#i haven’t been able to draw a torso in weeks yet I managed to put this together

[starryrock]

So I got an idea from this screenshot I took of a small doodle in the manga.

Textless versions and the gag that inspired this.

[banditcoyote]

Wrangled and Tangled

Sasuga stood by the sink washing the last of the dishes from tonights meal. She smiled softly to herself as her tail flicked behind her, happy about the sets of cups and plates she had picked out, feeling domesticated and settled looking over the two sets of dishes her and her lover had shared, something about them in the drying rack felt almost romantic to her. But maybe it was just the way the sunset was showing so pink and purple over the water that was making her feel that way, the cool summer breeze blowing in from the open Lanai. She hummed to herself a little as she dried her hand and reached for the first plate, ready to dry them herself, when the dish cloth was plucked out of her hands swiftly.

“Let me take care of that.” Simon said perching himself onto the counter and starting to dry one of their plates.

“All the left overs put away?” she asked leaning against the counters and bringing her wine to her lips.

“Most of them.” he said with a nod. “Except for the second helping I couldn’t resist, which is now residing in my stomach.”  

She laughed lightly, brushing her hair back behind her ear “Well I’m glad you enjoyed it.” She said with a nod, moving to cozy up to him just a little bit, her eyes full of warmth, and maybe a bit of mischief. “Maybe we can enjoy some other things when you’re done putting those dishes away.” She said with a curl to her lips.

Simon returned the smile and took a moment to lean down to kiss her easily, drawing back with a little hum. “I can think of some things for sure.” He added. “But before we get too distracted.” He placed the clean plate down on the counter and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small ring box and placing it on the counter next to her hand. “Happy Anniversary.”

Sasuga froze at the sight of the small velvet box and her large eyes went wide, slowly looking up into Simon’s face, searching for the meaning.

Simon at once realizing what she might have thought smiled and blushed. “I know we’ve talked about it, but this is just a promise ring.”  Sasuga let go of the breath she was holding with some relief. He picked the box up and opened it. “See?” inside was a thing gold band with a small rose quartz crystal cut into the shape of a heart that side horizontal to the finger. He reached for her left hand and slid it on to her ring finger kissing it into place. “I love you Sasuga, I know that this might not be perfect, but I wanted you to know how much you mean to me.” Sasuga looked to the ring on her finger, feeling tears pull at the corner of her eyes. He hopped down from the counter “Oh no….is it too much? I know we said we weren’t going to do anything, that dinner was enough but-“

She shook her head “Don’t be stupid.” She said choking back her emotions. “I love it. I love you….Thank you.” She looked at the ring again before reaching up to tug on one of his horns pulling him down into a kiss. “Forget the dishes….come on.” She said, her tail already snaking up around his waist to guide him toward their bedroom.

Coyote woke up with a start, staring up into the dark ceiling above him. He contemplated for a moment what that dream could have meant, and his jaw tightened in his face. Did Sasuga sleep with Simon while he was away, it was the only rule he had given. Or maybe that had made the whole thing more enticing for the two of them. Still, why would Sasuga end up with Simon, he had the feeling he was absent, that house not looking familiar to him in the slightest. He closed his eyes again, almost willing it to come back to him, but some of the finer details were already fading from his memory, and all he remembered was the way the pair looked longingly at each other before they kissed. He gave a little growl and pushed himself up quickly to throw on some jeans and a shirt.

“Coyote?” Shishi asked lifting his head from where he was curled up on one of the pillows. “Where are you going?” he asked rubbing one of his eyes sleepily.

“I’m heading back to the Makai” he told Shishi as he pulled his shirt down over his torso.

The imp eyed the view appreciatively before his senses snapped back to him. “Should I be worried?” he asked knowing of Coyote’s sometimes prophetic dreams, and he wondered if he had some type of vision of Sasuga’s fights. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Coyote shook his head. “No. No. It’s nothing like that it’s….” only he wasn’t entirely sure he could begin to really understand it himself. He shook his head “Sasuga’s fine. I just need to see her. I only had that one other show at the end of the week anyway, stay here, I’ll go tell Russell to pack everything up and head on home. You’ll be fine finding a flight right? I mean, stay the night, don’t leave on my account.”

Shishi laughed “Oh it was that kind of dream was it?” he grinned. “Okay, Well, tell her I said hello and get back safely.” He said as he yawned and laid back down to sleep. “I’m sure Kurama and Gatlin will be happy to have me home, if they haven’t torn each other apart yet…”

Coyote slapped on his cowboy hat and grabbed a jacket though he felt his skin burning. “And you remember what we said about this right?” he asked as he headed toward the door.

“My lips are sealed.” Shishi murmured. “Not a word to anyone”

“Especially to Sasuga.” He confirmed hand on the door.

“Especially Sasuga.” Shishi promised “She’d probably be more upset with me than you anyway” and waved him off.

Coyote found himself easily at his ring manager’s trailer, pounding on the door. He felt bad to be waking Russell up like this but he knew he couldn’t just disappear in the middle of the night and leave Shishi to explain for  him, things looked weird enough having him around. Russell answered the door, looking as if he was still blinking back sleep. “Coyote, everything alright?” he asked looking around.

“No…Um no, there was a fire back at the ranch.” He said lying on his feet. Thinking easily of the fire at Thom’s he could use as a cover even if the time line wouldn’t match up. He figured it would never get back to Russell anyways. The manager looked concerned. “It’s nothing big, a small one thank god, no one hurt, but I really should get out there, I know we only have the exhibit at the end of the week so I was just going to head home now. Would that be too much of a pain for ya’ll to handle?”

Russell cleared the sleep from his eyes with his hand “Yeah, yeah I can handle it no problem. Take care, hope it’s as small as you say.” He said and headed back to his bed.

Coyote made one more stop, saying farewell to Poncho in his trailer, before he headed towards the nearest portal in the woods, which was still pretty far, and Coyote had to be careful no one saw him as he slipped into the woods and transformed, having to sprint as fast as he could to reach the portal before daylight. He was glad he had the foresight to try and keep his motorcycle as close to him as possible, as the only other way he could have gotten there was to fly back home and then race to her, and he wasn’t sure he could stand being on a plane the way he was feeling.  All cooped up without being able to run or move, or do anything. It would have been torture, not like the past few weeks hadn’t been. The time away from Sasuga had been harder than he’d like to admit, and he already knew he would never plan on being away from her like this again. All the time away from her he had felt like pulling his skin off. He had helped Thom around her house before he left, and at the rodeo he did more of the manual work than anyone really wanted him to. He ran Poncho as often as he felt he could without causing the poor animal too much strain, and then would run laps as fast as he could as long as he could well into the night. But it was never enough, the women that tried to greet him as soon as he stepped out of the rodeo corral still enticed him to the point he had to nearly run back to his RV. All that hair, perfume, and how the hell where they making such good bras now adays? Though he was sure that some of breasts out there weren’t only held up by a bra but maybe some type of surgery, that didn’t sway him away any. Then the fact that in some of the more populous areas there were actual demon women in the crowds, and those he really had to avoid. He was sure they’d sense something about him, and he was doing his best to be incognito. Luckily his prior years of fooling around with plenty of the women at these things rarely had any of his crew spotting him being social, so now that he was hiding out on his own it went unnoticed. Coyote tried to run himself ragged, exercise, the rodeo, his variety of plants and a few sex toys paired unironically with the body pillow he had snuck on board, none of it had done the exact trick. Which had then led him to call Shishi. It had been a long shot, but it didn’t take much convincing getting him to come out to see him in secret, even if he was a bit miffed at having to mostly stay hidden at the events. Coyote let him have the pass into where the wives or girlfriend’s normally sat, and he posed in his refinery during the events when it fancied him. It had helped tire him out, but he still hadn’t been getting enoug

He thought he could remain out here for the full month, and they had gotten so close, it was almost silly to run now. But after the dream with her and Simon he just couldn’t deny the ache he felt for his mate any longer and he had to find his way back to her. Dawn was just about to break as he reached the portal and he wasted no time heading through it and heading towards where he had hidden his bike. He felt like a dog that had gotten a scent, and he wasn’t going to rest until he got to her. **** Four days later still hours from dawn, Coyote stashed the bike behind the hotel, barely taking care to hide it, and stumbled into the lobby. He had all the faith in the world that Sasuga was still in the tournament, and held the most hope that meant she was still in the hotel room that he had the key stashed for. He limped into the lobby where the clerk paled at the site of him. “Sir….” He said rushing around the desk and towards him. “Do you need a medic?” he asked looking him over.

Coyote didn’t waste the energy to speak to him and only shook his head as he stumbled forward before catching his balance again. He knew what he looked like, but wasn’t stopped as it was clear the clerk in his pristine uniform was afraid to touch him at all.

“Is there someone I can call?” he said walking along side him as Coyote shuffled to the elevator, bracing himself against the lobby wall and causing a smear of blood to press into the wall paper.

Coyote considered it for a moment, but shook his head again. If Sasuga was still in the tournament this late in the game there was a chance she was injured as well, and he wanted her to save her strength for fighting. He’d be okay. He just needed a shower, some stitches, and her.

The clerk did not follow him into the elevator, being the main hotel for the tournament he was surely not the only injured guest they received, and he retreated back to their desk, probably to call for maintenance to clean up whatever other mess Coyote had left behind him. He leaned against the wall as it started it’s ascension toward the upper floors, again leaving a smear of dirt and blood where his shoulder braced himself. A few droplets of blood dripping from somewhere onto the floor. It seemed to take forever for the elevator to reach it’s destination, the doors pausing once as a couple was about to get on, but after seeing him let him go on without a question. Coyote almost passed out, unsure if it was from blood loss or exhaustion, but the dinging and wooshing of the doors riled him, and he staggered out into the hallway. Knowing he was so close to Sasuga spurred him on, and he was relieved to find that the card key still worked. He let himself into the hotel room, finding it dark and quiet and he did his best to move with stealth into the bathroom. He passed the bed and spotted Sasuga sleeping peacefully by herself, he was grateful for this because with the rage that was still somewhat in his veins if he had found Simon with her he might have taken a regrettable action. In that moment iat took everything in him to not simply cover her with himself, though with how dirty he was he knew it would only concern her more. There was blood in his mouth and under his fingernails, matting his hair down and sticking to his hat. Better to clean himself up first, and he shut the bathroom door behind him before turning on the light.

He did his best not to look at himself in the mirror, but finding it a necessity to assess some of the damage. If he had made it this far like this it couldn’t have been too bad. Still he was in rough shape. Not only was his face cut, bruised, and swollen, but he had also lost enough weight that he appeared gaunt under the torn and dirty clothes he wore. He slowly undressed, assessing each wound, fresh bruises forming on top of old ones, some cuts that were still bleeding every time he moved, gashes that would no doubt need to be closed up. He hissed as some of the clothing stuck to him where blood had dried, let his effects fall to the floor, his gun empty and tucked back in his holster, and stepped into the shower letting the water strike at his feet until it was warm enough to step into. He braced himself against the wall, letting it flow over his hair and down his back, feeling the sense of relief start to fill him as well. He had made it, he was close to resting, and he was close to his mate, that was all he could ask for right now.

[awkwardspontaneity]

Battle for the Sky

Link x GN!Sheikah!Reader

Part 4 of Memories of You

Prev | Next

Summary: Link and Y/n are called to Rito Village when a dark beast has taken over Vah Medoh and Y/n’s biggest fear finally comes to light.

AN: I finally finished this part. May have gone a touch overboard with this one it’s like 2500 words. I just had a lot of fun writing the battle and the characters. Its got a lot of fighting and mayybe a teensy bit of angst. I rlly like Revali so I had to feature him. bit of gore so just a warning

regular= present    italic= memory

Link stood atop Revali’s Landing, eyes closed as he enjoyed the cool breeze. There was so much to do before he could save Zelda, but after having to sneak through the Yiga hideout and his fight to free Vah Nabooris he relished this quiet moment. Even if it was only a few minutes under the light of the moon, he would take the time to think.

So many memories were coming back in a jumbled mess. Like pouring the pieces of a puzzle out of the box. But he hadn’t been given the full picture yet. So much of who he was was in those few precious moments he had with his friends, all he wanted was to have that back. At the very least he wished to remember those he had lost 100 years ago when calamity struck.

And yet, a part of him almost didn’t want to remember. The more he recalled his friends, the more he was reminded that because of his failures they had been lost. Trapped within their Divine Beasts with no escape for 100 years. Forced to watch as the very things they were supposed to use for protection wreaked havoc across their beloved homes. Maybe Revali had been right about him not being up to the task.

Revali.

The last time he had come to the Rito Village had been for a monster attack on Vah Medoh too hadn’t it.

“Impressive, I know.” 

Revali hovered softly before landing on the railing. A smirk stretched across his beak as he looked down at Link. Although this level of bravado was normal for the Rito warrior, Link suspected he was playing up his capabilities in response to their presence.

“Very few can achieve mastery of the sky.” So this was how the trip would be then. “Yet I have made an art of creating an updraft that allows me to soar. It’s considered to be quite the masterpiece of aerial techniques, even among the Rito”

At this point Link was discreetly looking for Y/n. They had said something about asking the village chief for the key to Medoh before running off and leaving him alone. He was sure that they had done this to avoid Revali’s complaints. Still, Link wished they would hurry and save him. Revali responded better when they were present. Or at least, he was more capable of tolerating Link with Y/n around to deflect conflicts.

“Now then,” Revali hopped down from his perch, drawing Link’s attention back to him, “my ability to explore the firmament is certainly of note, but let’s not- pardon me for being so blunt- let’s not forget that I am the most skilled archer of all the Rito. Yet despite these truths, it seems that I have been tapped to merely assist you. All because you happen to have that little darkness- sealing sword on your back.”

Link looked down with a clenched jaw. Hylia he wished Y/n would come save him. 

“There you are!” He felt a breath escape him at Y/n’s call. There was only so much of the Rito warrior’s ego one could put up with. 

Y/n skipped over to stand beside Link and gave the two Champions a grin, “I got Medoh’s key from the chief so if the two of you are ready, we should head up.”

Recali scoffed at the smaller Sheikah, waving his wing in a dismissive manner, “There’s no such need for the two of you to board Medoh. As a matter of fact your presence here is quite redundant, so why don’t you run along back to the princess like the good little hero’s you are.”

Link stepped forward to stop Revali from taking off but was stopped by Y/n placing a hand on his arm. “If you’re flying off to the archery range to get in more practice you can meet us back here. We’re fully prepared to wait until you feel ready.”

“Excuse me?”

“The chief told me you haven’t been able to enter Medoh for nearly a week due to this monster.”

“I assure you I can kill it on my own.”

Y/n sighed, reaching out to carefully lay a hand on Revali’s wing. “We only want to help. There’s no shame in working alongside your comrades. Besides, consider it a favour from us for your future help in defeating Ganon.”

“I suppose, I have no choice.” The Rito warrior hardly looked pleased with them forcing his hand, er, wing. The feathers on his neck were ruffled up as the trio looked tensely at the flying beast above. “I’m sure that even if I were to fly off at this moment, the two of you would still go on up to Vah Medoh and end up getting thrown over the sides.”

Y/n let out a nervous laugh at his snide remark and Link found himself wondering if the tightness in their voice was due to Revali being correct in his assumptions… or maybe something else.

------

Link and Y/n appeared on top of Vah Medoh in a swirl of blue light. They were swiftly met by Revali pushing them to stay hidden. He was quick to explain the winged beast, how it crawled across Medoh with sprawling legs. Y/n had mused about winged octopi only to be flicked on the head by Revali. 

As the trio emerged from their hiding spot the two Hylians found Revali had not given nearly enough detail on the horrific creature. It was as large as he had described, with muscled legs sprawling across the wings of the Divine Beast. Its body resembled a Lynel, thick arms ending in sharp claws. Possibly the most terrifying thing were the wings sprouting from its back. They were dark and feathered, each one dripping with malice that ran down its body before piling across the ground like muddy footprints. 

Link heard Y/n draw in a sharp breath as they crept along the edge in their approach. He reached out to place a hand between their shoulder blades, a simple motion they had developed in their journeys to signal they were with the other. Whether in physical danger or an uncomfortable situation, they would handle things together. He wasn’t sure how much comfort he could offer at this moment, but he’d make due with the promise to be by their side. Even if he was worried about the feeling of their shallow breaths against his hand.

After carefully making their way to the center terminal of the Divine Beast, Revali gave a quick signal before crouching to take off. As the wind picked up around the Rito, Y/n took in a breath before squeezing Link’s wrist and darting out from their hiding spot. 

“HEY SLIMEBALL!!”

Apparently that was extremely offensive to the beast because as soon as it located the small Sheikah it tore off after them. Y/n sprinted away sending a wink as they passed the terminal and Link. Y/n reached the first pillar and slid to a stop behind it right in time to take cover from the bomb arrows exploding against the creature's torso. Mangled wings came up to protect the beast from further blasts giving Link the opportunity to lunge forward and strike down its legs. He managed to slash through two of the muscular appendages before the creature let out a screech and spread its wings, and with them, an attack of razor sharp feathers. 

Y/n had come out from their spot behind the pillar, luckily just in time to slash a feather in half before it could hit Link. The duo exchanged grins before taking off to continue their plan. Y/n would lead the beast away with their faster speeds while Revali would circle above, waiting for the moment when the Sheikah would twist the monster around pillars where he could strike it with a volley of bomb arrows. Then while it wrapped itself in its wings for protection, Link would unleash a flurry rush, slashing away at its legs until they disappeared in a haze of dark smoke.

They pulled off their barrage of attacks until the final leg dissipated giving it one option. 

To fly.

Fortunately, they had planned for this, and Revali struck the creature before it could get far. It crashed to the ground with such a force, it shook the entire Divine Beast in the sky. Y/n let out a scream as they lost their balance, reaching out to grab the pillar they stood beside. He knew he had a goal to complete but, as he slashed away at the fallen creature, all Link could think about was how he wanted to rush to his friend's side. 

The creature seemed to sense Link’s hesitation because it began to spasm, forcing Link to jump back. It seized the moment and took off into the skies screeching as Revali circled too close.

“We must finish this quickly!” Revali dove closer to the two champions, being mindful of the writhing beast in the skies. “That thing is getting desperate, and I only have so many arrows left.”

Link gave him a terse nod as he rushed over to Y/n who was still pressed against the pillar. 

“Y/n.” Only a small hum escaped them, although there was a comfort in the way they leaned into his touch. “Y/n, I don't know what’s going on in your head right now, but we need you. Revali’s almost out of arrows and I don’t think I can take it down alone.”

Their hand curled around his, shaky but tight. “I’m okay.” He was sure neither of them believed the grin that pulled at their lips. “Its wings are the only thing it has left to attack with, right? Keep its attention and I’ll take them out.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have to be.”

He nodded, although his expression betrayed his concern, something Y/n took note of. They smiled softly, albeit weakly, and out their forehead against his. “Relax Hero, we can do this.”

Link sighed softly, pressing his head against theirs with a little more force. They pulled away sharing nervous grins before Link took off. 

Fortunately, the beast had been distracted by launching feathers at Revali, who had been swooping around it with practised expertise. Link gave a shout to signal he was ready for Revali to shoot down the monster and, with an audible scoff, the Rito notched his arrows.

With a thunderous crash the beast landed on Medoh once again and, fighting the urge to look back at Y/n, Link rushed forward with his sword drawn. Link slashed and chopped away at the creature's muscular arms, trying to force it to spread its wings. It took longer than he had hoped for with far too many close calls before wings spread, throwing sludge along with it. If it weren’t for the glint off Y/n’s twin blades, Link almost wouldn’t have seen the young Sheikah sprint past. Before the monster could register their presence, Y/n had hopped from its arm, up to the shoulder, and flipped over to land on its back. 

What came next was a flurry of silver blades and the tearing of malice dripping flesh. The monster attempted to rear back and reach Y/n with its arms but it was stopped by Revali and Link each attacking an arm, preventing it from being able to knock off their partner. 

With a final flourish, Y/n thrust both blades between the beast's wings. A harrowing shriek escaped the beast as it trembled from the blow. The malice surrounding it began to bubble and swell up. With a grunt, Y/n placed a foot against its back and tore their blades free. They looked up at Link with a grin but, just as they opened their mouth to shout, the monster exploded.

The moment Link uncovered his face, he was met with the sight of Y/n sliding off the edge of Vah Medoh. Link took off as fast as he could, watching as they scrambled for a grip along the edges but came up with nothing. Link hit the ground, sliding towards them with an outstretched hand. The two made eye contact and Link’s heart twisted at the terror within their ruby eyes. He felt their fingertips touch before Y/n was gone, their desperate cry as they slid over the edge carrying across the wind.

Link stared at his empty hand. He would have thrown himself over the edge after Y/n had he not seen the flash of blue following Revali as he shot after the Sheikah like an arrow from his bow.

The moments Link lay there waiting for Revali to return were spent forcing himself to breath while his lungs were crushed under the weight of guilt. He could still feel his fingertips brushing against Y/n’s. See the expression of fear that had torn the grin from their face as they cried out.

Wind swirled around Link, forcing him to sit up as Revali soared past him. The Rito landed on Medoh and, in a surprisingly tender moment, laid a wing upon the Sheikah warrior clinging to him like a koala.

Link was quick to approach the two, getting a glimpse of the way Y/n’s brow furrowed as they hid their face in Revali’s feathered chest. Noticing the way Link watched the two, Revali scoffed before grabbing at Y/n’s arms. “You’re not falling anymore, you can stop tugging at my feathers.”

Y/n mumbled an apology as they shakily detached themselves and stepped to the ground. They managed a wobbly grin that was interrupted by Link crashing into them. Y/n let out the faintest sob as they buried themselves deeper into his arms. Link tightened his grip, carefully pressing his nose into their hair. The two heroes held each other tightly, hoping to ground themselves in the other. To remind themselves that they were together still.

“Ahem.” The bubble popped around the two heroes as Revali looked on in barely hidden irritation. He tapped his talons against Medoh, sighing as the two looked at him with wide eyes. “As wonderful as it is that we are all, in fact, alive. I would appreciate it if you could use whatever it is you brought to seal away that creature.”

“Right.” Y/n stepped towards the terminal, Link’s hand still held tightly in their own. They pulled a seal from one of their pouches before mumbling a few phrases. Deep violet tendrils of malice swirled around, collecting in front of Y/n. The seal they held began to glow blue, spreading its own tendrils of light outwards. The lights seemed to dance through the air around them. Gathering together until they spiraled into the paper seal in Y/n’s hands.

“That should be it. Now can we please get off this bird?”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

[contemplativepancakes]

of stolen shirts and sorrow

4.5k hurt/comfort, happy ending. read on ao3 here.

Blood bubbles up between Geralt’s splayed fingers. He presses down as hard as he can without risking causing more damage. Jaskier moans faintly, and Geralt tries not to panic. 

He fails. 

It wasn’t supposed to be Jaskier that was in harm’s way, it was supposed to be him, should have been him lying on the ground with his blood seeping into the dirt, but they had been caught unaware, and there had barely been time for Geralt to unsheathe his sword before Jaskier had cried out beside him. 

Jaskier had stayed standing long enough for Geralt to dispatch the werewolf with a vicious slice of his sword, blood spraying from its carotid as it fell to the ground and twitched. There wasn’t time for anything with more finesse. Geralt took a moment to feel sorrow that he had to kill it when his intention had been to come here to cure it, but it had been snarling and advancing towards Jaskier again, and Geralt couldn’t take any more chances.

Geralt whirled to Jaskier, and Jaskier dropped to the ground, sitting down hard and looking pale. Geralt’s eyes shot down to where he was clutching his stomach, blood dripping through his fingers and staining them red. Geralt whipped his head around to be sure there wasn’t anything else waiting for him to drop his guard before he sank to his knees beside Jaskier, helping him lie back.

Now, Geralt takes a deep breath, trying to center himself, before scrabbling at Jaskier’s clothes, ripping his shirt open so that he can better assess the damage, and he can almost hear Jaskier making a quip about it, pouting that he liked that shirt, Geralt! But Geralt’s not sure that he’s ever going to be hearing Jaskier’s voice again, because the wound is even more severe than he thought now that he’s looking at Jaskier’s bare torso. 

A grunt comes from Jaskier again, determined to prove Geralt wrong even with the color starting to drain from his lips, and Geralt’s mind races, thinking about how he’s ever going to fix this. This is too much for him to solve alone, he thinks. He eyes the growing pool of blood worriedly, knowing how much blood someone can lose before they teeter off the cliff of no return, and Jaskier is closer than Geralt would like to admit. There’s no sign of the bleeding stopping anytime soon, so he further rips Jaskier’s shirt into wide strips to tie around the wound, hoping it’ll help staunch the bleeding. 

He bites his lip and picks Jaskier up, hoping he’s making the right choice, and not one he’s going to regret while staring at a tombstone, but Geralt tries to block out the worry. Jaskier needs him right now, and Geralt has to focus on that.

He clicks his tongue, and Roach approaches him skittishly. Geralt drapes Jaskier over her rump, settling him so he won’t fall off or be jostled too much, because Geralt knows that is the last thing he needs right now. He wants to mount Roach and gallop away to help, but he has to go about this the right way. If he’s not fast enough, Jaskier will die, and if he’s too fast and Jaskier’s wound doesn’t manage to start to clot, he’ll die, too. Geralt takes a deep breath and absent mindedly runs his bloody hand through his hair, taking Roach’s reins in hand and leading her along the path at a fast walk. They’re close to the outskirts of Temeria; the proximity of the werewolf being why there was a contract in the first place. 

It had been killing a farmer’s sheep, but Geralt regrets coming here in the first place. Farm animals were certainly not a fair trade for Jaskier, who’s cool and clammy to Geralt’s touch, his breath coming in rapid wheezes. 

Geralt speeds his pace.

By the time he makes it to the walls of Temeria and shouts to the guards that he needs help, he needs their mage, Jaskier’s face is white and bloody covers Roach’s flank. It seems like the bleeding has slowed, so Geralt allows himself to take heart. “Go!” he shouts at the guard closest to him, who’s just standing there and staring uselessly.

The boy startles, because now that Geralt has taken a closer look, he can see that that’s what he is, a boy, and he’s probably never seen this much blood before. He turns on his heel and runs, and Geralt desperately hopes it’s for help and not to flee.

Geralt lifts Jaskier gently from Roach, who’s now prancing anxiously, and sets him flat on the ground. He takes a second to stroke Roach and murmur reassurances, and she settles a bit before he turns his attention back to Jaskier. He presses his hands over his hasty bandage, reapplying the pressure. He hears shouts in the distance, and he hopes Triss is on the way with her potions.

He looks back down at Jaskier, who has blood that’s starting to trickle out his mouth. He makes a wet gurgling noise, and Geralt wishes he could do more. All of his elixirs would be toxic to Jaskier and only make things worse, and he desperately hopes the metaphor doesn’t extend to himself, even though he thinks it does.

This never would have happened if Jaskier wasn’t with him. Geralt had argued with him, said werewolves were unpredictable, but Jaskier said he would be fine at their camp, thank you very much. Geralt could go and try to shove the potion down the werewolf’s jaws, and Jaskier would work on his latest ballad.

Jaskier had cut off his protests with a kiss, and Geralt found himself powerless in the face of that. The tangled threads between them had become even more twisted in the last month, with Jaskier finally getting fed up with Geralt and calling him an idiot before pulling him in and kissing him.

Geralt had been shocked. He had never dared to hope that Jaskier would ever return Geralt’s feelings, because who would love a mutant, but Jaskier had said that he’d say it however many times Geralt needed to hear it.

And now he might not ever hear it again.

All of a sudden, there are soft hands pushing Geralt out of the way, and Geralt resists until he realizes that it’s Triss, here to help Jaskier. Geralt slumps in relief and backs away, watches Triss hover her hands above the wound and pull small glass bottles from her satchel. He wraps a hand around his medallion, vibrating as Triss begins her work. He looks on helplessly while she mutters incantations and pours the contents of her bottles on the would until she takes a step back after what seems like an eternity. Jaskier’s breaths seem to be coming a bit easier. There’s no bloody foam around his mouth anymore, at least, so Geralt will take it.

“That should stop the bleeding and stabilize him for now. Let’s get him out of the street,” Triss says, pointing to the cart she arrived on.  

Geralt swallows hard and leans down, pushing some of Jaskier’s soft hair off his sweaty forehead before gathering Jaskier in his arms and lifting him into the cart, settling him on the straw. Geralt climbs in after him, sitting down and ignoring the way the straw scratches at his skin. Jaskier moans and clutches at Geralt’s hand.

Geralt’s heart clenches. “Hey,” he says, uncharacteristically soft, “it’s okay, all right?”

Jaskier squeezes his hand weakly. Geralt raises their linked hands to his mouth and kisses Jaskier’s knuckles. “You’re going to be fine.”

Geralt looks towards the front of the cart, and Triss jerks in her seat, caught staring. “I’m going to take care of him for you, Geralt,” she says softly.

The words get stuck in Geralt’s throat. He grunts and runs a hand down his face. Damn it. This is all his fault.

“What happened?” she asks.

“We were… fuck, we were trying to cure a werewolf. I should have never let him come with me, but I was going to make him stay well away from its hunting grounds, and it was supposed to be fine.” Geralt waves his hand, his eyes catching on the blood caked underneath his fingernails. “It was supposed to be fine,” he repeats helplessly.  

Triss puts a hand on his shoulder, and Geralt lets himself draw comfort from the touch. His heartbeat has finally started to slow again, but he can still smell the sour scent of his own distress, mixed with the metallic tang of blood. He slumps against the side of the cart.

By the time they make it to the castle, Geralt’s adrenaline is starting to crash, but he still gathers Jaskier in his arms again and carries him where Triss directs. He waves off the offers of help; his clothes are already bloody, anyway, no one else needs to ruin theirs.

He carries Jaskier up a spiral staircase before he reaches Triss’s chambers and settles Jaskier on the bed. “Can you undress him for me?” Triss asks, as she bustles around behind Geralt, her fingers flying as she mixes herbs and other ingredients together.

Geralt swallows hard. His fingers hover over the buttons of Jaskier’s shirt, but it feels wrong. They haven’t got this far yet, and Geralt doesn’t want this moment to be the one he associates with shedding Jaskier of his clothes.

He sighs and takes Jaskier’s shirt off, pinching the bloody thing between his fingers and letting it crumple to the ground. He’s going to burn it, if Jaskier lets him. Well, even if he doesn’t. Geralt doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to see it again without flinching, no matter how well of a repair job Jaskier does.

He undoes the laces of Jaskier’s trousers, so Triss can take a look at where the wound extends down his torso, but it stops at his waist, so that’s as far as Geralt goes. Triss hums her thanks as she starts to gently rub a poultice over the wound. “This will lessen the pain and keep him unconscious until his body regenerates enough blood,” she explains.

“How long will that be?” Geralt asks, resolutely not giving into the urge to fidget.

“A few days. Maybe a week. You’re lucky you got him here when you did.”

Geralt lets out a heavy breath through his nose. All his fault. “Hmm.”

Triss straightens up. “He’s going to be fine, Geralt. The wonders of magic, huh?” She nudges his shoulder. “He just needs rest, now.”

Triss leaves them, and Geralt takes a seat by the bed, looking over at Jaskier’s motionless body, save for the slight rise and fall of his bare chest. Geralt runs his fingers down Jaskier’s chest curiously, before jerking away like he’s been burned. He’d always wanted to know what Jaskier’s chest hair would feel like under his fingertips, but this isn’t how he wanted to find out.

Jaskier might have expressed his enthusiastic support for the idea of them while he was still able to walk and talk, but Geralt thinks he might have changed his tune by now. Why would he want to be around Geralt when all Geralt’s brought him is suffering and pain?

Jaskier could have had a very comfortable life by now, but instead he insists on traipsing around after Geralt. And look where it’s gotten him.

