all, he doesn’t want to put in all the effort to save someone only to never know if he will end up fine.

He will see for himself that Jaskier is well, and then he will leave.

He will not get involved.

Of course not.

Geralt takes another sip of the wine, surprised at the buzz it gives to his temporarily human body. When the mage sold him the potion that could hide all visible witcher traits, she did not mention it would also slow his metabolism to an ordinary human’s.

“The disguise will expire at midnight, when the bell strikes twelve.” Luckily she didn’t forget about this.

What a cliché.

It seems that no mage can resist a touch of dramatics.

For now, he looks like another random lord with dark hair and brown eyes. She also threw in a spell to turn his clothes into a silky ensemble in a muted black color.

“His royal highness, Prince Julian!” someone announces.

The crowd turns their eyes to the top of the stairs, where the heavy wooden doors open in everyone’s anticipation. One of the two women lets out an audible gasp as the prince steps out.

And there he is, Jaskier.

Those blue eyes are bright as the sky, those cheeks rosy-pink. He’s a picture of health compared to the last time Geralt held him in his arms. The witcher lets out a relieved sigh he never knew he was holding.

A smile spreads across the prince’s face. Suddenly the wine isn’t the only thing making Geralt all warm and fuzzy inside.

The prince descends the stairs with such elegance, his doublet a pristine ivory color under the chandelier’s sparkling light. The clothes sit perfectly on his frame, but with a heavy heart, Geralt realizes that he’s also lost weight.

It’s minuscule, and the puffy sleeves hide it well, but it’s there. Bed-ridden for a long time, they say. The witcher swallows the lump in his throat.

The crowd parts for the prince, retreating to the edge of the dance floor. No one dares to breathe as they await his invitation to the first dance.  Once the dancing starts, the music will be too loud and the people too busy, giving the witcher a window to easily disappear into the night. But Jaskier continues to search through the crowd as if he has a specific someone to look for.

Before Geralt can even react, blue eyes have locked with his. The piercing blue makes him instinctively want to hide, but the witcher is frozen to the spot. The prince walks directly towards him, the grin spreading even wider if that is possible.

“May I have the first dance?” Jaskier reaches out, his palm facing up.

Countless eyes fall on Geralt, making his skin prickle, but he pays no mind. All he can focus on is the prince’s expectant look. Even now, without his witcher hearing to know Jaskier’s heartbeat, he can see the tentative hope in the way Jaskier seems to hold his breath.

Geralt takes his hand.

*

The royal garden is quiet under the night sky. The cool breeze is nice on Geralt’s skin, the faint hum of cicadas a soothing balm to his ear after hours of music and dance.

“Apologies. I was getting a little… uncomfortable in there.” The prince leads the witcher to a bench. His hand rubs at his heart like it’s bothering him.

“Are you well, my prince?” Geralt helps him sit down.

“Please, call me Jaskier.”

Geralt pauses. Does Jaskier tell his preferred name to anyone? Even a stranger he just met at a ball?

“Why Jaskier?”

“It’s the person I dream to be,” he answers wistfully but adds nothing to explain. Geralt wonders why a prince could possibly dream to be another person.

“I see.” He nods. “Are you feeling alright, Jaskier?”

The prince’s eyes soften as he reaches out to tuck a lock of curly brown hair out of Geralt’s face. The movement is so gentle that the witcher can’t help but catch his hand, holding those slender fingers in his palm.

They are way too slender, he thinks. Repressed worry bubbles up in his throat again.

“I’m fine now.” Jaskier squeezes his hand reassuringly. “Although I haven’t been for a few months, as you already know.”

“Uh…yes.” Geralt splutters. This closeness, combined with the touch of skin, seems to be slowing his brain. “There are rumors, from outside the castle. It was an attack, wasn’t it? At least that’s what I heard.”

“It was. They used poison, no less. The healers told me that it weakened my heart, even stopped it for a few seconds.” He chuckles sadly, threading their fingers together and pressing both their hands over his chest. “The pain still comes and goes these days, but I cope.”

The thumping underneath Geralt’s hand is rhythmic. Calming. It feels so fragile, especially now that he knows how little it takes to stop it. To snuff out the light in those cornflower-blue eyes along with it. And yet, this heart keeps beating.

“I’m glad you survived, Jaskier.”

The name comes out reverent, like a prayer.

“So am I, my friend.”

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

Moonlight frames Jaskier’s fond expression, giving it a soft glow. Long lashes cast a shadow on his faint blush. A grin spreads across the prince’s face when he answers.

“I hope? Or maybe I can hope for more. After all, this ball is held so I can find my future intended in the crowd.”

The implication makes Geralt’s breath hitch. He blinks.

“You don’t even know my name.” 

Jaskier’s eyes darken as he leans in. His hand comes up to cradle Geralt’s chin. “Somehow, I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

The crisp night air is mixed with the fresh smell of grass, but on top of it is a floral scent that reminds him of spring and hope. Geralt lets his senses be overwhelmed by the prince, by his soft breaths ghosting over his skin and those enchanting lips well within reach.

Not getting involved, the back of his mind screams.

Despite himself, Geralt meets Jaskier halfway, their lips a hair’s breadth away when—

The bell strikes. Once, twice…

The noise is the loudest wake-up call, turning Geralt’s blood to ice. What is he doing? Is it midnight already? Fuck… he needs to get out of here before the magic expires.

“I need to go,” Geralt blurts out. “I have to leave right now. Ah… I’m so sorry.”

Jaskier’s brows knit together in confusion. “What is wrong? I thought you—”

“I came here to make sure you are all right, Prince Julian. Nothing more. It was never my intention to let you believe there could be anything else.”

The prince’s face dims at his apology. The dejection on his face tugs at something in Geralt’s chest. It leaves him wanting, but there’s no time. The bell counts down his sentence.

He takes Jaskier’s hand and places a simple kiss there, and turns to leave, only to be halted by the prince’s tightening hold.

“Wait, you don’t have to go."

“You don’t understand,” Geralt’s voice quivers with urgency. “It’s important that I leave.”

Those gentle fingers wrap around Geralt’s steadily, Jaskier’s skin cool against his. The prince continues to ignore his plea. If anything, he steps closer.

“Stay. Please.” Jaskier whispers, and it’s all it takes.

The witcher can break free easily, but for some reason he is unable. For some reason, he feels the weakest he has ever been under the intensity of Jaskier’s pleading gaze.

To his horror, the magic fades. Geralt can feel his hair change and grow longer, his teeth sharpening. The flow of chaos stings his eyes that are certainly turning back to yellow. His face crumbles.

And yet, Jaskier never wavers.

If anything, the adoration in those stormy blues only grows, ever so beautifully, as the swirl of magic circles around Geralt, revealing plain clothes instead of silk. 

The bell strikes twelve.

The sound still echoes in the air. Slowly, with the utmost determination, Jaskier’s fingers thread through what is now silver-white hair. Tears glisten in his eyes.

“You told me we were not in a fairy tale, and yet, you try to leave me at midnight. You tried to leave me here under the stars. Alone and heartbroken.” The prince lets out a wet chuckle. “Because you think I wouldn’t recognize the man who saved my life. You think I wouldn’t know the witcher who’s risking everything right now just to see that I am well. I’d know you anywhere, Geralt of Rivia.”

Jaskier’s feather-light touch continues to trace the shell of Geralt’s ear, the tiny scar under his eye, and then finally, the corner of his mouth. It’s not often, in his long life, that Geralt gets his breath taken away, least of all by a prince.

“How?”

“I suspected,” Jaskier whispers. “Or rather I hoped when I saw you in the ballroom. I prayed. That it’s you.”

“You danced with me because—”

“Because I wanted to thank you properly. We were kind of in a hurry last time.” The prince teases, his palm tilting Geralt’s chin. “May I?”

He nods.

As if in a dream, soft lips press against his, tasting of salt and moonlight. Geralt lets out a tiny gasp as Jaskier opens him up patiently and draws it out like they have all the time in the world. Like he’s something to be treated with gentleness. Something to be treasured.

He pulls away panting, only to realize that tears are rolling down Jaskier’s cheeks freely, so he catches them with the pad of his thumb.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.” Geralt shushes him, but Jaskier sniffles with a smile.

“I’m not upset. Trust me when I say these are tears of joy.” Red-rimmed eyes sparkle like the stars. “But Geralt…”

“Yes?”

“Will I see you again?”

Geralt blinks. He only sneaked into a royal court with one goal. Now that he has achieved it and more, there’s nothing that should bring him back to Jaskier again. His heart twists painfully at the idea, and words tumble out of his mouth. The last of his sanity screams against it, and yet his heart has made the decision.

“I hope, Jaskier. I can only hope to see you again.”

Jaskier beams as he presses another kiss to Geralt’s wrist.

“That is enough for me.”

*

“Your longing eyes grieve what is lost

But naught can change this parting harsh…”

Jaskier’s voice echoes hauntingly. In front of him, the elven family sits huddled together, listening intently. The two children are concentrating so hard that they are almost falling off their parents’ laps. Finally, as the soft strumming of the lute comes to an end, they start clapping with passion.

From a distance, Geralt can only see the prince from behind, but somehow he can sense the big smile Jaskier returns to those excited children. The wind in the Blue Mountains ruffles his brown hair. Jaskier continues to take off the strap and carefully hands the lute to the elven woman.

The witcher approaches quietly.

“…thank you so much! It is such a beautiful instrument.” Jaskier’s voice is warm and welcoming. She’s certainly charmed when they keep talking about music and folk songs.

Geralt stands there and lets Jaskier’s presence wash over him. In the end, it’s the other woman who notices him and gestures in his direction.

Jaskier turns his head and beams.

“Geralt! What brings you here?”

With a few long strides, the prince rushes over and slams their bodies into a bear hug. Anyone who’s not a witcher might have been knocked over by the force, but Geralt catches Jaskier steadily.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you!” Jaskier exclaims as he presses a chaste pack to the corner of Geralt’s mouth. “I haven’t seen you since the manticore hunt.”

“It was still weird that you would want to come with me on hunts.”

“What is life if not to see your favorite witcher in action?” Jaskier waves it off as if a prince getting monster gut all over himself is a common occurrence. He checks Geralt all over. “Anyway, how’s the path treating you, my dear? Any injuries? Exciting stories?”

“The path is fine.” His excitement is too contagious that Geralt feels his lips tug upwards. “And it hasn’t been long. Two months at most.”

“Nonsense. Any amount of time not seeing you feels like ages.”

The parents lead their children away, the girl still humming the song from Jaskier’s private performance.

“I didn’t know the prince could play the lute. Or sing,” he teases.

“Ha! I’m full of surprises, you shall see! Besides, I always thought—” Jaskier cuts himself off, ducks his head before continuing. “I always thought that in another life, I would have been a bard.”

“Would you?”

“Mm-hmm. I would travel the continent, write songs about heroes and adventures. With a lute on my back, I could go to the edge of the world and beyond. Maybe even meet some interesting people, find my muse, or… fall in love.”

He winks at Geralt cheekily when the witcher realizes something.

“So is Jaskier the stage name you picked? For this bard life?”

“Why yes.” Jaskier sounds so surprised. “How do you know? Oh, my dear witcher, you do understand me like no one else! Not even Valdo is a match to you, no matter how well he claims to know me.”

The mention of Valdo Marx’s name sends a pang of bitterness through Geralt, though he has learned long ago that it’s irrational. The prince’s life-long friend, now an important right-hand man, is the most devoted advisor in Jaskier’s council. He’s supported Jaskier in everything throughout his life, having done nothing wrong by the prince, and yet, Geralt can’t bring himself to like the man.

Maybe it’s because of his too-shiny blonde hair. It gives him a headache if he stares at it for too long. Maybe it’s his all-knowing eyes that tend to judge the witcher silently every time they meet. The distrust is too typical for politicians such as him.

Or maybe, it’s because anyone with eyes can see how Valdo is desperately in love with Jaskier, but apparently, it’s not that obvious to the prince himself.

“I know because only you will have a tacky name like Buttercup for your professional career.” The words come out more sour than Geralt expected.

Jaskier squawks with rightful indignation, and Geralt can’t help but snort out a laugh. It’s truly too easy to rile him up.

“It’s just hard to picture.” The witcher continues, while taking Jaskier’s hand. “Someone like you, with soft hands like these. It would take a lot of hard work if you want to make it as a musician. I’m not sure if my prince is up for that job.”

Jaskier slaps him on the arm offendedly. “I’ll have you know, Geralt of Rivia! I am perfectly capable of enduring hardship for the right cause! Now that was truly rude of you to assume that I am spoiled just because I’m a prince! Really, it’s very unbecoming of you!”

“Hmm.” Geralt tilts his head, amused. “And what is a right cause in your book?”

All jokes dissipate after that question.

The prince looks around to the new camps and make-shift houses, everything illuminated by the setting sun. Bonfires are lit where families are gathered after dinner, laughing and dancing together, despite the hardship that brought them here.

“I want everyone on my land to live happily, no matter how they came to Aedirn. I wish they could all see it as a home,” Jaskier says sadly. “That is the most important cause in my life, Geralt. Although I’m not sure if that’s just a fantasy.”

Geralt squeezes the prince’s hands gently. They are exceedingly soft, and cold to the touch. The witcher used to assume that Jaskier just runs a little colder than the average person. But later, to his dismay, he found out that it’s yet another result of the poisoning.

He never wants to see Jaskier’s chest pain flare up again. He never wants to see Jaskier bend over in agony, his hands turning into blocks of ice from the lack of blood flow, his face skin covered in sweat in an instant. Just witnessing it happen almost gives Geralt phantom pain. What’s worse is that there’s nothing he can do but wait it out, holding Jaskier close and rocking him back and forth slowly.

At least he’s now feeling contrite. Teasing Jaskier about not being strong enough was a low blow, when in fact, the young prince is the furthest from deserving such an accusation.

He doesn’t need swords or muscles to be strong.

Jaskier is strong for his stubbornness and his unwavering faith. The elven settlement around them is the best testament. He carried on despite being hated by all other kingdoms, despite the attempt on his life, one that was nearly fatal. One that still hurts him in the quiet of the night.

“Fantasy or not,” Geralt’s insides melt at the way Jaskier looks at him expectantly. “I’d like to see it through with you, if you allow me to.”

Blue eyes suddenly sparkle with renewed excitement.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Geralt?” Jaskier asks carefully as if he could spook the witcher. “Are you finally saying yes to my proposal?”

“I’m considering it.”

“You’ve been considering it since the first time I asked!”

“You asked on our third ever meeting, Jaskier.” Geralt chuckles in exasperation. “And you’ve been asking every time we see each other.”

