#her room is still a work in progress its too empty and not enough blue or yellow

[i-am-vita]

At the Bathhouse

A Shanks x Ghost Rose Oc (FemReader)

👉 Masterlist

(Now in AO3 too)

Fic based on my OPLA older guysxfemreader headcanons here and certain scene from this FanaticSnail's fic.

Because when Shanks makes a sexy cameo at a bathhouse, I need to write a oneshot of Shanks getting sexy at a bathhouse.

If I said I didn't intended for this to go as NSFW as it got... I would be lying. Of course I wrote a fic with Shanks at a bathhouse with all the intention for things going NSFW. You can thank @fanaticsnail for the idea and the moodboard. Thank you so much, gurl, you inspire me so much!!!! Everybody go give her some well deserved love.

Moodboard by FanaticSnail 💞

Summary: You found yourself separated from your crew after a plan going sideways. Stranded in this little island with a bathhouse and no signal of your captain through your phone, there's exactly one person that you can always count to pick you up. Warnings: NSFW, sex in a public setting, voyeurism, some unconsensual voyeurism due to public setting. Somehow, I managed to not use the word fuck. Is it progress? Expect: That ex-turned-bestie that always appear out of air when you need him. Lovers to Friends to Friends with Benefits. Shanks gets affectionate and handsy with you being a cool pirate thief. Brief Mihawk cameo because I'm trash and need to make him suffer. Use of You not Y/N. Bad english, consistent time tenses not detected.

11-ish years ago...

If there was one person in all the Blues that you can always count to somehow be exactly where and when you needed him was Shanks.

On the rare occasions in your young adult life since you parted ways that you found yourself in a bad place, be it literally or metaphorically, he'd be at enough short distance to pick you up, also literally or metaphorically.

Like right now when you are stranded in this whatever-island after the worst job in your pirate history.

Not that you have failed. The intel you were acquiring now in your captain's hands, unlike you that had to ditch some last minute inconveniences and resorted to your only-emergency escape plan for the first time which consisted in telling your team to get the hell out of there with the catch while you took the roll of bait, found your own way out of the Marine Base and back to your crew on your own... eventually.

You didn't know it yet but this would be the job that finally gets you your current wanted poster thanks to the one knife with rose carvings that you left behind at the scene and the fact nobody was able to catch a glimpse of you, them naming you The Ghost Rose from now on.

Hence your current predicament. Having taken the first fishing boat you found that would take you to the next neighboring island and so on until you found yourself in this little rock, almost empty except for a bathhouse and some B&B's. One of those little hot spring resorts only known by enough people to keep them going.

Perfect to lay low for a few days until you could send a message to your Captain… or it would be if the damn Portable Den Den Mushi just connected your calls.

"Damn, not again." You mutter after the fifth attempt to call your crew.

You were currently in the personal room you purchased for your stay. The architecture and interior design of the building inspired by those of Wano with its minimalist wooden interiors, sliding doors and low furniture for sitting on the floor where you lay comfortably in a light bath robe while considering your options.

There was still the possibility of calling Shanks even if the odds of him being close enough to pick you up were low, he'd probably be better equipped than you to contact Captain Erik.

The ringing tone of the call finally connecting made you sigh in relief.

"Hello?" Came the familiar voice of Benn Beckman through the shell. Because there was no way that he would allow Shanks near their own Portable Den Den Mushi after THE incident from six years ago.

"Beck! You have no idea how great it is to hear your voice right now." You answered to the Redhead Pirate's First Mate.

"Little Rose! Please, tell me you’re coming back at last so I can finally retire." How the man managed to sound so defeated at his age was a mystery to anyone who wasn’t aware of Shanks' antics. Beckman had been asking you to come back since you left to sail with the Phantom Pirates arguing how much more manageable his captain was when you were around.

"Hold on there, old man. You still have plenty of time to become the grumpy grandpa." It had become an ongoing joke between you two to mock him for being the oldest and “designated dad” of the crew. Beck didn't have time to answer when you heard a little commotion on the line and the telling sound of the phone changing hands.

"Sweetheart!!!" Shanks's excited shout was so loud you could swear it reverberated in your own walls.

"Hey, dear."

Even after you had officially ended your romantic relationship years ago, it was impossible to stop the man from calling you lover pet names so you had go on with it too.

"Where's the fight, love? I'll be there in a heartbeat." You could hear several male grunts and indefinite clothing background sounds.

"Is it a bad time? I just need you to pass a message to my cap' so they know I'm fine and on the low. My Portable Den Den doesn't connect."

"More like a bath time!"

"Hey, didn't they say the mushies didn't connect with the outside?"

"You on your own? Say no more! Where are you, babe?"

"Shanks, there's no need..."

"Nonsense. Coordinates, now." You had forgotten how much you liked when your ex lover got all commanding. He was so carefree and easygoing most of the time.

"Aye, sir." You answered with a sultry voice you know always drove him crazy. "It's this little rock with a bathhouse and hot springs..." You explained and started giving him the numbers when you felt the air getting all heavy, almost electrified, with a powerful haki seeking your presence.

Oh...

You took the shell out of your ear and calmly put your Portable Den Den Mushi away before a powerful kick sent the delicate woody and paper wall away revealing the figure of one of the most infamous pirate captains in all the Blues, almost naked save for a small towel at his hips, disheveled red hair and his signature straw hat hanging from his neck at his back.

"Sweetheart!!!" Came the man’s thunderous shout for the second time. His arms outstretched, offering warmth and anticipation, eager to envelop you in an affectionate hug.

"I am not paying for that..." You said pointing to the destroyed wall.

Yep. That was Shanks, always coming out from wherever whenever you needed him, no matter the odds.

.

Five minutes later, you found yourself sitting on Shanks lap in the spring waters. He had picked you up in his arms and hasn't let you down since then. Like a kid with his favorite transitional object. But you couldn't deny that his affectionate embrace was contagious. You had missed him dearly too.

You two haven't seen each other in almost two years, since you broke up with Kuro to the everlasting joy of the redhead who had hated the guts of the young Black Cat's Captain, knowing from the beginning that the psycho could never deserve you. Shanks was still delighted in the fact it had been him who snitched the identity of the pirate captain to the Marines after his little stunt with you. Nobody messes with his friends, he thought while embracing your almost naked form over him.

It had been even more years since he had felt your skin against his and it was getting him giddy.

The rest of the crew was scattered around in different states of contentment but no one as deeply relaxed as Beck who laid floating with a towel over his eyes, completely zone out with the knowledge that he wouldn't be babysitting his captain as long as you were there. He was always in his best behavior around you; you’ve been a really big positive influence in the past, helping him mature into the man he was now and making the First Mate’s life a little more manageable. Until it was party time and Beck had to be the “designated babysitter” of his captain to prevent him from making some extravagance.

Poor man almost never got a proper break during vacation.

"So, rosie, you said you're on the low." Said Yassop perched belly up on a rock, an arm and leg in the hot water. "What've you been up to?"

"Yeah, must've been a big score. We've been dodging battleships for three days before docking here." Added Beck from his floating spot.

That made you feel better. If the Marine was still searching the waters, it means they hadn't caught the Angel of Music, Phantom Pirate’s ship.

You started telling them how things had gone a little sideways with your last infiltration and you had to resort to the only-emergency plan so your crew could get away with the intel.

Shanks smiled even more widely, proud of your abilities to get away from an entire Marine Base all by your own and without being seen. Such a long shot from the spoiled little socialite that had run away with him all those years ago.

He knew the moment he saw you standing up to a bunch of assholes at that bar that you were a wild card, a diamond in the rough wasting away in a privileged life. And when months later, Captain Erik, a seasoned and mysterious pirate captain, infamous for dealing with the most valuable information and treasures of all the Blues, the main intel dealer of Gold Roger himself, saw the same potential in you, Shanks knew he had to let you go to bloom, even if it was away from him.

And bloomed you had, not just in abilities but in beauty. Shanks could swear you got even more gorgeous every time he sees you.

"Ah, that's my girl." He murmured against your hair, inhaling the sweet scent of flowers and berries you favored, unlike the elegant roses everybody relates to you, and still make his mouth water. Your hand entangled in his red locks with your fingernails caressing his scalp while you tell your tale wasn’t helping… or was helping too much.

"So that's why you needed to send the message to..." Roux almost choked on his turkey piece when he caught his captain's stare, the only warning before he buried his face in your neck.

"Yeah, the lady at the desk said the mushis didn't receive or send signals from outside the island. Only the big tower at the beach can make outside calls..." Commented Beck in blissful ignorance that you didn't get because Shanks had started to leave a trail of kisses on your neck.

He draw his hand from your shoulder down your back, removing the towel that covered your torso, following a delicate pattern with his fingers over your skin to your side while his lips found a certain spot behind your ear that made you arch your back, almost revealing your full bosom out of the blurring water if not for his other hand wandering from your thigh to your belly and up to your chest. His big palm and long fingers enough to cover and fondle a breast.

The crew started making a hasty exit from that part of the springs.

Yassop rolled to the other side of his rock and dropped into the water with a soft splash. Meanwhile the rest of the men walked or swam away through the rocks that formed a natural barrier to the other side of the springs. Roux managed to catch Beck by his foot and started pulling him across the surface of the water. The First Mate lifted the edge of the towel on his face to give his crewmate a questioning gaze but a female moan uttering Shanks’ name was enough to make him cover his face again and let himself be dragged away, letting his captain be re-acquainted with his not-so-former lover.

“Sha… Shanks… they…”

“Gonne, babe, you know they know better.”

Oh, yeah, all of them did. When it came to their captain, all the crew knew that when he got frisky with a woman it was everybody else who had to get another room, not him. Shanks became an immovable being just living the moment. Something you learned too some weeks after meeting him and decided that you in fact wanted to be more with him. You had to get rid of your inhibitions very early in your relationship.

“So… did you hide a blade under your towel or are you that happy to see me?”

“Ecstatic, love. Let me show you how much.”

.

When Yassop had roll over his rock to get away from the image of his captain starting to frolic with his old flame (not that the sniper blame him, he knew what it was like to decide to separate from a love to fulfill a dream of your own), he didn’t expected to find himself face to face with Dracule Mihawk drilling him with his yellow gaze for splashing him in his escape.

“Why am I not surprised that it was you, noisy lowlifes, the ones behind all this scandal?” The swordsman voiced in his bored tone while removing some plugs from his ears at seeing the Redhead's Crew appearing literally from among the rocks.

He had just arrived this morning, seeking some relaxing time after 3 days of receiving calls from some lowly Marine Captain for him to go and get some thieves that had infiltrated his office and steal who knows what. Their only clue being a brief description of a ship getting away into the fog and a forgotten knife with rose carvings from some mysterious figure. The knife was new, but that ship and the fog? He had told him to just forget about his stolen goods. The Phantom Pirates were untraceable and he was in no mood to go hunting ghosts.

Mihawk’s gaze passed over the men currently occupying HIS space, finding the absence of a certain red hair individual.

“Isn’t your captain among you? It sure was his haki I felt ten minutes ago. I could use some exercise.” He said standing up and looking over the rocks.

“No, wait!”

“You don’t want to…”

Upon looking beyond, the warlord came across the image of the redhead captain in a passionate embrace with the most exquisite woman his eyes had ever seen. At that moment, Shanks took the exotic beauty by her small waist to get her out of the water and tenderly laid her onto the surface of the nearest rock with the perfect shape to support her body like an offering. Her long dark hair barely obscured the view of her glorious body. His hungry eyes traveled over golden tanned skin, from her long shapely legs to wide hips and full breasts.

Mihawk had never considered that he had a type until that same moment.

He was about to seek the face of the woman of his dreams, when she moved one of her legs expertly, using her foot to get rid of the flimsy towel around Redhead’s hips, getting Mihawk abruptly out of his reverie with an image he was certainly NOT desiring to live in his head and a strong need for a brain bleach to clean it from what he just unwilling witnessed.

He turned around hastily to find himself with the stare of the entire Redhead’s Crew going from judgemental to “told you so” looks that got immediately diverted by the death glare of their captain’s rival who decided to take his leave and left the duel for another day… or several months.

.

Half an hour later, you laid over Shanks’ wide chest, both of you floating in the warm water in postorgasmic bliss.

It had been years since you had felt this safe and sound in the arms of a lover. The level of trust and affection Shanks inspired on you never having an equal even if those feelings came from friendship and respect instead of romantic love. Your young broken heart was still too tender at that time to let yourself fall for the redhead when you met. A blessing in disguise since you’re fully aware now that Shanks isn’t someone who would settle with just one lover for a long amount of time and you both have different life goals.

“Where were you headed before all the turmoil we caused?”

“East Blue. I found this little village months ago. It’s a good place to hide and I promised I’d go back soon.” Explained Shanks remembering a certain little kid that was surely counting the days until the arrival of the Red Force. “What ‘bout you? Where’s your meeting point with old Cap’ Erik?”

“If all else failed, Oykot Kingdom.”

Shanks' grin intensified upon hearing that.

.

That evening, Benn Beckman walked to the tower at the beach to borrow their Den Den Mushi and made a call to a certain Shostakovich Eriksson and left the message of his assistant being safe and sound and that she will reunite with him in the agreed location but to don’t count on them arriving very soon.

The Redhead’s First Mate had all the intention of taking his sweet time enjoying this unexpected vacation.

.

.

.

[undergrounddweller89]

Acylius sat quietly at his desk, the room lit with candles , casting a warm glow in his study, papers neatly stacked on the oak desk, his ebony feathers shimmering, showing tints of blue and green, a quill scratching across parchment.

His heart was heavy he hated today...he resented it.

He on this day would send the servants away, no one was allowed to make an appointment with him unless it was a dire emergency and even then , people learned on this day...his usual soft gentle demeanour was sour and blunt.

Or at the very least there seemed to be something dark and depressive.

The servants made their guess's, their rumors about today, but no one knew...he set down the quill....he couldn't focus on the important paper work Infront of him, the weight in his chest was too much. His body felt heavy, perhaps bed was best , he could sleep and just let this day be over with.

With a gentle breath the candles flickered out.

Today had felt like an eternity, with it's endless silence, Acylius pushed back in his chair and stood, making his way over to the window where moonlight poured in, his four black eyes glinting as if they were filled with stars, his white face glowing , looking up and just admiring all that vast beautiful emptiness within the night sky, he felt so separated from the rest of the world in this place of solitude, one of his own making.

Just for today, he needed it for today...he couldn't take being disappointed today...he couldn't take being let down on a day that was supposed to be happy....he'd rather it was like this, he would rather it hurt...turning away from the window he didn't notice the man who'd seen him standing there, who knew just enough about him...to know something wasn't right...even he'd been asked to leave on this day last year...he'd thought nothing of it but when it happened this year...

Jack knew where the back door entrance was, where the secret key was kept that could only respond to people who had been given permission to use it.

He hadn't been pulled back into this age old time without futuristic tech but full of magic just to stand back and do nothing, he wasn't going to ignore the being that had pulled him from that vault , all that fire and ash , who'd healed him from the madness and eridium poisoning...

He'd observed the world Acylius was in and at first he hadn't seen it but with more and more time he saw how people took from the bird demon, how happy they were to have his help and never ask if he needed something...no something definitely wasn't right if out of all the days this one in particular seemed to change Acylius's mood like this...

Down the hall Acylius's tail feathers dragged, he was already starting to undress , he didn't really need clothes for bed considering his body was covered in silky soft feathers. The windows turned dark as he walked by. Upon reaching his room his clothes folded in his arms.

Entering he set down the folded items and made his way to his bed, curling up and sinking into its softness, if only he could sink into it deeper, sink into that pain and just remember nothing else , nothing to contrast it so he didn't know he was in pain, so he didn't know his heart ached...his eyes closed he let out a few pained sobs only to be startled as he heard a voice, trying to forcefully wipe away his tears he finally noticed the man sitting from across the bed on his high backed chair.

"I'm fine Jack...I...wasn't you going to see your daughter ..."

Jack stared at him, again that was another thing this being had done for him, he'd saved her, healed their family...well it was a work in progress but still...and here he was alone crying ...and still not thinking of himself.

"Lulu shut up...you know she's out travelling at the moment, you're not fine."

He climbed on the bed next to him, he was so much smaller than the demon he was sitting next to , gently wiping away his tears and cradling Acylius's head as he stroked over his feathers.

"Come on Princess, tell me what's wrong?"

Acylius just curled up more for a moment, he said nothing, he didn't want to and when he felt Jack shift , a part of him felt terrified he would leave and pulled him down by his leg to cuddle close. He held him against his chest. Jack settled against the larger body and put his arm and leg around him, just to hold Acylius closer, hold onto him tighter.

"If I tell you ...don't pity me...just stay quiet and don't let go..."

Acylius practically whispered, his voice cracking again as an arm wrapped around Jack's back.

"Yeah...I promise..."

"I was born..."

After that Acylius said nothing.

It took Jack a moment to realise what he meant, oh it was his birthday...what the hell had happened to him in his life to make him reject this day so much...he'd let it go for now....but right now....he'd give Acylius what he wanted , what he needed.

He kissed his neck softly and nuzzled him

"Hey kiddo...."

"I'm hundreds of years older than you."

Lulu murmured.

"Yeah yeah...just ... I'm happy...you were... actually...more than happy, I'm thankful...I don't believe in all that religious god shit...but if there's something out there ...I'm thankful for you...I'm happy I get to hold you now ...that I got my daughter back..."

Acylius looked at him to show he was listening.

"I told you to be quiet Jack."

The bird demon pulled him just a little closer though , Jack just smiled and stroked the feathers on Acylius's back, the comfort of his warmth and gentle strength.

A another few moments silence passed between them and this time it was Acylius to break it.

"I'm thankful for you to... thank you Jack...are you alright with just staying like this tonight?"

Jack nodded and squeezed him affectionately and that was all the answer Acylius needed , closing his eyes, his listened to Jack's heart beat and the soft sound of his breathing, today...while it may not be perfect...today was a happy birthday.

[revelisms]

Excerpt: A Gift for Birdie

Vi reminisces on the past, and reckons with the present. She and Silco chat about a gunsmith.

From a work in progress set after 'heron blue,' an AU where Vi and Jinx reconnect under different terms. Slow, rocky relationship rebuilding, found family messiness, and a dash of hurt/comfort.

Music is humming on the jukebox, again.

It's not the kind Vander would play—not his soul-songs and morning light and blanketing warmth—but similar.

Jazzier rifts on the edges. Low, muted, musing. A glowing moon, to a burning sun.

It's like autumn nights and weaving branches; like the shadow that toils behind the bar—too thin, too sharp, too spider-like to be the silhouette instinct urges her to see, that her heart bleeds and aches for; a man wrapped in red and black, instead of beige and blue.

It's Sunday. The afternoons are always slow enough to count the damned minutes by hand.

She's picked up on his habit for making his rounds of other business ventures, on days like these—Sunday Stockies, as Jinx calls them—ventures, Vi was realizing, that were more than just meetings and trade edicts and knife-edged threats; more than just his cigars and signatures and shark-still eyes, sorting through contracts three miles thick.

She finds him down here, far more often than she would have ever dared. An image that doesn't match, that isn't right—but one that fills an empty, gaping space in her mind's eye, nonetheless.

The familiarity eats at her. Strange, in its stranger comforts.

It doesn't make it any easier, invading his breathing space.

A scrape of glass and metal sounds off behind the bar. With it, a dry drawl: "Still asleep, is she?" 

The girl snoring behind her paint-smattered door is seventeen today: beached on a bed of bomb-scraps and blueprints, in a room littered with clothes Vi doesn't recognize, the air tanged with gunpowder and metal.

Vi knows it, because she had sat with her in it the night before, well past the twelfth bell. Listened to her ramblings about the latest missions and some brute who'd gotten his face smashed in, the tale spiked with a manic wonder.

He deserved it, Jinx had crooned, shaking out her wrist with a theatric twirl. Those bones, though! Yeesh! Felt like they were made'a rocks.

Her sister never did well around violence, before. Now, from all Vi had gathered, she burst to life at the first sign of it, like a fuse waiting to be lit.

That wasn't the same. Wasn't right. Wasn't Powder. 

And while Vi had listened to it all—a knot lacing through her stomach, piercing straight to her throat—she'd felt a chill at her shoulder. Ignored it, at first—like she'd ignored the tack of his heels over the stairs; ignored the slow, prowling sweep of his gait down the hall.

But the chill had lingered. Turned heavy as the nose of a gun pressed to her nape. She'd sliced her eyes over her shoulder, and found a shadow looming at her sister's cracked door: a glowing eye simmering through it.

He'd leered at her from the shadows, in deathly silence. She'd stared back. Tried and failed to keep a snarl off her mouth.

It was as though Jinx knew he was there, without even having to look. She'd bantered him off, with rolling eyes and teenageish grumblings (It's late, I know!). Not long after, she'd started up her yawnings, and shooed Vi out.

And that—that wasn't the same, at all. 

Powder had always hated sleeping alone. As long as Vi could remember, she'd beg and beg her to stay until she drifted off, to the point that their designated beds had blurred to one.

She'd never felt safe enough in her own skin; never felt at home, even in the spaces that were wholly theirs.

The nights had never been kind to her, in that way. To any of them.

And that bastard had come to her door, like he knew all of it, as much as Vi did; like he, too, had found odd routines in Jinx's sing-songed Night-nights!, waiting for the times he'd find her tear-streaked and shaking instead, hands itching at her comforters.

He'd stood there and stared—like he'd forgotten Vi was there at all, back where she belonged: sitting knee-to-knee with her sister and knifing a glare through the door, denying to her last breath that he would have ever set foot in here, wrapped up Jinx's knobby hand beneath his blood-stained owned and sat shoulder-to-shoulder with her, prattling off quiet folktales and business nothings while the green light of their city fluttered and dimmed.

She stands across from him in a too-empty bar, music not-quite-Vander's toiling behind her, glaring at the chalk that smudges his slacks, and bites down the venom building on her tongue. Mutters, "I want to get something for Birdie," instead.

For Jinx, she means.

She still can't manage the poison of that name, whether chosen by her sister or not. It cuts her too deeply to bear.

He's turned to the shelf above him: another scrape of glass. "Have you not coin of your own?" The words scathe as dryly as the flit of his lashes. His hand sweeps from the shelf, sorts through another.

Vi drags her fist to a knot. "It's at the Bridgewaltz," she huffs, curtly. "Sevika said you had a...connection."

Fronts upon fronts for business deals behind closed doors, built on partnerships forged decades past.

It uproots her—rattles her, still—peering into the inner workings of what all the Lanes used to be. What all Vander had never told her.

Silco counts bottles by the dozen, a full cycle of breath, before turning down to the supply sheets clipboarded over the bar. Undercity light prisms through the glass, a greenish-gold haze: white-glowed on the page he flicks back between his fingers, on the silvering sweeps of fringe that fall loose at his temple.

He looks out of place, down here. Uncharacteristically dressed down. That rotted splotch bared on his face, his hair not quite tamed, the red-black lines of his sleeves cuffed and rolled. 

Another page rasps between his fingers. "Demian," he rumbles then, penning in a string of numbers in his spindly script. A long-faded scar hooks down the inside of his left wrist. His eyes raise to hers, slowly. She rips her own away. "He operates the gunshop by the third quadrant."

Vi chews hard on the inside of her cheek. "Narrows it down, huh?"

A dark brow crooks at her. "We've a code," Silco gravels on, without a trace of humor. "He'll ask what you're having; you'll say rumwine." Another rustle of paper, another scratch of his pen. "How much do you need?"

She shrugs, ticking her nail at her palm. "Was something like one-eighty, last I saw."

He says nothing to that, for a moment. Flips through another supply sheet. And she stares at the way his brow furrows, at the twist of his wrist; at how he stands just a touch off-kilter, as though something else should be at the end of the bar, where her memory sees Vander with a towel slipped off his shoulder and a pint scrubbed dry beneath his palm.

"She's fond of his works with osmium," Silco muddles then, tucking his pen behind the rattish crook of his ear. She rocks back on her heels. Watches, suspiciously, as he leans over to sort through the register: a snap-shring of the drawer.

He counts out clean stacks of glinting, gold-plaited coin: seamless as a teller.

A hundred and fifty hexes—and a hundred and fifty more, atop them.

"That's—that's not—"

"I'm aware." He leans into the willowed splay of his palm, with another dagger of those mismatched eyes. She meets them, a whip-fire glare. "Haggling takes more than using your fists, girl."

Her nails fidget at her thumb. "I know."

"Then be smart about it. I've found he runs fifteen-percent mark-ups, on average."

Her teeth ache. She wants to shove the hexes back in his face, turn tail and walk straight back up those glossed stairs. Wants to snatch up every glimmering coin, out of her own spite, and stalk across the floor, before he can get in another word—but he's glancing absently over another shelf of glasses at his knee, like he knows every damn nook and cranny back there, like he's worked it as much as Vander ever did, and the thought gnaws and gnaws at her—What the hell were you?—until she can't think.

He tallies in another row of orders. Glances at her, slowly: a flit of teal and cinder, there and gone again. "Take your time," he suggests, after a breath. "Fetch yourself something to practice with. It's worth knowing your way around a bullet, in this line of work."

Metal flares on her tongue. "I don't need a gun."

Ice and fire, burning into her. "Do you intend to punch your way out of every shootout you cross, girl?" Condescending, petty old drawl: the sheared velvet of his accent heavy off his jagged teeth. "Perhaps I can fetch you a bow and arrow, if you're so inclined."

The jab eats under her skin, and sets her blood boiling.

Vi scrapes up the coins into the satchel at her hip, and storms off, out the gilded whirl of the door, without another word.

[purpleeivy]

short POV of Beige, one of the characters in my cyberpunk fantasy story.

Lilac turned around, giving Beige a sly smirk, and leapt off the roof. Beige tried to reach and grab Lilac’s loose fitting white top before Lilac’s enhanced legs propelled her towards the roof of the next nearest building, but her hand just passed through the air, and she saw Lilac flip her off with both hands, as she turned into a blur of lilac and pink soaring up through the air.

Beige turned around and walked towards the open door to the agency roof muttering curses towards Lilac as she moved swiftly and precisely in the direction of the Director’s office on the seventh floor. As she opened the door she noticed the Director was away. Again. Probably off gallivanting with him again, how much paperwork did he leave me this time. She sighed, and, as always, started work on the paperwork for the agency. There was not a lot of work this time, however some of the requests that had been asked were complicated and required her to look through multiple different sections of penal code and agency regulations as well as finances to check whether or not they would be viable. She had memorised everything, of course, what good would she be to the company if she had to constantly relearn the documents she used a hundred times a day, She was most certainly not an amateur. She was the reason the agency was still running after all, especially now that Director Black had started neglecting even more of his duties. The next sheet of paper was a request from Lilac to install yet another new, barely tested implant. Beige thought for a moment, sighed, and moved the sheet into the now nearly empty pending pile. She would deal with this after getting back the full report from Lilac’s mission, from someone other than Lilac herself. Hopefully Teal, he��s rather diligent. Ah Teal, his short brown hair, perfectly trimmed, his tight fitting blue suit and dress shoes. I wonder if he would be in the lunch room right now, it is close to his regular lunch break time now, perhaps I should go and…. No. I must not get distracted now. There is still work to be done. Beige sighed, and continued on with her work.