Geralt stands up, thinking very hard. His eyes drift to Jaskier’s ruined shirt on the floor, but he lets it lie. It’s unfair of him to do this to Jaskier. He’s keeping Jaskier in a sort of limbo, stopping him from having the normal life that he deserves. Jaskier should have someone who can take care of him better than Geralt. Geralt’s been doing a piss poor job of it so far.

Geralt steps towards the doorway before hesitating. This is for the best, but… He’d like a reminder of this, something he can look back on and remember just how full his life was, once. He remembers what it was like before Jaskier came along, and it’s almost unbearable to think of going back to that, but he has to. For Jaskier’s sake. What if the next time he dies? Geralt wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

Geralt steps towards Jaskier’s pack, which has somehow migrated here. He supposes Triss brought it; she’s good for things like that. He digs through it until he finds a doublet that Jaskier doesn’t wear very often but is Geralt’s personal favorite. Geralt reasons that it’s the tales of his adventures that paid for the shirt, anyway, so really, Jaskier owes him this one small thing.

Geralt brings it up to his nose. It smells like Jaskier.

-

When Jaskier wakes, he’s alone. He tries to sit up, but there’s a sharp pain in his side that feels like someone tried to carve out his spleen. It gets even worse when the door opens, and there’s no sign of Geralt, just a woman he doesn’t know. Generally speaking, these sorts of things don’t tend to work out for him.

“Where’s Geralt?” he croaks, and it comes out as an accusation.

She casts her eyes upward, before looking back down at Jaskier. “He left.”

“What? Without me? Why? When is he coming back?” The questions bubble out of him without his permission.

The woman hesitates. “I… don’t know.”

“Come, he surely must have said something.”

“Geralt? Say something?” She gives him a wry grin.

Jaskier shakes his head. She’s right. “He didn’t say anything about returning?” he asks again, just to be sure before his heart sinks all the way to his feet.

She shakes her head.

This is all Jaskier’s fault. If he never would have gotten hurt, they would have still been travelling together, and Geralt wouldn’t have thought he was too much of a burden to drag along any longer. Melitele's tits. What is he going to do now?

-

Geralt scuffs his boot against a tree trunk while Roach looks on disapprovingly. “I know, I know,” he grumbles. “You miss him. But this is for the best.”

He’s not sure who needs more convincing: him or Roach.

He putters around, setting up his camp for the night and trying not to think of what Jaskier is doing now. His brain decides to seize on the werewolf instead, and Geralt sighs, sitting down heavily with his back against the tree. The bark is scratchy, and there’s a stone digging into his ass, but he doesn’t move. It’s just the start of what he deserves, anyway.

The werewolf should have been cured, it should have been them that Geralt rushed to town for care, not Jaskier. But now, because of his ineptitude, the werewolf is dead, and Jaskier almost died. The cure that sits in his satchel mocks him. He had mixed it together hopefully, with the best intentions, but it was worth fuck all in the end.

Roach paws at the ground, and Geralt knows his distress is making her nervous, but he just doesn’t have the energy to sort out his feelings right now. He pulls his cloak over his head and tries to sleep.

He’s unsuccessful, of course. His thoughts won’t stop stampeding through his head, and his ears are picking up on every sound of the night. This is one of the times when Jaskier would do his best to distract him.

They’d barely been together for a month before it all went awry, and this, this is why Geralt doesn’t get close to people. There’s nothing but misery in his future, and he dragged Jaskier into it.

Geralt smells a storm on the horizon, and he sighs. Typical.

-

Jaskier watches the rain outside, running his fingers over the droplets that race down the window. Triss had left him a few hours ago, telling him he could stay until he felt fully healed. He traces his fingertips over the wound; it’s hard to believe that it was life threatening with how well it’s looking now. Pink and tender to the touch, but a far cry from gushing blood like Triss had told him it was.

Triss had also told him that he woke up not fours hours after Geralt dumped him on her and fled. Triss didn’t put it like that, of course, but Jaskier can read through the lines well enough. He racks his brain back to the last thing he remembers. He can dimly recall teasing Geralt, sneaking Roach a sugar cube, and then things start to get blurry. There was a...snarl? He knows they were looking for a werewolf, but Jaskier wasn’t supposed to get anywhere close to it in the first place.

No wonder Geralt didn’t want him slowing him down anymore, if Jaskier’s intestines are just going to spill out of him at the first sign of danger. His side throbs at the reminder, and Jaskier gets up to rustle through his pack and find a shirt so he can cover his wound.

He’s looking for a particular shirt, one Geralt had always liked, because Jaskier’s not above a bit of self-flagellation when a breakup is still so fresh, but he can’t find it. Great. He had always saved it for special occasions, because life on the road tended to not be great for the longevity of his clothing, and now he’s gone and lost it.

It’s probably for the best anyway. He doesn’t need to dwell on the memories. But, it’s too soon for him to completely move on. Heartbreak is the best muse, and all that.

Jaskier unties his bundle of parchment and pulls out a clean sheet, along with his quill and inkwell. He dips his quill in ink, but no words come. He wants to write something scathing about Geralt, for leaving him behind like he’s worth nothing at all, but the lyrics don’t come as easily as the other ballads he’s written singing Geralt’s praise.

Jaskier stares at the page for a few more minutes, but all he manages to write is The. He scratches it out and sighs, pushing his paper aside.

-

Geralt drums his fingers and looks skeptically at the paper that’s just been slapped in front of him.

“There’s a pack of ghouls, right along the path to town. We’ve lost two supply wagons trying to pass through already!” the man tells him.

Geralt looks up at him, raising his eyebrows. “How do you know they didn’t just pocket your coin and disappear?”

The man throws up his hands in exasperation. “Are you going to take the job or not, Witcher?”

“Fine. I’ll look into it.”

In the end, it turns out not to be ghouls, but a graveir. Similar to ghouls, but larger, nastier, and venomous. Geralt rustles through his satchel, looking for the elixir that will cure it. He was off balance and too slow the entire fight, and now he’s paying for it. Geralt downs the elixir and yanks his fingers through his hair, trying to get rid of some of the guts. He attempts not to think of Jaskier.

When he makes it back to the inn where he’s staying, he takes a bath before he makes his way outside to the stables to check on Roach. He gives her a solid pat along her flank before he rustles through her saddle bags, where Jaskier’s shirt lives.

He brings it up to his nose. It smells like both of them, and now Geralt finally knows what it would have smelled like if he had let Jaskier get close enough for the scents to meld together. They’d been on their way there, for sure, but Geralt had had too many hang ups for it to truly go anywhere in the short amount of time they had where they both knew how the other felt before it all went to shit.

He takes it back up to his room and puts it beside his pillow, letting the scent soothe him to sleep.

-

Jaskier looks down at the ruined shirt in his hands. Money has been tight since Geralt left and all Jaskier’s inspiration followed him. He hasn’t written any new songs in months, and he thinks the crowds can pick up on his melancholia no matter how many cheerful songs he performs, because his takes have been pitiful. He supposes part of the problem might be the fact that he refuses to sing about Geralt, and those had always been his most well liked songs. Jaskier always skirts around any requests for them.

He scrubs at the shirt, trying to get the last traces of blood out of it. Once he’s successful, he pulls out his needle and thread. It’s so tattered that he’s going to have to patch it, but he’s always been good at starting new fashion statements. He replaces the ripped off buttons and pokes his tongue between his teeth as he selects the fabric for the patch.

-

Geralt’s not sure how much time passes before he allows himself to bring the shirt out again. Time seems meaningless, and he’s taken as many contracts as possible, trying to keep busy. Roach hasn’t been happy with him, and he knows he should let her rest, so that’s why he’s packed it in for the night. The break will do him good, as well, he supposes. Assuming he can actually manage to fall asleep, which is by no means assured.

He stares out at the swamp for an hour before he breaks down and pulls out the shirt. He takes a deep sniff. It smells like him. Only him. He flings it back down in disgust.

He gets up and pauses for a second before stooping down to pick up the shirt and stuff it back in the saddlebag. He ignores Roach’s snorts of displeasure as he gets her ready to move on.  

-

Jaskier walks along the road, trying not to cough as carriages pass him, kicking up dust in their wake. It’s not good for his vocal cords, but he hasn’t been doing much singing at all, these days, so he doesn’t let himself worry about it.

He trudges along, lyrics swirling through his mind, but the urge to stop and write them down doesn’t come to him. His toes throb from where they’re trapped in his shoes, adding to his body’s cacophony of complaints against him. He’s not sure what the next town is, but he’s more than ready to arrive.

Jaskier squints into the distance as he sees a bit of dust somewhere farther down the path. It’s moving towards him, but it’s not big enough for a caravan or even a singular carriage. It’s someone else walking alone, and Jaskier’s immediately put on guard.

His hand slips into his pocket, where he keeps his knife. He keeps his hand on it as he’s just able to make it the outline of a person dressed in all black in the distance. It feels like someone’s turned his knife on himself as it makes him think of Geralt.

The person is leading a horse, and Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat.

It can’t be… but as he gets closer, Jaskier can tell it is. He smooths his hands down his clothes uselessly and resists the urge to tame his hair into something that doesn’t look like a squirrel’s den.

He debates what to do. Geralt’s the one who left, so he must not want to see Jaskier, must be upset at this unhappy little coincidence, even if Jaskier is desperate for any sight of Geralt he can get.  

Jaskier’s set to walk past him, his eyes on his feet, just a fleeting glimpse up to satisfy his curiosity—it’s plausible to say he didn’t recognize Geralt, right?—when a hand lands on his elbow.

“Why in the fuck are you wearing that shirt?” Geralt asks, and it’s such an odd question that it stops Jaskier in his tracks.

“What?” He looks down at himself.

He’s wearing the shirt he patched, and he huffs in offense. He thought he did a fine repair job. He shoulders Geralt out of the way and keeps walking.

“Wait, Jaskier,” Geralt says, and it’s the closest to a plea he’s ever heard Geralt get. He stops.

“How are you?” Geralt breathes.

Jaskier just stares at him in confusion. He’s not sure what Geralt’s aim is. How is he? “How do you think I am?” he snaps.

Geralt looks cowed, and Jaskier feels bad for a fleeting moment before he remembers Geralt is the one who should be contrite. It was Geralt who left him high and dry when he needed him most.

Geralt swallows hard, and Jaskier follows his line of sight to see that Geralt’s focused on where the scar in his side is.

He lifts up his shirt so Geralt can see, forgetting to be angry for a second. “It’s healed up very nicely, if I do say so myself.”

Jaskier looks back at Geralt, but Geralt’s just staring at the scar with a haunted look. “I’m fine, Geralt,” he says in exasperation. “If it wasn’t for you, I would have been dead.”

“If it wasn’t for me, you would never have been in that situation in the first place.”

A realization starts to dawn on Jaskier. “Did you—is that why you left?”

Geralt glances down.

“Geralt, if it wasn’t for you, a cuckolded husband would have most definitely done me in before then.”

“But—”

“I’m serious,” Jaskier says, putting his hands on his hips. “You don’t get to make choices like that for me. We make them together, okay? I’ve been miserable.”

“Me, too,” Geralt grumbles, and Jaskier’s surprised at the admission.  

“Good. I’m glad that’s settled, then. You didn’t have to drag it out for so long, you know.”

It seems like Jaskier shouldn’t be letting Geralt off the hook this easily, but he’s been nothing but desolate since Geralt left. He’s sick of waiting.

His magnanimity only extends so far, though, so Jaskier brushes past Geralt to pet Roach, trying to contain his smirk at the look on Geralt’s face. Jaskier pets the soft velvet of Roach’s nose, and she bumps his hand when he stops.

He rustles around in Roach’s saddlebags, looking for a treat for her. His hand brushes past some soft fabric. That’s odd; Geralt doesn’t keep any of his clothes in this saddle bag. He pulls it out, gaping at what’s in his hand. “What’s this?”

Geralt scratches the back of his neck. “I wanted a reminder of you,” he admits in a small voice.

Jaskier’s grin turns smug. Geralt was always saying how impractical his clothing was. “I thought my shirts were foolish?”

If Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d say there’s a blush on Geralt’s cheeks right now. “I never said that.”

“You absolutely did. Do you take it back?”

Geralt grunts, stepping into Jaskier’s space and wrapping him in a hug. “No.”

Jaskier pouts, and the resulting laughter from Geralt is something that he wants to keep hearing for the rest of his life. He hopes Geralt gives him the chance.  

thank you @witcher-and-his-bard for the idea and the read over! <3 it is definitely your fault that this got so angsty, i take no responsibility

[moonctzeny]

Never really yours

anon: Just wanted to say that "The bet" was absolutely cute!!! If you are still taking requests, I'd love to have celebrity!au + Taeyong + exes + 26 I'm looking forward to your next writings :)!

“Baby, please. Being with you once a month is still so much better than not being with you at all. I can’t live without you” “And I can’t keep looking for flakes of happiness in the same place that I lost it”.

pairing: celebrity! Taeyong x fem! reader

genre: angst, smut

word count: 1,734

warnings: mentions of death, drinking, slight body worship, breakups, for the love of god don’t read this if you’re freshly broken up

a/n: sorry for the angst, hope you like it anon!

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

How did you get yourself into this mess again?

He looks good, his hair a turquoise shade only he could pull off that well. You wondered how he found time to attend your common friend’s birthday party tonight, it’s been months since anyone in your life had seen him in person. Being a k-pop idol meant having almost no free time and as Taeyong’s ex-girlfriend, you knew that too well.

You don’t know how you found yourself tangled up with him in your sheets.

It started off with an awkward greeting, your friend’s apartment not big enough for you to avoid stumbling upon each other. He asks you about your life, about work, about your favourite TV show ending. You lie about everything being fine, not mentioning the fact that you’ve been waking up crying every night because he keeps visiting your dreams. Hugging your waist, kissing your knuckles, only for you to open your eyes to see the cold spot he left in your bed. In turn, you ask him about Ruby, and when he tells you she passed away, big eyes brimmed with tears and avoiding yours, you insist you sit down with him and share a beer.

Taeyong isn’t a good drinker, but he would gladly do it if it meant spending more time with you. An hour of catching up and you remember exactly what drew you to him in the first place and what convinced you to get in a committed relationship with someone so unattainable. He is so sensitive, so sweet. Attentive to everything you had to say, gentle and encouraging with his words. He always knew how to calm you down, all your problems you shared with him shrinking into nothingness the moment he reassured you everything was going to be okay.

You know you shouldn’t have let him grab your hands, but the circles he drew on them with his thumbs had a drug-like effect on you. You know you shouldn’t have run your hands through his hair, but the little mewl he let as he nuzzled his head against you, made all your constraints fall out the window.

“I can’t stop thinking about you”, he murmurs as soon as the beer can is less than half full and you choose to believe him. He insists on walking you home and you agree, knowing damn well he will follow you upstairs without any complaints from you.

From the moment he steps into your apartment, he has his lips glued on yours. Hungry, fervent kisses were exchanged between you, making you struggle to lock your front door. You move onto the couch, never breaking away from each other and discarding a piece of clothing with each step.

“I’ve missed you so much”, Taeyong whispers against your lips and you want to pinch yourself to make sure this isn’t one of the countless scenarios your mind fabricates for you in your sleep. You want to say it back but you’ve cried it so many times in your pillow that it seemed pointless to be repeated.

He pulls you on his lap, hands running over your sides to unfasten your bra. Sucking one of your nipples into his mouth, his doe eyes look up at you to gauge your reaction. He loves when you tell him he does a good job, that he makes you feel good, such a people pleaser that it makes your heart ache.

“Mmm, yes baby. Your lips feel so good”

His eyes light up in your praise, urging him to flick his tongue over your bud until you’re moaning his name. You know your pleasure is his number one priority but the sensitivity is getting too much and you haven’t had enough of him yet. Crouching down, you pull his hair to rest on the couch’s headrest when you start nibbling on his neck.

“No marks”, he pleads, “I have a photoshoot tomorrow”

Ah, yes, there it is. That stomach-churning feeling that has the memories you’ve tried so hard to repress flooding your mind in a second. That little voice that reminds you that Taeyong is never really yours. Missed birthdays, missed anniversaries, missed calls. Homemade dinner you prepared for him getting cold due to another practice taking too long. Waiting for a week for a mere notification, a voice message. Only getting to hear his voice by turning on the TV, seeing his smile through a screen. Were you his significant other or his fan? Did his most loyal fans know even more about your boyfriend than you? No. Maybe they knew about his favourite number, or his album sales, but you knew how to do this.  

You kneel down in front of him, springing his member out of his boxers and putting him into your mouth. Slurping around him intensely, you let your tongue hang out as his tip hits your soft palate. He moans at the feeling and you gloat over the sounds he is making just for you. You knew how to make him feel good, and you had to prove to yourself that you meant something to him, maybe even as much as he meant to you.

After some more minutes of your pampering he pulls you up, and starts leaving kisses over every part of your body his lips can reach. He murmurs about how beautiful they are, how beautiful you are, how much he missed you. His words were as sweet as they were addictive, so you lead him to your bedroom to shut him up.

Taeyong soon finds himself on top of you, naked and rubbing his cock over your folds that are undoubtedly wet by this point. You haven’t slept with anyone since your breakup but you don’t tell him that. Hell, you couldn’t even admit to yourself that his loving was the only physical contact you were really craving, but the moment he dives into you it’s hard to deny it.

He captures your lips in a devout kiss, contrasting his deepening thrusts. You hold on to his arms to try and ground yourself from the pleasure that is devouring you completely. This feels so familiar, so right that you want to scream. How unfair is it that someone has to rip these moments of intimacy with him, that you need near as damn much as oxygen at this point, away from you?

One of his thrusts soon hits that sensitive spot in you and you moan at him loudly to do it again. He concentrates in pleasuring you more deeply and opens your legs further in the process, pinning your knees onto the mattress. The motion is rigorous and your neighbors must hate you for the thumping of the bedpost against the wall but you couldn’t care less. His eyes are focused on your contorting expressions, widening the moment your mouth drops open at the wave of your orgasm washing over you.

Nothing can compare to the feeling of having the person you genuinely love connect with you through body and soul. In these serotonin-filled moments of your pussy gripping him, trying to coax an orgasm from him, nothing has changed. You’re still together, like those times you sneaked a quicky in his dorms after dance practice. Or those times he managed to stay over at your place to have a movie marathon and binge on his favorite sweet potato snacks. Or those rare times he took you out on a date under the moonlight of the UN Village hills, making promises about forevers.

Taeyong doesn’t take long to cum, panting and glistening in after-sex glow, and you think you’ve never seen anything more stunning. He plops next to you, one arm serving as a pillow under your head, the other drawing abstract shapes over your tummy. You don’t know what to say as the euphoria starts to wear off, leaving you in the uncomfortable realization of what you just did. He is the one who breaks the silence first.

“Sometimes, I sit in bed and wonder what would happen if things were different”

Oh, God knows you did too. You’ve spent the majority of your relationship daydreaming about an alternative universe, where Taeyong is just your colleague from work that you started dating, where you can go to the grocery store down the street with him, or kiss his hand in the daylight without fearing for his career ending. Your answer was quite different though.

“Don’t. There’s no use.”

He turns his torso around, leaning on the hand behind you to look at you.

“Why?”

“Because”, you sigh, hating the way he furrows his eyebrows like he didn’t agree with your breakup as well, “you won’t give up being a celebrity and I can’t stand only seeing you once a month. We’ve been over this”

“Well, this time it can be different! I can ask for less promotions and you can ask for more day offs. We can make this work!”

“No, we can’t Taeyong!” You move away from him now, using up every ounce of self-control to deny him. “You think I didn’t try as hard as I could the first time around? This isn’t sustainable and you know it.”

“Why can’t we just try again? And if it doesn’t work then-”

“Then what? What will happen when I need you and you won’t be able to be here? Do you know how much it fucking hurts to only hold on to memories of you? It almost doesn’t matter if we’re together or not, I still miss you all the same!”

You get up from the bed, covering yourself with a bathrobe, blinking again and again to keep the tears from spilling out. He is looking back at you with those big puppy eyes that you love the most and you hate yourself for the way they lost their sparkle.

“Baby, please. Being with you once a month is still so much better than not being with you at all. I can’t live without you”

“And I can’t keep looking for flakes of happiness in the same place that I lost it”. It was so hard to avoid his eye contact, so hard to keep yourself from snuggling up to him in the bedsheets and let yourself get carried away in the lie. But you had to be strong, for the both of you. “I think it’s time you should go”

[anxiouslyfred]

Upside Down on a Countertop

for @dukexietyweek‘s day 3 prompt of Coffee (shop) I have a first line and really need a break from the amount of chaos I’ve apparently just caused in the last hour. How better than to release the anger and energy still in me with a couple of chaotic characters?

Summary: Virgil likes visiting the Chaos Bakery Remus runs, if only he could successfully ask out the insane owner.

Warnings: Innuendo and implied sex position(sort of, it’s not explained much), unsafe actions in a cafe,

/\/\/\/\

Virgil really wished that it was a rare occurance to walk into the Chaos Bakery and find Remus doing handstands on the countertop. At least today there were no plates or mugs involved yet and thus no need to rush over and remove them.

Instead he could take a minute to breathe and try to avoid the blush over seeing Remus’s toned stomach exposed since his top was now covering his head more than his body. In fact given the door had no functioning bell at the moment the barrista probably had no clue at all that a new customer had just entered.

That was definitely the thing to focus on and not the toes trying to grip a lightbulb on one of the shelves, thankfully turned off so far as Virgil could tell.

“Statistics show you are more likely to be successful in changing a lightbulb if you are able to see what you are doing.” Virgil stated, trying his best to sound as monotone as his brother naturally did.

It was pretty impressive to watch Remus fling the foot that had been just hidden by his leg up, releasing the spare lightbulb it held into the air and flipping to stand just in time to catch it. “Hello and welcome to the Chaos Experience, how might we unsettle your evening for you today?” The words sounded like a cheer with all the grins expected of a films pep rally. Remus somehow managed to make his grin even larger once he recognised Virgil too which did not help in his brains arguments that he was just another customer to the bakery owner and not anyone special.

“Thunderclap, how are you today? Haven’t seen you since 7:32pm on Friday last, have you commited any exciting crimes to tell me about?” Remus leant over the counter, completely ignoring he’d have to clean it as soon as an order was placed. That just gave him something to keep his hands occupied while keeping small talk and Virgil had understood that quickly into his first visit to the cafe.

“Nothing like that, just drew a new fight scene for my comic and did a livestream for my supporters where I drew things they suggested. I thought this one would fit in with your shop.” Virgil shook his head, rifling through his bag for the drawing. Perhaps it was a little childish to try courting Remus with the things he drew but his usual approach of taking him by the hand and asking for a date casually had gotten brushed aside a month back while Remus was trying to find someone who could take shifts in the shop a few days each week.

At least the drawing had Remus jumping up and rushing off to get ‘something sticky’ he could use to put it on the wall. “It’s brilliant, are they tentacles or intestines? I can’t tell and don’t care! There’s so much happening and it’s the perfect size to be what Mr Crack is guarding!”

Mr Crack of course was a giant squid Remus had painted on the wall to the left of the door. It was guarding a treasure chest before the picture was pasted on top of it, somehow still seeming like the tentacles were cradling it.

“A guy could fall for a mind like yours, and a body like yours. God you could bench press me and I’d thank you for it. Actually, can I beg you to try doing that?” Remus was still rambling as he turned back to Virgil.

Virgil had been intending to actually order a drink and sandwich before the words registered in his mind and he flushed even further, nodding for a second. “If you want to beg for something that stupid you can. I stay in shape by jogging, these arms have no strength in them at all.”

He was not expecting the response to that coming in Remus vaulting the counter toward him, but still managed to catch the crazy man in the nick of time. “Looks like you have plenty of strength to me, King Pin! If you’d rather not do that though I’ll settle for making you coffee.”

It would be nice to say that Virgil knew just what could be said about his split second decision to get revenge by placing Remus upside down in such a way his torso was hangin off the edge of the counter. Instead he had completely neglected to realised just where Remus’s head would be level with after that action and was promptly backing away from the counter in a rush, doing his best to focus entirely on the menus over the counter and ignore anything else that could be said.

“Okay, I guess I’d like a peppered mocha, with a salmon and onion sandwich.” He rushed to say, just picking the first things he saw on the menu. Really Virgil knew that if Remus thought he wouldn’t like what was ordered he’d be given something different regardless of what was paid for so the order mattered even less.

Remus was still laying there, hanging his head backwards instead of responding to the order when he looked down though. “I’ll do that only after you answer my question. Is this guy allowed to fall in love with you or have you got your heart set on someone else?”

“You’re allowed to fall for me, just don’t let us get hurt.” Virgil could hardly believe his ears, even as he replied. The chaotic cafe owner actually wanted to date him, and all those comments and reactions actually meant something. All his worries that this madness was just how Remus always was were calmed. At least some of it must be specially for him.

[barnesandco]

Carnations

A love story told through the four seasons of the year.

Pairing: Winter Soldier x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Angst. Descriptions of violence and injury, especially in the first few paragraphs.

A/N: Look at me, ignoring my two on-hiatus series while I indulge in thematic one-shots! I had this idea that I couldn’t let go of until it was out her so I hope you like it!

He's brought to you in the dead heat of hellish midsummer, on a stretcher carried by barking Hydra guards, orders being delivered like slaps to the face. You're a trembling leaf on weak knees, so used to only the walls for company when you're bombarded by this explosion of noise, as they demand that you fix him. He - the Soldat - has been struck by a RPG, thigh torn to shreds, white bone glinting between the mauled flesh and you almost vomit. The only thing holding your stomach down is the knowledge that your food is as valuable as gold, not to be wasted with how little you receive.

They're pushing you towards him, cruel hands and crueller words against the tattered fabric covering your skin, and you step closer. Let your own hands - frail and itchy with what they hold within - hover above the mauled flesh of his thigh. You have never healed an injury of this extent, and you wonder if you are capable of it, until actions silence your doubt. The bloody muscle lifts, like magic, to return to its original place, skin drawing itself taut over him like a band-aid. All that is left is a thin gash, as if from a shallow knife wound, blood pippling out. The guards look at you sceptically, before calling for medical supplies and instructing you to dress the wound.

He wakes up mere moments after the minions have left, eyes blank and lifeless like everything else around you. Does not pay any mind to how your hands have frozen where they were pressing the gauze over the wound, and how you now stare at him, a deer in headlights.

"You're the American, right?" You have no idea what possesses you to say this, fractured Russian slipping from your tongue. Sand between fingers.

"I don't know," He answers, voice softer than carnation petals. Perfect English, broken mind. Nobody who walks through these halls is a stranger to heartbreak, but few of them are sympathetic to it. Surprisingly, you don't flinch when he moves to sit up, because the movement is mechanical and self-aware instead of malicious, as you are accustomed to. 

"Does it hurt?" You ask in his native tongue this time, and only then does he notice the wound you are dressing. Shakes his head and you nod yours, securing the dressing. Eyes meet icy blue that unthaws slowly under the heat of your gaze.

---

Autumn is settling, a deep, weary ache in your body as you prepare for the pain that winter pushes like needles into your bones. The only way you know this is by the humid, earthy scent of petrichor, for there are no falling leaves here with which to estimate the time of year. Your hands shake, fingers running across your forearms as you wait.

The Soldat is expected to return from a gruelling mission - the kind nobody escapes whole from - in a matter of minutes. The doctors determined, after your prior success, that your healing was beneficial to the body, strengthened their weapons - their soldiers - further, and so he is your patient. Sometimes, weeks will pass before you seek him, and sometimes months, but one thing remains constant.

The electricity in your veins sparking like a live wire at the touch of your skin on his, not from these powers, but from something greater. Whatever elicits that spark, makes your heart beat staccato, it gives him a color in his cheeks you have only heard of, only dreamt of. Vague memories of pink carnations planted in the boundaries of the neighborhood park come to mind when you recall his blush. Young and pink but having endured vicious pests and survived more years than you would think, blossoming season after season. 

There will be no carnations, now, however, in the dawn of autumn. Falling leaves and petrichor sunshine intermingling with rainbows framed by grey clouds wade through your memory like a sepia-tinted haze. You were eleven when Hydra found you, took you for their own and made you more powerful than you were, yet somehow smaller. The girl who growled back at stray dogs can only whimper at guards years later. 

Those guards break your silence, your reverie, as they guide in the Soldier - James, you've managed to learn - and dump him on the pile of straw they call a bed, along with the first aid kit. You won't need it tonight, so you push it aside and trail a smoldering fingertip along the gash on his cheek, desperately ignoring the softening of his concrete stare. 

Every time, the first word spoken from your chapped lips lets the spell fall away like silk down glass - smooth and quick - but you need to ensure that he is stable. The usual signal is the slowing of his heartbeat, and you settle two fingers over his wrist, letting the pulse thrum through you. His vitals are steady, as is to be expected, super-soldier strength doing its job. Your job - the healing - is but a formality, or a greed for more and for better, as he does fine without you.

"James?" You whisper, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear. It doesn't work. "James? It's me. You got hurt on your mission and I'm patching you up. I need to check your torso for fractured ribs. Can you please take your jacket off?" He complies, God how you hate that word, and you're soon looking at his mostly spotless torso, defined muscles and strong structure interrupted by a single blue bruise. You prod gently, can tell by the color that it's nothing to worry about. Help him back into the jacket.

"I don't want to go back," He says suddenly, eyes downcast and the statement a sad declaration rather than a protest. As if he is surprised that he knows what he wants, or rather doesn't want, when, for as long as he can remember, he hasn't wanted anything. Weapons don't have desires, but this one is broken. This one is faulty.

"What do you mean, James?" You ask anyway, well aware of exactly what he means, just as surprised as he is that he voiced such a thing. 

"The tube. It's cold and you're warm. I don't want to go," He says, meeting your eyes, and you don't have words that encapsulate the gravity of the moment. He has become a bluebell, growing between rain-washed sidewalks, rare as can be and just as beautiful, but oh so lonely.

---

The Winter Soldier's lips are as cold as his bionic hand against the small of your back, as the concrete wall he pushes you against. Everything is quiet, as it often is when the world is numbed by snowfall, and you need not be able to see it to know that it is there. Right now, you see nothing, eyes closed, muted gasps escaping from your mouth as his moves lower to your neck, your collarbone. His teeth scrape like howling December winds against your skin, pins and needles sending trails of fire through your abdomen. His hands hold you steady while yours find solid ground between the unkempt strands of his dark hair. Arms surround your waist, a protective fortress as you desperately try to keep your eyes from fluttering shut and instead focus on the closed panel in the door that guards can open to check on you.

Deciding that your attention has been diverted for too long, he returns to full height from where he was worshipping your pulse point with that pink tongue, and holds your face gently, softly in his hands. Tilts his head forward, letting his forehead meet yours with an elegant bump, before his lips slant over yours again. You drink him in like he's the last taste of water you'll ever get, like you are sick and he is the cure. His hands are roaming, roaming, roaming, inhaling these last few breaths of freedom to do as they please before they're frozen again or obligated to do worse than reduce a woman to warm sighs.

"James, please," You say, moving those hands lower, lower to pause above your navel, and he pulls away with a stifled groan. Presses his forehead to yours, trembling hands splayed out across your lower abdomen, transferring heat and cold in equivalent waves. When you shudder, it is not from the temperature, but from the power of all the words you want to say. The words you want to spill like a waterfall emerging from a burst dam, swirling and raging and dangerous, just as this is is. 

Your secret rendezvous, these post-mission meetings that turn into something more after you have done your job healing him. Dangerous doesn't even begin to cover it - it's outright foolish, asking for death. Lack of hope makes people do crazy things, such as finding love where there should be none. Love, in turn, heals in ways that your hands never can, drawing this man, this soldier, out of the mold they have put them in, the bullet casing that he is. 

He pulls back with a heavy sigh, hands moving to grip your waist and pull you upright as he looks at you, swirling blues thunderous October storms.

"I should go, shouldn't I?" He asks with a nervous glance to the door behind him. You rest your hands over his biceps, massaging the stiff muscle on your left and stroking the cold metal on your right as you answer.