“And you’ve been giving me the same response every time.” His pout is too adorable Geralt wants to kiss it away. “One might suggest it’s rude to string a prince along like this.”

Geralt hums while cupping Jaskier’s jaw in his palm, tilting it so their gazes meet.

“One might also suggest that our beloved Prince Julian is too good for a witcher like me.”

Ho only means to joke but the smile on Jaskier’s face falls, hurt immediately replacing the earlier chirpiness.

“Shit, Jask… Forget I said that.” Geralt closes his eyes, regretting having ruined the moment.

“Darling, we talked about this.”

“No, you’re right. Of course…”

Jaskier takes the witcher’s hand and places a kiss in his palm. “I won’t allow terrible things to be said about the man I love, and that includes you, my dear. I’d hate it if you joined those senseless folk who can’t see you for the good man you are.” He bites into his lower lip. “Now, I understand if you have reservations about us. I mean, what I am… or what I do, is a lot. I won’t rush you into a decision anymore. I never meant to pressure you.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Jaskier.” Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose. “We are from completely different worlds. Anyone who has eyes will tell you we’re not compatible.”

“Did Valdo say something to you again? Or is that truly what you believe?” Jaskier takes a step back. “Do you wish to end things with me? I—I’ll understand if you want to—"

“No, Jask.”

“—I know how much I’m keeping you in Aedirn, and maybe you wish to be free of court rules and politics and—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt interjects, and cornflower blues meet him in earnest. He knows too well how the prince could spiral out of control, dredging up all the terrible scenarios hidden in the dark corner of his mind. Jaskier looks so lost right now and all Geralt wants to do is make it better, so he does it with action, as always.

He kisses Jaskier with a bruising force. It’s too rushed, too clumsy compared to the gentle caress they normally share, but it conveys everything Geralt cannot promise yet. Not out loud. Not right now.

Geralt threads his fingers into the hair at the nape of Jaskier’s neck, playing with the soft locks. He lets Jaskier lean against his shoulder when they break off the kiss.

“I’m yours, my prince,” he whispers.

“Have I told you how much I love it when you call me that.”

Geralt hides his amusement in soft brown hair.

“Many times, my prince,” he indulges Jaskier. “And yet I cannot help but worry. I fear that things will not work because of our differences. I am a witcher. I am the Butcher of Blaviken, no matter how noble you believe me to be. I will never become someone else. Not like in fairy tales, where a farm girl can transform into a princess and suddenly become worthy of her prince. I fear you’ll make too many compromises because of who I am, bear too many scrutinies, and you will end up resenting me.”

Jaskier shakes his head at those words, his hair ticking Geralt’s ear.

“You speak of my sacrifices, but what about you?” His hand rests between Geralt’s shoulder blades. “You’ve walked the continent for so long. Will you resent me for caging you in a castle because of who I am?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes the name solemnly. “You promised to never trap me in the drudgery of court life. You promised that no matter what we become, I can always return to my path when my heart desires. I trust you on that.”

“And I trust you in return, that you won’t dishonor me. Not in ways that matter.”

They pull away. The sun is hanging just on the horizon, drawing a golden line around Jaskier’s hair.

“I will ask one thing of you, my prince,” Geralt says. “Allow me more time to be sure. Of myself and of our future.”

Jaskier’s eyes crinkle at the corners, taking the witcher’s hand and presses it over his heart, where the doublet is left wide open. The warmth of his skin seeps through the thin chemise and into Geralt’s calloused palm.

“Don’t you see, my darling? I’d give you the stars if you asked. What is a little more time?” His chest rises and falls. “Although I need you to promise something as well.”

“What is it?”

The last of the sunlight fades, darkening Jaskier’s eyes like a stormy night.

“Don’t break my heart in the meantime.”

The plea comes out desperate, vulnerable. Under his palm, Geralt feels the soft thumping that he knows to be fragile.

“I won’t,” he breathes the words reverently. “I promise.”

Jaskier’s heart is so full of the world and its sufferings, so full that there’s hardly room left for himself. So full that the witcher should build a shrine for whatever gods out there that it gives him any attention. To think that he has any power over it, that he can hurt it easily, makes his stomach turn.

He’d live out his life fulfilling that promise if allowed.

*

The witcher walks the path just like he’s done for the past decades. Temeria’s wind is as freezing as ever, and its secrets even more so.

Another dangerous contract is nothing new, and yet, something in him shifts. Somehow, the days ahead are no longer painted with monotonous black and white, but an unpredictable mixture of colors—orange like the setting sun on Jaskier’s long lashes, or rosy-pink like the too-easy blush that dusts over his cheeks when he’s pretending to be unaffected by Geralt’s attention.

More often than not, he sees in his future the blue of Jaskier’s eyes, deep and vast like the sea.

The same blue is what flashes across Geralt’s eyes as the striga’s teeth bury into his neck. With the crypt cold and hard against his back, the witcher would laugh at the irony of it if not for the blood choking in his throat.

Funny how the moment of revelation does not come in a whirlwind of poetry, one that is befitting to Jaskier. The moment Geralt realizes that he is finally ready to take Jaskier’s hand might just be his last moment.

He drifts into bottomless darkness and wakes to cool fingers on his forehead.

And here Jaskier is, sitting by his bedside, his frame so lonely in the Temple of Melitele. A relieved sigh by his lips and tired bruises under his eyes. Gone is his composed regality. Jaskier looks like he hasn’t slept in days, like he just rode all the way here with wind still in the tousled mess of his hair.

“Yes,” Geralt croaks.

The prince rushes forward to fuss over his bandages and splints, cooing with the most distressed frown. “What do you need, my dear?”

“Yes.” Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand, caressing those cool fingers. The stitches in his neck tug uncomfortably.

“Yes, I’ll marry you, my prince.”

---

Tagging: @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard​ @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @theultimatenerdd

Are the tags working? Anyway feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[rubysunnday]

Sarcasm

A/N: this is called ‘how many Stiles Stilinski quotes can I fit in one fic?’ Turns out quite a few

Y/N sighed as the phone rang for the fifth time that day.

“Tom!” She yelled, hoping he would answer it so that she didn’t have to get up. “Tommy !”

“I’m busy!” He yelled back.

Y/N groaned, unfolding herself from underneath the blanket and got up for the sofa. She all but stomped over to the phone, making sure her brother was aware of how annoyed she was at having to move.

“Hello?” She said as she picked up the phone.

“Oh, thank god it’s you.”

Y/N raised her eyebrows. “Finn? What do you want?”

“I need your help,” Finn replied, panting slightly.

“Why are you out of breath?” She asked, frowning.

“Because I’ve just run a marathon,” Finn said, sarcasm dripping off every word. “I’ve just been chased down the street by some random Italians!”

Y/N turned her back to the betting shop. “What?”

“You heard me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, not what I meant. Why do you need me?”

“Well, I don’t really know what to do.”

Y/N groaned. “Alright, fine. Where are you?”

“Phone box near the station.”

“I’ll be ten minutes,” she muttered, already regretting answering the phone. She put it back on the receiver and grabbed her coat. “I’m going out!”

“Don’t do anything stupid!” Arthur yelled at her as she left.

Y/N rolled her eyes. “No promises,” she muttered, shutting the door behind her.

Finn hadn’t moved from the phone box.

Y/N sighed at her brother as he all but burst from inside and ran towards her. “What did you do?”

Finn hesitated, opening his mouth and closing it several times before answering. “It’ll be easier to show you.”

He grabbed her hand and began dragging her down the road. Y/N sighed but allowed her brother to keep dragging her. They walked past rows of house, turned down several suspicious looking alleyways and definitely walked in a circle several times.

“Finn, love, where are you taking me?” Y/N asked as they walked past the butchers for the sixth time.

“Here,” Finn said, pulling her in front of him and pushing Y/N into the entrance of a dead-end alley.

Y/N and stumbled to a halt and stared at the body of a rather large Italian at the end of the alley. “Finn, what did you do?”

“It was self-defence!” Finn exclaimed loudly.

“Alright, alright, shut up,” Y/N said, slowly walking forward towards the body.

“I’ve already called the police.”

Y/N turned to look at her brother, eyebrow raised. “You called the police before you called me?”

Finn frowned. “I’m supposed to call you when I find a dead body?”

“YES!” Y/N said loudly, throwing her hands up. “Bloody hell, Finn, do you have any brain cells or do I have all of them?” Y/N sighed. “Alright, if you’ve already called the police then we need to leave.”

“They didn’t seem overly concerned,” Finn replied. “Maybe we should phone them again.”

“No,” Y/N said, shaking her head.

“No, what do you mean no?”

“I mean no, you want to hear it in Spanish: Noh,” Y/N replied, staring at her brother. “I swear to god this family has two brain cells and that Polly and I are the only ones who ever have them.”

Y/N grabbed her brother’s arm and dragged him away from the alley.

“What about the body?” Finn asked, pointing at it as he was led away.

Y/N shrugged. “They’ll sort it, come on,” she said, pulling him in front of her and pushing him.

“But, shouldn’t we tell someone?” Finn asked, genuinely bewildered.

“Yes, let’s tell the entirety of Small Heath that Finn Shelby murdered an Italian with his brother’s gun.”

Finn stopped and glared at her. “The sarcasm is not appreciated, Y/N.”

“I’m 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bone, sarcasm is my only defence,” Y/N shot back. “Not to mention I just saved your ass.”

“Where are we going?” Finn asked as Y/N pushed him into walking again.

“A dead body?” John asked, staring at them, eyebrows raised.

“No, a body water,” Y/N snapped. “Yes, a dead body!”

John sighed. “Alright, what do you want me to do about it?”

“Well, it was your gun Finn murdered him with.”

“It was self-defence.”

“Still murder, Finn,” Y/N replied. “John, I just need you to move the body and burn it and no one will be any the wiser.”

John shook his head in despair. “Fucking hell, fine, where is it?”

“Why have I just had a phone call from Moss about a dead Italian near the butchers?”

Y/N winced at Tommy’s yell as he marched into the room.

“Ah, fuck,” John muttered. He stood up and walked into the betting shop flanked by Y/N and Finn. 

“What Italian?” Arthur asked, frowning.

“No idea, Moss got a phone call about a dead body and found it in an alley,” Tommy replied, leaning on the back of a chair and looking at the room. “I’m only going to ask this once, did anyone here murder him?”

“Not me,” Arthur said, shaking his head.

Michael shook his head as well. “Weren’t me either, Tom.”

Tommy turned to look at John. “John?”

“I’ve been here all afternoon, Tommy,” John replied. “Finn and Y/N have been upstairs.”

“Yup, I’ve been reading,” Y/N said, following John’s train of thought.

“I’ve been sewing my cap,” Finn added, nodding.

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Ahuh, then why did Moss say it sounded like Finn on the other end of the phone?”

Y/N sighed. “Fuck’s sake, Finn.”

“What was I meant to do!” Finn yelled.

“So, you lied to me?” Tommy asked, frowning.

Y/N shrugged. “That depends how you define lying, Tom.”

“Well, I define it as not telling the truth,” Tommy replied, walking closer to them. “How do you define it?”

Y/N paused, thinking. “Reclining your body in a… horizontal position,” she said, mimicking horizontal with her hands.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Tommy ordered.

Y/N nodded. “Absolutely.”  

“What exactly were you two going to do about this problem?” Tommy asked, staring at them both.

“Well, personally, I’m a huge fan of ignoring the problem until, eventually, it goes away,” Y/N replied, standing in the doorway.

“Y/N,” Tommy said, turning to face her. “What did I say?”

“Well you told me to leave but then started talking to me so I just… sort of… hovered,” Y/N replied, swinging her arms. “Besides, it’s not like the Italian was a good person or anything, probably had Finn shooting him in the head coming.”

Michael turned to stare at his cousin. “You’re a horrible person.”

Y/N sighed, nodding. “I know, it keeps me awake at night.”

“I didn’t mean to kill him!” Finn suddenly yelled. “It was self-defence.”

“What the fuck is happening in here?” Polly asked walking in and glaring at them all.

“Finn killed an Italian, Tommy’s pissed off at us – nothing new there - and apparently I’m a horrible person,” Y/N replied.

“Not to mention you won’t answer any questions,” Michael added, twirling his pen between his fingers.

Y/N clicked her fingers and pointed at him. “That too.”

Polly sighed. “I’ve been gone three hours.”

“What happens if they find out I killed him?” Finn asked.

“Who?” Y/N turned to look at him, frowning.

“The mafia!” Finn exclaimed. “I killed one of their own, they’re going to hunt me down and kill me,” Finn muttered, spiralling. “Oh god.”

“Alright, sit down,” Arthur said, shoving Finn into a chair and handing him a glass of whiskey. “I’m not gonna let you die, alright.”

Y/ N groaned. “God, can’t you at least think about it?” She asked, looking at Arthur lovingly. “For me?”

“I refer to my earlier statement,” Michael muttered.

“Oh, cry me a river, Michael,” Y/N snapped.

“Oi!” Tommy yelled. “We’re getting off topic. Y/N, since we all know you are a fucking terrible influence on Finn, you’re coming with me to dispose of the body.”

“Oh, no, thank you, it’s rather gory, disposing,” Y/N replied, shaking her head. “I might faint.”

Tommy raised his eyebrows, staring at her incredulously. “You faint at the sight of blood?”

“No, but I might at the sight of a chopped off arm!” She exclaimed.

“Y/N, stay here and keep quiet for once,” Arthur muttered, shaking his head as John laughed.

“If I could give you a grade on how profoundly you disturb me,” Michael said, looking at Y/N, “You’d be an A+ student.”

Y/N smiled gratefully at her cousin. “Aw, thanks Michael.”

John laughed again as Polly shook her head, slightly amused. Tommy groaned, hanging his head in despair.

“Right, Arthur and I will deal with Moss,” Tommy said, rubbing his face. “Y/N, stay here and try not cause any more chaos.”

“I wasn’t even the one to shoot him, Tommy!” Y/N exclaimed. “What the fuck?!”

“Yeah, alright,” Tommy said, waving a hand at her. “Stay here and let Michael teach you something useful, ok?”

“Yeah sure, we’ll do the alphabet, shall we Michael? Start with F end with U,” Y/N snapped, glaring at her brother.

Tommy glared back at his sister. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t end up shooting you at this rate.”

Arthur stepped forward, grabbing his sister by the shoulder. “Think you can answer some questions without the usual level of sarcasm?”

“If you ask them without the usual level of stupid, Arthur.”

Polly chuckled quietly. “Y/N,” she said warningly, her eyes betraying her amusement at her niece.