Beige isn't an antagonist, she's just. someone who Lilac works with and doesn't like very much. She's just too. much. She's too authoritarian for Lilac, she agrees with the hierarchies too much, and Lilac is supposed to be below her, and Beige makes that far too obvious in the way she talks to Lilac (when I eventually get around to writing that, from both of their POVs)

Lilac's POVs will be far more care-free like she is. I plan to have a few POVs for this book, although I doubt I will have enough chapters to have full chapter POVs for more than two. (Think Luffy, although a little less so because she's more realistic than he is, and a character flaw of hers is that she is sometimes too pessimistic in her own head, and acts far too positive to other people, which certain people who know her are able to notice)

This is going to take me a long time to write considering how powerful my executive dysfunction is. and if you have any questions I will happily answer them. And if it is something I haven't thought about before I will tell you, and update the post later if I change my mind (and if I remember).

Anyway, the story takes place in a fantasy world like Dungeon Meshi or Lord of the Rings or any other typical fantasy, that progressed to a cyberpunk era, with technological enhancements, and a magic system (or two) ingrained into the development of the society and its technology, medicine, and more.

[wizardpink]

So I promised you this 12 hours ago, it's nearly 11pm and I have to go to bed, and I'm here 2.3k unedited unproofread words later and I haven't even gotten to the vampires yet.

I'll be back tomorrow I SWEAR.

It's early 1984 and Alice is at a cocktail party thrown by the owner or publisher of some major American magazine based on the West Coast. She's a travel writer, or some other kind of cultural non-news based free-lancer, and she gets introduced to this guy named Daniel. He's genuinely friendly and charismatic, and cute to boot, but he can be a bit brash and forward with the sarcasm. And he clearly has been ducking into the bathroom with everyone else who keeps coming back with a not-so-subtle case of the sniffles. They flirt a bit, he gets her number. It turns out he's a freelancer working on a cover-story feature coming out in a few months. The editor and publisher both think he's hot stuff. He's working on a novel that they think is gonna hit the best sellers lists. It's the kind of match that could open doors for Alice's own career if she plays it right. It's not always easy for a woman in the industry without an in with the big wigs.

Things never get much more serious than each of them referring to the other as their boyfriend or girlfriend, and Alice is right, it does lead to a lot more cocktail parties and drinks with editors and publishers and writers and broadcasters. One such fateful meeting gets her into a lunch with a fashion writer from Paris whose magazine is looking for an American cultural perspective, and they offer to pay room and board for a three month stay. "And you absolutely MUST bring Molloy with you, my husband loves his editorials in Hustler."

Alice doesn't understand why Daniel immediately refuses. He isn't working on anything under contract. In fact his progress on the novel he's been working on seems to be stagnating, wouldn't a change of scenery do him some good?

But she isn't completely blind. Daniel is more often than not reticent to agree to any plans with her spur of the moment. She knows there's someone else's approval he has to get first. It doesn't matter. One small hurdle on the way to her goals. But she needs Daniel to help her lock down this job. She begs, she argues, he leaves. Two days later she gets a call. He'll come too.

Things in Paris go much the same as they did in California. Despite sharing an apartment, Daniel is only "home" two or three nights a week. But he never misses an invite for drinks with the fashion writer's husband and his industry friends who all think Daniel is so wild and funny and free with his thoughts. They both play their parts for these rich, influential hacks who care so much more about who you're sleeping with than how talented or intelligent you actually are. Maybe Daniel doesn't love her. But he respects her enough to give her this.

Then the second blue line on the pregnancy test appears and everything goes to shit.

For Alice this is potentially career ending. Her whole life turned on its head. And for Daniel, it barely seems to register. Did he not care, or did he just leave his body? Alice goes back to the apartment and cries, she screams, she throws Daniel's expensive recording equipment against the walls. She calls her mother but hangs up after the first ring. And Daniel doesn't come home that night. Nor the next night, nor the next night. Three days isn't uncommon, but not without a phone call. Then a fourth night. A fifth.

Alice confides in the fashion writer what's happened and she can't believe Alice waited five days to say something?! She takes her to the police precinct immediately to file a missing person's report. Alice shows them a Polaroid and the officer taking the report motions for another officer to come over. One of them leaves and returns with a faxed over headshot of Daniel taken from a hospital bed. He was found in an empty apartment with a needle still in his arm, unable to even remember his own name.

They go to the mental hospital where he is being evaluated but the staff say he's too manic for visitors at the moment. He keeps demanding the nurses let him go, screaming that he has to find "him," but can't tell them who "him" is. When they ask, it only makes him more upset. But once he's told there's a woman named Alice there to see him, he seems to calm down. She's brought to his room. Alice isn't sure what she's expecting, excuses? Apologies? He gives her something else entirely. There's an earnestness in him she's never seen before. He's terrified, he's distraught, he has no idea where he's been for most of the week, for most of their stay in Paris even. But he remembers her, and he remembers the baby. He knows he should be sorry but he doesn't know why, and he sobs begging for her to believe him.

What choice does she have at this point?

Daniel spends most of the next six months in a French rehab facility. When he gets out, he takes Alice to dinner. He asks her to marry him. She says no.

A month passes. Alice's mother is incensed she hasn't accepted his proposal yet. Her colleagues give her sideways glances as she waddles to and from her desk. With Daniel in recovery and her pregnant, all her networking is at a standstill. Worse, maybe it's nonexistent at this point. "Mother" is a cursed label for a working woman in 1985, but "Single Mother" is worse. She wonders how it all came to this on the day she and Daniel go to the French court house and file for their marriage license. She supposes it was on the day she was born and the doctor said, "it's a girl!"

Weeks later, through blood and through pain, the same refrain. "It's a girl!"

Alice promises Kathryn on her first day on earth that things are going to be different for her. Her life and her successes will never hinge on a man's mercy. She'll rise higher than both of them, on her own merits, and no one will ever be able to deny her.

Kate's childhood is defined by two opposing forces: her mother's relentless but loving pushing, and her father's absence and apathy.

Any hope Alice had of balancing her career and family is steamrolled over by Daniel's ambitions. He seemingly takes any job, any assignment that takes him as far away from Alice and Kate as possible. He's never cruel or contemptuous, but his love and attention are scarce, fleeting, and shallow. He always comes home with a new toy that Kate has no interest in or already owns, because he never puts more than a moment's thought into the gesture. She can count on one hand the number of recitals, competitions, or games he makes it to from kindergarten to her senior year. And because of that, and her own desperate need to see Kate grow up and Be Somebody, Alice has to parent twice as hard. She's controlling, and strict, and sets nearly impossible standards, but she loves her daughter just as fiercely. Kate becomes a bit tightly-wound, a bit type-A, a bit of a perfectionist. The walls and shelves of her room are filled with trophies and blue ribbons. Life isn't perfect. But it's fine.

The divorce doesn't come as a surprise to her. She's about 11 when Daniel "moves out," if it could be said he lived with them in the first place.

It's just unfortunate that those turbulent early teen years have to coincide with Daniel remarrying, having another daughter, and suddenly, for the first time, becoming a Father.

Lenora is born when Kate is 14, far too late for sibling rivalry, and in those early days it was all so exciting. Kate was eager to help with everything, from painting the nursery to changing diapers. And Daniel couldn't be happier, look how great things are going with my old daughter and my new daughter! A fresh start, and I'm gonna do it right this time!

And the thing is, he actually does. And Kate gets to watch as the man that couldn't be bothered to remember her birthday was in June and not July becomes the World's #1 Dad to Lenora.

It'll take years to admit, but it fucks her up. What was it about her that wasn't good enough for him to change? What part of her wasn't enough for his affection? Did he see this dark and hateful piece of her heart that regards Lenora with such a fierce jealousy? She knows it's wrong. She is self-aware to know it isn't fair. She wears the mask of the good big sister and smiles in the family photos and hopes no one can see that nasty, toxic part of her soul she never knew was locked away until it broke free.

Kate gets any scholarship she could ever need. She attends UC Berkeley and hopes Daniel will know she chose it because of him. He never acknowledges the tribute.

Her senior year she meets a sweet guy who plays guitar and has never won a blue ribbon in anything in his life. He likes to take her on hikes and introduce her to obscure movies. She ditches class just to go to the beach and people watch with him. He isn't disappointed by her failures, and he remembers her birthday. Kate graduates summa cum laude, he… graduates. She goes on to law school, he teaches music to middle schoolers. They have a cute, pinterest ready fall wedding in Wisconsin where his family is from. The bridesmaids wear colorful Converse sneakers instead of heels. Kate is pregnant halfway through law school and Alice does not take it well. They have a fight that unleashes something in Kate she'd only allowed quick glimpses of daylight previously. A rift forms. Kate wonders if that's just adulthood: the eventual realization that the people who made you are just people. Sometimes deeply fucked-up people.

A familiar refrain. "It's a girl!"

Kate promises Sybelle on her first day on earth that things are going to be different for her. She can be anything she wants to be, at any pace she wants to take it. Her life and her happiness will never hinge on a parent's baggage. She'll know peace and self-worth that no one in their family has ever known.

Lenora's childhood is defined by two unfortunately intertwined forces: her father's short-sighted endeavor to make up for what a shitty husband and father he was to Alice and Kate, and his genetic predisposition to being an all-time fuck up, which she inherits in spades.

If absentee father Daniel is bad, perhaps present father Daniel is worse. He and his second wife split before Lenora can even remember them being married, but he actually fights and wins custody this time. Lenora's version of Dad never says no. He is forgiving to a fault and what he can't figure out how to give emotionally, he gives materialistically. Book deals and high profile reporting gigs put Lenora's childhood a few brackets higher economically than Kate's. A pony for her birthday, even though they live in the suburbs. A brand new car on her 16th birthday, and when she totals it while drunk a week later, Dad assures her they'll find a way to replace it.

His defensiveness is just as damning. When her teachers write home that Lenora is struggling to pay attention in class, and he may want to have her tested, he has to be escorted from school property on Parent Teacher Conference night over the scene he makes. HIS daughter doesn't have a fucking learning disability. HIS daughter isn't predisposed to risky or addictive behavior. For fuck's sake, her sister went to law school at Stanford! There's nothing wrong with Lenora!

Then she's seventeen and the second blue line on the pregnancy test appears and everything goes to shit. She's pregnant halfway through high school and Daniel does not take it well. They have a fight that seems to break something in Daniel he didn't know was already mostly broken. He thought he fucked up raising Kate because he didn't try hard enough. But it turns out he's just such a shitty father, he fucked up with Lenora even worse. A rift forms. He was always a drinker but it gets worse, quickly. He disappears for days at a time. Lenora calls her mother but hangs up after the first ring. She calls her sister instead.

Benji is born when Sybelle is 8 years old, far too late for sibling rivalry, and in those early days it was all so exciting. She's eager to help with everything, unlike Lenora. Lenora is a no show at her own baby shower. She's uninterested in painting the guest room in Kate's house, or attending the parenting classes Kate offers to attend with her. She sleeps through Benji's wailing, leaving him to Kate to handle. She slips out of the house just before his doctor's appointments, leaving them to Kate to handle.

Kate and her husband have a talk about Benji, and the possibility of expanding their family. Then they have a talk with Lenora, and she does not take it well. A rift forms.

Lenora leaves with Benji. She moves to New York, where Daniel, in an effort to win her over like always, has offered to pay for an apartment for her. She doesn't stay there long. He isn't sure where she goes. Kate explodes on him over the phone for letting Lenora slip through the cracks and take Benji with her. A rift that was already there widens, and Kate goes no contact with her father. She hears from Lenora once or twice a year. She sees her strung-out mugshot on facebook being passed around by relatives, gawking and commenting on where and why it all went wrong. Benji is about five when Kate flies out for the custody hearing. She refuses to even acknowledge Daniel, and tells Lenora it's only temporary, and once she gets her shit together, Kate knows she can be a good mother. Lenora has to be escorted from the court room over the scene she makes.

That's the last time Kate sees Daniel or Lenora alive.

If I were a vampire pissed off about the IWTV book and too much of a coward to go after Louis or Daniel, I would simply eat Daniel's daughters.

[weburby]

Shh...  No one tell Chamomile that Karate took a nap in her bed!

[gaitwae]

Hello!! Mob!thor au please. You’re a successful and rising businesswoman and it’s your first time going to those rich people galas, there you catch thor’s eye and you spend the whole evening with him. Thank yew, stay safe😽😽

A/N: You have no idea how much I've been wanting to write this!! This is a Thor x F!Reader (anon requested businesswoman uwu)

Warnings: Slight harassment from Thor, implied only. Also a slight kidnapping. Non-threatening

Summary: Above!

Tags: @make-me-imagine @thorfanficwriter @bwemph @myraiswack @rorybutnotgilmore @loki-snape-our-hero @wolfish-trickster @lucywrites02 @mostly-marvel-musings @winterfrostsarmy @superheroesandstardust @castiels-majestic-wings @geekns @natandersonnla @cozy-the-overlord @megthemewlingquim @frostedgiant @whatafuckingdumbass @thebookbakery @delightfulheartdream @twhiddlestonsstuff @lokistan @the-emo-asgardian @amwolowicz @itscomplicatedx @sophlubbwriting @darkacademicfrom2021 @lilyofthesword 

You had picked the perfect evening gown. It billowed behind you, and you received many compliments from it. It was your favorite color, and it matched your complexion. You had done up your hair. You carried your clutch tightly to your side. Although you were sure the rumors were only rumors, if there was any place they’d be disproved, it was at the Marvel Gala.

It was hosted every year by Tony Stark. He took business seriously. On top of the Asgardian mob rumors, you had heard he had some deals with the Odinson family. Whether or not the Odinson family ran a mob, they were still dangerous in court. Their lawsuit could mean the loss of your entire company. You shivered to yourself, glad that you had yet to make any sort of dealings with Valaskjalf Enterprises. 

You grabbed a flute of champagne off of a tray. You tried not to down the whole thing at once, but this was a nerve-wracking experience. You could make acquaintances that could — no, would — change your entire career. You smoothed your dress out in hopes of wiping your clammy hands away.

“Miss? Would you like to dance?” a deep voice asked behind you. You froze, slowly turning around.

Before you was a tall, broad, blond hunk of handsome with a thundering presence. He wore a crisp suit, and his face and hair were kept in an almost pretty manner. He was elegant, yet bold. He was massive, but perfect. You tried not to stare, but you found you couldn’t blink. The man smirked, extending his hand.

“Miss?” he laughed.

You shook yourself out of your daze, remembering why you were at the gala in the first place. “I apologize; who are you?” you asked, smiling awkwardly. “I don’t like to dance without knowing someone’s name.”

“My name is Thor,” he said. You set your flute down on an empty tray passing by, taking his hand. He tugged you to the dancefloor. “What is your name?”

“I’m Y/N L/N,” you say. “I’m the CEO of—”

“I know what company,” he cut you off, his eyes lighting up. “I was rather impressed when Father told us how far your little company had been progressing. Had I known the simple surname I’d been hearing was yours, why, I don’t even think we would be standing here.” He chuckled darkly. He began swaying with you as the music swelled. You shook at his tone. What could that mean? Who was Thor? “The other family business would have contacted you. You have a lot of potential at L/N Advancements.”

Oh.

Of course.

“You’re... Forgive me, I should have remembered. Thor Odinson,” you said nervously. You shook your head, unable to meet his eyes. Of course, the mobster would find you. Of course, the mobster would find you! Of course!

“Yes. I’ll assure you, no rumors you’ve heard are quite like the real deal.” He snaked his hand to the small of your back. “My brother often likes to... exaggerate our side company’s deals. I should really get you back to the business talk, but I want to keep you to myself a little longer.” Thor grinned a model’s grin. “Unless you’re scared of me, that is.”

“Oh, I’m not scared of you,” you said. You realized you still had your clutch in your grasp. That alone disproved your point. Thor took it from you, setting it on an empty table.

“You aren’t?”

“Maybe I was scared of getting mugged,” you admitted. “It’s silly.”

“I think the only thing you should be scared of is how you’re getting home tomorrow,” he flirted, pulling you closer. Much, much closer.

You put distance between yourself and the heir of Valaskjalf. “I don’t do that. I won’t. Sorry. I barely know you, and I’ve worked too hard to slip up or give in. I hope you can understand.”

Thor, who was taking the rejection as if it never happened, only smiled brighter. “You’re scared that I’ll take L/N Advancements away from you with just a night together?”

“I’m scared your father might decide I’m not worth trading with once he finds out I’ve done a little more than speak with his son,” you said in your firmest tone. Thor laced your fingers. You didn’t pull away from that.

“But he might decide you’re worth keeping around.” He stroked your cheek, moving to his own beat now. The music didn’t match your rhythm, but it was still as intoxicating. “I could get rid of all your enemies, you know. I could make you untouchable.”

“I’m not interested,” you said. You shook your head. “I need a drink.”

“You just downed a whole flute of champagne!” he tsked. 

“I still need one.” You lingered in Thor’s presence. He smelled of petrichor and fine cologne and a tiny bit of sulfur and something else that you couldn’t pick out. He hummed happily, as if he were drunk. He didn’t smell of alcohol, but his behavior could fool you in a second. 

“You’re quite the prey,” he murmured. “I’ll get you a drink. I’ll get you multiple.”

“I can get my own drink,” you insisted. “Please, Mr. Odinson, I’m happy to be by myself.”

“You should relax,” he, too, insisted. He gripped your upper arms, taking you in once again. “Really. Don’t let your fear stop you from having fun.”

“I’ll do what I like.” You tore away from Thor. “Thank you fror the dance, but I have to go talk to Tony Stark and Steve Rogers.”

“Have fun mingling!” He caught your hand and kissed it. You felt your belly set itself on fire. Did Thor want one night? Clearly. But what did he want from a night? Did he want information about your business? Or did he want to take advantage? Did he want to use you, and let you use him in the same manner? “I’ll see you some other time, darling.”

“Don’t clear your schedule,” you warned. 

Thor chuckled, “I’ll remember that.”

That didn’t stop him from following you around all night. He was by your side as if he was your partner. Whatever he had decided, it wasn’t going to change without a piece of paper signed by a judge...

Given that he was admittedly not only part of the city’s biggest mob, but a higher member, you couldn’t obtain that.

+-+-- 

Months later, and after many calls from Thor Odinson (who you did not offer your personal number), you finally started to cave. You let him have dinner with you. You took walks in the city during the daytime. You found he was a sensitive person, and almost three years of talking and dancing and Marvel Galas came and went before your first kiss.

Thor took a small sip of white wine, staring at you with electric blue eyes that you always got lost in. “Did I ever apologize for our first meeting?”

You shook your head. “I don’t think so,” you answered. “I didn’t think you cared enough to remember it...”

“If I wasn’t in love with you,” Thor began, “I wouldn’t have stayed for as long as I intend to.”

“It’s been three years,” you whispered. “How long do you intend to stay?”

Thor wet his lips. “As long as you let me.” He reached over, cupped your face, and brought your mouth to his.

That was when the first kidnapping happened.

The room was dark. Your hair was being pulled back by meaty hands behind you. Your clothes were torn, and your eyes wouldn’t stop shedding tears. 

“Ms. L/N,” a deep voice mused. “It’s an honor to meet you. I’m glad my brother has someone to entertain him that doesn’t include a mortal injury... Since that nurse hit him with her car, he hasn’t quite been the same.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked the voice, wheezing and stifling a sob. You sniffled. “I don’t know why I’m here...”

“You’re here so we can talk.” A small light switched on. You saw a raven-haired man sitting in a small chair, one leg crossed over the other like the Joker. “Do you intend on strengthening your company with my family’s conglomerate?”

“No,” you said. You were shaking. You tried to look back at the meaty hands that held your head, but whoever it was made sure you watched the man. “No, I want to make it with my own merit. I don’t want to be absorbed...”

“Do you plan on staying away from legal trouble by making my brother dearest your... intended?” he continued, pulling a gun from behind him. He cocked it, keeping his cool eyes on you. He aimed. “If I think you’re lying, I’ll shoot. And trust me... I know a liar when I see one.”

“No!” you said again. “No, I don’t!” 

His expression never changed. He rolled his neck, then studied you some more. “Name your favorite thing about Thor.”

“His laugh.” You gulped. “I love when he laughs... really laughs. When he doubles over, cries, and then giggles about it hours later.”

The man sat back, turning off the safety. “Name his favorite drink.”

“Locally brewed beer.”

“What’s my name?” His forefinger slipped in front of the trigger.

“Loki!” Thor’s voice came from outside the room. You sobbed again. The door swung open, and the man stood from his chair. Thor gripped his brother’s lapel, throwing him on the wall. “What do you think you’re doing?!” 

Loki growled, dropping the gun on its side. “It wasn’t loaded! Calm down! Jane only wanted to stay for the secrets, I was simply—”

“I don’t care!” he snapped. “You have no right to kidnap her!” He was nose-to-nose with Loki, shaking him as he spoke. 

“Thor!” you cried. He swerved his head, letting go of his brother to come and rescue you. He shoved the meaty hands off, throwing a solid punch.

“Come with me,” he said, lifting you into his arms. You wrapped your arms around him, shaking and trying not to cry too much. He held you tightly. He took Loki’s gun off the ground. “Don’t touch her. She’s nothing like Jane, and if you’d listen to me when I talk to you, Father wouldn’t have put you on lackey duty!”

“Take me out of here,” you whispered.

“I can’t,” Thor said. He kissed your head. “This is my life... I love you, but if you can’t handle this...”

You held him tightly. “We should talk about this later...”

[mythicamagic]

“Call it a truce”

(For the prompt if you’d like)

They'd crossed paths eight times now inside the godforsaken maze. Naraku had placed them under some sort of spell- Kagome wasn’t totally sure if her friends were also somewhere inside. It had all happened way too quickly. One second she’d been fighting alongside her comrades- the next, waking up inside a bizarre hellscape.

Sadly the only person she’d seen thus far was Sesshoumaru of all demons. When they’d first bumped into each other- blue and gold had narrowed- both quickly turning in the opposite directions.

Gradually, however, time wore on. A continuous mist obscured every corner of the black maze, its towering walls strangled by twisting, thorny vines. Red skies hung overhead, a barrier likely preventing Sesshoumaru from flying upwards, otherwise he would've escaped by now.

Kagome had just one arrow and one weathered bow. No food, and no water. Just the clothes on her back and strung out nerves, wits starting to fray at the edges. Her footsteps sounded too loud in the empty space. The mist kept rolling, making her paranoid- imagining salivating demons and evil spirits haunting her steps.

Am I going to die in here?

Gritting blunt teeth, Kagome let out a frustrated noise- wrapping her hands around the nearest thorny vines and letting reiki burst free from her fingertips. Maybe she could just blast her way through the wall. Pink light glowed like a signal flare, shimmering and giving her a brief taste of renewed hope.

“It will not work.”

She frowned, registering Sesshoumaru’s acerbic tone. Just as he’d said, when her holy light died, the thorns remained.

Kagome glanced over her shoulder, finding him closer than expected. She shifted warily to maintain some distance. They’d refrained from talking so far during their encounters in the maze. This was unexpected. And worrying. If Sesshoumaru was out of options, things were dire.

“Flying is a no go, I’m guessing?"

He stiffly nodded in response, head tilting back to gaze hatefully at the high walls. Kagome shivered, wrapping both arms around herself. “Damn it. I have no idea what to do. I can sense Naraku’s youki but it's everywhere so there's no chance of pinpointing him. It’s soaked into the air like gasoline."

"I am also unable to locate the wretch."

Kagome blinked, glad he was reciprocating conversation.

"We're locked in a spell or under a curse, I’ve got no doubt about that. I just don’t know if these are our real bodies or not…”

Were they trapped somewhere mentally? Caged like birds?

Sesshoumaru levelled a look down to her hands, gesturing with a claw. “The cuts do not hurt?”

Kagome blinked, flexing her fingers. She hadn’t even realised they’d been pricked by the thorns. “N-no.”

“Then it appears he has either somehow trapped us within a space that has absorbed our conscious minds or put us in an area that dulls the senses. Perhaps a keeper box of some kind," Sesshoumaru said easily, as though he did this all the time.

Kagome’s heart pumped at a dizzying speed. Keeper box. She'd been in one of those before. The face of sage Tokajin came to mind. “Crap,” she whispered.

"Unpleasant memories, miko?" a lofty, entertained tone brushed her hearing.

Kagome sneered half-heartedly, "it's nothing."

Sesshoumaru's eyes glowed, smiling. As if he could see right through her. "Hn."

“We gotta get out of here," she said dismissively. "Since this is Naraku we’re dealing with- I doubt just finding the centre of this maze will let us get outta here and break the curse, and knowing him there’s no exit.”

“Hn, and yet I can think of nothing else after trying everything."

Kagome gave him a sweeping glance over, swallowing. She hadn’t seen him since he’d nearly killed Kohaku- still thankful he’d released the mind controlled boy.

They were still technically enemies despite a shared goal of killing Naraku.

Steeling herself, Kagome took a breath. She then boldly stuck a hand out towards him. “Let’s work together. We haven’t got much choice. Call it a truce.”

Silence.

Kagome chanced a look at his face.

Sesshoumaru merely stared at the offered hand unblinkingly. Kagome giggled weakly. “A-ah, you shake it. It’s an ‘across the seas’ type of gesture to show we’re sealing a deal.”

Interest livened his animalistic gaze. He briefly seemed considering, perhaps wondering about her origins. Long fingers unfurled from his palm, clasping her hand strongly. The shock of skin to skin contact and sharp claws nearly jerked Kagome enough to rip her hand free. She forced herself to stay still, feeling a surge of something shoot down to her toes.

He was warmer than expected. It surprised her that callouses roughened his palm, likely from years of swordplay. She'd always figured he was too inhumanly perfect to have such a thing. Sesshoumaru blinked slowly, remaining locked in a stare. For a moment, Kagome dumbly admired his pretty white lashes.

She caught herself staring and briskly shook his hand, prying her fingers free before gesturing to several pathways, cheeks red. “S-so which way?”

Mokomoko’s soft fur caressed the bare flesh of her lower thigh in passing as Sesshoumaru stepped towards one. “I have yet to take this path. Stay close, troublesome miko," he threw over one shoulder. "I will not slow down for you.”

“Please don’t. You walk slow enough as it is,” Kagome griped, following.

---

Demons began littering the narrow, claustrophobic spaces within the maze. Kagome had to duck and weave around Sesshoumaru as he killed them with acid or fierce swipes of his claws. It forced them to get up close and personal, occasionally plastering miko and Daiyoukai together.

His scent wafted into her unwilling nose more than once- masculine and sharp, reminding her of thunderstorms. Since she couldn’t use her reiki with much finesse yet and the close quarters put her archery skills at a disadvantage, Kagome tried her best to be helpful.

“Behind you!” she’d yell, ducking under his arm before grasping his sleeve. “On your right!”

Sesshoumaru dispatched enemies without argument or complaint, calmly moving on once they lay dead.

As time dragged on, Kagome’s legs began to ache from the endless walking. Her stomach grumbled near constantly. Her limbs and body were becoming weak.

She didn’t breathe a word about it- though noticed Sesshoumaru’s lingering attention. Turning a corner, she stumbled, an arm catching her around the waist, steadying.

Kagome’s belly fluttered, and she quickly straightened. “Thanks.”

“Hn.”

They book occasional breaks, but respite was near impossible with the continued droves of enemies. After what she could only guess to be at least 17 hours- though it felt like days, they finally arrived at the centre of the maze. Exhausted, Kagome kept a hand buried within mokomoko to keep her upright, leaning against the stability he offered. They’d shed a lot of restraint about touch around hour 9 of their journey.