"If it was up to me, you'd never leave. But yeah, I guess you should."

"It's been too long already. I'm surprised they haven't come looking yet," He says, still making no move to leave. You smile, a sad, tearful thing, and let your hands rise to cup his cheeks. He tilts his head to kiss your palm, delivers a smile softer than a carnation against your powerful skin. 

"We'll get out of this, doll, I promise," And the spell is broken as your hands slide down to grip the collar of his vest, anger and fear bubbling like lava under the heat of his kisses, of his love.

"If you're planning something-"

"I'm not. Not now, at least," He reassures, but your concern is not so easily assuaged.

"James…" You begin to warn, brows knitting together. Having grown stronger, more stable, more able to recover from the programming - even having certain moments where he breaks free of it entirely - he's growing confident. Confidence breeds free will, and free will could get them killed in a place like this. 

"Doll, I'll be fine. I'm just- I'm getting better, and they don't have the same hold on me that they used to. One of these days, baby, one of these days," He says, enveloping you in a warm embrace, lips embedding the words into your temple, a promise and a threat in equal measure wrapped like a Trojan horse he's preparing for Hydra. 

Your own arms clutch his waist tight, eyes open, steely gaze on the door as you pray he never gets the chance. You pray that Hydra self-destructs before James has a chance to do himself any harm, because you don't know if you'll survive that for long enough to heal him. There is no cure for death - it is only treated by tears.

---

Carnations bloom in the singular pot on the windowsill, a luxury the two of you have decided to afford yourselves amongst the stifling dreariness and humid gray of your Bucharest apartment. The lumpy mattress is stiff and awkward beneath you, but James' lap does a good job of shielding you from it. He sits, back against the wall and arms around you, metal hand holding the journal he is writing in, and rests the brown suede against your ribs that rise and fall with every breath you take. To anyone else, it might be irritating to have to shift and adjust in order to write, but to him, it is a valuable reminder that you're alive, you're together.

After his escape from Triskelion and the catastrophic fall of Hydra, he knew nothing, was nothing but a shell of a man scrambled like crossed wires, short-circuiting and sparking in the confines of his mind. There were two things his broken psyche held onto like a lifeline: Steve Roger's battered face in that helicarrier telling him something he's supposed to recognize, and your rare smile. 

He found you, afterwards. It took two weeks of hellscape recollections and more courage than he had any idea that he possessed, but he found you. In the abandoned ruins of a devastated Hydra base - his devastated Hydra base - he found you, eyes closed and near-dead, but no. You limped out on glowing limbs, healing yourself as he let his first tear in a century fall down his dirt-smeared cheek, yours pressed to his shoulder like a drying leaf between the pages of a cherished book.

Now, he cherishes you, relishes in you and your touch, the finest comfort he has ever had. This - your washed hair against his cheek, your legs a warm blanket straddling his, and your hands stroking a whispered song against his chest - this is a luxury. The pillow of your lips grazes the stubble on his face, a distraction, a reminder, and he let's himself smile against your mouth. Puts down the book and shifts so you're above him, his red Henley slipping down one of your shoulders to reveal the skin he would die to save. Pink lips skimming your collarbone, dainty fingers in his hair, his own clenching and releasing your hips like spring flowers blooming in time-lapse.

"Someone's in a good mood, today," You whisper against his gentle lips, tilting his jaw to plant a peck against them before waiting for his answer.

"Hard not to be when you're treatin' me like I'm made of diamonds," He quips with a swift brush of his thumb over your cheekbone, hand sliding back and down to rest above the small of your back.

"Never seen a diamond, wouldn't know what to do with one," You shoot back playfully, reminding him that you have no use for material items, however valuable. 

"Well, I wouldn't know what to do without my diamond," He says, referring to you, bumping noses and laying a chaste peck against your grinning lips.

These moments - between your gruelling jobs and worse nights, the ones where you wake up sweaty and tear-sodden and disoriented - these moments are all you have to live for. The notion that he might not have you some day is a scary one, especially because you fear how much you need each other.

"We've talked about what would happen if we got separated. We have a plan, in case something happens to me-" You remind him gently before he lays a forefinger across your lips and you resist the urge to nip at it.

"Nothing's going to happen to you, honey. Nothing, I swear," He promises solemnly, honeyed gaze severe under the weekend afternoon sunshine illuminating your otherwise gray apartment. For now, just now, you push away the niggling thought of if something could happen to him, and pick up the notebook that holds the secrets he doesn't yet want to burden you with. You watch him spill the ink left over from the cruel tattoos on his mind into those yellowing pages. Watch him free his past as you try not to worry about your future.

Taglist: @suz-123​ @mermaidxatxheart​ @buckyreaderrecs​ @shield-agent78​ @corneliabarnes​ @readerandcinephileingeneral​ @stevieboyharrington​ @notsomellowmushroom​ @veganfangirl5​ @mood-pancakes​ @lbuck121​ @redhairedfeistynerd​ @geeksareunique​

[merakiaes]

One For Sorrow - Sandor Clegane

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Stark!reader, Ned Stark x daughter!reader, Catelyn Stark x daughter!reader, Stark!siblings x sister!reader

Requested: Yes

Prompts: None

Warnings/notes: Violence, cursing, death, changes in the timeline.This is reeeeally long so I haven’t been able to check for grammar and/or checking mistakes before posting, but I will once I get time. I also may have changed some details without realizing, so sorry for that if that’s the case! Also, Azar is a new character that will be introduced again in part 3!

Wordcount: 10438

Description: Prequel to ‘It’s Not Always True What They Say’. Takes place before and when meeting Sandor. 

“Tell me again why I have to wear this Gods forsaken dress?” You asked, glaring into the wall as your mother pulled at the strings of your corset. 

“You know why. The king is arriving anytime now and you are the only one who is not dressed and down in the courtyard.” She told you sternly, pulling the strings roughly causing you to curse. “And you will have to watch that mouth of yours during their stay, too. Do you understand me?”

You huffed a piece of your long hair out of your face. “You don’t have to act all strict with me, I can hear you just fine without that bitterness in your tone.”

“I tried being not stern.” Your mother remarked. “Three times. And yet here I am, dressing you like a five year old.”

You only rolled your eyes, letting go of the wooden pole you had been grabbing onto as your mother finished the last piece of clothing. 

You shifted uncomfortably, raising the right side of your upper lip slightly in distaste. “I don’t know how you walk around in these all day. The’re horrid.”

“Less horrid than those over sized breeches, I’d say.” She commented back as she started tugging on your hair from behind. 

You cursed as the comb got stuck in your locks, your direwolf whining from the bed, feeling his master’s pain. 

You gave him a glance, before turning back forward. 

“It’s not my fault you won’t get my clothes my own size.” You scoffed. “I have no other choice but to wear Jon and Robb’s old ones.”

“If you act like a lady during the King’s stay, I will give you clothes. Would you agree to that?”

Your face instantly lit up and you turned around to hug your mother, jumping slightly. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!”

“But you have to act like a real lady!” She repeated. “No cursing, no snide comments to any of the royal company, no matter how much they vex you. No pants, and most importantly, NO fighting!”

“I’m not wearing dresses for this whole week.”  You glared, letting go of her immediately. “The rest I can agree to.”

Your mother looked at you for a moment, before giving a curt nod. “Very well, no dresses. But if you misbehave in any other way, you can bid those new clothes farewell. Now come here.”

And with that, Catelyn turned her daughter around and went back to her hair, rushing it into a quick but beautiful northern hairdo, before they had to hurry down to welcome the King and his company. 

Unfortunately, your direwolf pup had to be left in your room, much to your dismay. 

You just about managed to get down and take your spots as the King rode through the gates. 

Your father gave you a look as you took your place between him and Robb. “Giving your mother a hard time as usual, I presume?” He snickered.

Before you could answer, your mother scoffed from his other side. “Would you expect anything else? She’s not my daughter, I’ll tell you that.”

You smiled widely, taking pride in having grown up to, truly, be your father’s daughter. 

Your conversation was short-lived as the king soon stood in front of you, causing you to put on a big smile and straighten your posture. 

“Your Grace.” Your father greeted his friend, bowing his head slightly in respect.”

Robert looked him up and down, face red and puffy from the cold. “You’ve got fat.”

Your father raised an eyebrow at this, looking the king up and down like he had done him only moments before, and you watched with a chuckle as they started laughing, embracing each other. 

“Nine years.” The king started. “Why haven’t I seen you? Where the hell have you been?”

“Guarding the North for you, Your Grace.” Your father responded. “Winterfell is yours.”

“Where’s the Imp?”

“Will you shut up?”

You heard Arya and Sansa bickering from the other end of the line, causing you to snort quite un-ladylike.

This in turn, caught Robert’s attention. He turned to you, the big smile on his face faltering for a moment as he laid eyes on you, only to widen even more than before. 

“My…” He whispered as he came to stand before you, reaching out to touch a strand of your black hair. “You look just like her.” 

You smiled sadly, knowing in an instant that he was talking about your late aunt Lyanna Stark. It was no surprise that you were a spitting image of her. 

“Your Grace.” You bowed slightly, only to be pulled into a hug as you came back up. 

You wrapped your arms around his thick torso in an embrace, smiling into his shoulder. You had always been very close to Robert, closer than the rest of your siblings, seeing him as a second father. 

He held you at an arm’s length. “Look at how much you’ve grown.” He enthused, before looking at you with a teasing grin. “I assume you’re still ignoring your sewing lessons and playing in the mud.”

You laughed, smile reaching all the way to your eyes as you nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Robert smiled one last time at you, before moving on to your twin. “And who have we here?” He asked. “You must be Robb.”

As he went on to your siblings one by one, you let your eyes fall on the Queen who was just now exiting the carriage with her cubs, coming forward to let your mother and father greet and welcome her. 

Not being interested in the slightest of greeting her, you let your eyes wander along the crowd that had traveled with them, spotting soldier after soldier, one of which was the infamous Kingslayer. 

But, true to Arya’s word, the Imp was nowhere to be seen. 

The King and Queen’s oldest was, however, already complaining about the cold to his own personal guard dog. 

Only then did you allow yourself to look at him. The big man was towering over most of their company, dog helmet held under his arm and looking like a giant next to the whiny prince. 

You had heard many horrid stories about the man that was The Hound, many of which told about his horribly scarred face, but as you watched him from your spot, you couldn’t bring yourself to think of him as ugly. 

He was rather handsome, actually. But the scowl he wore on his face completely took away from that. 

He had this look in his eyes that made you wonder how many people he’s killed, but then he had this… scowl that made you realize he’d probably lost count.

As if feeling your stare, Sandor suddenly turned to look at you, half expecting you to look away when he did. But much to his surprise, you kept your eyes on him and offered him a smile and a curt nod. 

“Take me to your crypt.” Robert came back to the front then, talking to your father. “I want to pay my respects.”

You noticed the queen’s face hardening at his words, coming to stand behind her husband. “We’ve been riding for a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait.”

But Robert only ignored her. “Ned.” 

Ned glanced at the queen, before nodding his head and walking off with his friend and king to bid to his wishes, leaving you all to your own business. 

“Well, then.” You spoke, turning to your twin who had now been joined by Theon and Jon. “Now that this horrid experience is finally over, I’m going to my chambers to change into more… fitting, attire.” 

You threw a distasteful look to your dress, before looking back up at the boys. “Sparring in ten?” 

“I need to practice my shooting.” Theon nodded, agreeing to your idea. Robb and Jon mumbled out responses of their own, saying they needed to practice their swordplay. 

Rolling your eyes, you picked up your skirts, throwing a look Theon’s way. “As if you need practice. I do, however.” And with that you were off towards your chambers. 

But it wasn’t all that easy as Sansa and your mother made it out to be. Being used to walking around freely in pants and tunics, the skirts were for the time being your worse enemy, causing you to trip over your feet more times than you would admit. 

But you managed to reach your destination eventually, quickly changing out of the dress to your usual clothing, wasting no time in running back outside to meet with the boys. 

As you arrived, you found them all coaching Bran as he practiced his shooting. Noticing his stance, you called out. “Your legs are to wide apart.” 

The boys all turned to look at you as you reached them, Theon shooting an arrow to his own board right before. 

Bran frowned, letting his bow sink slightly. “I’m never going to learn how to shoot.”

You walked up to him, a comforting smile resting on you pink lips. “Of course you will, Bran.” You then proceeded to slap Jon and Robb’s ‘helping’ hands away from the younger Stark, taking their place beside him. “Here, I’ll help you.”

Bran nodded, raising the bow again and drawing the string back. 

“Good.” You praised. “Now, the first thing you have to think about is to not think at all. If you keep your string held back for too long, your aim will get ruined. The trick is to shoot at once when you’ve gotten the aim in.”

You pushed his bow down again. “Now, try again, and this time release at once.”

Bran frowned, skeptic to what you were saying but following your orders nonetheless. 

Raising the bow, he drew the string back, aimed, and released, watching as the arrow hit the board just outside of the ring that was the second away from the edge.

“See!” You called, ruffling his hair. “I knew you could do it!”

The boys all clapped and Bran’s face lit up in a big smile. He turned to Robb. “I did it!”

“I saw.” Robb chuckled back. 

Theon gave him and Jon a teasing smirk. “She’s a better teacher than both of you combined, I’ve always told you.”

The two brothers waved him away, and the five of you, later also joined by Arya, played around outside until the sun went down and signaled that it was time for the feast. 

You once again found yourself in your chambers, Bone, your direwolf, resting by your feet as you tried your best to braid your own hair at the end of the bed. 

Sansa had joined you for a short while at the wishes of your mother to make sure you got into your dress like promised, before running back to her own chambers to “fancy herself up for the dreamy prince”, as she had so nicely put it. 

Of course, you had done what you did best and called him a bitch, but Sansa was too high up in the clouds to even hear what you had said. 

You shook your head at the thought. You weren’t against love, you didn’t deny its existence like your family believed, but you weren’t overly fond of it either. 

During the time being, you could’t see yourself ever falling in love. The lords you had met were all spoiled and horrible, and the ones who weren’t lords were still horrible. 

To sum it up, most men you had encountered were either horrible to look at, or horrible to talk to. The men you had met and actually liked were either your brothers, your father, or Robert. 

“You are never going to find a suitable husband by being sarcastic and vulgar.”  Your mother had said to you once after meeting with a potential suitor. 

You had only glared, not being fazed in the slightest, and responded: “Alright, no husband then.”

You might have been very controversial, being adventurous but cautious and careful, logical but also a dreamer, fierce and outgoing but sensitive, mysterious but trustworthy, childish but wise, sweet but moody, charismatic but quiet, bubbly but a pessimist and ambitious but lazy. But one of the things you would never be, was a liar. 

Changing yourself to get a stranger to like you, was simply something you would not do. Not today, not in a million years. In other words, never. That’s just not who you were. 

You would never be able to put your hair into fancy styles like Sansa or your mother, but after an hour of cursing and tugging, you decided it would have to do, despite being completely oblivious to how it looked. 

Luckily, it looked alright to the outside world. You figured, anyways, taking it as a good sign that no one had looked at you when you walked down the corridors and to the feast. 

The people were already eating and drinking like there was no tomorrow once you finally arrived, meaning you had taken longer than you had thought to get ready. 

As you walked through the door and Robb spotted you from his seat, he voiced your thoughts, confirming your suspicions. 

“Finally!” He called out over the chatter and music, moving slightly to the side to make room for you between him and some man. “Where have you been?”

You huffed as you sat down, having a hard time keeping your skirts intact. “I had to put this on by myself, fix my hair too.”

Theon laughed from across you. “For taking such a long time, you didn’t do much with it.” He motioned to your hair with his chicken. 

Glaring at him, you reached over and snatched said piece of chicken, taking a bite. “I don’t usually do my hair up like Sansa and mother, though, do I?”

He held his upp in surrender at the heated glare you were giving him. “Fair enough.”

You didn’t say anything more after that, only pitched in once in a while to answer when Robb or Theon or somebody else spoke to you directly. 

Now, in any other situation, you would have been thrilled about all the food. But seeing as you in this moment was, in fact, stuck in a hot, itching dress, the glare never left your face as you ate and drank. 

After a while, Theon left with some girl, and Robb left to take Arya to bed after she had made a shot at Sansa with her food. 

Both you and Robb had laughed at the sight, but with a stern glance from  your mother, Robb had taken off and you had shut up. 

But seeing as your only company had now left you, you were bored out of your mind. 

You grabbed a flagon of wine quickly from a passing server, and stood up from your seat, proceeding to walk outside to find your half-brother who, as per usual, had been cast out by your mother. 

A dick move of her, if you got to say so yourself, but nothing you were bothered to argue with, seeing as she in the end always won. Them Tully’s never were good at listening. 

“It’s always summer, under the sea, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh. The birds have scales, and the fish take wing .” You sang quietly to yourself as you wandered outside, skirts and flagon in hand, seeming to be a little more intoxicated than you had thought. 

“I know, I know, oh, oh, oh. The rain is dry, and the snow falls up, I know, I know, oh, o-”  You�� cut yourself off as you stumbled slightly when going down the steps of the castle. 

“Fucking dress.” You cursed, looking down as you tried your hardest to sort out the fabric with one hand to make clear way for your feet to walk, however seemingly failing miserably. 

“Your mother never teach you that women shouldn’t curse?” A voice suddenly came from in front of you, causing you to stop in your tracks which in turn caused you to bump into the chest of said person. 

There, before you as you looked up, stood Sandor Clegane, watching you with a hand on the hilt of his sword. 

You took him in, before remembering his words, going to narrow your eyes at him. “Fuck off.”

The man scoffed. “Are you sober?” He asked, voice clear of any emotion whatsoever. 

“I’m moderately functional.” You sneered quietly, going back to mess with the dress, not daring to take another step until you were sure you wouldn’t fall. 

“I’ll take that as a no.” The much bigger man grumbled in response, going to grab your arm. 

“Hey, mister, what do you think you’re doing?” You protested as he dragged you forward. 

“What’s it look like?” He grumbled again, keeping his hand on your arm so that you wouldn’t move as he bent down to pull your skirt from underneath your feet. 

“There.” He said, coming back up. “Now you can walk without falling on your face.” 

You glared at him. “I would have been fully capable of doing that myself.” 

“Didn’t look like it to me.” He fired back, clearly starting to grow more irritated by the second. 

“Well, you don’t look very well then, do you?”

This time it was his time to stare at you, eyes dark and emotionless. “Do you know who I am?” 

“Of course I know who you are.” You snorted. “There’s not many men in Winterfell with burns all over their face.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

You raised an unimpressed eyebrow, leaning backwards to take a better look at him, although regretting it as you stumbled. 

You steadied yourself and moved your eyes back to his face. “I’ve had worse nightmares about my mother finding out I’ve been skipping my sewing lessons.”

He showed his teeth from behind his beard as he looked down at you. “You should be scared of me. If you would have known where I’ve come from, you would be.” 

You rolled your eyes and glared at him, something you found yourself doing a lot when under the influence of alcohol. “I don’t doubt for a second you’ve done horrible things, but the only people I’m afraid of are the ones who make me wear these damned dresses against my will.”

Sandor narrowed his eyes, truth be told shocked that you weren’t even flinching under his gaze, and that you would willingly have a conversation with him, despite the fact that the conversation in question was not rather pleasant. 

“Do you regret it?” You leaned forward slightly, staring into his eyes in a way you thought to be intimidate, but in reality was making you look like a fool. 

Sandor looked you up and down, lip slightly raised in distaste at the look on your face. “Regret what?”

“The things you’ve done?” You answered without missing a beat. 

“There’s no sweeter thing than killing.” Sandor responded without batting an eye, and even though you wouldn’t admit it, a chill ran down your spine at his words. 

“So you don’t regret it.” You confirmed, raising an eyebrow in question. 

Once again, the man bared his teeth in annoyance. “The only thing I regret, is having this conversation.” 

You scoffed. “You don’t have to be rude.”

“Don’t like me?” He asked. “Take a seat with the rest of the bitches waiting for me to give a fuck.”

“So dramatic.” You pouted mockingly, before moving to walk past him. “Well then, Ser, I’ll leave you to dramatically brood in your lonesome and go find someone else to converse with. Have a good night.” 

And with that, you started walking away, raising the flagon over your shoulder in farewell. 

Sandor watched as you walked away, but you didn’t get very far, the dress coming to tangle beneath your feet in less than a minute. 

“Dammit!” You yelled out, throwing the flagon on the ground to attempt fixing the mess once more. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Sandor cursed from behind you, and before you could even think of a response, he had taken you by your arm and heaved you up into his arms. 

“Let me down!” You ordered, wriggling about. 

“If you keep moving around like that I will, and it won’t be pleasant.” He snapped at you, causing you to glare and still in his arms.

“Fine, but at least let me get on your back. I’m not some damsel in distress who needs saving.” You huffed.

“Fucking hell.” The man cursed once more, letting you down on your feet and getting in front of you so that you could jump onto his back instead. 

“You happy now?” He snarled, putting his hands behind your knees so that you wouldn’t fall off. 

“Happier than before.” You muttered, letting your arms circle around his neck, causing him to mutter something under his breath. 

The walk was quick thanks to Sandor’s long strides, and you soon found yourself being let down from his back in front of the door that would take you to your chambers. 

You wasted no time in pushing open the heavy wood, Bone jumping at you almost instantly. 

“Hi!” You gushed, bending down to pick him up into your arms, letting him lick your face as you walked inside. 

“Will you be able to undress yourself without falling or do I have to do that, too?” Sandor’s snarky voice came from the doorway. 

You put Bone down on your bed and walked back over to the door, skirts held up to your knees now that you were inside and wouldn’t freeze to death. 

“If you think you are getting your hands anywhere near my underclothes with that attitude, you are terribly mistaken.” You scoffed, grabbing a hold of the door. “Good night, Ser.” 

And with that you slammed the door shut, leaving Sandor alone to mutter in the corridor. “I’m no Ser.” 

After getting out of your gods forsaken dress and putting more wood into the fire, you had gotten beneath your furs and fallen asleep the second your head hit the soft pillow. 

You slept peacefully, thanks to the wine, but your waking was a little less pleasing, also thanks to the wine. 

Your mother had, true to her word, gotten you the promised clothes as you had fulfilled your end of the deal. Well, apart from the swearing to the Hound, that is. But she didn’t need to know that. 

But although you were happy about finally getting to wear a pair of pants that wouldn’t fall off when you moved, you were less pleased with the way you were awoken. 

The second Catelyn had waltzed into your room to see you lying face down with a pillow over your head, she had only shook her head. 

She had taken no regard what so ever to your headache and nausea from the night before as she pulled off your furs and forced you to get into a bath to ready yourself for breakfast. 

But at least now you could wear clothes of your own choice, thank the Gods. 

To say you were in a foul mood after last night’s amount of wine was a big understatement. As earlier mention, food was something you appreciated greatly, but today, you didn’t even feel like eating breakfast, instead opting to go for a ride in the woods. 

Being used to your morning-after changes of moods, no one in the castle dared to look at you as you walked down the corridors and outside. 

Bone, sensing your mood, or lack there of, took it on himself to show his loyalty to his master by taking on the same mood, growling to anyone who looked at you. 

Someone who didn’t seem to have gotten the hint by your terrifying stare or Bone’s low growls, however, was the very Hound who had made sure you got back to your chambers safely the night before. 

The man looked up as he noticed you entering, only sparing the not so little pup at your side a glance. 

“Who ate your bowl of sunshine this morning?” His voice came as you walked inside the stables. 

You didn’t answer, and for a second Sandor thought you might have been too drunk to remember your little encounter. But when seeing the familiar glare on your face, he knew you did. 

“What?” He grumbled as he saddled a horse. “No snarky remarks?” 

“Piss off.” You snapped finally, grabbing a saddle from the wall and going over to open the gate to one of the horses.

Sandor snorted, taking great pleasure in seeing you suffer after how you had irritated him the night before. 

“Don’t you have a breakfast to go to?” He voiced as he watched you get your horse ready, only getting a grumble in return. 

As you finished saddling your horse, you wasted no time in sitting up and steering the stallion out of the stables, speaking no more words to the prince’s guard dog, wanting to get out of there as quickly as you could knowing that the prince in question would have probably arrived any second. 

And while you weren’t really in the mood to deal with breakfast, or Sandor Clegane, you were not in the mood to deal with Joffrey Baratheon. Emphasis on the “not”. 

You’d never spoken to the prince before and you intended to keep it that way, while you hadn’t directly talked to him having heard him whine from a distance more times than you would have wished since his arrival the previous day. 

“Come on, boy.” You mumbled to Bone as you got the horse into a slow trott, letting him speed up into a galopp on his own, Bone running ahead. 

As you rode through the gates, the guards gave you a short hello, being used to you running away from gatherings like this to explore the woods. 

You’d think you would have covered the whole woods by now, but the woods that surrounded your home seemed to be endless. 

Not that you were complaining, riding alone through the thick trees being your absolute favourite activity on tired and pissed off days like these; it was your place to escape. 

As you trotted through the forest, you closed your eyes for a moment and breathed in the chilly air, just soaking in the moment. 

Bone was walking in front of you, sniffing on the ground and looking around. He was relaxed, in his natural habitat, but still ready to attack should you feel threatened. 

Almost a month had passed since you had found the direwolves on the way back to the castle, and Bone had already gotten so big. But despite him being the biggest out of the seven, you still called him a pup and took him into your arms every time you had the chance. 

But he didn’t complain, not that he could, anyways. You would never see him get as excited as when you’d gush him and give him that kind of attention. 

He was your baby. You had never realized that something was missing in your life until you got him. Now you couldn’t imagine a life without him. And if anyone even thought about hurting him, you’d kill them before he got the chance to do that himself. 

Two hours passed, and you had stopped in several places to check things out, whether it was animals, plants or simply admiring the landscape. 

But this time, you had stopped for something far more exciting than anything else so far. 

As you had been trotting around, Bone had stopped to smell something like he always did, but this time he hadn’t let it go. 

Getting down from your horse, you had found him pushing on a broken egg, a dead nestling hanging out of the shell. 

Your heart had broken at the sight, and you’d instantly started looking around for the nest, figuring it couldn’t be too far away as the egg looked to have fallen. 

After minutes of looking, you had finally found the tree with the bird’s nest. Luckily, it was a tree on which the twigs and branches started close to the ground, giving you easy access to safe footing. 

Less fortunate, the branches got sparser and more scattered after a while, leaving you less and less to climb on the further up you got. 

This left you not so far up at all, stretching your body as far as you could without falling, grabbing into the air to be able to reach the nest. 

But to no avail. 

You groaned in frustration as you gave it another go, reaching out with a strained sound leaving your lips, tip of your tongue peeking out. 

“The fuck are you doing up there?” You suddenly heard from beneath you, causing you to slip on the branch and come falling down. 

“AH!” You grabbed at the air desperately as you fell, trying to grab on to anything that could save you from a painful landing. 

But the feared landing never came. Well, not for you, that is. 

A grunt came from underneath you as you landed on the person who had dared sneak up on you, both of you falling to the ground with a thud. 

“What the fuck are you on?” The voice shouted as you stumbled to get up, them doing the same. 

Only then did your brain register the voice, and you quickly realized the victim of your rather rough landing was the one and only Sandor Clegane. 

“What are you doing here?” You huffed out as you managed to scramble to your feet, brushing off your pants. 

“What am I doing here? I’m heading back from a hunting trip to the castle with your father’s deer and I find you climbing a tree like you’re some kind of bird. What are you doing?” 

You crossed your arms, noticing Bone moving behind the man in front of you. You sent the direwolf a glare, pissed that he hadn’t made any sound to warn you. 

“That’s none of your business.” Turning back to look at Sandor, you keeping the glare on your face as you looked at him for a moment before going back to the tree for a second attempt. 

“You’re going up there again? Are you clinically insane or just incredibly annoying?” He called as you stepped onto the first branch, pulling yourself up. 

“Take your pick.” You snapped back, going to grab the next branch, however finding that it broke during your fall. 

“Damn it.” You cursed under your breath, before looking at Sandor. “Come here.”

“What are you on about now?” He asked, irritated. 

“Let me stand on your shoulders.” You responded. You pointed to the ground closer to you. “Now.” 

“Fuck that. You can do whatever you’re doing yourself.” He snarled, moving to go back to his horse. 

You scoffed. “Fine.” You shifted your eyes back to the tree, looking for a good branch to climb. You reached up when finding one who looked thick enough, only to find that it was too dry, it snapping off as soon as you put weight on it.  

Sandor watched you with an unimpressed expression, and you could hear him grumble from where his horse stood, before your foot was suddenly grabbed and put on his shoulder. 

You glanced down at him, coming face to face with an annoyed glare. “Get on with it.” He snapped, and you did as told, pushing yourself up on his shoulders all while holding on to the tree for support. 

Sandor’s hands went to your feet to hold you in place, only letting them go when you pushed yourself onto a branch. 

This time you had managed to come further up than you had without Sandor’s shoulders, allowing you access to the higher branches, which in turn let you climb all the way to the bird’s nest. 

“Yes.” You cheered to yourself as you sat down on a branch beside the nest. 

In it laid one single egg, white with black specks all over it. It was bigger than the one on the ground, about as big as your hands put together if they were clenched. 

You furrowed your eyebrows. You had never seen an egg like this before, the one on the ground being slightly different. 

Picking it up, it was cold and heavy in your hands, but as you held it you could feel warmth coming from inside. 

You knew you weren’t supposed to take the eggs from their nests, but it didn’t look to have been built on for a long time, giving you the suspicion that this was one of the species where the mothers left their chicks in the nests to fend for themselves. 

“What the fuck are you doing up there?” You heard from below you suddenly, causing you to jump slightly in your seat, but thankfully not enough to drop the egg. 

“I’m coming down now.” You called out, carefully putting the egg in your hip bag, hanging it on a branch and moving it along as you climbed down. 

You reached the bottom in no time, the bag now hanging from your shoulder as you bent down to let Sandor lift you down. 

“It takes a very special kind of idiot to pull off what you just did.” Sandor commented gruffly. 

You panted as you were placed on the ground again, swaying slightly. After steadying yourself, you grabbed the strap of the bag and put it around your shoulder properly so that it wouldn’t fall off. 

Sandor watched you from the tree as you went to your horse without a word, Bone at your heels. 

“What did you find that was so important you fell down a tree for it?” Sandor grumbled as he followed your lead, getting back onto his horse with the deer hung across the back. 

“I found a dead chick, so I wanted to look in the nest.” You answered, lifting the top of your back to expose the egg. 

He looked at you, aggravated. “I let you fall on me for an egg? A fucking egg?” 

You glowered at him. “It was no one’s fault but your own that I fell on you. If your head tells you it’s a good idea to sneak up on someone in a tree, you’re not very smart.”

He scoffed. “Blame that beast of yours, he’s not doing a very good job keeping you out of danger’s way.”

You rolled your eyes, looking at Bone who was walking calmly between you. “He likes you for some reason. Is it a dog thing?” You asked, earning yourself a glare.

“Shut your mouth.”

“That’s no way to talk to a lady. Don’t your spoiled prince discipline you before going somewhere?”

“Somehow you don’t even have to open your mouth to make my head hurt.” 

“I usually have that effect on people.” You let yourself smile for the first time that day, mocking him. 

Sandor noticed, scowling at you. “What are you smiling about?” 

“I think the better question would be why you give off the impression that you want to murder everyone you look at.”

“Killing is the swe-”

“Sweetest thing there is, yes, I remember.”

He sneered, going back to look at the ground in front of him. 

The rest of the ride back home was quiet, just the two of you being annoyed with each other’s presence, so why you would willingly walk alongside each other, you didn’t know. 

But you guessed it was because you were, even though you wouldn’t admit it in your moody state, fascinated by him. 

You had always loved things that the rest of the world forgot. Snails and slugs and broken flowers; birds high up in the trees. 

That was the reason you had gotten along with Tyrion so well during the feast te night before, and you figured it was also why you felt so drawn in by the Hound; they were both broken things that the world had left behind.