“So, you’re asking me to tell you what I wouldn’t not tell you,” Y/N asked, looking at her older brothers.

Arthur blinked. “First of, I have no fucking clue what you just said.”

“Secondly,” Tommy said, cutting in, “how about you just let us help you?”

“Well, it wasn’t me who killed him.”

“Y/N.”

“Well, I don’t know how to help you help me tell you something that would help if I don’t know it,” Y/N replied.

Tommy groaned. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

Y/N smirked, crossing her arms. “Possibly.”

[phantaloon-books]

Alright I got a couple comments asking for a continuation so here's part 2 of neil finding out the feds were onto smth when they recommended witness protection program

part 1

(Also thank you so much, I genuinely didn't expect such a good reception, everything I write is purely self indulgent)

Andrew is gonna fucking lose it. It's been over three weeks and not a single word from Neil fucking Josten. He's never hated him more, and this time he means it when he says hate. Actually he's not sure he hates himself or Neil more, but he feels hatred and rage and that's what matters. But of course the rabbit just left. Once a rabbit, always a rabbit.

He wanted so desperately to believe that, that Neil chose to run, that he chose to leave him them and keep running because that's what he knows best. Even if believing Neil chose to leave hurts him more than he'll ever admit, it's the best thing to believe. It's best to believe that Neil left than to believe something happened. It's best to believe Neil grew tired and bored of him them than to listen to the worry and dread Andrew's been feeling for months. It's best to believe Neil didn't want him than to let himself think of worst case scenarios.

But he can't make himself think that Neil left willingly and because he wanted to (and not it's not because he wants to believe that Neil wouldn't leave him). Neil would never run without his things, not without his stupid binder and money and contacts, not without clothes or any resources. If he ran away he would do it properly. He wouldn't leave with running clothes and his stupid flip phone. And most importantly Andrew knows that Neil has been restless lately. He's seen the way Neil checks every corner or every place, observes the people, looks for threats. He'd left those habits behind, so something has to have happened. Neil didn't just leave him.

The best thing is the other foxes aren't convinced Neil would run either. He had no one to run from, and he had a family now. And even if he was feeling overwhelmed or anxious, he would have come back. He wouldn't have taken three weeks. So they know, they know, Neil didn't leave because he wanted or needed to. And they're all anxious as hell about that bc if he didn't leave where is he?

They narrow it down eventually, and conclude that he got in a fight and is dead in a ditch somewhere, he had an accident in a coma in a hospital somewhere, he somehow got lost and/or lost his memory, someone killed him accidentally or not and his body is buried somewhere far away, or he's been taken. And Andrew cannot take the stress that he doesn't know where the fuck Neil is any longer.

He almost killed Kevin and several federal agents when Neil went missing for a few hours. This time, he hasn't tried to kill anyone yet but that hasn't stopped him from tearing every dorm apart and the stadium and the police station and the hospital and getting in fights with the FBI. He's desperate enough that he called Browning, hell, he's desperate enough that he contacted the Moriyamas, which wasn't a pleasant experience, but Ichirou had promised Neil protection and this definitely called for mafia intervention. So far neither the FBI or the Moriyamas had helped - yes they had, they informed him regularly that they were looking for Neil, but they had nothing, no clues no trails, and Andrew couldn't believe their incompetence, like for fucks sake the Moriyamas were yakuza, they ought to know what could have happened to one of their most valuable assets. And anyway if he ran, and wasn't taken, they for sure would be behind him, looking to kill him of course, but they still couldn't find him.

Andrew hasn't tried to kill anyone yet but he will soon if he doesn't find Neil, and he's sure he will start with himself. He can't remember the last time he slept or ate well, or went to exy practice, but he doesn't care. He can't care until he knows something. The lack of knowledge is driving him crazy. At this point knowing that Neil is dead and has been rotting in the countryside of Poland would be better than not knowing anything.

He hates this so much. He hates Neil for disappearing. He hates whoever went and got him. He hates the Moriyamas for not being able to find him and not keeping him safe in the first place. He hates himself for becoming so attached. He should have known better. He knew better. He knew it was a bad idea to feel all the things he feels for Neil, especially because it's Neil, the unpredictable rabbit. But he fell for the fake hope that they would make it, that he wouldn't be hurt again, that Neil would stay. He knew letting someone in again could kill him. He knows that if they don't find him, it will. He can't keep going like this. He was stupid enough to feel hopeful, but he won't be able to live once the hope dies.

He's laying in Neil's bed. He knows it's pathetic, but frankly he doesn't care. Everyday is worse than the last one. He's slipping and when he falls it's game over, he's going to make sure of that. If Neil genuinely cared, he'd be pissed at Andrew for even thinking about this. No he'd be upset, but not pissed, about the fact that he's considering taking his life over this. But he opened the door to feelings, and he won't be able to cope with them and he won't be able to close that door again. He's giving up.

Faint buzzing interrumps his thoughts. Someone's calling him. He couldn't stomach the runaway song that matched with Neil's but he couldn't stomach changing it either, so he leaves in on vibrate now. He looks at his screen. It's an unknown number. Most likely the FBI or the Moriyamas or a random police station ready to take him out of his misery and just tell him they found Neil's body. The code says it's from Minnesota. He considers not answering, but he might as well get over it.

He flips the phone open, "I only care about this if you are from the FBI or the literal mafia, so if you aren't from either, feel free to hang up." The other line stays silent for a few seconds, but when he looks at his phone, it's still going. The person didn't hang up. He doesn't have the patience for this. "I'm just gonna hang up then-"

"Andrew, wait." It's barely a hesitant whisper. The voice is absolutely shattered, rough and hoarse and very painful-sounding. There's wheezing too and labored breaths. But god. No matter how wrecked he sounds, he'd recognize that voice anywhere. In half a second he's up and falling from the bed in his haste, alert at last. He can't believe it. He wants to but he doesn't want to believe the call is real.

"Neil? Neil is that you?" He hates how vulnerable he sounds, but the thought dies quickly. There's no way, no way this is real. A sob breaks through the line, and oh it sounds so full of pain and fear.

"Andrew, I-I need you to stay safe. I don't know if they're coming for you, for the foxes. I need you to find a place where you're safe. Call Browning or Ich- the little Lord and make sure they can protect you guys for a while."

Okay that's definitely Neil even if he didn't answer the question. And Andrew's heart is going a thousand miles an hour, he doesn't feel his body anymore.

"Neil where are you? I'm coming to get you, I'll call Browning but where are you?"

"'Drew," another sob, and this one manages to break Andrew's walls more than than the whispered 'Drew', "promise me you'll stay safe, don't come looking for me, you can't take them down, please don't come looking for me."

The exhaustion and terror in his voice doesn't sit well with Andrew. The Neil he knows is not this. "For fucks sake Neil just tell me where in Minnesota you are, I'm coming to get you."

"No- no you're not, I'm not calling you because I want you to come. I just need you to promise you'll be safe."

"Neil who took you? Where are you? I can send the FBI or the japanese shits over, I swear to god I can send them to come get you if you just tell me where you are and who took you. I'll - I'll try my best to keep the others safe, but who took you?"

"I'm sorry, Andrew, I- I didn't mean to, please believe I didn't mean to leave, they- some of the Butcher's pals found me, I'm so sorry- I put all of you in danger again."

"Okay, that's something we can work with, now where are you Neil?"

"Andrew-" his breath hitches, he gasps and whimpers, "I'm so sorry, I have to go, I need to leave Andrew. Please stay safe. Look I- I love you okay? I'm sorry I didn't say it earlier."

"Neil wait don't hang up-"

And the line goes dead.

The world is falling apart, collapsing all around Andrew. He's numb but he feels encompassing terror. He can't feel a thing, he can't think. He was so close. It feels like Neil just slipped past his fingers, like he just let go of Neil and let him fall to the darkness. He thinks he may be falling too. He needs to call Browning. He does it instinctively, he doesn't register he has his phone to his ear until the FBI agents voice is calling to him. He also goes with what he's gonna say with the same instinct he pulled in Baltimore, knowing he can't mention certain mafia.

"Neil just called me, I have no idea from where, I have no idea how he got a hold of me, he didn't say a thing, he refused to say a thing other than we're in danger, the foxes, and that whoever took him will come for us- oh and apparently it's someone involved with the Butcher."

How he managed to be as apathetic and unattached to everything he said is beyond him. But whatever he says and whatever Browning says, FBI agents are now guarding them in the locker room of the Foxhole Court, with mattresses and mats laid down on the floor. and he doesn't know how they got here and he's cuffed all over again, but this time to Renee even if he doesn't remember being violent. Even the stupid rookies are here, looking extremely panicked and terrified despite most of them not giving a fuck that Neil was gone just hours ago. The other foxes - Neil's family - are pressing Andrew for answers, but he can't deal with anything at the moment.

He needs to call Ichirou too. That's the call that matters, because that's the call that can bring Neil home because he can't do that himself while cuffed to Renee and being guarded by the fucking FBI. He somehow convinces the agent to let him make a call, to his therapist he says, to grant him privacy even if that's utter bullshit. He's dragging Renee into the eye of the storm but oh well, why did they cuff him to her in the first place, it's not his fault. He calls the Moriyama representative he's been dealing with and thank Renee's god the woman answers.

"I need to talk to- to Lord Ichirou, it's about Neil Josten's whereabouts, I got important information about him." He can feel both the condescension from the other end of the line and poorly veiled shock from Renee. "I know where he is, I know about who's got him, I need to talk to Lord Moriyama."

He isn't sure how he managed it. He doesn't know how he convinced them to let them talk to their mafia boss, or how he's able to keep his cool for long enough to actually talk to the man himself. He thinks having Renee there, who asks no questions and keeps her hand on top of Andrew's with no hesitation, is part of the solution but he's not admitting that. Either or, he talks to Ichirou (he can't deny he's not terrified of messing up with the man who keeps Neil alive, but he's not admitting that either), reminds him of how Neil is important to the Moriyamas, both as an exy player and as a Wesninski, and how Neil, Kevin and Jean are loyal to the Moriyamas, hints at how Ichirou promised protection. He has perfect memory, but he will never remember how he convinced Ichirou Moriyama to send people to Minnesota and look for him all over the state and surrounding states, all he knows is that Ichirou stuck to his promise, all is good, he didn't fuck up.

Weeks pass again, nothing happens. There's no news from the Moriyamas, the FBI keeps telling him they're doing what they can. Andrew is done. No one came looking for them at least, which is nice bc they didn't die but it doesn't feel worth it when Neil wasn't back. He feels stupid for hoping he would come back safe and alive. The Moriyamas might as well have killed him for being such an inconvenience. Things are going to hell. Andrew was an idiot for falling so hard for Neil Josten. It was a mistake. He should have known better.

His anger is gone, and numbness has settled. It was becoming a habit for him to remain lying down most of the day. It was also becoming a habit for the foxes to take care of him when he did this. He can't even bother to shower if someone doesn't remind him every day, or eat, or drink water for that matter. He's a mess and he would be incredibly embarrassed if he cared a little, but he's slipping and he doesn't mind falling. Nothing is fine. Until it is.

It comes in the form of a text one morning, while he's lying on the couch in the living room. An unknown number again, New York code, and it only reads, "Threat has been dealt with - I". And what the fuck does that mean. It tells him absolutely nothing. If Ichirou bothered to text him he could at least be clear as to what the fuck that meant. Was Neil even alive? There is a soft knock at the door. Of course, someone bothers him when no other fox is at the dorm. They couldn't ditch every class to make sure Andrew didn't combust spontaneously.

He truly doesn't want to get up. He doesn't want to go answer the door. It's too much a bother. If it's someone important they'll either knock again aor shout for him to open up. He curls up in bed. He honestly wants to disappear. There's another knock, a little harder than the first. But there's no voice, no demand, no nothing. Maybe it's a Moriyama. Maybe he'll feel so disrespected or whatever he's gonna barge in and end his misery. Whatever. "Fuck off", he shouts from the couch, hoping for the best. There's another knock, for fuck's sake, can they just walk in already? Another, and he's up. Pissed and going for the door.

"Fucking hell, what do you want?" His anger is back with a passion, and he's practically stomping to the door, throwing it wide open, "Just barge through the fucking door, and get it over with-"

He has to stop exploding when people don't answer to him right away. Maybe he should work on his patience. Because frankly it has been working against him at the worst times. No it's not his fault. It's the idiot's fault for appearing at out nowhere and stealing his breath away. Everything is Neil Josten's fault.

"Hey Drew," said idiot's voice is impossibly more hoarse than when he called him before. Andrew can't tell if his heart is beating too fast or not at all. He thought he was a mess, but Neil looks like he's been through hell and back. Well, he's been through hell and back too many times before, but he's never looked this bad, and he was a mess after Evermore. His face is beaten so badly, so swollen, if he didn't know him and those stupidly blue eyes so well. Even his eyes are different, there's no spark, they're dull and hazy. He's wearing a large hoodie and sweatpants, so Andrew can't see the damage beyon his face, but at least his hands remain okay, there's no new damage. "Looks like I still have it in me to leave you speechless, huh."

Andrew takes a deep breath and he sighs. And his heart breaks. Neil. Neil. Neil is here. Andrew wants to craddle him and hold him and never let him go again. He doesn't care if it's soft, Neil is here. He raises his hands, frames Neil's face like he has before. He presses a hand to Neil's neck, looking for a pulse, and he finds it. He's alive.

"Neil," he breathes, and he feels. He feels. "You're alive, I thought, you-"

They're both silent. Andrew doesn't notice when Neil raises his hands, framing his own face. They've been here before.

"I'm not leaving you, I promised right? You're not getting rid of me that easily. "

He hates feeling this much, "You've got some explaining to do, but- it can wait."

"That's good yeah, because I'm not sure how much longer I can remain conscious and the Moriyamas weren't the best at patching everything up, so I'd really appreciate it if you call Abby."

He doesn't trust himself to open his mouth, so he guides Neil inside, holding on to his hand like a tether. Neil deflates, he grimaces as Andrew helps him to the couch. He's obviously hiding something below the clothes. Andrew stands to call Abby, but Neil grips his hand tightly. When Andrew looks up, he sees the fear and exhaustion he heard on the call weeks ago. Neil isn't able to keep up the act of being okay for long.

"Stay, pl- just," he looks away, and Andrew doesn't know how to feel about the pause, he didn't say the word, "can you stay?"

And he does. Things aren't fine. Neil is a mess. So is Andrew. They have to work through stuff. Andrew clearly has to work on the apparent dependancy issues. But they'll have time now. Neil is safe. He's alive and safe. He lost consciousness not long after he sat down, but Abby, Wymack and the foxes are on their way. They're not fine. But Neil is lying next to him, and he isn't gonna let him go again. They'll be fine.

