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everseeking · 4 years ago

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Hi! Is it okay to ask for a Levi smutxfluff where he's benched from injuring his leg but it's getting a lot better. His fem! S/o is part of his squad and he gets the report that she was in a life threatening situation but she made it safe and he's waiting for the scouts to return. He waits for them and doesn't know what to feel fjejfjs im sorry this is hella long!!! Also no manga spoilers/references please

- hello !! thank you so much for requesting ! that’s totally okay and don’t apologize for the length, it helped me out having details :) there aren’t any manga spoilers or references, but there are season 2 spoilers in case anyone hasn’t finished it yet. i hope you enjoy and thank you again for requesting <3

relief

- levi ackerman x reader

- warnings: season two spoilers, nsfw contains smut; hand job, oral (giving), fingering, cream pie, slight overstimulation but not much, AFAB!reader

once again, levi injured his damn leg.

after being temporarily handicapped from his leg injury when he initially fought the female titan, he made a personal vow to never let an injury like that happen to him again. it was a major setback and seriously hindered his abilities. but unfortunately, titans makes no promises.

it was during an expedition, of course, and things were taking a turn for the worst. levi was unaware that his squad would be needed on an expedition the next day, so he kept them up late the night before to polish their skills as much as possible. during the mission, it was clear they could barely keep their eyes open.

levi was extremely stressed out, worrying about his team as well as what he was going to say to erwin later when he yelled at the commander for such a late notice on the mission. for now, the captain had to make up for much of his team's slack. as much as the kids wanted to put up an argument when he flew in and stole their prey, they kept their mouths shut. there was no way they could’ve finished the job on their own and knew their protests weren't worth it, as it felt kind of wrong to argue with someone who was saving their lives.

it was brutal work since he too was bordering onto exhaustion, but levi pushed through and helped his team clean up the last hoard of titans. just when he thought he was in the clear, a titan came up on sasha and tried to grab her. if he had gone any slower to finding her, he wouldn’t have been able to save her. but thankfully, levi was able to use the last bit of his gas all at once to throw himself forward and push her out of the way.

he seriously couldn’t catch a break as this resulted in him getting himself caught in the titan's grip. his blades weren't drawn prior to being grabbed so cutting himself out was impossible. the giant had levi's entire lower half engulfed in its hand. if his second in command hadn’t been there he would have for sure been a goner.

it was y/n’s turn to play hero, as she flew in and swiftly sliced the titan's nape, freeing not only her captain but also her partner from definite doom.

levi wished he could say it was a clean save, but he couldn't deny the bone crunching he heard below him. they arrived back home in one piece with only levi's broken leg to report.

so not only had he injured his leg again, but it was worse than his sprained ankle from the forest. the captain was even more upset when the medics informed him that he had to be benched for six weeks. that meant no physical activity for six weeks. yes, that includes sex.

over the course of his healing, there were many times when he claimed to be okay so he could accompany his team on expeditions, only to be rushed back to bed by his colleagues. many people even urged y/n to nail down the door to her and levi’s shared room in order to keep him trapped in there. y/n laughed off the idea, not even considering it because she knew levi would only feel more tempted to break out. a few nails wouldn’t stop him. the only thing he could say he enjoyed about his time off was having y/n as his "personal nurse," when she wasn’t off with the rest of the team. she still had to stop things from getting too heated every now and then.

“doctor’s orders !” she’d always say as she stopped a heated make out session or after he had tried to pull her into his lap.

when it came to more domestic care, levi hated having her watch after him. he definitely appreciated it, but the last thing he wanted was to be a burden to her. he wasn’t just burdening her with his personal care, but also the burden of the entire team since she would be his replacement for the time being. many times he tried to wave off his partner and tell her he could manage on his own before he finally told her he didn’t want to have to rely on her. he was surprised when she brushed back the hair in front of his forehead to kiss his forehead, whispering that she wanted to take care of him and help him.

finally, he had reached the sixth week and was ready to hit the sky again. the morning of the latest mission, y/n noticed levi had a bit of a pep in his step as he prepared to venture outside the walls for the first time in a few weeks. she giggled at his poor attempts to get excited since he wasn't the best at expressing his emotions, but she felt a little guilty since she didn't have the heart to tell him that he was once again sitting this one out.

hanji had pulled y/n aside the night before and broken the news to her. she explained that although his road to recovery had been going well, he needed to take one more week to ensure that he was completely healed. it hurt y/n’s heart a little bit to hear this. over the last few weeks she watched her partner practically counting down the days until his return, so she made sure to tell hanji that she wouldn't be the one breaking the news to him.

hanji also knew how restless her friend was and wasn't sure if she would comeback alive after telling him the news, so she waited until the last possible second to tell him. literally, word got around that it was time to make the final preparations before heading off when she pulled him aside and told him.

he was enraged to say the least. he grabbed the front of hanji's shirt and pulled her down to his level as he began to chew her out in front of everyone. the soldiers awkwardly shuffled past the two, definitely not wanting to get involved. it wasn't until y/n came and informed the two of them that it was time to go when he finally let go of her. hanji laughed nervously and decided to give the couple one last minute of alone time as she headed back to her squad.

there was a lot they wanted to say to each other, levi wanting to tell y/n to be careful and y/n wanting to apologize for not telling him sooner, but they both knew this wasn't the time for a conversation. y/n put on a determined face and told him that she would do her best to lead the team in his place, offering him a salute, then headed over to join the others.

levi was super bummed. he waited behind and watched as the horses left to make their way towards the outer walls before he sulked to himself and retreated back to his quarters to finish the less exciting side of his job; paperwork.

it had been a few hours since the cadets had left that morning, so the golden sunlight that was now pouring through levi's windows notified him that they should be back any minute now. he stood up from his small desk and stretched his back that had started to stiffen up from sitting in his chair for the last few hours. many nights had been spent sleeping in the same chair, but he swore it was more comfortable sleeping in it than doing paperwork it in.

he took a look around the room and saw the rays of sun illuminated the dust particles floating through the air. it annoyed him to say the least, as he had yet to find a way to clean the air. for now, he would settle for sweeping the room one last time. just as he was pulling a broom out of the closet, a hard knock came from his door.

"captain levi ?" a young soldier called from the other side. levi was slightly annoyed that he was being interrupted, but he managed to keep the ‘this better be important,’ thoughts to himself.

he placed the broom back in the closet and made his way to the door. upon opening it, he saw the distressed look on the soldier's face.

"what is it ?" levi pryed, not really sure what to expect at this point.

the soldier straightened up and cleared his throat. "the first group from today's expedition has arrived with a report. the rest of the scouts are on their way back now, but i was told to hand you the part of the report that regards the condition of your team." the boy held out the paper in his hand for his superior to take.

levi practically ripped the paper out of the soldier’s hand, causing him to flinch a little, but it was understandable. a million scenarios were playing through levi’s mind about what could have happened. he feared that once again he had lost his entire squad and had to start all over again. it was a pain he never wanted to live through again, especially since his lover was apart of his team this time.

his eyes quickly scanned the clearly hastily scribbled words, searching for words like death, killed, and eaten. the was almost at the end of the page when he realized he hadn’t heard anything terrible yet. eren ended up not needing the use his titan form, mikasa had another impressive kill streak, armin and connie were in a bit of a predicament but got out fine, and jean and sasha were safe too. the only one that had been yet to mentioned was y/n.

in an attempt to distract a group of titans from one of her fellow soldiers whose ODM gear was malfunctioning, y/n l/n used herself as bait. she was successful in saving the soldiers life, but one of the titans caught ahold of one of her gear’s cables and she was thrown to the ground. l/n was found unconscious by armin arlert and she is currently being watched until the group arrives and she can be transported to the infirmary for a full check up.

levi’s heart sank deeper and deeper into his stomach with every word he read. y/n was always putting others first regardless of how dangerous a situation was. she was selfless to a fault. he warned her many times that something like this would happen, but she never listened. her heart would never let her not help someone in need. it was one of the things he loved about her the most.

the awkward shuffling of the messenger soldier’s feet brought levi back to reality. before waving him off, levi asked if there was any more information than what was shared in the report, but he shook his head.

the soldier finally left, leaving levi frozen in the middle of his room. the report was too vague for him to know what to think or do.

how high was she from the ground when she fell ? did she just get knocked out ? or did she hit her head hard enough to cause internal bleeding ?

the thought that her current condition could be much different from the report also crossed his mind. y/n was stated to only be unconscious, but she could have gotten worse since.

there’s no point in pondering the what-ifs, he reminded himself, but it was easier said than done. he moved over to his neatly tucked bed and sat down on the edge of it, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands.

he didn’t know what he would do if he lost her. what the team would do if they lost her. before he could fall back into his dark thoughts about his partner’s condition, a large commotion came from outside alerting him that the cadets were back.

with a small stumble as he jumped up from his bed, levi sprinted out of his room to go outside. there were already a lot of people crowding around the carts and horses, so he did his best to slip past them all. the people in the way that had managed to see his face instantly moved aside, not wanting to anger the captain after seeing the intense look on his face.

after making his way to the front of the crowd, levi scanned the area in search of y/n, having no luck until he heard a familiar voice yelling ‘captain.’

his eyes met with eren’s who was waving frantically in order to flag down his captain who was now quickly making his way over to the group.

“she’s alright,” the titan shifter called out over the other voices in the crowd. levi didn’t want to get his hopes up as he wasn’t sure how accurate eren’s words were, but regardless, a wave of relief came over him.

as he pulled up next to the cart they were sitting in, levi also met armin, who nodded in agreement with what eren was saying. the blond opened his mouth to add onto what his friend had said, when he was interrupted.

“where’s levi ?”

hearing his partner’s voice almost brought levi to his knees. the weight of not knowing her condition finally fell off his shoulders. he peered over the side of the cart to see y/n laying on the ground on her back with a white bandage wrapped around her entire head. her face instantly lit up when she saw him.

the girl jumped up and threw herself onto the captain, wrapping her arms around his neck in a tight hug. if this were any other situation he would’ve told her to get off of him, but right now he allowed himself to wrap one arm around her back and placed his free hand on the back of her head, pulling her closer to him.

levi couldnt bring himself to scold her for being too rough while she was injured. instead, he sighed and hugged her tighter.

“thank god you’re okay,” he breathed out against her hair. he felt her smile widen as she nuzzled her head deeper into the crook of his neck.

after the two finally pulled apart from each other, levi immediately took y/n to the infirmary where they confirmed she only had a minor concussion.

the moment they entered their shared room for the night, levi pulled y/n in for another hug. she graciously accepted, wrapping her tired arms around his middle.

he pulled back and brought up a hand to brush her hair away from her face so he could place a soft kiss on her forehead where her bandages previously were.

y/n placed her hands on levi’s cheeks and gently pulled his face down so she could plant a kiss on his lips. levi eagerly kissed back and began taking careful steps backwards to lead her onto the bed.

they now sat on the edge of the bed and kiss turned more passionate, with y/n opening her mouth to swipe her tongue across levi's lower lip asking for entrance into his mouth. he eagerly accepted, greeting her tongue with his own as they made out.

without breaking the kiss, y/n carefully straddled herself onto levi's lap taking extra care to not put too much pressure on his healing leg. however, her plans became a lost cause when he grabbed her hips to meet his. her eyes widened as she felt his bulge between her legs. tension built up in her core as she instinctively rolled her hips forward to grind herself against his clothed crotch.

it was levi's turn for his eyes to widen as a wave of pleasure swept across his body. he broke the kiss to meet his partner's lustful eyes as she recoiled her hips back once again to bring herself more pleasure. he sharply inhaled before kissing her deeply one last time before throwing her off his lap.

y/n flopped down on the bed next to him, laughing, but she took the hint and started undressing herself like he did. once their clothes were in a messy heap on the floor, levi took a moment to pull her head close to him so he could kiss the side of it, worried he had only made her concussion worse when he threw her off of him moments ago.

“are you okay ?” he pressed, lips still against her head.

y/n laughed and placed her hand on top of his that was on the side of her head. “i told you a million times that im okay, my love.”

“and i’ll ask you a million more times just to be sure,” he replied, pulling back.

as he moved away, y/n grabbed the sides of his face and pulled him in for another deep kiss. one of the captain's hands placed itself on the small of her back to pull her closer while the other felt around behind her looking for the bed. once he gripped the sheets, he brought the hand up to the other side of her back and took a step to turn his own back towards the bed, then fell onto it, pulling y/n down with him so she would land on top of him.

he cringed as he remembered her concussion and quickly asked if she was okay, only for her to laugh once again and reassure him she was fine. before levi could ask anymore questions or make anymore quips, she returned her lips to his. their tongues explored each other’s mouths, searching every inch of each other’s caverns.

she pulled her lips away from his to smile at him while she slowed her breathing. the sight alone was enough to make levi fall in love all over again. her messy h/c hair fell perfectly, combined with her eyes filled with pure adoration from looking at him and the goofy smile that was on her lips. no one had ever looked at him the way she had. his eyes tore apart from hers and trailed down to see the rest of her body.

"you're absolutely perfect," he whispered, just loud enough for y/n to hear as he took in every curve on her body. levi thanked the stars that the moon was bright enough tonight to let him see the soft pink hue that spread across her cheeks as he complimented her.

she leaned in close to his ear and whispered "as are you," back to him. each movement of her lips tickled against his earlobe. it sent a shiver down his spine. y/n shifted her body weight so that she was now sitting up and straddling his lap once again. her right hand met his strong chest, then dragging down to his toned abdomen followed by his lower stomach.

y/n scooted back so she could get a full view of his hardened cock. her index finger traced a straight line from the base of his member to the tip. it took a lot of self control for levi keep himself from shuddering as her nail softly grazed the side of his cock.

levi propped himself up with his elbows. to get a good look at what she was doing. he watched as her hand went back to the base of his shaft and her fingers wrapped around it. she started slowly pumping him, resulting in his breaths becoming deeper. he closed his eyes for a mere second when a new wave of pleasure swept across him that made his eyes roll back in his head.

y/n had lowered her face and began sucking on just the head of his cock while her hand's pace quickened. her cheeks hollowed out from the pressure of sucking his tip and he fisted one of his hands into her hair. he didn't push her head down, rather, he gripped it to stimulate pleasure for her as well as to let her know he was enjoying what she was doing.

she hummed against him and started to incorporate her tongue as she swirled it around his head, which sent yet another wave of pleasure throughout his body. when y/n added her free hand to the mix, using it to fondle his balls, the stimulation almost became too much for levi to stand. he used the fist in her hair to pull her off him and up to his face.

a small dribble of spit leaked out of the corner of her mouth. before y/n had a chance to wipe it, levi was pulling her forward and swiping his tongue against her mouth to lick it off, then planted open mouth kisses down her face and up her jawline until he reached her neck where began to suck her skin and create a few hickeys. she slowly leaned her head back to give him better access to her neck.

she said a silent thank you when she realized the marks were placed just low enough to be hidden by the collar of her white shirt so no one would know a thing the next day. everyone already freaked out enough when they found out y/n and levi were a couple.

without removing his lips from her neck, levi lifted y/n from her hips then moved one of his hands to feel the folds of her pussy. she was soaking wet, so all her had to do was cover his index and middle fingers with his slick before he slowly slid them both inside of her. a low moan came from y/n’s parted lips as levi’s fingers went deeper inside of her.

he pumped them slowly, reaching deeper each time until he was knuckles deep into her core. when he curled his fingers to hit her g-spot, she had had enough.

“inside of me...i need you inside of me levi,” y/n moaned, digging her nails into his back. levi laughed to himself at how desperate his lover had become from just his fingers. it was clear to him that he needed to avoid any injuries that could put a halt to his sex life at all costs from now on.

he pulled his wet fingers out of her and gripped his cock, making sure to cover it with her juices that were still on his fingers so it would be easier to push inside of her, then positioned himself with her entrance. y/n moaned once again as his tip rubbed against her folds before sliding into her. she sharply inhaled as his head entered her. levi gave her a moment to signal that she was ready before thrusting deeper inside of her. after a few weeks of abstinence, y/n needed a bit longer to get adjusted.

after about a minute, levi was able to thrust his hips up and push his full length inside of her as she dug her nails deeper into his back. he knew it was payback for him marking up her neck when she broke her hazy gaze to give him a smirk. just for that, he pulled himself almost completely out of her, then thrusted balls deep back into her, hard.

y/n’s hand flew off her partner’s back and onto her mouth to stifle the loud moan that almost escaped. she shot him a fake glare and he returned the smirk she had given him earlier. levi wanted nothing more than to hear her call out his name loudly, but it wasn’t worth the harassment he’d face from his colleagues the next day.

after she had composed herself, y/n removed her hand from her mouth and placed it on her partner’s bicep. he stopped thrusting into her, knowing she wanted to take over. just like he had thought, y/n started to rock her hips so she was grinding on him much like she had done whilst they were still clothed.

the pleasure was much more enjoyable now that he was inside her. each time she rolled her hips forward, his cock hit her cervix. now it was levi’s turn to stifle a moan, as y/n road him into ecstasy. his grip on her hips increased which most definitely left yet another mark on her skin.

the fact that y/n was biting her lower lip also didn’t go unnoticed by the captain. whenever she did this it was a sure fire way of telling him she was close to her release. he wrapped one arm around her back and in a swift motion flippped both of them over so that y/n was on her back and he was hovering over her.

she let out a small squeal at his sudden shift and wanted to scold him for not being careful with his leg, but her words were lost as he snapped his hips against hers. she once again went to cover her mouth to avoid her moans escaping, but levi’s hands interlocking with her own prevented her from doing so. he gave both her hands a quick squeeze before going back to thrusting himself into her. her eyes stayed trained on his, while his watched the way she engulfed his cock. it drove him so crazy she could feel him twitch inside of her. he high was near, but there was no way he was going to let himself finish before his partner.

he focused more on his thrusts, moving his hips better so he would hit her g-spot harder with each thrust. the way he rolled his hips to meet her core finally sent her over the edge. he kissed her deeply as she moaned against his lips while he continued to ride out her climax. even after she had come down from her high, levi kept thrusting into her, chasing his own release.

the overstimulation was enough to send her over the edge again, this time being joined by his own release. he let out a low grunt as he finished inside of her painting her inner walls with his cum.

levi pumped into y/n three more times before he stopped and fell onto her chest, not even bothering to pull out. after six weeks of no sex, their orgasms were both super intense.

“maybe we should wait another six weeks before our next round if it’s gonna be that good again,” y/n teased.

levi’s head shot up so he could see her face. y/n bust out laughing when he finally realized she was kidding. levi rolled his eyes and pushed himself off her so he could slide out of her.

the mix of their juices that escaped her as he unsheathed his cock from her made his member twitch back to life, becoming hard again.

“or i guess we could go again right now,” y/n added after sitting up herself and seeing his hard on.

levi smiled and pushed her back down gently then hovered over top of her once again.

“that’s more like it.”

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kohanayaki · 3 years ago

Text

.:Time and Time Again:. (Marauders Era x Reader) Ch 7

Severus looks back on everything that went wrong.

tw: non-consensual kissing/harassment, trauma responses

LINKS: CH 1 CH 2 CH 3 CH 4 CH 5 CH 6 CH 7 CH 8

________________________________________________________

Ch 7 .:Things Unforgivable and Things Left Unsaid:.

Graduation day at Hogwarts was supposed to mark the beginning of a new adventure for you. Instead, it marked the day you decided that whatever it was between you and Severus Snape, friendship or otherwise, it was over.

Or at least that's what you had thought. Of course, the universe just loved making things more complicated for you. You were working with Charlie in Romania when you had gotten word that Severus defected from the death eaters and was now working as a double agent at Dumbledore's behest. He continued teaching Potions at Hogwarts, and was even indited as a member of the Order. If anything, that only solidified your decision to go to America instead of staying in London. You didn't even know what to think. Of course you trusted Dumbledore, confusing as the man was, but you didn't know if you could really trust Snape again. You had worked towards forgiving him; over time you moved past what happened, but it was difficult to really say it was 'resolved' when you quite literally haven't spoken a word to each other in over a decade. You didn't even know where to start.

For the entirety of your seventh year, you didn't speak a word to Severus. It was hard to imagine that such a tight knit trio like the one you, him, and Lily had formed could crumble in an instant, but that's exactly what happened.

The end of your sixth year at Hogwarts was a quarter Snape would never forget, no matter how hard he tried. It was when everything fell apart. . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 1976 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“James!” you yelled, running to the top of the hill where he and the rest of the Marauders had Snape held upside down.

“What are you doing?” you said, immensely hurt and trying to keep your voice steady, “You said this would stop, you promised. . . you swore.”

“(Y/n), I. . .” James trailed off, immediately feeling guilty. As he turned to you Snape dropped to the ground, attempting to scramble to his feet but finding his ankle twisted.

Sirius moved towards you to say something but you put your hand up firmly.

“No,” you said, “not a word out of you, Black.”

Sirius stared at you, wide-eyed, shrinking back as you called him by his last name for the first time in a long while. Not Sirius, not Pads. Black. As if your whole friendship had just been reset.

“And you two,” you said, addressing Remus and Peter, “how could you let this happen?!”

All four boys looked at you in shame, none of them daring to verbally respond.

Suddenly, Lily came running up the hill, having fallen behind you in your quick pace.

“Severus!” she panted, rushing over to him, “are you alright?”

Snape was in an angered daze, not even registering the words being said around him. The blood rushing through his veins felt like lava, his heart pounding in his ears, his chest, his tongue. His face burned with humiliation and hatred. Pure fucking hatred for James Fleamont Potter. For Lily to see him like that. . . for you to see him like that, pathetic, helpless, in need of your help once again. He wouldn't have it. He was a master of the dark arts now, he didn't have to fucking take this. He would curse Potter into the next century, he would—

“Severus!”

Snape's eyes snapped open, not even realizing they were closed. The world came rushing in around him and he was suddenly acutely aware of Lily's hand on his arm. He reeled back at her touch as if he'd been burned.

“Don't touch me!” he screeched, startling the redheaded girl. Her eyes were filled with concern, but all Snape could see was pity.

“Sev—“

“I don't need any help from you, you filthy Mudblood!”

And everyone in the clearing stilled.

The color drained from Snape's already pale face as he realized what he'd just said.

“Lily. . .” Severus whispered; pleading, desperate.

“Don't come any closer,” Lily said, her voice stone cold as tears welled up in her eyes.

“I'll kill you,” James said lowly.

“Prongs, no—”

“I'll kill you, you slimy bastard!” James growled, Remus moving quickly to hold him back.

You stood in the middle of it all, staring at Severus. Severus, who'd always told Lily that blood status didn't matter. Severus, who you and Lily always stood up for no matter what. Severus, who you thought you had feelings for up until this exact moment.

Without even thinking you stepped forward, grabbing Lily's hand.

“Let's go, Lils,” you said, your expression unreadable as you looked down at Severus. Lily squeezed your hand back gratefully, fighting the sobs racking her chest as she turned around and took off with you.

“(Y/n), wait—” Snape tried to get up but found himself shoved back down to the ground by Sirius.

“No,” he said sharply, “you don't get to say anything to either of them, you hear me?”

“I—”

“What?” James spat, “you're sorry? Well sorry doesn't cut it! You say a word to her after what you called her and you'll wish you'd never have been born.”

Snape's head hung low, that wish already present in his mind.

“Leave him,” Remus said, this time not out of mercy, but malice; letting Snape wallow in his own misery as he left with his friends, looking for you and Lily.

Soon, Severus was left alone. Just as he began, and just as he should have never hoped for anything different. Was this it? That's how it was going to end? One mistake, and the only two people he'd ever cared about were ripped away from him.

No. He decided he had to apologize properly, consequences be damned. If those Marauders wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp afterwards, that was fine by him. He just needed to talk to Lily one more time. To tell her how deeply sorry he really was.

He took off down the hill, sprinting towards the castle and completely ignoring the burning pain in his ankle. He rushed through the grass, ignoring the looks he received from the other students walking by. He ran past the oak tree, through the castle gates, flying through the corridors and cutting across the courtyard when he skid to a stop at what he saw.

Lily and James stood in the center of the garden, her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer as his lips captured hers. Her eyes were still wet with tears, the tears that he had caused. Severus didn't do a thing. His presence remained unknown to them as he slunk away back to his common room, heart silently breaking.

He was too late.

Nothing was the same after that.

Lily insisted that if you wanted to remain friends with Snape, as she now referred to him, she wouldn't hold it against you, but she made it very clear that she would never forgive him herself. But it wasn't as easy as wanting to stay friends with him or not; he'd changed that day.

After some time to let things settle down you tried to approach him, but he only became more and more hostile towards everyone, including you. You hardly saw him anymore. The only time you occasionally spotted him was when he was walking around school with Malfoy, Mulciber, Wilkes, and Avery, unable to look you in the eye lest you see the utterly crushed expression on your face as he fell deeper and deeper into the dark side.

You held your books tightly to your chest as you made your way to Hagrid's hut for one of your last Care of Magical Creatures class. You were being paired up with a few lower classmen to teach them the ropes for feeding all the creatures Hagrid kept in the meadows. You were a tad late, having been preoccupied at lunch, speedwalking to try and arrive on time when you saw a flash of silver-blue light emit from inside the forest. You could hear warbled shouting and laughter coming from the same direction, and your instincts told you to run.

However, because your nerves were on high alert, that also told you someone in there was in danger, and you couldn't just walk away from that. You drew your wand, abandoning your books by a rockface and moving towards the commotion, the distorted shouting soon becoming words.

“Oh come on, you little runts, you lot can do better than that!” you recognized Mulciber's voice.

A young girl shrieked as a giant acromantula barred its fangs at her, its front legs raised and poised to attack. Her friends were huddled in a corner, more students who couldn't have been older than second or third years, being forced to watch by Avery and Wilkes.

“How's this for Care of Magical Creatures, eh?” Mulciber taunted as he walked over to the other students, pulling a young boy out from the group.

“No!” the girl cornered by the spider cried, “please, don't!”

“Aw, how cute,” Mulciber drawled, “is this your little boyfriend, huh? Shame.”

The boy screamed in fear as he was suddenly lifted into the air by his ankles, forced to hover right above the spider just out of its reach. You wanted to wretch as you watched the scene unfold, unable to keep yourself hidden any longer.

You leaped into the clearing, a quick flick of your wrist relieving Mulciber of his wand. You did the same to Wilkes as he turned to you.

“Well well, why am I not surprised?” Avery scoffed. Right behind him stood Severus, his expression vacant.

“Grab this, and get to Professor McGonagall immediately,” you shouted to the younger Gryffindor students, tossing them a gold galleon. As soon as they touched the coin, the portkey shot them all back to the castle.

“Why are you always the one spoiling our fun?” Mulciber sneered.

“Someone's gotta do it,” you said, putting up a brave front although you were under no illusion as to your situation. You weren't fourth years anymore, and you were alone this time. They'd been studying the dark arts for the past two years. You knew you were outmatched, even with your dueling skills.

“Oh, come on, (Y/n), don't be a bore.”

You turned around at the sound of the familiar voice to see Rosier, an easy grin set into his face. Your heart dropped.

“So you too, huh?” you chuckled bitterly, “and here I thought you were one of the few good ones left.”

“You're not really that naive, are you?” he tutted, “you had to have known I would be inducted eventually. Might even get Barty to join us, even if he is a little nutty.”

You went for a stunning spell but found your wand spinning out of your hand before you even saw him move.

“Not so fun to be on the receiving end, is it?” Rosier said, “you're not the only one versed in non-verbal magic, (Y/n). In fact, I'd even go so far as to say we've surpassed you. Lucius will be furious, but I like you a lot, so I'll re-extend his old offer for him. Join us.”

You had no wand, no backup, no way out of this, but you stood your ground nonetheless.

“Eat shit,” you seethed. Rosier glowered at you, taking a few menacing steps forward. He grabbed your jaw firmly and you grit your teeth.

“I don’t think you heard me—”

He reeled back as you spit right in his face,

“You bitch,” he growled, wiping his face in disgust, “clearly no one ever bothered to train you.”

Without your wand you were really only left with one option, ready to defend yourself by revealing your animagus form, but you never got to take the first step forward.

“Imperio!”

You stopped in your tracks as a veil of what could only be described as pink fluff drifted over your mind. A smile immediately appeared on your face, and a giggle rose in your throat.

Severus looked at Rosier with horror, the rest of his crew looking among themselves uneasily.

“What do you think you're doing?” Snape hissed, “are you trying to get us all expelled?”

“So what?” Rosier said, “we've used the killing curse loads of times.”

“On insects, you loon,” Snape shot back, hoping his concern for you was masked enough.

“Don't worry, I'm not gonna hurt your precious (Y/n), Sev.”

The nickname made his stomach churn. You used to call him that. Lily used to call him that. No one else did. No one else got to.

“Release them,” he said, raising his wand, “now.”

“Put that away,” Rosier's eyes narrowed, a smirk sliding back onto his face as he got an idea, “hey, (Y/n)?”

“Yes?” you answered, your voice dripping with honey.

“I don't think Severus likes you being under this spell,” Rosier said, “but you like it don't you?”

“Mmm hmm,” you nodded, your head feeling like it was floating, “it feels so nice.”

“You know what else would feel nice?” Rosier goaded, “if you gave our friend Sev here a kiss.”

Severus' heart dropped to his stomach.

“You're sick, Rosier,” Snape said, his voice close to tremmoring.

“You don't have to act like you don't want it,” Evan chuckled, “we've watched you putz around (L/n) like a fool for years. Besides, they want to. Isn't that right, (Y/n)?”

“He's right,” you said, your voice deceptively melodic, “I love you, Severus. I've always loved you.”

And in that moment, Snape had never hated himself more. Because he didn't care that Rosier was making you say the things you did. He didn't care that you were under the influence of a curse. All he could hear was the words he longed to hear spill from your lips, over and over like a skipping record.

I love you, Severus. I love you, Severus. I love you, Severus.

He played the words on repeat in his head. His heart was beating almost painfully in his chest, so much so that he hardly even noticed you slowly walking towards him, wrapping your arms around his neck like Lily had done to James. And when you leaned forward to kiss him, his selfish desires held him in place.

It had lasted a fraction of a second, but he didn't pull away. It was the greatest regret of his life that he didn't walk up to Rosier, break his nose, and curse every single person in that clearing instead of doing nothing, knowing full well you had no control over your actions.