However, they weren’t much like each other in the slightest. 

While Tyrion preferred to use his wits as a defense mechanism, the Hound was known for fighting and killing anyone who dared to look at him in the wrong way. 

And while you didn’t doubt that he had many lives on his back, you didn’t believe the stories of some of the things he had supposedly done. 

In your world, everyone has a story. A background. And if you looked deeply and closely enough, you could find meaning to anything.

And while you were in a foul mood this day, you felt attracted to the Hound, you realized, as you watched the side of his face. 

He was a handsome man, one of the most beautiful people you had ever seen, you’d say, despite also being the most complicated one. But you didn’t mind. The second you managed to calm your headache and the temper with it, you would make sure to get to know the strange man. 

He was a tangled mess of silky string just waiting for you to sit down cross-legged and untie the knots.

You crinkled your nose as the thought ran through your head, disgusted that you would actually think something so soppy. You were starting to sound like Sansa, and it was making you nauseous. 

No. That’s the wine from the night before. 

Sandor looked at you as he noticed you stopping your horse in the corner of his eye, watching as you fell down from you horse and vomited in a ditch, a disgusted look coming to rest on his face. 

“For fuck’s sake.” 

“It’s a Sweetling fowl.” Maester Luwin spoke as he inspected the egg. 

You had returned a little while ago, after emptying your stomach’s content in the snow and yelling at Sandor for bitching about it. 

No matter how many times you told him to go back to the castle, he wouldn’t, instead staying to complain about you slowing him down. 

Some piece of work, that man was. The thoughts you had been having about him only moments before throwing up, were gone in an instant as soon as he opened his dirty mouth. 

Leaving you annoyed with him. Again. 

Your mother had been waiting for you by the gates as you returned, and had of course, not let you hear the end of the fact that you had been associating yourself with the Hound. 

You had only walked past her, hurrying to the kitchens to grab an apple before running off to the Maester. 

Which left you where you were now, sitting in a chair opposite of him as he inspected the egg you had found under a candle. 

“A what?” You asked, eyebrows furrowed. You had read every book in the Winterfell library, and you had never heard about such a bird. 

“A Sweetling fowl.” Maester Luwin repeated, turning the egg around in his hands as he inspected it closely. “And the embryo seems to be intact.” 

“I’ve never heard of it before.” You confessed, coming to sit beside him to inspect the egg with him. A small shape could be seen on the inside as he held it up in front of the candle.

“It’s been extinct for hundreds of years, and even when they were alive, they would never be found in Westeros.” He spoke, not taking his eyes of the black and white shell. “Where did you say you found it?”

“In the woods east of the Godswood.” You told him, repeating what you had told him when coming to find him. 

“Strange.” He wondered out loud, looking at it for a second longer before handing it back to you and standing up, fetching a book from a shelf. 

“They’ve always been quite rare, especially in Westeros. They used to live in Essos, but they’ve been thought to be extinct for centuries.” He put the book down on the table, opening it up and bringing up a page that showed a drawing of one of the most majestic creatures you had ever seen. 

“You see its tongue and claws?” Maester Luwin pointed into the book. You nodded. “It uses its claws to open wounds in his enemies, and use its bristly tongue to insert Sweetling Blight into the wounds. The deadliest poison known to man.”

You took in the information all while you let your eyes run over the drawing to register the bird’s appearance. Its beak was long, and the tongue peaking out was just as long, if not longer, and you could see clearly the rough flaps of razor-like skin on it, liquid dripping from them. 

Next to it was a horse to give you an idea of its size, looking to be about as big as the horse, only a little bigger. It’s wings were big and folded onto its back, clad with thick, long feathers, and on it’s head sat two long horns on each side. 

“They’re usually a dark brown, bronze or yellow, and is known for their use in battle. But the last time anyone saw one in real life, much less in battle, was a long, long time ago.” Luwin spoke, letting his hand turn over the pages slowly so that you got a chance to skim through the information. 

“It’s beautiful.” You said as you let your fingers trace the drawing. 

“Truly majestic creatures. Their eyes is the most mesmerizing part, looking like a night sky. But they’re blind from birth, they depend on their hearing and horns. The horns work as a sort of a motion sensitive vision, letting them know what happens around them and allowing them to get around.” 

Maester Luwin turned to look at the egg again, shutting the book once sure you had gotten the chance to read everything. “It descends from the warmer parts of the world. It’s very unsure if it’s going to survive this weather.” 

“So the mother is probably dead.” You thought out loud, getting a nod in return.

“Yes, most likely. The weather of the North is harsh to a creature like the Sweetling. But there’s nothing wrong with trying, if you manage to get it to survive the cold, this could be the beginning of their rebirth.”

You nodded, looking at the egg in your hand with fascination overtaking your every feature. “How do I get it to hatch?”

“Like any other egg. Keep it warm, if it survives the development process, it will hatch.”

“Thank you, Maester Luwin.” You thanked the old man, standing up to kiss him goodbye, before walking out the room. 

The following days you had done exactly what Maester Luwin had told you, keeping the egg by the fire when you and Bone warmed up after being outside for a whole day, and wrapped in a blanket every time you weren’t able to take it with you. 

Arya had been just as fascinated as you were, but as she had been close to breaking the egg several times, you had started locking your door when you left. 

A lot happened after your adventure in the woods. 

Bran was pushed out of a tower, and had been in a deep sleep ever since. You had had your first personal encounter with Joffrey, and had been tormented by him on a daily basis ever since, something that was making you have a hard time controlling yourself, but your brothers to have a good laugh every time they were reminded. 

To sum it up, it was getting on your nerves. 

But luckily, as everything was going wrong and you were on the edge of exploding, the egg hatched, preventing this from happening. 

You couldn’t say that the chick was cute, because it wasn’t. It’s skin was naked and wrinkly, and its eyes were, despite being stunning, bigger than its head. But you knew that once it grew feathers and horns, it would look even more majestic than the one in the book. 

But of course, with your luck, the happiness was short-lived, your father soon telling you he would be taking the position of Robert’s new hand, and you would be going with them. 

You, Theon, Robb and Jon had burst into your parents’ chambers that evening, catching them stark naked in bed. 

But none of you were able to care about their lack of clothing or the probable activities they had been partaking in the moment before you stormed in, too busy yelling their ears off in a desperate attempt to get you to stay. 

But Robert had insisted. 

Forcing you to leave the home you loved more than anything behind alongside your father and sisters. 

Sansa was, seeing as she was completely head over heels with Joffrey, getting on your nerves just like everyone else. 

The only people not stomping all over your nerves as you rode down the Kingsroad, were your animals, and Arya and Sandor Clegane, seeing as you were still angry with Robert and your father for forcing you along. 

You had named your sweetling Azor, after the legendary hero Azor Ahai, who in the faith of R’hllor, the Lord of Light, thousand of years ago forged the sword Lightbringer to defeat the darkness of the Great Other.  ​

You hadn’t come up with the name yourself, of course, Arya being slightly more obsessed about warrior heroes than you. But it was a nice name, and it fit good to the dark bronze feathers he grew to get, reminding you of fire. 

You were currently sitting with your back against a tree with Arya, Bone and Nymeria curled at your feet and Azor perched on your shoulder, eating small pieces of chicken you were feeding him. 

Arya had moments before been crying as the Hound had killed her friend for offending the prince, and you had comforted her until she no longer cried. 

But of course, she was still heartbroken. The boy having been her first friend other than yourself. 

She sniffled as she chewed at her bread, patting Nymeria’s head and watching Sansa and Joffrey from afar. “I can’t believe she didn’t defend him.”

You grabbed Arya’s hand carefully in a comforting manner. “There was nothing she could’ve done, none of us could.” 

Arya turned to look at her. “But you stood up for me, at least you took my side. She just stood there.” 

You frowned. “Sansa is… in a phase, right now. You can’t take her actions, or lack there of, to heart.” 

Arya glared at her red headed sister from afar. “I never want to get married.”

“Then don’t.” You said. “I sure won’t.” 

“Father says I’m to marry a high lord. I want to be as strong as you, maybe he’d listen to me if I was. Or if I was a man.”

“You’re stronger than I ever will be.” You told her as Azar climbed down your arm to pick at the grass once there was no more chicken left to eat. 

“You’re young.” You continued. “You still have time to decide who you want to be. You can be that girl who wakes up with purpose and intent, who shows up and never gives up, who believes anything is possible and is willing to work for it. Those are the things you have to do to become greater than any man, and you certainly don’t need the help from one of those men in question to be able to do it. Because you’re Arya Stark, and you can do anything.”

Arya turned to look up at you, eyes sad. “Do you really think so?”

You smiled at her, squeezing her hand. “I know you can.” 

As the two of you turned your heads to look forward again, you spotted Sandor coming your way. You turned to Arya, seeing her put on a glare as she stood up. 

“I’ll see you by the horses.” She told you, giving you no time to respond before walking away with angry steps. 

As Sandor came closer, you stood up as well, brushing the dirt from your pants and straightening your doublet.

As Azar climbed back up your body to sit on your shoulder, Sandor reached you. 

“Your father sent me to take you to bathe.” He grumbled out, seeming to be even more cranky than usual. 

You raised an eyebrow at this. “Why did he send you?”

“Fuck do I know.” He snapped. “But he did, and we’re leaving soon. So you better hurry up.”

You rolled your eyes, saying nothing as you started to walk towards the woods where you knew the pond was. 

Bone went ahead of you like he always did when you went somewhere, taking the lead. As you walked, you glanced at Sandor, finding him sporting a frown instead of his usual scowl. 

“Are you alright?” You couldn’t help but ask as you turned your face back forward, despite the fact that you were beyond pissed at him for running down the boy and killing him, and despite the fact you knew he would probably do everything in his power to avoid the question. 

“I’m fine.” He muttered, voice gruff. 

“You don’t look fine.” You commented as you took another glance at him. 

This time, his scowl returned, eyes hardening. “Then stop looking.” 

You kept quiet for a moment, pondering whether you should keep pressing it or not, this being the first time ever he had slipped out any other kind of feeling than pure anger. 

You came to the conclusion that should you keep pressing, he would most likely turn back to his usual gruff self, but if you let it go, he might become more comfortable with you and finally open up in his own time. 

Being the impatient girl you were, you, of course, did not go for the latter.

Smacking your lips, you spoke up again. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Do you never know how to take a hint to shut the fuck up?” He turned to you suddenly, causing you to stop in your tracks. 

“I do. I just usually choose to ignore them.” 

“You better stop ignoring them before I rip out your tongue.” 

“I don’t talk that much.” You scoffed. 

“No.” He agreed. “But the times you do, you always find a way to dig into my head. You’re always in my fucking head.” He roared, knocking on his head for extra effect. 

You stared at him, eyes wide, not at all having expected the word spilling out of his mouth. You knew he probably meant it as an insult, but you couldn’t help but feel a tingly feeling shoot through your entire body as he spoke those words, staring you down. 

You were both quiet for a minute, before Bone came back panting, shaking his now wet fur all over the two of you and causing you to snap out of your trance, reminding you that you still needed to get cleaned up. 

“Get on with it.” Sandor told you bitterly, although much more quiet than usual, as you reached the water. 

You wasted no time in pulling off your clothes as he went around a few trees to give you your privacy, getting into the water as soon as you had dropped your last piece of clothing to the forest floor. 

It was cold, but not even close to how close it would have been had it been the North. You hated being in the water and hence had no problem with being quick, rushing to wash your body and your hair before getting out and drying off with the cloth your father had sent with Sandor, getting into your clothes as soon as you were dry. 

You didn’t say anything else to Sandor as you walked past him to let him know you were done, figuring he needed time to think alone seeing how abnormally much you had seemed to vex him this time. 

You got back to the party quickly, got on your horses and continued the road to the Capital. 

The second you arrived, chaos started breaking out as your father and yourself were dragged into the Game. You discovered some information and dug up secrets that turned out to be very threatening to the crown. 

During the time your discoveries were still secret, you managed to spend more time with Sandor, the man having a very fun time seeing you walk around being cranky about the dresses you had to wear all day. 

It was horrid, and you missed home more and more for every passing day. Luckily you had Azor and Bone to keep you company when Sandor and Arya weren’t around. 

Arya was mostly off practicing her water dance, and Sandor was off following Joffrey around. 

When he wasn’t though, you were always finding ways to keep the two of you busy. 

“Do you trust me?” You asked Sandor with a wide smile, looking down at him. 

“No.” He grumbled at you, waiting to see what you would do this time. 

“Smart man.” You sent him a teasing smirk, before speaking again.“Catch!” And with that, you flung yourself from the branch you were perched on and let yourself fall, skirts fluttering in the air. 

“Fucking bitch, why do you have to pull stunts like that all the time?” He yelled as he barely caught you, knees bending slightly at the force but not enough to fall. 

You only laughed. “I have to keep you on your toes, somehow, don’t I? What fun would it be if I didn’t?” You asked as you hurried to scramble out of his arms, running off, only looking back briefly to yell out, “Are you coming or are you going to stand there and brood all day?” before turning forward again. 

Sandor shook his head, with a glare but started walking after you nonetheless, armor shining in the sun. 

It had gone slow, especially with the Game being in full play, but eventually the two of you developed feelings. Or well, the feelings had probably been there ever since you first met, but it took a long time for any of you to act upon them. 

It started slowly, with small, lingering touches as you passed each other in the hallways or after dinner, and soon developed into stealing small kisses whenever you were left alone in the same room. 

The first kiss had been interesting, to say the least. You, being the way you were, had just gone up to him and kissed him one day like it was nothing. 

And him, being the way he was, had pushed you away and cursed at you, wiping his mouth as he yelled. 

But as you had kissed him again to shut him up, despite not yet kissing you back, he hadn’t pushed you away. And a few days after that, he had started easing into it, slowly but surely starting to respond to your movements as you pressed your lips to his. 

Then he started distancing himself from you, leaving you bitter and impatient as he avoided you to every cost. 

When you had finally been able to catch him alone and dragged into your empty chambers, you had had your first fight. 

“I don’t see the problem! I thought you wanted me as I wanted you!” 

“That is the problem!” He yelled. “You want me. I’m sworn to serve the Lannisters until the day I die. I’m the Hound, a killer, I’m no man for you to be with! You should be married to some lord by now!”

“It’s not like I can just shut of my feelings, Sandor! I don’t want a high lord, I want you!” 

“See, there’s the problem again! Why do you keep saying that sappy shit? You just had to be your stupid little self and fall in love with a killer, didn’t you?!”

“I am not sappy! I never thought I’d be in love, I never thought I’d have the same thoughts about somebody like Sansa did about Joffrey, but I was wrong!” You began, not letting him get another word in as you ranted. 

“And I didn’t fall in  love with you, I walked in love with you, with my eyes wide open, choosing to take every step along the way. I don’t believe in fate and destiny, but I believe we are fated to do the things that we choose. And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you!”

The second you were done, Sandor had for the first time taken the first step to kiss you, capturing your lips heatedly and roughly. The kiss let you both get out every single feeling your were feeling in that moment. 

That was the first time the two of you slept together. 

And although you might think it was as rough as the front Sandor put on, it wasn’t even close to it. Every single minute of the time you spent together that night was filled with one thing and one thing only; complete and utter infatuation. 

After that, Sandor started being more outgoing about his feelings towards you, one of those moments being when a man had approached you during a feast, trying his best to talk you up and cup a feel. 

Sandor, having had enough when the man finally managed to get a feel of your bottom through your dress, had marched up to him and yanked his hand so hard you were surprised it didn’t pop out of its socket. 

“Put your hand on her one more time and I will rip it off and beat you to death with it.”

He had said to him, sending the man away with fear shaking his body. Sandor wanted to stay with you, so bad, but as he was still on duty, he returned to his post at once to avoid anyone seeing the exchange. 

Luckily for the two of you, none of the Lannister had witnessed the scene, but your father had. 

And ever since, he had been less cautious around the Hound. He hadn’t seen a smile on your face since before you left Winterfell, and it pained him deeply that he was part of the reason why. This led him to give Sandor reasons to leave as often as he could so that he could go be with you. 

You knew your father like the back of your own hand, as he did you. You didn’t need to speak of it for you to know what he was doing, and for him to know that you knew. 

Just like the situation with Jon being an actual Targaryen. 

Your father would always glance at you in a certain way when planning to send Sandor out on his own, and every time you waited outside the throne room, catching Sandor’s arm and dragging him away as soon as he was out of view of the people inside. 

Sansa witnessed you running off with Sandor on multiple occasions, and although she had to admit she was quite skeptic at first, she soon seemed to realize the same thing that your father had: you loved each other. 

Arya knew this, of course, the little girl being the only one you had told willingly, knowing you could trust her. She didn’t like it one bit, having hated the man ever since he had killed her friend. But she accepted it, because she had never seen you this happy. 

But the Game evolved. 

The crown found out of your father’s discovery and locked him up for treason. 

Eventually, they found out that you had been apart of it, and was about to send you to join him, when Joffrey changed his mind and wanted to have you married to his Hound instead, seeing it a more torturous punishment. 

But it was the only good thing that came out of it, as you now got to spend every night with the man you had grown to love. 

In the same span of time as your father was locked up, and you were married to Sandor, Joffrey and Cersei sent out goldcloaks to search for Arya, who had luckily managed to get away with Nymeria and Azar, both the wolf and the bird having grown quite lot by this point. 

You had begged Sandor to come with you and Arya once you started your plan to escape, but he refused, saying this was the reason why you shouldn’t have fallen in love with him. 

The night you were planning your escape, you found out you were with babe. And that only made it harder to leave him behind. 

But even though it pained you greatly, you did what you saw was best in that moment and wrote Sandor a note, leaving it on the bed, before changing into your beloved pants and tunic, and sneaking out of the Red Keep.

You tracked down Arya in Flea Bottom, finding her in the far back of the crowd as your father was about to be executed. 

You had looked at him as he was lead up to the stage, and as if feeling your gaze, he had turned to you. 

“Winter is coming.” He spoke as he looked into your eyes, giving you a nod as he was bent down by the guards. You heard him loud and clear even though the crowd’s yells should have prevented you from hearing anything at all. 

You couldn’t look on any longer, and advised Arya from doing so as well. Yoren showed up only seconds later, and you sent Arya and the animals with him as you noticed the goldcloaks coming for you through the crowd. 

You had just barely managed to get away with your life intact, thanks to Bone. 

Managing to steal a horse on your way out, you had hit his sides with your feet once in the saddle, sending him off, away from the castle. 

As you rode down the road and into the woods to shake off the guards, you spotted one lonely crow sitting on top of a rock, looking straight at you, leaving you to think about an old poem Old Nan had told you all your life, as you left your sister and love behind. 

One for sorrow

Two for mirth

Three for a wedding

And four for a birth

Five for silver

Six for gold

And seven for a secret never to be told.

(SEND ME A DM IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED WHEN I POST IMAGINES)

[marlahey]

we stumbled in the dark; i knew we’d be alright (part thirteen)

a shawn mendes rpf fic rating/warnings: a bit of language, descriptions of a panic attack notes: at this point I’m pretty sure you guys have been waiting like four months, so all I can say is thank you for being so patient. I should warn you in advance though: I have 5 deadlines in February. I think I’m mostly over the writer’s block I was dealing with before, but your girl is hella stressed and only has brief pockets of time to write for fun. you should thank kris @missgoalie75 for convincing me to split the parts and for being an amazing beta, as ever. please send me your thoughts/questions/comments! I’ve missed you all. happy birthday to the anon from earlier in the week! hope your day was wonderful, and your surprise ended up in the next chapter lol. parts thirteen and fourteen are dedicated to the incomparable @accioarmenian: I love you. thank you for everything. (previously; start at part one here; find all parts here) london; now

Shawn, you’ve come to realize, is a very tactile sleeper.

Besides his nose pressing into either your hair, your shoulder, or the curve of your neck, Shawn’s hands seek to touch you anywhere he can: your waist,  the not-exactly-flat of your stomach, the bare skin of your thigh. Sometime in the fleeting blue hours between midnight and dawn, you wake to his fingers sliding underneath his own t-shirt, palms cradling your shoulder blades as he pulls you in. The hollow of his neck is warm and soft. It’s surprising, in a way, the tightness of the grip keeping you in place. You’re not quite awake yet; your brain hasn’t risen above the nebulous layers of warm and safe to register, bed, hotel, London, tour. You think, Shawn, and close your eyes. Hazy sunlight lines the edges of the curtains when you wake again. Your head is no longer cushioned by the absurdly plush hotel pillow, but instead by the warm, firm expanse that is Shawn’s chest, rising and falling as he breathes. It’s your arm that’s slung over his torso this time, your knee that’s slotted between his legs beneath the duvet. You don’t know if he’s awake yet. Part of you is afraid to lift your chin to find out. But then in the corner of your eye you see a familiar guitar tattoo lifting, and gentle fingers tuck your hair back behind your ear. Shawn’s lips brush against the top of your head, as weightless as a ghost. “Hi,” he murmurs. Without too much thought, you rub your nose a little into his chest and to your surprise, Shawn jumps with a breathless huff. Interesting. You tilt your head back with a smile. His eyes are still hooded from sleep, but the tenderness in them is clear. “Hi,” you whisper back. “Sleep okay?” You hum a yes. “I didn’t know you were ticklish.” “I’m not.” At your raised eyebrow, Shawn just lifts his own. “El,” he says, like a warning. “Shawn,” you parrot. His reflexes are apparently slower first thing in the morning (another fact you file away for future reference), but you still only manage a sharp twist and quick wiggle of your fingers against his sides – he giggles; you can’t believe you’ve never heard him laugh like this – before Shawn’s hands grab your wrists and press you back into the bed, your arms pinned above your head. “You’re in for it now,” he says, so low it’s almost a growl.

It’s too early, you think, for your insides to twist like this. It’s also monumentally unfair that he can hold both of your wrists in one hand and tickle you with the other, but you’re too busy shrieking with laughter to put that thought into words. You have to try really hard not to flail too much (kicking Shawn in the groin would definitely ruin the mood); his fingers skitter over your hip, not even under his t-shirt which has ridden up considerably in all the ruckus, and you wouldn’t think too much of it until Shawn’s thumb brushes the underside of your breast and your breath chokes off in a hitch. Your bra is on the floor, along with your top and your jeans, and suddenly you both know it. Shawn pulls back immediately. He releases you and draws himself all the way up to his knees. It’s almost intimidating to see him like this, towering over you, but as you take in Shawn’s wide eyes, you realize what he sees: the hem his t-shirt caught up around your ribs, revealing your stomach and baring your belly button. He’s kneeling between your legs. Shawn’s gaze flicks down to the tiny bow at the top of your olive green underwear and then back up to your eyes, so quickly you could’ve almost imagined it. But his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat and you know you didn’t. “Sorry,” he says, and you nod, flushing. “S’ok.” You wish you sounded more certain. It is fine. If your heart wasn’t already jack-hammering from his earlier attack, you’d probably still be breathless now; a shiver of power stirs in the pit of your stomach. It’s thrilling (also shocking) to see the look on his face and realize you could hurt him just as badly as he could hurt you. You see it in a flash: Shawn ducking down between your thighs, hooking his fingers into the hem of your underwear, his hand reaching back up your body, to touch you with purpose where he just did by accident. You can practically feel his breath on the inches of bare skin below your navel. You blink the thought away. Shawn blinks back. “Breakfast?” he asks. His ears are pink, as are the high points of his cheeks. You nod a second time. Shawn looks flustered. He clears his throat. “I’m just gonna…” Before you can say anything Shawn peels away and off the bed, disappearing into the bathroom and leaving you to stare up at the ceiling and attempt to collect yourself. Get it together. A few minutes later Shawn returns, looking decidedly less flushed. “All yours,” he says, and you laugh when he dives over your body to the centre of the bed. “Someone’s a little more chipper already,” you observe. He plants a cool kiss to the first place he seems to be able to reach, which is where the back of your neck and your shoulder meet and the collar of his t shirt has slipped down. You jump a little and he smiles into your skin; you think you can feel his teeth and it takes effort not to shudder. “Cold water,” Shawn mutters, sounding vaguely aggrieved. “Had to...” He pauses. You want to turn your head to look at him, but Shawn kisses you again, a little higher. His nose brushes loose hair from your undone bun at the nape of your neck and you do tremble this time. “Calm down.” You feel very warm, suddenly. Cold water doesn’t sound half bad. Shawn isn’t quite touching you anymore, but you can feel him everywhere, in places he hasn’t even been before. “Sorry, I think?” It’s your turn to slide away (a bit reluctantly, to be honest) trying not to think too hard about the way you walk away from him. It feels like a new, silent game. “No,” comes his voice, a little hoarse. You don’t intend to lean on the corner of wall between the bedroom and bathroom when you turn around, but it doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate the way Shawn’s gaze travel all the way from your bare feet to your eyes. Under any other circumstance with anyone else it would be degrading, but now that frisson of power surges back up. “You don’t have to be sorry,” Shawn continues. You nearly blush under the heat of his gaze, but you force it down. “I’m definitely not.” “Okay,” you say, stretching your arms above your head to pop the joints of your shoulders. Shawn’s eyes swing back down to your legs; your insides twist pleasantly again. “I’m not sorry then.” It feels like you’re winning. You hear him groan as you close the bathroom door. (You do get breakfast. Eventually.) * “There you guys are!” You lift your hand to instinctively to wave back at Parker, but you turn your head to glance at Shawn, who shrugs. Armed with everything you’ve trekked across the continent over the past two months, you’re not sure you have room for the surprise of Shawn’s drummer, who you expected to be gone already with Brian, Charlie, and the crew on the first round of flights out of London. Geoff’s family plans to meet him in New York for a little vacation, so he’s told you, while Kristin and Kelsey both hail from Manhattan. “What are you still doing here?” you ask, accepting Parker’s one-armed squeeze as if you hadn’t said goodnight in this very lobby about twelve hours before. “I thought you left this morning!” You follow his eyes across the room to Shawn’s head of lighting, who is staring up at a large painting with her hands behind her back. You recognize a look you can only describe because Shawn’s given it to you before: tenderness, joy, wanting. “Thought I’d see what else the Big Apple has to offer.” Parker winks. “Don’t tell her I called it that. She hates it.” “You’re coming to New York?” you ask dumbly. He laughs. “Wow, Sinclair. Don’t look so disappointed, huh?” “I–I’m not!” you stammer, attempting to backtrack. Parker just laughs again. “Leave her alone, Park.” Kelsey appears at your shoulder, rolling her eyes. The drummer raises his hands in surrender. “C’mon,” she says, grinning at you. “Let’s go home.” * By some twist of good fortune, you and Shawn end up having an entire row of three seats to yourselves on the flight while Ava sits with Andrew several rows ahead. Parker wiggles his eyebrows as he passes; Kristin just shakes her head just behind him, shooting you an apologetic glance which makes you laugh.