As first suspected however, there was nothing in the middle of the maze. Just a plain space with a single fountain. They hadn’t come across a single exit either.

Kagome’s knees quivered a little, “d-do you have a plan B?” she rasped, throat dry. What she wouldn’t give for some water.

Sesshoumaru stared grimly ahead, slowly lowering his calm attention to her. If she could hazard a guess, he was likely thinking he could survive. He’d weather the storm of hunger and dehydration much longer than she.

“I suspect the reason Naraku lingers is because he predicted I would kill you,” his velvety voice was completely at odds with his words.

Kagome stiffened, leaning slightly away from the warmth of luxurious furs. “...That would make sense,” the admission slipped out, “he’s a sadistic prick. He’s probably watching us right now, getting his kicks from seeing us struggle.”

Sesshoumaru turned to her, lifting a clawed hand. The sharp points gleamed. They could tear through her supple flesh and bones with ease. Kagome had witnessed it enough times to know.

Rendered completely exhausted though, she had little room left for fear. She stared at him blandly, falling quiet.

He arched a brow, resting those deadly claws against her flushed skin, gradually unfurling to hold her neck. “You will not resist?”

“I’ve never taken you to be the kinda guy who would take the easy way out,” Kagome muttered, raising her chin. “Am I wrong?”

Was it her imagination or did his pupils dilate a touch?

She shivered, feeling the pads of his fingers drag against the nape of her delicate neck, thumb resting at her throat.

“No,” he rumbled softly, gripping tighter and drawing her in closer. “But since we have an audience, miko,” his voice lowered, “let us give him a show.”

Blue eyes widened- seconds before lips crashed to hers. Kagome gasped- and a sinuous tongue took advantage, shoving inside to plunder her mouth. Sensation slammed into her gut. Suddenly she was immediately aware of everything. The warmth of his palm, the dry rub of his callouses along her neck. The goosebumps rising on her flesh. How his tongue skilfully played, twined and slid against her own- and she found herself responding.

His lips were hot and quick across her own, firm and yielding and then parting to meet her tongue with his anew. Kagome’s breath shuddered. Her entire body thrummed. She found herself touching the fine, soft locks of silver hair behind his ear, strands running through her fingers like water. Their mouths broke apart, and Kagome could only give a breathy gasp as he sucked along the bent arch of her throat.

“Behind me, to the left,” he whispered, kissing her flesh bruisingly hard.

“I know,” she panted.

It happened quickly. They moved in sync- Kagome reaching for her bow and nocking her single arrow while Sesshoumaru turned, angling her to fire at the faint ripple in the sky they’d both sensed the second they’d kissed.

While the blazing firework of pure holy energy streaked into the air, the Daiyoukai followed its progress, flying with Kagome in tow. She held on around his shoulders, praying with all her might it would break through.

Her arrow pierced the demonic barrier- shattering the weak spot immediately. Sesshoumaru broke through, leaving the world of red skies and unsolvable mazes behind.

---

Kagome sucked in a gasping, strangled breath, shooting upright.

“Kagome! She’s awake, guys!”

Putting a hand to her head, she looked to her side- only to be greeted with the sight of Sesshoumaru sitting up from the ground, both of them having been sprawled out. Around them, battle raged. Inuyasha was fighting diligently, swiping madly at continuous rounds of regenerating tentacles.

Miroku and Sango seemed to be on guard duty, having been defending their unconscious bodies. Shippo immediately buried his face in Kagome’s arm, holding onto her. “You’ve been asleep for a good hour after you were both hit by that attack! Naraku kept trying to kill you! Ah- I’m so glad you’re safe!”

Kagome comforted him with a few gentle pats upon his head, murmuring softly. The shifting of weight caught her attention, and she watched as Sesshoumaru stood. He sneered softly to himself, “I do not know why you saw fit to protect this one, but I did not need your aid, humans.”

“I told ya!” Inuyasha shouted from somewhere in the distance.

“We couldn’t let you be absorbed by Naraku or he’d be even more formidable,” Sango griped.

“What my friends mean to say is- you’re welcome, Lord Sesshoumaru,” Miroku amiably smoothed over the situation.

Sesshoumaru grunted, securing his swords in place. Then, slowly, his eyes lowered.

Kagome exhaled a shuddering breath. Her heart slammed against her ribcage, cheeks burning with all the voracity of a fever, chest light and heavy all at once. Sesshoumaru’s gaze fell to the subtle parting of her mouth, before looking her in the eye for just one more lingering moment. He then moved out from behind the protection Sango and Miroku offered, racing headfirst into battle.

He just did it to break the spell, that’s all.

He’d kissed her to help flush out a weak spot from their enemy, which had opened from Naraku's shock- having lost brief control of the spell. Thinking about it as anything more than that would be foolish.

Shaking herself, Kagome followed suit. She grabbed her bow and nocked an arrow, pushing down all confused thoughts and sensations that Sesshoumaru’s wicked mouth had elicited- entering the fray alongside her friends.

[samdeancass]

Time Travel

Requested on Quotev

Pairing: Kevin x Tennyson!reader

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Characters: Kevin, Y/N, Ben, Gwen

Words: 2367

A/N: Y/N is Bens sister.

Description: When Y/N is kidnapped by a time traveller for revenge, its up to Kevin, Ben and Gwen to save her.

Being the sister of Ben Tennyson wasn’t the easiest thing in the world. You're always getting used as leverage or kidnapped by his enemies and sadly, you were becoming to get used to it. However, things became more complicated when you struck up a relationship with Kevin. Both of them would get into fights together about who would be the one to save you. These fights had become more and more frequent over the past few weeks and you had had enough.

“I’VE HAD IT! You both are acting like children! Fighting over who gets to save me! Has it ever occurred to you that you wouldn’t have to if you bothered to teach me self-defense, eh?” You stood up from the sofa and glared at the both of them before storming towards the front door.

“Where are you going?!” Both Kevin and Ben stood up and began to walk towards you. You glared at the both of them . “Somewhere where the both of you aren’t!” You slammed the door behind you and began walking towards your car. You had no idea where you were going to drive to but you needed to clear your head. Sliding into the drivers seat and turning the ignition, you placed your foot on the accelerator and gently eased onto the road.

You slid into the parking lot of Mr. Smoothie and turned off the ignition. You rested your head against the steering wheel and let out an agitated scream. “Why can’t they just realise that both of them can work together?! They don’t always have to fight each other!” You stayed in your car for a few more minutes before getting out and walking towards the entrance of Mr. Smoothie.

A bright blue light engulfed the parking lot. Confused, you turned around and scoped out your surroundings whilst signalling your location on your plumber’s badge. Footsteps sounded behind you and you whizzed around, hands up in front of you for self-defense. A loud laugh rumbled throughout the air as a man, a little taller than you, walked out of the shadows.

“Really, Y/N? You think doing that is going to save you?” The man towered over you in an attempt of intimidation. You stared up at him, unfazed. “No, but I know that my brother, the wielder of the Omnitrix, his cousin, an anodite and my boyfriend, an osmosian, will travel to the ends of the earth to find me and kick your ass.”

The man let out a growl before grabbing your shirt in his fists and lifting you up to his eye level. “That osmosian is the reason I’m here. A long time ago, he took something….someone dear to me. I’m going to do the same to him.” A loud cackle invaded your ears as the blue light surrounded you once more, engulfing you and whisking you away.

Ben and Kevin were still bickering with each other after you left. They were stood toe to toe with each other, both of their nostrils flaring with frustration. “She’s my sister, Kevin! Of course I’m going to want to save her!” “What about me?! I’m her boyfriend! She relies on me to keep her safe!” Ben opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by his omnitrix flashing. He rolled his eyes and twisted his omnitrix, a green map showing up. “It’s Y/Ns coordinates. Why would she be sending us this?” Ben and Kevin both looked at each other with fear in their eyes. “Tennyson, get in the car now!”

Kevin sped around the streets of Bellwood until he reached your coordinates. He got out of the car immediately and looked around, Ben following his lead. “Y/N!” In the distance, he seen you in the man’s clutches being engulfed into the blue light. Kevin ran as fast as he could, Ben following behind, but he was too late. You disappeared right before his eyes and he was too slow to save you.

He sunk to his knees and punched the concrete beneath him, over and over. “Kevin, stop!” He kept going, anger and frustration striving his punches. Ben pulled him up and slapped him across the face. “Snap out of it, Kevin! You’re not going to be able to help her if your hurt!” Kevin closed his eyes and nodded in understanding.

“Now, we need to figure out who that man was. He seemed to have some sort of travelling powers.” Kevin’s eyes widened in realisation as Ben kept talking about the plan to get you back. “Tennyson, shutup. I know who’s took her.” Ben tapped his foot against the floor as he waited for an explanation. “It was a long time ago, back before I met you guys. I was crazy with power. Somebody set a bounty on this guy so I went after him.”

Ben nodded, signalling Kevin to keep talking. “I went to his house and knocked on the door. As soon as that door opened, I absorbed silver and punched whoever was in front of me. I looked down and saw that I had killed his wife. She was dead instantly.” A small tear ran down his face as he remembered how horrible he used to be. “His name is Larry. He’s a tech genius and he’s been after me for years, but I’ve always been one step ahead of him. Larry built time travel tech so he could find me in any time, anywhere. He’s finally caught up with me.”

Kevin held his head down in shame as Ben walked towards him and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You’re not that guy anymore Kevin. You’ve changed. We will find a way to get Y/N back from him, I promise.” Kevin nodded his head in appreciation. “I think that the first port of call should be Gwen. She’s got that big spellbook so maybe There’s one about time travelling.” Ben agreed and they both walked back towards Kevins car.

You groaned as you regained consciousness, a pounding headache attacking you. You tried to hold your head but found that your hands were tied tight to the arms of your chair, the same with your feet. Taking a deep breath to calm your quickening heartbeat, you looked around the room to try and find something that would help you get free.

You seen a large nail sticking out of a pillar across the room and smiled. You began to scrape your chair towards it, relief filling your body, when the door in front of you swung open causing you to scream. “Do you really think you’d be able to escape me, Y/N? We’re not even in the same year anymore. There isn’t anywhere that I wouldn’t find you.” Larry walked behind you and pulled the chair back to its original position.

“What do you mean we’re not in the same year?! How is that possible?!” Panic began to fill your body as his words sunk into you. Your chest began to heave as your breathing became heavy. Larry stepped in front of you, kneeling down to your height. “I’ve developed technology that helps me travel through time. I’ve been trying to catch up to Kevin for years but I’ve never been able to make him suffer, until now. You’re the most important thing in his life, Y/N, and I’m going to take you away from him, just like he did to me.”

Confusion washed over your features. “What do you mean? Who did he take from you?” Larry stood up and took a deep breath. “He came to my house looking for me, and found my wife. He killed her and left her body for me to find. I held her in my arms and vowed to get revenge on the person that murdered her; and that is exactly what I am going to do.”

“No! He’s not like that anymore! He’s changed! He’s a good man! Please don’t do this!” Tears began flowing down your cheeks as he came towards you with a tray of torture tools. A smirk washed over his face as he took a small knife from the tray and lunged towards you.

Ben, Gwen and Kevin had gathered together all of the ingredients from the spell. “Surely with all this time travelling he’s been doing over the years, there’s got to be consequences. He can’t just travel through different years and not expect anything to happen. Time has got to catch up with him sometime, right?” Kevin and Gwen rolled their eyes as Ben rambled on.

“Hey, Gwen. Thank you for doing this. I know it’s going to take a lot out of you and I just want you to know how much I appreciate this. Y/Ns the most important person, and knowing that somebody has her because of me….it breaks me apart inside.” Gwen looked up at him and smiled. “You don’t need to thank me, Kevin. We all love Y/N and we’d do anything for her. We will get her back.”

Kevin leaned down and hugged Gwen. “Now, guys, how in the hell are we supposed to know what year she’s in? I don’t think there’s any sort of map that tells you something like that.” Gwen carried on mixing the ingredients together whilst looking up at Ben. “There isn’t a map, but there is a spell. A very easy one, actually. All I need is something of hers.”

Kevin reached into his pocket and held out your plumbers badge that had fell out of your hands. “Will this work?” Gwen nodded and took the badge, pouring the ingredients over it whilst chanting out the spell. Her eyes began to sparkle pink with her anodite power as the spell progressed. Ben and Kevin stood back against the wall as the room was overcome with power.

In a matter of seconds, Gwen was gone and the room was empty apart from the two boys. “Alright, I think it worked. Now, where would Larry be keeping Y/N?” “His house. It’s the perfect place for him to get his revenge. Me going back to the scene of the crime to make me suffer, it’s got to be there.” Ben headed towards the door. “Then what are you waiting for? Let’s go.”

Both of the boys ran as fast as they could towards Larry’s house with Kevin leading the way. He rounded the last corner and stood in front of a stone house, dark and forgotten. Ben eventually caught up with Kevin and rested his hands on his knees, catching his breath. “Are you sure they’re in there? It looks abandoned.” A scream erupted from the house, which they both identified as yours. Kevin was the first to head towards the house, opening the door with one kick and running towards your screams. Ben followed quickly behind, his omnitrix ready for battle.

Your screams became louder as the boys headed deeper into the house. “Hold on, baby, I’m coming.” They stopped when they came to a wooden door underneath the staircase. Kevin and Ben looked at each other before shoulder barging the door open.

Your eyes widened as the door was busted open. However, you let out a breath of relief when you seen Kevin and Ben standing in front of you. Kevin began to move forwards toward you but was stopped in his tracks by Larry holding a small blade to your throat. “Stop right there, Kevin. If you take one more step, well, I suppose you know what will happen next.”

You and Kevin both locked eyes and you could see the worry consuming him. You nodded slightly, signalling you were Ok. “I’m alright, Kevin. Don’t worry.” You winced as the blade was pressed harder against your throat. Kevin tensed up as he seen you in pain. “How does it feel Kevin? Knowing that the person you love is going to die, but there is nothing you can do about it.”Kevin took a step forward. “I wouldn’t know because that’s never going to happen.”

At that moment, Ben lunged at Larry as Kevin ran towards him. The knife was knocked out of Larry’s hands as he hit the floor, leaving him defenceless against the wrath of Kevin and Ben. Larry crawled back until he hit the wall. “Please, don’t hurt me. I don’t want to be in anymore pain. I just wanted you to know what I felt when you took away the woman I love.”

Kevin knelt down in front of Larry, a slight smile on his face. “I’m not going to hurt you, Larry. That’s not who I am anymore. But I am going to leave you with the fact that you could have caused me that pain and you failed.”

Kevin stood up and ran towards you withBen following close behind. He knelt down in front of you and untied your legs whilst Ben untied your arms. You fell into Kevin’s awaiting arms, a small groan of pain escaping your lips. “I’m so sorry this happened to you, Y/N.” You shook your head and gave a small smile. “You don’t have to apologise, Kev. You weren’t to know that he was going to take me.” Kevin brushed a few strands of hair away from your face and brushed his thumb across your cheek.

You could see that there was still worry and shame evident in his eyes, so you leaned up and placed a sweet and gentle kiss on his lips. “You’re not that guy anymore, Kevin. You’ve changed for the better and I am not going to blame you for anything that happened back then because it wasn’t the true you.”

Kevin gave you a beaming smile and kissed you, this time deeper and more passionate. “Erm, guys. Don’t you think we should get home before you start doing any of that?” Both you and Kevin laughed before he lifted you in his arms and carried you out of the door.

“I’m glad you guys were finally able to work together to save me.” Ben and Kevin both looked at each other with small smirks. “Yeah, don’t be expecting it every time, sis. One of us is always going to be more protective of you.”

[five-rivers]

Loved 6

Written for Dannymay 2021 Day 15: Nature

.

“Danny,” said Sam, “what’s wrong?”

The question was, really, far too vague. Many things were wrong all the time, especially with Danny. Part and parcel of being what he was, living where they were, and doing what he did. Although she was more comfortable with it all than Tucker, she could acknowledge that things were… bad. That the world was messed up. That, although people could be horrible to each other on their own, the monstrous beings lurking under the fabric of reality did not help.

But Danny had been in especially low spirits for the last few days. She’d almost say he was depressed, but she was hesitant to apply mental health disorders to someone who wasn’t even entirely human anymore. He’d also been unusually quiet, but he had admitted some time ago that he was having progressively more difficulty ‘finding words,’ so that could be the reason instead.

If she could find out why he was upset, maybe she could cheer him up. Or at least support him.

He made a face, one hand covering his mouth as he talked. “You remember that time, um, when Clockwork… The gifts?” He touched his wrist.

“Yes?” said Sam, prompting him to continue.

Danny glanced down the otherwise oddly-deserted school hallway. “It’s… He had me eat with him. Sort of. Ever since then, my teeth have been…” He paused his hand now firmly pressed to his face.

“Weird?” suggested Tucker, voice low.

Danny nodded. “I had – I was venomous, in the Dream, I don’t—” He faltered.

“Do they hurt?” asked Sam.

“Mhm.”

“Do you think biting into something might help?” asked Sam as she swung her backpack off her shoulder and rummaged in it.

Danny’s eyes seemed to glaze over as he considered the question. Finally, he shrugged.

Sam found what she was looking for. “Here,” she said, holding out the shiny red apple. “Try this.”

Danny examined the apple, careful and silent. The fruit was reflected, vividly, in his eyes. Once. Twice. Three times? No. Danny had two eyes. Two perfect, insightful, soulful eyes.

Delicately, he took it. He still didn’t remove the hand over his mouth.

“We’ve seen worse, man,” mumbled Tucker.

“Not when I’m being human,” protested Danny. Gingerly, he removed his other hand from his mouth and brought the apple to his lips.

When his lips parted, Sam could see what he was talking about. Those were definitely, clearly, fangs. Sharp, smooth, and white. They sparkled even in the flat overhead school lights. Something bluish and clear glistened at their tips.

Was Danny venomous?

(Why did that excite her?)

They crunched into the apple. Danny held it there, still and tense, for a few seconds before his expression melted into absolute bliss.

“Feel better?” asked Sam.

“Mmmhmm,” said Danny, eyes half closed.

“Guys?” said Tucker. “We should probably go now. Before they kick us out.”

“Huh?”

“It’s the end of the school day. School’s been out for half an hour.”

Sam frowned. Was it? She… Did she… She did remember going to all her classes. She shook her head, dismissing the momentary lapse.

Danny regretfully disengaged from the apple, blinked, and swayed. His outline wavered. Sam grabbed his wrist, and a jolt ran up her bones, making her teeth hurt as if she had just bitten down on ice. He stabilized again.

“Thank you,” he said.

He did not notice that she had taken the apple.

.

She set the apple on her desk, and the color stood out vibrantly against the dark-stained wood and her black, goth-themed knickknacks. The color, which was a different than what it had been when she had given the apple to Danny.

The neon blue skin was cold enough to gather condensation and smooth under her fingers. There was otherwise little evidence that Danny had bitten into it. The holes had sealed over, leaving only small depressions.

She knew what she wanted to do. She knew what she shouldn’t do.

Danny said she couldn’t die. That he had destroyed her death, among others. She trusted him.

But it was always good to be prepared.

She set up a text on a timer. If she wasn’t able to cancel it in the next ten minutes, it would go out to Danny and Tucker.

The bed would be the best place to do this. She sat down on the edge, feet firmly planted on the floor.

She bit into the apple.

For a few seconds, she was disappointed, but then.

Then.

She let herself drop back onto her bed, the springs creaking slightly and the covers gently fluttering. She exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled. Blinked. Closed her eyes. Opened them again.

Everything. Everything.

It was like seeing for the first time. The world was as thin as rice paper. The light was shinning through. It’s true nature.

And all the people. Everywhere. Everyone. Connected.

She—

Everyone.

Beyond the rice paper they could see and touch and feel, the false veil above the truth they couldn’t look at directly, but Danny could and, oh.

Was this what he saw all the time? Was he always filled with this sense of—

Of charity? Of- of—

What could she call this? Care? Empathy?

Could she call it love?

(She could. He was. Because he was loving. But his understanding of love was overwritten and subsumed by his understanding of Love. There could be no other way.)

(To love was human. Love was divine.)

If everyone could feel like this…

Sam knew how much people could hurt each other. She knew how terrible the world was.

(Her grandfather had only died a few years ago. He’d been born in Germany.)

She knew how stressed Danny was about hurting others, even when it was his mere existence that was harmful – And Sam wasn’t so sure that it was harmful. If Danny hadn’t just internalized the vitriol and hate that his parents practically consisted of.

If everyone could feel like this…

They’d had a conversation, back when they’d connected the others to cults, about whether or not cults were a natural result of the others’ presence, or if they were actually encouraged by the others. Maybe it was a combination of the two, but Sam now had good evidence for the former.

This. This was natural. This was right.

And she would work hard to make everything else right, too.

The feeling faded after another few… minutes? Hours?

Minutes. It had to be minutes. Otherwise, Danny and Tucker would be here.

The timer.

She fumbled her phone open just in time to cancel the text.

.

Sam was tempted to take another bite of the apple, but she knew that she had to be careful with her resources. She had her vision. Her goal. Her plan to make the world a better place.

It started here.

She leaned on her shovel and checked the depth of the hole in the ground. Good. Good. Room enough for the apple and room enough for the fertilizer.

She used her fingernails to slit open a bag of the latter and then placed the apple reverently on top of the small pile. A shadow passed over her. It didn’t seem like quite enough, did it?

Perhaps… an offering? She emptied the contents of her pocket. Coins. A six-sided die with a bat in place of its ‘one’ pip. A caramel and a strawberry candy her grandmother had given her that morning. A small picture of herself, Danny, and Tucker. A safely pin.

She arranged them carefully around the apple. The safety pin gleamed in the light.

Staring at her. She stared back.

Maybe…

She picked up the pin and squeezed it to free the sharp end. Then, before she could hesitate, before she could have second thoughts, she drew it over the ball of her thumb. Blood welled up from the small wound, and she let it drip on the soil surrounding the apple.

.

The tree grew into a sapling overnight. The next day, it was taller than Sam. On the third, the trunk was thicker than both her wrists together. By the end of the week, it had burst into bloom.

Sam made sure to water it every day.

Danny, meanwhile, continued to have problems with his teeth. He spoke less, his words slurred and lisping around his still-growing fangs, but that didn’t matter to her and Tucker. After the years they’d spent together, they could read each other pretty well.

Sam maintained a constant supply of apples for him to bite down on. Most of the time, he ate them afterwards, which she couldn’t really begrudge him, but sometimes he’d leave them on his desk or on the table or just out and Sam would put aside her next afternoon for experimentation.

Before she knew it, the tree was bearing fruit. Rose-red and perfectly shaped, not a trace of scale or insects. Sam knew exactly what to do with them.

.

“Hey,” she said, as her parents walked in, “I made an apple pie. Tell me if it’s any good.”

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

The Logical Epilogue

Epilogue to The Logical Progression

Pairing: Nathan Bateman x Reader Rating: Mature Warnings: Cursing; sexual innuendo; Nathan being Nathan Notes: Honestly was kinda stunned that so many people asked for an epilogue 🥺 Sorry it took so long!  Just as a note, the painter mentioned in this piece is entirely fictional Summary: At first, it was exciting.

Berlin worked.

Berlin worked for a while.

You settled into your new position, your new office. Your new boss, Mark’s replacement, was out in California, and the time difference was a little bit of a bitch, but you made it work.

You made it work for a while.

You saw Nathan most weekends, at first. Most, because he got consumed with his work so often, and so did you, sometimes. Truth be told, you couldn’t always take the time out of your schedule to take the two hour flight from Berlin to Oslo, and then the hour long helicopter ride from the airport to the drop zone near the estate, and then the forty five minute hike from the drop zone to Nathan’s house.

At first, you did.

At first, it was exciting. At first you were optimistic, and in love, and brimming with hope because this was a compromise—and sure, it wasn’t something that the two of you had come up with together; it had been your idea, but he had said yes. Yes to your idea, yes to Berlin, yes to your new title – in his company. You had carved out your own place in his company, gotten to where you were by your own merits. You were happy. He was happy.

It worked at first.

After the first few months, though, the bloom was off the rose.

It started with the travel. 

Four hours was a lot one way – and that was four hours if everything was running on time and the weather permitted. It was eight hours all told, round trip. Eight hours every weekend, back and forth, was a bit much. So after a few months, every weekend became every other weekend – and it was still a lot. Of course, any time you mentioned that to Nathan, he was unapologetic at best.

“If you’d just moved in with me like I’d planned, you wouldn’t be tired.”

The first couple of times, you’d laughed. The fifteenth time, it wasn’t so funny anymore. You finally stopped mentioning it to him.

Then, it was the work.

It took you four hours to get to his house. Four. Three flying and an hour of a hike – sometimes through the snow. Silly you, you’d thought the man might stop for more than a kiss and a, “Hey, honey,” when you got there.

At first, the two of you were fucking like rabbits. And then your visits became more infrequent, and even when you were there, Nathan was sometimes too locked in to whatever it was that he was doing to give you the time of day, so much so that you felt like his damn Jackson Pollack: you were around to be looked at occasionally, contemplated, and then left to your own devices.

You’d made the mistake of mentioning that to him, too.

“I’d have more time for you if you were here, honey.”

That had started as a tease, too, but you knew Nathan. Every little joke and jab had a thin layer of saccharine shielding the spike he really wanted to stick you with.

And it stuck.

It didn’t help that your work had felt stagnant since you’d moved. Blue Book was still flourishing; your performance reviews were all positive; the Berlin office was thriving, but… But ever since you moved, you just felt so disconnected.

-- 

“You’re not coming this weekend?”

Nathan’s voice didn’t manage to lose any of its petulance despite how tinny it sounded through your headphones.

“I can’t, we’re going through tissue sessions for the pitch on Monday,” You told him.

“I haven’t seen you in, like, a month.”

“Oh, you noticed that?” There was a pause on Nathan’s end before he dryly asked, “You driving at something, sweetheart?” “Look Nate, I’ve got work to do,” You retorted, “I’ll call you later and try to make it out next weekend, alright?” Nathan let out a scoffed laugh and hung up. No ‘goodbye’, no ‘sure’, no ‘noon will be fine’. Looking back, that should’ve been a warning. With Nathan, there wouldn’t be a goodbye. There would be a drift. The time between your trips to see him became longer and longer, and your countenance in one another’s company became more and more icy, more static. The trips stopped, the calls stopped, and then a box with the things that you left at Nathan’s place showed up at your door. No note, no letter from him, nothing. His Maya console was right at the bottom. He’d finally ripped it out of the fuckin’ wall. Mommy and Daddy had broken up and you got full custody. -- 

The decision to leave Blue Book wasn’t a result of the break up. You’d had other job offers before - Nathan knew that-- No. No, you told yourself to take Nathan out of the equation as you handwrote your resignation letter. Handwrote, because you were still under NDA, and you didn’t want the drafts of this to be caught in one of the regular data audits that Blue Book did. 

You weren’t leaving to join Google, Apple, or IBM, or any of the other companies that had offered you positions with them over the years.  One of the reasons that you had moved up in Blue Book as quickly as you had was your ability to look at a product release and translate the jargon-heavy language into something the average person could understand. You’d done it for a few friends in the tech industry on the side now and again, when they were getting started with their own companies. And as much as you liked Blue Book, you liked the idea of being your own boss more. -- Your last night at Blue Book was no less than a fiasco - you’d been there a long time, so they made an effort, a fuss. They threw a party at a swanky art gallery in Berlin. People had come up to you all evening, asked you what your plans were, if you were excited, what you would miss. You’d told them - you were going to become a freelance writer, focus on technical writing. You already had a number of jobs lined up. You were incredibly excited, but a little nervous. Blue Book had been one big cyber safety net. You’d be alone.