When his eyes drifted open and met yours and his stomach twisted into ugly knots, fear and panic wracking through his spine. Your eyes were completely empty, irises a vacant white, and in that moment it felt as if he were kissing a corpse.

Suddenly the color returned to your eyes, and fear immediately filled them. Snape grunted as he was shot away from you, unable to move when he hit the ground. The other Slytherins looked around for the assailant, but they had no time to react when every single one of their wands was pulled from their hands. McGonagall stood there, expression the same as ever but clearly brimming with fury.

“(L/n), come,” she said, ushering you over and taking you protectively in her embrace, “we'll get you to Madame Pomfrey.” Her eyes narrowed dangerously as she regarded Snape and the rest of their group, “As for you,” she said, “Mr Filch, secure them in the dungeons until the Headmaster calls for them. And put all of their wands in the lockbox.”

“With pleasure,” Filch said, almost blending in with the trees behind her.

“Are you alright?” McGonagall asked you as she helped you back towards the castle.

“No,” you said, honestly, “n-no, I don't think I am.”

“No amount of apology could ever equate to the remorse I feel that this happened to you, (L/n),” she said earnestly, “I am truly sorry. This was completely unacceptable, and I will see to it that the proper measures are taken for their punishments. Expulsion would suit just fine, but even if the Headmaster disagrees, I will personally ensure you never come into contact with any of those boys again.”

“Thank you,” you said, your voice sounding hollow in your own ears.

You didn't remember walking the near half-mile to the infirmary. Madame Pomfrey's words felt so far away, as if she were speaking underwater. You just remembered laying down in the hospital wing bed as she checked you for any lasting damage, and as soon as she'd turned her back you'd just wept.

________________________________________________________

That night, Snape found himself in the Prefect's bathroom, leaned over the sink and watching the water rush into the drain. His hands clutched the marble sides of the basin so hard his knuckles turned white, every breath catching painfully in his chest before he forced it out to take another shaky inhale. He was an idiot, he knew. There was no fixing this. Not really. First Lily, now you. Was he just predestined to lose everyone in his life?

He paused. No, he didn't deserve to think like that. Everything that had gone wrong was his own doing.

When he heard the door to the bathroom open he whipped around, ready to curse whoever dared to interrupt him until he saw you standing there, your eyes red from crying and the Marauder's Map clutched in your hands like a vice. He was half certain you were a hallucination, but as soon as he pulled himself to the present, he rushed to apologize. You had to know how horrible he felt about what he did, even if you would never forgive him. He made the mistake of being too cowardly to properly apologize to Lily, he wouldn't make that mistake again.

“(Y/n), I'm—”

“I know you're sorry,” you said callously, “and I know you mean it. That's not the issue.” you took a breath to collect yourself before you continued. This was so much harder than you thought it would be. Maybe this wound really was too fresh right now. You thought you'd be able to handle this conversation, but your prior feelings weren't making this any easier.

“Why did you do it?” you asked quietly, “Better, why did you do nothing? You were my friend, Severus.”

Whatever was holding back the flood of emotions in him, it snapped at your words.

Were. Past tense.

“I don't know what I was thinking,” Snape said in exasperation, though it came off more as anger directed at himself. His hands threaded through his messy black locks, his eyes nearly manic. You'd never seen him unravel quite like this. He was desperate to fix this, to keep you in his life. “No, I wasn't thinking at all, (Y/n). I couldn't, not when you were . . . not when I. . .”

Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it—

“Not when I've fancied you for years.”

Snape knew immediately that he had made a mistake. The expression on your face made his stomach twist, and he knew there was no taking back what he said.

“No,” you said, tears welling in your eyes, “Severus Snape, don't you dare say that. What, do you think that just makes this all okay? You're an oblivious idiot, you know that?”

Your heart ached so bad it felt as if you couldn't breathe.

“Do you know how many times I wished you would have kissed me?” you said shakily, not bothering to hide the hurt in your voice.

Snape was sure his breathing had stopped, eyes wide with shock. He couldn't have heard that right. Did you really feel the same way about him? But reality hit him in the face when he saw your expression. This was no heartfelt confession on your part.

“For you to just. . . for it to happen like that,” you said, still struck with betrayal and disbelief, “If you've ever respected me, you never would have let that happen. I was under a curse, Severus. And you took advantage of that— of me. All because you were too much of a coward to just tell me how you felt. And then you go on and say you've liked me this whole time as a last ditch effort to save our friendship? How the hell did you expect me to react?”

He had nothing to say to that. He blamed himself entirely. Every verbal blow you struck he gladly took, he would have sat there still as stone if you hexed him, but you refused to draw your wand at him. You just stood there, staring straight through him with unbelievable hurt in your eyes.

“I can't do this, Severus,” you said, “please, just. . . just leave me alone. I'm not saying I'll never forgive you, but right now I can't even begin to think about that. Not now.”

You looked like you wanted to say something more, but your mouth snapped shut, and Severus saw the finality in your eyes. He stayed glued to the spot where he stood long after he watched you leave, his eyes trained on the door you'd slammed shut.

If you thought Snape had made himself scarce after what he said to Lily, after what he did to you he practically vanished. He no longer sat underneath the tree that had become so symbolic of your former trio. He no longer roamed the Slytherin common room, or even the Great Hall for meals. Instead he would walk through the forbidden forest alone, or hole up in some empty corridor purposely hiding but hoping you would walk up to him. You never did.

The people who did find him in the few days that followed were the newly named Marauders, though incomplete as they arrived without you. As he glanced down at the parchment in Lupin's hand he had no questions about how they'd located him. Snape grimaced, not bothering to get up from his seat beneath the stone pillar. Anything they did to him was what he deserved.

James stepped forward from the group first. His expression was unreadable, but Snape saw the way his jaw was set firmly in place, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. The Slytherin had expected Potter to come at him guns blazing, sending a flurry of verbal attacks and hexes his way. However, James Potter simply stared down at his former enemy with a look that met in the intersection of barely contained anger and utter disappointment.

“You didn't deserve them,” he said coldly, his voice oddly level.

“I know,” Snape glared, but not feeling very self-righteous.

“No, you don't,” James said, his voice rising steadily, “you will never know what you put them through. You sat there while your lunatic friends used an Unforgivable Curse on them, and you took advantage of them. I don't care if you know, I'm going to throw it back in your face, because it's what you deserve.”

“I think it's clear that (Y/n) doesn't wish to speak with you any longer,” Remus said, “if for some inconceivable reason they want to in the future, they'll approach you. Don't you even think about going about it the other way around before they're ready and willing to talk. If they ever are.”

“It's settled, Severus,” James said simply, “you're officially not worth our time anymore.”

Snape blinked up at him, trying to recall a time when Potter had ever called him by his actual name.

“Don't get us wrong,” Sirius glared, “the only reason we aren't throwing you to the Womping Willow is because we know the last thing (Y/n) would want is her friends getting expelled because of them.”

“We'll leave you alone now,” Peter said grimly, “just like you've always wanted.”

And they were telling the truth. They left him completely alone, not speaking a word to him after that; 'they' now including you and Lily, which destroyed him more than any amount of bullying had before. He watched from afar as you grew closer and closer to the Marauders. . . no, you were a Marauder. It was only natural that you became almost like a family in your seventh year. You, James, Peter, Sirius, Remus, and Lily had become as inseparable as Snape thought you, him, and Lily were, but he'd ruined that. He had ruined every good thing that had ever happened to him and pushed away every important person in his life.

The last time he saw you was graduation day. Everyone was running around excitedly, dressed in the ceremonial jewel-toned robes of their respective houses as they awaited Dumbledore's speech. You had been sitting with your group as usual, now having carved out your own spot at the Gryffindor table, when you noticed that Snape was nowhere to be found.

You frowned, wondering why he of all people had to slip into your mind on a day like today.

“You alright, Fangs?”

Sirius' voice snapped you out of your thoughts.

“Yeah, I'm fine. . .”

His handsome features contorted in concern, but that easy grin slid back onto his face as he nudged you with his shoulder.

“What, you worried you're gonna miss us?” he smirked, “this isn't goodbye, you know. We'll all see each other at the Order meetings—”

“Which you always seem to talk about at an extraordinary volume,” Remus shushed him pointedly. Sirius brushed him off with a roll of his eyes.

“(Y/n), are you sure nothing's wrong?” James asked from across the table.

“I'm alright, Prongs,” you said, “I just. . . you know what? I just remembered I left something in my dorm, I'll be right back.”

Your friends exchanged worried glances as you got up from the table, taking off towards the Slytherin common room. It wasn't a total lie, but your intentions went against your better judgment. After today there was a very, very good chance you would never see Severus again. What he did wasn't okay by any means, and it would take more than an apology or a simple conversation to forgive him, but you needed closure at the very least. Not for him, but for you. You deserved that much.

You swiped the map off your bedside table and opened it fully, your eyes quickly picking out Severus' name near the cellars only a few rooms away from where you were. You took off quickly down the hall, reaching the intersection where all the dungeon's corridors converged when you spotted him. Your heart stopped.

His left sleeve was rolled up to his elbow, as was the person's standing across from him, their back to you. Even though you couldn't see the second person's face, you recognized who it was immediately.

Evan Rosier.

He wasn't on the map before. . . how had he gotten in?! He'd been expelled after the day he cursed you. Did he somehow find a way to bypass the anti-apparition charm?

You felt your breathing hitch, fear creeping under your skin. There, on both of their arms, was a tattoo of a skull, a serpent weaving its way through the mouth and eye sockets in an undeniable pattern. You stopped breathing all together. You knew Severus had fallen into the dark arts, but to actually be a death eater? To be proudly showing off that awful display of radicalism along with the person who had used an Unforgivable Curse on you, who had invaded your free will and taken over your body. . .

Severus must have felt you even from the opposite side of the hallway, because something pricking at his skin told him to look up, and when he did he wished he never had. You were looking at him for the first time in over a year, your eyes full of terror. Rosier followed his gaze, but when he looked over his shoulder there was no one there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Severus sighed, trying to push the less than pleasant memories out of his head. He knew by now he was likely the last person left in the house besides you, Harry, and Sirius who were all staying here. Something like hope had sparked in his chest when he saw the faintest ghost of a smile on your lips as you saw him for the first time since graduation. He wanted to talk to you, to tell you he knew he deserved nothing from you, but he would spend the rest of his life trying to make it right if you would only give him a chance after all this time. In truth, he missed his friend. With Lily gone, you were one of the closest things he had to that left.

Against his better judgment, Severus made his way up the stairs, silent as a thestral as he headed for your room, but he stopped in his tracks when he reached the top. Sirius' door was cracked open the slightest bit, and what Snape saw inside made his blood run cold. You were sitting next to Sirius on his bed, your head resting gently on his shoulder. As you craned your neck to look Sirius in the eyes, that's when Severus saw it— the way the Marauder looked at you. The way his face seemed to light up, the spark that returned to his gray eyes, the utter adoration in them.

And just like that, Snape was a seventeen year old boy again, transported right back to that courtyard garden, watching Lily and James share their first kiss on the day he had made one of the biggest mistakes of his life. His heart shattered silently, though his departure was not so quiet as he took off down the stairs as quickly as he could. He grimaced at his own feelings, ones he knew he had no business owning.

As he was about to open the front door to leave, his instincts suddenly screamed at him to turn around, and he was just barely able to cast an invisibility charm as you began to come down the stairs. He held his breath as he looked at you. He knew he had no right to think so, but you were still beautiful like this; dressed in pajamas, hair disheveled, eyes still sightly puffy and red. He saw you look around, knowing you had no doubt heard his rather noisy descent of the staircase, and he cursed himself for not leaving sooner. Your eyes searched what should have appeared to be the empty space in front of you, but he saw you look him in the eyes, and he knew that you knew.

“Severus?” you called his name out softly, and the sound felt like a strike to his face.

He wanted nothing more than to say something to you, talk to you, hold you. But his mind flashed back to the way you had been with Sirius, and his words died in his throat. He said nothing, trying to remain unphased at your hurt expression as you turned around to walk back up the stairs. As soon as your back was turned to him, he left, unable to bring himself to do anything more.

Once again, he was too late.

Read chapter 8 here!

Taglist: @sleep-i-ness, @blackpinkdolan, @parker-natasha, @ornella0910 @undertaker1827 @thatwierdo-koemi @nxstalgicnxbxdy @calaryssia @aleksanderwh0r3 @juggysgirlfriend @beautifulsweetschaos @kattirin @mialupin1 @crazy-obsessed-fangirl, @youcantbesirius

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alrightberries · 4 years ago

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three weeks

❈ pairing: Levi Ackerman x Reader

❈ genre: angst. ❈ word count: 1.9k

❈ summary: “It’s been three weeks, and Levi still lies to himself when he says he’s okay.”

❈ trigger warnings: profanity. mentions of violence, death and gore. explicit description of panic/anxiety attack.

a/n: i’m not sure what... this is since i just randomly started typing it but hopefully y’all still like it.

He could still feel you.

Feel your presence in his room; in his hollow heart. With every shallow breath he took he swore he could still feel your warm palm on his skin, gently patting his shaking shoulders.

The clothes you'd left behind were still in his closet. The little notes you'd scribbled to him on random days still compiled. The letters you wrote sit heavy in a wooden box inside his bedside drawer.

He once complained that they created clutter in his room when you started slowly moving your things into his private quarters. It started off with clothes left on his unmade bed and eventually ended with you bringing your hygiene products to his personal bathroom. Slowly but surely, you moved in. Slowly but surely, you cemented a place in his life where you'd already cemented a place in his heart.

But now glancing at your shared bed, half empty, he simply couldn't find it in himself to do anything about your ‘clutter.’ It was, after all, all he had left of you.

The pillows on your side of the bed still smelled like you. The cotton where you slept countless nights before had a slight depression, an imprint of your body on the mattress. Faintly, if Levi closes his eyes, he swears he could still feel your fingertips running through his scalp as you peppered sweet little kisses onto his calloused skin.

His own fingers reach out and grasps at air where your beautiful face should be, sleeping peacefully next to him. Snoring. Twitching your eyes when you had nightmares. Him gently shaking you awake and holding you close to reassure you that everything was okay, whatever you dreamt of wasn't real, and he'll be here to make the darkness go away.

Yet his own darkness starts to eat at his conscience. He curses at his hands for even having the audacity to reach for you when it was these same hands that signed your death certificate earlier in the day.

Three weeks.

That’s how long it's been since he woke up next to you. Since he bid you good luck before breaking into formation as you crossed the walls and rode your horses through titan country.

It’s been three weeks since you were separated from your squadron. Since they came back from the expedition and he'd only noticed you weren't there when they finally reached the walls. Since he searched through countless corpses and severed bodies, trying to find your own.

It’s been three weeks since he's pushed off on signing the "M.I.A. - PRESUMED DEAD" document with your name and information printed at the top before he was forced to come to terms with your fate when the second search party once again came back empty handed.

It’s been three weeks since he last cracked a smile. Since he lost the last reason he had to strive forward. Since he lost the last reason to hope for a better place; a better future; a small home in the suburbs to live out the rest of his life with you.

It’s been three weeks since he last heard your voice. Since he rested his cheek against the palm of your hand. Since he first picked up a bottle of bourbon and let the alcohol numb his distressed mind and aching heart to the reality that you were gone.

Three weeks. It’s been three weeks, and Levi still lies to himself when he says he’s okay.

A breeze passes through the open window, snapping him from his thoughts. Goosebumps form on his skin but he couldn’t bring himself to get underneath the sheets or close the window because he tells himself that the breeze was you. It was you, checking up on him, scolding him for drowning his sorrows in bottles of brewed brown, wiping away the tears he didn’t even know he’d shed as the pain of loss and mourning— the very things he’d been trying to outrun— hit him all at once.

He closes his eyes to stop more tears from falling. But he knew he was really doing it because he found darkness more comforting than having to look at your shared room. Not when you weren’t there to make the darkness go away when he opened his eyes. Not when every little thing reminded him of you.

The chair in the corner where you always sat, reading under the dim glow of candlelight. The shelves full of books, an impressive collection you’d both amassed throughout the years. Even the porcelain cup that sat on his bedisde table reminded him of you. It was a gift you’d given him when you were both still in the Underground. A cup matching his own sat on your bedside table, that much he already knew without having to open his eyes. He brewed you a cup of tea hours before going on the expedition that would seal your fate.

His skin tingles when he remembers the way you held his hand as you both sipped tea on that day. You were sat next to each other on the bed. He was reading the newspaper and you were reading a book, intertwined hands resting in the space between your bodies.

A new wave of tears threaten his eyes and he hears himself sob before he realizes the tears have fallen again. His hands clutch at his hair, pulling at the strands, and he lays on his side to curl up into a ball as he wills himself to stop, be quiet, and stop being so weak.

His heart began to speed up and his ears began to ring. He couldn’t focus. It was so noisy— everything was too much. The was talking. So much talking.

shut up. be quiet. leave me the fuck alone.

Levi realizes that the talking was his own conscience degrading him, and he wonders if he’s finally snapped. He heaves and gasps for air, trying to get his mind to shut up, but it only serves for the noise to get worse and suddenly the ringing in his ears turns into static. His heart begins to thump louder, and he’s accutely aware that he was having a panic attack.

Pathetic mewls leave his lips and his hands reach out to your side of the bed out of habit, just as he’s done plenty of times before. Only this time he doesn’t feel your fingers gently grasp at his shaking wrists to pull him to your chest, to hold him and whisper sweet nothings into his ears to calm him down. Instead, he grasps at white fabric, and he lets out a frustrated growl when he once again feels air where you should be.

Unfair. It was unfair.

It was unfair how you were taken away from him so easily. How he hadn’t even noticed until it was too late. How he didn’t have a body to mourn, knowing you were either rotting away in a forest or disfigured in some titan’s belly.

Levi cracks open his eyes and his gaze lands on splotches of wetness on his pillow, the marks of his sorrowful tears. He sniffles, telling himself there was no need to be so pathetic when soldiers died everyday. He repeats it to himself like a mantra.

But then, he thinks, you weren’t just any other soldier. You were y/n— his y/n. The owner of his heart. The love of his life. The one who kisses his forehead good morning and good night. Who held his hands underneath the table before giving him a knowing glance, like you were sharing a secret that only you two knew of. Who would slip little notes into his pockets when you thought he wasn’t looking. Who sat with him in silence and calmed him down when emotions got the better of him. Who held him close and tight on nights like this, when the crushing reality of pain and loss finally broke him. And the sickening irony of needing you the most because he was mourning your death almost made him want to laugh.

He doesn’t know how long he stayed there. Unmoving. Curled up into a ball on your side of the bed, nose digging into the sheets to find comfort in the remnants of your scent as he hugged himself to slowly calm himself down.

Suddenly, he hears the door to his office burst open and rapid footsteps approaching his room. The wood slams against the wall, and his reddened eyes meet the wide and panicked ones of a soldier he’s seen in passing. She’s breathing heavily like she ran a mile to get there, sweat dripping down her forehead as she frantically looks around in search of the captain before finally landing on the man in question.

“Captain Levi, we—“ She’s cut off when he heaves a loud sigh, slowly sitting up and rubbing his red puffy face.

“Has there been a breach?” He asks. His voice is hoarse, she notices. The tone is calm but his eyes are angered, clearly not amused to be interrupted when he was mourning, and the soldier visibly gulps as she replies.

“N-no, Captain.”

“Are there titans anywhere in the walls?”

“No, but sir we—“

“Has anyone died in the few hours that have passed since dinner? Choked on their own spit, perhaps?”

“Well, no. But—“

“Then why the hell are you here?”

“Captain I was—“

A thought crosses his mind and he clicks his tongue in irritation. “Tch, did shitty glasses send you?”

“...yes but—“

“Tell four-eyes to stop sending people to check up on me.” He murmurs, beginning to lie down. “I’m allowed some goddamn privacy the night before my fiance’s funeral.”

“Yes but, sir, that’s actually why I’m here.”

“Whatever motivational words you have to say, save it for someone who cares.” He pulls the sheets above his head. “I’ve had enough pity-filled glances and half assed condolences thrown my way to give a damn—“

“Captain Levi, Y/N is alive!”

The soldier doesn’t know what’s happening until her back is abruptly slammed into the wall behind her and pain shoots from her spine to the back of her head. Hands are tightly wrapped around her throat in an ironclad grip, and her feet are dangling from the ground. She gulps.

The captain’s face is mere centimeters away from hers. If she thought he looked angry before, then the scowl he gave her now made it look like he was smiling just moments ago.

“What kind of sick joke do you think you’re playing, huh?” He sneers. “You think it’s funny to make fun of someone’s death?”

She tries to reply but only choked sounds escape her lips as her fingernails claw at her captor’s hands. Tears blur her vision as the Captain tightens his grip, but the way his eyes almost glowed a bright red— the clear intent to murder if she so much as breathed out of line— didn’t go unnoticed to her.

“Do you get some fucked up kick out of this?” He asks again. “You get a kick making fun of a man who’s lost everything?”

He loosens his grip the slightest, and the soldier is momentarily releived when she realizes she could finally speak.

“N-no, sir, I—“

“Levi, let her go!” Another frantic voice pleads with him from behind. “She’s telling the truth.”

Wait, what?

“What?” He chokes out. His grip loosens on the soldier and she slides to the ground in relief, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Hange cautiously walks closer, almost scared that any sudden movements would put Levi in a state of shock. They slowly, warily place a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“It’s true, Levi. Y/N is alive.” The Section Commander murmurs. “Your Y/N is alive. They’re looking for you.”

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#writing #aot x reader #attack on titan x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #snk x reader #shingeki no kyojin x reader #aot imagine #attack on titan imagine #levi ackerman imagine #levi imagine #snk imagine #shingeki no kyojin imagine

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lambden · 3 years ago

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What better way to break in a new blog than by immediately posting fic? In honour of Nightmare of the Wolf, here’s some Vesemir and Filavandrel!

(read on AO3)

M, 2.9K words, no warnings, Vesemir recognizes Jaskier’s lute when he arrives at Kaer Morhen

Vesemir has been expecting this day for decades. It’s rare for witchers to meet a trusted companion out on the Path, and even rarer to find one who wishes to travel alongside them. But the reputation of witchers has changed in recent years, for better or worse. Their focus is no longer on maintaining the traditional practices of their schools, but on protection— of other witchers, and of helpless commoners. Perhaps the humans can sense that change.

More curiously, the folklore surrounding witchers has changed. Vesemir very badly wants to meet the man who has done so much to change the narrative, but years pass and all Geralt brings home every winter are stories. The younger witchers entertain (and tease) him but no one ever asks where the bard goes during the cold months that Geralt spends at Kaer Morhen. Perhaps even Geralt doesn’t know.

Finally, after hundreds of stories of Geralt-and-Dandelion, Vesemir receives a letter one autumn before he himself has even considered the journey home. His chest warms as he reads Geralt’s careful penmanship, noting how the ink blots at the start of each new sentence. The paper and wax are fine, suggesting that Jaskier used his academic connections to perhaps land Geralt a few contracts near Oxenfurt. Geralt’s lettering may be nearly flawless but his message is stilted, reminding Vesemir of when his pups were nervous children. Does Jaskier really make him act this awkward? Their relationship must be serious, then.

I am hoping you will welcome my guest with open arms, or I fear he may freeze over the coming months. Vesemir looks for a signature but there is none, save a very fancy G at the bottom. No returning address has been provided either, and while he could easily pen a missive to Oxenfurt, it’s probably best not to respond. Each day Nilfgaard only grows stronger, and crueler. Perhaps Jaskier has been caught up in their hunger for power. Vesemir folds the letter up and hides it in his saddlebag.

When the frost begins creeping in, the oldest Wolf begins his trek up the mountain. He’s almost always the first one to arrive; Coën had beaten him to it once and apologized for weeks, and Vesemir would do anything to avoid that again. And if he makes an effort to arrive early this year so that he can make the Keep look as important as it is, well… nobody needs to know.

It takes a week and a half before Geralt arrives, Jaskier in tow. Vesemir spends the time flushing out a bat infestation and dealing with the most perishable of his spoils from the past year. The White Wolf seems to bring the cold with him most years but Vesemir, cognizant of Jaskier’s inferior body, made sure to set out enough furs in advance. As soon as he hears Roach’s hooves approaching he starts a roaring fire, and when the inner doors of Kaer Morhen burst open, Vesemir is ready to make a great first impression.

Upon seeing him, Geralt smiles right away, crossing the room to greet him. Vesemir looks him over; no obvious new scars, no missing body parts. Must have been an uneventful year, but… Geralt is here, safe and alive, so Vesemir allows himself some private, selfish, unwitcherly joy. It’s the sort of thing Deglan would have lectured him for. He finds he doesn’t care.

“I got your letter,” he tells Geralt, who nods solemnly. “I thought it best not to reply. Is Nilfgaard on your trail?”

“Our trail,” Geralt sighs, stepping aside so that Vesemir can meet his companion. “Vesemir, this is Jaskier.”

The bard, dwarfed by a large fur coat, moves forward so that Vesemir can properly scrutinize him. He certainly doesn’t look his age, but Vesemir knows he’s travelled as far as any witcher has gone, and seen sights no human should really have witnessed. “Oh, I’ve heard plenty about you, Jaskier. I was wondering when Geralt was finally going to bring you along for the winter!” That makes Jaskier perk up, and Vesemir chuckles. “I promise that no harm will come to you here.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier says. “Geralt doesn’t like sharing much about the other witchers, but I’m sure you must have a wealth of stories for me to hear!” Sure enough, Geralt frowns. “And I don’t know how much help I’ll be with hunting or gathering, but I would be happy to regale you on the coldest nights—”

And before Vesemir can read into that unfortunate phrasing, Jaskier shrugs off his fur coat to produce a lute. He must have been wearing it strapped around his front on the journey through the mountains, not wanting to condemn such a fine instrument to being jostled around in Roach’s saddlebags. Vesemir squints at the red-brown wood and the golden details under the strings. They almost look like a particular elven design.

Oh. Vesemir’s realization nearly bowls him over. Geralt and Jaskier stare at him, respectively concerned and curious, but Vesemir can’t take his eyes off the lute. “My apologies, I… I forgot something in my chamber. Make yourselves at home, and… I’ll leave you to it.” He leaves without any further explanation, hastening to his quarters and abandoning the pair of them to their own devices. He can still feel their gazes drilling into his back but he suddenly feels weaker than usual.

---

“I heard there was a witcher skulking around this forest,” the spy says. Vesemir is almost relieved to hear them speak; he’s been glancing over his shoulder for nearly an hour now to try and reveal an invisible pursuer. He should’ve known he was right. Just because the spy doesn’t lumber like a human or reek of magic like a monster doesn’t mean he won’t be in trouble.

He stops in the middle of the path, still facing forward. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that the second he turns, a very unfriendly knife is going to introduce itself to his ribcage. Or perhaps an arrow, although he hasn’t heard the sound of anything and he’s been listening very closely.

His pursuer approaches. Fuck, they’re light on their feet. If Vesemir was just an average bandit, he’d be done for. He braces himself for an attack, balling his hands up into fists at his sides. The stranger continues, tone still pleasant enough, “Why not stay in town? A warm bed must beat trudging through mud in the early hours of the morning trying to find ground. I’ll give you some advice, witcher; there’s no dry ground. You’re heading towards a swamp.”

“They wouldn’t let me stay in town,” Vesemir admits, already grumpy. He whirls around and sees the stranger; a lean man, just slightly shorter than him. The long hood of their cloak casts a dark shadow over their face, blocking them from view. “If you’re here to rob me, I hate to disappoint, but you’ve followed me all this way for nothing.”

He holds up his empty coinpurse; not to prove himself, just to complain. The stranger titters, a lovely, high-pitched sound like glass clinking against glass, like chimes. Like birdsong. Vesemir’s eyes narrow. “That’s a shame,” they say. “You do love coin.”

There’s something disturbingly familiar about the words. Vesemir decides to gamble with his own life, stalking forward until he’s face to face with the stranger. Up close, his scent is even stronger. Frowning, Vesemir is about to reveal the man’s identity when he does it himself, pushing his hood back. His hair is tied up in complex braids unlike any Vesemir has ever seen, only a few loose strands hanging down over his forehead. But it would take more than a lifetime for Vesemir to forget that face.

“Fil,” he declares, delighted, and doesn’t think twice before crashing into the elf. Filavandrel laughs again and though it makes Vesemir feel a little silly, the sound still fills his heart with joy. He embraces his friend tightly, clinging to him for so long that both their boots sink down into the flooded dark soil of the forest. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s like I told you.” The elf pats the back of Vesemir’s neck, unwittingly sending a shiver down his spine. Vesemir’s grip tightens. “My scouts said I might find a witcher lost in the woods.”

“I’m not lost,” Vesemir grunts, finally pulling away. “I just… don’t know where I’m going.”

“Come to my camp,” suggests Filavandrel. As if he even had to ask.

Unsurprisingly, elves make their camps much differently than witchers do. When they arrive Vesemir doesn’t immediately see any sort of bedroll, and then he feels embarrassed for looking. He never feels this way around anyone else; he can make bawdy jokes with Sven or blatantly hit on Luka, but in the company of Filavandrel aén Fidháil, shame bursts through him so easily.

Maybe he just has a thing for pretty blondes who he leaves behind.

Except Fil is here, smiling indulgently as Vesemir gapes like a fool. “It’s nice,” he finally manages to say. “Want me to set a fire?”

“A campfire, sure. Not a big one,” Filavandrel teases. Swallowing, Vesemir turns to a firepit that the elf must have fashioned himself. He takes a bundle of wood that’s already been cut and easily ignites it, all the while trying to figure out why his heart is pounding so damn loud. Thank fuck that Filavandrel isn’t a witcher.

“Have you eaten?”

“No. You?”

“I was going to have some bread, and go hunting in the morning.” There’s a small noise and when Vesemir turns to look, his friend is holding out a large chunk of bread. It doesn’t even look that stale. Vesemir sees that Filavandrel has taken a much smaller piece for himself and growls about it, but the elf snatches the smaller piece away before Vesemir can lunge for it. “I don’t want to hear any self-sacrificial bullshit about how witchers don’t need to eat. Take the damn bread, Ves.”