[justarandomsideblog]

This is thrown together on the page with zero editing so there's probably many glaring mistakes but I wanted to get it out there so here ya go

oOo

Fundy falls in love with the piano when he is very young and L’Manburg is nothing more than a van, and it’s just a small keyboard he can play with on the floor while his father makes war plans but it’s how it begins. He plays it in the months it takes him to grow up, maturing faster than it takes for Tommy and Tubbo to reach adulthood.

He plays it until he’s old enough for his father to replace the keyboard in his hands with a sword.

He’s seven months yet thirteen years old when he’s allowed into the war room, fidgeting hands folded tightly in his lap. There is no time to play keyboard anymore, and it’s left forgotten in his nest of blankets and pillows when the whole thing goes up in a devastating blast.

The war ends and he plays again on a makeshift piano, given to him by his uncles who teach him to play more complex melodies in the quiet moments when they’re not working. Yet those moments become few and far between in the months it takes Fundy to age to sixteen, the same age his young uncles had turned before Fundy was even born barely ten months before.

He cherishes the moments before everything falls apart once more. Yet another war begins and he sets aside the keyboard again to fight. His fingers are calloused in ways soft paw pads like his should never be, raw and bleeding from the sword he holds the second time he watches his home go up in smoke.

Eret gifts him a piano one year after he was born, when he turns seventeen and his aging has finally begun to slow. They help him set it up in his home, way too large for the orphaned teenage hybrid, and it gleams beautifully in the flickering torchlight. His passion, lost with his father, flares up once more and he plays for Eret and Phil, a moment of peace. Finally peace. Finally, he thinks, the swords will be hung up on the wall and peace will reign at last- swords have no place in peace, as art has no place in war.

The moment shatters; Eret, having never received Fundy’s message, doesn’t make it to the adoption, and Phil leaves- the Butcher Army, Fundy and Tubbo’s subsequent disownment and Tommy’s exile leaving the angel nothing to stay in L’Manburg for. So now he plays for the silence, not even the music filling the emptiness he has always relied on, and there he realizes the truth that will always weigh heavily in his gut.

There will always be another war.

Doomsday carries with it the weight of this realization, and he grins painfully through the tears pouring down his face as his house is blown away, piano keys withering into nothingness, and he says to no one in particular, “There’s no place for art in war.”

And so, even though L’Manburg is gone, even though everything is over and done with, Fundy knows it’s not. He knows the next war is waiting around the corner, and so he quietly stays prepared- his sword always on his hip, a bow strapped to his back, armour settled into his holding bag ready to be pulled on at a moment’s notice.

He doesn’t own a piano anymore.

Phil doesn’t speak to him for a long time, except when Fundy forces him to. He forgives Tubbo- tentatively so, with a lack of trust- long before he’s even willing to acknowledge him and Fundy are related, and even when they’re speaking again- awkward, stilted, not natural like before- Phil doesn’t ask about the scars on Fundy’s hands. He doesn’t ask if Fundy is eighteen or twenty now, though Fundy no longer knows himself.

His grandfather asks only once if Fundy has learned any new songs.

“I don’t play the piano anymore,” Fundy answers, short and more broken than he sounds. Phil doesn’t press for more, and Fundy goes home to silence once more.

Then the nightmares start, and the silence is even worse than before- because now he wakes up and never knows if he’s awake, the song in his soul having died out long ago. He remembers bits and pieces, forgets others, and he tries to run away. He pulls the TNT he has ready for the next inevitable war and rigs his home- big and empty and echoing loneliness- with as much as he can fit up the stairs, in the walls, on and under the floor. He takes only what he needs most and puts it into a wagon, pulls out an arrow and sets it alight-

His grandfather messages him. Wants to meet up. Fundy is in no state to walk on eggshells but he goes anyway, because he wants his family back, and learns his father is alive. They search for him but by the end Fundy is ready to give everything up. He leaves Phil, mind made up, and waits until he knows Phil is through the portal.

This time when he watches his home go up, it’s by his own hand.

He leaves and speaks to no one for months, but the nightmares stay. He finds a kit. He takes the kit in, considering briefly calling Phil to let him know he’s now a great grandfather, but he decides not to- Phil hasn’t reached out at all, no one has, even though his home is no more than a crater in the ground... again.

So he says nothing and focuses on being a father, now. His kit doesn’t like being indoors, running out to play in the woods whenever he wants, and Fundy learns to keep up and keep him safe. He builds a nest on the porch, under the awning, a nice, dry and warm place where his kit likes to curl up and sleep at night, white fur standing out against the reds and oranges of Fundy’s once-favourite blankets.

He names the kit Yogurt, after arguing with the foxes that like to hang around.

Between the nightmares and the crippling loneliness, with no one but a child too young to understand speech and a rowdy skulk of foxes who come and go as they please, Fundy finds himself.

He doesn’t remember much of the nightmares but he does remember one big, important thing.

Quackity can’t be trusted.

Quackity appears to him just as he had in the nightmare, and Fundy already knows their conversation as it happens. Knows every little thing as they walk across the remains of L’Manburg. He knows what the next war will be.

This time, Fundy decides, he will pull the strings. Early the next day, while his skulk is out who knows where and Yogurt is bundled up, safe at home, Fundy dons his armour and grabs his sword and axe, and he makes his way to the place he knows Las Nevadas to be.

He arrives and stands on the hill overlooking the beautiful, daunting city, and he watches Quackity disappear into the casino while below him a totem god looks around.

In those few seconds, when Fundy sees the harsh gleam in Foolish’s eyes, a new plan forms.

They speak briefly, over the dune and out of sight of the casino, and they come to an agreement. With no witnesses, they shake hands and Fundy goes back home, and Foolish does not tell Quackity of his visit.

Later, when Fundy finally joins Las Nevadas with his skulk a few steps behind, he mixes truth in with the lies and hopes the skulk will not out him.

To gain the trust of one who doesn’t trust, it takes someone who also doesn’t trust.

Yet Fundy, who at his heart and soul is a fox- a trickster- a spy- knows how to play the part of one who does. One who doesn’t know that he will always be left alone.

When Quackity asks him about his war experience, he answers truthfully- “I have been in every army and every war.”

He is a soldier to Quackity, first and foremost, and so when Quackity presents to him the piano inside the casino polished to perfection, he looks on it with silent discontent.

“I don’t play piano anymore.”

There is no place for art in war.

-

“Your hands are made to create, not destroy.”

Fundy looks up from the dagger he is playing with, seeing Foolish standing in front of him. Purpled is off to the side, on guard for Quackity and pretending he isn’t listening.

It isn’t the first time they’re meeting like this and it won’t be the last. Plans have to be made. Escape routes planned. Snowchester and Las Nevadas will tear each other- and themselves- apart long before Fundy and Foolish could ever put their plan into action. Playing nice and trying to keep everything from blowing up too early is getting exhausting, but it has to be done. After all, Fundy’s family is in the crossfire now- he silently curses Tubbo and Ranboo for building the mountain outpost, and he outwardly curses Tommy and Wilbur for making their ‘country’ right across the river.

“A lot of things are made to do what they’re not supposed to,” Fundy says to the god, putting the knife down. Tonight he has messaged Phil, pleading with him to stay away from Las Nevadas- but it has remained unread, and similar messages sent to Niki and Tommy and Ranboo are all the same. “What are you even talking about, anyway?”

“Tubbo said you used to play piano,” Foolish says, gaze drifting past Fundy to the piano left, abandoned, against the wall. “He asked me to put one in the mansion big enough so you guys could play together.”

“I haven’t played piano in a long fucking time,” Fundy scoffs, drumming his fingers anxiously against his legs. As much as he wants to... “But I guess Tubbo wouldn’t know that. We haven’t had a proper conversation since L’Manburg.”

Tubbo isn’t much like his uncle anymore. Tommy, neither. They don’t come around or check on him, they haven’t since long before L’Manburg fell. Tubbo feels more like... that neighbor kid you play with because there’s no other neighbor kids your age. They mess around and talk and joke when Quackity sends Fundy to investigate the outpost but it’s only because they don’t want to fight anymore. They don’t want to be on opposite sides, anymore.

Fundy can’t even tell him that they aren’t on opposite sides.

Ranboo says to choose people, and they all play the part easily enough, him and Tubbo and Fundy, but Fundy has always chosen people. He chose his family in the past, every time, regardless of what side they were on, until suddenly the family was split. What did sides matter, when it came to love, to friends, to family, to acceptance? How do you choose between the uncle who raised you and the grandfather who was there when you needed him?

Well, it no longer really matters.

This time he chooses Foolish and Purpled, the two who care about and accept him without question, whether he needs them or not.

Purpled, who respects that he doesn’t want salmon to be eaten even when he isn’t here. Purpled, who knows how it feels to be forgotten, who knows how it feels to have nothing to his name.

Foolish, who understands his need for symmetry. Foolish, who knows how it feels to want to leave the past behind, who knows how hard it is to feel worthy of forgiveness and redemption.

No, Fundy still loves his legal-and-blood family very much, but he supposes Foolish and Purpled have become the family he had always wanted to have.

Laughing and talking with them never feels forced, or awkward, or like walking on eggshells. He never feels like he is one misstep from being banished.

It’s nice.

“There’s no place for art in war,” Fundy finally says, filling the space growing between the trio they’ve formed.

They fall into silence, none of them trying to protest- none of them saying what they are in now is not a war. Maybe in another life this beautiful city that they’ve poured themselves into building up in order to build trust with the president could have been home, but in this life it was one thing alone-

The way to end the war, to stop Quackity in his tracks.

“After the war is over, will you play for us?” Purpled asks now.

And he will, though Fundy doesn’t know it yet. Once the war is over and the nuke has been dismantled, torn to pieces by its own creator’s hands, and Quackity and Fundy have both been reduced to one last life each, Fundy will sit at a piano at Foolish’s Summer Home, with the friends and family he has left- with Foolish and Purpled, Tubbo and Tommy and even Wilbur, with Techno and Phil and Niki and Ranboo, with Slime and Yogurt, every person he has ever loved and cared about and will one day save- and he will play a melody Tubbo taught him when he was a kit, still playing on a clumsy piano thrown together from scrapwood and busted strings in the living room of a house long since rotted and burned away.

For now, though, not knowing what the future has in store, Fundy only smiles and says, “There will always be another war.”

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Soldier Boy (Part 2)

Summary: The reader spends the day with Dean getting to know him some more when she catches him in a lie and discovers one of his most dark secrets...

Masterlist

Pairing: Superhero!Dean x reader

Word Count: 2,600ish

Warnings: language, mentions of death, angst

A/N: Enjoy!

____

“So how old are you, Solider Boy?” you asked the next day as you walked around the park. 

“Thirty,” he said with a smirk.

“Solider Boy’s been around since the second world war. So. How old are you really?” you asked.

“I was eighteen when I was injected. I’ve aged very slowly. I do age, but it’s slow. They...I shouldn’t talk about this stuff,” he said, kicking at the ground with his boot. “Ah, fuck it, it’s in the news anyways.”

“The compound V?” you asked and he nodded.

“First successful try right here. I was still going through puberty so it took,” he said. “I guess. The science is very complicated they said. They just said you want to serve your country and I signed up.”

“What year were you born?”

“January 24th, 1926,” he said. You paused and he chuckled. “I know some women aren’t into older men.”

“I must seem like a child to you,” you said, walking again and crossing your arms.

“You’re twenty nine. I’m thirty. What’s such a big deal about that?” he smiled.

“You’re sweet,” you said. You dropped your hands by your sides, Dean taking one of them in his. “Old man ain’t wasting his time.”

“Keep it up, kiddo,” he laughed. You laced your fingers together with his hand and smiled as you looked at him. A flannel and t shirt. Jeans and boots. A baseball cap on his head. He looked so ordinary and yet he was the first superhero in existence. “I’m sure you’re wondering if I ever had a family.”

“A bit. It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” you said. 

“No, I want to. I don’t talk to anyone anymore. Aside from the people at Vought to try and get in The Seven but that’s like beating a dead horse at this point,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Apparently I’m too similar in the market sector as Homelander. Go ‘merica and color scheme and that shit. I didn’t ask to be the leader or anything. I just...want to get off the kiddie squad, go do real shit out there, help people, not the stupid stuff I do now.”

“Maybe that’s why you don’t fit on The Seven. You want to help people, you don’t care about the photo op,” you said.

“I’m gonna keep trying,” he said. “But to answer your other question you didn’t ask, no, I never had a family. I had parents and a brother but they’ve all passed away. All my friends are gone. It never seemed right to love a girl and have a family and watch them all grow old and...honestly I didn’t want to watch my children grow older than me and die. I can’t imagine anything worse than outliving them.”

“You’re a good man, Dean.”

“I had the occasional acquaintance, don’t get me wrong. But it was always casual, no titles, nothing formal.”

“Is this casual?” you asked. He shook his head and you bumped his shoulder. “What’s different this time?”

“A chemical made me this way. Maybe a chemical can unmake me this way. We are so advanced now compared to back then. Maybe I can age normally with some other combination. Maybe I’m stuck like this forever. I just know that the numb pit inside of me woke the fuck up when I met you and it has been quiet for a very, very long time.”

“My mom’s quiet a bit older than my dad. Age gaps don’t scare me,” you said. He chuckled and you held onto his arm. “You don’t sparkle like the twilight guy though right?”

“Oh my God, no,” he laughed. “No sparkles here. I do make sparks when bullets bounce off of me though.”

“Well now you’re just bragging,” you said. You rested your head on his arm, thinking back to a movie you used to watch as a kid, Solider Boy the lead in the thing. “Dean.”

“Hm?”

“Why did you just lie about not having a family?” you asked, pulling away from him. You knew you could have let it go, should have let it go for the sake of the mission but damn you were pissed off at him for lying to you. You crossed your arms and he frowned, going over to a nearby bench. You sat down next to him, Solider Boy rubbing his hands together. “You were in this movie my brother loved so I watched it all the time. He was a huge fan and he would never shut up about you. I never paid much attention but I remember. You had a wife and kids once.”

“You’re gonna leave after I tell you this part,” he said, a sad smile on his face.

“I’m gonna leave if you don’t tell me the truth right now. You will never see my face again. You promised you would not lie to me. Out with it Dean.”

“I wasn’t always a good person. It’s very...difficult to stay good when there’s so much bad around you. When there’s no consequences.”