“You hear Bateman was here?” It was a whisper behind you - from one member of the sales team to another, but loud enough for you to hear, loud enough to distract you from the conversation that you’d been in the middle of. There was no way. You hadn’t heard from the man in months - four of them, if you were going to be precise. There was no way he would turn up at your going away party - to do what? Make a fucking splash? All eyes on him? You wondered exactly how much shit you’d get for leaving your own party. You heard the ping of Blue Book’s messaging system on your phone and you pulled it out of your pocket, going cold when you saw the message. N. Bateman: Ferrar room.

No. No, you wouldn’t let him do this. This motherfucker wouldn’t get the chance to just swan back in and sweep you back off of your fucking feet after he was such a shit. -- “So you haven’t plugged Maya in yet.” “...Well between my phone, laptop and the NDA, I’ve kinda already got enough of your spyware in my apartment.”

Nathan chuckled, still wandering around the little back room of the gallery. You’d had to ask an attendant where the Ferrar room even was - but it was full of some of the most vibrant work you’d ever seen. So maybe, for that reason, you’d briefly forgiven Nathan for not even turning to look at you since you’d walked in. And yeah, it had stung, but considering everything that had happened and-- and not happened -- considering the things that the two of you had never said and the fights that you’d never had, and the compromises that he’d never made and every single compromise that you had made, it was no wonder that the man didn’t bother to turn and look at you when there was canvas after canvas after canvas of life in vivid color all around him. “Armel Ferrar,” Nathan said, “French painter, born in Peillon in 1868. Moved to Paris in 1885. Heavily influenced by Seurat and Cézanne -- more Cézanne than Seurat. You can see it in the color use, but… the way he plays with light, that’s all Seurat.” You weren’t looking at the painting that Nathan was looking at. Hell, you weren’t even looking at the paintings. You were just looking at him - at the back of his fucking head. At the back of his fucking head, and the slight tapering that you could see of his beard; at the way his shoulders sloped, and where his hands were tucked into his pockets. Your eyes drifted up his back again, over his neck, his head. The painting he was looking at, whatever painting it was, had bursts of yellow - wheat, maybe, or stars, or the sun, it was difficult for you to tell at that distance. From where you stood, it was as though the man was haloed and framed. Bright and shining and on display, this man that liked to keep to himself and spent his days underground in his office. “Stayed in Paris, too--” He was still talking, of course he was still talking, “Most of his life, or what was left of it. Never married, had one kid outta wedlock… Died in 1891, same year as Seurat. His daughter, Marie-Thérèse, married a military man that moved her to Berlin after the second World War. She brought his paintings with her, that’s how they wound up here.” 

Nathan went quiet for a few moments before, “What do you think?” “...I’m wondering why you had me come back here when you very well could’ve given that TED talk to an empty room. Or better yet to any one of the people out there that are utterly fascinated with you. Either would suit, considering how much you love your own voice.” You had already turned yourself to look at a painting, made yourself distracted by the time you answered, because you’d known that that would get a look from him. You were right, too; you saw him turn to look at you out of your periphery. “Can we skip this part?” That bored tone was back. You dug your nails into the palms of your hands, letting your eyes hone in on the vivid splashes of red on the painting in front of you - petunias. “Which part would that be?” You asked. “The part where you tell me what I did wrong and I pretend that you’re right so that I can say sorry and we can get back to what we were doing.”

You laughed. You actually laughed. Not a fake one, not a haughty one, but a real peal of laughter left you in shock. “Wow,” You sighed once it had passed, “I forgot what a dick you are, you know that? I actually kinda managed to forget.” “Look--” “No,” You turned to face him, holding a hand up to stop whatever he was about to say, “If you came to fake some sincere bullshit, or to tell me that everything would’ve worked if we had done things your way--” “They would’ve--” “Shut the fuck up, Bateman,” You snapped, “You don’t know that, alright? You don’t. I don’t care if you have it in your head that it would’ve all been perfect because you said so.” 

“You really think my way would’ve been worse?” “Well, we’ll never know,” You shrugged, folding your arms over your chest. Nathan was quiet for a single, blessed moment. Then-- “Why are you leaving Blue Book?” “I don’t wanna sound egotistical here, but I kinda refuse to believe that you didn’t read my resignation letter.” “I did.” “Then you know the answer.” “Were those the only reasons?” You looked over his face for a few moments. “... It wasn’t you,” You shook your head, “I don’t know if you wanted it to be, or didn’t, but it wasn’t you.” “Why the fuck would I want it to be?” “Because you think the universe revolves around your beard.” 

He seemed to fight a smile for a moment, and your stomach twisted. You’d seen that look - the way he had to work to pull down the corners of his mouth - in the first video he’d ever sent you, yelling at Maya to remove you as an admin. Maya, which was still sitting in a box in your apartment, because you couldn’t bring yourself to get rid of the damn console. You didn’t want to plug it in, but you couldn’t just fucking throw it out. “...So, this new job,” He approached you slowly, and you were careful to hold your ground - not just because backing or turning away felt like weakness, but because stepping backward would mean knocking into the work of a French artist whose life sounded pretty fucking tragic. “Yes?” “You staying in Berlin?” You were quiet for a few moments before you shook your head. “I don’t know. I can do it from anywhere, so I haven’t really decided what my next move is going to be.” “Anywhere?” Nathan repeated. “Whatever you’re thinking, un-think it.” “Can’t unscramble an egg, honey.” “Don’t.” “Don’t what?” “Bateman, I’m serious. You think I’m just gonna crawl back to you?” “Who the fuck is doing the crawling? I’m here!” He snapped. “Oh, look. Nathan did one thing,” You cooed mockingly, “Nathan put on something other than sweatpants and left his estate--” “It’s a four hour trip--” “Oh, you cannot fucking tell me about the travel, Bateman, don’t you dare. I did that for months and you acted like it was nothing, you acted like I was nothing!” 

And then Nathan stopped. Nathan stopped and lowered his chin to his chest for a moment. “You’re not,” He spoke softly - so softly you almost didn’t hear, “You’re not-- You know that. That's your insecurities talking--” “Knowing and feeling are two different things. I’m not a console, I don’t run an OS, I can’t just go in and fix the buggy code that tells me differently,” You had to work to keep your voice steady and get the words out, “What you just did once to get here? I did that for months, Bateman. And that’s after I pulled my whole life up and moved to a new country. That trip, two days a week, every week, and half the time I was there, you acted like I wasn’t. I may as well have not been, so I stopped going.”  “You could’ve talked to me.” “...You know what, I’m not even going near that one, because I really don’t want to yell in here,” You managed through gritted teeth, eyes diverted to another painting. Nathan lifted his head then, looking you over before he stepped forward, muttering, “Stop that.” “What?” “That.” He reached out, taking hold of your hands from where they were crossed under your arms. He ‘tsk’ed softly as he uncrossed your arms and unfolded your hands, running his thumbs over the small half-moon dents that your nails had left in your palms. “... Alright, maybe gatecrashing wasn’t my best idea,” He glanced toward the door to the room before his eyes scanned your face. “I don’t think it even breaks your top five.” “Would you care to list that top five now?” “I would not, at the risk of puffing up your beard.” You heard him chuckle, felt his thumbs continue to smooth over your palms. “...You remember that first Rise of AI, when I told you why I’d pulled you up on stage to give that presentation?” He asked. You frowned, turning to look at him again. He was watching you closely over the top of his glasses, eyes knowing and dark. “You wanted to see what I'd do if you threw me in the deep end.” He nodded. “That was Blue Book, something we both knew. This…” He wrapped his hands around your, gave them a gentle squeeze, “This is new for the both of us. We jumped into the deep end and uh…Starting in the kiddy pool might’ve been better.”  “Did Nathan Bateman just admit defeat?” “No. No,” His gaze went stern, then, “Because kiddy pool or not, you’re still in the fuckin’ water.” You looked down at where his hands were holding yours still. “I want to try again,” Nathan crowded closer to you, “And I know-- I know that I am an asshole and that I fucked up, and you know what, I’m probably going to fuck up again,” He raised one hand to cup your chin, raising your head to meet his eyes, “But I wanna give it another shot. I just… I just need to know if that’s even an option here.” When the box of your things had arrived at your place, you’d told yourself that it wasn’t. You’d told yourself that Nathan was an asshole, and a shitstain, and a dickwad, and a douchecanoe, and a host of other derogatory names that you’d dreamt up in your most frustrated moments. Because, yeah, he could be those things. But that didn’t change the fact that you still had feelings for him. It didn’t change the fact that you’d made mistakes in that relationship, too. “So?” He prompted you as you looked at one another, “How do you think we’d do in the kiddy pool?” You gave him a small smile and murmured, “Swimmingly.” The force of Nathan’s kiss nearly knocked you off of your feet - your head would’ve hit a Ferrar if his hand hadn’t come up to cup the back and cushion it. (The gallery owner saw the two of you and was horrified.) (But Nathan bought that painting and like five others, so they got over it.)

Tag list: @spider-starry​ ; @mylittlelonelyappreciation​ ; @grogu-pascal​ ; @blueeyesatnight​ ; @kid-from-new-zealand​ ; @revolution-starter​ ; @kindablackenedsuperhero

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

School House Blues

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Collection/Series: Western AU- Putting Down Roots

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Identifying Reader

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff​ aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long​

Warnings: N/A

Request from Anon:  Hey so I saw your post that said requests for certain characters were open and I was wondering if I could ask for a din djarin x plus size reader with this prompt please? : (19th c) I’m the town’s school teacher and you’re the gruff wanderer/traveller/cowboy/outlaw/etc. That’s come to town. You help me fix the school house and wrangle the little demons I teach. I was thinking the kid could be one of her students! Thank you so much in advance ♥️♥️

Summary: When the bounty hunter strolls into your little mining town you don’t think much of it, but with a little boy in his wake and your school house in disrepair, he becomes more than just a passing visit, but a welcome constant.

Notes: You know me too well, Western AU/historic AU Din is so good as a concept and ughhhhhh this was so wonderful to have requested and I hope desperately that it’s good!

Reader isn’t really specified as plus size just because it didn’t really come up in the story? Although she is described as being quite soft and sweet in appearance. 

Archiveofourown

He comes into town with one hand clenched around his horse’s reins, guiding the bay and white creature with a bounty hogtied swearing and cursing over its rump, and the other hand holding a little boy of no older than six at his hip. It’s quite the sight, one that momentarily distracts you from your grief at the fact you’re teaching your children out of a saloon now since your schoolhouse was burnt to the ground. 

He’s imposing or he would be if the little boy wasn’t smiling up at him with big brown eyes. It’s hard to be imposing when you’re clearly the world of a small child and it makes you smile from the porch of the saloon. You’d been organising the boxes of donations the townsfolk had put together, since all your books, slates, chalk, paper, pencils, and the like had burnt in the fire, when he strolls past. He glances over at you and tips his head, hat dipping over his chestnut eyes and it flusters you for a second when you finally see his face. 

He’s handsome, incredibly so, too handsome to be in your small mining town you think. Deep brown eyes, a prominent nose and plump lips set in a perpetual pout. His jaw is sharp and his beard and moustache are trimmed neatly, despite the bruising on his face and the layer of dirt from the road he’s truly beautiful, a thought that flusters you further. The small boy sat comfortably at his hip and playing with the fabric of his suspenders is adorable, soft round cheeks and large brown eyes, but he doesn’t look much like the man and you’re curious what the story is there. 

The boy is old enough to be in school with you, to sit and learn his letters and to read while the older kids move on to learning about science, history, mathematics and poetry. There are a couple of children his age in your class, Timmy and Mary-Beth, both just getting the hang of gripping a pencil correctly. You wonder if he won’t be joining your class soon or if he and his guardian will be out of town before you can even consider preparing for a new student. 

You watch the man hitch the horse outside the Sheriff’s office, the one that’s not got a sheriff at the moment. You hope he’s not looking for quick pay, the lawman that resided in the Sheriff’s office at the moment was just there until they could find a new sheriff. He’d have to telegram out to get the bounty money. Your last sheriff had up and left after being shot at by a couple of drunk miners, he’d decided that was enough and quite the same day. The town had been a little more unruly since and it was beginning to make you and some of the other townsfolk uneasy without someone to keep the peace. The temporary lawman had been lazy and uninvolved thus far. It was after the sheriff quit that your schoolhouse burnt down and you weren’t sure it was coincidence. 

You watch the man place the boy on his feet and say something quietly to him before brushing his hair fondly. He grabs the bounty off of the horse, and slings the man over his shoulder. It’s impressive that he doesn’t struggle up the steps to the office even with a fully grown man thrown over his shoulder, the little boy follows after him as he goes inside. 

You return to your organisation. There aren’t that many books, not like you used to have. But, while you wait for some of your teaching associates across the country to send you items, they will do. There’s enough paper and some slates for all your students to practice their writing and get their work written down which is a relief and even a globe that the general store owner, Mr Hewitt, had found in a back cupboard for you to have. 

You’re trying to lift one of the boxes of books when he comes back out again, the little boy still trailing behind him, but this time something shiny is pinned to the man’s blue shirt. You don’t think too much about it as you struggle to lift the box, your heavy skirts not helping you move much, hindering your progress and causing you to trip each step forward you take. 

You hear his boots on the wooden stairs before you see him, he towers over you, as he takes his hat off, more polite than most men in town. You get a better look at the shiny thing pinned to his shirt and realise it’s a sheriff’s badge. The same one the old sheriff used to wear, you look from it to him and then down when you hear a little giggle. The little boy is still following after him, a sweet smile turned on you this time as he leans around the man’s legs to watch you.

“Miss, I can take that.” He gestures to the box in your hand, it’s not a question, and it’s straight and to the point. But, you’re grateful for the offer and hand it off to him without complaint. He’s stronger than you, that’s clear to see, his arms thick from years of hard work.

“Thank you…” You wait for him to tell you his name, trailing off as you lead him into the saloon that has been set out for the school day. There is a black board at the front, tables and chairs littered around the room, the liquor shelves have been emptied for books to replace them. 

The fact that Mr Karga had offered the saloon for the school was a miracle and while many in town grumbled about their favourite place of vice no longer admitting them during the day time, most were supportive of the decision to help the kids continue their school. Nevarro wasn’t a large town and mining was its main source of income, but the children deserved a chance to do more than just become miners and the school helped them do that. You helped them get into colleges on scholarships, to find jobs as clerks and apprentices in other parts of the country. 

“Din Djarin.” It’s a nice name, rolls of his tongue like honey. He doesn’t smile, not really, not properly, but there’s a little crinkle at the corners of his eyes that soften his face and make him seem warmer somehow. 

“And this little one?” You smile at the little boy as he begins to bravely step out from behind his guardian to greet you with a smile. He is a quiet boy, not the usual talkative sort you find with a six year old, but who knows what he’s been through even at this young age. 

“Grogu, he’s my…” He furrows his brow, clearly thinking hard on the right word. That alone tells you he is not his son by blood, a small fact that makes him even more interesting. Not many bounty hunters would take in a small child. “Son.” he finally says. Deciding it is the best term. Grogu isn’t his by blood, Din knows this, but the little boy he’d found all alone surrounded by death, was slowly becoming like a son to him. Aliit ori'shya tal'din. Family is more than blood. 

“Will he be joining my class? I run the school, currently we’re based here...in the saloon. Not my ideal place to teach but needs must.” You gesture around you to the makeshift classroom. You don’t like that the place still stinks of liquor or that at night it goes back to being a saloon where people drink, gamble, and fight. But, you don’t have a better place right now and the children need somewhere to learn. You can teach in any building, even if you dislike this one. 

You fit the image of a school teacher he thinks. You look like a respectable young woman, dressed appropriately, all neat and proper. Your hair pulled up and pinned away like it’s supposed to be. Everything about you is proper. Part of him wants to see you become ruffled, stop being so demure. It’s a thought that makes him frown at himself, the thoughts inappropriate especially towards a lady like yourself.

“Yes. We’ll be staying for awhile. What happened to the school house, Miss…?” He took on the job as sheriff the moment the lawman offered it, the pay was good, gave him his own accommodation and it meant he could settle down for a bit, give the kid an actual childhood. Bounty hunting was something he was good at but it wasn’t exactly safe to do with a six year old in tow. At least this job used his skills catching lawbreakers and put them to use in a place the kid could grow up. It helps that the teacher of the town is pretty too, he thinks. 

You give him your name before answering his question, “Well, after the last sheriff quit, the schoolhouse burnt down and along with all the things we had in it. Luckily it was at night and none of us were in the building. Burnt right down to the ground, nothing left…” You say it with a heavy sigh, thinking of that sweet little schoolhouse. The white painted wood, the familiar rows of desks with names carved in them, your favourite collection of university level texts at the back for the older and more advanced kids to explore. You had been teaching in that schoolhouse for the last five years and in a way it had become a second home for you, if you weren’t at your own little home, then you were in the schoolhouse marking work or planning lessons for the coming days. 

“Anyone know what caused it?” 

“No. We didn’t exactly have the mind to investigate and if it wasn’t an accident it was probably just some drunk who didn’t know any better. But, we make do and Grogu,” You crouch down next to the small child, moving your skirts to do so comfortably, “will fit right in, I think, don’t you?” The little boy smiles at you and giggles, before hiding behind his father’s leg again. 

“Have any plans been made to rebuild the schoolhouse?” Sheriff Djarin it seems is very straight and to the point, his tone isn’t unkind or aggressive, but his words are clipped, short, brusque as if he’s not quite used to being more flowery or saying much. You supposed a bounty hunter didn’t typically need to say much, but you hope he’ll become more comfortable with talking, at least to you, as time goes on. 

“No...i’ve been trying to put some pressure on the mayor to get it done but...he just doesn’t seem to care all that much now there’s a temporary solution.” You say as you begin unpacking the box that he brought inside, exercise books are brought out and sorted into piles, ready for the children to write their names on the covers and start afresh. 

He frowns, brow furrowing deep, lips turned down at the thought of the schoolhouse just never being rebuilt. It’s clear to him that saloon isn’t the place for a school and it’s even clearer that you are distressed with your new working arrangement, that you miss having a building that is entirely your own and entirely dedicated to teaching young minds. 

“I’ll sort something out. Is class starting soon?”

“Yes, not...not long now.” You double check the clock realising the kids will begin arriving in less than an hour and you feel wholly unprepared for the first day of school since the schoolhouse burnt down. 

You watch him crouch in front of Grogu, hand ruffling his hair fondly, “You’re going to stay here today, get some learnin’ in ya. I’ve got things to do, but I'll be back later, promise.” You’re surprised and warmed when he puts out his pinky finger for the kid to grab, a little promise that seems to you like something more. You wonder if the boy was scared of being left again, if this was Din’s way of reassuring his new son that he wasn’t going to leave him. The little boy wraps his whole hand around Din’s pinkie not quite understanding how the promises work yet.

“Have a good day of teaching, Miss Y/N.” He nods his head at you, grabbing his hat as he walks out the saloon with a purpose. The hat is placed on his head the moment he’s out of the doors and it’s that little element of politeness that surprises you. He carries himself like a gentleman but looks like any other rough and tumble man wandering the west. But it’s his treatment of Grogu that confirms the sort of man that he is. 

I’ll sort something out. You smiled to yourself realising that perhaps the new sheriff would be the best thing to happen to this town in a while. Someone who actually got things done for once. 

“Do you want to find your seat? Maybe do some drawing before class starts, Grogu?” You ask the little boy smiling at him as he nervously shifts from foot to foot, looking back out the doors as if hoping his father would walk back in. It’s clear he hasn’t had to do this before, be separated from him and left with a stranger, but you put on your softest smile and gentlest voice and wait patiently for him to nod his head before offering him your hand. 

He takes your hand and you help him get settled into his seat, you decide to put him near the front so you can help him easily and get him settled near you. He only knows you after all, and you think being around all the kids and far away from familiarity might be too much. You give him some paper, scrap bits that you don’t need anymore and a pencil leaving him to draw while you get ready for class.

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

The school day goes...well, it’s hectic and your hair is frizzy and falling out of the updo you styled it in that morning by the end. The children are unsettled in this new environment, the older kids, those nearing adulthood frustrated by the younger kids who can’t seem to focus or be quiet. Your brain feels too large for your skull and you sigh out a goodbye to your students as they leave out the saloon doors, one or two shoving through the swinging shutters much faster than needed. 

Grogu is the quietest of your students, sweet and attentive, he doesn’t speak a word, but follows your instructions well. He is behind on his writing letters and reading, that much you know from working with him, but he’s a quick learner and applies himself with a determination you rarely see. He doesn’t always play well with others. At lunch time you’d noticed him stealing food from the other children. It continued despite giving him your own lunch knowing his father hadn’t had time to prepare him something after coming straight into town and getting to work. He doesn’t share well either, but seemed to understand when you sat him down and talked to him about it. You suppose that being away from other children and only travelling with your father figure who would share his food with you without a thought, it must be confusing. The manners that he now has to observe, the rules of society that he’s never had to worry about until now. He looks suitably admonished despite the gentle way you chose to talk about it with him, that alone makes you think he’ll likely stop stealing the children’s cookies and be more willing to share. 

“David, careful!” You call out when one of your older students nearly gets trampled underneath the sheriff’s horses’ hooves as he runs across the thoroughfare without looking. 

“Sorry, miss!” David calls back over his shoulder, still storming ahead your warning lost on him. 

You sigh heavily and rub at your temples, stress enveloping you. A tug, swift and sharp on your skirt has you looking down. Grogu has a hand fisted in the fabric, pulling to get your attention. Once he has it, his arms open, hands up towards you, opening and closing, a universal gesture to be lifted. 

It surprises you, he is...quiet and reserved. You expected time to be needed before he was comfortable with you in any respect, especially after having to tell the boy off. Instead, he lets you lift him to your hip, hands reaching for strands of your hair and twisting them, surprisingly gently between his chubby little fingers. 

You watch your students run in different directions through town, their books and lunch pails in tow. Some stop on the open green, playing games together before their parents demand them back home for dinner. The warm little body in your arms is a soothing presence and the boy almost looks like he wants to say something, but just makes a soft cooing sound instead.

“Not much of a talker are you, little one?” He almost shrugs his little shoulders before looking up at the sound of heavy footsteps and clinking spurs. The sheriff leads his horse up to you, eyes following David with a shake of his head. Clearly, just as bemused as you at his lack of common sense.

Grogu smiles and giggles happily at the sight of his father, arms reaching out for him. You pass him over to Din, trying to ignore how close you get to the man to do it. He radiates warmth and smells woodsy mixed with some sort of soap he must use. This close you can see little birthmarks dotted across his neck. 

You step back once the boy is settled in his arms and smile, soft but tired. “Sheriff, how was your first day on the job?” 

He gives you a humoured smirk, one you’re not expecting, it takes you aback slightly. He looks...charming, approachable. Little dimples at his cheeks that soften his features in a way that makes you want to step closer. With a huff, not quite a laugh, he says, “Eventful.”

“That makes two of us, sheriff.” He notices the tired creases beneath your eyes, the once unrumpled appearance now dishevelled, hair coming out of its updo and blouse and skirt wrinkled and creased. You look like you’d had a rough day and he hopes Grogu wasn’t part of the cause. He still hadn’t figured out how to discipline the kid, he always turned those big brown eyes on him and he just couldn’t tell him no. 

“Din. Call me Din.” 

“Then you should call me Y/N.” There’s a moment of silence. You stare at him, at the way his hat casts shadows over his face, at the gentle hold he has on Grogu, the open top buttons of his work shirt and the dig of suspenders into his shoulders. He stares back at you. The gentle softness of your cheek, the marks that make your skin your skin and not someone else's. 

“We’re going to start building the schoolhouse as soon as the wood shipment gets here, I sent a telegram off today to get some good lumber in.” It surprises you in the most delightful way. When you said the mayor had been dragging his heels you meant it, but you hadn’t expected this new face to come in and make a start on what the mayor had been reluctant to do. 

“We’re?”

“I’ve convinced some of the men around town to pitch in and I know a thing or two about building.” In truth he’d intimidated more than persuaded. Most of the men were lazy, and had more concern for their own vices than for helping out. But, a mixture of convincing them they’d get their saloon back and reminding them that he was now the town’s sheriff seemed to get a few of the stronger and more skilled townsfolk to agree to help. 

“You’re the sheriff. You shouldn’t be building the schoolhouse, Din. You’ve got more important things to do.” You feel bad that he’s doing this, being quite so involved, when he’s starting a new job, one that takes up most of his time. Being a sheriff is a full time job, almost 24 hours a day 7 days a week. He has people to keep in line, criminals to catch, laws to enforce, and building a schoolhouse wasn’t on his list of priorities. It’s sweet and makes your heart ache oddly, but you feel guilty for adding another thing to his plate. 

“This is important, Miss...Y/N. The kid can’t learn in a saloon forever and you can’t work here forever neither.” He can see how desperately you want your schoolhouse back and something in him wants to provide that for you, to care for you. He tells himself it’s also for the kid, that his son deserves a proper schoolhouse to learn in. That all foundlings, all little children deserved a place to learn, like he had growing up in the covert.

“At least...at least let me and the children bring food and water down once you get started. I...you’ve not even been here a whole day and you’re already doing more than anyone else ever has...Thank you, Din.”

“It’s my pleasure, meg ba'jurir” You do not understand what he calls you, but you recognise that cadence, the rhythm of the language. Can almost see the symbolic nature of the alphabet. It surprises you that he knows what you’re sure is Mando’a, having only heard one other person in your life ever speak it. Mandalorian family groups were uncommon, but where they were they seemed to keep people in order, to value community. It made sense that he would take on the job of sheriff, adopt a child not of his own blood, if that were the case. 

You bite your tongue and don’t ask, you don’t know him and it is too personal to ask about his upbringing, culture or heritage. Perhaps, after you know him better you can ask, but you can almost hear your headmistress at school reminding you about manners and decorum even in a little mining town. 

“He didn’t...he didn’t cause any trouble today did he? He’s not used to being around others or...we’ve been on the road for a long time now.” He looks down at the little boy sitting at his hip, who’s playing with the metal star on his shirt. He knew that Grogu could be difficult, sweet, adorable, hard to say no to, but undisciplined and not used to the rules that people usually abided by. 

“I...I did have to have a word with him today…” You can already tell Din’s disappointed. He clearly loves the boy, but part of loving a child is wanting better for them and getting in trouble isn’t part of that. 

Din sighs heavily before catching the boy’s eye, “Ad’ika…”The boy clearly knows what’s going on and hides his face in his father’s shirt, suitably embarrassed about his behaviour. You think that’s enough to probably deter him from stealing from other kids in the future. You also think you might bake him some treats and use them as an incentive to work hard. You suspect bribery would work well with Grogu. 

“He paid attention beautifully and he’s already doing so well with learning his letters, but he’s...he’s quite…” You try to think of the best way to say that the boy just can’t resist taking other children’s food. 

“You don’t have to spare my feelings, Y/N. You can tell me.” You look Din in the eyes, deep brown meeting your own and sigh out before speaking.

“He likes to steal the other children’s food. I gave him my lunch and he still tried to steal Charlie’s cookies and Mary Beth’s macarons. I know he’s probably used to food being a thing he can just have since you’ve been travelling as a family unit…”

“Osik... I forgot to give him lunch. I am a terrible father…” Din looks at his feet, free hand rubbing over the scruff on his jaw. You feel the instant need to reassure him. 