“... Fine,” Vesemir relents, cowed. He accepts the bread, fingertips accidentally brushing over Filavandrel’s when he takes it. It’s fucking delicious, melting in his mouth almost instantly. Seeds and herbs have been baked into it too, and Vesemir savours every bite, moaning. “You should quit being a professional elf and start a new life as a baker, fuck.”

“I can do both. It’s an old recipe, needs a stone oven. And what does being a professional elf even mean?” Filavandrel reaches up to shove him, except they aren’t very far away from each other so the push nearly knocks Vesemir off his balance. Before he can tip over onto the grass Filavandrel grabs him by the collar of his gambeson and tugs him back, and, well. Vesemir may be a witcher, but parts of him are still human.

Neither of them has to say a word; he opens for Filavandrel like he’s been thinking of nothing but this since the second they laid eyes on each other. Honestly, he sort of has. Fil runs a hand over the shaved part of his head, pressing his palm against the back of his neck to pull him in closer. Vesemir moans, chasing the taste of something sweet and acidic and magic. It certainly isn’t the fucking bread.

Afterwards they lie together by the smoldering remains of the fire, both too spent to clean themselves or dress. Vesemir glances over at the cinders and thinks about making an exit soon. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to stay with Filavandrel. He’s comfortable here, especially right now, and his friend always makes his heart feel lighter. But the Path calls to him; lying here without his weapons or armour, Vesemir can nearly hear Deglan’s scolding. And that thought is enough to ruin anyone’s afterglow.

Before he can move, Filavandrel sits up, arching his back. Vesemir turns to watch him, nearly salivating at how he looks in the low firelight. His hair is radiant, and his skin isn’t nearly flushed enough. He’s beautiful. Ethereal. Selfishly, Vesemir wishes that he’d left more marks.

Fil climbs to his feet and crosses the campsite to retrieve something out of reach. Vesemir cranes his neck to try and peek, and Filavandrel laughs kindly at him. “I was just thinking that something’s missing.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Vesemir says, lowering his head back down onto the ground. “I should have kissed you more.”

The elf pauses at that before finally demanding, “Kiss me later.” A note resounds through the air, clear and beautiful; then a chord, and another. Very soon their little clearing feels more like a fairy circle than a campground as Filavandrel plays music.

He finally walks into view, still naked, still beautiful. Now holding a lute. Vesemir tries to sit up so that he can properly see the performance but Filavandrel is faster, moving over him and then sitting atop his stomach, resting his back against Vesemir’s thighs. He plays the entire time, fingers moving adeptly over the instrument.

It’s a beautiful lute, probably made of some holy dark red wood. The golden design etched into it is mesmerizing, and the strings could have been plucked from the mane of a unicorn. Vesemir hardly spares it any attention, too wrapped up in the sight of a naked Filavandrel straddling him and singing.

He’ll only realize decades later that the elf was probably trying to court him.

Someone knocks on the door to his chambers and Vesemir jumps to his feet, caught off-guard by the sound that plucked him from his memories. He finds Jaskier waiting outside his room, toying idly with the sleeves of his doublet. Vesemir shakes his head, holding the door open for Jaskier even as he apologizes. “I’m sorry for running out earlier. I meant to give you a tour of the Keep, hopefully Geralt will have stepped up in my absence, but I am sorry—”

“No— please,” Jaskier interrupts. Once more he pulls his lute from around himself, holding it out to Vesemir. “I just… Your countenance changed dramatically upon seeing this, so…”

Fuck. “Yes,” Vesemir sighs, staring at the lute. Jaskier has managed to keep it in good condition after all this time. “I… Filavandrel and I are old friends.”

The bard’s eyes bulge out of his head but he enters Vesemir’s chambers, heading straight to the desk to perch on the edge of the chair. Vesemir finds another chair for himself, moving its previous occupant— a stack of books— onto the floor. In his defence, he hadn’t expected the tour of Kaer Morhen to begin in his personal chambers.

“He didn’t mention knowing any other witchers,” Jaskier hums. “How did you meet him?”

“You’re sure you want to know? It’s sort of a long story.” The bard just nods, eager and polite. Instantly Vesemir can see why Geralt likes him. “Alright,” he obliges, reaching for the bottle of wine on the desk. They’re going to need it. “We met long before you would have been born…”

---

South of Kaedwen, the seasons are more aligned than any other part of the Continent. The winters are crisp, the summers lazy. Filavandrel likes to spend his summers here, where the canopy of trees is thick enough to provide shade but thin enough to provide colour. Everything is verdant, the flowers calling to him as he passes each one. When he was a child he had longed to visit towns and experience human delights like festivals but now he knows better. The elves live off the land well enough anyway.

Some of the younger people in his company these days have that same yearning, and some of them even manage it. One elf who resembles Toruviel always runs off to see some different show, take in some new performance. If Filavandrel thought that she could get away with it, he would pay for her to attend Oxenfurt— she’s very good. And the upside of her risking her life just to listen to music is that she’s got a very good memory, and she always brings the songs back home.

Today she’s singing some new ode to a witcher; not that bigoted anthem of lies that the bastard warbler from Posada somehow spread through the Continent, thank the Gods. This one seems to revolve more around making the right choice, and how a real hero does good deeds not for coin or his own profit, but just to be good. Filavandrel thinks about the few witchers that he’s had the misfortune of contacting over the years, and under his breath he scoffs.

Cheesy chorus aside, the lyrics seem to have some merit. The first verse is all about some terrible monster that was taking young girls, transforming them into half-beasts. The hero witcher’s judgement fails him and he blames himself for years, even losing a lover in the process. Filavandrel scowls; despite his own experiences with witches, he doesn’t want to listen to a song written by yet another prejudiced bard.

Then the third verse lands. The witcher grows old and wise and has children of his own, and he regrets his inaction and he tries to reach out to contact his lover. But at that point his lover, who devoted his life to protecting those in danger, was too busy being King of the Silver Towers. Filavandrel stops dead in his tracks as he realizes which witcher this must have been inspired by.

The elven king huffs, starting to compose a route in his head. He thinks a trip up north is long overdue.

#vesemir #filavandrel #nightmare of the wolf #the witcher nightmare of the wolf #geraskier fic #my writing #hey did anyone else see young vesemir talking to his friend fil in the bath and think we were gonna get a Bath Scene Part Two: The Remix?

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colormeyondublue · 4 years ago

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Yondu & The Secretary Chapter 2: The Love Bug

Chapter 1 Here Chapter 3 Here A few months go by aboard the ravager ship. You find out that Yondu is the Captain, and Kraglin, the Xandarian, is his first mate. The ship is called the Eclector, and some of the guys on board are total pigs. Yondu sets up a small office space for you to work out of and you find that the work is surprisingly simple. You get into a routine and start to really settle in. You also come to find that Yondu is particularly kind; to you. To the crew, he could be a total ass. Your slight attraction to the Captain was only a thought when you first met him on Krylor, but every day it kept growing and growing with how sweet he was. Maybe it was because you were a woman? Maybe it was because you were Terran? You couldn’t be sure. This might become a problem.

One evening, your office door creaks open loudly, and you hear heavy boots thunking into the room. Yondu. You smirk softly at the thought. “So, you goin’ to Geff’s little get together?” The Captain’s voice came from behind you as you finished up the data entry from the crew’s last heist. It was Geff’s birthday. The boys decided to throw him a little party at the bar on the ship. “Me? Heh, no…probably not.” You hadn’t looked at him yet, but something caught your senses. Something, different. Something…intoxicating. Was Yondu wearing cologne? Whatever it was, it was messing with your head. It smelled like the forest back home – right after the rain, blended with tones of spices and notes of musk. “Well, why the hell not?” He seemed a little surprised. Hurt, maybe? You spun around on your desk chair to face him, “Hmm…. let me put it to you this way: I am not about to be the only female on the ship in a room full of drunk Ravagers. I already get harassed and catcalled on a daily basis, Yondu! Why on Earth would I want to put myself in a situation like that?” “You Terrans sure do use the strangest expressions. We ain’t on Earth…uh….Terra I mean.” He said with a chuckle. The small chuckle at his own words made you giggle too. “Well, regardless, I just don’t think it would be very wise of me to put myself in a bad spot, that’s all.” “Well I’ll be there. I can make sure no one bothers you too much. Then would you go?” “I don’t know Yondu…I mean Geff is great and all but –“ You were cut off by loud laughter and heavy footsteps of several ravagers going past your office door. A lot of the boys were already headed to the bar to get the party started. “ – but I don’t want to be a bother. Besides, if you show even the slightest bit of protective behavior around me, couldn’t that start rumors? Wouldn’t they think it was odd? Some of these guys really talk…”

Yondu scoffed with a slight wave of his hand. “Who cares what these idiots think. I’m the Captain, and I can protect whoever the hell I feel like. Besides, how am I supposed to keep my shit in order without my assistant who helps with our operations? The boys will probably understand that their payouts could get disrupted if they mess with our lil’ secretary, right? Everybody knows you don’t mess with a Ravager’s units.” He finished with a wink. That wink…that smirk…his scent…oh no. Your head starts to feel fuzzy. Your sternum is growing tight, and butterflies explode by the thousands in your stomach. You feel like your arms are floating. You start to notice that your head seems to be wobbling a little bit and you find yourself staring at his lips. Stop being stupid! Say something! Get a grip! His smile starts to falter after a moment or two. “Uhh…you alright?”

Your clear your throat a little louder than you wanted to, and manage to say with a shaky voice, “Uhh, yeah, no, yeah…I’m – I’m fine. I guess I’m just a little tired is all. But, fine. I’ll go, but only for a few drinks. I’m not staying out all night! I have more things I want to get updated in the system before you and Kraglin start gathering intel on your next mission.” “Fine, fine. Just a few drinks.” He motions with both his hands in the air. It did not turn out, however, to be just a few drinks. It started out that way, but the more you drank, the more you wanted to be close to him. The alcohol was making you feel a little too confident. The captain was drinking too, of course, but Centaurians have to drink quite a bit before they really start to feel anything. He was on his fifth glass of whiskey for the night, and you were on your third. You were definitely tipsy, but not terribly drunk. The scent coming off him just kept smelling better and better, your senses were stirred, and you wanted to dive into him. You are sitting next to each other on the couch in the lounge that was connected to the bar. You both listen to stories and jokes being told by Tullk, Oblo, and Kraglin. Laugher is plentiful, and you couldn’t be happier. Then, you feel your Captain move next to you as he throws his arm over the back of the couch behind you. The shift in the cushions causes you to inadvertently lean closer to him. Your cheeks turn bright pink and your heart starts pounding. You sit up straight, put your drink down on the table and politely excuse yourself. The others were too drunk to notice, or care, but Yondu notices. After a moment or two he gets up and follows you to the bar. You hastily get yourself a tall glass of water, and chug it down. “What was that about back there? You alright?” He asked. “Feelin’ sick?” “No, no I’m fine. I just think it’s time I headed back to my cabin. I need to get some sleep. I have an early start tomorrow.” You said as you put your glass down on the bar. Yondu eyes you suspiciously, but doesn’t press the matter. “Can I at least walk you back? These boy’s is pretty drunk. I don’t want you to run into any trouble.” “Yeah, I guess that would be alright.” You fiddle with the empty glass on the bar in front of you. What am I even doing? Do I really have feelings for him? Is this seriously happening? What the hell am I supposed to do?! Your job on the ship is simple: free up the first mate’s time by entering new recruit information, keep transmission logs up to date, work up data sheets for new missions, and keep an updated archive on clients, easy heist planets, kree intel, etc… That was it! Nowhere in your job description are you supposed to fall for your Captain, your boss! “Well…should we be headin’ out?” Yondu’s voice broke you out of your thoughts. You looked over at him, his eyes were touched with slight concern, confusion maybe. “Captain, I….” You began, but the words just stopped coming out. You close your mouth and shake your head. “Never mind, I’m ready. Let’s go.” You both walk slowly back your cabin. Yondu is silent, as are you. The only sound to be heard is both yours and Yondu’s boots clunking down the walkways of the Eclector. When you approach your door, you hesitate.

“Goodnight Captain, thank you for walking me back. I appreciate it…and thank you for having my back tonight. I was able to actually relax and have a nice time.” You begin to open your door and walk in when you feel a large, warm hand on your shoulder. You turn to look at his hand, and your eyes trail up his arm to his shoulder, and then to his face. You both lock eyes, and your heart stops. “Why do you keep callin’ me that? Captain. You haven’t really called me that much since you boarded for the first time a few months back.” “I – I’m sorry. I just…you’re the Captain.” He took his hand from your shoulder, “Yeah, I know that. But it just feels wrong somehow. You typically call me by my name when we ain’t around the crew.” You couldn’t help but smile a little. “Alright, Yondu.” You said with a slight chuckle. “Is that better?” “Yeah. I like it when you call me by my name.” A small tinge of purple comes to his cheeks. “But don’t go tellin’ anybody that! You still gotta’ call me Captain or Sir around the crew.” “Hahaha, of course. I promise I won’t tell a soul. Cross my heart.” You used your index finger to draw an X over your chest. “I swear, you Terrans are odd…I don’t even know what that means.” You giggle again, “It means I’m serious. As serious as I can be. I won’t tell anyone. You have a reputation and status to maintain with your crew, and I completely understand that.” You turn and step into your cabin. Looking over your shoulder you smile a small, bashful smile at him. “Goodnight, Yondu.” With that, you closed your door. Yondu stood at the closed door and quietly said, “Goodnight, Darlin’.” He continued to stand there, frozen in place. What the hell was that? Why do I feel funny? My heart is pounding, my head is reeling. I care about what she calls me? Since when? Darlin’? When have I ever called anyone that? He shook his head to free himself of where he stood, and walked back to his quarters. You laid in your bed that night, unable to sleep. A big, stupid grin would not leave your lips no matter how hard you tried to get rid of it. Oh. My. Gosh. I cannot believe this. I can’t believe how hard this hit me. He’s so unbelievably handsome. His scent was so intoxicating. I didn’t know he wore cologne? And that smile?! Who knew blue could look so damn good. You giggled out loud to yourself. “I have a crush on the Captain. I have a huge freakin’ crush on Yondu Udonta. What the hell?!” You continued to giggle to yourself until you heard a group of footsteps going past your door. More ravagers were headed to bed from the party. You quickly covered your mouth as if someone could possibly hear you. Once the footsteps were gone, you continued to smile and giggle like a little girl. “Wow. What on earth and am I going to do? How do I even begin to handle this?” You said to yourself. Your mind raced, and sleep eluded you all night. Meanwhile, the Captain wasn’t sleeping much either. You kept popping up in his head. Every time he would close his eyes, you appeared. It wasn’t until tonight that he realized that you looked incredible in your maroon leathers. He had always thought you were attractive, ever since he and Kraglin decided to hire you when they met you on Krylor. But this was a whole new level of attraction. It made him feel…different. He had never felt this way before, he felt vulnerable. He did not like it one bit! But on the other hand, he did? It was starting to piss him off. He threw the furs and blankets from his body and got out of bed. He picked up a communicator brace from his nightstand and pushed a few buttons. It beeped a few times, and Kraglin’s sleepy voice could be heard. “Yes, sir? Everythin’ alright?” “Boy, get to my quarters. I need to talk to ya. I’m havin’ a problem.” “Right away sir.” Yondu shut the brace off and tossed it back on the table. Within a few minutes there was a knock on the door. Yondu got up and walked to the door, flinging it open. Kraglin rubbed his eye with a fist and yawned. “What’s goin’ on Sir?” “What’s goin’ on is I need to talk to ya. Maybe you’ll know what to do…get in here!” Yondu yanked Kraglin into the room and slammed the door shut. “Siddown.” He muttered as he pushed his desk chair to the first mate. Yondu sat on the bed and fiddled with his hands for a moment. “Sir?” Kraglin asked. “What do you need help with? Somethin’ goin’ on with the crew?” “No, but there is something goin’ on…I’ve been feeling funny all night. Ever since I went with y/n to the bar for Geff’s party, my head has been fuzzy, my chest is tight, my hands are all shaky and I can’t sleep! It’s pissin’ me off! I don’t know what the problem is. I only went with her to make sure the boys didn’t do nothin’ stupid, but now I can’t think straight! Every time I close my damn eyes, I see her!” A smirk appeared on Kraglin’s face, and he started snickering at the Captain. “What?! The hell is so funny?!” Yondu barked. Kraglin’s snickering turned into full blown laughing. He couldn’t help it. Was his Captain so oblivious? “Sir, sir, I’m sorry. You really have no idea what this is?” He asked. “No! If I did, I wouldn’t have woke you up to help me figure it out, damn it!” “Sir, it sounds to me that you got bit.” Kraglin joked. “Bit? Bit by what? Like a bug or somethin’?” “Ohhhh yeah, it’s happened to me before too. It’s a nasty little sucker.” He said with a grin. “Okay, so what do I do? Am I getting’ sick or somethin’?” “Yeah, you’re sick all right. Love sick.” The first mate said with the biggest shit eatin’ grin on his face. “Lovesick? What the hell is that? That ain’t a real thing.” Yondu snorted. “Sure is, Sir. From the sounds of it, you got bit by the love bug. The only way to cure it is to get some lovin’ from the person who sent it after ya.” Kraglin couldn’t believe this was happening to his captain. This was too good. Of course, he wanted to help him out, but he wanted to taunt him first. “What on Earth are you talkin’ about boy?! Just spit it out already!” The Captain shouted. A goofy little smile appeared on his lips as he realized he just used your expression. Damn it, girl. “Alright, alright.” Kraglin said between laughs. “Cap’n, you’re in love. Plain and simple. It sounds to me like you just realized it tonight.” “Love? I don’t love nobody. I ain’t never been in love before. This can’t be right…” Yondu started searching his hands for some kind of alternative answer. “Anyone can fall in love, Cap’n. I know I have. But that was a long time ago, before I joined the crew. It really ain’t a big deal, honest. Tell me, when you think of y/n, what do you feel?” Yondu pondered Kraglin’s words for a few moments. “I feel – happy. Warm? Maybe a little nervous. Unsure of myself, ya know? I wanna touch her, make her smile, make sure she’s safe and happy, hold her hands... kiss her.” The realization hit him like a blazing meteor. “I wanna kiss her? What?! I’ve never cared about that sentimental crap before!” Kraglin just shook his head and looked down at the floor. “Cap’n, love is a strange and mysterious force. It can be exhilarating. Maybe you should investigate and find out if she feels the same way. Could be worth a shot. Who knows? Could lead to somethin’.” Yondu looked confused. “Like what?” “Heh, I don’t know, happiness?” Kraglin shrugged his shoulders and stood. “I hope that helps Sir. I’m gonna head back to bed if you don’t need anything else.” “Yeah, sure, boy. Go on.” “Night, Cap’n.” The first mate headed toward to door, but before he walked out, he heard the Captain’s voice behind him, “Hey Krags, uh, thanks.” “No problem, Sir.” Kraglin walked out of the Captain’s quarters and quietly closed the door. Yondu got back into bed, stared at the ceiling above him and smiled. Love huh? Well, ain’t that some shit.

#gotg fanfiction #fanfic #yondu x reader #Yondu Udonta #kraglin #kraglin obfonteri #gotg #marvel

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foulcrownkryptonite · 3 years ago

Text

Tracing Constellations

A storm rages through the 104th's wooded training quarters, leaving a long hike for Jean and Marco to fix a water-logged issue... the time alone making for some unexpected discoveries.

(for the sake of the fic + levels of maturity I am achieving with this story, everyone will be legal adults!)

Chapter One: An Obscurity.

“I’ll kill them all! Just you wait and see!!” The dining hall had been relatively calm, the tranquil buzz of steady conversation and cutlery clinking against plates mixed to create a pleasant hum. It was one of those rare nights their usual starchy glop was exchanged for a more sustainable, hearty potato soup, paired with a cheap but effective booze. A good night to say the least. A good night until Eren (Dumbass) Jaeger opened his obnoxious mouth. The young man’s tired phrase reverberated throughout the hall, pitching obnoxiously off the high ember ceiling. God, I’m too sober for this…

Eren’s endless prattling of ‘I’ll save the world’ or ‘I have more passion than anyone here’ had gotten old fast. It bugged the ever-loving shit out of him, and with the current daggers-for-eyes and under-the-breath-scoffs Jaeger was getting, the sentiment was well shared.

“Don’t give me that Mikasa, I mean it! I’m going to kill every last one of those-'' Eren was promptly cut off by Jean’s hands smacking the table in front of him, causing a nearby fork to clink to the ground. Jean rose from his seat with an overly dramatic flare, making a show out of swooping his hair back. If the entire dining hall weren’t already watching the pair with dreadful, tired looks, they certainly were now. Some hushed whispers and exasperated groans sprinkled about the room as Jean assumed his stance towering over Eren.

“Well, all hail King Jaeger, eh? Oh don’t worry my friends, the man who can’t balance on his ODM gear will stop the incoming apocalypse!” he taunted, voice oozing with that special kind of ridicule Jean knew got Eren’s blood boiling. He was up and out of his seat before Mikasa had a chance to pull him back. Jean snorted loudly.

“Eager are we? Well then Jaeger, fight me like the man you’re always claiming to be.”

“Says the fucking horse face”

“Oh how original”

“Foal!”

“Jackass!”

The surrounding cadets watched with jaded faces, sighing at the scene unfolding for at least the third time that week. It was no longer entertaining, or really worth wasting any time or energy on, so they returned their attention to their much more exciting dinners and side banters.

The ever arrogant duo stepped to the center of the room, assuming, of course, all focus to be on them. Sharing dissent and ill-bred sneers, they theatrically assumed their fighting position. Guess I’ll just have to put him back in his pla-

“Nope. Okay-hah, we’re done here.” Marco interrupted, their foolish behavior striking his last nerve, the last nerve of the entire collective dining hall for that matter. Sighs of relief and annoyance sounded around them as Marco marched over and grabbed at Jean’s jacket, pulling him out from the table and towards the door.

“‘Ey, what’re you doin-” Marco wordlessly dragged the half pissed, half confused and positively tipsy Jean across the room, the grip on his jacket unwavering. A small chuckle escaped Jean’s mouth at Marco's unexpectedly forceful behavior. Damn, those muscles aren’t just for show, huh?

Marco sighed as he led him towards the door, a poorly concealed smile creeping its way onto his features. “Bedtime.” Marco concluded, biting back his smile in need of a more threatening look. Jean didn’t fight it. Instead, he bristled as he caught Conny’s snide face before the door to the dining hall was shut by Marco’s boot. The low lit lantern illuminated the two in a soft orange glow and the thick wooden door effectively drowned out the murmurs coming from behind it.

The change in air was drastic, shifting from a crowded and loud mess hall to the peaceful sounds of an autumn night and Marco’s freckled face incandescent under that old lantern. Marco’s hand remained firm in the layers of his jacket yet neither made motions to move. Jean was in a weird sort of trance and yeah he should move and unblock the way for Marco but for some reason he didn't. It wasn’t as if the other had really given him a chance to, what with him still holding onto the front of Jean’s coat.. A couple still moments passed and Marco had a strange, almost calculating look on his face.

Jean couldn't remember how long he had been standing there, the alcohol starting to intoxicate his body and the sheer closeness of Marco starting to intoxicate his brain. But if the loosening grip on his chest and Marco’s suddenly flushing face said anything, whatever this was had gone on a bit too long. The last thing Jean wanted was to make his good friend uncomfortable- No matter how nice just standing there in the cool breeze with Marco’s hand on his chest… Nope. Backtrack on that line of thinking. Immediately.

Things were getting awkward fast and Marco looked like he was going to say something and shit he probably shouldn’t have chugged that last bit of his drink, huh? To clear the sudden tension caused by his inability not to fucking gawk at Marco, Jean did the only thing his dumb tipsy brain could think of: make a drunken escape.

“Betcha can’t catch me.” he blurted before breaking out of Marco’s loose hold, running towards their quarters in a less than put together fashion. Was Jean literally running away from whatever moment just passed between the two? Why yes, indeed he was. But Marco’s eventual breathy laugh and quickening footsteps enclosing in on him told Jean everything was fine. Well consider that a job well done.

The two then stupidly ran around the camp, Jean hiding behind every tree and supply wagon trying to scare Marco, and Marco doing everything in his power to tackle the other. After a particularly bone crushing embrace and a loud laughing fit quickly admonished by Shadis, the inebriated pair walked the rest of the way to their dorm, the air around them now whimsy and casual.

They trudged through the wooded path, torches lighting the ground every few yards. They sprung into sporadic fits of giggles over absolutely nothing, both of the men now feeling the full effects of dinner’ mead, and Marco no longer playing the role of the responsible sober friend.

The cadets had been training in the woods for a week now, the goal being to get them used to ODM gear and combat in a dense forest. It was a welcome change of scenery from the usual parching desert and brutal heat. Being surrounded by rich greens and active rivers somehow made the strenuous drilling and long hours somewhat enjoyable.

Though navigating the dark forested path whilst drunk proved to be more than a little difficult. His attempts at walking straight in the dense woods were apparently remarkably entertaining, as when Jean confidently waltzed straight into a tree the slightly less drunk Marco lost his absolute mind, laughing himself into a puddle on the ground.

With minimal bumps and bruises, they eventually made it to their quarters. Marco plopped himself dramatically onto an old shipping barrel and started to squirm his way out of his jacket. Ok, perhaps the other was drunker than Jean thought.

Chuckling to himself, he walked over to help his struggling friend out of the confines of the fabric. Marco stopped squirming and tried to accommodate for Jeans helping hands, flushing slightly when his eyes met Jeans. He quickly averted his gaze, turning to eye the door as Jean finished struggling with the last button.

With the jacket discarded, Marco straightened his gaze to look up at Jean, who seemed to tower over him. A couple heated seconds passed in silence until Marco started… shaking? Before concern could settle in, sporadic chuckles started to escape from the man underneath him, evolving into a full on belly laugh. Jean took a small step back and looked down at him in bewilderment but Marco just shook his head, words be damned in his current state.

“Sorry, I just-” he began to topple over himself, a fit of laughter bubbling in his stomach. “I don’t know why I’m laughing honestly-” he spat out through giggles. He was fluctuating between attempting to catch his breath and then losing it all over again. It was utterly ridiculous, but Jean couldn’t hold back his own ugly laugh at the scene. Every couple of seconds Marco would try to stop and speak through the laughter but to no avail, making Jean slump to the ground in front of Marco, clutching his stomach as his body heaved with mirth.

Marco was snorting at that point and on anyone else he would’ve been annoyed at the sheer volume. Say, if Eren was sitting on that barrel losing his damn mind over nothing at all he would’ve slapped the sense back into him. But something about Marco’s water filled eyes and big loud smile just made him feel warm. Or.. perhaps that was just the alcohol.

He grinned as he looked only at the mad man sitting in front of him. From this distance he could see each little freckle adorning his nose and cheeks and the way his nose would scrunch in between sets of giggles. It was an endearing sight, cute even, though Jean would never admit that aloud.

Too caught up in their snickering, the two almost didn’t notice their comrades briskly stumbling in, Ymir being the one who pushed the two large wooden doors hurriedly. “In.” she commanded, and stepped back as everyone else dashed inside. Jean startled and Marco’s laughter alleviated as Ymir eyed them, her face contorted so it was impressively indecipherable. She had quite the poker face, though some general annoyance seemed to seep out as usual.

“What’s the damn ruckus about?” Jean demanded more than he asked, his filter coming back down hard now that more people were around. Ymir looked at Jean with a face that basically read as, ‘Shut the fuck up you’re the one making a dopey ruckus.’ Instead of voicing any of that though, she shut and locked the door as the final cadets made their way inside.

“Massive storm coming in, it’ll do some damage” she stated plainly before her eyes went back to Marco. “Maybe you two lovebirds would’ve noticed if you weren’t screaming like damn hyenas.” she joked dryly, her arms coming to a close across her chest. Marco snorted slightly at the tease but Jean stood up defensively, though perhaps a bit wobbly.

Before he could say a word, Ymir cut in with a raised brow. “Whoaaa relax there horsey, I’m kidding. Mostly. Just go lock the windows in the other rooms before they blow out in the middle of the night.” he nodded hesitantly in response and gave Marco a floppy wave of sorts. He still looked like he was glowing, as if somehow the light from the torches outside still reflected in his pale brown eyes. A sneer from Ymir brought his attention back to… what exactly? Oh right, the windows. Jean quickly left without another word, cursing the alcohol slightly under his breath. The rest of the cadets shuffled about, fulfilling whatever it was their makeshift Captain Ymir ordered.

Not without a scoff and an eye roll, she turned back to Marco. “Just us,” she demanded. “Help me with the rest of the rooms.”

__________

(MARCO POV)

After a solid half hour of flood-proofing the place to the best of their ability, as well as general clean up, Ymir poured the two of them a small whisky to top off the night. Marco relaxed into the sole couch of the common room and Ymir slumped herself into a chair by the window.

The living space was dusky and growing winds pounded the windows, putting them slightly on edge. Nevertheless, Ymir seemed to have something to say to him. She gulped down her drink and tossed the empty glass onto the ground, Marco’s eyes widening in both awe and intimidation. He steeled his nerves as he prepared for whatever it was Ymir needed out of him.

She looked at him like a scientist to a specimen, searching for something upon Marco’s features. Marco squirmed under the intense stare, and it was then that Ymir asked the burning question, cutting right to the chase.

“Do you like Jean?” she probed. Marco sucked in a quick breath at this question. The answer was yes, but why was she asking in the first place? Not knowing exactly what angle she was getting at, he tried to answer in the simplest, most non revealing way.

“Yeah I mean we’re definitely good friends.” he said apprehensively. Not wanting to look Ymir in the eyes, his gaze fell back to the rather pretty glass in his hands, thumbs tracing the engraved pattern.

Ymir smirked at this reaction and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees in a carefree ‘Ymir’ kinda way. “Marco. You know what I'm asking.” her voice was laced with mirth and her sneering face told him she probably already knew his answer. Damn her perceptiveness. Marco had hoped he wasn’t too obvious in his… feelings. But he supposes after tonight's less than subtle antics, e.g., grabbing a laughing Jean into an animalistic embrace and holding it for much longer than necessary, people would start suspecting something.

His eyes still didn’t meet hers as he sighed shakily, knowing there was little to no backing away from this conversation. “Please just… Don’t tell him?” he pleaded, looking back to the girl sitting across from him. Her previous visible mockery and inevitable taunt had faded, her features setting into something akin to understanding.