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

“My son and daughter died hating me, thinking I was a monster. They died because of me. That was the breaking point for me. I walked away after that, I started over. I’d turned into this thing I didn’t recognize. I became Soldier Boy. Dean Winchester...he died back in that war. Not until the nineties did I realize what had happened to me. So I left. Went away from the world. Brought Dean back to life and Soldier Boy came back but different. Good this time. Greed, corruption. It’s not happening this time. Then you said...you made that comment about me being naive, that I’d turn eventually into an asshole supe like the rest of them. I’m terrified of that happening to me again. Maybe that’s why I like you, cause you’ll remind me not to be a monster again.”

“Why do you call yourself a monster?” you asked quietly.

“The first time I killed someone, I was mortified. The last time I did it, I laughed. It made me happy. I hurt him before I did it even. I stopped caring about people. My wife wanted a divorce. I thought she was hot, she fit my image. I told her I didn’t want one so she took some pills and told me she’d rather die than live with the devil. My kids were young adults, late twenties. I snapped at them when they blamed me for their mother’s death. My son hit me so I pushed him and he hit his head. My daughter ran out, afraid of me and was hit by a car. They died because I didn’t want to lose my image. I wasn’t even that upset at first. I thought a widow superhero, that’ll boost my numbers.”

“If that didn’t…” you said, Dean running his hands over his thighs. “What made you change?”

“I found a drawing my daughter had made me when she was small,” he said. He took out his wallet and unfolded a laminated sheet of paper holding it out to you. It was done in crayon, a few stick figures with one of them wearing a superhero outfit and the word “daddy” written above it. “She loved me once. I ripped it away from her. I found that cleaning out the house and I realized what I’d done. I’m worse than any bad guy there ever was for doing that to them. I stopped caring. When you stop caring is when you lose those bits of your soul. They break off until there’s nothing left. I am a monster, Y/N. Nothing I ever do can make up for it and save whatever shattered pieces are in there. But I owe it to my kids to be good and stay good.”

You handed the sheet back and he tucked it away, his wallet going in his pocket as he stared out at the trees across the path. 

“I understand if you would no longer like to see or speak to me again. Or if you want to slap me in the face. That’s also acceptable,” he said.

“What year was all of this?” you asked.

“They died in ‘92. Then I ran away to Kansas, worked as a farmhand for a while,” he said. He rubbed his palm and stared down at his lap. “Just...be careful at night and try to stop walking down alleys for me, okay?”

“Why are you saying that?”

“I’m never going to see you again after you get up from this bench.”

You stood up and he let out a sigh. You took a step to your left and sat down closer to him, turning your head as Dean looked so horribly confused at you. You couldn’t walk away. It wasn’t an option. But while you knew you couldn’t walk because of the mission Butcher had you on, you didn’t want to. There was so much self-hate inside of Dean he hid well and part of you ached that he considered himself sub-human.

“Y/N, what are you doing?”

“Dean. What happened to your family was horrible but they were accidents. Your daughter, your son. Your wife, did she even let it sink in for you before she did that? If I was married to someone and they suddenly asked for a divorce my gut reaction would probably be no too. I’m not saying you didn’t play a part but those were her actions that trickled down and affected the rest of you. Letting yourself become corrupted means you’re human. We all make fucking mistakes. Yours are a little big, I admit that. But you try to make up for it. All you can do after the fact is try and you’re doing that. There’s a soul in there Dean. If there wasn’t this wouldn’t be eating you alive. Cut yourself a break. I gotta process everything you said but I’m not walking away. Promise you will never lie to me again and I can promise you that I won’t judge you, no matter what you’ve done.”

“I’ve been around 95 years and I’ve never met anyone like you,” he said. “That’s a good thing. I will never lie to you again. I swear. I’m sorry. I was...frightened of telling you who I was deep down. I like you. I’ve never felt like this before. It’s the first bit of happiness I’ve felt in a long time and I don’t want it to go away just yet.”

“It’s okay that you were scared. Maybe on our third date we can have a less intense conversation. We can talk about how you’re older than sliced bread,” you teased. 

“You youngin’s don’t know how good you got it,” he chuckled. You took his hand into your lap and he smiled. “Not a monster to you?”

“No. Just be a good guy and I’ll be happy,” you said. You leaned over and kissed his cheek, Dean looking you up and down.

“I wish I knew you when I was a dumb kid that let them shove that stuff in me. I never would have said yes if I had a girl back home.”

“Well, from now on, maybe just ask if you think I’d be proud of what you were doing. If the anwer’s no, maybe don’t do it,” you said.

“I’m gonna keep that one,” he said. “Also did you subtly drop that I’m getting another date despite all of that?”

“You told me the truth, even though it was hard. That’s why I like you too,” you said. “Plus you’re really old so you must have like, sex down to perfection by this point.”

“Gonna blow your fucking mind,” he teased. “Eventually. I know things are different nowadays but…you’re special. You’re not a hookup.”

“When you’re ready, you let me know and we’ll go from there, okay?” He nodded and you gave him a hug, Dean hesitant at first but he quickly relaxed into it. “You alright?”

“Been a long time since I had a hug is all.”

“You need one, just come to me,” you said. You sat back and he smiled. “So. Let’s go do something fun. You look like you could use it.”

“Night,” murmured Dean as he kissed you at your doorstep that evening.

“Night,” you said, not moving away from him just yet. His ears perked up and he forced himself away. “Trouble?”

“Yeah. Nothing major. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

“Bye Dean,” you said, watching him take off running far faster than any human man could. You smiled as you locked up, a loud thud coming from your kitchen. You unlocked the door and looked around. “Hello?”

“For such a nice house you have an incredibly small kitchen,” said Butcher as he walked out with the bottle of your nicest bourbon.

“Oh come on, that was a housewarming present,” you said.

“I swipe you some more,” he said, taking a long swig. “How’s it going?”

“Good. We got close today but Butcher you seriously can not come back here again. Dean was this close to coming inside tonight.”

“Dean. I thought he was Solider Boy.”

“You know what I mean.”

“You want to wind up like his last broad did? You give him the puppy dog eyes and then we make a move,” he said.

“I’m starting to think we might get further with sugar over spice. Billy he wants to make up for his past. If he gets into The Seven he could be a serious asset.”

“Are you going soft on me?” he asked, an edge in his voice. 

“Let me work him the way I know best. Trust me,” you said.

“Don’t forget what this is for. You call when you’re ready,” he said. “Don’t take too long.”

He left out the back and you sighed, running your hands over your face. Sure, Dean had done some bad things in the past but who hadn’t? He wasn’t playing you, he had no reason to. The part of you that wanted revenge was still there but he didn’t cause your brother to die, not really. He was simply a prime target at the moment.

You swallowed and went to the kitchen, taking the bottle of alcohol to the family room. You sat on the couch and took a swig, letting it burn your throat.

You didn’t want him to get hurt. You liked him. A lot. Maybe you could convince him to go away, be someplace safer. Your head turned when you got a text, the alert saying it was from Dean and him asking you if you wanted to get out of the city and go hiking tomorrow.

Maybe that’d be a good time to tell him the truth. He was bound to find out eventually and if he got mad, at least you’d be the only one in danger. Billy’s voice was at the back of your head but you ignored it. He’d been angry for too long, couldn’t see the good in people anymore. Dean wasn’t what you thought he was at first. He was good deep down.

You’d tell Solider Boy the truth tomorrow and hoped you lived to see the next day.

______

A/N: Read the Final Part here!

[corpsentry]

ao3 link

fandom: botw pairing: zelda/link rating: g notes: established relationship, post-canon, (pensive) holidays

Zelda stares at him. “What are you, a poet?”

“No,” Link leans against the table like a portrait of god splattered against an average household surface. “I’m Link.”

Hope runs a sharp course in a village like this.            

He tries to eat the icing before they’ve started decorating the cookies like a dog jumping into a pile of leaves before there are leaves to jump into.

“It looked sweet,” he explains when Zelda asks him what in the name of Hylia he’s doing. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a blue streak the size of a scar on his face. Zelda frowns.

“Sorry.” He looks up at her from under his lashes, blinking innocently.

She contemplates pouring the entire bowl of icing on his head, then decides that it’s too much effort and returns to her berries. “It’s not my hand that’s dirty.”

The clock on the wall says it’s fifteen minutes past four. There’s a poisonous spider attached to the ceiling lamp. The berries she purchased from a passing merchant (one of the donkey variety, not the horse; the donkey merchants offer better prices and funnier jokes) are not the freshest, which says less about the merchant and more about the distance between Hebra and Hateno, but they’re sweet. Sour-ish, tangy, with bite. Zelda is very big on the culinary arts. Restoration is a holistic effort, after all.

Link seems to have finished having a long and very serious conversation with himself in his head. He emerges from his wintry stupor with a stupid look on his face while she continues to grind the berries into a pulp.

“But my hands are your hands?” he says, honest as the day he was born. The second time.

“What are you, a poet?”

He takes offense at this. “No,” Link leans against the table like a portrait of god splattered against an average household surface. “I’m Link.”

Zelda stops grinding the berries for long enough to realize she has outdone herself. The berries are not a pulp. They are not a paste. They are not the perfect texture for combining with three times the amount of white icing so that one can make a perfect batch of cookies dripping in blood-red sugar. They are a liquid.

She licks the mortar thoughtfully. Link makes an expression at the oven that suggests he wants to climb inside of it and see what it does. Zelda walks him into the table until he’s leaning back over the bowls and the berries and she’s staring at the underside of his chin.

“Yes,” she confirms, more for herself than the vaguely human-shaped disaster trapped in front of her. “You’re Link.”

::

Christmas in Hyrule is not a celebration of anything in particular. It probably was, at the beginning, but in the years since their ancestors’ civilizations rose and fell and rose and fell and then gave up on the rising and decided to stay in the earth until they sprouted into new trees with new names, the meaning has been lost. This seems like a fair thing to give up in exchange for the festivities themselves, which are silly and full of minor contrivances like turkeys filled with smaller turkeys and children running in blood-red clothing to the highest point in their village.

Christmas in Hyrule is not a celebration of anything in particular, but when Link wanders over to the table with a kitchen knife in one hand and asks her what she’s going to do to all these cookies, Zelda feels abruptly and inexplicably like it should be. It’ll be the harvest season again soon, but that’s not for a few months. No one’s birthday happens to be on the twenty-fifth, though her father’s is close. She stares at the table and tries to come up with a prophecy on the fly, something that will impress the boy with the sky stuck under his eyelids, but draws a blank.

“I’m going to eat them,” she says stupidly, feeling stupid, feeling suddenly like she might cry.

He puts down the knife and picks up a rolling pin. She loves him more than all the horses in the world combined.

“Sounds good. Can I help?”

::

Here’s what Link remembers. First of all, he remembers waking up in a blue box as the blue slowly drained out of the box and the ceiling wilted into view. He remembers meeting her dead father and thinking he was a hoot and stealing all of his shit regardless of whether it was useful shit or not-useful shit. He remembers having his own death narrated to him, atop the ruins of a temple that someone erected to time, while the land whose name he had forgotten reached towards the heavens (him) (he was heaven, at least for a while).

“Wasn’t that traumatizing?” Zelda asked him when he described it to her the first time.

Link thought about this. As he did so his hands in her hair stilled, her braids still half-done, his fingers clasped loosely around a few strands of gold. “It was,” he finally said. “But so was everything else.”

Second of all, he remembers the events of the calamity in thirteen fucked-up pieces. Twelve of these were given to him by Zelda, who had gone out of her way to document their demise in the hopes that one day someone might take notice and pull the shivering ghost out of the water. The last one was a gift from Impa, who had gone out of her way to make sure that he would be suitably guilted into wanting to save the world, and therefore, at the end of the times and in spite of all of his personal wants and needs, do so.

“That one was traumatizing.” She didn’t have to ask this time. He had figured out by this point that she cared very much about his mental health despite him not knowing the first thing about self care (he had a tendency to launch himself from high places, which was perfectly fine until he realized he had left the paraglider at home) and was going to unpack all the dirty dishes in his head even if he was fairly content with letting them pile up.

This made her sad. Both Link’s response and the fact that his survival mechanism for the first three months had been to pretend he was not, in fact, sleeping in a burning building.

“I’m sorry,” she said, touching the side of his face. He turned into the palm of her hand, his eyes closed.

Conversely, here’s what Link doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember the first time he swam in the lake near Hateno (not the one with the frogs, the one with long reeds growing at the bottom that tickle your feet when you swim past), though he swears it must have happened. He doesn’t remember what his worst childhood fear is (his list of things to be constantly terrified of was overwritten when he woke up in the blue box; they’re still working on overwriting that new list now). He doesn’t remember how Hyrule celebrates Christmas, how they stuff the turkeys full of smaller turkeys and the children go diving from high places, and he doesn’t remember that they do all this for no reason other than that their ancestors did it, and their ancestors’ ancestors did it, and that their ancestors’ ancestors worshiped a legend, not a god.

“I’d like to deliver a batch to Kakariko,” Zelda sighs, looking out the window at the long shadow of the sun on the fields.

Link shuts off the water in the sink. “And I’d like to kiss you,” he says simply. “Is gift-giving part of tradition too?”

Zelda blinks at him. “Yes, but, how do you know that?”

He shrugs. “Magic.” He gestures at the poisonous spider in the ceiling who they’ve named Bartholomew. “A mistake.” She walks over to the kitchen sink and wipes her dirty hands on his shirt and then pulls him closer, smelling the cinnamon in his hair. “A miracle.”

::

They hold the annual Christmas dinner under Uma’s tree, between the bridge above the stream cutting perpendicularly through the village and the house that used to stand occupied, but now houses a respectable flower arrangement and several candles. It’s an intensely traditional affair, with the turkey emerging from the butcher’s at eight o’clock sharp to enormous fanfare and the children running up the hill a little after that to harass Purah and ask her for spare machine parts that they can use to build water guns. There’s dancing, because Hyrule has not and likely never will shake off the habit of celebrating anything it is given the chance to celebrate (mourning is a habit they will not let themselves sink into), but it’s slow and syrupy, the apple cider warm, the lights shimmering.

Zelda talks to everyone she can talk to. She never got the chance to do so a hundred years ago between the empty cycles of prayer and the long-standing never-quite-resolved feud she had with her father, and now the war is over and the Hateno of a hundred years ago is gone. It’s a name on a long list of regrets she can do nothing about, except this.

“I love your hair,” she says.

“Thanks.” Nebb sucks audaciously on a leg. “I hate it.”