“You’re not a terrible father. You just came into town this morning, immediately took on a job, and instantly went to work. You’re not a terrible father.” You hesitate, but reach forward anyway, a hand on his arm giving a quick reassuring squeeze. 

“Vor entye, Y/N. Thank you. Have you eaten?” 

“Oh…” You hadn’t really thought about it, that you’d given your food to Grogu to stop him going hungry and that you’d spent all day teaching with little more than the porridge you’d made yourself that morning to keep you going.

“Don’t even think about lying to the sheriff.” You did in fact consider lying to him, but the look he gave you reminded you of an overbearing mother hen who wouldn’t let you get away with it. Combined with the fact he was indeed the new sheriff, you felt it best to stick to the truth for now. 

“No...I haven’t.” You admit, feeling suitably admonished by him and a little guilty for even considering lying about. 

Din adjusts Grogu on his hip and nods his head behind him towards the street, “Come, I’ll buy you dinner at the café.”

“You don’t have to, Din. I can make dinner at home.” You think back to the soup you were going to make that night, and even though you haven’t the energy in truth to make dinner, you can’t ask him to buy you it. It is too much and unnecessary. Any good teacher would have made sure their students were fed. 

“You kept my ad fed in place of yourself. I’m buying you dinner.” His voice left no room for argument and so you found yourself following after him across the street towards Reeva’s Café. 

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

Din’s presence in town becomes apparent very quickly. He does not allow the men to wander drunk through the streets, start fights, or harass women. He does not suffer law breakers or those who cause the peace to break. He is swift, effective, and there isn’t a member of town who doesn’t respect his authority even if some don’t particularly like having to listen to him. 

For you it is a refreshing change. You don’t worry about the children wandering around town in the evenings or about walking out of your home at night. You don’t worry about your meager belongings being stolen or a fight breaking out in the saloon on an evening and ruining the few bits you have for the school. 

He is quiet and polite, not much of a talker, but everything he does shows a man of honour and good morals. He is sweet with the children as well. 

It had become common place for him, while waiting for the lumber to begin the schoolhouse, to come into the saloon while you were teaching. He said it was because the day time left little for him to do as sheriff, but you think he just enjoys helping with the children. They make him smile. A real smile. 

Sometimes he just sits with his son on his lap and helps him with his letters, other times he wanders between tables helping those who need it or using his presence to quiet the children after an exciting lunch break. Reminding them to respect you, their teacher, and listen.

Your favourite, and the childrens’ favourite times were when he’d sit down and tell them stories of his travels. For a man who didn’t speak much, Din Djarin was a natural born storyteller. 

That’s how you found yourself taking a step back, sitting on one of the saloon bar stools off to the side as Din took your place at the front of the class. He had an ability with the little ones that amazed you, none were ever scared of him despite his height, posturing or the guns holstered at his side and slung over his back. He always managed to make them smile and laugh, always got their curiosity going and inspired them equally. He made it a point whenever he talked to your class to share stories of both men and women he’d met who’d done amazing things, you could tell he was trying to get the girls in your class to see they could be more than housewives or washerwomen and you appreciated it. 

“So there I am standing toe to toe with the biggest grizzly you’ve ever seen…” He gestures with his hands, standing at the front, arms out front to show just how large this grizzly bear was. His voice took on a different, more dramatic quality then normal. Grogu clapped his hands from his seat on your lap, the little boy having grown increasingly comfortable around you.

“Now this grizzly has to be 8ft standin’, and he’s the angriest bear you’ve ever seen and i’m sure that’s the end of me. I’m about to become a grizzly bear’s dinner, Sheriff Djarin stew!” You laugh along with the kids at the prospect of Din becoming stew for a grizzly bear, you’re never sure how much is fiction or truth in his stories, although part of you wouldn’t be surprised if they were all completely true. He was...he always seemed larger than life despite being so quiet. Like some sort of figure out of a western story.

“When out of nowhere, charging between me and this mean grizzly, comes the largest bull moose I've ever seen…” 

“What’d you do?” Mary Beth pipes up, big blue eyes open wide. 

“Well, I got the he-” He stops himself looking at you, you raise an eyebrow reminding him that cussing around the children would not do well for him, “-out of there as quickly as I could! One thing you should never do is stay around to fight a grizzly, never ends well to go toe to toe with one. That moose was being kind and giving me a chance to get away.” It amuses you that he always manages to twist a moral into the story. This time about kindness and helping those weaker than yourself, along with a healthy dose of not getting into situations with angry grizzly bears of course. 

“Well, I think it’s time I let Miss Y/N, get on with her mathematics lesson.” Groans and grumbling rises up from your students as you place Grogu in his seat and begin making your way to the front. You watch Din frown at them, hands on his belt, leaning into one hip more than the other. He is the perfect picture of a disappointed father. Lips twisting downwards, pulling on his moustache. 

“Hey, now! Miss Y/N always makes your lessons fun so don’t you start giving her trouble or else i’ll have to stop coming in for story time.” It’s a threat that promptly has them settling quietly in their chairs and getting their books and pencils out.

You rest a gentle hand on his arm when you reach him, quietly telling him thank you. It’s heavy with meaning. Thank you for being there for the children. Thank you for providing them with stories. Thank you for always settling them and reminding them to respect me. Thank you for thinking about the schoolhouse. Thank you for settling the town and keeping the peace. 

He just nods at you with the smallest hint of a smile, enough to make you feel the tiniest bit flustered as you watch him walk to the chair where he’d left his hat, holsters, and lasso. 

“Say goodbye to the sheriff, children.” You tell them as all of you watch him make his way to the doors. He stops before them and tips his hat at you all with a smile, but the moment he’s out the doors it drops and in his place is the hard sheriff who won’t stand for trouble. 

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

Once the lumber comes in and the plans have been drawn up and approved by yourself, at Din’s insistence, the work begins. The schoolhouse design had been run past you because Din didn’t want to miss anything that was needed or that would help you teach. He had told you not to worry about size, scale or cost, that the community was pitching in and that the mayor had found a fund tucked away somewhere for the school. The fund miraculously appeared after Din had a long meaningful chat with him.

He wouldn’t tell you that he’d made threats against the mayor about digging up some of his dirty laundry, but he had. The mayor had a lot of skeletons in his closet and also a nice stack of credits he was sitting on in his own personal mayoral vault. The fact that the mayor had been so reluctant to rebuild the schoolhouse when he easily could have almost made Din see red, but he didn’t think it would look good if he beat the man to the curb as sheriff. He was supposed to be upstanding and law abiding, if he wasn’t why would any of the townsfolk be? 

A few days into the project you decided it was time you made good on your promise to come to the site during lunch time with the children to bring water and some food. You and the children collect pails of water and the baked goods you’d made the night before, trudging through the streets. You held Grogu on one hip, the small child the slowest of his classmates, and carried a heavy pail of water in the other, so heavy your shoulder slumped down on that side to accommodate the weight. 

The children were happy to help, after all, many of their fathers and older brothers were working on the school site and it was a chance in the school day to see people they cared about. You were also sure they wanted to ask the sheriff a multitude of questions and beg for a story, but you’d reminded them that they weren’t there to get in the way or interrupt the work, just to offer food and water.

You’d reluctantly admitted to Reeva that you found the sheriff attractive, after the older woman badgered you day in and day out about the time you spent with him. You could admit he was handsome. His eyes were deep brown and spoke more words then he often did. He had both a look that could intimidate and also soften into something warm and safe. The beard and moustache he sported made him look ruggedly handsome and his shoulders were broad and wide. He looked like he’d stepped out of a story book or from an illustrated newspaper short story. Rugged but clean, dangerous but kind. 

You had to admit though that this was your favourite look on him. As you came upon the building site he was busy sawing a plank of pine in two. His shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow exposing his strong forearms and thick wrists. His suspenders had been flung off his shoulders, resting at sides no longer covering the strong back that was tensed as he worked. The top few buttons of his shirt had come undone, almost indecently so to show a pronounced collar bone, strong neck, and dark chest hair and the brown hair on his head had begun to curl from the sweat he was working up. It shouldn’t have been attractive. He should have looked like any other man working up a sweat, you shouldn’t have wanted to wipe his brow and brush your fingers through the curls of his hair. But you did. 

Taking a deep breath to compose yourself you look down at the little boy at your hip, “Should we go say hello to your father?” 

“Papa!” He clapped his hands at you in confirmation. You’d slowly learnt that papa was one of the only words he said, you weren’t sure if he chose not to speak or simply couldn’t. But, given his increasing aptitude with writing his letters, you thought it likely that he simply chose not to speak. 

The call instantly has Din’s head popping up from his work like a startled deer and you watch as his eyes roam across the children until he catches sight of his son at your hip. The smile that lights his face is so bright that it’s almost blinding, there is a longing you feel whenever you see his happiness to see Grogu. Some deep part of you that desires that sort of family bond. He loves his son so deeply, it doesn’t matter to him that their blood isn’t the same and part of you wants desperately to be part of that love and happiness. 

“Children, hand out the food and water, will you? But be careful!” You remind them as they run towards familiar faces, it is still a building site after all, and the last thing you need is a child getting hurt in any way. 

Din finishes sawing the plank before striding over to you, hand pulling a rag from his back pocket to wipe the sweat from his brow. You look...radiant. The summer sun shining over you, causing your skin to glow, your hair to shine. Your smile is as soft as your eyes and you're gentle in the way you hold his son to your hip, like he belonged there. Like the two of you belonged together. Din can admit that he enjoys your company more than he probably should, he can even admit that a part of him deeply desires you, wants you to join his family unit, become part of his aliit. You’re tender and kind to all the children you teach, your children as you often call them, and you’re incredibly kind to Grogu who you treat with more understanding than most school teachers ever would. You keep order in your classroom through kindness and mutual respect, not through fear or punishment. The maternal shine to you draws him to you in a way that, had he not been Mandalorian, he might be ashamed of. But, family is everything to him, Grogu is everything to him and if he is to put down roots here, he can’t help but consider putting down roots with you.

It’s a silly thought though, you’ve not known each other long and he isn’t well to do or gentlemanly. You’re far better educated than him, kinder than him, and it is a pipe dream that he doubts will ever come to fruition. It doesn’t help that he struggles at times to even talk to you, let alone make his feelings known. 

“Miss me, Ad’ika?” He calls to the little boy, carefully pulling him from your arms when you offer him. If you allow yourself to, you can almost imagine he’s taking your own child from you, that the two of you have formed some sort of family. But, you are just his son’s teacher and he is just the sheriff of your small town. 

The boy babbles at him, not real words, nonsense, or attempts at words that don’t translate, but you can see that improving. Can almost imagine what settling down here can do for the boy, give him a chance to learn, grow, make friends, and find some stability and safety. 

“He’s been itching to come over all day, they all have. I was struggling to get them to focus on their history lesson.” You had 15 children all desperate to get out of the saloon and visit their fathers for lunch. It had been a...very difficult lesson to say the least and you still felt a little frazzled. 

“History?” The boy tugs at his father’s hair and you watch him wince as he speaks, pulling little chubby hands from brown curls. 

“The fall of the empire and the rise of the republic. Not the most riveting subject for them I'm sure, they much prefer when I tell them about different societies rather than politics.” You want to say like Mandalore and the Mandalorians because you want to draw him in, desperate to have more of his time even when he’s already doing so much for you. You enjoy the odd hour here and there when he takes over your class and becomes the teacher, where you can just sit and listen, learn yourself. 

“Mandalorians believe that our history is our future. We learn it as soon as we can walk.”

“So it is Mando’a you’ve been speaking?” It warms you to see him open up to you like this. He is a private man, quiet, and insular. While he can yell with the best, and demand attention, can intimidate and even persuade, it’s all part of his job. The face he puts on as sheriff. He is quiet about himself, sharing little and not so often. You revel in the trust placed in you wherever he tells you a little something more about himself. 

“You noticed?” Most people don’t even know Mando’a exists, let alone recognise that the words he slips into his speech are such. He finds they slip out more around you, than with others. He’s comfortable with, he is happy to share himself, his culture with you and it...it is a startling discovery about himself. He has been insular and closed off for longer than he would like to admit. 

“I can’t speak it and I..I don’t know it well, but, I recognise the cadence. I grew up in Naboo and there was a Mandalorian there, she used to speak it when I would sit and practice my letters with her.” Atin’a Caivass was a kind woman to you even if she could be hard. She had been one of your teachers, always pushing you harder, to do better. Yet, it had never felt frustrating or like a chore, the Mandalorian had always made it a desire to impress her, but also to prove to yourself that you could. She had always been kind to you and the other children, gentle but firm, like you were one of her own. You saw similarities with how Din treated the children. He was kind and gentle, but never overlooked an opportunity to firmly correct their behaviour or mistakes. A perfect balance. Not too soft and not too harsh. 

“You never learnt?”

“She was very protective of it and I...I was always too afraid to ask.” You confess. You had always been fascinated with it, like any young child when faced with a new language, but you had always believed it something sacred, and had worried that you would offend her if you asked to learn. “Ad’ika? What does it mean?”

He can’t help but laugh at your pronunciation and sounds it out for you, “Ah-Dee-Kah, it means little one.” 

“Ah-dee-kuh?” You are even more beautiful, he thinks when you butcher his language, trying so hard to get it right that your eyebrows scrunch together and your eyes crinkle at the corners. 

“Ah-Dee-Kah” The little one squirms in his arms and he places him on the ground, only to watch him plunk himself on his bottom and play with the dirt. He had always had a fascination with dirt and rocks, more so than any of the toys he had actually brought or made him. 

“Ah-Dee-Kah”

“Perfect.” You smile blindingly at his praise and he wonders if he can forgo his job as sheriff and simply teach you Mando’a every minute of every day. “You can always ask. If you want to learn. It’s nice to hear it from another person’s lips, not just mine.”

“I would like that very much...maybe when you’re less busy? You’re rather booked up at the moment, what with being sheriff, storytime for the children, and building a schoolhouse. You’re a busy man, Din Djarin.”

“I like to keep my hands busy.” You look down at your feet before looking back up at him, unsure how to respond to what you were sure was meant as a perfectly innocent comment. Din almost swears, osik, once he realises how that sounds, lifting hand to the back of his neck to rub it. 

The silence that you fall into isn’t uncomfortable necessarily, but feels almost solid, like a physical thing and not just the quiet that comes with two people not talking for a moment. There’s a tension there that is not wholly unpleasant but hard to describe or pin down. 

Seeming to remember the pail of water you’re carrying you place it in front of him, “Water, so you can clean off or if you’re thirsty. There’s some pastries somewhere as well, to keep you all fed...Can’t have you keeling over on us or else we’d never get our schoolhouse.” 

You take a step back and cast your gaze around, making note of where each of your 15 kids are. You’re caught watching Jerome splash water on Annie, about to go and tell him off when you hear splashing much closer to you. 

You thought he couldn’t excite you more than he already had. Thought that Din Djarin couldn’t possibly tempt you more, cause your well-mannered sensibilities to crumble further. You were utterly, terribly, ridiculously wrong. 

There’s something to be said about the man pouring half a pail of water over his head to rub away the sweat and dirt from a hard day working in the summer sun. He flicks his head back, long neck outstretched as water droplets fall like mirror glass over his tanned skin. His hair sticks to his skin, kissing it in a way you realise you desperately want to and his shirt clings to broad shoulders with the familiarity of a lover. 

You spin back around away from him flustered, determined not to look as you march towards Jerome. You decide in that moment that perhaps it’s best not to bring pails of water at lunch time. You might just not survive to see the school built. 

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

For the next two months your routine features lunch time trips with the children to bring water and sometimes food to the men building the schoolhouse, and the odd afternoon story time hour when Din feels confident enough to leave the others to continue working without his guidance. Each day the schoolhouse comes together more and more and each day you fall a little bit more in...in whatever these feelings for the sheriff were. 

You also have the startling realisation that Grogu has wormed his little way into your heart in a way that none of your other students have. You have a soft spot for the little boy, especially as he becomes more vocal, begins to say more little words, including the delightful name ‘Miss Y/N’. 

Din is a temptation in himself, each time he teaches you another word or phrase in Mando’a and his lips wrap around syllables or every time he works hard to build the schoolhouse muscles pulling taut underneath the weight of wood. He tempts you in a way that no one ever has and you can’t quite explain what it is about this man that makes you desire to be in his presence, to kiss him, to hold him, to be close to him both physically and emotionally. You want to know everything about him, to understand him better than you understand yourself. 

In some ways it is a relief when the schoolhouse is finished and in other ways it feels like a loss. Part of your routine, part of the day where you always see Din was no longer needed or necessary.

When you bring the children over at lunch time, it’s to show them the finished building, the one they’ll be in come Monday morning once you have the time to move all the books and other odds and ends into it. They’re all excited as are you, to see it...it strikes you in the heart so badly that you can’t move your feet, can only stare at the building with tears in your eyes. 

It’s beautiful. Not large, but larger than the old one. Freshly painted white, with a school bell hanging out front. It strikes you that this isn’t just a schoolhouse, but it’s your schoolhouse. Din had been adamant about building it for you. 

“Children, why don’t you go inside and take a look? You’ll be here on Monday!” You wave them all off as they run ahead and up the wooden steps, throwing the door open none too gently. “Careful! We only just got it!” You call out and receive a series of sorries back. 

“Shall we go find your buir?” You look down at Grogu, who’s hand is holding the heavy fabric of your skirt. He smiles up at you and nods his head with a quick little ‘papa’ that has your heart warming. 

You hear him before you see him, “Now don’t go breaking the tables when we’ve only just put them together, girls!” Already laying down the law to 3 of your children as you enter the schoolhouse. They had seemingly been swinging on tables in a most ill-mannered fashion that has you putting on your teacher-face and raising an eyebrow at them from behind Din. They promptly stop and return their feet to the floor with an abashed look.

“Sorry, Sheriff. Sorry Miss.” They call to you both before scurrying away in hopes of avoiding punishment, leaving you, Din and Grogu alone in the main room for the building. You let it go. It isn’t an issue, they need to learn to respect things, and not damage them, but that does not have to come at the cost of punishment when a quick look and a reminder does enough. 

Din spins at them calling out to you, faster than he seems to have expected, looking decidedly dizzy for a second before the mask of sheriff falls right back into place. 

“Y/N, how do you like it?” He opens his arms wide and gestures to the main room of the schoolhouse. A large blackboard already nailed to the wall at the back, rows of tables and chairs set up so every child could see you. A desk at the front for your things. It is sweet and fits your needs infinitely better than a saloon ever would. You even note the bookcases along the walls, enough space to place many of your books for the children to have easy access for when they wish to learn something more than you could teach them. 

“It’s...it’s wonderful, Din. It’s beautiful. I...I can’t thank you enough...I...I’m a little lost for words.” You can feel the happy tears starting to pool in your eyes again, the gratitude making you a little bit emotional. “I don’t think I can ever repay you for this.”

“You...you don’t need to repay me, Mesh’la. This...you and the children deserve a school, a place to teach and learn. You don’t have to thank me or repay me for doing what the damn mayor should have done in the first place.”

You nearly don’t do it. Nearly let that fear that wells up inside you and the proper manners, the belief that you were about to be far too forward than was ladylike, stop you. But, you think back to his kindness, his gentle nature, the calm and order he’s brought to town. The son of his that you have a large soft spot for. The handsomeness of his features, the sharpness of his profile. The gentle hand he always places on your back as he helps escort you somewhere. The respect he shows you at every turn and his willingness to share his culture and upbringing with you. You think of all the things that make up the Din Djarin you know and you think of what he has come to mean to you. 

With a silent prayer and an apology to your late headmistress for being more forward than is ladylike, you push yourself forward and into him. Lips soft and chaste lifting to meet his, only briefly. You do not push for more than a second of contact, but it is enough, you hope, to get the thought and intent across. That he is someone you would like to get to know more, that he is someone you could happily be courted by, even marry one day.  

He doesn’t even have time to blink, it happens so fast. One minute you are standing a few steps away from him thanking him, the next your lips are pressed to his in the shortest sweetest kiss he’s ever had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of. It takes another second for him to realise what’s happened before he’s reaching a hand out to cup the nape of your neck and drag your lips back to his for a significantly more substantial kiss that leaves you a little breathless. 

When you pull away from each other you don’t go far. Din presses his forehead to yours, hawkish nose pressing into your cheek, a soft touch that grounds you with his presence. The hand at your neck, rubs a soothing thumb across your skin. Your own have chosen to grasp at the suspenders over his shoulders, to keep in close proximity. 

“I’d very much like to court you, Miss Y/N.”

“I think i’d like that, sheriff.” 

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

Mando’a Translations

 Meg Ba'jurir - roughest way I could get to someone who educates or a teacher with meg being who and ba’jurir being educate

Osik - Shit

Vor entye - Thank You

Ad - son

Ad’ika - Little one, term of endearment for small children

Buir - Father also Mother basically parent. 

Mesh’la - Beautiful

Aliit - Family (Clan)

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Taglist for this fic: 

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Alistair x f!Cousland AU

SPOILERS FOR THE FALCON AND THE ROSE

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Almost two years after civil war nearly tore Ferelden apart, Alistair has settled into his role as king despite the cost of the victory. Having come to Orlais to lead trade talks with Empress Celene and representatives from the Free Marches, he hopes to build a stronger future for his people. But grief and guilt still haunt him, the expectations placed on his shoulders cut deep, and to top it all off, there's a stranger in the Winter Palace with the power to shatter his world once again.

With a sigh, the King of Ferelden stared down at the mask in his hands, the red dye a match to the velvet of his cloak and the rich fabric in the rest of his clothes, the royal colours of the Theirin line, and the finely tooled likeness of a mabari snarling out of the leather in an elegant snub for the rules of the Game. A king’s mask ought to be made of gold, after all, as a way to reflect his station, but that scandal would be nothing to the one he planned to cause by not wearing it over his face. Already from below, strains of soft, unobtrusive music drifted above the murmur of voices gathered in the vaulted ballroom of Halamshiral’s Winter Palace, preluding the night’s extravagance. He couldn’t delay much longer in wading into that seething, perfumed mass, however much he wanted to.

Next to him, Fergus Cousland stood arrayed in similar finery. The golden Laurels embroidered into the deep blue velvet of his doublet marked his identity as the Teyrn of Highever, and the shadowed line between his dark brows revealed that his eagerness to attend the party just about matched that of Alistair himself. He caught the king looking, saw the fidget betrayed in his fingers, and drew in a weary breath.

“These talks might be just what it takes to secure lasting peace with Orlais,” he offered, an empty repetition of Alistair’s other advisors. “It’s more than Cailan ever hoped for.”

The king’s lip curled. “You and I both know that’s not the real reason I’m here. I could have left that stuff to Élodie.”

The Arlessa of South Reach had proven a capable ambassador in the time since the end of the civil war against Loghain, using her connections in the Orlesian court to divert the potential wave of old resentments that would have sought to take advantage of Ferelden’s instability as it recovered. It was thanks to her efforts that dignitaries from every Marcher port across the Waking Sea had gathered under the auspicious gaze of Empress Celene in the hopes of formalising a network of trade throughout southern Thedas, and no doubt she was already gliding through their ranks, smoothing the way for her liege lord to grace the crowd and start all the ladies fawning.

Too used to the hopes of noble daughters tilting for a throne, he doubted much of the flattery would be genuine. The only change to the usual pursuit was the fact that Celene now numbered among the hunting party, her desire to win him for herself and Orlais all but common knowledge. At their first meeting that afternoon she had been perfectly polite, but the weight of her gaze on the back of his head as he was shown out to his own apartments had sent a shiver like the lick of cold rain down his spine, and the thought of what she would do with any kind of sovereign power over Ferelden had thoroughly put him off his lunch. There had been a time when, in the entrance hall of Redcliffe Castle and with the warning of a witch ringing in his ears, he had told Rosslyn that the idea of being dangled like bait for political advantage disgusted him. And she had understood his distaste, had reached for his hand with softness in her eyes. He had kissed her hand that night, for the first time.

A sympathetic look from Fergus dragged him out of his contemplation, but thankfully he chose not to repeat the platitudes that had taken to following the king like footprints.

It’s been over a year, almost two, Teagan had scolded. We allowed you time to mourn but you must think of what is best for this country.

Only Fergus really understood. He was the only one in the same position, a lord with a domain left unsecured by the lack of an heir, with those roundabout all but scoffing at his lack of stomach to get one. Shared pain and politics had drawn them together after the army’s return from Ostagar, and now, aside from being a staunch ally in the Landsmeet, he was one of the few Alistair could class as a true friend.

“If I could spurn my duty in this, I would,” he said now.

“But you’re a Cousland.” Humour bled into Alistair’s voice, cold and tinged with grief. “I notice Karyna chose not to come.”

Fergus let his eyes fall closed. “She… ended things between us. She said she wanted to focus on her clinic, but I think part of it was wanting to get out of my shadow, and the expectations of…” a wave of his hand “all of this.”

“I’m sorry.”

He had once broached the subject of changing the law to allow mages to marry, but Fergus had refused, pointing out that what Ferelden needed after a year mired in civil war was stability, not an Exalted March called down because its new king wished to flout the Maker’s supposed Word. Too many would have accused him of playing favourites, too many more who would have raged against the idea of a mage being raised above them – even if Karyna Amell herself came from a line of Marcher nobles. She might be a talented healer dedicated to her people, kind, loyal, and level-headed, but none of that mattered to those who saw any unshackled mage as a prelude to the return of ancient Tevinter.

Fergus waved away his concern and set his own mask in place, pushed back from his forehead. “Let’s get this over with.”

When they appeared at the top of the stairs, the noise level in the whole room dimmed like a door closing on the roar of a great wind. All eyes turned to follow their progress into the melee as Guard-Commander Morrence, Alistair’s right-hand and bodyguard, peeled away from her post by the door and fell into line one pace behind her charge as a dour, watchful shadow. Curtseys and coquettish giggles fluttered up to them, but Alistair ignored them in favour of searching out the form of Élodie Bryland, smiling out from the crowd. Like the rest of the Fereldan entourage, she wore her mask as an accessory rather than a second face, the emerald green of South Reach’s colours rich against her blonde hair.

He felt like a ram walking into a den of blightwolves in broad daylight. Even after so long, so many days he could no longer count them from memory, a shard of his heart stirred in the tattered remains of his chest at the unbidden thought of Rosslyn’s disdain for his current company, the tight, tiny smirk she would have worn hidden at the corner of her mouth for only him to see. Her face was beginning to blur in his mind, but the reminder only ever added more layers to the pain. The pieces flaked away one after the other like rust on a forgotten monument – the sound of her laugh, her scent, the exact shade of her eyes – and every time he noticed another detail by its absence he found himself dragged back to the ruins of Ostagar, staring across the precipice into the void all over again.

Dwelling on his loss amidst the glamour of the Orlesian court would not be wise, however, so he shook himself into courtesy as he followed along after Élodie, smiled at every breezed introduction, and let himself slip into the easy gentility that had so far served him well as king. The meandering currents of conversation carried both him and Fergus at a steady pace to the other side of the vaulted entrance hall, where his left-hand waited for them.

“Ah, there’s my favouritest sneaky person in the world,” he called out when he got close enough for his voice to carry. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself?”

Leliana’s red hair flashed like a beacon as she turned towards him. Unlike Ferelden’s ambassador, she carried her mask on a stick in her gloved hands, and she twirled it up to cover the purse of her smile as she answered. “Your Majesty – Your Lordship. This is a grand assembly tonight, no? Little compares to the full splendour of the Winter Palace.”