“Sure, you can trust me.” she said casually, taking a swig of the remaining whisky straight from the bottle. “We’re the same in that way if ya catch my drift.” Although compared to, say Christa, Ymir’s words would seem invasive and rude, they were sweet in their own way. And although Marco wouldn’t say this wasn’t invasive, he appreciated the kindness nonetheless.

Regardless, Marco definitely “caught her drift”. He looked at her with a sort of twinkle in his eyes, pleased to know there was at least one other person in the 104th that wasn’t straight. He chuckled, still embarrassed despite the genuinely accepting nature of their conversation thus far. “God, what gave it away?”

“Oh, I dunno,” she sighed dramatically, “Maybe the way he was looking at you. Maybe the way you were looking at him… Or maybe just a hunch I happened to get right.” Marco laughed at the sentiment before a frown crept onto his face. “Does anyone else…”

“Know?” she finished. Marco nodded. “No, they don’t. It seems only I had the misfortune of seeing you two ogle each other all the damn time. Awful luck on my part. But don’t ya worry, your dirty little secret’s safe with me.”

He snickered as he raised his glass to his lips, downing the rest of the liquid inside. Ymir gave him a curious glance, and Marco softly set the drink down to his side, hands reaching up to grab at his warming face.

“God, what do I even do about it?” he mumbled through the palms of his hands, and Ymir could taste the desperation from where she sat.

Resting her chin between her fingers, she spoke. “Look, hear me out before you interrupt and tell me I’m wrong - but he likes you too.” Marco lifted his head to speak but Ymir cut him off with a glance. “I said, listen. I see the way he looks at you. I saw the way he looked at you tonight. He wasn’t just glancing at his friend… He was admiring you, Marco, your features. Now to me, that’s pretty telling.” Marco contemplated what she was saying, tried to really think about it before he shot it down entirely.

Is that really true? Is it even possible that the oh so straight Mr. ladies man Jean could… Feel the same way about him? It’s true they had some… moments tonight. Hell they’ve been having “moments” for as long as they've known each other. Though Jean did end up speeding away from one of those so called moments just over an hour ago… Was he being too hopeful? Oh god was he coming on too strong?

Ymir groaned at Marco's crestfallen face and stood up, closing the distance between the seats and plopping herself next to Marco. He gave her a curious glance, and in turn she gave a patient smile, well it was really closer to a grimace but still, it was the principle of it all.

He sat quietly, picking his lips with his bottom teeth. Ymir let him wallow in his worry for a whopping three seconds before kicking his ankle with her boot.

“Ow!” Marco pouted. An unspoken question of ‘The hell was that for?’ being shut down before it could be voiced.

“Oh shut it you were visibly spiraling.”

Ymir sunk into the back of the couch, pondering a moment before speaking again.

“You know, Jean isn’t going to initiate anything. Seeing as you’re more in tune with your emotions than that knucklehead is, you need to drop your damn balls and make a move.” Marco scoffed, shaking his head with a slight smile at Ymir’s bluntness.

“I know, I know… You’re right.” Marco finally begrudged, causing Ymir’s ‘Of course I'm right’ smile to appear. “But we never get alone time - we’re always interrupted before he can fully open up to me…”

“Yes!” Ymir exclaimed. “You see it now. Sure it might seem tricky, but if Christa and I can find a way, you can too.” she winked and Marco damn near choked.

“You- and- I had no idea I mean-“ he stuttered before she kicked him again.

“Shut up. And don’t tell a soul.” She smiled cheekily. He nodded intently.

“Course, Ymir.” She playfully punched him, standing up from the sunken couch.

“Good luck, Marco.” she whispered.

He beamed, his chest gleaming with a soft gratitude. “Thank you.”

When Marco turned in for the night, his mind raced with endless possibilities, ranging from transcendent to nightmarish. Wishful thoughts flashed through his mind; Jean getting impossibly close, feather light touches of hands, his head resting in the crook of Jean’s neck, Marco being told he was wanted, telling Jean he wanted him. He bit his cheek, smiling stupidly at the fantasies before he felt a deep sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Jean could easily not feel the same. Jean could easily have never entertained the same idyllic fantasies as Marco was now.

Great, now it hurt.

Plagued with a new sense of guilt, he tossed and turned in the seasoned cot, praying for sleep to take him away from the build up of emotions in his chest. He pondered the possibility of similar thoughts dancing in Jean’s mind…

__________

(Jean POV)

Jean didn’t “wake up”, he just was up. That damned storm last night had kept him awake practically all night. What first was an occasional gust quickly turned into a rampaging wind-demon set out to prevent him and apparently only him from sleeping soundly. Someone had cursed him. Probably that damn Jaeger out for revenge due to Jean always winning their feuds. Typical.

The little sleep he did get consisted of repeated unsolicited scenarios about… Well that didn’t matter now.

It was the morning after a ferocious storm and he was reluctant to see the wreckage he knew he had to help out with. He groaned, rolling out of his bed in an overly dramatic pout. Sure he was acting a bit like a child but right now he just needed sleep so damn everything else, he’s going to throw his little fit. He caught Marco looking at him out of the corner of his eye, his hair ruffled and looking extra fluffy. He was giggling at Jean’s stubborn theatrics, a sweater-hooded hand loosely covering his mouth. Cute. Jean felt a bit more energized after that and he didn't bother to question why.

Once dressed, he headed out to meet the rest of the trainees outside the sleeping quarters. Holy hell, the damage was bad: shingles of the roof scattered the grass, trash was knocked down, even some large trees had fallen in the distance.

Eren rolled his eyes before their commander could even step close. “God, can’t we make someone else clea-” the brat began before getting hit softly by Armin.

“Eren! One day of cleanup doesn’t equate to the fall of humanity.” he sharply retorted. Jean chuckled at this exchange, overjoyed to see the prick put in his place by his own best friend. Speaking of which, he couldn’t seem to spot Marco…

“ATTENTION CADETS.” their Commander roared as he marched toward the gathered crowd.

“YES SIR!” They yelled back in unison, fists crossing chests in an assertive salute.

“Deep woods ODM training is put on hold for today due to the storm. I will be assigning you each in groups of two or three to aid in cleaning this mess.” Jean scanned the surrounding area nervously, where was Marco? “Proceed to the front to get your duty from me before you grab a cold meal.” the Commander directed. Pairs of people made their way to get their job of the day, but Jean stayed behind, unable to spot Marco. Nerves crept up his spine as the line got shorter, indicating he would have to grab a job with someone he possibly couldn’t stand - especially after such a shitty sleep.

A few moments later and the remaining crowd was scant, still no Marco to be seen. “Jean, you’re on running water. I need you to go up to the creek and find the source stopping the water from running back to us. We have enough for the day, but this cannot go on. You will need a partner…” Shadis trailed off, finding only Annie and some guy Jean barely could remember the name of. Tomas? Tobiaus? Timothious?

He sighed, knowing nothing but complaints would come from either cadets if forced to spend an entire day with him. Jean crossed his arms, awaiting a choice of partner from his boss while he dreaded the inevitably long journey stuck with either insufferable silence or annoying small talk.

“Commander sir, I can go with Jean.” A pleasant voice chirped in from behind. And with those few words: salvation. Jean subconsciously uncrossed his arms and smirked as the Commander let out a sigh of relief upon seeing Marco approach.

“Thank Heavens, the one person who can stand him.” he murmured, Marco frowning at the not so quiet comment as he walked up to Jean's side. “That is fine, pack plentiful in case you get stuck for a night, we are not sure how much wreckage is up there, nor how long the journey on foot will take. There’s a shed around there you could set up in for the night. Do not come back today if you do not have ample time before sundown. Now get moving!” he ordered, his last words reverberating in a loud squawk.

“Yes sir!” They saluted before Jean met eyes with Marco. “Where the hell were you?” he questioned. Marco playfully rolled his eyes.

“Worried, hmm?” he chuckled, “Don’t worry, I was just helping Ymir with something.” he replied brightly. Ymir? That seems random… But he decided to not question it.

The two went back to their rooms to pack for their lengthy and no doubt strenuous trip up the mountain. Jean found himself not only not dreading the excursion, but actively looking forward to it. He felt a bit like a hyperactive kid as genuine excitement coursed through his veins. Should he bring his comb? Nah he probably won't need it. But what if they do end up having to spend the night and Jean turns too much in his sleep and his hair gets all messy and floofy and Marco looks at him with damned bed head and then probably giggles to himself and makes a dumb but cute comment about it because its Marco and somehow he always manages to make what Jean is insecure about into something he can actually like about himself just like when he’d said Jean’s eyes were pretty like a brown hibiscus and he stopped hating the way his eyes looked when he saw his reflection looking back at him and- Jean grabbed the stupid hairbrush and threw it into his bag.

Once sufficiently supplied, they scarfed a crummy cold meal before heading out as quickly they could manage.

Marco seemed awfully giddy as they started down a gravely path lined with fern. Though cheerful he often was, Marco was struggling to hide a smile. It wasn’t a bad sight at all, though Jean was curious. “What’s got you so damn happy today?” he questioned. Marco shrugged.

“I think I made a new friend - always a nice feeling, yknow?” Jean would say he’s surprised, but everyone in the 104th loved Marco, even the stoic ones, and he had a sneaking suspicion of who exactly his new friend was.

“Ymir?” he asked plainly. Marco nodded, a soft smile finding its way onto his face.

“Yeah. Y’know, she may seem edgy but she can be really kind.” he expressed, eyes a bit starry and thoughtful. He clearly didn’t hear how the words sounded to Jean.

Jean bit back the bitter remark already forming as envy crept its way into his mind. Why was it bothering him? He’s still his friend. His best friend even. Gah, not a big deal, keep it together. He told himself before rephrasing whatever edgy comment he was going to sneer into a hopefully harmless question.

“You like her?” he ended up asking, false humor falling from his tongue.

Marco looked visibly confused. “What? No I’m- not my type. She just has a good head on her.” he surmised. Why won’t Marco ever admit attraction? Does he not trust Jean? Jean had no problem divulging about those he found hot, so why wouldn’t Marco do the same?

The next few hours were spent bullshitting around as they walked; sharing stupid jokes about who in their class was most likely to get kicked out, a stupid conversation about Ymir that probably shouldn’t have peeved him so much, Jean going on a long winded rant about how justified he is in smacking Eren atop the head, Marco stopping to pick up random bird feathers exclaiming each time that, “No Jean, you don’t get it, this one is rare.” and eventually, as the sun started its descent towards the horizon, their casual banter shifted into their hopes for the future.

“Eh, I don’t wanna get married. Who wants to be stuck with a chick forever?!” Jean quipped. At his words Marco chuckled nervously, his gaze diverting to the coarse dirt beneath him.

“Yeah, me too. I don’t wanna get married. I’m fine living a life alone with me and my hobbies.” he said flippantly, fiddling with the strap of his backpack. Jean found the tone of his voice had changed into something more sullen and somber, and a glance over at his friend did not yield him any better results. Jean must do something about this.

He lightly elbowed his friend. “Well, if ya change your mind, I think you’d make a great husband some day.” Jean said honestly, no lick of sarcasm to his voice. Marco’s knees wobbled for a moment before he corrected them, clearing his throat to cover his obvious nerves.

“Thanks, Jean. You too.” he replied, biting his cheek. Another glance towards his friend showed a soft smile and a flushed face. Jean succeeded. Though now he too felt a bit hot in the face. He once again decided not to unpack that.

As they hiked, they spotted a would-be stream leading down to their base. Taking note of the lack of obvious running water, they were certain something rather large had blocked it. “Guess it’ll be a chore huh.” Marco pointed out. Jean began flexing dramatically, his tight muscles showing slightly through the thin white tunic.

“Pfft, your ol’ buddy Jean here will fix it right up for us, eh?” he joked, Marco eyeing him with a raised eyebrow followed with a hearty laugh. Sure, he wasn’t helping Jean’s ego, but he didn’t care.

The more they conversed alone, the more Jean felt his social facade fade, ending up losing whatever filter he had in place for other people all together. He wasn’t sure why this was the case, only knew that it made him feel relaxed and just genuinely, all around good. Perhaps it was the lack of a crowd - or Eren Jaeger. Either way, he was loosening up and took joy in seeing Marco enjoy himself on this trip as well.

“This is nice,” Jean said, smiling at the open air and lack of obvious walls. It felt open here, almost free. Hell, for the most part, they’ve forgotten completely about life inside the walls. Marco looked over and followed his friend's gaze to the sky, basking in the comfortable feeling.

“It is…” he began, sneaking another glance at Jean. “Really nice.”.

PART 2!!!

https://foulcrownkryptonite.tumblr.com/post/663166809268224000/tracing-constellations-pt2

#JeanMarco #jean kirstein #jean kirschtein fanfiction #marco bott #marco bodt #jean x marco #fluff #kissing #making out #spicy #marco x jean #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #our second fic ever #please be nice #and gentle #slow burn #slow build #cute

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nevervalentines · 4 years ago

Text

(went looking for) a creation myth [read on ao3 here]

With the Vytal Festival just weeks away, Yang is left looking for answers to questions she is too scared to ask.

***

Yang and Blake, before.

[7k words of a speed run enemies-to-lovers, roughhousing with bladed weapons, and sexually charged hair washing]

Blood is seeping through the fabric of her top, and her tan jacket is gritty with dust. It’s enough to staunch the tacky, rust-colored stain, but only just, and the cut stings with sweat and friction as Yang raises her forearm to run it across her brow.

She slicks her bangs out of her eyes, and reloads her gauntlets with a tight punch at her side, bracing her arms for the recoil as the shells drop into their chambers. Ember Celica is overloud in the sudden quiet of the clearing. Moss-dampened and studded with new spring growth, Emerald Forest is surprisingly silent, as if Yang hadn’t been booking it for her fucking life thirty seconds before.

Then, just there, through the trees – she sees it. Yang’s heart drops, and she risks a step forward, eyes scanning the mulchy cover of dead leaves and underbrush for a trip wire. There’s the potential for anything, from a steel-jawed bear trap to a cartoon-esque snare and net. She really wouldn’t put it past them.

She sees nothing and raises her eyes to scan the trees, finds only the pale underside of the arcing canopy and the gnarl of tangled vines. Grinning, she feels an early flush of victory, a rush of satisfaction that pounds like a second heartbeat. She might actually win this thing; the others be damned.

Bleeding side forgotten, fists held loosely at the ready, she is about to take the final steps toward her target when the metallic click of a safety releasing freezes her in place. Yang winces her eyes closed, breathes out shakily. She feels the mouth of a pistol nuzzle in between her shoulder blades.

Yang knows who it is without turning around. Which is to say: the worst-case scenario. She swallows, hard.

“You don’t want to do this,” she says. At a firmer nudge of the gun against her back, she raises her hands, obedient. “You can just pretend like I was never here.”

“And why would I do that?”

She turns slowly in place, arms still raised above her head, and finds herself face to face with her captor, finds narrowed, golden eyes, Gambol Shroud pointed squarely at her chest. Blake is wrinkling her nose in the way that means she’s biting back a laugh.

“Because you love me?”

Blake bites at her lip, considers. Shrugs. “Maybe. But not enough to let you take our flag.”

“I was so close,” Yang whines. She pivots her head over her shoulder, pouts in the direction of the blue fabric hanging from a flagpole just a few yards away.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Blake says, stepping closer, until the heat of her thigh presses against Yang’s, “you really weren’t. Pyrrha’s had you in her sights since you crossed the creek.”

“Have you considered,” Yang says, flattening her hands against the back of her head in a way that she knows pushes her chest out, in a way that, without fail, means Blake’s eyes will flick down to her cleavage, “that I was just a distraction?”

Blake hesitates for just a second, but it’s a beat too long, and Yang lashes out her leg, timing the strike perfectly with Weiss’s rush from the trees on the far side of the clearing, darting from glyph to glyph, a lightning-crackling Nora close on her heels.

Yang and Blake go down in an undignified heap, and Pyrrha’s shot spears the space she was in just moments before.

The scramble at the base of the flagpole dissolves into an all-out brawl. A petal-blurred Ruby drops from a tree and gamely tackles Weiss, and her subsequent shrill scream makes an entire flock of birds flee their roost from the above canopy.

More players from both teams race into the clearing, skidding through dead leaves and debris, pant legs flecked with creek water and mud, more roughed up than a 50-minute long, single class period game of capture the flag has any right to make them.

From her spot on the ground, the sky wheeling overhead, Yang distantly hopes some people stayed behind to guard their own flag, but the odds aren’t looking good.

At the edge of the tree line, Juane trips one of the exact traps Yang had been wary of, something rigged so quickly and neatly it has to be Ruby’s handiwork, and it hoists him overhead by his ankle. He dangles, looking resigned, sword sliding out of its scabbard and thunking Cardin squarely on the top of his head.

Cardin goes down like a brick.

Juane cheers.

They’re on the same team, but no one seems to remember the red/blue delineations at this point. The flag all but forgotten, Weiss and Nora are facing off against an odd match-up of Ruby and Ren, and Yang tries to clamber off the ground, ready to provide back-up.

But in the split seconds it had taken the feverish mob to descend, Blake has twisted on top of her, and is driving the hilt of Gambol Shroud down towards Yang’s face. Breathing hard, knees hugged tightly at Yang’s waist, she’s all lithe and muscle – completely unlike close quarter sparring with Ruby.

Yang catches her wrists and squeezes, and Blake drops the blade and scabbard, until the two of them are grappling like teenagers, pressed too tight for Yang to feasibly use her gauntlets, just adrenaline-flushed and tangled limbs, Blake’s eyes flashing, mouth open in an unexpected grin.

“If you wanted to wrestle,” Yang says, twisting on her back in the dirt. “We’ve got beds back at the dorm.”

Blake cuts her off with a forearm to her windpipe, presses down. “I want to do it here.”

Yang knows Blake can be playful – has seen her gloat after a long-fought evening of board games, or loopy with lack of sleep after a few too many all-nighters, pulling dry jokes that make Weiss cringe.

But this – the full weight of her levered onto Yang’s chest, bursting into a laugh as Yang’s hips jump, hands and legs meeting in a mishap of strikes and punches that would make Glynda weep – feels so young. It’s like the tether that tugs at Blake, forces her eyes over her shoulder, knots her brow with worry, has been cut free. Like just for a moment, just for now, it’s only the two of them tangled in the sun-dappled clearing.

They manage to roll to their feet, and Yang shakes her hair out of her face, cocks her fists loosely in front of her chin. Gestures Blake forward.

“Let’s see how nicely you play without your toys, Belladonna.”

Blake’s mouth pulls tight, and she drops into a crouch, leaving Gambol Shroud half-buried in the leaves.

Despite the weight of it, Yang barely remembers Ember Celica exists. It’s been an extension of her own body since her first years at Signal, but suddenly she’s much more preoccupied with how to best get both of Blake’s hands back on her.

“Yang,” Blake says. She flashes teeth. “Stop stalling.”

Behind them, Ruby and Ren are gamely losing, and Pyrrha melts out of the trees, cutting Juane down from the branch with a smile and a well-placed spear throw, catching him before he can hit the ground. All the partners had been split onto opposing teams, but Pyrrha leverages him gently to his feet anyway, backing up a few steps before gesturing for him to challenge.

Cheek smushed into the forest floor, Cardin has begun to drool.

With the full weight of Blake’s attention on her, Yang feels that same second-heartbeat-flush, better than any almost-victory. It’s a feeling she has been careful not to examine too closely for fear of what she will find.

They’ve been partners now for almost two full semesters, and she’s spent too much of it avoiding stating the obvious – avoiding the thing building in between them as if averted eyes will stop the pot from boiling over.

The few slip ups she chalks up to chance, to hormones, to a laundry list of excuses that Blake’s own silence seems to affirm.

It’s working, she tells herself. It’s working, it’s working.

Hair a tousled ripple down her back, Blake’s black cravat had dislodged at some point during the game, leaving her neck bare, skin shining with sweat, glistening in the hollow of her throat. She flicks her bangs out of her eyes and tenses under Yang’s gaze, firming her jaw until the muscle pops, half-smiles.

If Yang didn’t know any better, she would think Blake is enjoying this.

Blake moves on the offensive first, and it catches Yang off-guard, forcing her to step back to dodge a flurry of quick jabs before taking a fist squarely to the jaw. Blake flinches harder than Yang when she lands the hit, immediately backing off.

“It’s okay,” Yang murmurs. Her aura absorbs the punch, and she can feel her semblance simmer, heat lighting under her skin like the kiss of a match against a gas burner. “You can even go harder next time.”

Blake rolls her eyes, but acquiesces.

Even sparring, Blake is careful not to touch her hair – and part of Yang wants to tell her to stop taking it easy, to grab it, pull it. She wants to know what it feels like when Blake plays dirty.

Inevitably, always, Yang comes out on top, breathing hard, the both of them breathless with laughter – unsure what to do with her victory. She knows both of their aura levels are sinking, and Ruby – all but fleeing from Weiss across the clearing – has dropped dangerously low.

When a shrill whistle interrupts the scramble – the flag still dangling untouched, she and Blake immediately deflate, the fight going out of them as easy as it came. Yang heaves a noise of exasperation, drops her forehead onto Blake’s chest. When she lifts her head, Blake’s arms have wrapped loosely around her back.

“Call it a draw?” Yang says, digs her chin hard into Blake’s sternum. “I pretty much had you.”

“Nice try,” Blake says. Her words reverberate in her chest, and Yang feels every moment of their conception, the slight intake of breath into her lungs, the buzz of them as they carry through her throat.

Professor Port’s voice is like a bucket of cold water. He’s standing at the edge of the wood, brandishing a silver whistle, looking at them with ill-disguised exasperation.

“Class,” he says, “I believe the directive was to steal the other team’s flag, not to scrap like children on a playground.”

“Who won?” Weiss pipes up. She’s scraping her hair back into a neat ponytail, standing over a prone Ruby who must have fallen, and has wisely chosen to stay down.

“Everyone lost,” Port says, cheerily. “Back to the school. After that display, I don’t trust you all out here after dark.”

Despite the game’s failure, he seems in good spirits, clapping Juane on the back, and chiding Pyrrha about helping the opposing team mid competition. As punishment, Juane is saddled with Cardin, likely concussed, and directed to help him back to the infirmary.

Hauling herself off the ground, brushing clinging soil off of elbows, picking leaves out of her hair, Yang reaches for Gambol Shroud without thinking. It’s half-submerged in the close-knit groundcover, and she untangles it from curling tendrils of green, robotically sheathing the blade back into the blunt scabbard.

Only after, does she freeze, halfway to her feet. It’s an unspoken taboo to handle other huntresses’ weapons, certainly not without express permission, and here she had done it so casually, tactless.

But Blake, one arm stretched over her head, shoulder muscles rippling, doesn’t bat an eye. She accepts it from Yang gratefully, fingers brushing as it passes between them. She slings it over her back, and reaches toward Yang, pulls a twig free of her hair.

Wordless, they head toward the group, Yang trying to gauge if she’s going to have to piggy-back Ruby to the dorm room. Still lying prone, Weiss is poking at her with the toe of a boot.

It’s only then, so brief she almost misses it, that Blake reaches between them, brushes her fingers over the cuff of Ember Celica. It feels like the answer to a question Yang hadn’t known how to ask, and the last of the fight, the tension she didn’t know she was carrying, coiling at the top of her spine, ebbs entirely.

They fall into step easily, automatically, and together reach down to help Ruby off the ground. Like a top-heavy punching bag, Ruby lists once she’s on her feet, limbs weighted with exhaustion.

Though Yang reaches out, it’s Blake who steadies her, one hand brushing Ruby’s bangs out of her eyes.

“Reunited at last,” Yang says, laughs at Weiss’s pinched expression. “Can’t believe that game had the audacity to tear us in two.”

“Shut up,” Weiss grumbles, but she’s smiling, and half-heartedly accepts Yang’s high-five. Yang bullies them into a bear hug before they join the others, an eight-legged jumble of girl-sweat and protesting laughter, leaning so hard on one another that when they begin to fall, they topple in turn, like dominoes.

***

After Port’s dismissal, they troop back to the Beacon dorms leisurely. They have an hour of free period before dinner, and no one in seems to be in any rush to get to the dining hall, content to nurse bruises and grievances, ribbing each other good naturedly, flags forgotten.

Ren is quietly chastising Nora about what looks suspiciously like a human bite mark wetting the sleeve of his tunic, and Juane brings up the rear of the group, quietly sulking, a blessedly out-of-it Cardin’s arm slung over his shoulder.

The wooded forest bleeds into a scrubby grassland, and they wade through waist-high wheatgrass as the spires of Beacon come into view, dodging prickly burs and seedpods that cling stubbornly to their socks and hemlines.

Yang presses her palm to her side. It comes away tacky with old blood, and she grimaces. Her aura had strained to heal it, skin stitching together to staunch the flow, but the last of the fight had drained her reserves, and it reopened easily in the struggle. Catching the movement out of the corner of her eye, Blake grabs for Yang’s hand, frowns down at her skin like a disgruntled palm reader.

“How did that happen?”

What she doesn’t say, plainly written on the landscape of her face in a language Yang is just learning to read is: is that from me?

“My own fault, actually,” Yang says. “We really don’t need to get into it.”

She ignores the stinging pain in favor of Blake’s fingers, stroking carefully over the dips of her knuckles.

“She fell out of a tree early in the strategizing process,” Weiss says. She’s snuck up on them, appearing at Yang’s elbow, face drawn with disdain. Her voice lilts, obviously mocking. “Oh, don’t worry about it, Weiss. I’m just getting the lay of the land, Weiss. Those branches aren’t too thin, Weiss.” She sniffs. “You could have broken your neck.”

“See,” Yang says, slinging an arm around Weiss’s shoulder, pulling her against her side, “she does care.”

“I didn’t say it would be a bad thing,” she says. But Yang doesn’t miss the way she turns her face into her casual embrace, her hand coming up to tug at the back of Yang’s jacket affectionately, clumsy, like it’s an action she’s unfamiliar with.

Blake smiles, ducks her chin. “Don’t say that. I like having her around.”

Yang quiets her internal rejoicing to a silent cheer. She feels, helplessly, like a child picking petals from a wilting stem. She loves me. She loves me not.

She beams, bumping her shoulder against Blake’s. “From Blake, that’s practically a marriage proposal.”

Cheeks flushing, Blake tucks a strand of hair behind one ear, looks away. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Who’s getting married?” This from Ruby, fending off an assault from Weiss who is trying to pat down a stubborn cowlick in the tangled mess of her hair.

“No one,” says Weiss. “You need a haircut.”

“Me and Blake,” Yang says, cheerfully. “She was the one to propose and everything, it was super embarrassing.”

“Congrats,” Ruby says, batting at Weiss’s hands.

“Long time coming, really,” Yang says. She smiles at Blake. “I’m picturing a summer wedding.”

Blake rolls her eyes, but smiles. A rare one, with teeth. Yang almost stops walking, just to take it in.

Clearly over their antics, Weiss lengthens her stride to catch up with Pyrrha, Ruby trailing behind.

It leaves Blake and Yang alone, shoulder to shoulder, picking their away along the muddy, tire-rutted path that meanders toward the eastern portion of the Beacon grounds. In the distance, the colorful, striped tents of the Vytal Festival fairgrounds are just visible, the encampment half-pitched in preparation for the festival, mere weeks away.

The skeleton of a mostly-assembled Ferris Wheel crests over the treetops, like the pale, bleached bones of a Goliath, its mechanical frame at odds with the verdant landscape.

“Excited?” Yang asks. She bumps her shoulder against Blake’s, jerks her chin toward the pennants lethargically drooping in the stagnant spring heat.

“Hardly,” Blake says. She peeks at Yang out of the corner of her eye. “The tournament might be interesting, at least.”

“All the people, the spectacle, the fried festival food,” Yang reels off, ticking up her fingers, “it sounds like your –”

“—worst nightmare,” Blake says.

Yang laughs. “Maybe so, but,” she shrugs, “meeting new people, smashing their faces in, it’s the huntress way.”

“Now that,” Blake says, “I can get behind.”

Ahead of them, Weiss seems to be trying to engage Pyrrha in an in-depth analysis of the capture of flag bout, looking seconds away from pulling out a notebook and taking notes on every one of Pyrrha’s absentminded observations.

“This is painful to watch,” Yang says, gleefully. “If Pyrrha touches her, she’s going to –”

Pyrrha sets a hand at the small of Weiss’s back, guides her around a rock pitting the dirt path.

“Oh, there it is,” Blake says. She’s actually biting her lower lip to hold in laughter, eyes squinting with mirth. “Someone check the girl’s pulse.”

Like this, sun-lit and flushed, wearing her in-on-the-joke smile, Blake is radiant. She’s a little roughed up from the fight, ribbon a dark, striped wreath around her forearms, her top mud-streaked, the single button of her vest undone.

Yang is enamored. She offers her an arm to use as a crutch, and Blake leans into, buries a laugh in her shoulder.

Ahead of them, Weiss seems to be staggering her way through a conversation about semblances, ponytail swishing. She only comes up to Pyrrha’s shoulder, and when Pyrrha pauses, blithely rubbing at a scrape of dirt on Weiss’s cheeks. Yang can see Weiss’s face blush and burn, even from ten feet away.

Ruby, lagging a few steps behind, looks chuffed to be the most intelligible person in the vicinity.

“Why don’t you look at me like that?” Yang murmurs. They’re winding their way through a spindly grove of peach trees, the last surviving vestiges of the orchards that used to grow on Beacon’s loamy, river-rich soil.

Unkept, the trunks fork and spur, rough bark splitting like over-risen bread, papering off in grey-brown patches. This early in the season, the fruit is small and green, but Blake pauses under the heavy boughs anyway, tilts her face upward.

“What?” she says, studying the waxy, canoe-shaped leaves, veins bleeding from the midrib in furrows. “Like I’m going into cardiac arrest?”

“No,” Yang says, teeth parting around a laugh, “like you adore me.”

Blake gestures Yang forward, touches a palm to her cheek, guides Yang to look up to the branches above where, inexplicably, Blake has spotted a single ripe peach.

Without needing to be asked, Yang knits her fingers at her belt buckle like a basket, offers it to Blake who leverages herself up to grasp a branch, just high enough to pluck the peach from the stem. She lands lightly on her feet, offers it first to Yang, who cups the fuzzed, sunrise-bodied fruit in her palms.