Pruce, who runs the general store, is sitting in the grass with his guitar the way he was the last time Zelda distracted a trio of musicians and disrupted the flow of the universe. He’s playing a song which he says, when asked, was passed down to him from his great-great-grandparents, who in turn received it from their parents, who lived before the calamity. The notes are soft and melancholy, but it’s the kind of song you can dance to if you try hard enough. The residents of Hateno have been trying all their lives. Through the aftermath of the calamity, when the boy fell but the fort stayed standing and soldiers came limping up through the hills to ask for water; through the winter years, when the harvests were bad and they had to bury happiness in an unmarked grave; through an era of hope, when the boy woke up on the plateau, and wandered back to them with a sword in his hand and a legend on his tongue. The residents of Hateno know resilience like most people know to wash their face when they wake up. Give us this day our daily bread. Give us strength, and water, and miracles. Give us what it takes to keep going.

Merry Christmas, says Sophie from the clothing boutique, and Zelda is trying very hard to remember who is who and mostly succeeding but she wants to ask Sophie if she celebrates Christmas for a reason. Has she had a slice of turkey yet, does she like turkey? Has she ever been in love? The questions prick her skin like needles. Her grip on the stem of her wine glass tightens.

She says Merry Christmas back. The average Hylian does not live long enough to see a hundred. It is a blessing, then, that someone was willing to wait that long for her.

“I haven’t seen, uh, Link around,” Sophie continues, her hands knotted behind her back. “Is he okay?”

“Oh no, I mean, yes, I mean probably—”

Which is when it dawns on Zelda like a horse emerging from the brown earth that most of her anxieties have a name: his.

::

She checks the roof of the house in Hateno first because it seems like the obvious answer. When it turns out the obvious answer is wrong she checks the pond in the backyard, and then the pond slightly further away, outside of the village but close enough to be a scenic spot for sad people who need a place to go on Sundays. After walking around in circles for a while it occurs to her that she hasn’t looked inside the house, only around and above it, as if Link were a bird that can only be found in high, fast, free places. Strange. That doesn’t seem right.

She finds him on the second floor, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his face hidden. He might appear to be sleeping if not for the fact that his shoulders are too close to his ears and the interior of the house is shining. Someone went on a cleaning spree. Someone had something they wanted to hide.

Zelda feels her stomach turn sharply.

“Link.”

He looks up.

“Is it over already?” He turns to peer out the window above his head. “That was fast.” He looks back towards her, arranging his limbs so he looks less tense, so the tension bleeds into the floor and stays there. “I thought it’d take longer.”

“Link.”

Link blinks at her in the warm syrupy darkness like a stray cat in a town full of ghosts, tail upright, poised to run. Good, Zelda thinks. Be on edge. Think about things. She sets the wine glass she hadn’t realized she had brought with her on the bedside table. She sits down in front of him.

“You didn’t want to be there, did you?”

Silence unfurls between them. There’s not much space for it to move around. He’s close enough that she can track the precise trajectory guilt takes across his face. It starts in his eyes and slides down his cheeks and ends in the way he brings his hands together and begins to fiddle absently with his gauntlets. He bites his lip.

“I wanted you to be happy.”

Zelda groans and hides her face in her hands and then curls up on the floor and dies. Just kidding! She doesn’t do any of these things. She’s too busy staring at heaven’s imprint on his face.

There are a lot of things Link remembers. He has told her about a large number of them, in part because she always asks and in part because he seems to have a lot more to say now that everyone who placed the sky on his shoulders is dead. He remembers the important things, like how to swing a sword and how to defeat evil. He remembers the awful things, like dying.

Link’s head is a balloon with an infinite number of hallways. The inside is reliable and steady and whatever lives in there stays in there, but the exterior is frightening in the way that watching a child heave a snowman over the edge of a cliff is. What happens when the inside of the balloon and the outside of the balloon meet? What strange chemical reactions; what magic?

There are a lot of things Link remembers. To the detriment of Zelda and the world that she represents, he remembers how to die for people. Since the calamity ended he has had less cause to do this, which is a good thing, which is the only reason she can sleep at night, but the habit is a ghost on his left shoulder. He turns down things people give him in exchange for a higher purpose.

She sighs.

“Look.”

You wake up in a room full of strange blue light. Someone is speaking to you for the first time in your life. In that singular emerging moment in this new world, they have defined beauty for you.

She reaches for his hands. “You see, right, Link.”

You wake up and there is a voice in your head. She calls you Link. That must be your name. You must be real.

He doesn’t want her to touch him, not in this moment, not with Christmas hanging over their heads like a big bad moon which is going to crash into the earth, killing everyone instantly. He’s on edge and he doesn’t know why. He’s walked back into the burning building and he doesn’t know why. Maybe solitude contains fewer reminders of happiness. Maybe he’ll never get used to waking up beside the sun.

You wake up and you are afraid of everything. You wake up and you are everything. You wake up and everything is yours to save, or abandon, or leave to ruin.

Zelda holds his hands with gently herculean force. She leans into him, her eyes shining with bitterness and frustration and anger. “You can’t just decide what’ll make me happy, Link.” Glitter, stars, the voices of angels in his ears. “Your hands are my hands. Get it?”

He clears his throat. “That doesn’t seem like a very healthy relationship.”

Zelda doesn’t flinch. “I waited a hundred years for you to come back from the dead.”

“That’s true.”

When do they get to the part where the war is over and it starts to feel like it? When does the transition end and the aftermath become its own story, separate from the hundred-year-corpse of conflict, from the misery it birthed in its absence? She’s said all that there is to say. The rest has to be done, has to be acted out with blood and bone, rebuilt like the castle they rode away from on that second first day of her life as Hyrule stepped shakily off of the cold balcony of twilight. Zelda doesn’t know what it’s like to cry anymore, but she can tell you a thousand stories about sadness. She’s lived in it for so much of her life. For so much of the time since, she’s kept it pinned up on the kitchen wall.

“You’re a mess,” she says miserably. “Merry Christmas. There is no Christ. We made him up a long time ago to feel better about ourselves.”

He laughs.

“I figured.”

Figured what? Figured I couldn’t make up a prophecy about Santa? Figured the kids were all joking about the cliff? Figured I wanted you to like this country despite everything it’s taken from you, despite everything it made you give up?

Zelda exhales.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Have I ever said no?”

She frames his face with her hands. Idiot sandwich. Idiot boy. Idiot miracle. “Have you ever said yes?”

“Yes?” He looks confused for a moment and she has never wanted happiness for him more. “I think so?” He frowns nicely and she considers carving his heart out and hanging it on the wall. “Yes.”

She kisses him. Merry Christmas. Dress up in red and climb a cliff near the house you grew up in. Take a boy home and build him an altar. Go to a party and leave early and spend the rest of the night talking about how you’ll never get over the body in the attic, and then point at it and laugh. There will always be a body in the attic. There will always be wisdom, courage, and grief. But the first time he sees a pile of leaves and jumps headfirst into it with his eyes squeezed shut and his knees tucked to his chest, you will forget for a moment that you watched the world end from a tower in the sky, you will forget that hurt is the least dignified part of history, and you will think, instead, of the weightlessness of angels.

[cosmicbash]

One the angsty prompt ideas I’ve been thinking about is Kells practicing how to cook for weeks so he can surprise Em by cooking him dinner, maybe for an anniversary or something, and on the day Kells has planned to surprise him, Em is hours late, leaving Kells alone for the evening. If you’re interested maybe you could write something like this? 🥰

3 years together. One thousand and ninety five fucking days between him and this old dorky man.

It's insane. Downright impossible to believe but Colson knows it's as real and true as the 2 year sobriety chip he's got hung around his neck on the gold chain Marshall gifted him with it this morning.

Both their relationship and his sobriety are as intertwined as their lives are now. Marshall's like the glue that holds all of his pieces together. Picking Colson back up, time and time again whenever he shattered in the beginning and filling in the gaps with his own loose pieces until it was Colson's turn to do the same. Which, by then, it only made sense to combine their puzzles and broaden the picture.

Now Marshall swoops in for Casie's PTA meetings he can’t make during tour. Holding the phone and helping him FaceTime for soccer games and school conferences when flight delays or bad luck keeps him late.

Colson tags along to Whitney's first few dates out in LA, weaving through the public spaces Marshall never could without drawing attention just to make sure she's safe and respected.

They tag team any situation involving the girls, even though Alaina and Hailey both still snicker at him from time to time, and Casie rolls her eyes at Marshall's rules. They're more than just dating now.

They're family.

And even just thinking about that brings tears to Colson's eyes.

Or maybe it's the onions. Baze said chewing gum helped mitigate this fucking problem but goddammit does it burn-

"Fuck!"

He has no idea how he got it in his mind that he could actually cook a meal, let alone a full anniversary dinner for Marshall but here he is. A pot and pan already cooking on the stove and his fingers knicked a dozen times in his rush to cut up more veggies for the sauce. 

It's insane.

But Colson's following through with it anyway, because he fucking loves Marshall and that bastard cooks dinner for them every single holiday or occasion so it's about time he stepped up to the plate and did it himself. 

Plus he's been secretly practicing for weeks with Baze over both FaceTime and a few in person lessons. Perfecting his simmering styles and meat seasoning to make the tastiest meal he can manage all on his own.

So far the last three times he's made the dish his bassist had given stellar reviews so there's little chance he'll somehow fuck it up tonight knowing it's for Marshall…..at least, he hopes.

The minor setbacks his butchered fingers have brought aside though, so far everything was coming along perfectly. His noodles are boiling (never over the rim, thank you wooden spoon trick), his meats marinating, and as soon as he tosses these sliced onions in his sauce will be cooking down beautifully.

All in all the night is starting to look like it just might be perfect.

Until 6 o'clock passes by and Colson's ears never pick up the click of the front door knob, or the hum of Marshall's escalade pulling up front outside.

The food's still simmering, minutes away from being actually done so he doesn't worry too much. Sure he was hoping to have a sweet moment where his boyfriend comes home and catches him cooking at the stove like a traditional housewife, but seeing his face when the food's done and plated promises to be just as cute.

Besides, Marshall has always fit the housewife role so much better than him anyway. Even the apron Colson's wearing is one of the older rapper's, stolen from his small collection in the pantry to protect his designer sweater.

Colson doesn't start to worry at 6. Traffic can be a bitch.

7 though? And then 7:30 when his texts go unread and his calls ring all the way through to voice-mail? That's when the blonde starts to fret. 

He's luckily put off plating because some brief flash on uncertainty had run through him after the food finished so it's stayed warm and simmering on the stove. But even that had to come to an end before 7:30 because his sauce would singe or his noodles might squish, so now Colson's trying to keep busy by perfecting the presentation. Shaky fingers swiping around the edges of Marshall's plate to clean up a splatter of sauce. Every Chopped Judge rambling off feedback in his head until he has it looking like something he's certain even Gordon fucking Ramsey would ask for a bite of.

By 8 the dinner table is set. His plate, Marshall's, the bucket of low alcoholic wine they both love chilling as a centerpiece. Colson even lights a few candles and adds some flowers from this mornings gift exchanges to keep himself from screaming.

There's a pit in his stomach that's steadily been growing though. Every passing minute and glance to his phone where he finds no change only carving it deeper. 

Marshall should be home. He never runs this late at the studio without a call, let alone without a message. He's treated his work like any other 9-5 job since before they ever even got together, always strict about his routine and careful to make up for over run hours by leaving earlier the next day. Usually Colson likes to bust his balls and insist he live a little more spontaneously but tonight isn't the one to pull that.

Especially not if it means Marshall's going to completely forget to check his fucking phone and leave him trying not to think the worst.

Colson only males it another 5 minutes before he caves and texts Paul. Fingers tapping fast across his screen to draft multiple desperate sounding messages before he finally settles on a "Em bust his phone again?" That feels just casual enough to not embarrass him in the off chance Marshall decides to burst through the front door seconds after it sends.

The door stays closed though and Paul doesn't open the message at all. 

Now Colson can't even start passive aggressively eating dinner on his own if he wanted too. The pit in his stomach has torn itself open wide into a nauseous chasm. Every scary possibility he wanted to avoid thinking about spilling forth from the dark trench like ghouls.

He's dead. Some crazy fan broke into the studio and shot the whole place up. No one's gotten around to tell him yet, that's all. They're too busy dealing with the fallout.

No, Em's security is beyond top tier, and with how close Colson and his current bodyguard are he knows the guy would call him immediately. Marshall's fine.

Unless… what if he was in a car accident? Or some road rage incident gone fatal? Colson's seen Marshall's short temper flare up while driving. They've made dozens of jokes about it in the past, so is it really that unreasonable to believe?

Colson's pacing in the front haul when he calls Porter. Phone tucked between his ear and shoulder while he fights his shoe laces, heart racing in his chest. Prepping to fly out of the house the second Denaun tells him what fucking hospital Marshall's staying in, praying it's at the ICU section and not some fucking morgue.

"Kelly?" The older man sounds confused when he finally answers. Voice high and tone light like he's expecting this to be a butt dial. "What's up man?"

The lack of rush or worry in Denaun's voice almost soothes Colson's panic right on the spot. Surely he wouldn't sound so casual if something had happened. 

It's enough to keep Colson from immediately pleading for Marshall's safety at the least. "H-hey, uh nothing really-" Maybe Marshall is even with him right now, realizing how fucking late its gotten and how shit of a boyfriend he's been and that's why Denaun sounds awkward too. "Just uh, waiting for Marsh to get his slow ass home ya know? Sorry, aheh, I'm probably sounding like a fucking needy girlfriend right now, calling his friends and shit-" the longer Colson rambles the more embarrassed he actually feels in the moment.

God he must sound pathetic right now. Panicking over Marshall being a few hours late.

"Waiting? Didn't Marshall head out like 2 hours ago?"

"W-what?"

Colson's blood feels like actual ice in his veins.

"He isn't home? I mean, I know he was gonna stop at- fuck is it already half past 8? Marshall seriously isn't home?" Denaun's sudden panic only heightens Colson's own, but he can't get any more words to come out. Not with how a rock feels like it's jumped up his throat. "Shit, Ryan are you getting through to him? Try Paul-"

Ryan's there too? 

"What? Paul's gotta fucking answer-"

They can't get ahold of Paul either?

"Kelly have you-"

Marshall's missing. Colson's been standing around making dinner for hours, worrying over the portion sizes and appearance of his plates and Marshall's been fucking missing. What kind of partner is he? What will he even tell Hailey? Alaina? And fuck Casie is supposed to be coming up this weekend so they can all go vacation together before his next tour-

The front door bumping into his shoe startles Colson out of his frozen panic. Denaun's angry shouting dropping from his ear, as he twists and meets a pair of sheepish blue eyes peeking around the hardwood.