“At least not in the way of architecture,” he answered genially. To be polite, he let his gaze wander the rows of gilt pillars with their garlands of blush-roses, the delicate silk streamers hanging from the crystal chandelier. Even more than Élodie, who was Orlesian by birth, Leliana fit in with the glitter, the jewels and the compliments that cut sharper than daggers, and put together, the two of them made a formidable team.

Especially when they joined forces against him.

“Your Majesty, if you will permit me, may I present Lady Ellana Pontival, younger sister to Vicomte Tremane Pontival, and Lady Cassandra Pentaghast, seventy-eighth in line for the throne of Nevarra and the Right-Hand of the Most Holy Divine Beatrix.”

Turning his gaze to the two women, Alistair dipped his head in a customary greeting. If Leliana had set out to find the two most contrasted people in the room, then she had probably succeeded; where one lady seemed about to drown in her layers of ruffled lace and pastel silks, the other cut an austere, imposing figure in the formal uniform of a Seeker of Truth, and like the Fereldans, she went unmasked. The ever-watchful Eye of the Maker, cut through with the Sword of Mercy, peered out from a pin clasped to her shoulder, a sullen reminder that if things had been different, the King of Ferelden would have ended up a templar instead.

“With so many connections, you must be used to parties like this,” he tried. The Seeker held herself with the economy of a soldier at ease, but the pinpoint of her onyx gaze made him itch.

“Hardly,” she said, in low, rich tones. “I am here at the request of Most Holy, who appreciates the unprecedented nature of this gathering. I myself am used to less… lavish surroundings.”

“But how do you find it so far, Majesté?” interrupted Lady Ellana. “Do you find it pleasing?”

He decided not to remark on the breathy quality to her voice, nor the sidelong way she was looking at him, and shrugged. “That would depend on whether we’ll soon have any sign of those – what are they called – cannapays?”

Leliana chuckled. “I’m afraid Your Majesty’s appetite will have to be content for now.”

“I’ve never known a society where it was considered polite not to feed your guests.”

“If one is full of too much heavy food, one cannot properly enjoy the dancing,” Élodie chided, laying a hand on his arm and less amused than her counterpart at his deliberate butchery of her native language.

“Ah.” He suppressed a grimace. “Yes. That.”

The indomitable Lady Ellana pressed forward with a flutter of her eyelashes. “Are you presently engaged, Majesté? For the first dance, I mean.”

Mostly to avoid meeting Fergus’ eye, Alistair cast his gaze out over the crowd. “Oh I’m sure someone has spoken for me.”

“I myself love nothing so much as dancing – and the waltz especially.” An elegant hand rose to cover a laugh. “So charming, yet so daring, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’ll take your word for it, my lady,” he replied with a forced smile. “It’s not one of my preferred pastimes.” The last time he had danced, it had been his wedding day. If he had known –

Lady Ellana gasped. “How tragic! That truly is a shame.”

The Seeker’s mouth twitched.

“I understand your ascension to society was fairly recent, perhaps you only have yet to acquire a taste for it. Perhaps the right partner –”

“I think it’s more to do with other demands on my time,” he interrupted. “Like keeping my people safe and fed. Besides, I prefer being outside.”

An uncertain silence met his words, discomfort at the bite in his tone that couldn’t be answered without causing a minor diplomatic incident.

Leliana recovered first. “The night is young and His Majesty is fond of modesty. I’m sure he will have time and attention for all those who wish it once his duties to his host are fulfilled.”

“Has Her Radiance arrived yet?” Fergus asked.

With a smile, Leliana nodded and motioned for them to follow her towards the doors of the grand ballroom. Neither she nor Élodie dared break their façades to scold him for being so taciturn, so Alistair pretended not to notice their silent disapproval. The cloying mixture of perfumes and sweat wafting through the hall, the crowd of heat from so many bodies in a confined space, all of it pressed on his already sour mood, and if he had to be rude to get out of an awkward conversation, what did he care? Whispers followed with the eyes on him, words just loud enough to catch his ear before darting back into the throng like birds flitting through a summer hedgerow. The speculative edge to them made him clench his teeth. There were insinuations, appraisals and judgements, musings on his preference for comme les chiens before the words dissolved every time into peals of muffled laughter.

“It’s almost enough to make a man jealous,” Fergus huffed at his side. “They didn’t even look at me. Not one pitying glance.” Time had healed most of the injuries he had taken in the months as Howe’s prisoner during the war, but some of the damage had been too much and too long neglected for even magic to fix; his cane tapped along the polished floor with every other step.

“How about next time I hide behind you?” Alistair asked. “You can do all the talking and I’ll stand and look aloof and interesting.”

“You just want an excuse to – what is it?”

He sensed a change in pressure in the eyes on him, an intensity of regard that set itself apart from that of the fawning mass seeking his attention. After almost two years on the throne, the concept of assassinations wasn’t entirely foreign, but as he watched Morrence scan the room he saw no sudden rise in tension to say she had spotted any maniacs with giant weapons about to pounce. A shadow did perhaps flash on the edge of his vision, but as he turned it was lost among the sea of faces waiting for acquaintances, for their turn to be announced, or for their own glimpse at dog-lord royalty.

He put the feeling from his mind. Empress Celene, resplendent in the purple and gold of House Valmont, stood at the far end of the ballroom above the sunken dancefloor and watched the obeisance of the people being announced, in the same way a fisher might wait with their spear poised to strike at a promising target. Already, dozens of couples mingled beneath the bright beeswax candles staving off the autumn dark outside, their fans held up to conceal the judgements passed on every newcomer.

When Alistair’s own turn to pace the length of the gauntlet came after a few moments of waiting, she smiled behind her mask and floated down the steps to meet him on an equal level, which only meant he got to see the avaricious gleam in her eye up close as she held out her hand. As he bent his head over it, he wondered if the look was meant to be alluring, but her fingers were cool and fine-boned under his, lacking callouses from swordwork, and the only thought that ran through his mind was that even when warmed by the fire a stone remained a stone.

“Majesté,” she crooned in delicately accented Common. “Be welcome. This meeting has been long anticipated.”

He had practiced his response for an hour in the mirror. “Thank you, Radiance. It is my hope that this moment can be the first step towards a better accord between our two nations.”

“It is ours as well. Please, join us in the gallery.” She turned. “And when the dancing starts, might we suggest the company of one of our ladies-in-waiting? They are all very accomplished dancers.”

“Uh…” He risked tripping over the considerable hem of Celene’s gown to a glance upward, to where three women of equal height watched the two of them from behind identical golden masks set with amethysts.

“Is this surprise?” the empress asked him, and laughed. “How very forward to expect a more prestigious partner so early in the evening. It seems the manners of Ferelden and Orlais have yet to fully understand one another.”

“Isn’t that why we’re both here?” he replied. “Though I have to confess, my mind wandered from the thought of dancing.”

“Oh? And where did it wander to?”

He nodded to the three attendants waiting at the top of the stairs. “It must get awkward on name-days if you can’t tell them apart.”

For the next half an hour, guests continued to trickle in as the mixed company watched from above, the steady ream of announcements and introductions keeping the threat of dancing at bay, and each name was accompanied by a whispered summary of all the associated scandals recounted by the waiting-women at Alistair’s side. He found their sameness disconcerting, as if at any moment they might steal away his mask and then ask which of them was hiding it under their skirts like a bait-and-switch scam in the marketplace.

When the castellan finally folded away his list of names and bowed an exit, the closest of Celene’s women reached up with a smile as thick and false as her makeup. “There is still some time until the dancing begins, Majesté – would you like to take a turn through the rest of the rooms while we wait?”

“Why not?” He forced a smile of his own. “Where do you think we should start?”

“Perhaps the long hall?” She began to steer him away from the rest of the party. “There are so many people you should meet!”

Before he could be disappeared entirely, he cleared his throat and called over his shoulder to Élodie. “We’ve been offered a tour of this fabulous palace,” he explained. “I don’t think we should miss it.”

“I am at Your Majesty’s disposal,” the ambassador replied, and stepped up to his other side

The tour turned out to be less a way to introduce him to Orlais’ finest and more a way to show him off as an accessory. With both Morrence and Élodie as chaperones to shield him from the worst of their dainty manners, he managed to stumble through pleasantries and inane topics of conversation, and even gave his opinion on Grand Duke Gaspard’s mission to quell giants in the Deauvin Flats without tying his tongue in any knots. He told bad jokes and people tittered behind their hands. In one room he was drawn into speculation about the merits of breeding nugs.

And throughout it all, the weight of the same mysterious scrutiny from before itched across his shoulders, making his clothes too tight, too coarse against his skin. Somebody watched him, or else he was in the first stages of some illness. In a move disguised as a readjustment of the faded leather bracers at his wrists, he checked the pair of daggers hidden in his sleeves, and then eyed the extra sword buckled at Morrence’s waist. Being his bodyguard permitted her to carry weapons where he could not, but he rarely went unarmed himself and the idea of being completely defenceless struck him as foolish – and so, the compromise, with the strict understanding that Maric’s runed blade would stay sheathed except in direst need.

The feeling followed him back to the dancefloor as the castellan announced the first cotillion and a charming smile appeared before him, attached to a name and a title that he forgot instantly. When the first notes cascaded down from the court musicians he took his partner’s hand and fell into the steps to distract from his unease, the beats f the dance like the repetitions of a battle drill that kept him turning, and facing, and weaving through the room. And then the music ended. Someone thrust another woman into his path, and then another, until he was breathless and overheated from the exercise, and relieved that he had yet to trip over his own feet.

In a pause between the sets, he tried to catch Leliana’s eye in the gallery above to ask to be rescued before he could be forced towards a refreshments table. To his dismay, she was too intent on the crowd to notice, watching for advantage or threat so that he could make a show of festive enjoyment – no easy feat considering how the entire room was staring at him.

No, not the entire room.

There. The flash of shadow that had followed him all night resolved itself into a woman who turned her face away from him as soon as their gazes met. Pearls were pinned in her dark hair, and the silk of her gown flashed with the violet-green iridescence of starling feathers, dazzling enough that Alistair wondered how he had missed it before. She retreated up the stairs, trying all too hard to disappear into the crowd in a manner that deliberately kept him out of her line of sight.

“Majesté?”

His current partner had noticed his distraction. He smiled down at her, but like the needle of a compass his gaze swung back to the strange woman, whose exit had been waylaid by a man with a shock of thin, greying hair poking out from under his yellow chevalier’s feather. He bowed over the Starling’s hand, boorish and insipid, and through her reluctance she cast her gaze around the room as if seeking an excuse. Her eyes lit on Alistair again, before skittering away up to the ceiling when she caught him looking.

Gotcha.

“Will you excuse me, my lady?” he begged of the young woman on his arm. “I have to talk to my advisor. You there, Ser! I’m afraid this beauty has been bereft of a partner, if you’ll oblige me? Thank you.”

He forgot the girl as soon as he handed her off. The music started. Leliana, noticing his approach up the stairs, nodded and plucked a glass of Antivan white from the tray of a passing server, handing it to him with a subtle gesture that let him sidle close enough to not be overhead.

“Have you seen her?” he asked.

“The woman in the dark colours?” She tilted her head in amusement. “Of course. She has been watching you, and does not care for the crowd flowing around her. She knows how to walk through a room of nobles but subterfuge is not her strength. And yet… there is something familiar about her. It worries me.”

For a moment, they watched from their vantage point in the gallery. The Starling moved through the room with grace enough to catch the eye, but with too much economy to fit in with the flounces of the rest of the dancers, the poise of a warrior more than a courtier. Still, the patience with which she dealt with her partner had to be admired. Alistair winced every time the old boor overstepped the bounds of propriety to tread on her toes; part of him wanted to step in between them and pull her from the line, if only to save her feet from bruising, but the strange urge didn’t stop him noticing how she cast her gaze to every corner of her room to avoid the man in front of her – every corner, except the place where he himself was standing.

“Find out who she is,” he grunted to Leliana, and pushed away from the rail.

Momentarily freed of his obligations in the dancing, he wound his way through the press of nobles, exchanging pleasantries, until he spotted Fergus resting his legs in one of the gilt-backed chairs that had been set at the edges of the room and made for him, worried about the guarded expression on his friend’s face. The reason for the scowl became apparent when the couple standing between them turned and stopped Alistair dead in his tracks.

“Ah – Your Majesty, it is good to see you. You’re looking well.” Eamon, the former Arl of Redcliffe, straightened from his bow as if the man he was addressing hadn’t been instrumental in his exile from Ferelden over two years before. He wore a mask like an Orlesian, with only the grey trim of his beard visible beneath its swirling, enamelled lines. On his arm, the once-Arlessa Isolde wore one almost identical, save for the extra decoration of feathers around the rim.

“What are you doing here?” Alistair blurted.

“We are guests of Her Radiance, of course,” Eamon replied with a blink. “I can see time has not been generous in your perspective towards me, but I would not quarrel with you here and mar Ferelden’s standing.” He swallowed. “Though it is late to say it, please accept my condolences for your loss.”

“Condolences?” Anger coiled in Alistair’s gut, kept at bay only by the interested stares of the people around him. Eamon had done his best to make sure he and Rosslyn were separated – had nearly succeeded – and now he dared to offer remorse?

“How are you enjoying Orlais, Your Majesty?” Isolde asked before he could storm away and blow all their diplomatic efforts.

“The weather’s nice. Please excuse me.”

Below them, the dance finished. Leliana slipped into the dispersing crowd with the ease of a master and cut the Starling from the crowd like a shepherd singling out a ram. Fergus joined him as he leaned over the rail to watch their conversation, Eamon and Isolde already forgotten, and caught the direction of his gaze.

“Has someone caught your eye?” he asked.

“No.” Alistair waved a hand. “No, it’s not like that.”

The Starling was turned away from Leliana, shrinking back as if to avoid a blow, but his left-hand could not be outmatched so easily and peered closer nonetheless. And then she drew back. Her mask flicked up with a twitch of her wrist to fully cover her face, and the Starling reached out for her elbow in an urgent gesture that conveyed as much familiarity as alarm. They knew each other. The words that passed between them were too far away to hear. Leliana paused, then nodded, and together the two of them retreated from the bright lights of the dancefloor into the shadows at the furthest corner of the room.

Fergus noticed. “Well that was strange.”

“I don’t like it. Will you be alright here?”

“For now.” He shrugged. “Holding court in the corner holds much more appeal than sweating about with people I don’t care for. A younger version of me might have tried to forget myself in one of these pretty smiles, but now…” The liquid in his glass caught the light as he tilted it for inspection.

“It’s not so easy,” Alistair agreed.

He left his friend still contemplating his drink and rounded the gallery with Morrence in tow, not straight for Leliana but angling for Élodie, who had taken up entertaining the delegates from Ostwick and made a nice middle ground. He barely registered the answers he gave to their polite enquiries as he approached. The Starling had disappeared and Leliana was wending her way towards one of the quieter hallways, where there were balconies with doors that could be minded by one’s guards to glare at any passing eavesdroppers. She flashed him a brief glance and a nod.

He thought quickly, turning to his ambassador.

“My lady, you’re looking a little warm, and I’ve neglected you.” He shot her what he hopes was a winning smile. “I hope you’ll forgive me, you’ve worked so hard, after all. Why don’t we get you some fresh air?”  

Élodie frowned at him, but nodded. “Your Majesty is very kind. I am a little flustered, now that you mention it. If you will excuse me, sers.”

Threading her hand through his arm, he hustled her away with as much nonchalance as he could muster, while she, sensing his mood, kept quiet. They met Leliana a few moments later on a trellised balcony overlooking the gardens, or as much as could be seen of them beyond the torchlight.

“Well?” he asked, almost before the door closed behind him.

“Have you two been hatching plans?”

His left-hand let the mask fall from her face, though she kept it close, fidgeting with it. “The lady… presents no danger.”

“Lady?” repeated Élodie.

“There’s no need to look so hopeful.” Alistair rolled his shoulders. “We caught someone acting suspicious. Did you find anything out? You looked like you were surprised when you found out who she was.”

“I… knew her in another life.” Leliana hesitated. “She thanked the King of Ferelden for his regard, but said she would rather not become a spectacle.”

“A disagreement with family, perhaps,” Élodie supplied.

The corner of Leliana’s mouth lifted. “I did not ask.”

Without even waiting long enough for him to draw breath, she bowed and swept back into the hall. He caught sight of Morrence, watching her go with something very like suspicion written in her features, but the expression flickered back into a blank before he could be certain.

Behind him, Élodie cleared her throat.

“It is a shame this woman is not what you hoped,” she said. “I would see you happy.”

He snorted. “I didn’t hope anything – and I was happy.”

“You could be so again, if you allowed it. You cannot fight your duty forever.”

He bit back the retort squeezing past the sudden lump in his throat. Reminding her that her own husband had died in the siege at South Reach would be rather ungallant, especially considering the genial nature of the evening so far, and he had tried hard to curb the spiteful edge to his temper over the past two years. He wanted to be better. Rosslyn would have wanted him to be better.

As the thought spiralled and led his mind towards the dark precipice that would mean yet another sleepless night, the nature of the sound inside the ballroom changed. The music died away. The thump of the castellan’s staff reached his ears, followed a moment later by the announcement of Celene’s arcane advisor, the mysterious apostate who had managed to charm her way to the centre of the Orlesian court and who now, according to some, whispered spells in the empress’ ear.

“No doubt people will want us introduced,” he muttered.

Élodie nodded. “We should not keep Her Radiance waiting.”

Just inside the doors, however, he stopped. Even from across the room the Starling drew his gaze with the furtiveness of her movements, the deliberate indifference with which she moved against the flow of people, and his patience ebbed.

He touched Morrence’s elbow, leaning close. “Do you see her?”

“Aye. I want a chat with that one.”

“Get her out to the terrace garden and make sure she’s alone. Hopefully it’s cold enough outside that any interested bystanders will be discouraged.” He sighed. “I’ll get away as soon as I can.”

“I shouldn’t leave your side. The danger to you –”

“What if she’s a danger?” he pressed. “What if Leliana’s wrong? Something is going on here, and I won’t be kept beyond the chain – or don’t you think she was acting strangely before?”

At that, his right-hand let slip a curse. “I’d still be leaving you in a nest of snakes.”

“I’ll be alright.” The hilts of his concealed daggers sat snug against his wrists.

“Fine – but if you die, I get to kill you for it.”

Nobody commented on his lack of a bodyguard when he once more joined Celene and her waiting-women at the head of the room. Morrigan, her advisor, spoke Common like a Fereldan, but she had clearly spent enough time in Orlais to learn the dismissive nature of their manners. For a long moment, Alistair was distracted by a nagging familiarity he could not place, until the witch rose from her curtsey and turned a pair of piercing yellow eyes on him. The breath stopped in his lungs. His hands clenched into fists. Even the smirk was recognisable, catlike and secretive, and the instant it appeared he was shunted back to a campfire in a glade under a star-strewn sky, and mocking laughter in his ears.

“You’re Flemeth’s daughter,” he said.

The smile froze. “I did hear you encountered my mother – during the war, was it not? What did she tell you of me?”

“Only that you didn’t like living in the Korcari Wilds.”

“She resented my wanting to make something of myself outside of her influence.” She drew herself up for better display of her plum-red gown, the gold links around her throat. “And now here I am.”

“I can see the appeal,” he offered, to laughs from those gathered around them.

Celene clapped her hands. “Ah, this is delightful. You must have many things to talk about, given you share a homeland.” Her head dipped in what Alistair presumed was amusement. “Though we must ask that Your Majesty does not steal her away from us! No promises of Ferelden’s new leniency towards mages, if you please.”

He made sure to chuckle along, schooling himself not to look round to see whether Morrence had caught the Starling yet. All he could do was wait for a break in conversation and make excuses to be allowed away for some air.

When his chance finally came, a brief interlude during an influx of new people wanting introductions, he slipped through the crowd and met his right-hand at the door to the terrace. The fresh, cold scent of the night washed in, frost and damp earth, and beyond the lighted windows a dark figure stood at the balustrade that separated the garden from the sheer drop to the ground below.

“She’s waiting for you,” Morrence said.

“Any trouble?”

“Only until I threatened to draw attention to her,” came the reply. “And she wouldn’t look me in the eye. Good luck.”

He steadied himself with a breath as he stepped into the open air, a pause in which he studied the woman so invested in not being noticed. She faced away from him, hunched over as if still trying to make herself invisible, picked out by a rime of moonlight that glowed in her hair and reflected in the pearl beading on her skirts, rippled along the silk gloves that covered her arms to the elbow. Her head turned as he approached. Breath fogged silver in the night but the tension didn’t leave her shoulders and he felt it draw him along a knife’s edge as he realised too late how it might appear, a king ordering a woman to wait for him beyond earshot. A jab of self-disgust coiled in his stomach.

And yet, like Leliana said, there was something familiar about her.

He cleared his throat, set his hands behind his back. “You won’t come to any harm here, not from me.”

The Starling only flinched further away from him.

“Who are you?”

He waited, patient, until it became clear he wouldn’t simply give up and leave. The Starling’s fists bunched against the stone of the balustrade, and her shoulders heaved with a deep, almost panicky breath.

“Désolée, Majesté, le Marchandesse est –”

“In Orlesian, then,” he answered. “What’s your name?”

She paused. The line of her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “I’m afraid… the only name I can give you is Laurienne, Majesté. Laurienne de Savrenne.”

“Laurienne.” He risked a step closer, and she angled even further away from him, determined to hide her face even behind the mask. “You know, it’s strange – most people here tonight have been falling over themselves trying to catch my attention, but not you. You’ve tried very hard to remain unnoticed, not just by me, but by my guards and entourage as well. Why?”

“I might point out that of all those who wanted the king’s attention, I am the only one to have it bestowed.” She licked her lips. “Perhaps that was my plan.”

The sharp mockery ignited his temper. What was this but yet another sly courtier throwing jests at his expense? All night he had been nice, he had smiled, danced, dressed himself up in pretty words so the nobility would chase him for something he didn’t even want to give, and now he couldn’t even get one straight answer when he asked for it.

“A lot of people think I’m a fool,” he bit out. “It might come in handy sometimes but I assure you I’m smarter than I look, and I don’t appreciate being messed about, especially not after such a long day.”

“I’m…” Was that a fraction of a move towards him? Her head dipped towards her hands, and her eyes pressed shut. “I’m not here under my own power. In truth, Majesté, my debtor bid me come, but did not say you would be here as well.” A distinct note of bitterness entered her voice. “No doubt the thought of us meeting amused her.”

“Do you know me?” he asked.

She fell utterly still. “Do you know me?”

“Are you an assassin?”

“No.”

“But you are hiding something.”

At that, she scoffed, and again that frustrating tingle of familiarity, though it was gone too quickly for him to examine. “We are in Orlais, are we not? Everyone is hiding something. I am no different to any other noblewoman, we are all the same. Wouldn’t you agree?”

His heart stuttered. His mind conjured a sweep of raven hair, the scent of jasmine, warm lips soft against his. “There are exceptions.”

“Is it the exception you were trying to find tonight?” The Starling’s tone rang cold. “All evening you have danced with one after another and tossed them aside afterwards like a wine-taster who finishes his sip and spits the rest away. How delightful the passage of your days must be to never want for such company.”

“How dare you.” He stepped closer. “What do you know about what my days are like – or what it’s like being passed around by all those magpies in there who only care about the shiny crown I could get for them? It’s all, ‘remember it’s your duty, Alistair’ and ‘just pick one and get it over with’. If I could even have one night where I could complain about it, or – or say no – that would be something, but everyone seems to think I should be flattered by all those people pawing at me and never giving me a moment to myself!”

He paused for breath. The tirade had winded him, as much for the emotion it let loose as for the wild gestures flung out with the words. The Starling had remained still, taking the onslaught like a tree against a howling wind, though now only fatigue was left in him she shrank as if he’d struck her a physical blow.

“Forgive me,” he muttered, horrified. “I wasn’t angry at you, it’s just…” What words could he say? “I wouldn’t expect you to understand – but don’t worry. You can go. Do as you wish, my guard won’t detain you any further.”

Still she didn’t move. Cursing, he pinched the bridge of his nose and swallowed back the lump in his throat as he turned for the door. He needed sleep, he needed –

“I understand better than you would think.”

Her voice. Common, not Orlesian. The quiet servility deepened into a clarion note – it stirred his heart from its withered slumber, called it like a dog to heel. Her voice. With pulse thundering, with hope and disbelief and horror wadded into a tight ball in his throat, he looked back.

The Starling no longer shrank into herself but stood tall in defiance of the cold, her shoulders thrown back, chin lifted, in the attitude of a general. He drank in the arch of her throat, the pale skin that gleamed like marble under Satina’s light, the shine of raven-black hair gathered in an Orlesian knot at the back of her head, all details he had ignored before because it was impossible. When he didn’t move, her head tilted, and he recognised the sorrow in the gesture, the self-deprecation in the curve of her mouth.

“The man I love is at this ball tonight,” she told him. “He’s the centre of attention, but I’ve had to watch and do nothing while everyone covets what I cannot touch.”

Her voice.

“Why not?” His tongue fumbled the words through the fog in his brain, the steps he took back towards her shaky and numb, desperate, his chest constricted trying to hold his breath in case it broke the spell somehow cast around him. “Why hide?”

“I owe a debt. Until it’s paid, I can’t – my life is not my own and I have to pay it back. Besides,” she added, with a new wobble in her voice, “what would I say? He – everyone thinks I’m dead.”

They stood so close now he could have reached out to touch her hand, but he hesitated, worried that that, at last, would make her disappear and prove him mad. She was shaking; her fingers had raked lines in the frost on the stone as she clenched them into fists.

“But you’re not dead. You’re –”

Their breath mingled heavy under the moonlight as he leaned in, his hand braving night-chilled skin where her glove had fallen to her wrist, and finally she turned into him, drawn, like him, and while he closed his eyes seeking in vain for the familiar scent of jasmine and sweetgrass, the weight under his fingertips and the stulted breath that left her lips made her solid, and all that was left was to beg her to say something, to let him hear her voice again.

“I was afraid you’d forgotten me,” came the whisper, so full of doubt.

“Never –” He caught the side of her face, pressed a kiss to her temple though the rim of her mask cut into his lips. “Never.”

“I – I thought you’d hate me.”

The absurdity of it made him giggle even as he shook his head in denial. He stroked her hair. Kissed her again. And then, because it was too much to have such certainty without proof he pulled back, searching for the ribbons that secured her mask in place, her pulse flying under his fingers as he worked at the knots. When the mask finally came free, he pushed it up over her forehead – and found himself looking down into a pair of eyes that were the grey of cracked ice on a winter sea.

[iamaghost-fearme]

Ectober Day 13: Power’s Out

Read on AO3

The page turned with a quick snap and the candlelight danced across the new page followed closely by Sam’s eyes. Tonight’s storm had been too much for the power lines that were still suffering from the recent ghost attack to the power station and the town had been without power for about an hour. It hadn’t bothered Sam in the slightest. She’d quickly grabbed a candle from under her nightstand and lit it with the matches she kept in the drawer. A storm like this was the perfect time to read by candlelight and she snuggled deeper into the pillows and blanket with her in the window seat in the flickering light.