“Maybe you’re not looking hard enough,” Blake says.

Reaching out, she lifts Yang’s hands, brings the peach to her own mouth, and takes a bite. Juice dribbles from her lips, wets Yang’s knuckles, the vessel of her palm. Blake does not meet her eyes.

A world away, the dinner bell clangs on campus, and the sound reaches them across the grounds. From just ahead, Ruby yells for them to catch up.

Yang’s sweating again by the time they enter the Beacon courtyard, the sun creeping west across the sky. Already, the moon, in fragments, hangs low over the horizon like a coin toss, illusory and half-spun. Heat shimmers off the gray cobblestones, a sun-stoked haze that blurs the geometry of fountains to a mirage, and she wriggles out of her jacket, stripping down to her orange tank, hissing when the rotation of her shoulder pulls at her side.

Blake looks at her, and immediately cuts her eyes away. Looks back, lingers. She has an affinity for Yang’s freckled shoulders, has said as much, and Yang exposes them around her as much as possible.

Between them, Blake’s fingers brush the back of Yang’s hand. She thinks, for a moment, that Blake might take her hand in her own, and the idea alone leaves her with a wanting so keen it embarrasses her.

It’s compulsive, chemical, that Blake’s presence pulls her attention like gravity.

A touch curls at the inside of her elbow, and Blake tugs Yang gently toward her, sidestepping a water feature that looms, overlarge and obvious.

“You were about to walk into a fountain,” Blake murmurs. One of the loops of her bow flicks, a smile ghosts the corner of her lips.

Yang jerks her chin up, begins to apologize, and Blake shakes her head. “As fun as that might have been, I don’t want to miss dinner because I’m drying you off.”

“I think I could have handled it on my own,” Yang says, leans into Blake’s touch.

“What kind of betrothed would I be,” Blake says, releasing her elbow and moving toward the mouth of the dining hall, “if I left you wet and alone in your time of need?” She only spares Yang a glance before stepping out of the final slash of the sunlight, into the shadow of the doorway.

Frozen, Yang roots herself into the flagstone – tries to parse apart if Blake could have possibly intended that as – if she would have ever said something so – and no, right? No.

“Blake – ” she says, helpless. But Blake is already disappearing inside with a light laugh, leaving Yang to flounder in her wake.

In the early evening sun, buffered by classmates on either side, Yang stares after her, desperately trying to do the math, imagines petals shedding like snowfall.

It’s Blake who offers, which surprises each of them, but most of all Yang.

They’re scattered around the dorm room after dinner and a short stint in the library, Weiss pulling her pajama top over her head, Ruby dangling upside down from the top bunk, while Blake smooths a bandage over Yang’s ribs.

In just a sports bra, sitting on the edge of her desk, Blake’s hands trailing over her side, Yang feels like she’s lost control of the situation. Blake mistakes her shuddering breath for pain, and winces in sympathy.

“I’m sorry.” She presses down the adhesive of the bandage with her finger gingerly, nails skirting the rungs of Yang’s ribs, prodding the skin as she checks for inflammation. “I’m almost done, I promise.”

“All good,” Yang says, strained. She’s trying to decide if flexing her arms, like, only a little bit, is going to be a dead giveaway. “Take your time, really.”

Across the room, Weiss scoffs. Yang tries to pin her with a glare, but Weiss evades, busies herself tidying her discarded clothes from the day. Weiss must be the only person in the world who folds her shirts before she puts them in the dirty clothes hamper. It causes Ruby endless amusement, and she swivels her head to watch.

Blake’s hands are cool, and Yang can smell the citrus-perfume of her soap, the soft cotton of her t-shirt rubbing against Yang’s bare shoulder as she leans closer to survey her handiwork.

“I think you’re going to live,” she says. She meets Yang’s eyes glancingly before her gaze drops down, hovers somewhere around Yang’s mouth.

Ruby clambers from the top bunk and comes up on her feet, shaking her hair out of her eyes. Weightless with static from the thick, wool blankets, it frizzes and wisps, too short for a ponytail, and too long to do anything but make her look like a disgruntled miniature pony.

Pulling away from Yang’s side, Blake turns to Ruby thoughtfully. Yang, immediately missing the warmth of her, falls back onto the desk, her muscles popping gratefully with the pull of the stretch. She examines the pulpy, drop-tile ceiling studiously, trying to calm her heartrate, embarrassed at the rush of longing Blake always seems to leave in her wake.

“You know, I could cut it for you, if you wanted,” Blake says. This to Ruby, whose eyes go wide, a little shy, a little pleased.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Yang turns her head, grinning again, shrugging the melancholy off like shedding a second skin. “Now this, I’ve got to see.”

***

Blake drags a desk chair from the bedroom, positions it in front of the sink. She’s spinning a small pair of silver scissors on her pointer finger when she ushers Ruby into the bathroom, and Yang and Weiss troop in as well, like it’s a given.

With the four of them crammed in the tiny bathroom, it’s a tight fit, and Yang leans with her back against the door, Weiss perched on the edge of the tub.

“I didn’t realize I would actually have an audience,” Blake says, quietly, but she isn’t successful in hiding her smile, mouth turning up at the corners.

The sink is running, and she dips two fingers under the flow, waits for it to warm, flicks water in Ruby’s face just to tease.

Shoulders relaxing, Ruby barely grumbles as Blake pushes her gently down into the chair, tilting her head back until her hair wets under the faucet’s flow.

“Too hot?” Blake asks. She cups water in her palms, diverting it until it wets Ruby’s hair to its roots, slicking her bangs out of her face with careful fingers.

Ruby shakes her head, bare feet swinging over the tiles. “S’nice,” she slurs, lashes fluttering against her cheek. “Mom used to do this, remember?” This to Yang, one eye cracking to look at her before closing again.

Arms crossed, Yang nods. “I do.”

Her voice sounds strange, swollen, even to her. She clears her throat, looks to Blake who is looking back at her, gaze soft and steady. The mirror over the sink is fogging with heat, and Yang is stupidly glad not to see her own expression reflected in the glass.

The memory is blurry with overuse, and she feels selfish for hoarding it, something she and Ruby talk about so rarely – the short window of domesticity, the four of them, together.

Blake must sense her discomfort and leans over Ruby, carding through her hair gently, warm water swirling down the drain.

“We’ll just do a trim, okay?” She tilts her head, considering. “Just enough to get your bangs out of your eyes.”

From her spot on the lip of the tub, Weiss is watching the them with open interest, dressed in her slouchiest pajamas, hair loose around her shoulders.

Blake looks back at her. “What do you think?”

Weiss looks surprised to have been asked to weigh in, and shifts unsteadily, pinning her hands under the backs of her thighs, lips tucked into her mouth.

“It will look nice,” Weiss ventures. Then, unsteadily, like she’s unsure if that’s the right answer: “Fine, I mean. It will look fine.”

“Weiss thinks I look nice,” Ruby says, dreamily, eyes still closed.

Yang laughs. “Anything to stop you from going into fights blind should do the trick.”

Blake is methodical and careful, her movements practiced, and Yang watches her hands closely, fascinated by the routine of her gestures. Her long fingers are sure as she brushes out Ruby’s hair, fixing the lengths of hair between two fingers, snipping, tendrils of dyed red spiraling to the bathroom tile.

“You’re good at that,” Yang says, careful not to pose it as a question, even if her curiosity is clear.

“After I left home,” Blake says, tilting her head to frown at Ruby’s hair, thoughtful, “there weren’t places where – well, there weren’t many places that would be willing to serve Faunus, let alone cut our hair.”

Focused on her task, Blake fits two fingers under Ruby’s chin, lifts until she’s staring straight ahead. She hums, approving. When she began to talk, Yang, Blake and Weiss each stilled, incremental, like curious children unwilling to startle a flighty bird.

It’s rare for Blake to offer much from before, even after all these months, and Yang squirrels away every piece of information she manages to glean, coveted closely in a well-hidden corridor in her chest.

“It was a necessity at first, we were moving around a lot, but I like it now,” Blake says. “It’s soothing.” She scrubs her hand under the fall of Ruby’s hair, appraising her work. “I wish we had some clippers, you would look really good with a, like, undercut.”

Tilting her head to look back at Blake, Ruby grins. “Yeah?’

“Oh, yeah,” Blake says. “Very edgy.”

Ruby’s eyes flutter closed again and she leans back into Blake’s hands, accepting the easy touch, pleased.

Watching her like this, the baby round of Ruby’s cheeks, her deep-set eyes, so like Summer, Yang’s heart pangs and pulls. She looks so young, and it’s been so long since she’s seen Ruby find comfort and closeness in groups like this. At Signal, she was always worlds apart.

Too young to hang out with Yang and her friends, and too buried in her comics and starry-eyed dreams of far-flung heroism to mesh easily with the other kids her age. Weiss is watching, too, almost hungry. She is starved, Yang has come to realize, in similar ways – for family, for acceptance, for the way Blake look back to ask her opinion, listening intently when Weiss ventures an answer.

“Okay,” Blake says, steps back. “All set, I think.”

Ruby pops up out of her seat, swipes a hand through the mirror’s condensation to look at her reflection, tilting her head this way and that, before grinning, bright.

“It’s perfect.” Then, shyly, “thank you, Blake.”

“Anytime,” Blake says. “We can pick up dye next time we’re in Vale, recolor the ends.”

Yang groans. “Don’t get her started, she’s been threatening more drastic dye jobs since grade school. I’ve had to talk her out of lime green more times than I can count.”

“The red suits you,” Weiss says, pushing off of her perch to more closely examine Ruby’s bangs. Ruby obediently stops fidgeting, submits to Weiss’s hands, but not before shaking her wet head like a dog, sending water droplets flying.

Aghast, Weiss hisses a chastisement, but cards her hands through her hair, all the same.

“I could cut yours,” Blake says to Weiss. Appraises her, head tilted. “It’s getting long.”

Weiss looks shocked at the sudden kindness, turning a gradient of shades, from a light pink to a dark red the longer Blake looks at her.

“Oh, no,” she says, haltingly. “I have a standing appointment at an Atlas salon but,” she trails off.

Blake nods, that tiny smile still evident on the puzzle-box mystery of her mouth.

Ruby looks on with interest, pokes at Weiss’s cheek, but knows better than to comment.

With a final thanks, the two of them troop out of the bathroom in a snippy caravan, Weiss already haranguing Ruby about an assignment due in the morning, Ruby loudly asking Weiss if she’ll brush her hair before homework, anyhow.

Their departure leaves a vacuum, a pocket of silence, just Yang and Blake, who both seem to realize how close they are standing at the same time, all excuses having fled the room on the heels the others.

“Thank you for doing that,” Yang says, quietly, she reaches out hesitantly and takes Blake’s hand, rubs her thumb across her knuckles. “It’s nice not to do all the mothering, for once.” She shakes her head. “I tried to cut her hair once, must have been about 13. Dad almost had to shave her whole head.”

“She would have loved it though,” Blake says. She doesn’t pull her hand away.

Yang laughs. “Yeah, probably.” She steps closer, emboldened by their hands clasped between them, by the way Blake tilts her whole body toward her, magnetic.

“It was really nothing,” Blake says. “Ruby restitched, like, four pairs of my leggings last week, anyway.”

“It was sweet of you to offer a trim to Weiss, too.” Yang lowers her voice, though the other two are well out of earshot, having closed the bathroom door behind them. “I don’t think she was ready for you to send her into a full-fledged sexual identity crisis.”

Blake throws her head back in a laugh, exposing the long line of her throat, cheeks dimpling. “Oh, no. That’s what Pyrrha is for.” A beat. “I don’t think I’m her type anyway.”

“How?” Yang blurts, clumsy and unthinking, tries to amend it with – “I think you’re everyone’s type,” which really just digs the hole deeper.

Blake looks at her steadily, in that awful way she does, and shoves a little bit at Yang’s shoulder, bullies her toward the chair.

“You should let me do you next,” she says. She must misinterpret Yang’s expression – which flatlines at an alarming speed, elevator music starting to play behind her eyes – and hurries to correct herself. “I mean, not a cut. I know how you feel about your hair, but I could wash it?”

“Wash it?” Yang looks at the sink, back to Blake. The air in the bathroom seems to be getting thinner, and she can’t stop looking at Blake’s forearms, the flex of them as she toys with the scissors, running her thumb lightly over the tapered point.

“You’ve still got leaves in it from earlier,” Blake says, words taut with amusement, “and if you lift your arms over your head, you’re going to undo all my hard work anyway.”

The cut is mostly healed, barely a pale scar at this point, and they both know it. Yang wonders how long they will continue to run round these excuses.

It’s working, it’s working, it’s – “Let me touch you,” Blake says. She presses down on Yang shoulder, guides her toward the chair. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

The chair creaks under Yang’s weight, and her outstretched legs butt up against the opposite bathroom wall. To maneuver around her, Blake has to step between her legs, her hips pressed tight against the inside of Yang’s bare thighs.

Unsure, Yang leans her head back, feels the porcelain cold against the back of her neck. “Like this?”

“Just like that.”

Blake turns on the faucet, and the lull of running water, the warmth of it, is enough to make Yang drowsy and pliant, hands clasped obediently on her lap.

“I love your hair,” Blake says, quiet, confessional. She runs her hands through it, pulls gently, the sensation sending tingles to Yang’s scalp. Yang’s eyes close, and she breathes out through her nose, shifting unsteadily in the chair.

She hears the plastic click of a shampoo bottle, and lavender perfumes the air. Yang thinks of gardens, of soft-petaled flowers, of sunlight and checkered blankets.

“We should have a picnic,” she murmurs. Her muscles feel putty-soft, and Blake’s hands, slick with water and suds, are drawing tiny circles under the fall of her hair, thumbs pressing ecstatically into the corded muscle at the base of her neck.

There’s laughter, barely hidden, in Blake’s voice. “Come again?”

“A picnic.” Yang doesn’t open her eyes. “Just you and me.”

“Did I knock you too hard in the head today?” Blake asks. “Give you a concussion?” Her fingers slip up to prod at Yang’s temples before her fingers firm, massaging there. Yang groans. For her sake, Blake pretends not to hear it.

“I’m not concussed,” Yang says. Against the back of her eyelids, there’s a constellation of color. Blake sluices warm water through her hair, washing out the last of the shampoo. Yang’s hand ventures from her lap, hooks her fingers in the soft cotton pocket of Blake’s shorts. “I just like you.”

She still doesn’t open her eyes, worried that if she does, reality will solidify, transport her away from the dreamy-liminal of this unspoken space, Blake’s hands in her hair, Blake’s body warm against her thighs.

“I like you, too.”

“Actually, I think you said you loved me earlier.”

Blake laughs. “I didn’t. You said I loved you.”

Yang does open her eyes now, finds Blake startlingly close, her gold-flecked eyes, the laugh lines that crease the corners of her mouth like the seams of a love letter, folded over, then folded over again. She steps out of the bracket of Yang’s legs to fetch a towel. Yang reaches to take it, but Blake pushes her hands away, preferring to towel at Yang’s wet hair herself, leaning across her body, her chest pressing against Yang’s shoulder.

Embarrassed now, Yang squirms, but submits to the attention, lets Blake dab away beaded water at her hairline, droplets dripping into her ears, wetting the shoulders of her t-shirt.

“But you were right,” Blake says, so matter a fact, Yang almost doesn’t understand her meaning. Comprehension pales in comparison to the sheen of water on Blake’s hands, her wrists, as she wipes them dry, her hair spilling long and dark around her shoulders, the ends wet where she had leaned over the sink. Blake tosses the towel underhand toward the hamper behind the door, reinserts herself between Yang’s legs. “I do love you. I really do. And yes.”

“Yes?” Yang asks, dazed, still stuck halfway inside the feeling of Blake’s body, pressed up firmly against her own.

“Yes to the picnic,” Blake says. “Just the two of us.”

She loves me.

Yang shifts to prop herself upright against the body of the sink and frames Blake’s hips in her hands, guiding her firmly into the V of her legs. Blake concedes, arms wrapping around Yang’s neck, petting through damp hair. The hem of her shirt scrunches under Yang’s fingertips, slipping up to reveal the unblemished hollow of her hip, the skin of her sides, goosepimpling under the duress of Yang’s touch.

“We should do that thing again,” Yang says, a wish, a confession. Said aloud, she’s worried, like memory, she’ll bleed away the magic of unspoken things, but it only seems to strengthen the energy between them, the accumulated weight of all that they never talk about.

Blake plays dumb, but she’s smiling, ducking close even as she asks, “what thing?”

Her breath is warm against Yang’s ear, and she presses her mouth just there, against the round of Yang’s cheek.

“Close,” Yang says. She exhales, grip tightening.

Blake drags her lips to Yang’s jaw. Then to the dimple of her chin.

“Closer.”

Blake kisses her, proper, all it takes is a tilt of her head, nose nudging into the plush-round of Yang’s cheek. They both breath twin sighs of relief, like the pressure of playing coy has been alleviated in a single moment. Blake’s hands knot in Yang’s hair, fingers threading.

Yang smiles, murmurs: “just like that.”

It isn’t their first kiss, but it’s close. New enough that Yang still isn’t used to the shape of Blake’s mouth, the rhythm of her kisses, or the taste of her breath. New enough that this alone is enough to alight a heady, perfect rush, the thrill of two whole, perfect things slotting into place.

Her hands slide to the small of Blake’s back, splaying wide across the ridge of her spine, and Blake whines low in her throat, tilting her head until their mouths catch in full, her teeth scraping against Yang’s bottom lip.

Blake swings her leg over Yang’s hip, then the other, settles on her lap. The warmth of her body like a weighted blanket, her chest pushed flush to Yang’s. Pulling back, breaths ragged, they survey each other, eyes bright.

Blake drops a kiss on the bridge of Yang’s nose. Again, on her mouth. Yang tilts her chin up, submits. Nods lazily into another kiss, rolls her tongue into Blake’s mouth.

They don’t talk about it, but they never do.

In the crowded, humid heat of the bathroom, the silence is enough, both smelling like the same shampoo, like lavender, trading kisses until their mouths are slick and pink, until Blake has a strawberry bite under the collar of her t-shirt, and there is no excuse they can make to Ruby and Weiss to explain the lost time.

Exiting the bathroom feels like stepping through a portal – the air of the bedroom is stale and cold, and tastes like the bitter-metallic spit of the cranky window unit that churns, futile and constant.

They shouldn’t have worried. Ruby and Weiss are passed out on Weiss’s bottom bunk, tilted into each other, Weiss’s head leaned up into Ruby’s chest, a textbook open on her lap.

Blake smiles at them, soft, and Yang presses a finger to her lips. Sound asleep, neither stirs when Yang removes the book or when she shifts both of Weiss’s legs to the bed, pulls the lip of the comforter up over their bodies.

Weiss does move then, but only to turn her face into Ruby’s throat, fingers curling into the sleeve of her shirt.

Across the room, Yang watches Blake walk through the final stages of her night time routine. Removing her rings, one-by-one, setting them into a china bowl at her bedside. Toeing off her socks – because anyone who sleeps in socks is a serial killer, yang – and turning back the cool underside of her covers.

Yang, suddenly shy, mythical, waits for an invitation.

“It’s only fair,” Blake whispers. She shifts over to make space against the hollow of her body. “Turn off the light.”

Yang does, the room plunged to darkness, and she feels that little-kid thrill in the few steps it takes her to cross to the bed. By the time she reaches it, she fears Blake will already be gone, leaving her only with under-the-bed monsters and grasping hands.

She shivers into the sheets, and it’s Blake’s warmth that accepts her, slinging a long, bare leg over her hip, claiming her cheek with a warm palm, stroking her bangs out of her eyes.

“We need to talk about it,” Yang whispers.

She can see Blake’s eyes gleam in the darkness, a flat sheen. Yang swallows, wriggles closer until she can insinuate her thigh between Blake’s legs, suddenly desperate to be close. She would swallow her whole if she could, sink themselves inside of one another, like nesting dolls, like palms cupped in prayer.

Yang’s eyes adjust in the half-dark in the time it takes Blake to answer, moonlight shredding through the parted curtains. When Blake opens her mouth, the wet of her mouth refracts light, the uncurling of her tongue.

“I know,” Blake says, voice small.

Their hips-stomach-breasts bully into one another, until every breath is a part of a cycle.

“If we don’t, we’re just going to keep colliding until something breaks.”

“I know,” Blake says, again. “There’s just so much I haven’t told you yet.”

Yang runs her hands up and down Blake’s side, slips her palm under the hem of her shirt to feel the blanket-heat of her bare skin.

“We have time,” she hushes. She tilts in, her lips find the corner of Blake’s mouth, press there. Retreat. “After the Vytal festival, then. We can have our picnic. We’ll talk about all of it.”

Blake nods, nose pressing into Yang’s. She giggles, readjusts, turns her mouth into Yang’s cheek. “Okay. After the festival.”

Pinkies twined under the covers, they seal it with a kiss. Blake nods more kisses against her mouth, slips a tongue behind her teeth, until the taste of her lingers well into Yang’s dreams.

Yang won’t remember falling asleep.

#janurwby #bumbleby #my beacon days prompt fill got a little out of hand #my writing #rwby #here's to overtly intimate hair washing

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thejollyroger-writer · 3 years ago

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THE WASTELAND - HOME (15/15)

Some triggers: this story is rated TEEN, mostly for violence. It takes place during wartime, and some of the characters go through some violence and torture. If you need more information about this, please just message me!

SUMMARY: In a world that has been saturated in war for as long as anyone can remember, Emma Swan has rebuilt her life as far away from the chaos as possible, opening her own maternity hospital after spending too many years in makeshift battlefield aid stations. But one night, a bloodied and battered soldier finds her hospital trying to get away from an enemy with a penchant for torture and a personal vendetta against him. With the help of Emma’s childhood friend Prince David and a motley collection of humans and magic-wielders, the quest to save Killian Jones’ life from the poison used by the enemy takes them to places even beyond the known world.

A/N: Can you believe it? This story is COMPLETE, which feels surreal and ethereal in unexplainable ways. I've literally been writing this story longer than it took me to write my masters' thesis -- though, needing to write my masters' thesis is most of the reason it has taken me this long. Thank you all for sticking around through it all, if you've been here since the beginning -- and if you've hopped on somewhere along the way, you're just as important to me. Thank you, all. Enjoy the last chapter.

Start from the Beginning // Also on AO3!

For a long, drawn-out moment, nothing happens. Emma can feel the beating of her heart in her stomach and fears that something has gone wrong, attempting to use her unhoned magic for too big a task too quickly.

And then, she feels her feet shift on uneven ground and she dares to open her eyes.

Sand.

They're on the shore. Everyone is on the shore, Belle still tending to Will's wounded shoulder and Mary Margaret comforting David, his pain obvious on his face. Killian releases her hand, rushing to the prince's side with his canteen at the ready. The water doesn't heal David as quickly as it did Killian, but as he swallows the few sips he was given, his expression grows relieved and the tendrils of poison retract across his exposed chest before disappearing from the site of the wound. It's not nearly as climactic as Killian's healing was (Emma refuses to think about why that might be) but she still feels a weight lifted from her chest as all traces of the poison disappear, leaving only a small cut on his side where the arrow nicked him.

Killian and Mary Margaret simultaneously sigh an audible breath of relief, her petite form almost comically small as she leans into Killian's shoulder.

"Let's get off this bloody island," Killian says, allowing only a moment's pause before he helps Dave to his feet — though his words are practically forgotten as the forest begins to groan and grumble, trees snapping, cracking, falling to the ground behind them.

And they watch as four, five, six boys move through the treeline, all dressed in rags and covered in dirt.

"The Lost Boys!" Wendy cries, rushing towards them.

"Please take us home with you, Wendy," the one who looks to be the oldest begs, terror obvious on his face, as on all of their faces.

She turns to look at David. "Without Pan's magic, the island will disappear, and the boys will die."

David shakes his head. "I have no argument."

"What about what Pan told your brothers? That only the amount who arrived can leave?" Regina's voice is heavy with worry. None of them want to leave the boys behind, but if it means that no one will make it home, it's a much heavier question.

But Belle is the one to answer. "With Pan defeated, the island holds no power. Even if it wanted to stop us from leaving, it is no longer able."

The oldest boy knits his eyebrows. "Does that mean—" he starts, but is silenced by a deafening thump as another large tree hits the ground, this one not far from the shore and sending a tremor under their feet.

"Welcome aboard the Jolly Roger," Killian says with a smile, gesturing for the boys to lead the way to the waterline and aboard the ship.

"Rufio, where's Felix?" Wendy asks, walking beside the oldest of the boys.

But the boy shakes his head. "He's always been the most dedicated to Pan and here longer than the rest of us, you know that. He said he would rather die here with Neverland than become a traitor."

"Oh, Felix," she breathes, but it does not keep her or the other boys from boarding.

As the rest of them move towards the ship, Emma moves to stand beside Killian, who is waiting to go last as the captain does. He pats Robin on the shoulder, the pain of losing Graham sinking in once more as his body is carried onto the ship. “Take him below decks. Merlin can show you where to find what you’ll need to wrap him.” Robin just nods.

"We did it, Swan," he breathes, reaching down to squeeze her hand. "How do you feel?"

"It's almost surreal," she replies, lifting his hand so she can look at his arm. She still barely believes it, would not have believed the way the water healed him if she hadn't seen it herself — and she still had trouble understanding how easily he was healed by her magic, even after learning of their connection, their destiny.

She still doesn't want to believe it, really. Everyone is so sure that it's about them, that they were prophesied ages ago to go on this journey, to save each other. She's not denying their connection, not anymore, but she still struggles to believe that they were destined to be together because some ancient seer decided it was supposed to be so.

"Let's go home," he says finally, gesturing for Emma to follow Robin and Regina onto the Jolly Roger.

Home. He's not even sure where home is anymore. For years, it was in the Northern Mountains, then with Dave and his band of followers after returning from Neverland. He's been ready for a new home for a while, he realizes, following Emma onto his ship. With her, he hopes. Hell, he's never wanted anything as much as he has wanted to be with her. They're destined to be together, but all he wants to do is kiss her, find all the things that make her happy and never stop giving them to her. He wants to wake up beside her, learn the way her golden waves look in the morning sun, the way she takes her coffee. If it means working beside her in the hospital, doing everything he can to help her while hopefully keeping them from harm — hell, he'll work in a maternity hospital. For her. He would do anything for her.

They leave the island behind quickly, the Lost Boys, Wendy, and a fully-healed Will watching it crumble, leaving behind nothing but a pile of ash and a cloud of dirt that covers the horizon.

Killian doesn't turn back. Some of the others peer over their shoulders but Killian seems to be the only one fully content leaving the island behind without a second thought — but, then again, he is the only one among them to have experienced it twice, to have it take multiple people he loves from him, even if it brought others together.

He thinks of Graham, being prepared belowdecks for burial at sea once they're out of the wretched Neverland waters; he thinks of Milah, who sacrificed so much, who hid her true identity from a world she felt so unsafe in, gone forever in the pile of rubble and debris.

Liam. He thinks of his brother, releasing the helm to feel the large ring hanging from his neck between his fingers. He left Liam behind in Neverland twice, never able to give him the burial at sea he always wanted. Well, he thinks, turning his head to glance behind him, if the entire island crumbles into the sea, then Liam is finally laid to rest as he would have wanted.

"I was wondering if you were ever going to look back," Merlin says from the spot he has found against the railing, only using the basest of his powers to move the ship along the waters until they take to the sky.

"I wasn't going to," he confesses, looking down at the ring once more. "But then I thought of Liam, and the burial at sea he deserved and never got."

"Well, the whole damned island got a burial at sea, and that sure as hell included him."

Killian nods, managing a smile. "That's what I thought, too."

They travel along the water for a few hours, pausing around dusk to bid their final farewells to Graham before taking to the sky. The sun sinks below the horizon, and Killian turns to the same star charts they used on the journey there to guide them home, though this time Emma takes part in all of it: helping Merlin and Belle fly the ship, learning the stars that they use to guide them back to the Northern Mountains. He has always felt at peace behind the helm of this ship, even when it was his brother's; having Emma beside him, his chest pressed against her back as he points over her shoulder towards the stars, is the most at home he has ever felt, and he wishes — on the stars that guide them home, on any good luck charm he has ever known, praying to the gods who have seemed to answer him a lot lately — that it's not a feeling that disappears.

The journey back isn’t as celebratory as expected from a group of people who have evaded what they all believed would be certain death. David and Mary Margaret spend most of the trip in the lieutenant’s quarters, Mary Margaret finding the sleep that evaded her the last few days, the two of them taking turns caring for the other. Merlin and Belle spend the return trip just as they did the journey there, guiding the ship through the air, though when Emma is feeling at her strongest, she attempts to assist them. (The rest of the crew does not fail to notice how Will spends much of his time sitting against the railing near wherever Belle has stationed herself, eating what seems to be a never ending supply of apples and chocolate and other types of random snacks and reading the books spread across his lap, even though he was never known to be a voracious reader before.) Similarly, after being comforted by her after Graham’s burial, Robin and Regina spend most of their time together, a pairing of sensible pantsuits and olive green attire that none of them saw coming.

Wendy and the Lost Boys spend most of their time gaping at the views over the railing, trying their hardest not to get airsick to avoid ridicule, filling their stomachs with each of Merlin and Belle’s smorgasbords as if they have never seen that much food in their life — Killian doesn’t let himself think about how long they may have been in Neverland, just how long it has been since their last decent meal, and he is happy to be the one to offer it to them.

"What are we going to do with them?" Mary Margaret asks Emma one night as she sits with her on the deck, picking at the half-eaten sandwich on the plate in her lap.

"With who?"

She points to the boys, throwing small rocks and food scraps off the deck of the ship and laughing as they disappear into the clouds below them.

"I guess we're going to—" she starts, but then realizes that she has no idea how to finish the sentence and leans closer to her friend. "What are we going to do with them?"

It's a thought that never even crossed her mind. She's been so worried about returning to the life she had, possibly even learning to include Killian in the chaos of running the hospital, that she never stopped to think about the people whose lives have been upended because of their trip. Who knows how long the boys have been stuck on Neverland, how long it has been since they were taken from their families — if they ever had them in the first place. Emma remembers the long nights on the streets of the Gale when she wished she were anywhere else,praying to whichever of the gods was listening to give her a place to belong. That's what Pan did for these boys in his own wretched way, she realizes.