"Hey." 

Marshall's…..

"Is that my apron?"

So fucking dead.

"Is this your--" Colson's fingers are curling around the edge of the door so fast he doesn't even care that it makes his phone fly to the floor. "That's what you want to fucking say to me!?" His anger is boiling fast, replacing the cold in his veins with lava. "You fucking piece of-"

Marshall stumbling inside with the yanked door is expected, but the flash of bandages and a sling douse Colson's flames like a bucket of water. "Ow, fuck just give me a second to explain-"

He's hurt.

Now with all of Marshall visible Colson's hyperaware of dry blood splattered on his white graphic tee and scratches partially hidden within the rapper's beard along his cheek. "I got in an accident out on the M-8, it was minor but-"

Colson really can't handle all these rapid mood switches Marshall is putting him through today.

“You fucking idiot-“ Tears are bubbling up in his eyes and it’s like his hands can’t reach his partner fast enough. Pulling Marshall into his arms for a tight hug despite the pained noises his actions inspire. “Stupid, old asshole-“ Marshall’s hurt, the cars probably wrecked, but he’s home and that’s enough of a relief to finally smother that pit weighing down his stomach. “Don’t ever scare me like that again!”

A moment passes before he’s hugged back, shock more than likely freezing his partner up but when Marshall does loop his good arm around Colson he pulls him close. So close Colson is the one who’s bones feel like they might ache. “Can’t make any promises about that,” The older rapper’s palm feels warm when it climbs to cup his neck, Marshall’s face turning to press a kiss into Colson’s throat. 

That brush of lips is the final crack to release the flood gates.

"I love you."

"I know."

"I really really fucking love you."

"I know baby."

"I don't care how old your ass is, you better hold out and fucking die after me like a proper goddamn boyfriend, you hear me Marshall?" He's getting snot all over the older rapper's shirt. Full on smearing it across his own cheek and the fabric with every pointless rub of his face. "I love you so fucking much. Can't do this without you."

"Told you I'm not dying after you unless you kill me first, and I'm chasing you into the afterlife once you do go too. Fuck all the marriage shit, death ain't parting us either you brat." Marshall's tone is light and his palm is doing wonders to comfort him by rubbing circles into his back. It's enough to slow his hiccupped breathing down a few notches. "I dunno if you noticed but, I'm a little obsessed with you."

That drags out a wet snort. "Y-yeah?" When Colson pulls back to meet Marshall's eyes he swears he can see a wet shimmer starting to glaze over his partner’s as well. "Prove it then."

There's a flicker of something in blue eyes, so fast that Colson almost thinks he hallucinates the emotion altogether. But then Marshall's wrapped up arm wiggles between their bodies. The dark blue of the sling catching and sliding so his scratched up fist can shimmy its way partially out. "Planned on it-" There's something clutched tight there, black peeking out from between Marshall's finger and thumb. It's got Colson's heart dropping down into his stomach all over again. "What do you think I was driving so late on the M-8 for?"

"Marshall-" It can't be.

"Colson." But his shithead of an accident victim boyfriend is pulling back, both his good arm and slung arm awkwardly flailing in the air for a moment as he drops down on one knee. The visible wince not hidden as well as Colson imagines the man wants it to be. But Marshall's eyes are softening, and the blonde feels completely cemented in place. The only part of him moving being the uncontrollable shaky quiver of his bottom lip. "I had a whole moment planned, there were flowers, balloons, and those stupidly expensive alcoholic chocolates you love, but they all got absolutely trashed in the crash. Like, half of Detroit is probably going to think the Macies Thanksgiving parade started early. Paul called to have it all replaced, and honestly some intern is probably going to come banging on the door in about 20 minutes but I don't want to wait-" There's a flash of genuine worry that's furrowing the skin between Marshall's brows as he continues. "So I'm sorry this isn't gonna be that fancy perfect proposal you've always dreamed of-"

"Shut up." Colson's voice can't go above a whisper. His tone quick and clipped from how anxious he is to hear the man finally finish. "Just- shut up, ask me. Ask me Marsh, please-"

"Fine, always need to rush me."The rapper's lip quirks at the corners. Hands transferring the small box between eachother with a bit of fumbling. "Will you, Colson Baker-" Until Marshall can finally get it open with an audible clunk. "Legally commit to being with my annoying old ass forever?" 

[organabanana]

red || harley quinn/poison ivy

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Harley Quinn (Comics) Batman - All Media Types DCU

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

Relationships: Pamela Isley & Harleen Quinzel

Characters: Pamela Isley, Harleen Quinzel

Additional Tags: Past Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Abusive Joker (DCU), blood (plenty), Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Femslash February 2021, Femslash February, Sex

Series: Part 1 of the Femslash February 2021 series

Summary: A breakup, a healing process, color therapy at Arkham, and a series of life-changing realizations by Harley Quinn, with help from Poison Ivy.

Notes: Written for prompt #1 of Femslash February 2021: Red. Written around Issue 1 of Harleen: Black + White + Red by Stjepan Sejic which is an absolute masterpiece. I feel like this can be read even if you haven't read the comic but honestly it's super short and you should go read it because it is a work of art.

[ao3 link]

She doesn’t kill him.

She could kill him. That’s important to note. She could kill him. But she chooses not to. And for once — for the first time since this whole nightmare started — she doesn’t do it for him. It’s not because she loves him so much she can’t bear to kill him. It’s not because she thinks maybe one day they’ll get things right.  

No. She doesn’t kill him because she doesn’t want to kill him. She wants him gone but not dead. Well — she wouldn’t necessarily mind if he happened to die. Have Bats forget his self-imposed limit and finally kill him. No, she wouldn’t mind. She just doesn’t want to kill him herself.

They stick with you, you know? The people you kill. Even if they deserve it. She would know. And she doesn’t want to carry his death around for the rest of her life. She just wants him gone.

So she stands there, bleeding and panting and struggling to catch her breath as she looks down at his unconscious body. That’s her blood on the knife by his hand. On his knuckles and splattered on his face, and you know what?

“You know what, Jay?” She says out loud, because why not? It’s not the first time her blood’s ended up all over him. Not the first time or the second or the tenth or the fifteenth. She kicks the knife away from him for good measure, even if the bleeding crack on his temple makes it clear he’s not gonna be getting up any time soon.

Still, though. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s tricked her. 

Wouldn’t be the first time she’s let him trick her.

Because, you know what?

“I’m smarter than you think.”

So she stands there, Harley Quinn, with her blood-stained mallet and her blood-soaked harlequin costume, looking for all the world like the psychopath her Arkham file says she is. And — just look at her. She wouldn’t need to be a psychopath to kill him. To kill the man who turned her from a promising young psychologist into his peppy murderous sidekick. The man who’s kept her in a sadistic cycle of toxicity (both literal and emotional) for all these years.

The man who — for fuck’s sakes — just tried to kill her with a butcher’s knife.

(Though that last one might have been self-defense, to be fair.)

What she’s getting at — and she’s getting at something, she swears, that’s why she hasn’t moved yet — is that even the most even-tempered, mentally stable, never-even-heard-of-Arkham woman would probably consider killing the man who put her through that. It’d feel empowering, even. 

But here’s the thing: Harley Quinn is smarter than most people think.

You don’t just forget all your training and your doctorates and your research just because you’ve spent several years  on a murderous spree with your sadistic lover, you know?

So she knows she wasn’t a helpless damsel in mental distress being manipulated by the handsome criminal mastermind.

Oh, no.

She chose to get involved with him. She chose to give into the want and the danger. She chose to keep going back for more because somehow, in some dark and twisted corner of her reptilian brain, the little moments when they were good were so amazing — so perfect — that they made everything else worth it. She chose to pull a trigger and kill a good man for him.

And now she chooses not to kill a bad man.

For herself.

“And that’s fucking empowering, Jay.”

***

She goes to Poison Ivy’s lair because… well, because where the hell else is she supposed to go? She can’t walk up to Gotham General’s ER and ask for some stitches and painkillers unless she wants to be back in Arkham within the hour. She doesn’t have her own place. 

But she has a friend. So here she is.

“Hey,” she says as soon as she walks into the greenhouse-slash-evil eco-terrorism lab, “door was open.”

No, it wasn’t. It’s just Harley knows the combination to get in. Didn’t steal it, either. Ivy volunteered it. Harley’s always kind of suspected there was some pity involved in that decision, but she’s not gonna be picky about the deep unspoken motives behind the actions of the single person in this God forsaken city that’s been consistently good to her. 

The second Harley steps further into the room and the gentle warmth of the grow lamps hits her, she sees Ivy’s face change from her usual unreadable near-smirk to sheer horror, and she knows she must look even worse than she thought she did. She knows for a fact it’s not easy to shock Pamela Isley.

She gives Ivy a couple seconds to try and come up with something to say, but words seem to fail her, so Harley decides to just cut to the chase.

Heh. Cut .

“I broke up with him.”

There’s a sort of unspoken rule between them that says his name is forbidden when it’s just them.

“Did he do all that?” Harley swears she can see the exact moment Ivy’s worry makes room for something that looks almost like rage. “Did he do that to you?”

Harley shrugs and manages a wink even if the cuts on the bridge of her nose sting when she does. “Should’ve seen the other guy.”

The joke falls flat, as expected — Harley’s pretty sure some of Ivy’s ferns have more developed senses of humor than Ivy herself — but Ivy finally manages to stand up and get moving, which is good. Harley kinda needs a hand. And medical attention.

“I won’t know how bad those really are until I’ve cleaned them up.” Ivy says, already opening the cabinet where she keeps all her medical supplies.

It’s funny because Harley’s been here a million times, and she’s been patched up by Ivy just as many times before — not always because of Jay, sometimes it’s one of the batlings getting frisky — but she never realized until now that Poison Ivy doesn’t need medical supplies.

Ivy can heal herself. She can synthesize her own meds. She keeps that cabinet stocked just for Harley. That’s friendship, right there. Right?

With a bottle of alcohol in one hand and a box of gauze in the other, Ivy makes her way back to Harley. But instead of getting to work right away, she stops and looks up and down Harley’s body. And for the first time, Harley looks down, too. At the blood-soaked stretchy fabric of her costume, at the gashes everywhere with cuts underneath. 

She’s a mess and a half, isn’t she?

“Let’s just—“ Ivy shakes her head and leaves the alcohol and gauze on the nearest flat surface. That won’t be enough to fix this. “Let’s just get you in the shower.”

The next minutes feel like she’s watching them from outside her body. Like she’s watching infamous eco-terrorist Poison Ivy, of all people, carefully peel off her costume and guide her into the shower stall through a television screen. Like it’s not really happening to her.

But it is. Happening.

So when Pamela Isley doesn’t even hesitate before walking into the stall right along with Harley? Harley feels that. She feels it when Ivy grabs the detachable shower head and turns on the water and tests it on her own skin, first, just to make sure it won’t be too hot or too rough on Harley’s. She feels the cool water washing over her skin, and the gentle touch of Ivy’s fingertips as they scrub at the dried blood, and she watches the water turn red as it swirls around her feet and down the drain.

And it’s a bit too much, you know?

This whole thing.

Almost killing the man she loves (still, even if she’s decided that’s not a good enough reason to stay with him), and breaking up with him for good, and the amazing contradiction that is a woman with poisonous skin touching Harley more gently than anyone ever has before.

It’s really no wonder she starts crying.

“This one will need stitches,” Pamela says, like she can’t hear Harley’s sobs or feel the way her body shakes. Because Harley’s already naked and bleeding and in pain, and Ivy pretending she doesn’t know she’s crying feels like being given a bit of her dignity back. And she fucking needs that right now. “Most aren’t too deep, though.”

Ivy keeps talking, narrating what she’s doing even if Harley knows for a fact she normally works in silence. But Ivy knows Harley needs it. So she talks about how the cuts on her face will probably leave some scars, and how the deep one by her bellybutton will need stitches, too. And when the water starts running clear because there’s no more blood to clean but Harley is still crying, Ivy starts all over again.

“This one,” she says, voice even and soothing in a way nothing has felt in years, “this one will need a couple stitches,” her fingertip gently taps the skin right next to the cut on Harley’s hip, and there’s something oddly heartwarming in the knowledge that that little tap would’ve killed anyone else in the world, but not Harley, “most aren’t too deep, though, Harl.”

***

She stays at Ivy’s for a couple nights at first, just because she has nowhere else to go. Then she stays for a week because you can’t really find a cute little one-bedroom rental in Gotham overnight when you’re in-between jobs as a psychotic murderess.

Doesn’t look great in applications, you know?

One week turns into two and then three and then suddenly it’s been three months and she’s pretty sure she’s living with Pam now. Which comes in handy, because she’s pretty sure she’s working with Pam now, too.

It’s funny because their criminal interests don’t seem to align at first sight. Harley mostly likes the chaos and the action, and Ivy just wants people to stop polluting the air. But they work well together. Ivy picks the targets and Harley the method, and it’s fun. It’s fun and it’s freeing and — listen, she knows she’s still killing people, okay? But it’s for a good reason, and she’s her own boss. It could be worse. She could’ve joined a pyramid scheme.

And living with Pam is nice. They get each other. They really do. Pam is hermetic, which makes Harley want to poke and prod and figure her out, but she respects Pam enough not to do it. And it goes both ways, too — in three months, Ivy hasn’t mentioned that first night even once.

It takes Harley three months, two weeks, and four days to realize why Pam always seems a bit surprised when Harley goes for a run or a walk or really any one-woman activity outside the lair and then comes back like she said she would.

It happens one night when Harley feels that familiar urge to blow off some steam by doing any kind of physical activity and leaves their home for a run around the park. As usual, when she comes back Ivy looks a little surprised. Like she was expecting her to not come back, for some reason. But then Harley notices something else. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of detail. The smallest, subtlest kind of sigh. 

Pam isn’t just surprised Harley’s back. She’s relieved .

And Harley knows why, of course. She knows Pam’s waiting for the other shoe to drop — for Harley to forget she’s better than the Harley from three months, two weeks, and four days ago and go back to him. 

“Y’know, Pammy,” Harley says, walking over to sit on the very edge of Pam’s desk, “I really like it here.”

She could’ve said more. She could’ve acknowledged the mammoth in the lair and point-blank tell Pam she’s not going back to him. But for some reason, that feels like intruding, somehow. It feels like telling Pam she’s noticed the sigh and the relief. And she figures her best friend deserves the same kind of privacy she gave Harley that first night.

“I figured. You know, since you won’t leave.”

Pam’s kidding. As it turns out, she does have a sense of humor — it just happens to be a bit subtler than what Harley’s used to. Most things about Pam are subtler than what Harley’s used to.