You’ve just gotten everything stowed beneath your seat and wrangled your seatbelt from underneath you when you catch Shawn yawning. “Tired already? We haven’t even taken off yet!” He shrugs, almost helplessly. “You know me and planes, El.” You laugh lightly at him and then even more at his vaguely wounded expression. “Well,” you start, forcing the rest of the words out before you can chicken out, “You can lay down, if you want.” Shawn’s eyes widen as you gesture at the empty seat on his other side, all the way to you. “Probably be more comfortable.” “You sure?” The in-flight entertainment blinks merrily in front of you. “Positive.” His expression softens. “You’re the best. I’ll trade you, in a bit. Shouldn’t sleep the whole flight anyway.” Shawn lifts the armrest to his left and the one between you. You busy yourself clicking through the movie selection. “Wish I had a–” “Would you guys like a couple of pillows?” You turn to find a flight attendant smiling gently down at you, small rectangles covered in plastic in hand. “A blanket maybe?” Shawn smiles so brightly you almost have to look away. “All of those would be so amazing, thank you.” He accepts the pillows like they’re gifts, as though they have the same value as the Givenchy hoodie he’s currently wearing. The woman nods, the picture of professionalism as she leans forward just a little and lowers her voice. “I’m sorry to bother you Mr. Mendes, but there’s a gentleman further down the cabin who asked if I could pass you this.” She hands over a folded drink napkin; Shawn’s face relaxes from the bemusement of being called Mr. Mendes to curiosity; there is a message scrawled in black ink inside. “He says he doesn’t want to cause a big scene,” she continues. “So don’t feel obligated to respond if that makes you uncomfortable.” “Oh not at all,” he assures her. “I’d love to send something back in a few minutes, if we catch you on your way through?” She smiles again, though there’s something deeper in it now, like a newfound respect. “Of course. I’d be happy to.” The attendant glances at you a second time. She seems very cognizant of the way Shawn leans comfortably into your space. “The drinks cart will be on its way after takeoff, but you guys alright otherwise? Need anything else?” You confirm with Shawn with a look. “No thank you,” you reply. You squint at her tag glinting in the light of the cabin. “Grace. Thanks so much.” “I’ll be back with that blanket,” she replies, and carries on up the aisle checking on everyone she passes. When you turn back to Shawn, he’s studying the note, pillows apparently forgotten in his lap. You pull them both away and tear the plastic open, settling them across your legs and settling carefully in for several hours of sitting. “This is so cute,” His eyes sparkle in that particular way they do after a touching fan interaction. “Here, look.” You take the note gingerly, catching Shawn’s gaze one more time. He nods, almost exasperated at your desire to give him these moments in as much privacy as possible. Dear Shawn, If I recall my daughter’s various stories properly, I’m not the first father to send you a note on a napkin. I hope this isn’t too much of a bother. Emma would never let me hear the end of it if she knew we were on the same flight, so please forgive me for fulfilling a fatherly duty. She’d want me to tell you she loves you, of course, and your music. But I should also tell you how much you inspire her. She picked up the guitar after going to a concert of yours for the first time years ago, and now she tells me she wants to learn piano too. I want to thank you personally, Shawn, for reminding her how good and important both dreams and hard work are. All the best for the remainder of your tour, and we’ll see you at Madison Square Garden on Saturday. All the best, Ronan Mckelvey “Wow.” When you put down the napkin, blinking rapidly and fully prepared to pretend it’s just the dry cabin air, Shawn is rooting through his backpack at his feet. “What is it?” “One sec,” he replies. His words are slightly muffled. “Just swear I had...damn it– yes.” He straightens, triumphant, with a pen between his teeth, and his notebook which has a tour pick stuck between its pages. With the help of the tray table, Shawn flips deftly to the next blank page and tears it carefully from the rest of the book. You avert your eyes as he leans over to write, his forehead creased in adorable focus. “This okay?” Shawn murmurs a few minutes later, startling you from deciding between Crazy Rich Asians and How to Train Your Dragon 2. He pushes the sheet of his notebook towards you. Dear Mr. Mckelvey, Thank you so much for your note. It’s really no bother at all. I’m just happy that Emma enjoys my music and I’m truly honoured at the thought of her taking up any instrument after seeing me perform. It’s also really cool that she has a dad like you to keep a sharp eye out on long haul flights from London! Attached to the back of this note is the information for my publicity team. If you get in touch with them, I would love it if you both joined me for a meet and greet before the show on Saturday. Below is something for Emma too. I hope she likes it. Shawn — Dear Emma, Your dad is one cool guy. Here’s something to help you with guitar, though I’m sure you have lots :) Keep practicing! Don’t ever stop. You guys are so much of why I can do this at all. Thank you with all my heart. Can’t wait to meet you! Love, Shawn He has a loose roll of scotch tape in his hands, frowning at it. “Hey El d’you think you could—” Shawn looks up at you and stops short. “What?” I love you. The thought is startling in its suddenness and its truth. You have to swallow the words back and replace them with others. “You’re amazing, you know that?” A blush colours Shawn’s ears. You want to kiss him. You take the tape from his hands instead, working up the end with your nail. “Why do you carry a roll of tape with you?” “I rip a lot of pages in this thing,” he says, like a shameful admission. Fondness swells. Before you can reply or even turn back to face him, Shawn leans forward and presses his mouth against your temple; the kiss is there and gone in the space of a breath. “You’re amazing too.” You have concentrate on the tape. You tear two pieces; he thanks you and you watch him stick the pick to the bottom of the note, and a smaller sheet on the back that contains your sister’s work email. “We’re just going to assume that Emma’s dad is a good guy and isn’t gonna give her Av’s info,” he says, and you snort a laugh as the safety announcements finally begin. Shawn replaces his tray table and sits up straight, watching Grace with apparent attentiveness even though you’re sure he could sing a flight safety demonstration backwards. By the time it’s over and you’re in the air, he’s yawning again. “Here,” you say, prying the message from his fingers. “Sleep.” Shawn blinks owlishly. “You sure this is okay?” He eyes the pillows in your lap; you hold up your headphones and gesture at the screen. “I’m good. I peed before we boarded. I’m comfortable. Can you just...” It’s a little too easy to forget yourself and reach an arm out to drag Shawn forward by the collar of his hoodie. He goes so willingly that it makes your insides do a funny little backflip. “C’mere.” Shawn looks like he might kiss you again; you might let him, but he just leans down and presses his cheek into the pillows, facing away from you. You lift your arm to give him more space to wriggle into a comfortable position, his feet curved in to tuck beneath the last seat in front of your row. His shoulder digs into your hip, Shawn’s left hand reaching up to grasp your knee. His fingers stroke some indecipherable pattern that makes goosebumps ripple down your legs. “Comfy?” you ask. You have no idea what prompts your own hand to card through Shawn’s curls, tracing lightly over the side of his face, but he just hums in response, closing his eyes. It’s fascinating, the way it always is in these quiet moments, the way the tensions of Shawn’s life just ease away. “S’nice,” he mumbles, almost unintelligible. “Hmm?” “Your hands.” Shawn’s voice had gone slow and deep. “Always like your hands.” Your face heats. Fortunately, the man on the other side of the aisle is engrossed in his iPad and the drinks cart is still several rows away. “Weirdo,” you murmur around a laugh. You don’t stop though. You slide your hand down the back of Shawn’s neck, chasing the warmth beneath his collar; he groans a little, but doesn’t shrug you away. Your stomach jumps. “Okay?” Shawn hums again. “Wake me up after the movie?” “Kay.” By the time Grace returns with a thin navy airline blanket, just beating the drinks cart, Shawn’s asleep. She takes one look at him sprawled across your lap, glances at his fastened seat belt, and proceeds to open the blanket for you, leaning into the row to spread it over him in one practiced, smooth motion. At your slightly open-mouthed expression, she winks. “Two kids,” she whispers. You smile at her and extend the note that Shawn had folded carefully in half. “This is for Mr. Mckelvey.” Grace nods. “I’ll pass it along. Have a good trip now, hun.” And then you and Shawn are alone again. Or at least, as alone as you could ever be on a long-haul flight across the Atlantic. The weight of him is become familiar in a new, exciting way; you recall the slow, tender morning in his hotel room that feels oddly far away, now. It’s hard to imagine that you’ll have another morning like that without a deadline of some kind to pull you out from beneath warmer blankets and softer pillows. A girl can dream, right? * “Lenny.” Ava’s face is grave when you look up from Crazy Rich Asians to find her standing over you. Your heart sinks. “What is it?” you demand. “What’s wrong?” She just extends her iPad. Inside The Life of Shawn Mendes’ New Sweetheart! Besides the skin routine that keeps his gorgeous face flawless, Shawn Mendes’ fans everywhere have had a single burning question: who is the mysterious young woman who’s been spotted with him on tour? We have the official scoop! Shawn fans, meet Ellie Sinclair. How do she and Shawn know each other? Through her sister, who’s part of Shawn’s personal team! Ellie’s reportedly been on tour with them since the very beginning of the Shawn Mendes 2019 World Tour, but unconfirmed rumours abound that the pair have had several secret rendez-vous long before then. Eagle-eyed fans first spotted Ellie (18) and Shawn (20) together in Norway outside the arena, and she has since been seen with members of the band and crew across Ireland and the UK. According to tour attendees who have also seen her during shows, Ellie works with tour photographer Kelsey Jones, and so is apparently responsible for several of the amazing shots from Shawn’s official Instagram. Ellie’s personal account is private and she doesn’t seem to be present on any other social media, so very little has been known about her personal life, until now! A source close to the couple has revealed never gonna before revealed details about Shawn’s new paramour exclusively for us. Ellie’s older sister Ava has been her primary guardian since she was 11, when both of their parents were killed in a car accident. Ellie survived the crash and has dealt with the incredible trauma of that event through private therapy, while Ava established herself at the management company that would come to sign the one and only Shawn Mendes. When Ava became a permanent member of Shawn’s team, it seems that she and Ellie were a package deal. “She’s been a big part of his life on tour,” our source says. “They spend a lot of time together.” As for when things got romantic? The timeline is unclear. Fans swear up and down that a grainy captured video at the end of the Manchester show last week was of Shawn and Ellie locked in a tight embrace, but no one has been able to confirm this for certain. Our industry sources also say that Shawn is due in New York early ahead of his two sold out MSG dates, but there’s no news as to whether Ellie will be joining him. Is Shawn Mendes officially off the market? If so, hearts are breaking all over the world. If not, exactly what kind of relationship are he and Ellie in? There certainly seems to be chemistry in these photos. What do you think readers? Sound off in the comments! You definitely don’t look at the comments. “Who do you think it is?” Your sister sighs as you hand back the iPad. “The source?” Ava shrugs. “I mean, the amount of people who know about our parents and the amount of people who also know you’re on tour is a pretty small Venn Diagram.” She glances down at Shawn, who still snores very gently in your lap, completely oblivious. You resist the urge to reach for his hand that’s curled up by your knee. There’s also a strange urge to shield him. Not from Ava, but from everything else. Pulls for his focus and attention are the last thing Shawn needs.  “I don’t think it was Hannah,” Ava says gently, before you can even process the thought yourself. “I know you guys haven’t been talking, but this requires knowing the right people to contact and I don’t think she’d be capable of figuring that out, or even being that malicious.” “I’m surprised at how accurate it is,” you admit. “Aren’t tabloids full of lies usually?” “This actually doesn’t tell anyone very much beyond what they’d be able to figure out with a google search.” Your sister’s mouth pinches. “You probably don’t remember this, but we were in the local news, after.” You don’t remember. You can only imagine what those headlines were like. “As for you two spending a lot of time together–“ There’s that urge to hang onto Shawn again. “That’s a pretty vague statement. There’s nothing of substance here to suggest that it’s anyone here with us, who’s actually seen the two of you hang out, or even hang out privately.” More memories of this morning lurch forward. “So there’s no real source?” Ava shrugs again, not dismissive but vaguely helpless. “It’s hard to tell, honestly. But whatever the case, we just have to move forward with the knowledge that people know who we are. I guess the only saving grace is that we don’t have any other family for journalists to pester.” She has a point, of course, but it doesn’t bring you any comfort. The seatbelt sign suddenly dings to life. Ava brushes her hand over your head as the lead attendant asks people to return to their seats to prepare for a potential few minutes of rough air. “You don’t have to go or stay unless you want to.” A knot twists in your throat, so you just nod. Shawn’s promise rings in your ears. It takes at least a minute before you remember to un-pause the movie.

* “El?” Calloused fingers touch your chin. You jump a little to find Shawn staring up at you, frowning in concern. You drag your hand over your cheek, mortified; did you just cry on him? When had he woken up? “Hey…” Shawn shifts, blinking slowly. “What is it?” Staying still while he twists himself upright isn’t that hard when you want to disappear from existence entirely. You feel almost trapped when Shawn’s eyes are finally level with yours again. “It’s nothing.” Liar. Though your brain is miles away, Crazy Rich Asians is at the exact scene that made you cry the first time you saw it: the wedding ceremony, which at least makes your feeble excuse plausible. “I’m fine.” Shawn gives you a long look that you only barely manage to keep, before he turns to watch Nick and Rachel exchange silent I love yous. “Is this a sad movie?” “No,” you laugh weakly. “Romantic comedy. About to get a bit sad, though.” You drop your right earbud and hand it to over. Shawn snakes his arm around your waist to pull you closer, so you can lean your head against his neck. He also drags the blanket up over both of you, so all of a sudden you find yourself cocooned in a warm, Shawn-scented bubble. “Is he the rich one?” “Yes.” Pausing seems best at this point. He listens silently to your cliff notes version of the plot up until this point before reaching out to the screen with his long, unoccupied arm. “Got it.” The Young family disapproval stings in a way it hadn't the first time you saw this film, even though the situations aren’t the same at all. Shawn is of course the glaring difference now, both in your life and even as a physical presence curled around you on this plane, instead of the dark shape of your sister beside you in the movie theatre. Something entirely selfish in you just wants this flight to suspend you in time and space, where no one can touch you. It feels safe above the ocean and clouds, just like it did beside the Seine in Paris, onstage in Madrid, and even over the phone in your own bedroom in Toronto. Shawn is safe. You know it; you’ve always known it. So why does the idea of New York feel so different? More questions rattle around in your brain: can Shawn keep you safe? Is that even a fair thing to ask of him? Does your fear even matter if you trust him, and trust each other? You’ve never had the impression that Shawn isn’t honest with you, and you’ve always strived for the same, even when it’s uncomfortable. But is that enough? “Where’s your head right now?” he asks suddenly, jolting you once again from your thoughts. Shawn’s lips quirk faintly at your clearly visible distracted air. “I’m here, sorry.” Your answering smile is probably unconvincing. “I’m here, with you.” “D’you have the time?” You wriggle your phone out from between your bodies. “Uh, like 5 o’clock London time? Which makes it…noon in New York, right?” You understand the look only a moment too late. Shawn’s smile spreads slowly across his face, a particular pleasure at catching you unawares. “And how do you feel, here with me at either 5 o'clock or noon?” While the standard kind of embarrassment has mostly faded with him, it has been replaced with a fierce reminder of how vulnerable Shawn has the power to make you feel. “Did you just…?” “Yep.” He sounds endearingly proud. “I just El’d you.” You snort. “Okay we are definitely not calling it that.” “You can make fun of the name after you answer,” Shawn replies patiently, a little teasing. God he’s serious. If not about the name of this emotional check in, then the intent behind it. “I’m…” That same knot from earlier resurfaces. “Nervous, I guess?” “About New York?” He phrases it like a question, but Shawn doesn’t seem surprised. You can’t tell if that’s good or bad; you nod anyway. In your long pause, he speaks again. “You don’t have to–“ “Andrew doesn’t think I should be here.” The confines of the seat keep you from reeling back too far, away from Shawn’s shock and dismay (is that anger? in the line between his eyebrows? you’re too afraid to be sure) but it’s too late. The truth had left your mouth unbidden, making it a now almost corporeal thing to taunt the close air between you. But Shawn doesn’t pull away, like you’d expected. Instead, he reaches for you, his nimble fingers circling your wrists like you’re really in danger of disappearing at any moment. “What?” His Adam’s apple bobs. A full question seems to fail him. “When?” Your heart roars in your throat. “Um, two days ago. Before you went on. He came to tell me–” Shawn squeezes gently when you falter. “He came to tell me that people know who I am, now. Online.” An expression like a dark shadow crosses over his face, but he doesn’t speak. Shawn doesn’t interrupt as you relay the conversation you’d had with his manager with as little emotion as possible, because you still can’t fault Andrew for doing his job, for looking out for his client and his friend. “I don’t want to put you in a weird spot,” you explain, almost in a rush to finally get this anxiety off your chest. “I can just go–“ “No.” Shawn’s grip tightens – just for a moment – a motion as inadvertent your admission, judging by how his eyes widen and how quickly he releases you. “Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding almost ashamed. “If you–” You feel like you should brace yourself. “If that’s what you want. I meant what I said, in Ireland. If you want to go home I’d never try and stop you.” Your heart sinks a little at the thought. But then Shawn traces up the veins of your wrist, that familiar gesture that you still can’t figure out, if it’s meant to comfort you or himself. He looks up through his eyelashes. “But I want you here, okay? I do.”   You wonder if you’ve ever looked so certain about anything in your life. What about Andrew? Before you can muster the courage to ask the question, feeling like a child, Shawn continues. “I’m gonna talk to him, as soon as I can. We’ll figure it out.” Another shadow crosses his face. “I’m sorry.” “And you say I apologize too much,” you reply, attempting a joke, grasping at some kind of control over your anxiety spinning out. "You’re not doing anything wrong. And neither is he, really.” Shawn opens his mouth, but you raise an eyebrow at him. “It takes two people to be in a relationship, Shawn. I knew what I was getting into. Or at least, I thought I did.” He just looks at you, his eyes softening. “What?” “A relationship, huh?” He looks so pleased at the thought; your stomach swoops. “You know what I mean,” you say, as if he’s arguing with you instead of trying to fight a wide grin. You make a vague, helpless gesture. Shawn just catches your fingers. “Yeah I know. One day at a time, right?” He pulls you gently closer, ducking his head down and pausing only when your noses brush and you’ve stopped moving. “Just one?” he breathes, another familiarity. You wish you could press them all into the pages of his journal for safekeeping, reminders of all the tiny joys you’ve had. Just in case. “Everyone’s asleep.” A glance over his shoulder proves he’s right. So you tilt your chin just enough to meet Shawn’s mouth; it’s as gentle as he’s ever kissed you, but there’s something weighted in it, as though he’s determined to leave an impression behind, as if you could ever forget the feeling. “Tired?” he asks when you reluctantly pull away. You nod, only slightly surprised at how sleepy you really are, now that he’s mentioned it. Shawn slides wordlessly over into the far aisle seat, tugging you along. So far on your scales of physical intimacy, curling up and putting your head on the pillows in his lap doesn’t technically rank that high. But, you suppose, first times are always going to linger in your mind. Shawn chuckles softly as you copy his earlier wiggling to find a vaguely comfortable position. You’re careful to put the middle seat belt on, albeit loosely, and keep your feet out of the aisle. Shawn helps you tuck yourself beneath the blanket and pulls your hair away from your face, tracing the shell of your ear. He bends down and kisses you again before you can speak. “I’ll wake you up before they serve dinner,” he promises. You find, after letting go of this weight you’d been carrying all weekend, that there isn’t anything else to say.

new york; now It’s fine, you tell yourself as you disembark from the plane. Evening is settling in by the time you pass into the terminal, darkness descending rapidly despite having moved backwards in time. You tell yourself again through the long, winding lines at border control, where you keep your brain occupied teaching Shawn how to play First Letter, Last Letter and you tie at two games apiece. “Excuse me, Shawn?” A man pushing a sleek charcoal suitcase appears; he’s holding a familiar slip of paper in one hand. Shawn’s eyes light up and he waves you and everyone else wordlessly forward while Ava stays behind. Everyone pauses at a bench several meters down the long white hall. You shouldn’t stare, you know, as Shawn takes Mr. Mckelvey's hand and shakes. But you realize suddenly that you’re not quite looking at a boy anymore, but a young man. A strange mix of pride, affection, and anxiety swirl in your stomach. You turn away. You’re just a kid, really. So is he. You like each other. Isn’t that what children do? “C’mon, Ellie.” Kristin knocks her shoulder into yours. “Just keep going.” * It’s fine, you tell yourself as you pass through the arrivals door. Nothing’s going to happen. “We’ll go grab the car,” Andrew says. “And meet you guys outside.” “Sounds good,” Shawn replies, and together you help Andrew and Ava load everything but your backpacks onto two luggage carts. “Anyone know where Geoff went?” “Bathroom,” Parker says. “He’ll be out in a few.” “Uncle Shawn!” Everyone stops as a tiny streak of dark brown hair blurs forward. Shawn crouches down to receive a toddler, no older than three or four, catching him in his arms just as the boy stumbles briefly on the slick airport floor. “Matty!” He lifts the child smoothly, who giggles as he’s spun around. “Hey little man!” When Shawn stops, you watch as Matty wraps his tiny arms around the elder boy’s neck, squeezing tight. Shawn catches your eye over the shoulder of Matty’s navy t-shirt. His swallow hand splays across the entirety of the toddler’s back, keeping him secure. Your heart aches, suddenly. You mouth, Uncle Shawn? and his ears turn red. “What are you doing here?” You can’t tear your eyes away from Shawn’s brilliant grin, the ease with which he holds Matty against his hip, the shining adoration in his eyes. Any evidence of eight hours over the ocean disappears. “Where your mom?” When you finally take the boy in properly, you nearly gasp out loud; Matty is the spitting image of Geoff. “Right here, rockstar.” A blonde woman appears at a more sedate pace. Shawn wraps an around her and kisses her cheek. “Soph, hey.” To your surprise, he reaches out and tugs you forward. “You’ve met everyone, but this is Ellie. El, this is Sophie, Geoff’s wife.” Her smile is warm and friendly; you swallow a sudden burst of intimidated nerves. “Nice to meet you Sophie.” “So this is the famous Sinclair.” It feels like she’s appraising you. You flush. Parker snorts a laugh. “I’ve heard so much about you.” “Um.” You push your hair behind your ear. “Good things, I hope.” Sophie laughs. “Geoff is very fond of you.” You have no idea what to say. Shawn squeezes your hand just once and lets go. You want – beyond any reasonable or rational thought – him to take it back, but you don’t move and manage a flustered smile. “The little speedster is Matthew,” Sophie continues, blowing a kiss to her son, still attached to Shawn like a spidermonkey. “Who’s lucky enough to have the best godfather around, even though he started calling him Matty and now he won’t respond to anything else.” Her warm, amused gaze passes over to Shawn; his ears go pink again. “We’re surprising Daddy,” Matty says, though it comes out more like suppising. “Don’t tell, Uncle Shawn.” “Oh I won’t.” Shawn schools his face into seriousness. Just before he manages it, you see his lips twitch and his nose scrunch as if to say, what about me? You have to smother a fond laugh. “But he’s gonna be coming through any minute, are you ready?” The boy nods enthusiastically. Shawn places him back down on the floor. “Here, why don’t you just come around here…” He pushes Matt gently behind his long legs, and pulls his mother into place at his side so Geoff’s son is entirely hidden behind them both. You step off to the side with Parker and the Jones sisters just as the guitarist appears through the automatic double doors. You’ve seen Geoff pleased before, happy of course – he, just like Shawn, loves performing – but you’ve never seen his face light up like it does when he spots his wife, beaming at him. “I was supposed to pick you up tomorrow!” He stops in his tracks, dropping his bag at his feet as Sophie lopes forward at a run. She launches herself into his arms, locking her legs around his hips and laughing just as her son had when Geoff twirls. They kiss, not so much as to make you squirm in discomfort, but in a way that clearly shows you, that’s what having a home in someone else looks like. Your chest aches again. Geoff pulls back first. “Where’s–” “Daddy!” Matty tears around Shawn. “Surprise, Daddy! Surprise!” His giggles fill the air again as Geoff plants kisses all over his face. You’re knocked breathless from a rush of déjà vu; you used to race down the walk to meet your dad upon his return from work, where he did exactly this, exclaiming, Rigby? Roosevelt? King? between kisses, to which you’d squirm and exclaim Sinclair! Your Eleanor! “Ellie?” “Hmm?” Your attention snaps back to the present. “I’m sorry, did you say something?” “I was wondering if are you guys busy tomorrow night?” Sophie’s warm smile hardly wavers. “Geoff says Andrew and your sister have some sort of business dinner, but I thought you and Shawn might like to join all of us for a home-cooked meal?” She laughs when her husband clears his throat pointedly. “Okay, a meal cooked in my parents’ house?” You look quickly at Shawn, whose gaze is warming you through like a spotlight. You’re reminded of his gentle, careful if you want to from across the table in Stockholm. You want to hold his stare, to pull on the thread of his silent reassurance until it’s a blanket you can wrap around yourself. Your brain is a little stuck on how easily Sophie had said you and Shawn, like you were a package deal, as though it were a given, a worn and comfortable fact and not a giant question mark on the lips of fans and splashed across headlines. He’s read it. You can see the truth behind his eyes. But you have no idea if you’ll ever be brave enough to broach the topic of your truly sad childhood, if you’ll ever have the strength to fill in all those awful gaps with every moment that Ava made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt, picked you up when you were down, every moment you were okay, even if you weren’t. “I wouldn’t want to impose,” you begin. Your mother would be proud of your ability to maintain your manners, you think with a pang. “I’m sure you want to spend time with–” “You’re coming,” Geoff cuts in. He jerks his thumb at Parker, who winks at you. “You’re all coming. I’m going to slide you questionably legal beverages across the table, and we are going to talk about anything besides work and play Garageband on each other’s instruments.” You blink. In the corner of your eye, Shawn is grinning. “I guess I’ll see you guys tomorrow, then.” Sophie claps her hands together. “Amazing!” She pulls Matty from Geoff’s grip. “Okay baby, it’s home time alright? Can you say bye to Uncle Shawn and Aunty Ellie? We’re gonna see them again tomorrow.” The boy waves obediently. “Bye bye!” “See you soon buddy!” Shawn wiggles his fingers and you mirror the action with a smile. Sophie’s eyes are tender when she reaches forward to Shawn’s cheek and plants a kiss there. “See you tomorrow, hun. I’ll get Geoff to text you the details, yeah?” You’re surprised when she reaches for your hand, giving it a squeeze. “Can’t wait to catch up.” You can only squeeze back, however faintly, staring as the three of them disappear into the airport crowd. “So...Uber?” Kelsey says now, glancing at her sister, who nods. “Split the fare with me.” Parker holds up his own phone. “Punch in my number.” “You don’t have to–” He plucks Kelsey’s phone from her hand before she or Kristin can say more, beyond a familiar, “Park…” “Let me do a nice thing, huh Jones?” The light tech rolls her eyes, but there’s something pleased in it, too. “Don’t call it just yet,” Kelsey says. “I’ll be right back. Gotta pee.” Several minutes later, Shawn glances down at a message from Ava. “They’re just coming around.” “Your chariot awaits, your majesties.” Parker winks again when you snort. “C’mon, I’ll walk you guys out.” You’re still reeling a little from your first meeting with Geoff’s family, so you just fall silently into step with him, following behind as Shawn makes his way towards a set of automatic double doors. He sees them before you do, the assembled fans on the other side of the glass; there’s fifteen at least, gawking as though you’re a particularly exotic zoo creature, but that’s not what causes you to freeze up. “Sincl–” It’s the blinding light of a flashbulb. Shawn turns back to look at you with wide eyes. Parker’s hand on your arm yanks you back, pulling you aside, but not fast enough to fool the heads of half a dozen men holding cameras, swivelling in your direction. You hear the sharp exclamation of a girl just as the doors hiss closed. “Oh my god, she’s here.” Parker snagged Shawn too, somehow, or maybe Shawn turned back of his own accord, because a familiar cologne floats towards you. You want to inhale but you can’t quite breathe. “El?” “I’m fine," you lie automatically. Parker’s grip tightens. You can’t look at either of them, staring instead at their shoes and the off-white airport floor. Your heart pounds against your ribs. “Like hell you are.” Shawn’s phone pings. “They have to circle around cause of traffic,” he reports. “It’ll take a few minutes.” You’ve never felt Paul’s absence so acutely; he isn’t due in New York for two more days, before Shawn’s first promo appearance. You feel vaguely nauseous at the thought of walking out without him. “Go, Shawn.” His eyes widen when you nod out at the gathered group of fans without actually looking at any of them. “Go say hi.” “I don’t have to.” “You never say no,” you point out. You hate yourself a little for wanting him to start. “There aren’t that many of them, and Andrew’s still coming back, right? It’s fine. I’m fine.” Shawn deflates, looking torn. You want to muster a smile but you can’t quite manage it. “Are you sure?” he asks. No. “I’m fine.” You reach for the handle of his guitar case just to make your point. Shawn releases the instrument, but you can still see the frown around his mouth. His now free hand finds your wrist as he turns away. It’s just the tips of his fingers brushing bone, but it’s enough. You turn your back on the door as it hisses open to a chorus of, “Hi Shawn!” To his credit, Parker waits almost a full thirty seconds before he slides his phone back into his pocket and asks, “Wanna talk about it?” You just shake your head, shrugging. “What’s there to talk about?” The drummer gives you a long look. “You know you don’t have to be a hundred percent okay all the time, right?” Like a bobblehead, you just nod silently. “And you’d tell me if you weren’t? Like if we dipped anywhere below seventy percent on the Sinclair pep-o-meter?” “Pep-o-meter?” you echo, wrinkling your nose. “Why are boys so bad at naming things?” “Sinclair.” “Parker, honestly.” It would be exasperating, exhausting even, but the truth is that you’re grateful he’s here. “Yes. I would tell you. And I’m not, alright? I’m not under seventy percent okay.” His eyebrows doubt you. “So seventy one percent, yeah?” You make a face at him. “Seventy four at least.” He snorts. Faster than you would have thought, Ava sends you a message. Be there in 90 seconds tops. When you look up, Shawn is staring at you through the glass. You have no idea what he says to the line after he takes one last photo, but a girl at the end looks personally offended. “Hey– hey,” Parker begins when he notices you eyeing the doors. “Don’t worry, okay? Eyes over here. Here’s what we’re going to do.” Shawn returns, taking back his guitar with an automatic smile, though he looks worried. You need to get better at schooling your expression. “Still got your cap, kid?” Rustling and the sharp sound of a zipper reaches your ears. You glance up just in time to watch a pair of hands plunk Shawn’s Madison Square Garden cap onto your head. It’s too big; the brim slips low over your forehead. In a starkly tender counterpoint to his dark expression, Parker’s fingers reach out to pull your hair forward over your ears, shielding your face. “Give me your bag, Sinclair.” You give it up wordlessly. “Shawn you’re gonna walk ahead, kay?” “But–” “You have to be the first one in the car. You know the rules.” Shawn’s frustration crackles in the air like lightning. You want to speak but nothing comes out. Parker’s hand lands on your shoulder. When you finally pull your eyes all the way up to his, the drummer’s calm determination pierces a pinprick of light in your anxiety. “Don’t look at any of them, okay?” He squeezes. “I got you. It’s gonna be fine.” You swallow. Shawn ducks his head, his eyes dark and still worried. He doesn’t say anything, but you force yourself to nod anyway, a pretend reassurance. It’s only six people, really. Twenty at most, if you count the fans. But your heart still races. “Let’s go.” Parker wraps his arm around you, tucking you into his side. You’re grateful that his strength drags you forward until your legs remember how to move on their own. On the other side of the double doors, you find yourself holding your breath. For three endless seconds, everything stops. Flash. Click. Flash. Click. And then, as though you’re coming up from underwater, you hear the shouting. “Shawn! Ellie! How was the flight?” Your stomach drops all the way to your feet. Shawn stiffens ahead of you, but keeps walking. You glue your eyes to his back. You can barely see the dark SUV parked some fifty feet ahead of you as the paparazzi press in closer, buoyed by the cluster of fans calling Shawn’s name. He turns only to them and you hear his voice beneath all the others, “I’m sorry guys, but I can’t take anymore photos tonight. I’ll see you Friday?” Shawn’s already pressing forward again. You don’t dare turn your head to meet a volley of piercing stares. Flash. Click. Flash. Click. “Are you guys here alone?” “What am I?” Parker mutters, audible only to your ears, “Chopped liver?” You’d laugh, if you could. “Where are you staying?” “Is this a romantic getaway before the show?” One voice in particular keeps trying to get your attention, but you shrink away from it, turning your face into Parker’s chest. “How’s therapy, Ellie?” The distance between you and the car feels like it’s getting longer instead of shorter. Suddenly, Shawn has his hand on the door, flinging it open. Parker leans away from you to throw your backpack into the backseat. You see a flash of Ava’s face in the melee, her lips pressed together so tightly they’re white.  Flash. Click. Flash. Click. He’s ducked his head into the door; you’re nearly there, and then– “What’s your job on tour sweetheart? Does he pay you to keep him company?” Your knees almost give out. Parker goes rigid; Shawn whirls around. You’ve never seen anger like this, in the sharp, vicious twist of his mouth, blazing in his pupils, overblown in the rapid, too-bright light. He’s half in, half out, his neck twisting in a vain attempt to find the man who’d shouted the question at you, who continues to lob things that become more and more obscene with each passing second. Flash. Click. Flash. Click. “Is she a good fuc–” “Shawn.” You jump at Parker’s sharp tone, scrambling back as Shawn lurches to his full height. “Get in the car.” For the first time, you think Shawn might refuse, that he might push past his drummer to hurtle himself at the mob. Parker steps into his path, pulling you in too as he moves so you can hear, hissed and urgent and furious, “Don’t make a scene.” Shawn freezes, as though he’s been cursed into stone. The heat of his gaze pass over you, still cowering into his drummer, gripping at the older man’s sweater so hard your fist shakes. And then Shawn’s clambering into the car, sliding across the seat. You nearly trip as Parker presses you in after him. The door slams shut. All the voices are abruptly muffled, but the flashes still reflect painfully inside the car. Andrew peels away from the curb. You curl into yourself, and it’s not until all the noise fades away that you become aware of a wheezing, choked sound and realize it’s you. “El?” He sounds strained, like it takes effort to keep his voice even. You close your mouth. You close your eyes too, even as Shawn’s hand brushes your own. You jump again; he pulls away and you hate yourself. “S-Sorry,” you wheeze out, still working on controlling your breathing. You’re safe. You’re fine. Shawn doesn’t even seem to register your misplaced apology, which is the first sign that things are more out of control than usual. “I’m here,” he murmurs, so softly that you know it’s not for his manager or your sister to hear, though he doesn’t try to touch you again. “I’m here.” “You guys alright?” Andrew asks. You drag your head up; his expression is inscrutable in the rearview. You force yourself to nod again. Shawn’s gaze bores into you, but he says, “Yes.” He’s lying, of course, but no one calls him out. “We’re getting you a new credit card,” Ava says now. You can feel her desire to turn around and make certain of your condition herself, and you can’t decide if you’re more grateful or upset that she doesn’t do it. “I have no idea how these kids keep getting your flight information, but we need to make you a new account. I’ll see about keeping all your miles.” “They leaked the flight?” Traces of anger carve lines around his eyes, made even deeper as it’s flashed over by streetlights along the highway. You’ve never been afraid of Shawn, not like this. But it occurs to you how quickly everything could have changed beneath those cameras. Another wave of nausea rolls in your stomach. “That’s how those paps knew we’d be there?” Ava makes a noise, a non-committal hum. “More likely that someone else called them to the airport before we got here, but they probably stuck around after they saw a crowd waiting for you. I booked these flights myself. Unless an airline agent called them.” She’d never disparage his fans out loud, but her displeasure is clear. Shawn’s jaw locks. You close your eyes again. The car ride passes in tense silence as the long stretches of darkness are soon replaced by the glaring, ever present brightness of New York and awful traffic. You don’t remember it being this busy last time you were here, boxed in on all sides by other cars and cabs and brave bikers. You didn’t think you were claustrophobic, really, but you feel slightly suffocated, even with the more than foot between you and Shawn in the backseat. “How long?” Shawn asks. He sounds impatient, which is just as unusual. “Ten minutes, maybe?” Ava’s tone is almost preternaturally calm, meant to soothe, but it does very little to the stiff line of Shawn’s shoulders, like water breaking on rock. There’s something about his anxiety that makes it easier to face your own; you slide your hand carefully across the seat, until your pinkies touch. He exhales slowly, leaning back. You’re safe. So why can’t you relax? You get the answer sooner than you’d like. “Ava.” Even Andrew is tense now. “Do we have a plan B?” Shawn sits up. The car stops. You hear it before you see it: the slightly muted roar of a crowd, audible even above the omnipresent city hum. It blocks nearly the entirety of the hotel’s entrance, which is flanked by even more photographers than at the airport. Stuck on the driver’s side closest to the curb, you don’t even have time to cover your face before flashbulbs descend. Your body jumps before your mind can even really register your fear. Somehow, you lock eyes with the man right in front of the glass. To your surprise, he look sorry; you’re blinded and he disappears. “Fuck.” A seat belt buckle clangs. Shawn’s arm reaches to pull you back, followed by the rest of his body as he practically crawls over you to the other side of the car, nearly knocking his cap off your head. Instead of shrinking away, he pulls himself upright and makes himself bigger, a sudden shield from the forward onslaught. Shawn’s left hand slides down your arm, behind his back, to your fingers; his right covers his face. He squeezes and doesn’t let go. “Close your eyes.” Screams outside evolve into a chant: “Shawn! Shawn! Shawn!” He leans back; you press your forehead between his shoulder blades, curling your free hand into the edge of his sweater, pulling your shoulders up to your ears to make yourself as small as possible, but it doesn’t stop the shaking. “It’s okay,” Shawn says, a constant, murmured refrain. You can barely hear him over the clicks, persistent like a swarm of insects. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here.” Andrew speaks up. “Shawn…” “I’m not getting out.” “They’re blocking us in, I–” “We’re not getting out of the car.” You flinch; Shawn’s grip on your fingers tightens. “It’s not happening.” You hear it again, that strain. “Please don’t make us go out there.” There is a very long pause. Your ears ring. We. Us. You know without having to look that a silent, furious conversation is happening in the front seat. That claustrophobic feeling presses harder. “Keep your head down,” Ava says at last, brokering no room for argument. “We’re leaving.” There’s a whir as the automatic window rolls down; the shouts become nearly deafening, but your sister’s voice rings like steel when she snaps, “Get away from the car if you don’t want to get hit.” “That a threat, lady?” The window rolls back up. You have to focus on Shawn’s heart, audible even against his back. The light from all sides of the car makes even your closed eyes ache; it feels like you’re spinning. Andrew revs the engine. You chance a glance out the front of the SUV just in time to watch men scatter like tiny rats. The car rolls forward at a crawl until you’re free of people, and then Andrew leans on the gas; jarred from all that noise to stark silence, from a standstill to motion, your stomach lurches up into your throat, pulling up bile. “Okay?” Shawn asks. He’s breathing a bit too fast, still. You manage to shake your head. “I need–” You struggle to put the words in the right order– “Out. I need out. Gonna be sick.” “Ava,” Shawn calls, alarmed. “Hang on just a second,” she says. “Turn–” “Got it.” Andrew’s voice still sounds strained, though you’ve left the hotel behind. “Just hope we weren’t followed.” The car’s barely stopped before you’re whirling around, stumbling out of the door so quickly you nearly fall, hands and knees, onto the pavement. The white painted lines of the parking lot shudder beneath the neon gas station light, and then still; you heave yourself towards the concrete stop and the patch of grass and weeds just beyond. The airline dinner comes up just as hands land on your back. “You’re okay,” Ava hums. “Just get it out.” She smooths back your hair; the feeling transports you back to every flu you’ve ever had, recalling how as the years passed, your sister’s hands went from fluttering and unsure to calm and certain as you both got older and she gained more of a handle on watching over you. You’re not sure if you’ve ever told her, how grateful you are. It feels unreal, that this is your life now. “I’ll get her water,” Andrew says from somewhere behind your back. “Want anything?” “I’m fine,” Ava replies as you retch again with a groan. Shawn’s phone rings, loud in the otherwise silent and empty parking lot. “Hello? Oh hey– wait, sorry? I’m...yeah. Hey Andrew, wait up!” It’s stupid probably, but some part of you is glad Shawn is not longer around to watch you puke your guts out as his footfalls catch up with his manager. There’s only so much vulnerability one can take in a single evening. When your stomach is finally empty a minute later, Ava eases you down onto the stop. “Deep breaths,” she says as you close your eyes, which still burn from the flashbulbs. “Something cold’ll help.” Jerking your head up is a terrible idea. You blink away the spinning to find a man standing over you. There’s a large camera in his hand, his expression oddly familiar. It takes a moment longer to place it: the sorry. “Pardon?” Ava places an arm around you like a shield. The man gestures at you, at his own face with one large hand. “Something cold, over her eyes. It’ll help with the dizziness from the uh,” he holds up his camera, “flashbulbs.” Your sister’s hand curls tighter around your arm. The hair on the back of your neck rises. “Right,” she says, her tone carefully even. “Thanks for the tip.” This guy looks young, you think. Somewhere between Charlie, youngest in the band at twenty-two and Geoff, eldest in his mid thirties. Before he can speak again, a familiar voice cuts through the dark. “Ava!” You’ve never appreciated how long Shawn’s legs are, how far his strides get him in so little time, because in the half second it takes you to find his eyes across the parking lot, Shawn is only a few feet away, Andrew just behind. He’s carrying a ginger ale and a small sleeve of Ferrero Rocher in one hand. From his other swings a bag of gummy bears. Your favourites. Andrew has three bottles of water. The man steps back. “Can we help you?” Andrew asks calmly, cutting across Shawn’s stony glare. “No,” the paparazzo replies, holding up his free hand as if in surrender. “Just wanted to help.” He glances from you to Shawn and back again. “You might want to get going. This is a regular stop after the hotel for lots of us. You probably don’t want to get caught out here.” Andrew and Ava share a look. “We’re just leaving.” Ava pulls you to your feet; Shawn looks like he wants to help, but rocks back on his heels at the very last moment. On the other side of the car, you accept a bottle of water from Andrew, leaning down to swish your mouth and spit into the grass, momentarily out of sight. You smile at him gratefully; Shawn’s manager puts a firm, steadying hand on your elbow as you pull yourself inside. “Hang on.” Shawn drops the sweets and drinks onto the seat, turning back towards the man still standing there on the concrete with the other passenger door open. Andrew is still on his feet too. “That photo you got. At the hotel. Have you put it out yet?” The paparazzo shakes his head. “How much is it worth to you?” There’s a beat of stunned silence.