“Who knows how long they were stuck on that island. I doubt many of them have thought about what they would do if they ever returned.”

But Emma shakes her head, remembering the nights she stared up at the stars and wondered what her life could be like if she were in any other situation. “I can assure you that some of them have thought about it.” She doesn’t mean for her voice to be that soft, to make the hurt so apparent in her words. She tries not to play the orphan card, especially around Mary Margaret, whose empathy is so strong Emma sometimes thinks she fully understands the heartbreak she tries her hardest to hide even though she only recently lost her father and sees her mother as often as her and David’s schedule allows.

Mary Margaret just nods, taking a bite of her sandwich. “I suppose we could start by talking to them.”

Emma can’t help but laugh, thinking of how she would have responded in their place — which, she supposes, is exactly what David did, granting her a new life in the infirmary. She wonders if any of them have discovered their powers, or if they would simply hide, dormant, for the years they spend without aging in Neverland. “We should wait until morning, though,” she comments, watching as one of the younger boys lets out a big yawn across the deck. When she turns back to Mary Margaret, she is stifling a yawn of her own. “Looks like it’s your bedtime, too,” she adds with a soft laugh.

“I’m just so tired all the time. Is this all that pregnancy is?”

“I have no firsthand experience to share, but from what I’ve heard, yeah, that’s a big part of it.”

“Someday, Emma,” Mary Margaret comments, and it’s a thought that hits her like a truck. Sure, she’s spent years in the maternity hospital, helping other women bring babies into this world, but having one of her own was never a thought that crossed her mind. Is that what she wants? Could she even bring a child into a world so full of violence and terror and the exact things they’ve been battling for the last few weeks, not to mention the War that has affected every facet of the world for longer than anyone can remember.

It’s at least not a thought that she needs to focus on right now.

“Hey, love,” Killian says, thankfully pulling her out of the depths of her own mind as he approaches them from across the deck. “We’re going to begin the descent back to the water soon. Just wanted to let you know.”

“Thanks, Killian,” she replies, offering him a soft smile, which he answers with a soft kiss to her cheek.

“I’m going to bed, then,” Mary Margaret says, one hand on her stomach as she reaches out to squeeze Emma’s hand with the other, then moves across the deck to the stairs.

“I can’t wait to be on the water again,” Killian says after a moment of silence, leaning back against the railing, and she steps into his arms.

“Why is that?”

“There’s just something calming about it, something that’s not there in the sky or even on the land. The moment the hull hits the water, I just feel… peace.” She hums, resting her forehead against his shoulder. “It’s not just the ocean, either, though. Graham always laughed at me when I would go stand in the rain, or sometimes stay in the shower for longer than I meant to.”

Emma leans back to look up at him, gears turning in her head. Rain. Showers. The ocean. The way his body reacted to the pool on Dead Man’s Peak. Water. “Killian,” she whispers, then cups her hand between them, creating a small pool of water in her palm. “Can you… move this?”

He looks first at her, then at her hands, his dark brows furrowed low on his forehead. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, love.”

“Was your mother one of the merfolk?”

This makes his eyebrows jump towards his hairline, bright eyes wide. “Pardon?”

“Your mother,” she repeats. “I know she passed when you were young, but what do you know about her? Was she a mermaid?”

“No. No, that’s… that’s crazy,” he whispers, staring down at the water in her palm, slowly dripping through her fingers onto the deck between his worn boots.

“Can you just try? For me?” Remembering how her magic reacted to his touch, she reaches her free hand out and rests it on his hip.

He nods, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. “What do I need to do?”

“Think about what you want it to do. Close your eyes. Feel it.”

“What do I want it to do?”

With a soft chuckle, she turns her eyes up to his, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. Just… anything.”

He nods, but stays silent, holding up his hand in the space between them as he squeezes his eyes shut. Somehow, Emma can feel what he’s thinking, imagines the small sphere of water rising above her hand before it happens — but then it’s there, right before her eyes, hovering above her palm.

"Bloody hell," he mumbles, his eyes darting to meet hers for a moment instead of staring at the sphere. "And you're… this isn't you?"

"No," she whispers, picturing it falling back to her hand just to make sure — but it stays there, hovering a few inches above her palm.

“Of the merfolk,” he whispers, the sphere splashing back down into Emma’s hands. “I never even imagined.”

“I’ve known for a very long time,” Merlin quips from behind them, his eyes closed but obviously paying attention to them.

“For real? And you never thought to tell me?”

He shrugs. “It was not my secret to share.”

“Why did I not learn about it sooner?”

Emma gasps, pulling Killian’s gaze back to her, and Merlin laughs, finally opening his eyes. “So you figured it out, then?”

“The Prophecy,” she whispers, barely believing the words as she says them. “Their strengths will finally be revealed. That’s the line, right?”

Merlin nods.

“Not just my strength, but both of ours. He needed… me. Us.”

It’s another piece of the puzzle that fits a little too well, that makes it hard to deny that they are the ones from the prophecy, brought together by destiny. A chill runs down her spine as Killian’s jaw drops, realizing exactly what her words meant.

“Bloody hell,” he mumbles. “I need… sorry, love,” he mumbles, backing away from her to go and stand by himself, looking out over the moonlit water as the ship makes its descent.

Emma’s heart drops and she crosses her arms, leaning back until her hips hit the railing behind her. Is it too much for him, now? The man that confessed his love for her in a cave, who has believed in their connection since the first he heard of it? She understands needing space — she would be a hypocrite if she claimed she didn’t — but she still feels a heaviness in her chest, and icy pain in her heart as she thinks of the worst-case scenario: Killian turning away from her just as she realizes she is ready to be with him. When she feels her lip quiver, she pulls it up between her teeth, turning her back to where Killian is standing and taking a few steps away from him. Part of her wants to disappear belowdecks, curl up in her hammock and hide from her feelings, as alone as she has ever been. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tries to take herself somewhere else: counting the supplies in the basement of her hospital, walking along the well-known trails by her house — the very house that she dreamt of sharing with Killian not too long ago. She shakes that thought away and tries again, this time in the palace gardens where she learned most of what she knows about plants, about healing. Then she’s in the hallway, aiding David in a meeting with his advisors, focusing on the echoing of her boots on the stone floors and not the fears running through her mind.

Across the deck, Killian turns to look at her, trying to organize the thoughts jumbled in his brain. A merfolk. He has learned so much over the last few weeks, about the world, his friends, his enemies — himself, more than anything else. He has tasted death and felt true grief, witnessed unexplainable things, traveled to places he has spent more than a decade trying to forget. Every step was harder than the previous, pushing himself harder and farther than he thought he was capable — and for every step, she has been there, healing him inside and out, stitching together his wounds and piecing together the remains of his broken heart. Why is this so difficult for him to grasp, given all of the other impossible things he has witnessed since Emma Swan entered his life? Water has always calmed him, healed him, given him a sanctuary in times when he had no others, the same way Emma became his sanctuary.

He loves her, he realizes, not for the first time, though the thought still threatens to knock him off his feet. He loves her in ways he never knew were possible, more than he ever imagined being able to love someone, loves her in a way that fills the deepest parts of him, dark spaces that hold his regrets and his fears and the few things he has allowed himself to dream about. And there is nothing, no feeling that can compare to the warmth that washes over him when she holds his hand, when she smiles at him. His mind separated the two, his powers and his love for Emma, but he realizes now, in this moment, turning away from the water to find her, that they are not two separate things. His powers only exist because of his love for her, and though the time they have spent together is only the first drop in the ocean of the rest of their lives, he wants to look back on his life overwhelmed by the memories they create together, better because of the other.

Then, he notices the pain on her face, her eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip pulled between her teeth, and her arms wrapped around her knees as she sits alone by the railing — alone, exactly where he left her. He crosses quickly, his footsteps hard against the wooden planks, and kneels in front of her, carefully reaching out to brush his fingers against her hand.

“Emma?” he whispers, but it is not loud enough to break through the wall that has formed around her, protecting her from whatever kind of hurt she feared he was leaving her with. Leaving her, he realizes. That’s what she fears, more than anything else. Is that what she thinks he is doing? “Emma, love, I’m sorry.” This time, his voice is a bit louder, his fingers a bit firmer on her hand, and her eyes open, a runaway tear falling down her cheek.

“What?” She raises her hand to wipe her cheek, but Killian beats her to it.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, covering her hand with his once more. “I shouldn’t have — walking away from you like that, it was unfair. I don’t want you to think…” he clears his throat, trying his best to smile at her through his stuttering before starting again. “I’m here, love. With you. That’s not going to change.”

“Promise?” she whispers, unable to control the quivering of her lip, and he learns more about her with that single word than the rest of their journey. The both have dark pasts, Emma’s even more than his own, and the traumas that they have endured have left pieces of them broken, pieces that may never be fixed, but pieces that perhaps can be soothed, especially when the darkness rears its head.

None of the words that come to mind are good enough. He nods. Laughs, thankfully answered with a smile of her own. And then leans into her, holding himself up against the railing to keep from crashing into her as he finds her lips with his own. It’s the best promise he can give her, and when she reaches up and slides her fingers through his hair, her other hand tightening around the collar of his jacket, he can’t help but laugh against her lips, mumbling the words that have been waiting on the tip of his tongue for the right moment.

“I love you, Emma,” he says, and she resituates them so they are laying beside each other on the deck, pulling herself into him in ways his previous wounds never would have allowed.

“I love you,” she repeats with a giggle of her own, her lips finding his again as the ship touches down on the water, lurching against the surface.

They’re back. The real world — Nephylisis, the Gale, the War. The Wasteland. But they have each other.

Anything is possible.

TAGS: @shireness-says @cssns @kmomof4 @thisonesatellite @teamhook @darkcolinodonorgasm @cocohook38 @ultraluckycatnd @facesiousbutton82 @hollyethecurious @stahlop @tiganasummertree @angellifedeath @pepperpottss @mariakov81 @scientificapricot @kday426 @xarandomdreamx @ohmightydevviepuu @xhookswenchx @nikkiemms @carpedzem @superchocovian @resident-of-storybrooke @snowbellewells @courtorderedcake @captain-emmajones @killian-whump @officerrogers @killianjonesownsmyheart1 @captainkillianswanjones – want to be added or removed? let me know!

#the wasteland #my writing #wordsbymeganmichael #cssns #cssns 2020 #my fic #captain swan #cs ff #cs fic #ouat ff #fantasy au #if you made it this far and found yourself in the tags please know there is a secret epilogue #but i'm not changing the chapter count #its already written in my head it just needs to come out

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hansoulo · 5 years ago

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toccare

Pairing: The Mandalorian/f!Reader (no Y/N)

Warnings: cursing, mando’s kind of an ass but he’s old and his back hurts so we’ll cut him some slack, Touching, Tension, Drama, Spicy Stuff (not anything too spicy tho)

Rating: T for the aforementioned spiciness

Word Count: 2.5k

Gift Credit: gif by @/doortotomorrow

A/N: here it is!!! my mando massage fic. if enough people yell at me i’ll entertain the idea of a part 2. for science. also this probably isn’t even his bed but whatever!!! canon has no consequence in this household!!

“Mando,” you called out to him, “Are you alright?”

A grunt, barely audible from beneath his helmet. You pushed away from the console, standing in the cockpit and turning towards where he sat in the pilot seat. Mando didn’t turn his head away from the front viewport but he stiffened slightly at your proximity, his shoulders tense and his hands tight around the ship controls. He was always so… wound up. Some might call it vigilance, but you preferred telling him he had a stick up his ass. Right now, he had a whole forest.

You reached to rest your hand on the pauldron of his beskar, fingertips only barely grazing steel before a firm grip was locked around your arm. Soft leather pressed against the underside of your wrist, his hold unrelenting and silent. He still hadn’t looked back at you. Stubborn. Quiet and stubborn.

You pulled away - although you knew you were only able to because he let go. Heaving a dramatic sigh, you shook your head and flopped back down into the chair. So the walking tin can didn’t want to talk. Fine. Maker knows he barely spoke anyways. Still, he could at least tell you what was wrong. Not that- not that you cared. About him. No. It’s just that when he was in a bad way, like he’d been for the past few days - he didn’t exactly lend himself to good company. It just made for an unpleasant time, is all. You didn’t care.

——-

Another groan, deep and heavy as the Mandalorian stood up from the pilot’s seat. His movements were slow and strangely stiff, a far cry from his usual posture. You imagined a rusty droid, unoiled and worn from years of use, and the image prompted a laugh to bubble up in your throat before you silenced it with a hand over your mouth. Apparently it wasn’t quick enough, though, because a gravelly “what?” accompanied the slight cock of his helmet.

“Nothing, nothing,” you shook your head, the smile slow to fade from your lips. “It’s just- are you sure you’re not hurt or anything?” Shifting around in your chair to rest your feet on the center console, you narrowed your eyes with a teasing smirk. “Or are you just getting old?”

You knew he really was in a bad way when he didn’t bother to answer, only sighing as he - finally - managed to reach his full height. “I’m going to take a look at the engine,” the Mandalorian said gruffly, stepping towards the main hangar. You hummed in acknowledgement, examining the beds of your nails with an air probably too casual for someone who was sharing oxygen with a known killer. You could hold your own, though. He knew that. Maker, that was half the reason why you were here. The other half had to do with a very small, very strange baby who was now napping in its pod behind you. “Get your feet off my ship.”

You rolled your eyes, not bothering to look back as your hand came up to form a less than lady-like gesture. So much for class and decorum.

——–

You were going to kill him. You were going to rip the beskar off his stupidly toned chest and use it to beat him into the damn ground. He was being such a… such an… an ass!

The Mandalorian had always been terse, you were used to that, but this was something else. He’d nearly driven you to tears the other day and barely apologized, only stalking off to his quarters like a petulant child with nothing other than a “m’sorry.” Yeah, sorry your ass. If he was sorry he would tell you what was going on. It wasn’t the bounties, which were plenty and easily found. It wasn’t the child. It wasn’t you- at least you hoped it wasn’t. So what was it?

It took Mando snipping at you one night for no particular reason, his tone patronizing and clipped, for you to finally confront him. Jamming an angry finger into the metal of his chest plate, you raised your head to meet the slit of his visor. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Mando?”

Your voice was harsh but whispered, not wanting to wake the child sleeping in the cockpit. He moved to push your hand away but you shoved it back, fingers splaying against leather and beskar as your gaze stiffened. “No, stop it. What’s going on? Why are you acting like this?”

“It’s nothing.” He ducked his head down, the chin of his helmet meeting his chest. Scoffing, you stepped back and shifted your weight to one leg, your eyes on him unrelenting. For someone whose job description included lying, he wasn’t very good at it. At least, not with you.

“Obviously it’s something,” you said a little softer. He let you touch him this time, your hands coming up to the dips of his shoulder that lay uncovered by armor. Another groan escaped him, barely audible but slightly pained when you pressed the stiff muscles. You furrowed your brows at the sound. “Are you hurt?”

The Mandalorian shook his head at this, but you remained unconvinced. Realizing something, you resisted the urge to laugh as you pushed your hands down against his shoulders again. It wasn’t very hard and you doubt he could feel much through the thick fabric of his shirt, but it was enough for a deep gasp to be clear through the modulator. He wasn’t injured. He was sore.

You dug your thumbs into the cords of muscle, your tone lighter than it had been in weeks. “You really are getting old, aren’t you?”

“I’m-” he hissed when you flattened your palms, “fine.”

“Mando…”

The Mandalorian’s gloved hands reaching to pull you away. Fingertips ghosted across your arms, hesitant. You sighed, shaking your head as if to rid the air of perceived ill intentions. “I don’t know if you noticed, but you haven’t exactly been pleasant to work with lately.”

You imagined a smile beneath the helmet when he huffed at your words, but maybe that was wishful thinking.

“Yeah, I know. M’sorry.” Ah, there it was again. This time, though, you could tell he meant it. You let your hands fall to your side.

“Y’know…” Oh, this was a bad idea. You were definitely overstepping. Completely off your rocker. “I could help you.”

“What?” Were you dreaming, or did his voice really just drop an octave?

“I could um-” you swallowed, steeling yourself for the rejection you were almost certain of. “I could help. You. If you wanted me to. I mean I wouldn’t- kriff I don’t know! I don’t know why I-”

“Stop talking.”

You swallowed again, lips parted in shock and your voice wavering slightly. “Okay.”

“Help me how?” He stepped closer in the darkness of the hall, his feet coming near enough that you widened your own to compensate.

“You’ve got to have like, a thousand knots in your back, Mando. I’ve seen your bed.” You laughed to cover the rising flush in your cheeks. “Not much of a bed, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.”

Funny. He was funny. It was a joke, right? Even after so long, you could barely tell. Hazards of the helmet, you supposed. It made things, at least for you, very, very awkward.

“Look, just-” you screwed your eyes shut, fingers rubbing circles into your temples. “If not for your sake then for mine and the kid’s, alright? If that’s all that’s making you act like an ass, then it’s something that I- that we can fix.”

Armor shook slightly with another deep breath, his sigh bone-deep and echoing slightly through the ship. “Fine.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

———

He was just… standing there. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was nervous. Maybe he was. “You’ll have to take off all your armor, you goof.”

“I know.” The words were tight, stretched over with something you couldn’t place.

“Hey, it’s fine,” you assured him, your voice kinder. “Relax, tin can. I’ve seen a lot worse.” You winked when he reached to undo his pauldron. “Need some help?”

Sighing, the Mandalorian sat on the edge of his bed, although calling it that was a bit generous. It was a pad probably six inches thick laid on a slab of metal. No wonder he was in such a foul mood lately. Your own cot, shoved in a too-small storage closet with an old cape (his old cape, actually) as a blanket, seemed much more appealing. Maybe he was just a masochist or something. Maybe this was some sort of weird Mandalorian penance. Or maybe he just didn’t have anywhere else to sleep.

A cough you drew your mind out of your thoughts and back on the man behind you, his armor now a careful pile on the floor. Shedding anything else was apparently a bridge too far, but it was still the most exposed you’d ever seen him. “It’d probably be easier if you um… laid down. On your stomach.” The Mandalorian nodded slowly, pushing himself up on the bed and letting his head fall. Stifling a laugh at his movements, you stepped closer. Oh. Oh no.

“Mando?” He grunted in acknowledgement, his arms straightening besides him. “I- I won’t really be able to reach standing. Is it okay if I-” you winced at your words, hoping he wouldn’t be able to notice the way your face burned. “Sit? On the bed?”

The Mandalorian sat up slightly, his elbows knocking against metal. “You mean on me?”

You nodded, tongue heavy and dry on the roof of your mouth. “It’s fine, really. If you don’t want me to I can just-”

“You can. If you want to.”

Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Okay. That was good, right? He trusted you. You trusted him. You could give your co-worker/associate/bounty hunter-you-flirted-with-when-you-got-drunk a back rub without it being weird, right? Right.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You climbed onto the bed, careful not to ram your head into anything. This was the nearest you’ve been since- since never, actually. You can’t remember, in all your years of hunts and missions and times aboard the Crest, ever being this close to him. Every rise of his chest, every jostle of his hips and micro-movement that had never been afforded to you before was on display now, inches away and undeniably human. His shirt had ridden up slightly when you moved to straddle his legs and you could see skin, tan and strong and battle-wearied. Not a tin can, after all.

You’d rested your hands on the Mandalorian’s shoulders for balance, not realizing it until his own curled into themselves, gripping the hems of his shirtsleeves until his knuckles stretched pale. Frowning, you coaxed his palms open until they rested at his sides. There. Much better.

The metal against your knees was cold, uncomfortably so, but he was warm underneath you, solid and impossibly still. You moved to the juncture of his neck, the skin there drawn tight with the weight of armor and expectations, and strings of hurried apologies followed every knead of your hands. He called your name, the sound rumbling through his chest, and you bit your lip.

“Yeah?”

“Stop apologizing.”

You grew quiet. Exactly why you listened to the Mandalorian so easily you didn’t want to think about. You blamed the water. He was probably slowly poisoning you until you went mad for his own amusement.

Everything was dampened in recycled air and hazy blue light, pulsing something that had always been present but now was coming to a head and growing a face that you refused to look in the eye. Now was not the time. There would never be a time. You would sooner step out of the limits of space itself until you were stretched thin, enveloped and spun dizzy in the quiet horror of a supernova, than admit there could ever be a time.

Catching a swollen cord of muscle along his back, you pushed down with the heel of your palm and something big shot out to grip at the side of your thigh, its touch unrelenting and so sudden that a gasp was caught in the back of your throat. It was his hand. It was just his hand. So why the fuck could it cover half your leg and then some? Why the fuck was he pressing enough to probably leave bruises?

His hand retracted as quickly as it came, accompanied only with a low noise you could’ve sworn was a whimper. You didn’t want to admit to yourself that you were disappointed, only returning your attention to the task at hand. Maybe you should treat this as a mission. Keep yourself sane and from doing something irredeemably stupid. Great, yeah. Mission to get the knots out of Mando’s back so he would stop being a prick. An awesome game plan, really. Infallible.

Squeezing slightly at the flesh between his shoulder blades, you let your fingernails scrape against the bare skin of his neck until the fabric of his collar gaped. The smallest hint of curls peeked through the underside of the helmet. Brown. Huh. You thought they’d be darker.

Every drag of your knuckles brought a sound, whether it was a huff of air or a downright moan, but you tried not to think about it. You just blocked everything out, warbling your senses until you felt submerged in imagined water and not-imagined skin and words better left unsaid. You mapped every curve of stiff muscle, down the deep slope of his back and over fabric that wasn’t thick enough to conceal the ridges, the landscapes and jagged reminders of enemy encounters. You found yourself liking them, though. The scars.

You’d pushed the shirt up eventually, whispering “is this okay?” before the Mandalorian nodded quickly, dark cloth gathering around his shoulders and bunching up where it lay against his neck. His skin was hot now, burning and lighting fuses on every frayed nerve on the tips of your fingers until you swore you’d grown numb, drunk on contact and the twilight fog of shared lifetimes. It really had been lifetimes. Since you’d met him. Since you’d touched someone like him. Like this.

You were too caught up in it, lost in your own thoughts and so focused on trying not to cross a line or hurt him that you didn’t notice he’d turned onto his back, his hands coming up rest at the swell of your hips.

He pushed up onto his elbows until your forehead fell against the helmet, the beskar against your skin like ice on a desert morning. Your eyes fluttered shut, hands coming to brace themselves on his covered chest. Everything was slow, like syrup was poured into your head and down your throat until it settled into something biting at the base of your spine, a crawling smoke of ungloved fingers and parted lips. He lifted the hem of your shirt and the edge of his helmet dipped to the curve of your neck. The words were shaky through his modulator, hoarse and dulcet. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” you said softly, reaching to grip at his biceps. “Yeah that’s okay.”

——-——-

part two

#the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian #star wars fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction

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away-from-anthills · 3 years ago

Text

chapter ten-

It was clear the russet-furred tom was hiding something.

Currantstar looked just as frantic as he was the prior night- darting around; breath light and shaky. Antstar and Stoatslink had to duck behind ferns and stones as they followed him to ensure he wouldn’t realize he was caught.

Usually, ShadowClan cats liked to keep their claws long- even Currantstar had had long, white claws the last time Antstar noticed them. But as the three cats went over the bridge, Antstar realized that Currantstar’s claws had all been chipped so they wouldn’t click as he went over the bridge’s pale wooden tiles. This was all planned in advance. Whatever Currantstar was doing here, it wasn’t something sudden.

The ruddy-colored tom took a sharp turn left, and the two WindClan cats scrambled to follow him.

“We’re on RiverClan territory,” sharply whispered Stoatslink.

“I know,” Antstar replied. “We can just tell them we’re following him.”

It became harder and harder to track Currantstar through the wetlands of RiverClan. The uneven, soft ground felt alien before Antstar’s feet. He turned towards camp as he and Stoatslink slipped between stones. Quite a few warriors were standing vigil for their fallen Clanmates, and the lights of their eyes looked like freckled, colorful stars from this distance.

“We have to be quiet,” he urged Stoatslink. “They’re all up.”

“You said they’ll go easy on us if we just tell them about Currantstar.”

“Does it look like I want to do that?”

Stoatslink looked suspicious at best. “You really like keeping secrets, don’t you.”

“I- never mind that, he’s getting away!”

They turned to see Currantstar make a sprint across a small, winding Thunderpath, just around where the little farm by RiverClan was. They followed him, picking up speed as they traveled parallel to the Thunderpath, carefully watching over their shoulders to avoid the fate that bad befallen the former deputy Rainleap a scant few moons prior.

Suddenly, the russet ShadowClan tom took a step right, into a little subdivision of Twoleg houses that lay just beyond the territory. He relaxed visibly as he did so, shoulders easing into his fur and his tail unfurling. Antstar and Stoatslink followed him from the shadows of the other side of the winding Thunderpath as he trod upon a little sidewalk. Currantstar’s head bobbed as he went, like he was counting each house he passed by- one green one, one pink one, one white one with a red door and a little birdbath in the front. Without looking at the ground, he leapt over an uneven crack in the sidewalk that could have easily tripped him.

“Does he get food here?” asked Stoatslink, his ears drawn back and the side of his lip curled in a look of disgust. “I guess that’s typical ShadowClan.”

But Antstar noted the excitement in Currantstar’s eyes was giddy, and boyish; far beyond the simple, gluttonous pleasures of Twoleg food.

Suddenly, Currantstar stopped in front of a small, periwinkle-covered house longer than it was tall. It had a garage next to it, where a small, plump olive-green monster slept. Two windows, each with a yellow glow, perched on either side of a darker blue door. Curiously, there was a little cat-sized flap on the base of the door. The house looked lived-in, but certainly much tamer, much more organized, far neater than the forests that greeted them only a short walk away, much more unsettlingly perfect than all Antstar had known.

The ShadowClan leader’s long, straight ears perked up. A small figure of a cat became visible in one of the windows. As soon as it was there, however, it disappeared. A few moments later, the flap on the bottom of the blue door began to shake.

One white foot emerged, then the other- out slid a beautiful dilute calico. She was small, but her short, cashmere fur was so neatly groomed it rounded out her features. Her face had a youthful quality to it- a small, curved nose, big teal-green eyes, and ears that seemed to just ever so slightly be rounded. Around her neck was a silvery collar with a stripe of white lace, decorated with a small, shiny jingle bell. She moved through the freshly-cut grass like water and thrust herself into Currantstar’s side, where he purred warmly and leaned into her.

“Why all the urgency, Calypso?” he teased in his smooth, crimson voice. “It’s only been a quarter moon.”

“It felt like a lifetime to me.” She had one of those voices that was light, but silky, with just enough of a darkness that she didn’t seem naïve. It had a unique accent to it- kittypet accent.

Kittypet accent was one of the things the Clan thought most terrifying about kittypets. Twolegs had a unique quality about them in that everything they were near seemed to turn into them. Kittypet accent didn’t have the gruff twang of ThunderClan, the smooth chirpiness of RiverClan, the dry snicker of ShadowClan, the harsh sharpness of WindClan, the nasally quality of SkyClan. No, kittypet accent sounded like Twolegs, and the more a kittypet was around them, they said, the more and more Twoleg they would sound until they were indistinguishable from the big, spider-pawed creatures.

But Calypso only had enough kittypet accent to be strange, foreign- and, therefore, desirable in the way only true mystery is.

“Currantstar, I must tell you something. About last night.”

Currantstar nodded, suddenly looking a touch uneasy. She stepped back, lifting up his scruffy chin with her tail to keep him interested, before she sat down, turning around gracefully.

“So, you know how last night I told you that I wasn’t sure if I was pregnant or not?”

Currantstar looked more and more uneasy. He already had looked to be in a disarray, but now he looked like an unravelling yarn sweater as he twitched and gripped the dewy earth.

“My Twoleg took me to the Cutter. Don’t worry - nothing happened. But I did learn that I am, indeed, pregnant.”

Currantstar looked to be a tad ill, his green eyes flickering with a mixture of emotions. Antstar turned to address Stoatslink, but Stoatslink’s eyes were too glued to the drama unfolding before them for him to notice.

“You look nervous, darling.”

Finally, Currantstar managed to speak something beyond a vague stutter. “The Warrior Code- my mate-“ “You told me your Clan wouldn’t mind. Isn’t ShadowClan quite accepting of it?” Clearly, the red tom had lied to her. But he couldn’t reveal the truth now- no, he had placed himself upon a house of cards, although Antstar could not tell which card was which.

“You’re right,” he said breathlessly. He fell into her shoulder and she curled around him. “You’re going to be a wonderful father. We can split the kits up both ways- half with me and half with you…”

“Doesn’t Currantstar already have a mate?” asked Stoatslink, his eyes still glued to the two cuddling cats in the same way one can’t look away from roadkill.

“He… he does,” said Antstar. “Sleekpetal, his deputy’s daughter. And she’s- expecting his kits.”

Suddenly, the booing that Currantstar had received at the previous Gathering made too much sense. And Antstar made a horrid realization- if not even Currantstar, the paragon, the one who he had wanted to be, was perfect, if even Currantstar was hated by his Clan, if even Currantstar could be two-faced and adulterous behind the calm, charming mask… what chances did that give him?

The two WindClan cats turned to leave, but as they did so, they caught sight of a pair of blue eyes, blue like hot fires, in the distance. Antstar and Stoatslink hid behind a big, boxy black monster as they watched the little tom approach.

Stoatslink seemed positively giddy with anticipation as the bile fascination twisted upon itself. “It’s Whitestone- his deputy!”

Whitestone was an old cat, definitely one of the older deputies. His deaf ears had been chipped at like weathered stones; lumps had began to develop on his hind legs. His tail had a kink in it and hung loosely behind him, the tip dragging against the pavement. He had a permanently-furrowed brow, and his blue eyes were so weary they had developed a tinge of reddish-purple.

“Currantstar,” he called. At once Currantstar seemed to shrivel inward, and he nudged Calypso’s shoulder, trying to get her to turn away. But the dilute calico simply looked puzzled as she backed away two steps, her ears turning lopsidedly as she stared at the white tom.

Whitestone marched onto the grass, and walked up until he was only a whisker’s length away from his leader. He leaned up; his face pinched with suspicion.

“Mind explaining who this is?” he signed.