Across town, Tucker was not fairing nearly as well as his friend. He’d been gaming on his computer, procrastinating on his homework, when the lights went dark. All progress had been lost in his game since it hadn’t been saved properly and he’d spent several minutes staring at the blank screen with his mouth open in shock. Once it had finally registered that the power was out and wasn’t coming back any time soon, he pulled out his trusty PDA and pulled the same game up on the small screen. It wasn’t quite as much fun as the computer, but it would have to do. He kept playing as the storm raged outside, one eye on the game and the other on the steadily decreasing battery. The flashing lights of the game flickered across his face while the lightning flashed outside.

At the Fenton household, Jack and Maddie were working in the basement on their latest experiment, lit by the green glow of the portal. Their attention hardly left the beakers and notes on the lab bench when the lights flickered before their ecto-powered generator could kick in. They carefully picked up the small test tube filled with glowly liquid with long grips and held it over the jet black candle. Jack reached over top of the tube and dripped a solution into the liquid slowly from an eyedropper. He quickly grabbed his pen to write their observations in the notebook he had on standby next to the candle, where the light from the flame was strong enough to overpower the green of the ghost portal and cast a warm glow over the pages.

Upstairs from her parents, Jazz was unable to ignore the storm and its effect on the power supply. The light on her desk blinked out and she was left to see by the blue-tinted light of her laptop. She’d been working on her latest essay and could only sigh as she remembered that her parents hadn’t put the router on generator power with the lab like she’d requested and she couldn’t continue with the research she needed. The laptop lid was eased down and closed with a click. Jazz wandered downstairs to the living room and grabbed a handful of small candles from the coffee table. They were mostly for decoration, but they’d serve her purpose just fine. Back in her room she lit them carefully with the lighter from the kitchen usually reserved for birthday candles and spread them out on her floor in a semi circle. A pack of cards was pulled from her bedside table and she carefully dealt herself a game of solitaire. The shiny cards reflected the candlelight and let it dance in her eyes as she planned her next move.

Across the hall, Danny’s room sat empty. It’s occupant was out enjoying the storm up close and personal. There were no ghosts to fight tonight, but he enjoyed the rain and the buzzing in the air from the lightning. He watched the lights in homes all over town slowly disappear followed closely by the glow from the streetlights when a particularly vicious lightning strike knocked out the power lines. For a few minutes, the only illumination for the whole town came from the irregular shoots of lightning across the sky. Slowly, he could see unsteady lights appear in the windows. Danny looped lazily through the storm peering in at each candlelit scene with a smile.

[j-pankratz]

The Slumber that Creeps to Me

Geraskefer. 7208 Words. Rated T.  Jaskier pulls an extreme all-nighter (read: 60+ hours) to finish a paper he procrastinated on, and finds at the end of it that sleep does not come as easily as he’d hoped. Tags for: Sleep Deprivation, Self Destruction/Lack of Self Care, Hallucinations, Nightmares, Overstimulation, Hurt/Comfort, Whumping the Bard, very loving partners, and a happy ending. <3 AO3 link in the reblog!

As with most disasters spurned by his own cockiness, Jaskier felt as thought that all in all, the situation could have been worse.

The idea to have Geralt and Yennefer spend the spring holiday break at Oxenfurt was, in his defense, ingenious. His students weren’t around, the weather was gorgeous, they all had varying degrees of business in the city, and they could fuck each other senseless at any hour of the day. In a bed. A nice one, provided he was a legitimate professor, now. Well, visiting. Well, it was complicated. But they were his rooms, and that’s what mattered.

When Jaskier gotten the prestigious offer to write the season’s main article for the Continent’s most respected Bardic Journal, he’d just sort of figured he’d… fit it in, somewhere. He had seventeen months, which was plenty enough for him. Then he’d just work with the editors, and have a centerfold piece. It was an honor. He was excited about it! He’d meant to get to it sooner, but decided the summer before that he’d devote the winter to it. But… he’d… he’d been distracted. It wasn’t often the entire family gathered at Kaer Morhen. So, he thought, he’d do it later.

But the first few weeks after winter were, of course, spent with Geralt. And the week after that, a trip to the coast, where he’d played a festival and met up with Ciri, who was becoming an amateur critic herself. And then by pure, absolute happenstance, after 3 more weeks of travel he happened to end up at an inn that he definitely hadn’t heard Yennefer was staying at. So that more time gone. And then he’d arrived in Oxenfurt, and he’d really meant to get to work on it, but there was so much to prepare for! He wanted things to be right for them.

And then Yennefer and Geralt had actually arrived, and the idea of anything possibly being more important than their presence flew his mind.

And now, here he was. If he wanted to get it in on time (unfortunately, that wasn’t a suggestion in this case, more of an actual, terrifying requirement,) he’d need to submit it in… gods above, less than three days. 60 hours, if he was doing the math.

There was no word limit, nor a minimum. But, ever the maximalist, he knew it was going to be… long, if he was going to do it right. They’d edit it down, but it was the focal point of the journal, they’d been leading up to it for ages now. Ahh. Well. There was only one thing for it, he supposed.

“I’m working through the night on my paper!” He’d announced that morning, sitting straight up in bed, jostling his sleepy lovers. “No one bother me! I will be at the dining table until further notice!” He swung himself out of bed and made for the door.

“Pants,” his lovers chorused together.

“Right!” he'd said, and marched back into the room.

He’d pulled all-nighters in his youth. In fact, he couldn’t count the times he’d worked through the night, deposited a composition or essay on his professor’s desk with some polite conversation and maybe a wink, and then promptly fallen asleep during the lecture itself. Just a 15-minute power nap, really! Then he’d be back up and at it again, working through another night just to sleep through the weekend. He’d done it before, he could do it again.

Well, it’d been 25 years ago, but that didn’t change much, did it? He still felt spry, agile, hearty— hell, he’d spent the better part of the last twenty odd years chasing after a Witcher, and later an additional princess and mage— surely he should be in better health now!

This was completely accomplishable. Admittedly, he could have written this sooner… but he hadn’t, and here he was.

Geralt and Yennefer both set out early on different errands, leaving the bard to some peace and quiet. Relatively.

He spread his work and references out before him. 7 books, 4 pamphlets, his favorite quills, a hundred fresh pieces of parchments, his lute at his knee. “Alright,” he said aloud to his empty Oxenfurt apartment, “Just sit down and write the damn thing. Sitting part, definitely done. Writing next. Just… write.”

He stared at the page.

“No! No, no, do not be impossible about this. Just start the thing.”

The page stared back.

“Ah, blast,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. This was fine. Just… do the awful, disgusting part of beginning, and then he’d be off. The sooner he started, the sooner he’d finish, after all! He took a breath, and put his pen to paper.

xx

Yennefer returned a few hours later, a book and small parcel in hand. Jaskier looked up to see her sweep through the room, a commanding presence, though she didn’t acknowledge him yet. A few waves of her hands and a pot of tea was put on to boil, her hair was put in a bun, and three mugs were floating down from a shelf.

“Lovely to see you too,” he smiled as Yennefer poked through the tea collection. He could practically hear her fond eye roll. She neatly plucked two from one box and looked back at him in question. “Ah… peppermint, if we’ve got it?” and she turned back to the cupboard grab it.

“Any progress?” She finally asked.

“A bit, actually!” Jaskier said cheerfully. It didn’t look like much, but he’d done half a page with almost no errors, and he’d made plenty of notes in the margins of the books he’d need later. It was better than he’d hoped it’d be going by this point, at least. He was kicking academia’s ass. Or, he would be.

The kettle whistled and Yennefer poured the tea, bobbing all three of the tea bags up and down as they steeped. He watched her lean against the counter, casual, relaxed, gorgeous, before realizing she was staring back at him. “Um! Yes, no, definitely good. Got a lot of… those words, you know, they are definitely here. Looking very sexy. The words! The writing is looking… very sexy, very curvy… letters. Sensuous words, you know.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sensuous words.”

“Yeah, yes. Like… contemporaneous… and… iguana.”

“Iguana.” She let out a little huff of a laugh and something in Jaskier’s chest tightened and loosened in quick succession. And in a moment she was there, sliding him a large mug with the carving of a rather playful looking bear on one side, batting at a butterfly.

“Oh! My favorite. Thank you, thank you.”

“Mmm,” she said before waving a hand to cool down their tea a bit. She took a seat opposite him, scanning an eye over the table. “Think you’ll be done by tonight?”

Jaskier laughed. “Darling, I’ll be lucky to be done by tomorrow morning.”

“You’re planning to stay up all night, bard?”

“Unfortunately.” He took a sip. “Should be done by tomorrow afternoon, if I keep steady at it.”

“After tea, of course.”

“Of course.”

Yennefer stretched out a bit, kicking her feet onto Jaskier’s lap and rolling her neck. They sat there a moment, sipping, pausing, drinking in each other. There was something nice about taking a moment of stillness with someone just as frenetic as he was, someone who was usually just as itching for something to do, even if she went about it differently. The grace of choosing stillness, he thought, was not something to ignore.

Yennefer reached the end of her mug and tapped its ceramic walls lightly.

“What’s next for you?”

“I have to refresh my potion stock, so I’ll be at the market for supplies. You sure you don’t want to take a break and join?”

Rat’s ass. He fucking loved the Oxenfurt markets. “I’m afraid I can’t. Academia calls.”

“Who does it call for, exactly? What’s that I hear…” She cocked her head and listened intently. “Who is it calling for… is that… V… Val… Valdo?” Jaskier hefted her feet off of his lap in protest, and she laughed. He plucked his quill from its stopper, and went back to hovering over his paper. Introduction mostly accomplished, now he had to really lead in to his point, give some proper context. He flipped through a book beside him.

Yennefer rose smoothly from the table and went to move her mug to the sink. “When Geralt gets in, tell him I need toadflax and bluebells from him? Might as well put him to use.”

Jaskier flipped through the pages, thumbing through for a note he’d sworn he’d made ages ago, when he belatedly tried to register his mage’s words. He could have his fun, too.

“Blue…Yennefer, you want me to tell Geralt that you need blue balls from him?”

“Bells! Bells, you absolute child!” she said. “Honestly. Blue balls? Really, Jaskier?” He was giggling. “I don’t need to ask to give either of you blue balls.”

“Exactly, Yennefer, you provide that service for us anyway, free of charge!” A balled-up napkin hit him in the head and he laughed joyfully.

“I can’t stand you. I’m leaving, you’ll never see me again.”

Jaskier looked up through his grin and met her twinkling, happy eyes. “Tonight then?”

“Tonight,” she agreed, and left with a quick ruffle of his hair.

xx

“Still working?” Geralt said as greeting later in the afternoon. The desk was neater than Jaskier expected it to be this far in, only a few books open, dog eared and marked in colored ink. He’d written a page and a half since Yennefer left, and it was good, it was, but he’d need to go back and make edits later. His long empty mug of tea sat far across him.

“Mm,” he agreed, continuing to write. “Ah, Yennefer came through earlier,” giving a gesture to the waiting mug of tea on the counter. Geralt made his way over to the mug, and gave it a small igni to warm it. He smiled fondly down at the drink—what a terribly lovely sight he was. Warm here, and safe. Couldn’t it be like this always? The three of them here, comfortable and happy? No, he supposed, but gods how he wanted it.

“She’s at the market now,” Jaskier continued, “wanted me to ask you about...” He lifted his pen and squinted. “Ah, toadflax and bluebells.” He looked up at Geralt, smiling. “Blue balls,” they said together, sporting matching shit-eating grins, Geralt’s albeit much smaller. “I made the same joke myself,” Jaskier added.

Geralt snorted. “How’d she take that?”

“Oh, as well as you’d hope. We’ll never see her again, of course.” He turned back to his work, reading over the last paragraph. He could feel Geralt approach to stand behind him, and while he’d normally shoo his witcher off, he was too deep in concentration to bother.

How long was too long to linger on the progression of oral storytelling to bardship? It’s not like he could ignore it, (Geralt’s hand came to grip his shoulder, a thumb rubbing against it tenderly) as it was a crucial tenant of the argument— but there was plenty to be said for assuming the literacy and foreknowledge of the reader. (He leaned in to get a closer look at Jaskier’s page, the soft warmth of the tea in his other hand bouncing off his chest) But this was to be in a journal often referenced by first years, and he knew how much he would have loved a paper that had everything all in one—

“How’s it going?” Geralt asked softly in his ear.

Jaskier waved a hand over the mess before him. “You know. It’s fine, I’m just not sure at what point I’m lingering on points to excess.”

“Mm,” Geralt hummed understandingly. “Tell the story. Trust your gut.” He gave Jaskier a nuzzle and light kiss against his cheek before taking up the empty mug off the table and walking off further into the apartment.

“I always do!” Jaskier called back. Mm, if only this were as simple as telling a story. Well…Oh—if he spent this paragraph referencing the progression it would end up taking up more room, be a run of the mill lead-in, but if he wrote the actual history as a short story itself, now there was an idea, he could make his point and give the context. Oh, fuck, brilliant—

“Back soon,” Geralt was saying as the front door slipped shut, but the bard was too lost in his work to do more than give a small nod of his head.

The sun was falling, making a graceful bow into the horizon. Warm light spread out over the streets of Oxenfurt like the last pushes of tide, ebbing, and flowing, and sinking back into night.

“Ah, fuck,” Jaskier muttered, crossing out a spelling error with a snarl.

His shoulders ached, and his lower back was going to be the death of him. He was on page 7. All he could see was the work ahead of him, winding off ad infinitum. If he didn’t pick up the pace, he might have to go 60 hours straight—he shivered. Not ideal. He took a breath, stood up and stretched a bit, his muscles groaning in thanks. A quick bathroom break later and he was sliding back into his chair, still warm, his papers grinning up at him, sardonic.

He’d take a meal break at 10 pages, he told himself.

He stood to stretch and his head swam. Well. Plenty of reason to stay seated, he supposed.

Geralt and Yennefer returned at 12 and a half pages. He turned his head in greeting, and when he looked back he got the first real look at the table in hours—it was a disaster, crumbled pieces of parchment, empty quills, and little notes strewn everywhere. Some books propped open, the pile of parchment looking more like a mountain slope, an empty glass from when he’d chugged water hours ago.

His loves were clearly a few drinks deep as they came through the door, and completely unmarred by the woes of academia. Bastards, honestly.

“Hi, hello, hope you had a good evening, I—”

“Come to bed,” Yennefer said, suddenly right behind him. Two small but firm hands came to his shoulders, rubbing deeply.

“Ah! Oh, fuck—oh, yes, darling, right there—”

Geralt came to his other side, tipping his head up for a kiss, which he moaned into. His witcher’s tongue was soft, pleading, tempting him—his mage’s hands pushing almost painfully against his aching muscles. He wanted to cry, it was so good. It was so different than the last… however many hours it had been that he had been sitting here. Geralt pulled away, and Yennefer’s hands came to rest as well.

“So?” Geralt asked, his voice deep and velvety. “Bed?”

“I…” gods, who had he become? “I can’t. I want to, I just—”

Yennefer placed a kiss to the top of his head. “It’s fine,” she said, and he knew it was, but he hated denying them something they all wanted. “Have you eaten?”

Jaskier frowned. “Fuck. Not really.”

Geralt sighed and went to the pantry. “You’re getting a sandwich,” he grumbled.

“Ooo, Geralt, dear heart, would you heat it up? Use some of your,” he wiggled his fingers “your witchery magic?”

Geralt turned and glared. “You’re getting a sandwich.”

“He’s so mean to me,” Jaskier muttered to Yennefer, “I can’t believe he’s so mean to me.”

His mage snorted a laugh into his hair. “You’re really staying up all night, then?” She waved a hand and the curtains around the room swept shut, and his lantern began to burn steadily.

“Looks like it,” he sighed. Geralt retuned a moment later, plated warm sandwich and glass of water in hand.

“Fuck. Thank you.” He took it and took a bite, suddenly ravenous. He looked up at both of them, staring down in fond amusement. “Fank—” he swallowed his mouthful of sandwich. “Thank you both, truly. I’ll be up a bit. If you need something, call, yes?”

They rolled their eyes. “He tells us to call if we need anything,” Yennefer muttered. “Don’t get into any trouble,” she said, and with a peck on the cheek from both of them, they disappeared into the bedroom.

He looked back at his work.

Okay. 12 ½ pages in. He could do this.

x

At 15 pages, he felt ravenous again, and made a second sandwich. Not as good as Geralt’s. Geralt’s sandwiches weren’t even that good, but they were made by Geralt, which added a certain kick, a novelty he adored.

He drank another glass of water and shook his head. Back to work.

At 17 pages, sometimes the world swam before him. He gripped the edge of the table. Fuck.

He was so tired. 23 pages. He kept writing.

It was terrible. The whole paper was a mess. Nothing made sense and people were going to laugh at him. 25 pages.

He heard a sound. Was that Geralt rising for the bathroom? Was it an intruder? Light crept in through the window. 27 pages.

There was a ringing in his ear. His writing was getting increasingly larger. 27 ½ pages.

Geralt gave him a soft nuzzle to the top of his head before padding through to the kitchen. Jaskier’s heart ached. His bones ached. Writing was hard but right then it felt impossible. 27 ¾ pages.

Geralt lingered, and Jaskier felt his nose twitch. He tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for him to leave. He couldn’t have any distractions right now. He shut his eyes tight until he heard the bedroom door close once more.

Yennefer entered hours later, sweeping the curtains over with a flick of her hand. Bright light flooded the room, painting the desk in all its full, disgustingly messy glory. “Well—”

“Could you ask next time?!” Jaskier snapped. “Some of us need consistency to concentrate!”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow, and they stared at each other. Some part of him wanted to slap himself but the rest was just so irritated. Who’d she think she was, anyway?

After a moment, the mage turned and left with a flick of her hand to sweep the curtains shut again.

“Headed out,” Geralt said at 30 pages. “Contract.”

“Good,” Jaskier muttered. “I mean. Good that you’re—fuck. Whatever.”

Geralt stared. “You need rest. It’s been more than 24 hours.”

“I need to fucking finish.”

“Yen said—”

“I’m sure she did,” Jaskier muttered, driving his heels into his eyes. Gods, his eyes burned. Silence hung.

“She portaled out this morning.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Great. Love that. I’m a fucking disaster, thank you for the reminder, Geralt.” He waved toward the door. “Don’t you have a contract?”

He turned back to his papers, shifting around to look for page 11, and didn’t think about how long it took before Geralt left the apartment.

His hand was shaking but he was at 34 pages. He still had so much to say. Fuck. But he was in it now.

He scarfed down some soup that was mostly broth at some point, and he’d under-salted it, but it was something. His eyes kept going blurry; traitorous things.

The bear on his mug was plotting his downfall.

38 pages and Jaskier felt like the gods themselves had gifted him with the knowledge he now bestowed onto meager commoners. He was a genius.

At 43 pages, he had stopped to lay out the entire essay on the ground, so he could see it all. The words sometimes swam before him, and he had trouble remembering what he was meant to say next. Once, he looked up, confused as to where he was. And then, at 44 pages, the guilt of snapping at his dearest loves, the weight of this behemoth paper he wasn’t even sure he could finish, and his own self-doubt crept in and seized him up, leaving him breathless and in tears for… awhile. Everything hurt. He had to keep going.

At 48 pages, he saw a griffon fly through his window, and he named it Kalvin. He turned whatever color Jaskier wanted him to turn, which was very considerate of him. Kalvin was his only friend now, and with a little convincing, might become his editor, too.

At 55 pages his chest seized, and it was hard to breathe for a moment. He closed his eyes but—no, no, couldn’t do that. If he fell asleep now, he’d never finish in time. He tried to relax, got some water, leaned against the counter. Everything was a mess.

He sat back on the floor, his work around him. Keep going.

“I don’t think there’s anything about anything that I have to be doing right now. Kalvin, you’ve… you’ve got to understand, this could be my finest work! It’s good. It’s pretty good here in… in this part, here. In that other part it’s just okay, but that’s why you come in with your big claws and you’re gonna. Rip up the bad parts. Don’t rip up the good parts. Right? Yeah. Do you think they’ve forgotten about me by now?”

He looked down. 57 pages. Took a long blink.

“Yeah,” he said softly, “That’s fair.

He had to write two extra pages so that he could skirt around referencing Valdo Marx’s work as anything other than a contradictory point. Maybe it would have been fun to use his own writing against him but he didn’t want to give the satisfaction of being referenced positively in a centerfold piece.

He lost the essay.

“Fuck—oh, gods, where did—”

He turned around, looked down. Oh, there it was.

“Thank fuck.”

The curtains were still closed and the charmed lantern was still burning, but Jaskier knew it was night by the time he reached 63 pages and Geralt came in.

Jaskier looked up from his spot kneeling on the floor. Geralt looked fine. He was a little dirty. There were some gushy bits. Probably blood. He was tired. Or just mad. Maybe he hated Jaskier.

“You’re still—?!” Geralt asked, looking at Jaskier like he’d just said a griffon named Kalvin had flown in the window earlier and now they were friends.

“I met a griffon,” Jaskier heard himself say. Geralt stared. “We’re friends now.”

“…You need to fucking sleep.”

“No.” Jaskier went back to the margin he’d devoted to drawing circles in. “Sorry ‘bout earlier.”

Geralt sighed. He might have talked but Jaskier didn’t hear, just kept writing.

“How often has that been happening?” he heard Geralt ask.

“What happening?”

“Where you fall asleep for a moment.”

“I haven’t! Fallen asleep.”

“Fuck,” Geralt said. He looked very nice, except for the goop all over him. Well. Even that wasn’t so bad, when the underneath bits were Geralt. His Geralt. Looked so warm, so strong, so able to carry him.

“Later,” Jaskier replied, and went back to his words. The familiar pop of a portal sounded in the bedroom. Their eyes lingered on the direction it came from, but Yennefer didn’t open the door. They looked at each other, and then back at the door which remained very much shut. “She’s mad.”

“Yep.”

“At me.”

“Yep.”

There was a pause. “Are you covered in blood?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Oh.”

“Not mine.”

“That,” he said pointing to the Witcher, “is good.”

“Mmm.”

“Sticky though.”

“Definitely sticky.”

Yennefer came out of the doorway, and Jaskier blinked. When he opened his eyes again she was much closer than she’d been and was in the middle of talking. Magic, he assumed.

“—yourself very lucky, bard.”

“Yeahh,” he said. “Sorry. ‘Bout… Sorry.”

She huffed and crossed her arms. There was a look in her face. Eyes? And her mouth. It was hard to name. Words were hard, when they weren’t the words he desperately needed to write.

“—for a while,” Geralt was saying. “Jaskier. How close are you to finishing.”

“Soon!” Jaskier said. “Soon! Soon. Due… 1pm tomorrow. What time is it?”

“10pm.”

“Fuck. Psshhh. I can… I can do it.” He looked up at Yennefer. “Sorry. Really. I… I’m just tired,” he admitted. “Shouldn’t have snapped. Not fair to you.”

Yennefer stood there, arms folded, emanating some emotion Jaskier had lost the concept of around page 41. Geralt walked further into the apartment, into the bedroom. Oh right. Blood armor. Ick.

He went back to writing and tried to ignore the desire to cry again, and then suddenly Yennefer’s shoes were in his line of vision.

“Let me read it,” she said.

“Oh.”

They stared at one another. She had such a pretty face. He might have been smiling. She rolled her eyes and then came to sit next to him. She quickly found the first page and began.

Halfway through it, he spilled ink on the bottom half of page 64, and wept. Yennefer gave him an attempt at a comforting pat on the back.

Yennefer had read the pages and risen; “It’s good. You need edits, but it’s somehow decent. Good. Whatever. A little… loose, toward the end, though,” made herself a cup of tea, and entered the bedroom.

Either a few moments, or 20 minutes later, Geralt emerged.

“What are you at now?”

“69 pages.”

“Nice,” Geralt said.

“Ha. Yeahhh,” Jaskier agreed.

“That’s not what I—” Geralt sighed the sigh that meant his face was going all pinch-y. “Close to the end?”

“Mmm. What is the end, really?” Geralt made a different pinch-y face. “Soon.”

“Come to bed tonight, Jaskier.”

“I’ll try,” he said. He blinked, and Geralt was gone.

There are a lot of words in an essay that are very hard to spell.

Jaskier ate the rest of a loaf of bread.

For a while, he swore he walked the streets of Oxenfurt while still warm in his professorial housing.

Kalvin’s accent changed three times and at one point he was on fire.

85 pages.

Geralt woke first, as always; There he was! That was his love. So much of his heart.

With shaking hands, Jaskier had brought himself up to sit in his chair, and sat staring down at his work. He looked up at Geralt with a lopsided grin. “I did it,” he said weakly.

“Need help putting it together?”

The tears fell so quickly he didn’t realize it was happening. “Really?”

Geralt sighed softly and knelt down, organizing the papers.

Yennefer emerged a bit later—There she was! His love, a chunk of him was hers entirely. He smiled. “Look!”

“Mmm. And now you can sleep.”

“NO!” Jaskier cried and leapt to his feet, “No, no, now… now is presenting time. To… the editors. Not Kalvin. But I turn it in… and then sleep,”

He had a sudden burst of energy, and tried to step over Geralt and the papers, but fell into the table instead, before the Witcher steadied him from below.

“Ohhhh, thank you dear. It’s time for… presentation! Mm.” He leaned into Yennefer’s warmth at his side, though she did not wrap her arms around him as he’d hoped. “Help me pick out an outfit.”

He blinked. Yennefer was in front of him now, looking at him with a frown, her hands around his waist. Geralt’s hand was against his forehead. “No! Stop that! I’m fine. I’m fine! See me! Fine. It’s action time. Let’s go!” and he marched off to the bedroom.

The floor was suddenly very close to his face.

“Did I—”

“You fell on your face.”

“Have I—”

“You’ve asked three times now, yes.”

There should have been fanfare when he turned it in, but there was only the grateful smile of Edmond, the young new assistant, a firm handshake, and a promise he’d hear back from them very soon, for a quick summarization of their initial thoughts. Or, he’d used all those words, Jaskier forgot which order they’d come in.

The three returned to the apartment, and everything happened very slowly and so quickly he found it hard to keep track. There was definitely a bath drawn for him—gods, it had been days, hadn’t it— oh, fuck, he was gross, wasn’t he—a full meal, and a celebratory drink. He’d made a few good jokes, and all he could see were Geralt and Yennefer, smiling at him. An empty glass. A bar of soap. A long quill. A messy table. A pile of books and an empty mug. They deposited him on the bed for sleep, and left together.

Jaskier lay there, waiting for sleep to take him.

It did not.

He was so tired he could cry. He did, a few times. He couldn’t think straight. All of it, everything, hurt. His body ached. He tried to soothe himself down alone, rocking himself in the hopes it would work. But nothing.

What if he could never sleep again? What if he would always be awake, forever? What if this was how he died?! Oh gods, he didn’t want to die! He still had edits to approve!

Eventually, he could feel himself getting closer. He adjusted himself, lay on his back and took deep, measured breaths, kept his eyes closed but relaxed. Okay. Okay. Sleep.

He was falling, so violently and so fast that when he jolted awake, he forgot he’d been lying on a bed in the first place.

Fuck.

He tried again. It happened sometimes, it was fine. He’d be fine.

He tried breathing deeply once more, trying to let the distant scents of Yennefer and Geralt now embedded in his pillows overtake him.

A fear so powerful it gripped his heart and twisted, whispered to him, ‘this is what dying is, you’re going to die’ and he once again jolted awake. He threw his head back against the pillow and winced; even that hurt.

Fuck. Fuck.

He kept trying. Over, and over, he’d get so close to sleep and then right at the precipice, something would yank him out of it.