“I dunno man, couple hundred at most? Who knows what’s already been put out from tonight. I mean–“ He looks over Shawn’s shoulder at you, quickly then away. “It’s not a great shot. You’re barely in it.” Shawn’s already unfolding his wallet. “If I give you…two hundred and fifty right now, would you delete it?” The man’s mouth falls open. “I– I mean–” He sighs, shuffling awkwardly. “I can just delete it dude, really. It’s not a great photo and…” He looks at you again. “I feel kinda bad. That wasn’t a great scene, back there.” “I don’t want you to lose money,” Shawn replies. He holds out several bills. “Here. Take it.” Apparently sensing that trying to argue is futile, the photographer accepts. “If you look here, I can show you.” He extends his camera towards Shawn. After a moment and some audible menu buttons, he says, “There. It’s gone.” “I really appreciate this,” Shawn says, holding out his hand. You’re reminded of the tableau at the airport with Mr. McKelvey. “I didn’t catch your name.” “Scott.” They shake. “I guess I’ll see you around, then.” “Do you have business card or something?” Scott scrambles into his pocket; Shawn glances back over his shoulder at you with a small smile. “I’ll see you, Scott.” The other man is just staring as Shawn gets into the car and closes the door, Andrew following suit. You lean down to put your forehead against your knees, but the image of Scott’s slightly confused surprise lingers. “Hey.” Shawn slides across the seat, touching your back. “C’mere. This is gonna suck for a second.” It’s like ice touching your temple; you jump, but his calloused fingers brush over your eyebrows and forehead until his palm, cold with condensation, covers your eyes. Shawn guides you into his lap, sliding your hair off the back of your neck. His thumb presses in circles into the divot behind your ear. It feels like you can finally breathe again.  “Okay?” You nod into his hand, groaning a little, half pain and half relief. Shawn chuckles under his breath. A few minutes later the dizziness finally abates; you sit up cautiously and pull away from him. Not because you want to. Shawn just brushes your hair back, silently searching your face. “Where are we going?” you ask before he can speak, before he can act on the guilt in his expression. He offers you a Tums instead, the omnipresent mint flavour from his backpack. You chew carefully at a red light, leaning back into your seat. Shawn doesn’t move, though. He puts his left hand on your knee, stroking warm half moons with his fingers. “Somewhere else.” * “You didn’t have to do that, you know.” Shawn looks up from his attempt to pick out the green and red gummy bears from the bag in the half-dark of city night. Does it ever get properly dark here, you wonder, or will you never be rid of this phantom glare behind your eyelids? “Do what?” You take a breath and lower your voice. “Pay for that photo.” He tilts his head. “I’m– are you mad? Did you not want me to?” Ava catches your eye. You glance away, back to Shawn, trying to sort out your feelings. “No, I um, I appreciated it.” “But?” Shawn coaxes gently. You pick at the label on your water. “I just– I just didn’t want you to feel like you had to, do that. For me.” The swallow pulls your hand away from the bottle. “El, I–” “We’re here,” Andrew says suddenly. You turn to look out the window, a little ashamed at how grateful you are for the reprieve. In an effort to do away with the feeling, you lean forward and pluck a gummy bear from Shawn’s other hand. He lets out an indignant, laughing, “Hey!” and you just twist back to push the door open. What feels like a back alley borders on being poorly lit by two lights high up on the buildings on either side; the SUV barely fits. There’s no one around. It seems too loud for this time of night, but you remember. New York. “Are we about to be kidnapped?” You’re only half joking. Shawn slings his backpack over his shoulder, offering you yours. Ava slips out, texting intently, but Andrew is still sitting in the driver’s seat. “Aren’t you getting out?” you ask, and he shakes his head. “We’re not staying.” Andrew nods at your sister. “This is just the rendezvous point for you two.” “What do you mean rendezv–…” You trail off just as another large car swings into the alley, momentarily blinding. You shield your eyes, nerves prickling until Shawn steps calmly up beside you. A backlit head of blonde hair pokes out of the passenger side window. Taylor’s wide grin has your water slipping out of your shocked hands. “Hey guys,” she says. “Hop in.” (part fourteen)

[gimmesumsuga]

Sweeter than Sweet (68)

Pairings: Jimin x reader, Yoongi x reader, Jimin x Yoongi, Namjoon x reader, Taehyung x reader, Jungkook x reader + others as the story progresses

Warnings: Heavy angst

Word count: 5.5K

Previous / Next

Gif not mine - please contact me should this belong to you so I can properly credit

You wish that it was under more pleasant circumstances than this, that you were able to see Hoseok’s room for the first time.   

You’re not sure what you’d expected of his taste in interior design.  A room as bright and colourful as Hobi’s effervescent personality, perhaps?  A series of gaudy yet oddly endearing outfits lining the walls? Whatever it was, it wasn’t this.  His room is far more maturely decorated than you would’ve given him credit for; plaster painted olive green and dark wood floors, a large bookcase rivalling those that line the study stood proudly against one wall.

Suddenly you find yourself wondering if you’ve been misjudging Hoseok for all this time.  Perhaps he’s more serious a creature than you ever would’ve thought?

“I’m gonna put you down now, ok?” Hobi says in a gentle voice, drawing you out from your hazy state of distraction and back to the deep brown of his eyes.   

“Ok,” you answer just as soft, closing your eyes for the slow descent of your feet to the floor.  He keeps his hands on your waist for a second or two as you lightly sway, trying to find your footing while the dark behind your eyelids relentlessly spins.   

“Sweetie, sit down.”  You feel another hand at your hip and it guides you a few steps forward, steering you to rotate on the spot and then pressing ever so carefully to encourage you to sit, your bottom sinking into a soft surface that must surely be Hobi’s mattress.  You keep your eyes closed a second longer, head rested in your palms, and when you finally manage to prise them open you find Sam sitting next to you at the foot of the bed, a hand rubbing rhythmically at your back and a sympathetic look on her face.    

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper out, voice hoarse.  You feel as though you want to cry but there’s no longer any tears left in the eyes which stare so shamefully at the floor.  “There’s so much I haven’t told you… walking in on all that…”

Where do you even start?  How do you begin to tell your best friend the truth about this strange reality in which you live?  The events that have taken place tonight?

She says your name with a surprising assertiveness to her tone, and when you look up you find her smiling kindly back at you.  If there weren’t so much worry in her eyes you’d almost think there was a playful sparkle in there, too, when she reaches out and gathers up the tatters of your dress to cover you up.  She keeps her hand pressed to your chest as she shuffles over and rests her free arm across your shoulder, jostling you ever so gently.

“I know, ok?”  She… what? “I’ve known since, like, three weeks after we started dating.”   

Alarmed, your head swivels from one direction to the other, eyes landing on Hobi where’s he’s sat on the arm of the sofa that’s pushed against the wall to the right of the bed on which you reside.  His eyes widen almost comically as he realises he’s been thrown to the wolves by his very own girlfriend, but before you can even begin to open your mouth to chastise him Sam’s cutting in again, squeezing your shoulder to pull your attention back to her.    

“Don’t be mad at him - I figured it out on my own.”  Your eyebrows lift marginally, surprised that Sam would ever jump to such an unlikely conclusion all of her own accord, and when she clocks your expression she laughs throatily, shaking her head.  “Do you really think I’m that dense? I watched ‘Interview with a Vampire’ during my goth phase same as you did, sweetie. I’m not blind.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”  You really wish she had. It would’ve been nice to have someone to confide in about all of this long before now, though you suppose it’s just as much your fault as it is hers that it’s remained unspoken about for so long.   

“I figured you’d tell me when you were ready,” she muses, releasing her grip on your dress when you take over, pressing it to your chest.  Her hand falls to your knee instead, giving it a reassuring pat as her eyes drift to over to Hobi, a mischievous smirk tilting the corner of her lips.   “Plus Brad Pitt over there was worried about getting his ass kicked if I let slip.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, the weakest of laughs passes your lips.   It hurts your throat but it’s worthwhile for the momentary reprieve from the emotional pain you’re in and with a feeble smile you flick your eyes in Hobi’s direction.   

“We’ll have words once I’ve gotten my strength back up, Hoseok.”  Briefly, you close your eyes as another wave of dizziness overcomes you.  “Wait.” You take a breath and then force yourself to sit up a little bit straighter, eyeing Sam with a frown that’s as much down to concern as it is disorientation.  “He doesn’t feed on you, does he?” For the first time tonight Sam suddenly looks a little bashful, eyes glancing from your face to Hobi’s and then straight down at the floor, guilty as charged.   

You whine her name, frowning even harder as you extend the vowels.   

“Hey, don’t you get all holier than thou with me,” she interrupts, playful indignance colouring her tone, “At least we have the decency to try and hide it.”  God, you dread to think the places Hoseok’s been biting if it isn’t the glimpses of skin Sam regularly has on show. It’s not as if she’s the most demurely dressed of individuals at the best of times.   

Still, it’s not as though you’re in a position to judge, not with your body in the current condition it’s in.

As if Sam were thinking the very same thing, you watch her pretty eyes travel over the sorry state of your throat and shoulders; bruised, broken and bloody.  The smile falls from her face and that look of pity returns, her voice soft as she squeezes your knee and asks you to retell the events that have led you to this all time low.   

Mercifully, both Hobi and Sam let you speak with very little interruption.  You feel Sam stiffen beside you several times, and she shudders violently when you reveal the deception by which Namjoon lured you into his arms, but otherwise, she gives very little in the way of a reaction.  Perhaps it’s because she has the good sense to realise that her becoming emotional would only make it more difficult for you to recite it all in the robotic way in which you do, your eyes fixed to the floor and parchment dry, rimmed in red.   

You don’t tell them about Namjoon’s plot against Jimin and Yoongi.  It’ll come to light eventually, you’re sure, but you’d rather the two of them hear that information before anyone else does - if they’ll even hear you out at all, that is.

Hobi looks more grave than you’ve ever seen him appear before by the time you’re done.  There’s a harrowed look in his eyes as they meet yours, his lips slightly parted as though he wants to say something but can’t find the words.   

“I’ve really fucked up, haven’t I?” you say as you bring your story to its end, running a hand through your tangled hair.   

“Kind of,” Sam admits and despite everything you find yourself smiling bitterly at your lap, “But this is more Namjoon’s fault than anyone else’s.  I’m sure once you explain what happened…” She trails off after having realised how unconvincing the words leaving her mouth sound, shrugging helplessly.   

“I’m not sure Jimin’ll even give me the chance.”   

“Just give him some time to cool down,” Hobi advises wisely, speaking for the first time in almost ten minutes, “That’s all you can do for now.  And don’t worry about having to leave, ok? No-ones gonna sit back and see you turned out on the streets with Namjoon out there, no matter what happens.”   

He rises from the sofa to come and squat in front of you, gently cupping your chin in his hand with an encouraging smile.   

“When you first came here we made a promise to keep you safe, remember?”  You nod into his palm, smiling weakly back. You remember that alright. Almost straight after having met them the group in all its entirety had assured Jimin that you’d be safe living amongst them - all save Namjoon, anyway.  “We might not’ve done a very good job of it so far, but that promise hasn’t changed, alright?”

“Alright,” you agree, comforted by the sincerity you can hear in his words and the warmth that lays in his eyes as he gazes back at you.  He gives the angle of your jaw a brush over with the pad of his thumb back and forth before standing.

“It’s almost morning, and you need your rest.”  He starts shrugging off his jacket and Sam gets up from the bed as well, heading over to Hobi’s drawers and pulling out two t-shirts from inside; one for each of you, you presume.  “You two can take my bed, I’ll take the sofa. The bathroom’s just through there if you need to clean up.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” you agree, taking the shirt that Sam offers you with a grateful smile and accepting her assistance to rise to your feet, “Can you give me a hand?”  She smiles indulgently at you, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Of course I can, sweetheart.”

You have to hand it to Sam; she’s got a mean poker face.  She manages to maintain a perfectly passive expression as she patiently assists you in getting ready for bed, not even a singular judgemental eyebrow raised at the sight of the marks that cover almost every inch of you, and you’re so very grateful for it.   As it is, you’re self-conscious enough, stood with your arms wrapped around your torso having the dried blood cleaned off of your neck; who can imagine how you’d feel if she were to gawp or gasp at the state you’re in as well?

You try your best not to catch glimpse of yourself in Hobi’s bathroom mirror.  You know you won’t be able to stand what you see if you do. It’s bad enough looking down and seeing the evidence that Namjoon left behind - the bite marks and bruises, the carpet burn and tear stains - without having it staring back at you, too.    

It takes a long time for you to fall asleep that morning, no matter how desperately tired you are.  Hobi’s bed is more than comfortable, and Sam’s sleeping form next to yours offers some solace, too, yet it feels as though you’re staring at the ceiling for hours, ears pricking at every single sound outside that might indicate Jimin and Yoongi’s return.

Jin said they’d be safe - he said Namjoon would be long gone before they come home - but what if he’s not?  What if he’s lying in wait for them there? What if he’s already plotting his revenge? Would they be able to fight him off, if he were?  Would they even know to, should he appear from out of the dark and spin them some tale of woe?

It’s these thoughts that plague you as you try in your damndest to fall asleep, one after another and another and another, and in the end it’s only from sheer exhaustion rather than any sense of peacefulness that you finally drift off to the sound of Hobi’s slow and steady breathing.    

***

“She’s pale.”   

You remain deathly still as the lightest of touches graces your cheek; the feel of knuckles passing over the sickly pallor of your skin.  The sensation rouses you from sleep gently enough that you don’t think to startle, simply lay there, eyes closed and feigning slumber as your consciousness stirs, senses quickly working in tandem to identify whose weight it is you can feel sat on the edge of the bed.   

His voice, his touch, the familiar smell of his cologne; it all adds up to Jimin.

He’s here.  He’s home. He’s safe.   

“Hyung didn’t transfuse her?”   

No one answers but you presume he must be speaking to either Hoseok or Sam, one of which must’ve shaken their heads.   

You don’t dare open your eyes.  If you do - if Jimin knows you’re awake - then surely he’ll want to leave.  He won’t want to keep touching you as he is now, with his hand placed on the curve of your hip, nor want to let the weight of his gaze linger on your face.   

No, if things go wrong once the three of you do try to talk things out - or should Jimin decide not to give you the chance to make things right - then you need to savour this feeling while you still can.  It might be the last opportunity you’re ever given.

Another man speaks in low, dulcet tones from across the room, and even though he’s uttering words in a language that you don’t understand, Yoongi’s voice is easy to identify.  For just a moment, as you lie there listening to their whispered voices go back and forth, all the worries that are gnawing at your insides seem to disappear.

They’re safe.  They’re both safe, and that’s all you could’ve ever really hoped for.   Whatever else happens, at least they’ll have each other.

“I can’t believe he’d do this,” Yoongi mutters quietly, and the tender back and forth motion of Jimin’s hand falls still as he bites back in a harsh whisper,

“I can.”   

“She told us what happened.”  It’s Hobi that’s awake then, and from the sound of his voice you guess that he’s lingering somewhere behind you, sat on the other side of the bed perhaps, or on his sofa.  Jimin huffs a bitter laugh and you mourn the loss of his touch as he takes his hand off of your side. “I don’t know what she said, or what you saw, but I don’t think-”

“I saw plenty,” Jimin interrupts his friend, the volume of his voice rising slightly before Yoongi jumps in, hushing him.   

“She needs to rest.”  A silence falls again, then, and after a second or two you feel Jimin’s touch once more - a hesitant hand placed on your uppermost arm, the only sliver of bare skin to not be covered by the blankets.   

“I just don’t think it’s as black and white as you think it might be,” Hobi cautiously persists, and at that moment you find yourself wishing that you could fling your arms around him, so grateful are you to him for fighting your corner.  You hear Jimin sigh and the bed shift, and after a second or two more he stands, shoes clicking on the hardwood floor as he steps away.

“Maybe.”  Another silence and another sigh, and your heart immediately begins to ache with the loss of having him near, barely able to resist the urge to give yourself away and beg for him to come back - to stay at your side.  “Don’t wake her; let her sleep as long as she needs. She can come and speak to us when she’s ready.”

***

‘When you’re ready’ - that’s the message Hobi had relayed to you when you’d awoken again the next evening, but how are you ever supposed to feel ready for a conversation like this?  There’s so much weighing on it, so much at stake; the life you’ve made here, the relationships you’ve forged. It feels as though everything’s hanging in the balance - just waiting to fall down - and you’re so nervous as you wash and dress yourself that it takes you far longer than it should do, having to pause every ten minutes or so and loiter by the toilet just in case your stomach really does decide to turn itself inside-out.   You wish you weren’t so nauseous. It’s all you need, really, on top of how awful you already feel.

Physically, you’re a mess.  Your hands lightly tremble and you’re aching right down to your bones, intermittently dizzy and every muscle sore - so weak that a strong breeze might knock you down.  It’d taken a long time for you to fall back to sleep after Jimin and Yoongi had left, and you know that the lack of sleep probably isn’t doing you any favours, either.   

Still, you turn down Sam’s offer of helping you dress into the clothes that she lends you.  It seems as though she’s smuggled a good portion of her wardrobe in Hobi’s room at some point or another; enough that you start to get the distinct impression that she spends a lot more time at the house than you’d originally thought, hidden away with Hoseok in the little love nest they’ve made.   

You can’t find it in your heart to be mad at them.  You’d have probably have done the same if you were in their shoes.   

“Are you sure you don’t want some?” Sam checks, offering you a bite of toast for what must be the fourth time in the space of ten minutes.  Peering at your reflection in the mirror, you shake your head. If you try to eat now you’re sure you really will throw up.

“I’m good,” you answer distractedly, running your fingertips over the marks Namjoon’s bite left behind.   Sam had offered to try and cover them with some of her make up, too, but you can’t see the point. No amount of concealer is going to be enough to cover the plummy purple bruises that cover your neck, especially when everyone already knows that they’re there.   

You wish you had one of your collars to wear…

Turning away from your reflection, you take a deep breath.   

“Probably best for me to just get this over and done with, right?” you sigh, directing your question at both Sam and Hobi.  She’s sat between his legs at the head of the bed, her back leant on his chest, jaw working around the mouthful she just took.   

“Probably,” Hobi agrees, head tilting as he offers you a sympathetic smile and Sam nods along.  You know they’re right. The longer you sit here thinking about it - worrying about the right words to say -the more anxious you’re likely to get, and that’s not likely to do anyone any favours.  No, better that you go and face it all head on. Rip the band-aid off. Take the plunge.

“Ok.  Wish me luck.”  You smile weakly at the two of them and Sam gives you an enthusiastic thumbs up with her one free hand, chewing even faster so she’s able to speak.   

“I’ve gotta go home but I want you to call me and let me know how it goes, ok?”  You notice Hobi’s arm tighten around Sam’s waist when she says she has to leave and it inwardly makes you smile.  You nod obligingly before making the short walk to the door, pausing when you get there as Sam calls your name. “They love you so much, sweetie,” she tells you with an encouraging smile, and this time it’s Hobi’s turn to nod along sagely, “Don’t forget that.”   

The trip to Jimin’s room takes far longer than it should.   

Granted, your physical condition has noticeably slowed you down.  You have to take the stairs far more sedately than normal, clinging onto the railing as you go just in case your legs decide to give way, and by the time you get the bottom you’re a little shaky.  Your eyes drift towards the front door as you pause to catch your breath; the heavy wooden bolt is still in place. Jimin would’ve had to call one of the others to let him and Yoongi in when they got home, and you feel your guts twist unpleasantly when you think of how confused they must’ve been to come back to all this - to the news that you’d been attacked.   

Did Jimin regret leaving on hearing that, you wonder?  You can’t blame him for walking out when he did - not even a little bit - but part of you still wonders how things would’ve played out if he’d stayed.

You’re just a few steps away from Jimin’s bedroom door when you hear a loud, beseeching meow, and when you turn to look you see Nova stood outside the glass doors which lead to the garden outside, her wide, green eyes fixed on you, and when she meows again you open them up to let her in.  She winds herself around your ankles in thanks and you bend low to stroke her despite the inevitability of the head rush that you know will follow, hoping that the slow drag of your fingers through her fur will help calm the nervous fluttering of your heart.

It helps a little but not enough, and when she picks herself up of the hardwood floor and saunters off the in the direction of Jimin’s room it's like she’s trying to beckon you there, too, turning back to give you a look that’s far too knowing for your average feline.  You swear Nova knows all too well what’s going on in this house, sometimes.

As you approach the door, a lump in your throat the size of your heart, you can hear the two boys inside talking to one another.  Unfortunately, it’s all in Korean so you’re none the wiser about what’s being said, but you can tell just from the tone of Jimin’s voice that he sounds frustrated, and hearing the abrupt way in which he’s speaking makes you all the more afraid to speak inside.  What if he won’t even hear you out? What if all he wants to see you for is to give you your things and then demand that you leave?

Nova meows again, louder this time, and then abandons you to walk on ahead, entering the room.  She pushes her body against the door so heavily that it swings open far enough to reveal you, unprepared and wide-eyed, and two heads turn to face you where you’re stood lingering in the doorway having forgotten how to breathe.  Not for the first time you find yourself wondering whose side she’s really on.

“Hi,” you greet meekly, meeting each of their gazes in turn.  You remain in the doorway, unwilling to cross the threshold until you’ve been invited to do so.  It’s out of respect rather than fear that you stay put; you’d rather not do anything to jeopardise this conversation before it’s even had a chance to get started.  

“Hello,” Jimin replies just as quietly, his eyes travelling the length of your body up and down.  You’re relieved not to see the disdain that’d been so present in them the last time in which you spoke, but you’d hardly class them as warm or inviting, either.  Yoongi says nothing but you do notice his fingers tighten the grip which he’d already had on the leg of younger boy’s pants, subtly drawing the two of them closer together.  

They’re both wearing the same clothes as they were the night before, although each of them looks slightly more dishevelled than the last time that you saw them; neither are wearing the jackets that they had been and Yoongi’s shirt looks crumpled, Jimin’s hair at odd angles from all the times he’s probably run his fingers through it. They must not have slept at all, and the guilt that washes over you on realising that makes the back of your throat burn.  

“Can I come in?” Jimin nods, and you step inside, pushing the door closed behind you.  When you turn back the two of them are still stood huddled together and they’re eyeing you somewhat warily as if they’re harbouring just as much trepidation about this conversation as you.  Lamely, you shrug. “I’m not sure where to start.”

“Was that the first time?” Jimin asks suddenly, and though the question is abrupt - sharp - you’re glad he’s asked it.  At least it gives you a place to begin.

“It was, I promise,” you answer eagerly, hands held tightly together in front of you, eyes wide.  You need them to believe you; you need them to see that you never meant all this damage that’s been done.  “And I never - I never meant to betray your trust. I didn’t think I was.”

Jimin scoffs, lifting his eyes to the ceiling before they fall back to you, his expression turning hard, and this time when he speaks the volume of his voice has risen slightly.    

“You’re not that stupid.  We had rules, and you knew perfectly well how I felt about you and Namjoon.”  Jimin points a finger at you, taking a step forward, and you notice Yoongi’s eyes dart back and forth.  “You could’ve had anyone else - anyone but him - and I could’ve forgiven you. I have forgiven you.”

“I know, I know you have,” you nod, head bobbing up and down, “But I thought things had gotten better with you two, I really did.  He tricked me, Jimin. He lied to me and I was an idiot to believe him, I know, but I did.”

“Tricked you?” Yoongi finally speaks, eyebrows furrowed low, “Tricked you how ?” Turning your attention to him, you tug nervously on the long sleeves of the sweater you’re wearing.  He’s so difficult to read; unlike Jimin, whose face responds to every single word you say, expression ever-changing, Yoongi’s remains stoic, closed off.

“He told he’d me gotten your permission,” you explain, glancing back at Jimin, “You guys had been talking in the club and I thought… I thought maybe you’d changed your mind about him.”  Jimin barks a short laugh, head tipping back for a second before returning to you, bitterness in his eyes and a smirk in place of a smile.

“And you just lept at the chance, didn’t you?” he sneers, “So desperate to jump on his dick that you couldn’t spare even a single second to just check and make sure?!”

“I know,” you grovel, stepping towards them with your hands clasped together at the base of your throat, “I know, I know I should’ve done, and I’m so-”

“And even if he had gotten my permission, what about Yoongi?” Jimin continues, berating you without even having to pause for breath, fury in his eyes.  “Did you even stop to think about him?” Again you note Yoongi’s eyes bat back and forth, his delicate lips parting slightly as he watches this all play out with one arm wrapped around himself now he can no longer hold onto the younger boy as he was.  “You saw how he was last night, you knew how much he needed you, and you just left him in here on his own. What if something had happened?!”

Oh god, you’d never even thought about that.  What if it had? You know Yoongi had told you he wanted some time alone, but what if that’d been the wrong thing to give him?  What if he’d dissolved into another panic attack again? What if he’d ended up hurting himself again?

Your mouth flails uselessly for a moment, lost for words in the face of Jimin’s wrath.   

“I was fine,” Yoongi murmurs, looking at the floor, his quiet words breaking the silence, “I told her I was fine.”  Jimin turns back to him sharply.

“That’s not the point!”

“You’re right,” you agree quickly, your throat tightening with emotion.  This feels as though it’s starting to take a downward spiral, escalating too fast, and when Jimin rounds on the spot to face you again his jaw is clenched tight, not a hint of forgiveness in sight. “You’re right, ok?  I’ve messed up so bad, Jimin. Oppa -”  Yoongi’s eyes clench shut for a moment when he hears you call him that, his lips pressing together, “- I know I’ve fucked up.  Really, really fucked up, and I’m so… so sorry.”

You didn’t want to cry, doing this.  That was never the intention. You don’t want to be absolved through pity, and yet here you are.    

Tears spilling down your cheeks, you stagger forward towards Jimin and let yourself fall at his feet as he did once before to you, clutching onto the front of his pants with both hands, head bowed.  

“Please, Jimin, I never meant to hurt you,” you choke out, eyes closed and head bent low, “I-I never wanted to hurt either of you, ever.”  He says nothing as your shoulders heave with the strength of your cries and at that moment desperation takes its hold, clutching at his legs and shuffling forwards to press yourself to the front of his calves.