“Friend of mine,” Currantstar signed back- although it was difficult for him to keep his paws from shaking so hard that they interrupted his attempts to sign.

“Friend?” Whitestone didn’t look like he’d believed a word of it. “Friend. When everyone knows you’ve been sneaking out nearly every other night. When everyone knows you always smell of one molly or another.” He stepped back, indignance boiling in every inch of his body. “And we both know she isn’t the only one you’re seeing.”

“I can explain!” Currantstar yelled out on instinct. Remembering that his deputy was deaf, however, he signed back: “I can explain! Listen-“

“Explain what?” asked Calypso, trying to understand the signing between the two. The sign language the Clans had developed was not a universal one; although certain gestures were universally understood by all cats; she had been left out of the conversation entirely. At least one thing had worked in Currantstar’s favor here.

“You’re too focused on yourself- how you look, how you act, what mollies are fawning over you- to even consider your own Clan. Half of us can’t even go to Gatherings. Why? Because to you, we’re too ugly! We’re a shame to the other Clans, in your eyes- and for why? Everything you do is a façade, Currantstar, and you damn well know it- including whatever you’re stringing this kittypet along for!”

Currantstar stood still.

“You have no reply? What about your mate- my daughter? What about your unborn kits?”

Currantstar shot Calypso a nervous look. She didn’t understand.

Whitestone stood very still, his furrowed brows pushing themselves together into one as he continued to think. Something began to dawn on him, and he stepped back.

“When you made me deputy,” he began to sign, “back when you first became leader. You were courting my daughter.”

Currantstar nodded, seemingly realizing Whitestone had dawned upon some horrid truth.

“You… you made me deputy because you thought it would make her like you more, didn’t you? That’s all?”

Currantstar, again, stood still. His eyes stared directly at the little white deputy, but his mind was somewhere else, like it had taken an exit to keep itself safe and leaving the body alone in its place.

“ANSWER ME!” signed Whitestone frantically. “Did you make me your deputy just because of that? Because it would make you look better?”

Currantstar stood still for what felt like an hour, and then- slowly, surely- he nodded.

Whitestone drew back with a hiss, winding himself, every muscle coiling, his teeth starting to bear as an adder’s did… The white tom sprang. Currantstar dodged the blur, but just barely, and the white tom dragged him back. The two became a red-and-white tangle as they traded blows, Currantstar clearly trying to disengage as Whitestone’s anger grew hotter and hotter.

“Stop! Stop!” yelled Calypso as she began to drag the white tom away- but as she did so, Whitestone raked his claws across Currantstar’s face, creating a massive, nasty gash that framed the underside of his face and went down across the lip to his chin. In panic, Currantstar tried to hold the wound, to stop it from wrecking his otherwise-perfect face- but a part of him had to already know it was too late.

“You’re telling them, when you get back. You’re telling them why you have that gash. Who you’ve been seeing. And why I’ve chosen to resign as your deputy.” Whitestone grimaced with a sort of parental disgrace. “I’m not going to be your deputy just so you can convince my daughter, when you get back home, that you’re the kind of fellow who cares about her. Fickle bastard, Currantstar, you fickle, fickle bastard…”

Whitestone left, his pelt still red in some places where Currantstar had dealt him blows. Currantstar turned to look at Calypso, the slash in his face beginning to swell as wounds tended to do.

“We have to get you cleaned up!” she said, running up to him and analyzing him to ensure no other big wounds had been cursed to him in the fight. “Who was that, though? You seemed to know him.”

“Just some useless rogue,” Currantstar fibbed. “Trust me, everything’s fine.”

“I think I’ve seen enough,” said Stoatslink. He turned to go home, and Antstar followed, down the winding path out the neighborhood into the distant, whispering forest that lay beyond them and yet was so familiar.

They were silent on the way home, only breaking their contemplation once they crossed into WindClan.

“I mean, I guess Currantstar being like that makes sense,” Stoatslink admitted.

Antstar turned in his tracks. “Makes sense?”

“Yeah.” Stoatslink’s yellow eyes flickered with the light of the stars above them. They were slightly obscured by his large nose bridge, but Antstar could still see the suspicion that hung behind them. “He was too quiet. Too perfect. Too… well, I think all leaders have their dirty secrets. But I knew upon seeing him he had some particularly complicated sets of skeletons under his nest.”

“What do you mean, all leaders?”

“…Well, look! Tatteredstar has killed members of her own Clan, like she did with Rosefire. Tulipstar became leader without being decided on the prior leader or even her Clan; her medicine cat at the time lied to them all because he just happened to like her the most. Pigeonstar has definitely caused the deaths of several cats through needless, petty battle. Currantstar has… well, that. And you.”

Stoatslink’s eyes narrowed into two slits, like he was trying to put a name to something that never had one before.

“I’m sure you’ll have something. If you don’t already have something, that is.”

Antstar had to stop himself from jumping back. Did Stoatslink know? Had he figured it out? Or- even worse- was Antstar a suspect that he was trying to whittle away, slowly, inch-by-inch until he collapsed, like vultures scavenging the dead until the body falls apart entirely?

“Anyway, seeing that all unfold was pretty funny, I must say.” Stoatslink stopped at the entrance of the gorse-flower tunnel into camp. “Just remember what I told you about Sparkthistle.”

It was silent again. Antstar looked up at the stars above him. On a clear night, like this, he could see very far- all the clusters, the entangled shapes the stars made, Silverpelt stretching herself across the sky…

He remembered being a kit, staring up into that deep, wide sky. What was out there? What lay beyond the forest, beyond all he’d ever known?

A part of that magic remained, still, so long as he didn’t think about it too hard, so long as he only looked at it for a short while.

Then, a voice. Pawsteps, light and soft- that of a kittypet’s.

He turned to see Nightblossom. Nightblossom had been one of the cats who were once rogues but had become respectable warriors when Antstar had allowed them in. Her velvety black coat had been disrupted by scratches from the fight earlier that day. Her right ear had been nicked; the notch was still getting torn open, indicating that one day the entire top half of her ear would fall off.

“Can I talk to you about something?”

It had been the first time in a while he had heard her voice. She was quite unlike the other rogues that had been let in: Shrike and Audrey were content in the elders’ den. Juniperfang was a coarse creature who had meshed into the battle perfectly. Lilystone was a strong, silent type, and her ThunderClan-like muscle and stature made her a great fit for the tunnelers. Birchshine was not particularly talented, or intelligent for that matter, but what he lacked in natural gift he made up for in effort and kindness.

But Nightblossom had sunk into the background, like the shadow of a wallflower…

Antstar nodded and let her speak.

“I know I was really excited about joining the Clan with my friends. And… I still think the Clan is great. What it stands for, how everyone works together. But…” She faltered. Her tail slunk to the ground and stood still. “I just… I can’t stand the fighting we did today. And it wasn’t even for us. I don’t want to fight. I… I felt so sick, watching the SkyClan leader and his son…”

Antstar opened his mouth to protest, but already he knew it was too late.

“I want to leave the Clan. I love my friends, and the place, but… I just can’t stand the idea of fighting, let alone for something we really don’t have any part in. I’m not Nightblossom anymore. I’m Stella, like I was before.”

She began to walk away into the black night that bore her former name, her fur peppered with light from the stars above. Already, it was like she was slipping away into nothing.

“I wish you all the best. My friends already know I’m leaving- don’t worry about telling them.”

She walked away, towards the barn, slowly picking up speed like a stone was sliding off her shoulders. She disappeared nearly as soon as she was a strong distance from camp because of her black pelt. A few minutes later, something in Antstar’s heart grew heavy, and that was when he knew she had winked out of the world of the Clans and was gone.

But Antstar’s mind soon turned away from the black and into the white as another matter came to mind.

Stoatslink.

Horror gripped at him with its long, yellow talons. He couldn’t let Stoatslink die. Sparkthistle had nothing to her name, and was not missed- if she was, it was only her shadow and her what-could-have-beens that were mourned. But Stoatslink was a family man. Two daughters, both soon to take their final apprentice assessments, friends both in and outside WindClan…

But something had to be done. Stoatslink was, after all, practically snaking around the truth, around Antstar. And if Antstar was gone, the political implications for WindClan were dark ahead…

Stoatslink was a threat to the Clan. And he would continue to be a threat as long as he was aware, as long as he was on the trail near the gorge where Sparkthistle had been found. As long as he could nose through the lies- or at least as long as he attempted to.

After all, he was telling his Clanmates that he expected a murderer was on the loose. It was a matter of public security- a panicked Clan catches no prey…

Antstar felt his brain coil as it ran ten thousand tail-lengths a minute. Faster and faster it went, faster and faster he felt his paws go beneath him, until he stopped in the open doorway to the medicine den, breath shaky. As soon as he saw Whitetooth’s teal eyes greet him, he managed to gasp out breathlessly:

“We need to do something about Stoatslink!”

#warrior cats #warrior cats ocs #story

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elsanna-shenanigans · 4 years ago

Text

June Contest Submission #21: Dashing

Words: ca. 5,500 Setting: 18th Century Caribbean/ Non-Canon Lemon: lime CW: Mild Nudity/ Swearing/ Incest/ NO Lemons/ Small Limes/Violence

A/N:

Bold/Italic indicates that a character is writing.

Italic(with no Bold) indicates a character’s inner thoughts.

This story is a work of fiction and is not intended to represent a shred of historical accuracy in any way.

Dashing

Dearest mother,

is this truly where you envisioned my life to carry me? Did you foresee that your dutiful daughter, Elsa, would be crated onto a ship bound for worlds unknown when you married her to Lord Hans Westergaard of the Dutch West India Trading Company? Did you not wish to keep your only daughter close, say on the same continent? I apologize, I should not start a letter so drearily. Conceal, don’t feel. It has been weeks at sea and I am fatigued. Before I forget, I must thank you for the wonderful parting gift. A book of dashing swashbucklers to distract from the otherwise ceaseless monotony of blue only occasionally broken by a thin veil between Heaven and Poseidon. We have entered a bit of unfortunate weather and the ship rolls like a devil. The thunder grows ever louder, and sometimes it sounds as if it’s right on top—

The wooden crate that was the captain’s quarters flipped on its side. Tables, chairs, and a lady found themselves tumbling across the lacquered walls of the gilded box before falling back to the polished floor now stained with spilled ink and a smattering of blood.

Elsa held her head as she shook off the ringing in her ears. The doors to the cabin burst open where a panicked, and soaked, Hans Westergaard stood with arms outstretched between the paneled glass and his heart beating to the drone of endless rain.

“Hans..? What was—”

“Pirates!! Hurry, hide yourself! They are already boarding!”

Pirates? Attacking in the middle of a storm?

Elsa’s thoughts were cut short by the screams of men slicing through the roar of thunder and canons. Hans had locked the door behind him, leaving the fear to bubble within her corset. She frantically ran to the closet, but her hands had begun to shake as she fumbled with the latch.

Another loud *THOOM* rocked the cabin, but this time it was against the locked door.

Elsa finally got the latch open and threw herself inside amongst the forest of silk and linen. From within her sanctuary, all she could do was listen and pray.

*THOOM*

Glass and wood crashed.

Heels of heavy boots knocked.

*knock*

The shrill of Elsa’s breath.

She held her quivering lips and tried to force the air back into her lungs.

The *knock* of boots grew. It trickled, slowly, until the canals of her ears were flooded. So close that she felt as if she would overflow with the anxiety and trapped air.

Then silence.

God, please protect me. Or send someone to protect me. Please, send anyone! Send Mr. Crusoe if you have to!

She was hit with a blinding light…

and a hand around her throat.

NO!! Get your filthy hands off me!

She screamed in her mind for her voice was clutched in the coarse grip around her neck. She fought with all her pampered might, her arms striking in all directions until they too were held in place by a second firm shackle.

Finally, Elsa managed to force her voice through the death grip.

“Get…. your brutish hands… OFF ME!!”

Blackness began to overtake her vision. The brute had her lifted against the back of the closet, her feet dangled in the air and the force around her neck tightened.

Her ears were once again flooded, but with the sound of her own heartbeat as the blood in her veins struggled to course. Until a most unexpected sound washed everything else into non-existence.

“Elsa…?”

….

That voice… a woman’s voice? I am being manhandled by a woman? And how does she know my name?

Elsa forced the darkness in her eyes to recede. The grip loosened and she fell to the closet floor. All she could see through the blur of burst veins was a wide, feathered hat, impossibly maroon hair, braided and beaded and rather filthy, and two verdant gems staring with a wide-eyed familiarity.

I know those eyes…

…..

“Anna…?”

Her attacker backed away, seemingly unsure of what she was looking at.

They stood within that broken, gilded box of a captain’s cabin. Alone with the sounds of swords and gunfire lost amongst the storm of surprise and uncertainty surrounding them.

Elsa could not bear it any longer.

“What happened to your hair?”

And years of separation vanished.

“My HAIR?! It’s been ten years and the first thing you do is judge my hair?!? Not, ‘oh hey, Anna, you look good for a dead girl’ or ‘oh my darling little sister, it’s been so long. I’ve missed you terribly?’. Either of those things would have been more normal!”

Elsa picked herself up and gently caressed the rapidly forming bruise around her neck.

“Nothing about this is normal! You tried to strangle me!”

“Oh relax. I was just trying to stop you from screaming and then knock you out.”

“Ah, I see. I am most relieved to hear that your plan was to simply render me unconscious.”

Anna’s head jerked back in a motion of mild disgust.

“Why are you talking like that? You didn’t use to sound so hoity-toity.”

Elsa looked rather indignant at the accusation as she mumbled “It’s not ‘hoity-toity’. Its grace and sophistication”.

“Well, you’re not in a graceful or sophisticated situation so come on.”

Anna grabbed her slender arm and she had almost forgotten that the hulking brute who was upon her moments before was the same lithe girl pulling her out into the rain as easily as a toddler dragging her teddy. The rain had washed the image of her sister away and all that was left was a pirate.

And her fear.

The ship rocked, lulled by the sudden absence of violence. Elsa found herself before a horde of men. Each one a more frightening image than the last and each one fit into her imaginary brute far better than the frame of her sister.

So much for Mr. Crusoe…

An immensely rotund man stepped forward with a sneer in his mouth and a hunger in his eye. Elsa had no idea someone got so large living on a ship. “Oi Cap’n! You found a bit o’ treasure there!”

His grubby hand reached for Elsa’s bosom in the most indelicate manner before a blade came between his dirty fingernail and the lace of her corset.

“You know the rules, Bob,” Anna said with a voice commanding Poseidon’s wrath. “You touch her and you lose a finger.”

Bob had the look of a scolded schoolboy as Anna dragged Elsa to the edge of the ship. “Aw cap’n… you always get the blonde ones!”

Anna spun around in a fury, leaving Elsa to stand perilously on the thin plank that formed a makeshift bridge. She panicked as she fought for her balance in her heels and voluminous dress that was gaining pounds of water every second.

“You shut your hole or I will shove Pete’s peg leg so far down your throat that you’ll be a three-legged barstool on Tortuga with a sign that says ‘reserved for Whale-Butt Willie’. Do I make myself CLEAR?”

*Silence* as the men all looked at each other in submission.

“Aye, cap’n…”

Elsa swung her arms in vain to save herself from falling when Anna decided to skip the plank altogether, lifted her like a commoner’s bride, and leaped across the gap between ships. She was carried to a new gilded box, although this one noticeably less gilded but with significantly richer contents.

“Let go of me, Anna! I am not a child, I am your older sis—”

Elsa landed on her butt as Anna crossed her arms.

“No, you’re not. Because your little sister died ten years ago. Now be quiet while I think of what to do with you.”

Elsa did her best to wring the rain out of her skirt, channeling the fear and anger building from her situation.

“What to do with me? You mean like the other ‘blondes’? Tell me, Anna, what exactly do you plan to do with me?”

“Elsa, don’t.”

“Not only do you slay men, but you bed women as well? Do you mean to have your way with me?” The anger was rapidly overtaking her fear as she glared at her little sister who still stood with her arms crossed, looking away.

“What? Gross, you’re my sister!”

“I don’t claim to know the depravities you pirates get up to. And you just said that I am not your sister. How am I to interpret that other than to treat you as you appear. A pirate who’s kidnapped me.”

Elsa’s gaze turned hard as thoughts filled her head of all the women Anna had grabbed by the neck and forced her will upon.

“…How could you, Anna?”

Anna’s shoulders visibly stiffened.

“I said, don’t.”

But Elsa did anyway.

“How could you do that to those women? You have your way with them and then what? Sell them into slavery? Is that my fate? You call yourself a woman while forcing—”

*SLAP*

Elsa stood, speechless, as a red brand formed across her cheek. The pain was nothing compared to the shock that came from her sister’s palm now embedded into her skin.

“Don’t you DARE judge me! You have been out here for all of five minutes. I have been on these waters since I was twelve FUCKING YEARS OLD! You don’t think I have had to put up with some shit?! You stand there in that ivory tower and judge my life when you don’t know the first thing about it!”

Anna’s chest was heaving in rage while she stood pointing an accusatory finger. Elsa remained motionless and silent, still trying to process the sensation across her cheek and the words being said.

Anna’s breathing started to calm. She crossed her arms again and turned so that she didn’t have to look at the bright red memento left behind by her hand.

“I…I don’t force them. I never force them. Don’t assume you know what life has been like for me. I could never do those things. I would never. My ship has rules, and those rules include being god-damned respectful so you better be god-damned respectful of me.”

Elsa’s fingers spread across her cheek, matching tip-for-tip against the first contact she has had with her sister since they were children. Her voice was low, almost a whisper.

“You’re right. I don’t know what your life has been like. I don’t know what drove you to run away, but I have a pretty good idea seeing as how I lived it in your stead. Perhaps… I sound so much like mother because…

… I was left behind.”

Anna felt the words land across her cheek as assuredly as Elsa felt her palm. She refused to turn and look at her sister. The shame of the truth was staring at her from across her own cabin and she would not bear it. She quietly stormed toward the door.

“Anna…? Where are you going?”

Still refusing to turn, Anna simply said “someone needs to pilot the ship” and walked into the rain.

I sat alone, looking out my window for years wondering if she would ever return to me, and now that she has she slaps me and holds me captive so that she can decide my fate?

Storm be damned, Elsa launched herself through the doors and turned toward the banister that led to the helm above. Her adrenaline-fueled legs carried her halfway up the stairs before she saw Anna at the wheel, staring at her in absolute shock.

Their eyes met and time seemed to slow to a fraction. Elsa felt the sound of Anna’s name on her breath as she began to release it into the howling wind. She didn’t feel the rain, or hear the shouting, or see the pully flying through the air as it slammed into her skull. All she knew was that she was about to yell out her sister’s name after she failed to do so ten years ago from her window as she watched Anna leave her behind.

\\///////////////////////////////

I’ve had the most wondrous dream. My ship was besieged by pirates! But I was not afraid for I was confronted by a most dashing figure. He was rough around the edges but with the kindest green eyes, like a crystal spring dusted with scattered sundrops through the canopy. He held me with such strength as he kissed me most tenderly. I can still taste the spicy sweetness on his lips; rum and coconut.

There he is now! The hat is missing but there is no mistaking those piercing eyes. And that hair, such an unthinkable maroon color. Yes, my dashing pirate.

\\///////////////////////////////

“Hey, you’re alive!”

As her vision cleared, Elsa lay with her back in the sand and stared wide-eyed and mouth ajar at the woman leaning above her.

“I… where…? ……..Anna?”

Anna leaned in close to inspect for signs of a concussion or any other injury. So close that Elsa caught a familiar scent from her sister’s lips.

Rum and coconut…

“Well, you look alive at least so that’s something.”

Elsa slowly sat up, fighting back a sudden pain in her temple. She reached for the side of her head and found a swath of fabric wrapped around.

“What happened?”

“You got knocked overboard. It was pretty awesome actually. You flew clear over the railing.”

“How did I get here?”

Anna placed her index finger under her bottom lip while she began to sort through her memories.

“Let’s see, first, mother married you to a slaver. Then I think I cut his head off but it’s hard to remember which dead dutchman was him. Then—”

“Anna! I meant how did I end up on this beach?”

“Oh! Be more specific, jeez. The storm carried us for a while and we washed up here.”

“You… jumped in after me?”

Anna’s face turned solemn but determined. She stood, clearly uncomfortable with the words she was about to say.

“Of course. I wasn’t going to leave you behind again.”

And despite the fact that she managed to get the words out, she still walked away in that same manner trying to keep the unsettling shame at arm’s length.

As Elsa watched her sister stroll up the beach toward the tree line, the reality of her predicament suddenly dawned on her.

“Wait, Anna! Are you telling me that we are stranded on a deserted island?!”

While keeping her stride, Anna replied with a simple “yup”.

Elsa scrambled off the sand after her, with a newfound panic quickly settling in.

“What are we going to do? How are we going to survive?! We are going to starve to death. No, we will die of thirst first. Or perhaps cannibals will eat us—”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, chill out! There’s no such thing as cannibals on these islands. Seriously, you read too many books. Relax, this isn’t the first deserted island I’ve been stuck on.”

As they made their way off the beach Elsa saw swaths of blue cloth tied around branches and an array of wide leaves that formed a surprisingly well constructed little bungalow complete with a floor, walls of fabric to keep the bugs out, and a watertight roof.

“You’ve already made a house. How long was I unconscious?”

“Only since last night,” Anna said with a casual shrug.

“You constructed all this in a single morning?” Elsa’s jaw had dropped. “Where did you get this material…”

As she examined the blue strips of fabric and the makeshift netting her eyes grew wide and wider as she inspected herself to find that she was clad in nothing but her shift dress undergarment.

“That’s my dress!”

“Ya, you had enough fabric in that thing I could’ve made a whole other house! And the boning from the corset was a real help getting things sturdy.”

“You undressed me!”

“So? We’re sisters last I checked.”

Elsa’s modesty couldn’t help but notice that Anna was equally in a state of undress unfit for a lady. She wore a pair of simple slacks that ended at the middle of her calves and tied around a low waist with a piece of rope. Her shirt, or lack thereof, was missing a few buttons, a few sleeves, and several inches too short. Her bare ankles mocked Elsa’s sensibilities and were only eager to point out that Elsa’s ankles were also parading around the sand in nothing more than her pale skin.

“Last I checked, you told me that my sister had died. So who are you to take off my dress?” she said hoping that she wasn’t blushing.

Anna sat in her makeshift hovel with a sudden onset of melancholy.

“…You’re right. I’m sorry. The sister that you knew may have died, but perhaps I was hoping… considering that I saved you and all, that you could be… this Anna’s sister.”

Elsa came over, her heart suddenly heavy as she watched this brutish pirate transform into the girl she last saw ten years ago. She sat down next to Anna, their exposed freckled shoulders barely a hairsbreadth away.

“Anna… why did you run away?”

Anna looked down, twiddling her thumbs.

“I… I was betrothed to Duke Weasleton.”

Elsa tried to recall but confusion had clouded her memory.

“Weasleton? But he was so old. And didn’t he—”

“Die? Yes, he did die. After I left a letter opener in his eye socket.”

“Oh my God, Anna!

“Mother was going to disown me and sell me to a brothel. No way was I going to let that happen so I ran. Pretended I was a boy and stowed away on the first ship bound for the Caribbean.”

Without giving Elsa any time to dwell on her history, Anna changed the subject.

“I thought you were destined for the cloister?”

Taking the cue, Elsa obliged her sister’s request.

“I was, but after you left… I became mother’s only method for climbing the social ladder. You know I was never comfortable at social gatherings. Mother basically told me to smile, and not say anything or do anything. Conceal, don’t feel. Eventually, I caught the eye of one of the ‘princes’ of the West India Trading Company. I think you and I have spoken more words in the last few minutes than he and I spoke during our entire marriage, which admittedly was only just before we set sail.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry?”

“For cutting your husband’s head off. Let’s have a toast!”

Anna reached behind her and pulled out from regions unknown a massive coconut. She reached around her other side and pulled out from different parts unknown a large knife. With the coconut in one hand and the knife in the other, she dexterously spun the coconut in her palm while slashing with the knife in precise timing to cleanly create a neat opening off the top of the husky surface.

“How did you do that?”

“Lots of practice. You should have seen the gash on my hand the first time I tried.”

“I’m glad I didn’t.”

Anna gave her sister the newly opened coconut and proceeded to open her own in the same fashion. With her own drink now ready, she motioned to Elsa’s coconut.

“To dead husbands and forgotten mothers!”

Elsa, a bit hesitant, found herself suddenly distracted. The scent of the freshly opened coconut combined with the stare of those green emeralds triggered a flutter she did not understand. She mentally shook the feeling away, concussion no doubt, and lightly knocked her coconut against the other.

“And to new sisters!”

\\///////////////////////////////

I have been stranded on an island with an unexpected companion. I don’t know how long it’s been. Time seems to pass differently here.

A moment ago, I found myself watching her for what seemed like hours. She was squatting on the beach, her elbows propped on her knees with her hands between them while she stared most intently at the sand below. I noticed that she was watching a crab enter to and fro from its burrow. At one point the crab came out of the hole and started scurrying about with its claws in the air like a little dance. Then Anna raised her own hands into the air, made little clamping motions, and started to scuttle across the sand after her newfound companion. It was absolutely absurd, this grown woman scurrying like a crab on the sand.

I can’t seem to reconcile this image of my sister who is just as boisterous, playful as ever, with this other woman. She hunted a wild boar, which she carried over her shoulders, seemingly with no effort, through the forest, barefoot, without a shred of decency. I could see the muscles of her arms tense under the weight. The freckled skin of her stomach has seen far more sun than any woman ought to. The heat and exertion caused beads of sweat to travel down her neck and across her collar bone…

It is a sight that I have neither seen nor read in my entire life and yet it is here and churning with the image of my sister scuttling across the beach. How do I reconcile such a thing?

And to make matters worse, she does not conduct herself as a lady should at all. As we explored the island, we hiked through rather rugged terrain. The ground was painful and I took quite a stumble. She had the gall to reach out and assist me as if she was a gentleman! I took the hand, grateful for the assistance nonetheless and she continued to aid me through our trek. As we scaled a wet rock, she lifted me as easily as the dead boar, and as I soared through the air, our arms glistening from the water and sweat, I couldn’t help but look up into those eyes. I thought I knew those eyes but… sometimes they stare at me in such a way…

How do I navigate these torrential feelings as they spin around my thoughts like the whirlpool of Odysseus? How can a single person be your oldest, dearest friend and yet also someone who you’ve just met… and who makes your heart skip a beat when you reach out and take her hand…and look into her eyes…?

“Wat’cha doin?”

Startled, Elsa nearly jumped out of her skin and sent the paper in her hand flying into the air where she hastily grabbed them to whisk away from her sister’s prying eyes. Anna had magically appeared behind Elsa as she sat on the beach.

A shudder trembled across Elsa’s skin as she felt the linen fabric of Anna’s shirt press against her bare shoulder blades. Two freckled arms wrapped around her shoulders and embraced her in a close but casual fashion. Yet Elsa did not receive such affection casually. She bolted up and spun to look at her younger sister who knelt in the sand with her head cocked like a confused fox.

“Really, Anna, why do you not act like a lady!”

Her response to this was to lean back, causing her shirt to stretch against her chest, and bend one knee over the other as she gave a taunting eyebrow raise to Elsa.

“I am perfectly capable of acting ‘like a lady’. In fact, It’s one of my favorite things to do.”

Elsa looked away at the sight sprawled out on the sand, basking in the sun and taunting her with wiggling eyebrows.

“Oh really?”

“You didn’t see my closet of dresses in my cabin. I can pull off quite a figure if I want to.”

“When does a pirate have need of dresses?”

Anna grew a mischievous smile. She rose from the sand and slowly sauntered over to where Elsa was standing.

“It’s one of my favorite cons. I go into one of the big cities, Port Royal or Havanna, I insert myself into the circles of aristocratic socialites whose husbands are either too preoccupied or too deceased to notice. I mingle, I dance…”

She reached out with her hand and placed a single pad of the tip of her middle finger on the edge of Elsa’s shoulder so lightly that Elsa barely felt it and yet a new shudder rocked her entire body.

“Maybe I enter the service of a… very respectable woman…”

The fingertip slowly danced across Elsa’s shoulder. It skipped over the sleeve and made its meandering way toward the base of her neck. All the while, Anna stepped around to once again place herself against the rapidly stiffening back of her sister. That single middle finger now moved in short, deliberate strokes, up and down, gradually undulating pressure against Elsa’s neck.

Her head couldn’t help but lean to the side, coaxing the finger to lengthen its stride, where she unwittingly leaned into the soft whisper of Anna’s voice against her ear.

“As I…delicately pull at the laces that bind such a… woman of standing, releasing her from her monotonous life of apathy, I let my voice carry between the edge of my lips and the arch of her ear…

‘What more will you have of me, my lady…’”

“I would have you devour me.”

“What?”

“What?” Elsa’s entire body and mind froze.

I didn’t… I couldn’t! Did I just…?

“Did you just—”

“I just— I… jest! Yes, I jest, obviously. Really, Anna, you think I don’t know how to tease you back. I may be socially inept but I can surely tease my sister!”

Elsa broke free from her sister’s thrall, clutching the papers against her thundering chest. She shuffled down the beach, her legs as rigid as wooden pillars kicking up sand in their wake. Anna watched the pitiful sight stumble over a piece of driftwood, only to pick herself back up and continue on as if nothing had happened.

\\///////////////////////////////

Conceal, don’t feel. I must conceal for I can not possibly feel what I am feeling. I can not. I do not. I love my sister because she is my sister. I have missed this connection for so long… my mind is just confused. The heat, the concussion, the sheer insanity of this place. I should find Anna. Make sure that she didn’t take what I said as anything other than sisterly teasing.

As if on cue, Anna came bounding down the beach, arm swinging wildly to get Elsa’s attention.

“Els! Come look what I found!”

She grabbed Elsa’s arm and started pulling her back toward the way she came. Elsa kept pace this time and her arm relaxed into the grip that led it down the moonlit beach. They made their way over rocks and turned a corner into a small cove. Anna stopped and spread her arms out with a beaming smile of excitement.

“I don’t understand”, was all Elsa could think to say.

To Elsa’s horror, Anna lifted her shirt over her thick, maroon locks and threw it on the rocks. She now stood half-naked in the silver rays of the night sky.