Once, he saw Yennefer falling off a cliff. Another time, he saw Geralt stabbed through the chest. At some point, he saw Ciri screaming, and his hands flew out to pull her close, only to find nothing there. Sometimes it was himself falling, and sometimes it was the world below him falling instead.

He’d really done it this time. Stayed awake so long, sleep had abandoned him entirely.

It felt like twelve years before Yennefer and Geralt returned, slipping into the room quietly. He sat up in bed, startling them both.

“Please,” he said quietly, “I can’t. I don’t know why I can’t I just—I can’t. My body won’t let me, I want to but I can’t—”

“How the hell—” Yennefer started, walking over to him with a palm out to check for a curse, maybe? It didn’t matter. He wrapped her hand in his and clutched it to himself, desperate for her. She was so warm. So alive.

“Fuck,” Geralt sighed, “It’s been nearly 70 hours already, Jaskier.”

“Let me just put him down with magic,” Yennefer started, but Geralt put a hand up.

“We can’t. It’s a temporary fix. if he can’t fall asleep on his own without magic, it’ll get harder and harder for him. We need to get him to fall asleep without it.” They looked down at him. What a disgrace he must look like, how pathetic he was. He turned his face away in abject shame. He couldn’t even fall asleep right.

While he looked away, Yennefer tore her hand from his as she and Geralt discarded their clothes into heaps beside the bed, crawled beneath the covers on either side of Jaskier. They hated him. They must. How could they not?

“It’s fine, you don’t—fuck, sorry—”

Geralt shrugged. “Don’t be. I know how bad it gets. It’s different for a Witcher, but no sleep is the whole reason we met Yennefer.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jaskier said softly.

“As I recall, the solution then was to have vigorous sex on the floor.” Yennefer ran a finger along Jaskier���s chest. “Sound appealing?”

“I—yes, Yennefer, it sounds appealing.” He fidgeted, tried to focus on the feeling of Yennefer’s delicate touch. He was oversensitive enough that it felt like fire, but nothing… stirred, and each word he spoke felt like he was pulling honey from his tongue. “I don’t… much as I’d like, I’m not sure I’d be... up for it right now.” Yennefer’s head fell against the pillow and she flattened her hand, ran the palm up his chest to rest above his heart. Pressed a kiss there.

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply, but they were looking at him, he could feel every inch of their gazes and it was all too much. He whined in agony. “I can’t do this. Fuck. I can’t, just put me out. We try it again tomorrow, I—”

“Jaskier. You can. Tell us what you need and we can help you,” Yennefer said, sweet but firm. And that was her, wasn’t it?

He couldn’t think. Wanted to. Wanted so much. Wanted to be asleep.

Jaskier curled up on his side, exhausted of being exhausted, when he felt Geralt slide up closer behind him. “Can I hold you?” he murmured into the bard’s shoulder. Jaskier nodded, and felt Geralt’s arm come around him and under his own arm, felt it slide up his chest and cross it protectively.

“Feel good?” Jaskier nodded, and then cracked his eyes open, met Yennefer’s, concern palpable.

He lifted one arm just slightly. “C’mere?” And she did, curled into his arms and around him, tucked her head under his, kissed the top of Geralt’s fingers. He held her close, and was held by the two in turn. Breathing, somehow, felt easier between them.

“Breathe, bard,” Yennefer urged him softly. Geralt buried his nose in Jaskier’s hair, took in a deep breath, and Jaskier tried to follow.

They breathed softly, all together, slow and safe. Soon, he was drifting into sweet oblivion.

‘You,’ Fear said, wrapped around his sternum, ‘will crumble, the moment you let go of wakefulness.’ It gripped him, and tugged him back to reality.

He jolted again. “Fuck, dammit, cock wringing—”

Yennefer pulled back to look at him worriedly. “Is that what’s been keeping you up?” she asked.

“It’s, I don’t know, something just pulls me back, I try to fight it but…”

“Mmm,” Geralt agreed. “Sleep starts. Happens sometimes.”

“The hell are sleep starts?”

“They’re… when you’re too on edge to sleep, or just haven’t in too long, brains… fizzle. Keep you awake. It’s a survival instinct—it makes you think you’ve got to stay awake to stay alive. Feels like falling? Or… a shock. Sometimes other things. Hallucinations.” Geralt pressed a kiss to the back of his head. “It’s scary. It’s meant to be. Your body thinks it’s fighting for its life.”

“I am never letting you doom yourself like this ever again,” Yennefer said, and while it was probably meant to come out angry, she just sounded worried.

Geralt hummed and agreement. “Try again, we’ve got you. We’re not letting go.” Jaskier took a breath. They had him. They had him.

Yennefer lifted a hand to Jaskier’s temple. “May I?” And he let her in, easier than breathing. She gave him Ciri laughing, wind chimes on the breeze, the soft roar of the coast. Geralt hugged him tight, ran his other hand through Jaskier’s hair, tried to keep the bard’s breathing aligned. Now, what had he ever done to earn these two?

Soon, sleep came to him again, and he could feel Yennefer ready to soothe anything that came for him in his mind, Geralt ready to defend against anything that dared hurt his resting body. The darkness crept in, and he felt peace.

Geralt was reaching for him, falling, bleeding, screaming.

“FUCK!”

“Shh,” the real Geralt hushed him. “We’ve got you.”

“Fuck, there’s got to be something else,” Yennefer groaned. “What’ve you tried so far?”

“I have tried… to fall asleep.”

Yennefer and Geralt both huffed small laughs. “No. Positions—”

“Only the good ones.”

“Meditating?” Geralt asked.

“Darling, I haven’t had a thought in my head in hours. This is meditation.”

“Drugs?” Yennefer asked.

“I will try the drugs!” Jaskier said with a drowsy cheerfulness, as Geralt replied “No drugs. No.”

“Ugh,” Jaskier groaned, and shifted to lie on his stomach. Oh. This was… better. He nestled into the pillows, and a soft contented sigh drifted from him.

“That feel better?” Geralt asked as he ran a hand up and down Jaskier’s back. “Mmm,” Jaskier replied. Yennefer’s hand joined Geralt over his chest. Oh, they were going to make him cry.

And then it was too much, too much feeling, like his brain couldn’t handle all the sensation, and he felt Yennefer come to pause, and a moment later, Geralt’s hand as well. ‘That better?’ Yennefer asked in his mind. Jaskier gave her the memory of his favorite hug with her, warm and happy as her legs wrapped around his waist, and his favorite with Geralt, crushing and firm and full of too many emotions to speak aloud.

“Could…” he said softly, “Just. Talk? Not to me. Just… to each other. Just wanna hear you.” He could almost hear their smiles, and felt as they settled in on the pillows beside him, arms and hands intertwining on his back. Yennefer’s head on his shoulder, the gentle planes of Geralt’s chest on his other side. “If you need us, Yennefer and I are here. We’ve got you. You’re safe.”

He nodded into the mattress, cool and soft below him.

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

“G’night Yennefer.”

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

"G’night, Geralt.”

He started to fade into oblivion, but stopped himself before he got too far. Not fear, not anxiety, a conscious stopping. Somewhere above him, Geralt was telling Yennefer about the contract from… sometime in the past few days, and Yennefer was telling her own story about some town gossip with a woman and her hens, which, it might have been a metaphor, but he’d basically forgotten what those were by now. He breathed deeply, felt their words flow through him, and when he felt brave enough, he let go, trusting they would catch him.

He could have sworn he heard wind chimes, somewhere.

x

The small amount of light filtering in through the curtains was golden when he awoke. His head both ached and felt light as a feather, his muscles screamed and cried but half of it was in relief. He gave a small stretch and yawned. “G’morning,” an amused Geralt said to him, lounging in a chair he’d brought beside the bed, reading a book. His legs were propped up on the bed beside the bard’s and Jaskier stretched to bump their toes together.

“What time…?”

“You slept 13 hours.”

“Fuck.”

“You probably need more.”

“Yeahhhh.”

“Feel alright?”

“Like a real human being,” he said. “Hungry, though.”

“Mmm.”

Yennefer slipped in the door, but, noticing Jaskier was awake, rose a hand. “May I?” she asked, voice dripping in sarcasm, gesturing to the curtains.

“You may,” Jaskier offered, covering his face with his hands. “Ohhhh, gods, how bad was I?”

“Genuinely awful,” Yennefer said, as Geralt was saying, “There’s been worse.”

“Normally I’d withhold this,” the mage said, withdrawing a small envelope from her pocket. “But, under the circumstances…” she cleared her throat.

“To one Julian Alfred Pankratz. We were extremely pleased to receive your manuscript yesterday afternoon. Our editors are will have their notes to you by the weekend, but we wanted to reach out and extend our most sincere compliments on your work. It is—oh, a flood of adjectives, I’m skipping these. Etcetera, etcetera, sucking your dick, etcetera alright, here—and meticulous in construction. We can tell,” Yennefer said, dragging out the final sentence, “you made good use of your year of writing time to complete the work.” Jaskier and Geralt by this point were holding back true howls of laughter.

“And won’t you believe it, there’s more. Ahem; we have a number of suggestions and questions already, but encourage you to get your well-deserved rest as we prepare our feedback. We are grateful to work with you, and thank you again for your stunning entry. There’s a postscript,” Yennefer added. “As a quick and personal note, we cannot have helped but notice the nature of your penmanship; we mean no offence, but would encourage you to see a doctor of the eye to fit you with some spectacles.”

“My—my penman…? What’d—” and Yennefer, who had clearly been waiting for this moment, brought out a rather crumpled piece of parchment with an ink stain at the bottom—ah, yes, the original page 64— and showed it to him. His eyes were… gods, they were aching, but he was clear minded enough now to see that each line had become at least twice it’s normal size. The lines were far from straight, dipping and bending toward the edge of the paper, the letters changed directions at random points, and a fair amount of the words were smudged so completely they were hard to make out.”

Jaskier stared in horror.

“They. Is that. Is that what it looked like? Really?”

“It’s worse than most of the ones that made it in,” Geralt said, carefully.

“Most?!”

“You drew pictures on one of them,” Yennefer said.

“Oh my god. They…they must…”

“Adore it, clearly,” Yennefer said, setting aside the paper. “It wasn’t worth the strain, and you’ve definitely firmly embarrassed yourself, but they’re either embarrassing themselves by fawning praise on you,” she said, sliding onto the bed, “Or you’re actually just… very knowledgeable and talented, even when addled by sleep deprivation.”

There was a pause, Jaskier soaking this in; it hadn’t been worth it, exactly, but it wasn’t all bad. In fact, it was quite good, and Yennefer was complimenting him outright, so, very good.

“Or both,” Geralt added.

“Definitely both,” Yennefer agreed.

Jaskier groaned. “You can’t be mean to me. You’re in my house and I am extremely tired, which means that you, by law, must kiss me and tell me nice things about myself.”

Geralt laughed, light and free, and Yennefer slunk slower down into the bed. “You get no kisses,” she said, “You get sleep and rest.” She grabbed a pillow from under her head and plopped it delicately onto Jaskier’s face.

“Boo,” Jaskier said, muffled beneath the thing. He closed his eyes. Geralt muttered something, and Yennefer gave a snort of laughter, and then there was silence.

“Are you two kissing up there?!”

More silence.

“UGH,” he groaned, and sunk into his soft, sweet mattress. Oh, beautiful mattress. How he adored it, how he adored his two loves on top of it. He listened to their kissing, soft, and sweet, and knew he’d join them soon. But it was so warm down here. Even as one of them removed the pillow, he could only bring himself to open his eyes for a moment, to see them both leaning to kiss his face gently, before returning to each other. He took a long, deep breath, and listened to them swirl around him, until all he could feel was their love and the sweet caress of his pillow.

[jadethest0ne]

In need of Refueling, Chapter 12 - “He was supposed to be”

Summary:  “You?! Why would I trust you? You have brought me nothing but failure. Time and time again; nothing but disappointment!”

His father’s words might have been a result of his possession by the  White Bone Spirit, but whether or not they were his true thoughts, Red  Son vows to prove them wrong. To do so he seeks to attain a power strong enough to destroy his father’s immortal enemy. After all, he’d much rather throw fire at his problems.

Word Count: 3241

Ratings/Warnings:  Teen and up; injury, burns, angst and hurt/comfort, toxic thoughts caused by toxic parents, panic attacks, abuse

Notes: Red Son is brooding, Mei finds out that Red Son is Sandy’s house guest, and Sandy is trying his best to deal with two rowdy teens.

Credits: Big thanks to @painted-arachnid and @simplyfornardo  for helping me bounce ideas off of them. And also thanks to @lemonsqueazie for providing me with “Journey to the West” lore. I don’t know much about the original novel or other iterations, but I still tried to keep  some things compliant with the lore. You should check all of them out, since they’re really great content creators with neat ideas!  

Read on AO3

———-

All in all, Red Son had received a lot of injuries from his conflict with his father.  Broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a broken arm, burns, hypothermia (including a lingering cold sensation all over his body that refused to go away), a sprained ankle...

And no powers.

That last one gave him pause. Injuries could be healed with time, and as a demon, he was a fast healer. But he did not know what happened to his powers. Were they really all absorbed by his father’s armor? Were they then extinguished by whatever that Noodle Boy did? He didn’t even know that it could be extinguished. It had to have been though, because based on what little he could get out of Sandy, the Monkey King had survived the conflict. Red Son isn’t sure how he feels about that. Sure, he had attacked him and intended to have him defeated by his father. But that’s not how things turned out. That’s not what his father wanted. And despite him giving the Samadhi Fire to his father, which is what he thought he wanted, that turned out to be disastrous as well. Were his parents even alive? And if they were, what would they want with someone who had nearly gotten them killed? What would they want with a son who didn’t even have any powers? In this state he was useless. Relying on the enemy, no less. How shameful.

Red Son had tried a few times to activate his powers. Each time he was met with not even a puff of smoke. If his parents thought he was a disappointment before, what would they think of him now?

At the very least he was making progress physically, and could hobble around the houseboat a little bit on his own. The Blue One said he could leave when he was better. But where could he go? He didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to just be able to do something about it. But he could no longer simply throw fire at his problems. And no matter what anger and vitriol he sent Sandy’s way, the blue giant simply refused to be upset at him. Why didn’t he just kick him out? He certainly deserved it! His own parents likely wouldn’t want him around, why would an enemy?

So when he wasn’t yelling at Sandy, or his numerous cats, he just withdrew into himself. Fuming with no fire. Brooding over his current situation. What was the point anyway? A small part of him wanted to know if his parents were okay. As much as he was sure they would hate him, they were his parents, after all. But the thought of trying to find them terrified him in a way. On one hand, if they were alive, he was useless to them like this. If they weren’t… well, he didn’t want to think about how that would mean that it was his fault if they were dea--

Red Son angrily throws the closest thing near him across the room, which happened to be a mug of tea that he was holding. It flies across the room just missing a few cats who leap out of the way with an indignant hiss. The cup breaks apart and spills its contents all over the floor. He takes some seething breaths, before a voice speaks up next to him.

“Well that’s a much stronger throw than before. At least you’re healing!” Red Son had forgotten that the Blue One was there. He had given him the tea in the first place after all. Red Son had just gotten lost in his musings and forgot about the ever-present, overly pleasant companion. The big man goes over and gets a broom. “However, maybe we could find other, more constructive, ways for you to release your anger?”

“Ugh! Don’t try to give me life lessons! What are you, some sort of life advice guru?”

The Blue One laughs heartily, while picking out some of the larger shards. “No, I’ve just learned how to control my anger via anger management therapy. And I’m always open to listening if you want a friendly ear,” he says brightly.

Red Son can’t imagine this guy ever being angry, and the idea of talking about his feelings makes his stomach bubble in disgust. “What? So I can give away all my family’s secrets? Why would you care anyway?”

The Blue One shrugs. “I just do!” He pauses and thinks. “And also, maybe I could ask you to maybe not throw my cups and scare my cats…?” He ends the last part in a hopeful lilt.

“No promises,” Red Son grumbles.

“What do you normally do to de-stress?”

“Destroy my enemies.” Red Son looks pointedly at Sandy.

“Ah… um… would throwing fire around (preferably in a contained area) help?” Sandy asks hesitantly.

Red Son scowls. “No.”

“Would you like to try contacting your parents…?”

An uncomfortable flutter pangs in his heart. “No.”

“What about, er, a hobby or…?

Red Son is getting fed up. “WOULD YOU JUST STOP!” he shouts. “We are not friends! We are enemies! You are the good guys! I’m the bad guy! The villain. Stop trying to be all buddy-buddy with me! If you’re trying to change me or get me to open up, it’s not going to work!”

“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to figure out what would make you feel better… Maybe healing up at your place would make you feel safer…?” Sandy looks truly apologetic, but Red Son is already too worked up to care. Furthermore, bringing up the possibility of going to see his parents causes that fluttering feeling to worsen.

“No! I can’t go back! I--”

Sandy raises his eyebrows. And Red Son shuts his mouth suddenly realizing what he almost revealed. The Blue One nearly had done it! How dare he. He hates him for that. For his stupid honest niceness. He hates that he is here. That he let down his father, again. That he has to rely on a big-hearted idiot of an enemy. He needs to leave. He doesn’t have anywhere to go. But he needs to leave.

He clumsily slips out of bed and does an awkward combination of stomping and limping past the Blue One and towards the door, ignoring the giant’s protests.

He swings open the door and he sucks in a surprised yelp as standing on the other side of it is a girl with green highlights in her hair, and pigtails sticking up from behind, with her fist to the door poised to knock on it. It’s the Dragon Girl. The two stare at each other. They exchange blinks of confusion.

The Dragon Girl is the first to react. Her surprised features shift into a look of pure rage. “YOU!” she shouts.

She flings herself at Red Son, elbowing him in the middle and throwing him across the room. Pain explodes from his various injuries, especially from his ribs and chest area. He crumples to the ground and barely has time to react as she is pulling a sword on him. He rolls out of the way, under a table and pulls himself up using an adjacent book case. He slips a little bit, and is forced to put weight on his injured ankle, which burns horribly, but he needs to get away from this crazy and enraged attacker.

He leans on the far end of the bookcase and holds up a hand. “W-wait!” he wheezes out before he devolves into coughs and choking gasps. He stumbles as he backpedals away from another swing and falls again to the floor. He grabs desperately at anything in his surroundings that can help pull him up, but the pain drags him back down again.

The tip of the sword is pointed at his center and he flinches back. He can’t do much but cough some more. When no attack comes, he chances a look up at his attacker. She’s looking at him with a paranoid gaze, which flickers up and down in confusion, but she does not lower her weapon.

“What are you doing here, Red Son?!” she yells.

Red Son does his best to regain his breath. When he does he shouts back, though not as loud or as strong as he wants it to be. “I was brought here, Dragon Girl! By your blue friend, no less! So- so back off or I’ll burn you to a crisp!”

The threat is empty. He knows it is. And even if she doesn’t, she knows she has the upper hand. He can’t hide his injuries or look powerful, half curled up on the floor and locked down by her sword. But he won’t appear weak. Not to her.

“Mei!” calls the Blue One, as he stands up from the floor, stepping carefully over the glass on the floor and rushing into the adjacent area to move between the girl and the demon.

“Sandy! Are you okay? What is Red Son doing here? Is he hurting you? Is he--”

“He’s injured!” Sandy says with some amount of exasperation quickly shuffling over and kneeling down by Red Son’s side. He puts a hand on the demon’s back and offers another for him to take to support him. Red Son stays silent and looks down, as Sandy helps him up.

“What?!” Pure incredulity drips from the Dragon Girl’s voice. “Are- are you helping him?!”

When he’s able to set Red Son upright, and leans him against a nearby cabinet, he looks to the girl and rubs the back of his head absently. “Er, yes, I am.”

She continues to give him a questioning look.

“He was hurt!” Sandy says simply. “I had to, Mei.”

The girl looks between the two of them, before sighing and lowering her sword. “I was wondering why we hadn’t heard from you much.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you guys. I was hoping to tell you first instead of you finding out this way. Are you… mad?” The big man looks small, like a child revealing that they had snuck a cookie out of a cookie jar.

“It’s not you I’m upset at, it’s him. I don’t trust him. You could get into trouble. What if the Demon Bull family comes and attacks you? What if he burns down the houseboat?!” Red Son gets dizzy at the range of emotions that cross the girl’s features and body language as she talks, from a distrusting glance to panicky waving arms to exaggerated sweeps of her entire body. He remembers why he finds this group so annoying. And even moreso, he is annoyed at being left out of the conversation.

“Excuse me, I am standing right here!” he says with as much afront as he can muster.

“That’s the problem, Red Boy!”

“It’s Red Son to you, Dragon Girl!”

“Oh and now who is getting the names wrong?”

“I don’t stoop to uttering the names of peasants!”

“Shut up! You shouldn’t even be here! Do you know how much pain you caused! Sandy is here helping you, and you don’t deserve any of it!”

“Now now--” Sandy tries interjecting, but is caught in the middle of a now shouting match.

“That’s because you’re all so styoooopidly sappy! I’m GLAD I attacked you! You weaklings are too noble for your own good!” A smile spreads on his face seeing he’s getting under the girl's skin. It made him feel stronger. Shouting let out his pent up frustration from earlier. And banter with the Noodle Boy’s friends made things feel normal for once.

Mei shouts back at Red Son, contempt and hatred dripping from her words. "You hurt my friend! You nearly destroyed the Monkey King!!! You and your dumb dad! I bet DBK is proud of you!"

Red Son’s smile drops immediately and something in him snaps at the mention of his father, and before he can stop himself, the words come out. "HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE!"

There is a beat of silence and Red Son had a moment to realize what he said. He hadn't meant to bring up his father in such a way. How weak is he that he keeps revealing his inner thoughts to his enemies? His heart hammers against his ribs in shame and embarrassment, and he’s about to babble out some excuse, when the Dragon Girl speaks instead.

"He was supposed to be what? Destroyed?"

 What?

"Well, you know what? You failed to destroy the Monkey King. And it was the Monkey Kid who beat both of you!"

A spark of relief lights in Red Son's chest. The girl thinks he was talking about the Monkey King. Not his father. She had misunderstood his shout. He pushes down his shock and embarrassment, and forces a well-practiced sneer onto his lips. "Y-yes! The Monkey King was supposed to be destroyed! You just got lucky, that's all!"

The girl gives him a hate-filled look. Just the way it should be.

But when he looks over at Sandy, he sees confusion. And… sadness? Perhaps a bit of worry. Well, they should be worried and sad and angry at him!  They should both be afraid. And weakened or not, Red Son isn't going to let them forget that he is still a force to be reckoned with!

He fixes the Dragon Girl with what he hopes looks like a dangerous scowl. "Next time I'll be more thorough in my destruction!"

The girl doesn't look quite as frightened as Red Son would've hoped, but at the very least she clamps her loud mouth shut. She then sighs and turns to Sandy. "I don't know why you helped him. I don't think this is the kind of guy who can be saved."

Red Son's chest burns uncomfortably. It must be because of that shove she gave him earlier, exacerbating his wounds, and not the hopelessness of her statement.

Sandy shrugs and replies simply, “I've got to try, don't I?"

The girl's lips spread in a small smile of understanding and pats the large man's arm. "Yeah, and that's what's cool about you, my friend."

Sandy beams widely. But his expression switches to nervousness. "You won't tell the others, will you, Mei?"

She quirks an eyebrow up and gives him a look. "Sandy, MK is my best friend. I tell him practically everything," she deadpans.

Sandy wilts a bit, but the girl gives him another reassuring pat and says, "But I'll ask them to leave him alone…,” she shoots Red Son a dark look as she finishes her statement, “...for now.” Switching back to something more friendly, she returns her attention to Sandy. "So you better come clean yourself, soon, and give us a better explanation."

"Of course!" Sandy brightens.

With that the girl exits the houseboat, leaving Red Son and Sandy alone.

There is silence between them. Sandy looks at Red Son, and the demon does his best to not notice.

“Did she hurt you much?” Sandy sounds both worried and a bit embarrassed.

“I’m fine.” Red Son says too quickly.

Sandy comes closer and reaches a hand towards him. Red Son flinches back and the motion causes his whole body to wobble. Before he can fall back down, Sandy catches him. Red Son goes stiff and Sandy makes sure to give him some room once he regains his footing.

“Sorry.” Sandy shifts where he stands. “I noticed that one of your bandages is loose.” He gestures to a bandage on his wrist. “I may have to check you over again and re-do your bandages… If that’s okay…?”

Red Son’s chest burns again. He hates this. But he nods anyway. “Okay.”

Slowly, Sandy goes about washing and re-bandaging Red Son’s wounds. Luckily nothing was hurt too badly, but some bandages did come loose during the scuffle, and a few deeper burns had to be cared for.

They stayed mostly silent throughout much of it. Until Sandy finally spoke up. “Did you mean what you said earlier? About how ‘he was supposed to be.’” He was sitting behind Red Son working on some of the bandages on his back, and Red Son was glad for this so he didn’t see his eyes widen in alarm.

“Of- of course! I definitely meant to destroy the Monkey King and bring him to my father as a prize.” Red Son tries to keep his voice steady.

Sandy is silent for a moment as if trying to find his words. “Were you really talking about the Monkey King then? Not… someone else?”

“I-- don’t know what you mean…” The words come out stiff and stilted.

“I thought…” he began, before giving a sigh. “I guess I misinterpreted what you were saying.”

“Yes, I suppose you did.” Red Son answers curtly.

After a bit more silence Sandy continues. “Have you made any progress with your powers…?”

Red Son twists around suddenly giving Sandy a wide-eyed stare. “How did you know about my powers!?” The movement hurts, but the ache of sudden vulnerability is worse.

“I noticed you trying to throw some fireballs and stuff over the past few days… And also you didn’t attack Mei. Or me, for that matter. So I just… guessed”

Red Son feels small. Like the world is pressing in around him. The Blue One’s large form, not helping. And the pain radiating from his wounds makes the sensation worse. He pushes himself away from the blue giant as he starts shivering again, the cold suddenly feeling more apparent. Everything is suddenly fuzzy, like when he first noticed that his powers were gone. But now Sandy knew, and his friends might find out. And if they found out, then maybe his parents would know. They’d know just how weak he was. His chest is pulsing with pain and he isn’t sure why. It feels like the Dragon Girl hitting him over and over again.

Warmth is suddenly draped around him. The downy sensation of a comforter holds his form. He notices that his breaths are rapid and that’s what was hurting his chest. “Breathe,” a voice calls. So he obeys. Slowly, his breaths return to normal. The blankets surrounding him give the feeling of being cradled, but not trapped, and the warmth brings his trembling to a minimum.

“Red Son,” the voice he now recognizes as Sandy calls. “Do you hear what I am saying?”

The demon looks up, meeting the Blue One’s eyes, and gives a short nod.

“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to. I don’t think you are weak. You are just injured and healing, and that’s okay. I won’t tell anyone,” Sandy’s calm voice is reassuring. But Red Son worries about how much he might’ve just babbled.

Sandy gives him a few more moments to calm down before talking to him again. “I finished working on your bandages. I can get you some tea if you want.” Then he gives a small knowing smile at him. “If you promise not to throw the mug…”

Red Son looks the gentle giant up and down. He slowly shifts into a more comfortable and relaxed position on the bed, and huddles down into the blankets more. He doesn’t smile, but he sounds and feels more like himself in his response. “No promises.”

Sandy’s smile reaches his eyes and he goes off to make more tea.

Red Son manages to not throw the mug this time.

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