Nothing.  He says absolutely nothing, and as the gap between you ever widens, your mind frantically scrambles for something - anything -

“P-please, daddy, please.”  Let him take control, let him have what he needs.  Let him know that you're his.  You hide your face in his thighs, biting your bottom lip so hard you taste copper on your tongue.   “Please, p-please. Punish me, if you want.  I'll take it, w-whatever you need.  I-I broke the rules an-and-”

Tilting your face up, you see his face through bleary eyes and Jimin’s hands hovering unsurely at his sides, and you realise it’s going to take more.  Whatever it takes, you’ll endure anything to earn their forgiveness.

You turn yourself on your knees to present yourself on all fours, making a grab for the waistband of your sweats.  

“Jimin-” Yoongi’s voice rumbles, but you interrupt.  

“Punish me.  I d-deserve it.  Call me names, feed on me!  Whatever you want,” you repeat, out of your mind, “Fuck me, choke me, I d-don’t care just-just please, don’t leave me!”

“Stop,” Jimin utters softly, and it’s enough to make your frantic rambling cease, a strong hand around your wrist preventing you from lowering your pants as you’d intended.  You feel his presence behind you, joining you on his knees. “That’s enough, kitten,” he soothes, and on hearing the term of endearment you start to sob all the more, sinking to your elbows and pressing your face to the floor, head held in your hands to catch your tears.  “That’s enough.”

Your limp body goes willingly when you’re pulled into his arms, falling into Jimin’s chest and grabbing onto him for dear life, and when you feel Jimin place a kiss to the top of your head, hushing you under his breath, all of the grief and all of the betrayal you’ve felt over the past 12 hours comes pouring out onto his shirt, so much of it that it starts to turn the white fabric transparent, sticking to his chest.  

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, unable to stop the words from tumbling out again and again, “I’m so sorry.”

“We know,” Yoongi says, his voice just as gentle as the hand that he rubs along your back as he, too, joins you and Jimin on the floor.  Kneeling beside the younger vampire, he takes you from Jimin’s arms and holds you in his own, wrapping you up so tight that you can barely breathe.  His cheeks are wet when he kisses your cheek, his voice cracking when he says your name.

“I don’t want to lose you.  Either of y-you.” Reaching out blindly, you grab for Jimin’s hand and pull it to your chest when you find it, between you and Yoongi, and he nuzzles his face in your hair as Yoongi continues to kiss at the corner of your mouth, his tears mixing with your own.

 “You’re not going to, kitten,” Jimin assures you, his arm finding its way around your waist, too.  You can tell he’s near tears from how tight his voice sounds, how clenched his jaw is pressed against you.  What a mess the three of you must look, a mass of tangled limbs that are all holding on too tight. “I’m sorry we weren’t here to protect you… we should’ve been here.  If I’d have just heard you out - if I’d have stayed - he never would’ve-”

“It was my fault, Jimin, please, don’t say you’re sorry.”  

“If something had happened to you-”  Yoongi begins, cupping the angle of your jaw and using it to turn your tear-stained face upward to face him.  You cut him off, smiling despite the rawness of your throat and the soreness of your eyes,

“I’m alright,” you tell him, and when you place a timid kiss to his lips somehow Yoongi finds the strength to smile too, rubbing his thumb back and forth along your sodden cheek, “I’m alright now I’m here with you.”   

[cyberneticlagomorph]

Red Button

"Vampires aren't real."

At least, that's what they tell people. Like the sick, bloodthirsty masses tearing each other apart in the street are just figments of a collective imagination.

As if you aren't one of them.

They'd brought you in when you were young, so young that you could lie and say that you didn't remember anything before then. Before them. But you'd be lying.

But you don't lie.

And you don't forget.

You can't. That'd be a luxury, reserved for your betters, and those you hunt.

You are special, an oddity born of a disease meant to separate the weak from the strong. Manmade in a lab somewhere far away, where the creators sit in their ivory towers and watch as the world burns and they hoard all the fire extinguishers.

You were a child when they found you, hiding in some filthy hovel full of diseased freaks that dared call themselves "vampires". Nothing more than arrogant humans trying to sew silver linings onto clouds full of acid rain. But not you. No, not you.

There was something wrong with your strain, wrong with you, that made you more like the demons of olde. There was something so fascinating and strange about you that the team of Bloodhounds that found you that night decided to spare your life, instead of ending it right there.

They took you back to the scientists that made them, made the master strain of your disease, and thus, made you. They ran their tests on you, day after day, and found you quite remarkable, saying that your "mutation" was unlike anything they'd ever seen. That you were unlike anything they'd ever seen. You were too precious, too rare to be killed, so they found a use for you in time. They taught you how to hunt, and how to kill. You took to your training like a duck to water, learning how to recognize heartbeats and memorize the scents of your targets, your prey. They made you into a weapon of exceptional lethality.

To date, you are best assassin the Conglomerate has ever had, and you have never lost your prey once.

You are the one they call in when all other methods are exhausted and yet the target is somehow still alive.

A walking "red button" with two rows of teeth and no fear of death.

Your designation is Lazarus 414379, code name "Charon". You like to call yourself "Mira", a name that used to belong to a little girl a long long time ago. But none of that matters now. No one speaks to you unless it's to give you a mission, and even then you are referred to as just your designation or callsign. But again, none of that matters. You are here to end lives, not make friends. Weapons don't need names, the same way they don't forget, and don't lie.

You aren't surprised to have a file forced into your hands first thing in the morning, just like you aren't surprised to read that your newest target is someone that's managed to dodge every agent the Reclamations Unit has thrown at him. You are no stranger to these cases, labrats that scuttle back onto the filthy streets they'd come from, only now they're carrying some important piece of Conglomerate tech that still needs testing. So they have to be captured and brought back. You aren't fond of the Reclamations Unit, their ways are roundabout and sloppy, spending precious resources trying to keep ungrateful filth alive when there are countless other labrats to be tested on.

But this file is different somehow, with page after page of blacked out text. Things beyond classified. None of that is any of your business, but you'd be lying if you said that you weren't just a little curious about what made subject 7886 so interesting. What nonclassified information on him there is, you read with fervor. A lot of it borders on fantastic or nonsensical but cliffnotes mentioning unstable genetic modifications and something called "project Merlin" steal your attention, almost as much as the bolded words stating that any agents sent after him have not returned alive. He is suspected of destroying Lazarus Facility Delta, and the theft of Conglomerate property including but not limited to several hundred test subjects, FERA hybrids, dozens of files worth of classified information, and several things too far above your pay grade for you to know.

That was days ago, weeks almost. Until now you've been biding your time, surveying the target's place of work. Apparently nobody can find out where he lives. Typical. Typical Reclamations Unit halfassery at work. You've done your best to try and find out where he lives so you can corner him somewhere quiet and put a bullet in his skulk before anyone can notice, but it's like this guy just magically appears wherever he needs to be and then vanishes just as quickly. It doesn't make any sense. You've tossed around theories of him using the sewers and old city infrastructure to scuttle around unseen, but you'd be able to smell that if it were true. He's always gone before you can corner him, or surrounded by too many people for you to get a clear shot. It's like this guy knows how to dodge assassins in his everyday life, and judging by his file, you wouldn't be surprised.

Since the easy way is thusly inaccessible to you, you'll have to do this the hard way. The messy way. The "shoot this bastard in public and make it look like a hatecrime" way. You hate the hard way, it's sloppy and much too juvenile for your tastes. But it's not like you have any other choice. So you show up at his little hovel of a bar one night during the dinner rush, covered in a thin layer of kevlar, and enough guns to take out a small country.

It doesn't smell right here, the patrons don't smell right either. Their heartbeats are wrong, or gone entirely. This place makes you feel... uneasy, something you aren't used to feeling. Your target is behind the bar. He's... weirder in person, to say the least. This whole place is weird, you don't trust it or the patrons. They're much too cheerful, munching on plates of stirfried weeds and mushrooms, downing tankards of jewel-hued alcohol, or playing video games on the odd little cabinets tucked away in one corner. There are strange symbols on the floor that you write off as "tasteful graffiti" or some trashy hipster appropriation of a mandala. You find a seat at the bar next to an absurdly tiny old man with the most extravagant beard you've ever seen. He's nursing a mug of what might be tea and sketching in a notepad, long elegant strokes depicting what might be architecture of somekind. He catches you staring and smiles a preposterously warm smile.

"Silverware," he whispers, "a future gift for our beloved barkeep here, but shh don't tell him." he chortles, mostly to himself, and flips the page when your target appears to top off his tea. They both share a sly look as your target slides the old man a jar of something golden and a spoon. You ignore the other guy from then on, locking your eyes on the target. His heartbeat sounds wrong, doubled somehow. He smells strange, like soil and growing things, but also like dry bones and warm machinery. Beneath that you can smell his blood and the nose-singeing radioactive tang that comes with it. So many of the people here share that smell. What is it? Are they sick? Some new Conglomerate affliction you aren't privy to? Doesn't matter, really, chances are it won't infect you. Whatever it is. Your target swings back around, toweling off a damp glass as he grins at you. His teeth are almost as sharp as yours, caging a pair of black tongues that make you grimace inwardly.

"What can I get ya?" he chirps, obviously in some kind of a good mood. Pity what you're about to do then. The next few moments seem to happen in slow motion. You draw your weapon, his eyes widen, someone close to you screams. The other bartender, the girl that fills in when your target isn't here, shoves him aside as you pull the trigger. Glass shatters and the floor is bathed in spilled alcohol. All hell breaks loose as the symbols on the floor vanish and the air is suddenly filled with that radioactive tang. The small man leaps for you, trying to wrestle your gun away. You shoot him in the chest and watch him crumple like a dropped toy. Your target is unscathed, his coworker is not, but... she isn't dead. She's just wrong.

There isn't any blood, any gore, just... Nothing. Just empty darkness where splattered gray matter and vicera should be. Even as this wrong thing rattles like dry bones and claws her way to her feet, you feel something cold and foreign slither down your spine. Fear. Fear is for prey when it is cornered. You steel yourself and squeeze off another shot before the glint of metal in the guttering overhead light catches your eye. The guy you'd shot just moments ago, the really short one, was back on his feet, wielding an axe as if you'd just punched him as opposed to put a bullet in his chest. He brings the axe down on your shoulder before you have time to react. The crunch of metal on bone is forever seared into your memory.

As the axe bites through kevlar and into your shoulder you scream, an inhuman caterwaul that takes out what little glassware your bullets missed. The sensation of metal grating against bone and flesh is beyond agonizing. You twist around, find your assailant, and put a bullet in his skull this time. You empty the rest of the clip into his torso. He doesn't get up this time, and neither does the girl, not after you turn her skull into powder. The bar is in chaos, what few people that haven't fled are now cowering under tables with wide eyes. You take out a semi-automatic and spray bullets willy-nilly, not caring who you hit. Your target dissolves into a cloud of blue fireflies as you turn the gun on him and for a moment you are awestruck. Until a wildcat with glowing green eyes lunges at you, only to go down in a hail of bullets.

Now it's your target's turn to scream. He throws himself at you like an idiot, but his body changes midair into a massive snake with glittering crystal scales so sharp they leave furrows in the floor. He stinks now, that same radioactive reek, but a hundredfold. You watch him coil around the bloody cat, emptying clip after clip into his hide but only a lucky few manage to do the job. He flails in pain and his tail comes at you at lightspeed, hitting you square in the chest, knocking you out the front window. As you struggle to your feet you watch him revert back to his "normal" self and squeeze off a paltry few shots before he vanishes in a bright flash and the sound of fucking fairy bells. As sirens roar up the street, you bolt, the stench of that place forever burned in your nostrils.

Your arm is hanging by a string of gristle, your shoulder shattered, broken, bleeding as you find a place to hide as cops swarm the ruined bar. You halfway collapse in a nearby alley, wheezing through punctured lungs and a glass-riddled throat. If you were human you'd be going into shock right now, but you aren't, you're just pissed as fuck that your prey got away. That's never happened before, none of this has happened before. What the fuck was any of that?? Just what exactly were you up against.

A homeless man lingers near the mouth of the alley, you can hear the timid thrum of his heartbeat and smell his stink. It coats your tongue worse than the blood and bile welling up in your mouth. You spit on the ground as he approaches, not listening to whatever inane mumbling he's making. He comes within reach and you strike with more precision than you should be capable in your condition. The skin of his throat gives way beneath your teeth, he tastes like sweat and unwashed skin but as his veins are shredded beneath your jaws and the metallic heat of his blood fills your waiting maw, you can't bring yourself to care. He tries to flail and panic, but you just clamp down and glut yourself until he goes still.

Your body is riddled with thousands upon thousands of nano machines that boost your already remarkable healing abilities and discourage the spontaneous growth of cancer, at the expense of large quantities of protein. You drink blood daily so it's not like you're deficient, but at times like this one can't be too careful. So after you're finished with the old man you tear off what's left of your arm and eat the entire thing. Wounds itch and burn as they heal, some sealing around bits of shrapnel and glass, broken bones set wrong, and your arm starts to grow back in an incredibly barbaric way. In the end, that little snack isn't enough to repair an entire missing limb so you have to eat the rest of the old man. His vile, bloodless flesh tastes horrendous, but it fixes you so you don't complain. Mouthful by mouthful, you start to feel like your old self again.

By the time you're done, the cruel sun has set. Your meal is nothing more than a bloody smear on the pavement and a pile of rancid smelling clothes. Between the specialized nanos in your gut and your 'natural' capabilities, there's is very little you can't digest, but you draw the line at clothes. But that doesn't matter. What does matter is that your prey managed to slip away from you. But you have his scent now, and there is hunting to be done.

[m-oana-archive]

Heartsease: a Wolfstar fanfiction

 Part Nine: “I Just Needed You To Know”

read part one two three four five six seven eight

POV: Remus | Words: 4507 | Beta: @inflictionofopinions <3 | read on AO3

The spring sunlight radiated gorgeously from Black Lake.  A light breeze was rippling through the air, sending small waves across the waterfront and refreshing Remus without making the pages of his book fly up chaotically, making him lose his place.  But, Remus realized maybe it didn’t matter how strong the wind was: his eyes kept glossing over the black text, not really reading, just going through the motions.  And, even if the winds did mess up his spot, Remus had read Madame Bovary at least fourteen times; at this point, he could find the general placement of any paragraph through memory alone.

What Remus couldn’t do, however, despite the week that had passed and the energy he had put into it, was forget Sirius in the way Sirius had forgotten him.  Nothing changed in the way Sirius laughed at James’ jokes or made Lily roll her eyes; Sirius didn’t even change seats in classes though he sat next to Remus in quite a few.  But he just closed in on himself in the least Sirius-like manner, acting as if Remus was a stranger instead of, according to Trinity’s account, the man he was in love with.

And how was Remus supposed to ignore Sirius when he knew that?  Or, at least, when reciprocation was finally a possibility instead of just a pre-sleep state Remus used to imagine when clutching his pillow as tightly as he craved to embrace Sirius?

It was yet another thing Remus couldn’t do: cease recalling that Saturday night.  How fear swallowed Sirius whole, turned his eyes full thunderstorm and his body earthquake.  He shook from the marrow out until the lines of his body were no longer defined; he was outlined by a vibrational haze.  The smallest of sobs that sounded like gasps for air, and even though Remus’ ears still rang with Trinity’s words like she was in the room repeating them, that noise didn’t matter in comparison to the ones Sirius let out.

So Remus held him by the shoulders even though he craved to push against Sirius with his lips.  Told him everything would be fine when all Remus wanted to say was that he loved Sirius, too, loved him so much from the moment they met and would until the moment they’d die and during all the empty, unreciprocated space between.  That, sure, he’d find a way to cope with the rejection previously expected but even that all-consuming pain wouldn’t be enough to ever make him to move on from Sirius, make him stop loving him.  

But, instead, he whispered words of comfort to Sirius.  He held Sirius by the shoulders through that thin, white t-shirt and even now, Remus couldn’t forget how Sirius’ skin felt against his fingertips: yet another thing he couldn’t do.

And he couldn’t figure out if Sirius was in love with him.

Remus had indulged himself in the fantasy once or twice before, at most.  He was younger then and the feeling was new; he felt as though some sort of unnameable force had been placed in his chest, one that kept drawing him inevitably towards Sirius with the same dangerous irresistibility of an open fire.  At first Remus thought it was pure fascination: he had never met someone full of so much life before, and how could someone constructed from sheer sunlight not draw others in?  And he was so young then, love to him was the way his father gently pecked a kiss on his mother’s lips before leaving for work, or how his grandmother always brought Remus’ favorite kind of chocolate when she visited, or how his parents didn’t treat him like a monster after he was bitten.  So, as days and months and two years passed, Remus didn’t quite know what to do with the information that his body felt warm and bubbly whenever Sirius was nearby.  

It wasn’t until after James admitted his crush on Lily in second year that Remus knew what he was up against.  Though Sirius was snoring softly next to him—the three of them would sometimes sleep on the same bed when they were small enough—and James was talking in uncharacteristic hushness, Remus’ entire world felt loud as admissions of stuttered words and hard-hitting heartbeats seemed more like a reflection of Remus’ feelings than some distant recounting of James’.  Remus found himself requiring a throat-clearing cough before responding to James’ questions and doubts.  In the deepest and most honest part of his soul, Remus had many of the same ones.  

Remus knew there was absolutely nothing spectacular about himself (sure, the werewolf thing was unique, but it wasn’t exactly alluring) so he learned to lose hope almost as quickly as he realized there was something to be hopeful for.

There was only one time Remus remembered letting himself go.  It was that same night, after James had fallen asleep with Lily’s name on his then parted lips, saying everything he had to and Remus was envious of that freedom.  Having the bravery and luck to be able to attain it.

But that anger and frustration was suddenly distracted as Sirius began stirring rapidly next to him, his legs kicking into the air as he mumbled urgent incoherencies to the ceiling.  Remus automatically took it upon himself to grab Sirius’ left shoulder—the right one was on the wrong side to him—and begin shaking him awake.  “Sirius?  Sirius, it’s okay,” he whispered so quietly it barely constituted as such.  

Sirius’ eyes popped open, wide in terror at first but softening as soon as they made contact with Remus’.  They were so close, Remus wondered if Sirius could hear how loudly his heart was beating.  But it wouldn’t have mattered; comforting of Sirius wasn’t about that.  

Remus expected Sirius to explain himself, recount as much from that obviously painful nightmare as he could manage, but, instead, Sirius soundlessly dove his head into Remus’ chest and proceeded to wrap his hands around Remus’ torso.  The shock shoved the preemptive question of, “Are you alright?” right back down Remus’ throat.  And he might have asked it again, but their proximity allowed Remus to feel just how rapidly Sirius was still shaking.  So he just let Sirius be, let Sirius press his warm cheek into a flaring heartbeat and let himself imagine a life where this wasn’t a friendly favor but a necessity, being so close it felt like their two bodies were one.

Now, after not having spoken to Sirius for days, that memory felt so far away from him; it was as if he imagined it but it never happened (which was what Remus thought the morning he woke up entangled in Sirius’ limbs).  It was yet another thing he couldn’t do: believe he had a chance with Sirius.

Even as Trinity said the words, Remus felt as though they weren’t as much a punch to Sirius as they were to him.  After the onslaught of her exposing Remus’ every insecurity with the sharpest of intent, Remus assumed that was more of a taunt at him, not Sirius.  As if she had to say it because Remus was too dumb to realize or not brave enough to do anything, anyways, so why not scream the truth?  That had to be why Sirius had been ignoring him, Remus decided; he had figured out Trinity wasn’t trying to ruin the friendship through a lie but by exposing a secret Remus had kept hidden for so long, she knew it was something Remus wanted to never say.

Though he officially went to Black Lake to “read,” if he was being truthful with himself, Remus left the dorm so he didn’t have to watch the door open, see Sirius almost walk through the door, then leave with a harsh slam echoing behind him; and, all he had done since arriving was come to the conclusion such actions taken by Sirius were due to the fact he figured out Remus had been dreaming of snogging him for an impossibly long time.

“Maybe this is why I haven’t even finished a page,” Remus muttered to himself.

“Too busy analyzing the placement of a comma?” a voice asked from behind him, one he knew so well it was impossible for Remus to not jump off of the bench and turn around to affirm the fantasy was true. That Sirius was there, talking to him again.  That he still wanted to.  

He wore a faded denim jacket and an unsure smile.  Even though the obnoxiously lazy perfection of his long hair and wittiness of his remark made his identity obvious, Remus was still blinking heavily, too shocked to truly believe Sirius had came up to him first.

Probably to turn me down, Remus thought to himself.  His heart jerked and he almost lost his balance.   

“You alright, Moony?” Sirius asked without a trace of mockery.  But Remus was too busy steadying himself by putting his hand on the backrest of the bench to fully absorb the tenderness of Sirius’ tone.

“Yeah… I, uh…”–Remus peered up at Sirius, who was still smiling with forced gentleness– “I’m just fine.”  He smoothed down his shirt with the heels of his hands before daring to look at Sirius again.  “And you?”

Suddenly, Sirius’ focus shifted; his eyes were everywhere.  “I’m, uh, alright.  I guess.”

“That’s good,” Remus nodded.  He allowed his focus to drift, as well, forgetting how overwhelming it could be to stare at Sirius, allowing himself that break.

It only lasted until Sirius spoke again.  “I was wondering if it would be alright if I joined you,” he more asked than offered, uncharacteristic uncertainty apparent not only in his voice but the way he looked at Remus, like it was taking all of the energy in his body to do so.

“Yeah… sure.”

A small smile melted onto Sirius’ face, one that Remus’ heart ached to make that into something more.  He resisted the urge by turning his back to Sirius and returning to his previous position: sitting on the bench, staring out into the clear waters of Black Lake, watching winds ripple water and rustle tree branches.

“I think this lake is named after some distant relative of mine,” Sirius mentioned.  If they were in any other situation, Remus would have mockingly pointed out the fact that, almost every time they went to Black Lake, Sirius said that.  But Remus was too afraid of making Sirius run again, so shut his mouth and merely nodded in response.

But that didn’t seem to work; Sirius chuckled, almost nervously, and said, “I guess I’ve mentioned that before.”  Remus turned his focus from the water to Sirius; he was leaning his elbows atop his parted knees, head tilted down towards the grass at his feet.  

“It’s still cool,” Remus assured him.  “There’s nothing at Hogwarts named after anyone remotely related to me.  If there was, I’d probably mention it a ton, too.”

Sirius snapped his head up to look at Remus in the eyes.  His were dark and cold.  “I’m not trying to brag.”  

“I know—that’s not what I meant.”

Automatically, Sirius’ gaze softened before it turned away once more.  “Sorry.  I’ve been kind of, you know…”—Sirius brought his hands in front of his tipped-down head, shaking them vigorously to assist in brainstorming the word—“… wound up lately.  For the past few days, really.”

“Oh.”  It wasn’t a spectacular response, but Remus was using too much of his energy to not take what Sirius said too personally, to not let it overtake him into an obvious blush.

Sirius’ reply was also simple: a small nod, still looking at the ground.  For a minute, the only sound between them was the gentle breeze and Remus had to restrain himself from watching it blow Sirius’ hair back.

Then, so quietly it was almost indistinguishable from the whistles of wind, Sirius spoke.  “I’m sorry about the other night.  All of the things Trinity said about you—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Remus cut off.  “I’ve heard much worse about myself, trust me.”  Then, he laughed, partially because it was a sardonic truth, but also to hopefully distract his heart from pounding wildly, concerned that “all the things Trinity said” included her declaration of Sirius’ love for Remus.  What that would mean.

Sirius turned to Remus wearing a pained expression: eyebrows furrowed, lips a straight line before they parted to respond.  “Don’t say that.”  His solemness countered Remus’ forced joviality perfectly.

“Come on, I’m joking.”  

Remus might have swatted Sirius on the arm playfully then, if Sirius didn’t look as upset as he did and Remus wasn’t perfectly certain he’d combust at the slightest of physical contact between the two of them.

“Well, it’s not a good joke,” Sirius pouted while crossing his arms over his chest, turning away from Remus.  “It makes fun of you.”

“Pads, you literally tease me more than anyone else.”

Sirius’ pout was so strong, Remus could hear it as he argued, “That’s different.”

Now, more interested in the light argument that almost made it feel as though they had their friendship back, Remus shifted his position on the bench so his body was facing Sirius’ more fully.  Whereas Sirius’ body was square to the lake which outstretched in front of them, with a torso slightly hunched over and elbows resting on his thighs, Remus’ body was angled to face Sirisu’ with his left arm draping over the backrest and right leg crossed over his left to allow himself to hold the position comfortably.  After adjusting his position, letting his head fall down in questioning, Remus asked with all of the playfulness he could muster, “and why is it different, Sirius?”

“Because I love you.”

Remus’ head was spinning suddenly and he could barely process the fact Sirius’ face was now turned to him, eyes holding the most helpless look.  If it weren't for the fact Remus was absolutely sure he was dreaming, he might have leaned in and kissed Sirius right then.  Instead, he shook his head rapidly, trying to wake himself up, too shocked to realize he was mumbling Sirius’ name all the while.

“That’s what I came here to say,” Sirius continued, somehow still coherent despite being visibly terrified (it was his shaking hands that gave him away).  “Trinity wasn’t lying.  That’s why I didn’t sleep with her—that’s why I haven’t been sleeping with anyone, honestly.”

“Sirius—”

“I just… I just thought you deserved to hear it from me, too.  Not just Trinity.”

Remus’ throat was far too dry to say Sirius’ name in more than a whisper in the first attempt, so he had to clear his throat before repeating, and more clearly this time, “Sirius.”

But it didn’t pull his focus enough: yes, Sirius had stopped speaking, but instead placed his head in his hands, exhaling heavily through the space between them.  “I knew it wouldn’t end well,” he spoke more to the ground than to Remus.  “But I was hoping that it would at least be me that got to say… got to admit my feelings for you.  Even if it’s useless.”  He raised his face to chuckle then, the sound full of darkness.  “And look!  It is!  I’m telling you this, and you’re not even free—”  

Suddenly, the tone shifted.  Sirius ceased speaking altogether, intead jumping from his seat with a jold that made him seem like he was struck with lightning.  

“Fuck!” he yelled before his feet even hit the ground.  He turned his face to Remus, expression adorned with equal panic to his words.  “I forgot about you and James.  When I walked over, I didn’t even consider… I’m not trying to get in the middle of things, I swear.  I’m happy for you two—”

“SIRIUS!”

Remus’ voice boomed across the too-large space between them, rattling Sirius and making Remus regret his volume immediately.  In the aftermath, Remus saw something occur that he had never witnessed before: Sirius began caving into himself, as if attempting to find a safehouse in his spine.  As he responded, his voice was unusually hushed and timid.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius whimpered.  “I just needed you to know.  I’m so sorry.”

And before his voice had even faded from the air, Sirius had began fleeing the scene, black boots digging into the rich and damp soil surrounding Black Lake.  Automatically, Remus sprang to his feet, shouting for Sirius to stop—which Sirius thoroughly ignored—while running after him.  As Remus watched Sirius sprint up the hill, he noticed Sirius’ arms pumping behind himself so sped up, outstretched his hand, and caught Sirius’ wrist in a tight fist.  The sudden pull caused Sirius to stumble down the hill slightly; luckily, his torso turned towards Remus, allowing him to clutch Sirius’ other wrist and stabilize him so they were left hand-in-hand, bodies close enough to hear one another panting from the run and the proximity.  Closely enough Remus could see the shadows from leaves dancing on Sirius’ cheeks.  

His eyes followed the trails of them down to Sirius’ quivering lips, considering them momentarily, before flicking his gaze back up into Sirius’ eyes.

“Sirius,” Remus breathed, letting his eyes close and his head dip down.  He breathed deeply, squeezing Sirius’ palm and wrist during the inhale and loosening his grip on the exhale.  When he glanced back up, Sirius’ mouth was twitching, as if he was about to say something, but Remus interrupted by pressing his lips on Sirius’.

With a gasp Sirius opened his mouth and Remus felt his body sink into itself, felt his lungs cease in contracting and his skin crackle as though fire was lit atop it.  His entire world was Sirius’ mouth, how it parted so easily and tasted like black coffee and made the most breathtaking whimper when Remus’ tongue first entered.  His entire world was Sirius’ mouth and nothing else mattered.

After one more squeeze of his palm against Sirius’, Remus began sliding his left hand up Sirius’ body to cup his cheek.  But Sirius must have been looking for an escape from the embrace; the moment Remus released his grasp, Sirius took advantage of the freedom and successfully yanked his left arm from the grasp of Remus’ right hand.

“What the hell, Remus?” he screamed, rubbing his wrist where Remus’ fingers had laid as if they left some sort of burn mark.  His eyes were wide and so full of rage, rendering Remus unable to do anything execpt freeze in place. “What, you’re just gonna kiss me because I’m sad and alone while James is mad for you?  I’m telling you, I’m not trying to break you up!  So don’t kiss me just to make me feel less pathetic.”

Remus attempted to reach out to Sirius, but every effort was sidestepped, leaving Remus a rambling mess.  “Sirius, no, that’s not—”

“Don’t,”—Sirius’ voice was quieter there as he leaned in to Remus, pointing squarely at his chest with every word—“Patronize.  Me.”  And, then, with similarly terrifying composure, Sirius turned to leave once more.  When Remus reached out, Sirius already anticipated the attempt, so dodged without even having to look back.  So he kept doing so, and desperately, missing every time or having the few successful attempts at contact being flung off by Sirius smoothly.  

“Goddamnit,”—hand swinging out— “Sirius”—fingers brushing against Sirius’ elbow— “Why won’t you,”—clutching it— “turn around,”—elbow being jerked away— “I need to talk to you so please turn around—”

“WHAT?”

Sirius spat the question out while finally facing Remus.  His entire face was hard edges and lines from anger; the only softness Remus spotted had to be in his eyes, as, even though they were blaring with rage, tears were forming at the base of them which threatened to fall at any moment.  Slowly, Remus felt his own face drop, the realization that overt sadness was probably the thing keeping Sirius from turning around destroying him; Sirius was either too proud or too embarrassed to admit how upset he was at the supposed rejection.  That anguish he felt as a response of Sirius’ pain, the fluster he was overcome with as a response, the worry that at any moment Sirius would turn to leave once more if he wasn’t given a reason to stay, all combined to make Remus incapable of saying anything except the most absolute of truths.

Still staring deeply at that broken expression he prayed he could fix, Remus let the words fall from his mouth that he had spent the last seven years swallowing up, never allowing to break free: “I’m in love with you, Sirius.”

Sirius backed away as if he was afraid of the words, yet his own face was still full of a fury terrifyingly strong.  “You’re lying,” he snapped back.  “You and James—”

“Were pretending.”  Remus’ voice was louder than he meant it to be, and the moment he noticed Sirius’ wince, the moment he looked with intensified care at Sirius’ face and realized those tears had finally been released onto his cheeks, Remus sucked in a breath to calm his voice, taking a languid step towards Sirius.  “I know it’s totally fucked, but I didn’t,”—Remus took a breath here and switched his focus; looking at a crying Sirius for so long was beginning to demolish him completely—“I didn’t want to give you the chance to jump at any conclusions—any correct ones—because I was so afraid you wouldn’t feel the same and everything would be ruined.”  

“And, Merlin,” Remus continued, exhaling deeply and running his hands through his hair, “this is so goddamned fucked…so fucked I didn’t even tell James because he’d be mad at me for it and so fucked I barely admitted it to myself, but I wanted to make you jealous, too.  I was hoping seeing us together would make you jealous and I hate myself for it and I’m so, so sorry, Sirius.”

When Remus peered back up—his gaze had drifted downwards towards the grass without even realizing it—Sirius’ eyes, red and puffy yet still such a beautifully rich brown, were waiting for Remus’ to rise once again.  In the moment that followed, they simply considered one another: Sirius, face painted with tear streaks and the ghost of confusion and Remus, lungs panting and heart pounding from his thirty-second-old confession.  Remus’ lips quivered with the beginnings of another apology, explanation, admittance of guilt, but, out of nowhere and before he could speak once more, Sirius fell into him, wrapping his arms around Remus and pressing his chin in the space between Remus’ shoulder and neck.