Oh, dear God in Heaven and all that is good and decent in this world and the next…

“Just watch!”

Anna looked out on the water, as black as night with only the moonbeams cascading across the surface. Then in one swift motion, she dove in.

And Elsa’s eyes became filled with magic.

The water bloomed into a burst of color. Waves of blue light rippled across the surface, radiating out from the body that had penetrated it. Anna stood in the shallow water, surrounded by the light of heaven trapped within the waves of a starlight sea.

“What magic is this…?”

“Isn’t it awesome! They are like, tiny little animals that glow at night. Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?!”

“Never…”

“Well, don’t be shy Els. Dive in! They don’t bite or anything.”

Elsa hesitated. She looked at Anna, then at the black water below her, then at the mystical blue speckles dotting the surface around Anna’s waist, like a dress sewn by fairies that twinkled in the starlight. She placed one timid toe on the surface of the water and gasped in shock as spirals of blue light erupted from her touch. She looked once more to her sister who gave her the most reassuring smile in the entire world.

And she dove in.

Elsa soared through the azure sky, her loose hair flowing behind her as she came up from the surface near where stars in the sea met the stars that studded the pale skin of her sister’s body.

I can’t. I don’t! I won’t…

They stood inches apart, wading in the night sky like star-crossed constellations desperate to reach out and touch only to be perpetually far apart for eternity.

I mustn’t……..

She felt Anna peering deep into her soul. Did she wonder what was going on behind her eyes, as blue and brilliant as the luminescence surrounding their bodies? Could she sense the howling winds? Could she feel the thundering heartbeat through the water?

Would she feel it?

I… Oh to hell with it!!

The raging storm crashed against the surface. Hard and heavy and full of unbridled desire and longing. All at once, Elsa had released the torrent within her, letting the swells of her passion wash over her sister’s lips, her skin, her entire body, and soul. The magic had struck like lightning.

And then it was gone.

Anna pushed her sister away. That chasm of the cosmos restored.

“Elsa, what the hell are you—?”

“I am going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer me truthfully.” Elsa stood her ground in the heavens that would deny her.

“When you look at me, what do you see?”

“I don’t understand Elsa…”

“Do you see that girl, looking from her bedroom window? Her hand on the glass. Too afraid to go outside, too afraid to call out your name. Because when I look at you I see this girl. I see her laughing and playing and rolling around in the mud. But I also see this woman. Strong and kind. She makes me laugh, makes me inspired! I tremble when faced with the perils of the entire world, and yet she stands on top like it’s her domain! Tell me that I am insane. Tell me that all you see is that girl in the window and then I can be rid of these feelings that plague me for this impossible woman who can not be both sister and lover! Please—!!”

“YES, that is ALL I see!”

Anna was trembling. She still looked deep into her sister, locked by the pleading gaze no matter how much she wanted to turn away.

“That girl… that big sister who I left behind. When I look at you that is all I see.”

Elsa’s breathing finally started to slow. The words that she pleaded to hear had broken through the clouds of her heart and the calm would soon take over. The acceptance of what she already knew to be the way of the universe would come. Once back to civilization, she could resume her life. Banish the madness and—

“I saw her… every day. Everywhere. She was there when I joined a crew. She stood by me as I learned to man the wheel. I would not have survived a single day out here without her by my side.”

Elsa’s breathing had slowed to the point of imperception.

“…I saw her in the women that I knew. In…the women that I loved…It sounds so wrong but when you’re a young woman who relied on the faded memory of a long-lost sister for your support you can’t help but find that sister in any amount of affection you find! I had long accepted that it was my madness and I would take that madness wherever I go. And now that madness has taken a hold of you. When you came back into my life, I thought I could bury it, but instead, I passed it on to you.”

Each woman now turned away from the other, no longer able to meet each other’s solemn gaze.

“When we get off this island, I will go back to my ship and I will bring you to Curaçao and we will go our separate ways.”

Elsa simply nodded.

“I would still like to write you… if I can?” Anna’s voice had lost her usual commanding confidence.

“I would like that…” Elsa’s voice could barely carry itself over the narrow strip of water between them.

Anna slowly made her way across the water to the rocks where her discarded shirt lay. She buttoned the few remaining buttons over her chest when she heard the whisper of the water moving behind her.

Her dress clung to her body, revealed in the glow. Their eyes met for the first time once more and an inexplicable force dragged Anna back into the water and in the embrace of the siren below. Elsa’s hand caressed Anna’s cheek. Her finger traced lines down Anna’s neck. The span of cosmos between them receded until the storm that had once rocked both their celestial cores had dissipated and all that was left was their lips crossing the horizon. And Elsa felt her sister’s name on her breath once more as she finally released it to the wind.

“Would one night of madness be too much to ask?”

#elsanna #submission #June 2021 contest #prompt: storm #lime #cw: violence

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virgil-writes · 3 years ago

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ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him. (Heisenberg x OC)

chapter 8 - great expectations

SFW, but usual blood/gore warning. around 3.5K words.

He barely remembers getting dressed and returning to his quarters after such a relaxing shower. At some point he had slipped inside his pants and slid an undershirt on, thrown himself at the desk chair and poured over plans and schematics, a mess of paper and far more motor oil than necessary. He had written and read until his eyes had grown tired, like every other night, fighting off sleep to the best of his ability. He could sleep when he was dead, or when she was dead, when he was far away from this hellhole, when nothing awaited him come morning.

Some nights he would skip it altogether, keep his eyes wide open when his mind was too fraught with dreadful thoughts. He knew what would come if he finally closed his eyes, the memories that he worked so hard to put away. A dream, it was only a dream, he would tell himself over and over, but it was hard to believe it when he would wake up drenched in sweat and tears, throat sore from screaming at the top of his lungs, that all too familiar twinge of sadness and terror balling up in his chest. It was hard to believe and hard to forget, because he would see it when he held the wrench, when he brought a cup to his lips, when he pressed the buttons to get the conveyor belt running. His hands shook, his fingers lost their strength, and then we would remember it all. It was not real, but it had been once, and he is unsure whether the knowledge makes things better or worse.

Heisenberg remembers nothing but the familiar tingle on his fingertips, the numbness that overtook him, anxiety and fear washing over him like he had been engulfed in a sea of darkness. The scribbles on the paper would be evidence of how he had lost control the night before, how he had pressed the pencil hard to try and force himself to focus, to keep going. The cut on his forehead would tell him that he exhaustion had taken the reigns and he had fallen face first into the table, head hitting the metal clamp and inadvertently helping lull him to sleep.

Much to his surprise, that night, when Heisenberg closed his eyes, he was greeted with the blissful sight of nothing. Head void of dreams, of nightmares, body protesting with the awkward way he’d scattered over his work station, but nothing else. The cut had stained some papers with blood and drool had ruined some others; his arms felt numb in the morning, as they had been left hanging off the desk with his head and neck as the only support. It took him a good few stretches of his hands to feel his fingers again - all things considered, this had been a much better night than most.

If the night was almost-pleasant, the morning was anything but. A hot gust of air blew in when the factory kicked into gear with full force, like it did every day around this time, the whirring of blades and purring of engines his usual white noise. Only this time there was an intruder, a high pitched, repetitive sound that threatened to pierce his eardrums - he woke up to the incessant sound of his phone ringing. The thing sat just inside his office, an old landline that Miranda had insisted on him keeping in case she needed to speak to him urgently. She would call him every now and again, but more often than not it was his siblings that would bother him. Moreau would call to ask if he had found any old VHS tapes or old fiction books, Donna would ask him for blades and all manner of crazy-looking schematics built. Alcina rarely called, but given her interest in the bloodsucking beast that prowled the woods, he was certain that would change very soon.

Not that he intended to answer any of them, naturally. Nine times out of ten he was nowhere near the dumb phone to answer, which made Mother angry and him even angrier, because the last thing he wanted was to interrupt important research to tend to any of their petty, cruel whims. When she called, invariably he would be thrust into something barbarous and despicable; she wanted someone kidnapped, or killed, or turned into a monstrosity. She wanted him to spy or intimidate, put on his best scary mask and drill the fear of the Black God into someone’s mind. She never once asked if his research went well, if he was doing well, and though it had been years of such abuse, he could not help but feel the sting of it every time he heard her speak. Somewhere deep down, he still held onto a sliver of hope that she cared; and she would always dig deeper and deeper, until she found it and choked his feelings to death.

Heisenberg lazily lifted his head, right arm coming up to wipe away the drool at the corner of his mouth, eyes hurting under the bright industrial lights coming in through the window. A strand of hair had sneaked into his eye when he blinked, such a small nuisance upsetting him even further, a simple strand of hair that felt like the devil’s toothpick stabbing his eyeball. The phone had stopped for a few seconds only to resurge like the wailing of a baby, and the ringing prompted him to shoot up and off his armchair in a flash, too disoriented and uncomfortable to fully register what was going on. He almost fell on his way to the phone, tripping over his unbuttoned pants, annoyance levels rising with every step. He rubbed his eyes as he approached the offending object, flicked the room’s light on like it would help him hear better. At least it would keep him awake.

“Heisenberg,” came the voice from the other side, sweet and soft-spoken, domineering and stubborn. “Any news on our quarry?” Our quarry, he mouthed to himself mockingly. As if any of it was a team effort, as if he had anything to gain from this little adventure. Well, as it turns out, he did, but lady super-sized bitch didn’t need to know that. The damn hair was still stuck somewhere between his eyelashes. “A little bird told me you left the forest quite late last night.” A little bird would die a horrible, horrible death as soon as he discovered who it was that had agreed to his sister’s asinine plan of meddling in his business.

“Oh hey, sis. Surprised you get reception all the way up there.” He heard her huff of annoyance, chuckled in response. It bought him enough time to figure out exactly what he would tell her. Hey, yeah, turns out your monster is actually this gorgeous lady with a pair of tits big enough to rival any fertility goddess’? “Slippery little thing, that monster of yours. Found some bodies, some blood,” truth was always easier to tell than lies. “Caught a glimpse of something, too, but it disappeared in the middle of the trees before I could grab it. Little shit gave me the loop, took me quite a while to find the way back.” Heisenberg could practically hear her chest rising and falling as she breathed excitedly, happy to hear something, anything, even if it was a blatant lie. He could hear her nails hitting against wood impatiently, stringing together a tune he did not recognize. “What do you want with this thing anyway, needing a new pet?” Quite the funny thought, really. He was suddenly curious to know if the little witch would put up a fight as a tight collar was snapped around her neck.

“Am I right to assume you will return to the forest soon for another search?” Oh, most definitely, though his intentions were far different from what she expected. She continued without waiting for his answer, clearly aware that he would retort in the crassest manner possible. “I will see you handsomely rewarded once I have it in my possession, brother. House Dimitrescu does not forget such acts of service.” And there it was, brother, the greatest honor she would grant him, a compliment reserved for moments like these, when she desperately needed his help and no one else’s would do.

Blah, blah, blah. What was she going to offer him, a maiden? A scrawny lady with bruises big enough to make one believe her skin was purple, bones showing through her ribs and threatening to poke out at any moment? He had long decided against experimenting on women - they were always so weak and fragile, he would tell himself. Had long left behind his whoring days, too, far too focused on his research to let himself be distracted by a pair of tits. Oh, right; the irony. What else could she give him? A casket of wine made of blood of an innocent, with its thick bouquet of brutality and mercilessness?

She could offer him riches, influence, her undying loyalty. The only reward he wanted was to see her fractured into a thousand tiny pieces, nothing left of her and her daughters but the crystal cores they would dissolve into. The jewelry he would keep, the crystals he would sell to the Duke for a hefty price; the dust he would gather, send to an artist to mix into paint and commission a portrait of himself in his best work attire, his beat up trench coat and ragged hat. To make a statement, his fly would be open and his dick out in the painting, forever immortalizing him as the large, hard Lord of the Castle. With the money he would buy the best brewery he could find and have it make the worst beer, call it Lady D’s Fresh Piss, all in her honor, naturally.

He would bring over his suitcase and set up shop in the castle, tear down every reference to the Dimistrescu family and replace it with cheap replicas of innocent, idyllic landscapes, and dozens of horrible quality photos of his face. The extra large milk pail she called a hat would be used for entertainment when he gathered guests over, shoot the ball into the dead lady’s hat or take another shot. His soldats would clean house, kill every last monster in the basement, replace those god-awful torture tools with something else, anything else - maybe pigs, to pay homage to his dear sister. He would then fire all maids and forbid them from ever setting foot inside the place again, hire an all-male crew to tend to the estate and leave him well enough alone. On a clear day he would grab all of their expensive dresses, the paperwork that dignified her as gentry, her snob literature and photo albums, pile them all into the courtyard and burn it all, the vineyard alongside it, then light his cigar in the blaze and smoke it while facing the inferno, the flames reflecting beautifully on the lenses of his glasses. Once it had all turned to cinders he would strip before going through the front door, waltz around the place while rubbing his dick on all of her favorite spots. He would dump all of her fine wine in the biggest, smelliest cesspool, grab the revenue from the last shipment and throw it from atop the church in the village to watch the peasants fight each other for riches that were supposed to be hers.

Perhaps best of all, he would invite Alcina’s little monster over, encourage her to come in while dragging all the dirt and mud gathered on her bare feet. He would give her a tour of the castle, allow her to decorate every room with a harvest wreath or handmade candle, let her cover the posh couches with handmade quilted throws. Together they would roll up the fancy carpet and throw it in the fireplace, lay down the most unrefined of straw tapestries in its place. The mantle would be a display of their crudeness and peasantry, his schematics and forgotten bits of scrap metal, her incenses and rune-inscribed bones and whatever else her little heart desired. He would allow her to have her pick of his sister’s jewelry, try and convince her to take them all, to wear nothing but her favorite set as she danced under the skylight of the atelier, the flames of all tolling bells and the bright shine of the moon as the only source of light for their unholy, delicious rituals.

When silence settled he would grab her waist and pull her closer, whisper in her ear the most delectable of invitations. Together they would desecrate every last corner of the castle, from the halls to the belfry and the stairwells to the balconies, the cries of agony the place had come to be known for replaced by their sounds of pleasure. When they were far too tired to continue they would work together in the kitchen, he would help her prepare a bloodless meal that they would savor watching the wide open doors to the courtyard. He would sit at Alcina’s spot, ignore every single piece of flatware and eat with his bare hands, audibly chew on every morsel. He would draw every curtain and open every window, let the gelid gale wipe away any trace of her and her daughters. Late at night, he would carry his prized lady up the stairs to her quarters, gently place her on the giant bed and cover her with the decadent expensive sheets. She would ask him to stay, and he would, hold her close as she slumbered and he stared at the top of the canopy and let out a tired sigh almost a hundred years in the making. He would be free, and he would have claimed it all, a fitting end to his sordid tale.

If he wasn’t sure Alcina would rise from the grave and put herself back together out of sheer spite, the whole thing didn’t sound half bad.

Heisenberg barely registered whatever she said after, far too immersed in his little happy place to give a shit. She had talked for what seemed like hours, something about training the beast to present it to Mother Miranda, to allow her to experiment and find out what sort of things they could learn of such a splendorous mutation. Some illusions of grandeur sprinkled here and there, the very obvious wish to become the best, most adored child. He felt like Alcina wished Mother would descend upon her in a ray of light, to lift her up and away towards the heavens to take a place at her side. What a load of crap, though he had to admit it was far more than he would have given her credit for when she came up with this sordid little plan.

At some point, she finally realized she had said too much, exposed too much of her grand plan, had become too excited with the prospect of having that admiration within her reach. That, or she had grown tired of sounding too friendly with the riffraff. She quickly finished saying her piece and hung up without waiting for him to say goodbye, wishing him good luck on the hunt, reminding him she had great expectations. As did he.

He found his mind wandering back to his little witch in the woods as he placed the handle back on its hook. Where did she even come from, anyway? Was she born in that miserable place, brought up among the failed experiments of this village in middle of nowhere, Romania? Did she know how to use money, or were the lei they used foreign to her? He had it in good confidence that she could read, considering all the books he had seen around, but did she know how to write? Had she ever seen electricity at work, or had her life been lived under candlelight? Could she drive a car? Operate a telephone? Did she have toilet paper in her outhouse or did she wipe her ass with ferns or something of the sort? How did she find out about nail polish, of all things?

Had she ever lived outside that lousy shack? Did she ever get a taste of luxury, of fine wine, scrumptious desserts, someone to cook and feed her, maidens to attend to her? Had she always worked the land and tended to livestock, gathered herbs and berries in the forest? Had she cared for her parents or grandparents and learned her trade then, offered her services to lice-ridden villagers when they were no longer in the picture? Had they ever met, some day when he was too busy with his own sorrow to notice her, to take in the beauty that had come to haunt him so? Had she ever shared her body with someone, with a lucky lad or lass that caught her vulnerable and willing on a lonely night? Did she… Did she think of him, as much as he had begun to think of her?

Her shroud of blood and mystery, alongside Alcina’s excitement over the prospect of having her torn apart, had a strange feeling seep within his bones, a pang of anguish tugging at his heartstrings. All the more reason for him to hide the truth for as long as he could - even if the witch turned out to be just really clever with herbs and some hallucinogens, he wouldn’t give dear sister the pleasure of sinking those rusty nails into her flesh. Not when he had so much to discover.

Finally alone with his thoughts and away from his fantasies, he looked down at himself to see his shirt tousled, the fly on his pants undone. He had slept alright, although passed out might be a better description. In his defense, he had tried to fall asleep like a normal human being: sat down and let his mind go blank, eyes firmly shut to try and get some rest. But try as he might, he always startled as he was about to drift off, the sight of the dark horse dissolving into a puddle of blood right before his very eyes, of Sturm’s decapitated arms almost comically flying in his direction. Rage followed soon after - another failure, another waste of time. How would he make that thing rise again? He was then caught in the infinite loop of thinking, and planning, and burning out in frustration, until he could carry on no more.

Of course. He remembered it now, what had finally lulled him to sleep, in the throes of his despair. The way she had distracted him with a well-placed, gentle hand on his face, to work her magic and make his pain disappear, to preserve the secret she worked so hard to maintain. The gash on his hand that had left no trace, the lycans and moroaicas dead but not quite. The way she seemed to have a knack for putting things back together again, to prop them up on strings and have them dance like a puppeteer would. If he brought her here into his den, allowed her a glimpse of his work - would she be able to help him? Would she want to?

At first, he had thought the whole thing was bullshit. So maybe she knew a few plants, knew how to make a mean incense to get him high as a kite and seeing shit. Maybe she had some medical training and could put a nose back in its place, big deal. Maybe she held the world record on fastest, most painless stitching of human flesh, and was in cahoots with the Duke to use whatever seemingly magical substance he put in his antiseptic solution. Whatever she was smoking to say that she could actually heal things, that she might just be able to murder Mother Miranda - he wanted some.

And yet the more he thought of it, the less sense it all made. Her touch was unmistakable when she held his chin up, when the monster’s wispy tendrils had done the same. There was no doubt that she had, indeed, healed his wounds. The decapitated heads were very much alive, the blood pungent, the bite as painful as it should be. If she had killed them, how had she brought them back to life? How had she kept them alive on borrowed time, negated the effects the very creator of the Cadou could not avoid? How far did her powers go? Were they powers, like his and Moreau’s and Donna’s and Alcina’s, or a clever trick of the mind?

Whatever the case, Miranda had spent the better part of a century trying to bring back a dead girl in the body of another, necromancy a far too advanced concept for her young mind back in the late twenties. She had spent countless hours, spilled gallons upon gallons of innocent blood, spread a disease that they no longer had control over in the lycans, all for naught. And suddenly some creepy girl at the ass-end of the woods was the second coming of Jesus? She had knocked him on his ass and somehow morphed into this giant mass of blood that would make the hairiest of grunts shit their pants. If there was any chance that she was for real, then it would change everything. The possibilities were endless. He just needed to tell apart the bullshit from the truth.

#resident evil #resident evil village #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x oc #karl heisenberg x reader #virgil writes #a rather chill chapter but next comes soon

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titanjujuzist · 4 years ago

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Hiiii! I came to say that I LOVED the reiner fic!!! I would 100% read a part two. I like to think that youre going to give us a good ending :")

[Read Part 1 here] Omg brace yourself, this part is going to be ANGSTYYYYY. (Nice of you to think of a good ending tho, I wanna think about it to :’) )

Reiner Braun

Reiner and you both joined the Survey Corps, plus, the two of you have become a couple.

After all the terrible things that happened, the first time together at the Survey Corps was pretty nice - not relaxing, but nice.

You would go on your first mission soon, so there was a lot of training again. And since you are used to Reiner and Bertl as training partners, you continued this tradition.

Reiner especially enjoyed the sparring sessions with you - he had become veeeery touchy since you became a couple. His hands often meet the small of your back, your thighs and waist.

And even though it sends shivers down your spine, you used this fact to your advance: You often sent Reiner to the ground. (In his opinion this made you ten times sexier).

Life at the scout’s head quarter was a little more relaxed than during your training. There were no separated dorms, every scout had their own little room - some of them shared the bigger rooms - and you had dinner with everyone, no matter what military rank they had.

Therefore, Reiner and you often sit together with the rest of your friends until late at night, chatting, bonding, and enjoying the fact that you are still alive.

And you spend the nights together with Reiner. Not every night, because you didn’t want to cause any trouble (like, when both of you were super tired during training).

Most nights you just lay side by side, holding each other, talking. Reiner’s fingers would softy run through your hair and his broad chest would make the best pillow ever. Reiner would love to hold you close, feeling your tiny (tiny compared to his) body.

And when the two of you are not talking about your day, your feelings, or your childhood (he’s pretty silent about that...) you spend your time making out.

Reiner is anything but shy. Oc, he would never do anything you didn’t want, but he was definitely the type of guy who initiated things.

Be prepared to be pushed against the door as soon as it closes behind you. Reiner just loves to feel your skin and his hands would be everywhere. He also enjoys it, when you sit in his lap on the bed, letting out little gasps whenever he kisses your neck or shoulders.

Making-out soon wasn't enough anymore for neither of you - and it was Reiner who initiated the next step:

“Y/N… damn, I really would like to...you know…” His voice was already husky from your make-out session and you felt a blush crawling up your cheeks. “Would...would you want it… Like...can I…?” You almost chuckled at how uncharacteristically shy he was, but you nodded. “Yes, Reiner. Let just take these damn clothes off.” And confident Reiner was back again.

Your first time was neither perfect, but also nor a disappointment. There were awkward moments of course - especially when you saw how well equipped Reiner was. He was pretty eager and would have liked to get down to business as fast as possible, but luckily you suggested to him that...he might want to prepare you a little.

Apart from that, it was really fun and lovely. Reiners long fingers did a good job in preparing you, and despite his own excitement he took his time to make you feel good. At the same time, your fingers were discovering any inch of his body, your lips every inch of skin, and it almost made Reiner lose it. He actually had to stop you at some point.

Eventually, the two of you came together, enjoying each other's presence, devouring eachothers feelings… And even though both of you had already dropped the L-word casually, you felt even closer now. Both of you are deeply in love.

The closer you and Reiner got, the more you got the feeling that Bertl had something against your relationship… You just thought he might be a little jealous at this point, since Annie was no longer with you.

Of course, the good and sweet honeymoon times don’t hold on for forever. Your first mission starts and Reiner hated the thought of not riding by your side. He even thought about discussing with Erwin about it, but you shut him up and reminded him of how many times you had kicked his ass. He is still worried, but got quiet.

When the formation is broken and the titans appear along with the Female Titan, Reiner almost freaks out and you are worried as well. However, you are not with him when he and Jean and Armin meet the Female Titan and your boyfriend almost gets crushed. You end up with Christa, after the soldier next to you got eaten and you had to kill the monster, and the two of you find a lonely horse. You take the horse and continue the way, when three figures appear in the far. And it took you only seconds to recognize the shape of your boyfriend.

You girls spur on the horses and ride towards the boys. Reiner sees you. His eyes start glowing and he says to the other boys:

“I am going to marry her.”

Reiner wraps you in his arms immediately, but you remind him of the current dangerous situation. So after saving the boys, you reunite with the rest of the squad, and storm towards the forest. What happens there is history. You and Reiner stay on one of the trees, and later help with helping the wounded soldiers. It was a massacre again and the morale of the Survey Corps was deeply hurt.

When you are back at the headquarters, you and your friends have a drink on the dead. But Reiner is nowhere to be seen.

Reiner is outside with Bertl, having a serious conversation. The taller boy was furious and worried because of Annie, and tried to remind Reiner of the reason why they were here.

And there it was again. The pain inside of Reiner’s head. “Reiner...what are you doing? You act so strange lately, especially since you are with Y/N.” “What has this to do with my and Y/N’s relationship!?” “You act reckless! Like, I know you took a liking into her, but you are aware that this has no future, are you?” Reiner is taken aback by these words. Why shouldn’t the two of you have a future? “You better watch your mouth, my friend. I don’t see your problem, Y/N and I are happy, and we will stay together until one of us dies while defending humanity from the titans!”

It is at this time that Bertl understands what Marco’s death and the training here on Paradis had done to Reiner. And he becomes even more worried. He wants to say something, but suddenly you appear outside. “Here are you boys! Are you alright?” You hand both of them a bottle of beer and wrap your arm around your boyfriend. Reiner pulls you close and smiles softly. “We were just discussing some stuff, babe, nothing too serious. Let’s go back inside, I just wanna hold you tonight, my cute little saviour.”

The following days are pretty quiet. You, Reiner, and some of the others are send to another headquarters. There is a weird feeling all the time, since the older soldiers are all wearing their 3D Gear while you youngsters are bored as hell. You and Reiner can at least sneak away to have some (sexy time) couple time again.

And suddenly, one afternoon, titans are coming towards the headquarters and you need to flee. Wall Rose has fallen. Reiner seemed rather confused rather than scared, while Bertl has hit a state of disbelief. Maybe both of them are still shocked from what had happened in Trost. At least, this is what you thought.

It is a dangerous ride and Reiner stays by your side all the time, even if you accompany Connie to his home. It is even more dangerous at night, when you cannot see anything. Shills are crawling down your spine at the thought of titans lingering in the dark. In the end, you reach a castle and find shelter there. All of you have no idea what is happening, but at least you got a little rest.

Reiner sits down next by your side and wraps an Arm around you. “Hey, babe, how are you feeling?” “I don’t know, Reiner. Like, what the fuck is happening. Actually I am afraid… we don’t even have our weapons with us…” “Well, at least to have me as your brave knight.” Reiner realizes that he cannot cheer you up with his jokes, so he pulls you closer. “We will survive this, Y/N. I won’t let us die… none of us. We will make it out of here and everything is going to be fine again…” “You really think so? And what after that? Waiting for the next dangers? I don’t even know if we will survive the next few days, Reiner…” “But I do. We will survive, we will safe the day, and we will stay together.”

He looked you deep in the eyes and he was so convinced by his own words that he convinced you as well. “We will stay together,” he repeated, “and have a damn long life to annoy each other. I promise.” This promise is the reassurance you needed.

You lay your head against his shoulder and fell asleep at some point. When you wake up, Hell is breaking upon you. The castle is getting attacked and you and your friends need to defend yourself without any weapons. When Reiner is bitten by a titan and threatens to jump out of a window, you scream a bunch of swear words that would even make Captain Levi blush. Luckily, Connies saves your dumb boyfriend from death and you all make it to the top of the castle, where you see your advisors die brutally. This is it, you think, you are going to die.

But the rest of the events are history. Ymir and the other members of the Survey Squad save the day and you make it out alive. Together with Eren and Co. you arrive on top of the wall. But something feels odd to you. There is a tension in the air which you cannot quite grasp. And when you want to check on Reiner, one of the other scouts steps in your way to treat the little wound you got on your cheek. It feels like...he tries to hold you away from something.

And while the cut at your cheek is stitched up, you glance over at Reiner - and before you kno what is happening, your world breaks apart because at the point where Reiner and his best friend were standing now the Colossal and the Armoured have appeared. You cannot understand. You don’t want to. You are deaf, feel nothing, can just stare.

The next minutes feel like an unreal dream because you could not understand why the people around you screamed that Reiner was the Armoured Titan. Images flicker through your head: You see Reiner on your first day of training, see how both of you slowly became friends and grew older together, how he held your hand and kissed your cheeks, how he wrapped you in his arms after joining the corps, how you spend your first night together.

You just stand and watch as the Armoured jumped down the wall with Eren in his hand, the boy outrageous, calling him a traitor. Traitor. Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.

You do not care about the fight between the titans beneath you. All you can think of is that painful feeling of betrayal that creeps up your body and takes a seat deep in your heart. Reiner. Traitor. Lover. Traitor.

You remember the day of the fall of Wall Maria. How your family was killed by titans, titans that were only able to enter the city because the Colossal and the Armoured had attacked humanity. Reiner. Reiner told you his story, how his village was destroyed as well. Liar. Traitor.

Someone screams your name, but you are still deaf, incapable of understanding what is happening. And then you let the thought into your brain. Allow yourself to understand the impossible.

Reiner is the Armoured Titan.

You are back to reality and the first thing you see is the Colossal only metres away from you. Bertholdt. The pain in your heart is accompanied by something else: Anger. And when you see how the Colossal Titan falls down the wall, knocks out several soldiers and enables the Armoured to make a run along with Bertl, Eren and Ymir.

Not the Armoured. Reiner. Reiner Braun.

This is all it needs. You jump off the wall, finding hold at the OMD Gear of an unconscious scout, who is just hanging there. Your hand starts to bleed while you slip down, but you don’t care. You have no weapon, nothing. But you cannot just stand there. Your feet touch the ground and you start running towards the massive titan who is about to flee. “REINER!!!!”

Your scream is loud, shrill, and full of pain and desperation. And it makes the Armoured turn his head towards you. You don’t try to recognize Reiner’s features in these glowing eyes. You don’t want to.

Your eyes meet for a split second, at least you think so - and then Reiner starts to run. Away from his fake life, away from his fake comrades, away from you. His fake lover.

You sink down on your knees and the deafness surrounds you again.

Reiner's head hurts.

#reiner braun #reiner scenario #reiner x reader #attack on titan #aot x reader #attack on titan scenario #attack on titan imagine #aot #aot scenario #aot imagines #snk #snk x reader #armored titan #reiner x you #shingeki no kyojin #snk scenario #snk imagines #snk headcanons #berthold fubar

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