“I couldn’t do that to ya. You’d miss me way too much if I left.”

“Feel free to test that theory. I could use some quiet around here.”

Harley grins. Something wide and genuine in a way her smiles haven’t been for years. Pam wants her around. She doesn’t want the quiet. She wants Harley in her space, making noise and turning straightforward plans into complicated (and often dangerous) adventures. 

For a split second, a thought forms in her brain. Something — something she nearly manages to fully process, but not quite. Something about the reason why Pam wants her around. Why Harley doesn’t want to leave. Why she sometimes thinks about asking Ivy to touch her again, like that first night. For no reason.

But the thought is gone as quickly as it appeared.

“I’d break your heart, Pam-a-lamb.” Harley hops off the desk and winks at Ivy and doesn’t chase after the thought because she’s not feeling particularly adventurous tonight. “I’m a better friend than that.”

***

Six and a half weeks later, Harley realizes Ivy is in love with her.

She’d say she realizes she’s in love with Ivy, too, but she tries to be honest with herself and it’s more acknowledgment than realization at this point.

It doesn’t happen at the best of times. It could’ve happened at home, for one. That would’ve been convenient. Maybe even outside during a night walk or something. But no. Of course she has to have her big realization in the middle of breaking into a building that’s chock-full of guards ready to protect a CEO with appalling recycling habits. 

(Or whatever he actually does. All she knows is it pisses Pam off, and that’s enough for Harley to be down with murder.)

It happens when they’re up on the roof, waiting for the guard on the top floor to finish his round so they can sneak in and do their thing. They’re hiding in the shadows, standing close together even though there’s plenty of room and it’s not cold at all. It just feels better to be close, that’s all. 

“He’s gone,” Harley whispers as soon as he disappears into the elevator, “do your thing, Red.”

And so she does. Pam places her palm on the skylight they’ve been looking through, and a vine starts growing around her arm and toward the glass. It’s not the first time Harley’s seen Pam use the Green. Obviously. It’s not even the hundredth time. But for some reason, it looks particularly enthralling tonight.

“I love watching that,” she breathes out, even though she’s not sure why.

“Watching what?”

“That. You.” It’s only when she reaches over to place her fingertips against the growing vine that she realizes she’s never really touched Pam. She’s been touched by Pam, of course. She’s prone to needing medical attention. But she’s never touched Pam. 

And it feels like kind of a waste. Since she’s immune to her poison and all.

So from the vine — which feels more alive than any plant she’s ever touched — Harley slides her fingertips down until she feels warm skin instead. And that’s when she sees it. Pam doesn’t move a single muscle — she doesn’t even look at her — but there’s suddenly a red rose blooming on the vine.

“Oh, Pammy .” 

Harley can’t stop smiling. Who cares if they’re about to kill an eco-unfriendly asshole and there are a million things that could go wrong? Well, she cares. Ivy cares, she’s sure. But this feels much more important than murdering some rich guy right now.

“Red, I lo—“

And that’s when it happens. Listen, she’s never happy to see Bats. Never. But of all the moments when he could’ve showed up to surprise them before they can finish a job?

Right when she was about to confess her love to her best friend is about the worst possible time.

Maybe that’s why the whole thing doesn’t go as smoothly as it usually would. This happens at least twice a month, after all, so fighting Bats feels more like a dance than any sort of true fighting at this point. But she’s still rattled from the sheer enormity of what nearly happened, and when they’re about to escape Harley trips over her own feet and finds herself looking up at the big guy himself.

Ugh.

On the bright side, she knows Bats won’t risk letting her go to go after Ivy as well, so, you know. Small victories, right?

“Don’t make me wait too long, Red!” she calls out, just because she knows it’ll piss him off. Pam doesn’t need Harley to tell her to get her out of Arkham as soon as possible. And tonight Harley’s figured out why.

***

“Stop grinning like an idiot and come on !”

  “Thirteen days,” Harley says, tone mockingly offended even as she pants and struggles to catch her breath. They’re home, finally. Even if they found the lair, which they never would anyway, the Green would keep them out. “What took you so long, Ives?”

Ivy rolls her eyes. Thirteen days is nearly two months less than the time it took them to get out the last time they were locked up together, so it’s no wonder she knows right away that Harley’s not serious at all.

“You know I like a solid plan. I’m not much for winging it.”

“Yes, you’re boring, Pammy. I know.”

Ivy scoffs and sits down on the couch in the middle of the room. Well -- she collapses onto it, really, if Harley’s being honest. A quick glance around their home, with every surface covered in plans and maps and more clutter than Ivy would ever allow, lets her know her best friend’s probably spent the last thirteen days and nights planning her rescue.

If Harley could sprout a vine or two right now and make a couple roses bloom, she would.

“Are you all right?” Ivy looks at her, tired eyes studying her from head to toe. “How was it?”

Harley shrugs. “It was Arkham.” They’re both familiar enough with the place. Sometimes the person in charge is more sadistic, sometimes they have a more gentle approach. Either way, it’s gonna suck. “They have a new therapist. She does color therapy.”

Pam lets out a quiet chuckle. “Color therapy, huh.”

“Mhmm.” Harley tilts her head. Pam looks like she’s balancing on the edge between being awake and asleep. Like if Harley just kept her mouth shut for a couple seconds she’d completely pass out. “Would show me colors and ask what they made me feel.”

Should she feel bad for continuing the conversation? Maybe. Pammy does look exhausted. It’s just Harley’s missed her for thirteen nights because of Bats, and before that for over four months because of her own obliviousness, and for years before because of reasons not worth thinking about.

So excuse her for feeling a bit greedy about their time together right now.

“Did it work?”

“Sure did, Pammy. I’m just here to pack up my shit and join the batgang.”

The sound that comes out of Ivy isn’t even a real chuckle. It’s a sort of hint that maybe under different circumstances she would’ve laughed, but right now the best she can do is a half-smile and a quasi-snicker.

Harley’s pretty sure she’s never loved her more.

“Don’t fall asleep yet, Red. We’re talkin’.”

“We’re always talking, Harls.”

“Not for the last thirteen days, we haven’t.”

“C’mere,” Ivy pats the empty space next to her on the couch, “what do you want to talk about?”

It’s not the first time she’s sat next to Ivy on a couch, so she knows her gesture was meant to encourage Harley to sit somewhere on the couch but keeping a respectful distance. Personal space, and all that.

Of course, that was before. That’d feel downright ridiculous now. So she sits right next to Ivy, feeling the warmth of her skin through the rough fabric of grey Arkham sweatpants. 

“Wanna know what color they wanted to know about, Pammy?”

Harley decides the brighter green across the bridge of Ivy’s nose counts as a blush.

“Hmm…” even Pam’s hum sounds more alert than before, like she’s suddenly realized this isn’t just another rambling midnight conversation on the couch, “black?”

“For Bats? Nope.” Harley’s fingertips trace slow lines along Ivy’s fingers, across the back of her hand and towards her wrist. When she finally looks up, she realizes Ivy’s watching their hands, too. “Guess again.”

Ivy swallows and lets Harley wrap her fingers around a green wrist, moving Ivy’s hand to rest on Harley’s thigh.

“Blue?”

Harley giggles. “Blue,” she repeats, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to Ivy’s shoulder and smiling when it makes Ivy’s fingers flex and squeeze Harley’s thighs, “why would blue mean anything, Ive? Nothing’s blue.”

“Your eyes are blue.”

“Maybe they’ll ask you about blue, then,” Harley shifts closer, chin resting on the spot she just kissed, “what does blue mean to you, Ms. Isley?”

Ivy stays silent for a handful of seconds, thumb mindlessly brushing against the Arkham sweatpants Harley suddenly wishes she’d taken off before sitting down.

“Chaos.” 

Harley rewards the teasing smirk on Ivy’s face with a kiss to her jaw. “But in a good way, right?”

“Hmm,” Ivy pretends to think, “sometimes.”

“ Most times.”

Ivy doesn’t argue. Harley has a feeling the true answer is always, anyway, so this is meeting halfway.

“I’m good for ya, Ive,” Harley says, shifting closer so she can tuck red hair behind Pam’s ear and kiss the spot right by her earlobe, “and you’re so good for me.”

“Harley--” It’s somewhere between a sigh and a breath but there’s an edge of something serious underneath. Something that makes her tense slightly with the fear of this becoming a whole conversation about things that make you sob in the shower or sigh with relief when someone gets home.

“Shh,” she whispers against Pam’s ear, “guess again.”

“ Harley .”

“Please, Pammy.”

A sigh.

“White.”

Harley shakes her head, letting her nose brush against Pam’s skin. She smells like freshly cut grass and jasmine and a field after the summer rain. When she takes in a deep breath, Ivy’s scent fills up her lungs and makes her wonder if she’ll ever be able to smell anything else.

She kinda hopes she won’t.

“You know I know you’re avoidin’ the obvious on purpose, yeah?”

Ivy turns her head and looks into Harley’s eyes for a second, and then two, and then she leans in and steals the air from Harley’s lungs.

Her lips taste like rosewater and something Harley can’t pinpoint. The kiss is slow and steady and demanding , increasingly deep in the kind of unrushed way that makes Harley feel almost surprised when she suddenly finds herself straddling her best friend’s lap.

Ivy kisses her like a woman who’s been waiting for so long the concept of time doesn’t mean anything anymore. Like the wait has been so long the reward should be, too.

“Ive--” Harley pants, struggling to catch her breath when there’s no room for air in her lungs anymore. Ivy’s lips are flushed red, kiss-swollen and parted to let out warm puffs of air. “Pammy, I--”

“Green,” Pam says, voice low and quiet and as soft as her hands slipping under that ugly Arkham shirt. Her fingertips trace the scar by Harley’s belly button -- that needed a couple stitches a lifetime ago -- and keep climbing up, up, up until they’re grazing the underside of her breasts. Harley can’t breathe, but what a way to go. “Did they ask about green?”

Harley shakes her head, teeth catching her bottom lip as Ivy’s hands cover her breasts.

“They didn’t ask about green .” Pam says, one eyebrow cocked in question as if the pressure of her hands isn’t making Harley’s back arch to push pebbled nipples against Ivy’s palms. “Should I be offended they didn’t make the connection?”

The sound Harley makes was supposed to be a giggle, but it turns into a moan halfway through and honestly she doesn’t really care.

“Pammy…”

There’s something building up inside her -- something big and warm in her chest, pushing against her lungs and her heart. She’d say it’s love, but it’s too solid for that. Love is chaotic. It knocks your life off-kilter and makes you feel like you’re walking on a tightrope towards someone but the slightest gush of wind could push you off. Love hurts but it’s worth the pain. Love isn’t like this, steady and warm and solid and relentlessly there . That’s not what love is like.

Right?

“What is it?” Ivy’s voice is as soft as the brush of her thumb against Harley’s nipple. 

It’s like someone’s suddenly helped her off that tightrope and told her it was supposed to be a nice little path all along.

That it’s not supposed to be a lonely walk towards someone, either. Ivy’s already right here.

Harley opens her mouth to say it out loud -- to tell Ivy about this amazing discovery she’s just made -- but she changes her mind. Ivy knows, anyway.

“You still haven’t guessed the right color.”

Ivy smiles. 

“You said it was the obvious. I already guessed the obvious.”

As amazing as everything feels right now, Harley’s never been the best at delayed gratification, so she finds herself pulling one of Pam’s hands down and out from under her shirt to bring it up to her lips instead.

“The other obvious, Ives,” Harley wraps her fingers around Ivy’s wrist, thumb pressing against the pulse point there as she watches Ivy’s pupils dilate with each fingertip Harley kisses, “the… metaphoric obvious.”

“The metapho--” Harley smirks when her lips wrap around Ivy’s middle finger and the breath catches in Ivy’s thoat “--rical obvious?”

“Mhmm,” her voice vibrates around Ivy’s finger before she lets it go with a wet ‘pop’, “c’mon, Pammy. Guess again.”

But Harley doesn’t think Ivy remembers her own name, let alone what they were talking about. Her fingers dig into the flesh of Harley’s breast and her eyes look so dark they may as well be black when Harley’s tongue licks a path up a second finger this time.

The only sounds she can hear are their labored breaths when she guides Pam’s hand down and under the waistband of her Arkham sweats, and then something halfway between a sigh and a moan when slick fingers slip between slicker lips.

Harley’s hands rest on Ivy’s shoulders, holding on for leverage as her hips begin a steady roll to the rhythm Ivy’s fingers set between her thighs.

“Keep going,” Ivy’s fingertips press up against her clit and Harley’s eyes flutter closed, hips rocking with more purpose than before, “don’t stop.”

Ivy leans forward, teeth gently nipping at the skin of Harley’s neck, and Harley swears if she didn’t know she was immune she’d think she’s under some kind of botanical spell. But no. No, this is just Ivy, as it turns out. Ivy finally thrusting two fingers inside her and making Harley move one of her hands to fist in soft, red hair.

She rides Ivy’s fingers with abandon, feeling Ivy’s tongue against her neck and Ivy’s hand on her breast and Ivy’s heartbeat somehow in her chest, and she’s amazed to realize she doesn’t feel like she could die for this. Like she could kill for this. Because she will never need to.

She feels like she could live for this, though. 

Has she never been in love before?

“Red.” Ivy’s voice comes muffled against Harley’s neck just as she shifts her hand to press her thumb against a swollen clit. 

“What.” Harley can’t even manage to make it a proper question. “Wh-- Fuck , Ives.”

“Is it red?” Ivy’s panting, struggling to push the sound out like she can’t quite decide whether she wants to speak or keep doing whatever black magic she’s doing to Harley’s neck.

“Harder,” Harley’s fist tightens in Ivy’s hair, “so close .”

She doesn’t know what does it. It could be the flick of Pam’s thumb against her clit, or the feeling of Pam’s nails against her breast, or the hickey Pam’s leaving on Harley’s neck. Whatever it is, it makes Harley come with Ivy’s name on her lips and her muscles clenching around Ivy’s fingers until she collapses against Ivy’s solid frame.

“We’re not done yet,” Harley mumbles, shuddering slightly when an aftershock of pleasure jolts up her spine, “don’t you dare fall asleep.”

She feels Pam’s chuckle against her neck even before she hears it.

“I’m not going anywhere, Harls.”

There’s a deep sigh, but this time it comes from Harley instead. “I know.” And she does. She knows .

“So. Was it red?”

“Mhmm,” Harley kisses Pam’s shoulder, “wanna know what red feels like, Pammy?”

She feels Ivy nod against her neck.

“Safe.”