Remus was too shocked to do anything except stand there stiffly and absorb the impact.

Even his hands, those scarred palms that knew nothing except the desire to touch Sirius for the past six years, to hold him in exactly the same way Sirius was inviting him to with exactly the same intention, hung in the air with stupid motionlessness, until Sirius jaw moved against Remus’ chest in a gentle whisper.

“I forgive you.”  It was so soft in tone yet firm in intention that Remus’ knees automatically weakened underneath himself.  Maybe it was to steady himself, maybe it was because he craved touch desperately—regardless of the reason but due to it, Remus finally let his arms press into Sirius’ back and the embrace was reciprocated.

He caught a whiff of Sirius’ hair.  It smelled like coconut and vanilla and everything he wanted to run his fingers through.

And Remus was almost going to before Sirius began speaking once more, interrupting the movement.  Sirius’ tone was unusually soft again and Remus could almost feel his warm breath on his skin, sinking through layers of sweater and t-shirt.  “I had all the same fears,” Sirius admitted.   “I never thought I’d hear you say that you love me.  Or anything even close.  I thought my feelings would be the end of everything.”  

“Sirius,” Remus repeated, a subtle whisper dripping with tenderness.

He didn’t intend for Sirius to look up in response but he did, pulling himself out of Remus’ embrace slightly as a result.  Sirius’ eyes met Remus’ and they seemed as though they were waiting for something more—most likely for Remus to finish his sentence—but Remus hadn’t even meant to begin speaking in the first place.  He wasn’t sure anything he could say could even get close to the rawness of Sirius’ confession or could express, in any sort of accuracy, how much he loved Sirius.  How, somehow, that affection had multiplied to impossible amounts from those four sentences alone.

Remus’ heart was rapidly booming inside of his chest; Sirius was so close and was his if he wanted and he did want him.  Carefully, Remus lifted one of his arms off of Sirius’ back and moved it slightly, allowing his thumb to swipe alongside Sirius’ cheek where the trial of a teardrop still remained, wet and glistening.  Afterwards, he let his palm rest alongside Sirius’ jawline, stroking the skin there slowly and softly.  When Sirius leaned into the contact, Remus almost melted entirely.

And he almost resisted the urge to do so, but Remus quickly remembered he no longer had to pretend to be impartial, so let his body shiver and his eyes wander around the marvel that was Sirius’ face.  Sharp cheekbones, brown eyes, long and dark lashes, plump lips.  That’s where Remus’ focus kept averting to: Sirius’ lips, in the desire to kiss them.  A dream suddenly able to be realized.

All of this felt like a dream, if Remus was being honest with himself.

Maybe to test his luck but definitely because he wanted to, and had wanted to since the moment they met and would until the moment he died, he knew, Remus asked, “Is it alright if I kiss you?”

Sirius blushed as he nodded and Remus almost stopped breathing at the cuteness of it.  

But, Remus leaned down to Sirius, his right hand staying on Sirius’ face and his other trailing up Sirius’ spine to cup the nape of his neck, and pressed their lips together.  Once again, Sirius opened his mouth rather quickly, but Remus went slowly this time.  This kiss wasn’t something he was taking: it was something he was giving, an action to be perceived as an apology and a note of thanks and confession of love all at once.

So Remus savored the taste of Sirius’ lips, took his time guiding his tongue between Sirius’ kips, guiding Sirius’ head to tilt with a gentle coax, never a pull or grip.  Their lips moved against one another’s with unpracticed perfection so, when he allowed the kiss to fully deepen, Remus let out a sigh down Sirius’ throat.

And he held on, too: Remus slid his fingers up into Sirius’ hair and skimmed his thumb along Sirius’ jawline once more and then cupped it because he was all Remus ever wanted and Remus was going to do whatever else he needed for however long was necessary to keep Sirius here, with him, just like he always dreamed of.

⬥  ⬥  ⬥  ⬥  ⬥  ⬥  ⬥  ⬥

KEEP READING: Part Ten “Are You Terrified of This?” 

⬥  ⬥  ⬥  ⬥  ⬥  ⬥  ⬥  ⬥ Taglist (let me know if you want to be added): @siriuslyimmoony @astertist @who-cares-unknown @neewtmas @theseuscmander @boring-viola @diggorysghost @gryffndor @finnofamerica @the-apple-princess @theboywhocriedlupin @sly-vixen-up2nogood @bluemadcnna @lonelyheart-jadedsoul @jamcspotters @siriusement @just-some-nerd @wzardings  @niffleurs @themarauderstheoutsidersandpeggy @cinnamonrollswithmoony @sarah-bearah 

[hookaroo]

Vocivore, Ltd. (10 of ?)

A OUAT WINTER WHUMP FIC

Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)

Tagging @ouatwinterwhump, @killian-whump, @cocohook38, and @killianjonesownsmyheart1 <3

***THE MOST WONDERFUL COVER ART BY COCOHOOK38 HERE!!!!!!! PLEASE take a look if you haven’t yet seen it! I’m still in awe and can’t fully express my undying gratitude for the time and skill it must have taken to make it!!!!!!!!***

4 weeks, 3 days ago...

David pushed his way the into the sheriff station, drenched, filthy, and barely able to hold his eyes open. A long, fruitless night spent in the woods had left him sore and in low spirits. Yet again, the bloodhounds had led them in circles the whole time, seemingly unable to pick up a clear trail, even at the site of kidnapping. It may have been too long by now, and last night's rain did not do them any favors. Still, despite his physical complaints, David would still be out there were it not for the strategy meeting planned for that afternoon. Maybe Emma and Regina had made progress figuring out a method to restore their magic; David prayed that was the case. A locator spell would be invaluable right about now.

He appeared to be the first one to have arrived at the station, apart from Killian and Emma. He could hear their quiet voices emanating from their shared office as he peeled off his drenched raincoat. Though he could not make out any words, the conversation sounded civil, at least; a welcome change from the tension on display for the past several days. Probably not due to a breakthrough, or they would have contacted the overnight search party. But perhaps they had some small reason for renewed optimism.

When David rounded the corner, he caught a glimpse of the inflamed row of sutures in Killian's side just before Emma smoothed a non-stick pad over the wound. His son-in-law was leaning against a desk, shirt open, with bandage supplies nearby. As Killian reached down to hold the dressing in place, he muttered something unintelligible to Emma, who was winding a linen strip around his torso. With an audible scoff, she tightened the bandage with perhaps a bit more force than was strictly necessary, her reply to him loud in the enclosed space.

"Don't be an idiot." She twisted the ends into a knot and jerked it tight. Killian glanced at David, his expression bleak with just a hint of bitterness. Then he returned his attention to his wife, who chose to ignore the footsteps behind her.

“Swan…”

“No. Just... No.”

David cleared his throat and Emma finally turned, wearing an irritable scowl.

“Anything I can do?” offered her father. “A second opinion, maybe?”

“Nope,” Emma growled. “We're good.”

Gingerly buttoning his shirt, a sullen Killian allowed the matter to drop that that, though he obviously had much more to say on the subject. He looked just as beaten down and worn out as the rest of them, and David felt a stab of sympathy for what he must be putting himself through. The pirate kept his gaze downcast, concentrating on his task and asking,

“How did it go last night?”

David yearned to defy expectation, to give them something to be positive about. But all he could do was sigh and shake his head. “I'm really sorry, guys. No luck.”

Killian released a quiet breath, but Emma just nodded. David moved closer with the intention of drawing her into a comforting embrace. Emma, however, turned away, heading toward the main bullpen. More people were beginning to file into the building, murmuring among themselves like mourners gathered for a funeral.

Into the subdued silence that followed Emma’s departure, David gave voice to a groaning sigh as he tried to work the soreness from his neck and shoulders. He noted Killian struggling to finish the buttons, a sure sign of his equal exhaustion.

“We cannot thank you enough for your efforts in the search,” said the deputy in a somber tone. “But no one reasonably expects you to continue working yourself to the bone--”

“I have to,” David interrupted, and Killian looked up then. “I’m… I’m her grandpa…”

Killian simply stared, at a loss for words. A flash of devastation crossed his face when he noticed threatening tears in his father-in-law’s eyes. For a moment, he appeared on the verge of saying something, but then he looked away, nodded once, and returned to his fidgeting. David cleared his throat and added,

“You’d be out there too, if you could. No one doubts that.”

Killian would not meet his gaze, mumbling,

“Aye, I would.”

David glanced out at the main office, where friends and family were gathered. Emma stood slightly apart from them all, hardly acknowledging anyone unless directly addressed. Even from a room away, David could see clear signs of stress in his daughter. Not that he would expect anything else, but it still hurt to see what a toll the terrible situation was taking.

“Are… you guys--”

“We’re fine,” Killian snapped, way too quickly, and David turned back with a grimace.

“No, what I meant was… when was the last time either of you slept?”

Killian shoved the final button--fifth from the top--through its hole. “I’ve managed some, courtesy of the painkillers. As for Emma…” His eyes darted heavenward, and David wasn’t sure if he was trying to recall or simply seeking divine strength. “I couldn’t even begin to tell you, mate.”

96 hours. And counting.

Any advice that David could think of--empty words like “take care of your spouse” and “lean on each other for strength”--would only sound flippant and cold at present, so he was slightly relieved when Detective Jones approached and said,

“We’re about ready to begin, when you are.”

Killian pushed himself up off the tabletop, the grim set of his jaw more appropriate for facing a firing squad than his wife of several years. And despite David’s personal history and trust in the concept, he could not help wondering if even True Love would be enough to salvage their marriage, should the unthinkable be the final outcome.

AN: Apologies for the delay! This probably should have been combined with the last chapter, but I only just decided to include it. However, I should be back to twice weekly updates now *fingers crossed*

[chezzkaa]

Numb pt 14

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Lumberjack AU Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader WC: 2800+

FLUFFY AF. Also angsty. Warnings for death and the likes. Thanks to @trevorcollumns for being here in person to nag me to start posting shit. I’m going to try and schedule everything weekly. October will hopefully be a productive period for Numb writing. 

Date posted: 30 Sept 2018

By the time you’re preparing for the long journey to the airport to collect your lodgemates Trevor and Alfredo, 2 more weeks have already passed.

In the snowy mountains nothing seems affected by time. A world trapped in a white shock of stagnancy. Not that you mind - having rather enjoyed the small pocket of domestic life you’ve found yourself in. The calendar in the kitchen is littered with small blue stars that mark off every storm, every few days seeing another blotch on the corner of a date. There hadn’t been many recently, with everyone in town commenting on the expected silence that comes just before the worst of winter. The world was simply giving Motbury a few days to bunker down before the weather well and truly hits. Sure, snow had fallen, but the wind hadn’t howled.

Still, the date on the calendar stares at you, their names scrawled across the small square. The smile stretching across your face at the thought of having your home filled again follows you out the front door and into the crisp morning, dancing with the sunrays that accompany the well traversed path to Hay Woodworks. The banks smaller than usual and almost free of snow, green grass struggling towards the light.

You’re at the shop every day that Ryan will let you, which is practically whenever you’d like. Each time he greets you with a beam so bright it’s blinding, arms holding you against him in a tight and warm embrace that you never want to leave. Today is no different. He waits for you on the front steps, smile so wide that you can see it as soon as the building comes into view. He’s always there now. Waiting with a cup in one hand and knife in the other, small hunk of wood stable on his knees. A blotch of colour against the crystal white brought in by the occasional heavy night of snow. Every day you wonder just how many plaid shirts he owns.

“Hey there,” Ryan greets, placing his tools down and standing with a groan, “you look happy this morning.”

“Hey,” you smile into his shoulder, slipping comfortably into his arms. As his hand comes to rest on the small of your back, you suppress the urge to sigh. “Am I not allowed to look happy?”

He laughs, the chuckle an easy rumble against the ear pressed to his chest. His other arm winds around you, the cup coming into view. “No one’s this happy in the morning. It’s suspicious.”

You don’t respond, eyes locked on the drink. “Is that cup of tea for me?”

“Maybe,” he toys, letting you go and bringing the cup to his lips. “But maybe I made it for me.”

“Nice try, asshole.” You snatch it away before he can take a sip, grinning and hurriedly disappearing into the shop. “You don’t even like tea.”

“You get back here young lady!”

“No!”

“Y/N!”

You can't help the giggles, joy tumbling from your lips and threatening to trip you with every object and corner you veer around. Not chancing a look back for fear of falling, you abandon the cup where you can, the heavy foot falls still rushing after you. The back room is in sight, an unspoken safe zone that you power towards with more speed than you've mustered in years. It catches him off guard, but a dark chuckle that sends shivers up your back is all you hear before the ground disappears from beneath you.

With your arms crushed to your side, your struggles do absolutely nothing against Ryan's hold. His laugh is warm beside your ear, tickling hairs and sending shots of electricity across your skin while he carries you the rest of the way. “C'mon Ryan,” you wheeze, “this is cheating!”

“This is being?”

He’s smirking, and you can feel it burning into your back as you wriggle.  Your hands can’t find purchase, and every time you think you’ve broken the hold his arms hug you tighter. “This is you using your glorious lumberjack arms to keep me from running rampant.”

“Glorious?” He turns the word over, wandering towards the back room and shifting through the sawdust.

“Rampant,” you repeat over the uncomfortable blush making your flirtatious joke a little more honest than you're willing to admit, the smell of wood filling your lungs. “Rampant through the streets!”

He’s not letting it go, tone more nervous than teasing. “Did you just call your boss glorious?”

"Ryan," you huff, ignoring the flip of your stomach as he draws to a stop and still doesn’t put you down, “You're missing the point. You're clearly cheating and withholding me from my true potential.”

“With my lumberjack arms?”

“Yes.”

“That you think are glorious.”

“What? Y-yes? I guess, but that isn’t important.”

The floor is a shock against your soles, so sudden that your knees bend. Ryan’s languishing in your comment, eyes searching your face once you’re able to look up at him. Though his grip loosens, you don’t step away, lost in the blue lakes that trace across your expression. A breathy laugh sees the corner of his lips quirk upward, but only slightly. “That’s a little inappropriate for the workplace,” he murmurs. His hands have moved to your waist, palms radiating a heat that works its way into the pit of your stomach. “Don’t you think?”

You can’t help leaning into him, palms coming to rest lightly against his chest. His heart thumps in your hands. “Oh no,” you breathe, “you’re not going to report me to head office, are you?”

“I am head office,” he reminds around a thick smile, looking down at you through long lashes. He’s getting closer, forehead inches from perching against yours. You take a step forward, having to rise up on your tiptoes to get your bodies flush together. He closes the gap. “But I’m certain we can come to some kind of disciplinary arrangement.”

“I really hope so,” you manage, hands gliding up his torso and looping behind his neck. “Because I really do love my job.”

“We’re very lucky to have you on the team.”

“You bet your ass you are.”

The words barely get past your lips before Ryan’s pressing his against them, soft and warm. You melt instantly, and at the touch of his thumb against your jaw you’re completely smitten. Your fingers wind a little too roughly into his hair, but rather than a yelp you receive a moan that has your skin tingling. His tongue meets yours enthusiastically, deepening the kiss until you’re both breathing around each other, caught in the moment and surrounded in saw dust.

At first you don’t hear it, but eventually the steady demand of your phone sees you breaking reluctantly away. Smiling apologetically, you quickly slip from his arms, body stinging in the newfound cold as you check the screen. Your stomach drops. Any fire that had been roaring quickly extinguished with the name. Casting a glance back to Ryan, who looks rather unravelled while he busies himself with something, anything, to hide the blush adorning his cheeks, you collect your stuff.

“I’m sorry Rybread, I’ve gotta go.”

“What?” The question is short. Like a pop of surprise as he turns completely to watch you leave. “Are you alright? Did I overstep a boundary-”

“Don’t worry about it,” you call, breaking into a jog and exiting the building before he can ask anything else. “I’ll call you tomorrow!”

-

The station is quiet, building mourning and sorrow slipping through the halls. The stairs have never been so difficult. Each step sees your knees beg to lock or buckle. A palm pushes open the door, and Michael’s grim expression greets the knots in your stomach. He isn’t behind the reception this time, instead leaning against the desk with his arms folded. He’s shaken. Eyes lined red and nose a delicate pink.

You find your voice, but it’s alien in the abandoned cold room. “How long ago did you find the body?”

“A few hours ago,” Michael replies, standing up and coming to stand in front of you. Your feet have rooted themselves to the carpet. He places a careful hand on your shoulder, urging you on. “If that. We haven’t told the family yet. Jeremy wanted to have the coroner check it all out before we went to the parents. And, well…”

“He wanted me to see her, too.”

“Pretty much.” he sighs, a noisy exhale that rattles across the floor. “C’mon, she’s in the back.”

-

“We took a while to dig her up.”

“We’re lucky the snow acted to preserve her,” you reply, looking across the pale, bloated body and toward the man opposite. Jeremy doesn’t meet your gaze, too busy burying himself in his notes. “2 weeks is long enough for a body to degrade past recognition. We’ve really caught a break.”

“Have we?” His tone is a little sharper than you’re used too, but you don’t rise to the challenge you know isn’t there. Jeremy seems to realise his mistake, mumbling an apology in between excuses of exhaustion. “Just, it’s been a rough day.”

“No worries.” You draw closer, hands clammy in the gloves. “We better get started, then.”

“Yup.” He finally puts his files down, looking to the small girl between you two. His grimace is obvious, as are the pangs of sadness playing through his chest. “Okay. So. This is Laura, the one I came to you about a few weeks ago.”

“Where did you find her?”

“Behind your house. Near… hold on.” He checks the papers on the table. “Found in the same vicinity of victims 1, 2 and 4. She was buried pretty deep under a snow bank. But with the storms subsiding for the moment she was easier to find.”

“Okay, so at least we’ve got a pattern. 7, 1, 2 and 4 have been found in the same place, and 3, 5 and 6 are also grouped together. Weird selection of numbers, but at least it’s something to work with. Number 8 will most likely be found with the second grouping? Looks like the killer is a creature of habit, after all.”

He doesn’t look up. “If there’s a number 8.”

You don’t acknowledge the comment. “No sign of the skull, I’m guessing?”

“None.”

“And was she found in the same position as the others? Curled up on her side?” You’re taking the body between your gloved fingers, folding over her hand and peering at her palms.

“Yeah.”

“She didn’t put up a fight.”

This surprises him enough to look at you, eyebrows pulling together. “What makes you say that?”

“Her hands.” You check the other one and it’s as smooth as the first. “There’s no signs of resistance, and nothing under her fingernails.”

“What are these then?” He peers closer, finger tracing shallow grazes adorning her fingers.

You place her hands down, removing a glove and shoving your palm under Jeremy’s watchful eye. “They’re the same as mine. Small grazes from working with material I reckon. Look. Mine are a few days old, too. When the report gets back I’m certain we’ll find that she got them playing with sticks in the backyard. Or...” Your try not to gulp too loudly. “Or at the community garden. I think I remember seeing her there a few times, but I wasn’t around often enough.” You put a fresh glove on. “Besides, fighting against whatever left these gashes would do far more damage than what she’s got.”

“No, no that makes sense.” Jeremy is pacing, circling his side of the medical table with a pen thoughtfully resting against his chin. “Okay, so let’s run with the idea of her not fighting the attacker.”

“Do we know what killed her?”

“No,” he replies hollowly, “we can’t tell for sure without the head. Could be blunt force trauma, or it could be some of the wounds across her torso. That doesn’t really seem possible, though. They likely occurred post death, due to the slow blood flow and lack of struggle or tearing.”

Taking in the large gashes lacing her tiny body, you’re surprised she’s still holding together. Against your better judgement, you get closer, examining the wounds as best you can. Though excessive, they don’t appear very deep. Instead they’re long slashes, as though they were made with quick, repetitive movements. Tracing the line of one that resides against her ribcage, the blackened, curled skin remains hard beneath your touch. “What explanation do we have for the burns?”

“Frost bite,” is his only response. Glancing up, he reluctantly gives in. “Yeah, it doesn’t make sense. The lacerations aren’t swollen, and if it were frostbite the whole area would be black.”

“I see what you mean,” you murmur, voice growing stronger with the next breath. “What did the others die of? The earlier ones, I mean. Didn’t number 1 and 2 have trauma to the skulls, and an attempted removal?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly, returning to the files and flicking through them. “Yeah, they did. They had lacerations on the back on the head.”

“Help me roll her over.”

“What?” He looks sick, paling with your request.

“You heard me. Come here and help me roll her on to her front.”

“We can just look at the pictures-”

“Jeremy.” Reluctantly he takes up a position, helping you ease her over. It’s not difficult, her weight barely anything, but she’s delicate. Like her skin will peel away as soon as you retract your hands. Once completed he stands back, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “J, are you alright?”

He nods stiffly, jaw setting and hands balling into fists. “Why did we turn her over?”

“I want to check something.” You lean in again, this time getting close enough for the subtle smell of damp rotting and spoiled egg to invade your nose. It doesn’t bother you, not once you find what you’re looking for. “It’s the same method.”

“What are you talking about?” He’s interested now, weak stomach settling with his peaking curiosity. Jeremy peers at where you point, taking in the small dip in the back of the body’s neck. Barely noticeable, it looks like a small tear that extends further than any of the other rips around the severing point.  

“See?” You follow the line with a finger, movement too straight to be an unintentional result. “It looks like the incision point on the first 2. Hand me their files? - Yes! Here, look. It’s the same line and it extends to the same area. Do the others have this line, too?”

Jeremy rushes through their case files, locating their photos and lining them up beside the body. “Holy fuck, Y/N,” he practically chokes, a mixture of hope and distress clogging his throat. “You’re right. That means that, if this was the same guy, he’s been killing them the same way every time.”

“Killers don’t stray from their style, simply for comfort and confidence sake,” you respond, smiling despite yourself. “Would it be safe to say that all of the victims could have been killed by blunt force trauma before their skulls were removed? Even if we don’t have some of the skulls?”

“Yes! It explains the incision, and the fact number 7 didn’t fight back. A bludgeon would kill a child instantly with enough force.”

“Especially from behind like the pictures suggest.”

You’re both grinning, the macabre situation not putting a damper on your excitement for a new lead. Jeremy’s scribbling on a pad in an instant, grip on the pen turning his knuckles white.

Shaking yourself free from the moment, a few close up photos are taken on your phone, red lines circling the locations of interest. “Does the lab have any ideas on the murder weapon?”

At this his face falls, chest deflating. “No, the wounds were too messy, especially with the attempted removal of the skull. It’s shifted too much around. All they can tell is that it's a heavy and relatively wide object. Sharp maybe? Does more bludgeoning damage than anything.”

“Have they tried looking at the livestock?” Jeremy’s eyes go wide at your suggestion, and you can almost see him vibrating. “If we’ve still got some of their skulls around we could match the fracture patterns to specific objects.”

“You are a fucking genius. If we can figure it out, we might be able to trace the murder weapon! I’ll have to check with evidence, but I’m certain we’ll have some of the sheep skulls lying around, same with the fragments.”

“And once we know what weapon we’re looking for we can find out who has access to it. You know, I have a sneaking suspicion that the victims know who it was so if we focus locally we might have more luck.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Look at how they’re all lying. They weren't arranged like that, the reports tell us that much. What with the blood found at the scenes, and concentration of lacerations on specific sides. They were comfortable enough to curl in the snow with whoever it was that killed them.”

[astoldbyacertifiedunicorn]

Lighter Strokes

I haven't written in a while I know (🙈) but I promise I'll write more after next week! Anyway, this story was never gonna get published until @japril12 and @japrilgreys read it and liked it and thought I should publish it. 🙈 Thank you, you two 💛 If you've watched The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2, the inspiration will be obvious. If not, just watch Jesse's scenes in it on YouTube, you will not regret it 😏 xxx "You should take an elective." She turns to her roommate, who's sitting on her bed, legs drawn under her, flipping through an old edition of Vogue. She's a short, pixie haired girl, who may come across as tiny and non threatening, however was anything but. April didn't mind at all. Reed was lovely to her, and she warded off any unwanted male attention from April with one glance towards the frat boys. "I'm a med student, I don't need an elective. I already have enough and more work. You just want me to take an art class with you." April plops herself down next to her friend, and falls back on the bed, her feet dangling in front of her. "True," Reed nods, "But I also think you'll really enjoy it. It'll be different, refreshing." April sits up a little, leaning back on her forearms, "You just want to brownie points with Mr.Gavin." "Nadeen," Reed, corrects her, "We're on a first name basis." "He's your teacher!" April exclaims. "He's my very attractive, really sexy, painter teacher, yes," Reed sighs, a wistful look in her eyes, "Oh come on! This is college, not high school. I'm allowed." "It's still weird." April says, rolling her eyes. "Whatever," Reed replies, turning her body to face her friend, "If I bring you in, it'll make me look good. Like in recruiting people for his class." April groans at her plan, knowing full well that once Reed make s up her mind on something, she wasn't letting it go. "I'm not getting out of this one, am I? "Nope! I already signed you up." She smirks, and quickly jumps away from April's vicinity when the red head throws a magazine toward her. "Gotta go, bye, love you." Reed sprints out of the door, leaving behind a slightly frustrated April. Her classes have been tough, and she's always been a massive nerd, but even she's willing to admit medical school wasn't easy in the slightest. Top it all off, she already misses her best friend Amy, and even her ex boyfriend, Bright. They've begun to get on better terms since their break up, and she really wishes they were here. Maybe, this art class will be good for her. She's always loved to paint, and she'll probably drop it after about two classes. She only intends to stay long enough to appease Reed. She walks with Reed to class the next day, and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't a little excited. It would be a great break from all the endless array of strange information about the human body. She needs a break, and Reed was right, this just might be the perfect way. She walks into the classroom, white walls, covered here and there with paintings, and sketches. In the middle there was a small, round podium, surrounded by easels placed next to one another. She took a seat on one next to Reed's and places her bag on the floor. "Morning, class, settle down," Mr.Gavin begins, walking to the front of the class, motioning everyone to take their seats, "So, as I promised last week, we'll be starting figure art. This is a very difficult skill, and only a few of you will be able to perfect it. Nevertheless, I'd like to see you all try. Draw as much as you can of the nude model in today's class. Don't rush it. This will be your lesson for the rest of the month." April's eyes widen, and she takes a minute to understand if she's heard him clearly. She whips her neck in Reed's direction, and she sees her enraptured with their teacher. "Reed! Reed!" She hisses, and finally the her friend glances her way, a little pissed off from being distracted. "What?!" "What does he mean, nude drawings?!" "Oh, I think it slipped my mind. This month we're drawing naked portraits?" "Of who?!" April is more than a little furious that this, very intentionally, slipped her friend's mind. "I don't know, this model Nadeen is bringing in. He's a student from another faculty, I think. I mean, Nadeen should've just done the job himself, I certainly wouldn't be compla-" "REED!" She says, a little louder than she expects, which earns her a narrowed eyed look from her professor, who clearly wasn't a fan of being interrupted. "Shut up, I'm concentrating." Reed says, waving her off with her hands. "Reed, the model is going to be naked! I'm going to see a naked model! Reed.... Reed!" April looks around the room for a second, mildly contemplating whether or not to make a run for it. "Oh.... wait, is this the first guy you're going to-" "Yes!" "Oh," Reed actually manages to look genuinely abashed, "You're going to kill me aren't you?" "The moment this is over." Mr.Gavin clasp, getting their attention, and the bickering is put to an end, "So, I'm going to bring in our model. Jackson, come in." For a second April forgets that she's about to see this man stark naked. He is beautiful. That's the only word she can think of. Handsome doesn't do him justice. She didn't think people that looked like him were real. But there he was, in all his dark skinned, perfectly crafted cheekbone, mess of thick black curl, glory. It takes her a second to remind to herself to tear her eyes off of him, and blush deeply when she realsies he's seen her gawking. "I wish he was the first guy I saw naked." Reed whispers next to her, and she feels the compulsive need to smack her. He gets up in the podium, and April takes a second to wonder how he's so perfectly calm considering he's about to strip naked in front of a group of total strangers. Probably helps to look like that, she guesses. He steps up, and she realises how incredibly tall he is. She glances up, and notices how his eyes have focused on her, almost permanently. He's not breaking eye contact, and when her eyes focus on his, he lightly smirks at her. She coughs quietly, and quickly looks away, forcing her eyes on the blank canvas. The strategy lasts for a whole of 5 seconds, as she steals a quick glance, trying to be as discreet as possible towards him. He's removing his shirt, and she realizes that when she thought he was perfect before, he's even more perfect now. Her eyes dart over his long, chiseled torso. Her eyes roam down his body, and her eyes stop at the trail of thin hair leading down to..... Her eyes avert from his pants, that he's in the process of tugging down. She has nowhere to look, so she ends up glancing at his face once more, and sees him once more smirking at her. He looks cocky, but there's some teasing to his cockiness, as opposed to vanity. She has a feeling it's quite obvious that she's slightly overwhelmed by him. He takes his pants into his hands and tosses them gently away from the podium, and it lands on the floor. Around her she can hear the whole class come to life, pencils scratching lead against paper, rustling of sheets, while she stops and stares at the blank canvas, her pencil idling on the easel. "Oh my sweet-" Reed doesn't finish her sentence, but lets it hang in the air. April hasn't seen many naked men in her life, okay, so she hasn't any naked men in her life that weren't pictures or drawings for her coursework. Yet, she was pretty certain that Jackson was a little exceptional.... in more ways than one. It.... was perfect. It was also very hard not to stare fixatedly at.... it. It was quite... the proportion. Let's just say, it would take a a few more classes to draw.... fully, April thought. She gulps, nervously picking up the pencil, and then instantly drops it. She smiles apologetically at the class of frowning students who act as if she had made a massive commotion, and steadies her hand on the easel once more. She quietly clears her throat, and begins working, fervently focusing on the upper half of the body. Although, she'd be lying if she'd said that she didn't take the occasional glance down below. It was horrible of her, really. But more than the sexualisation of it, it was the utter curiosity. She was a 21 years old virgin, who lived in a house where the only reason sex came up was in a discussion about abstinence. She was curious, that's all. "Lighter strokes, Miss.Kepner. You're very tense. You need to relax you arm." Mr.Gavin says, suddenly appearing by her side. She smiles, and relaxes her grip, noticing how the paper is so indented that it's almost tearing at certain points. "Also, I want a full body sketch, Miss Kepner. Not just the torso." He tells her, and she blushes while she nods. She steals a quick look at Jackson, and notices that although he's not moved his head, there's a light grin playing on his face. He heard. After what seems like a lifetime, Mr.Gavin finally lets up the class. "Thank you, Jackson. Same time next week." Jackson nods, rezipping his pants, and he's back to staring at her once again. She looks down at her bag, intently concentrating on packing. She hears light chuckling near her, and when she finally manages to look up again, she's faced with his retreating figure. She quickly turns her body to face her friend, "Reed, I swear-" "Miss.Adamson, can I speak with you?" Mr.Gavin asks, the moment Reed opens her mouth to defend herself. "Oops, look at that, have to run. Bye!" She's practically hurtles towards Mr.Gavin. "Wha-" She throws the dirtiest look possible in Reed's direction, and walks out. She has a biochemistry class to get to, and she needs to concentrate on that now. Her experience in this class had been... interesting, to say the least. She walks into a crowded lecture hall, taking a seat somewhere in the middle rows. She takes out her books, and places them in the table, when she feels someone standing next to her. "Is this seat taken?" She takes a second to place the voice, she's heard only a few minutes ago, agreeing to return to Mr.Gavin's class next week. She takes a deep breath and turns around to face Jackson, standing infront of her, his bag slung lazily across his shoulder. He's smiling, but there's a glint in his eyes that reminds her that she's a little more acquainted with him than one would normally be with a stranger. "Um, sure. Sure you can." She finds her words, finally. He was a student, she remembered that. But she didn't really peg him for being in her class, doing her her degree. Exactly what she needed. "So, you know my name... among other things," He voice takes a playful tone, "But I don't know yours. I have a feeling you wouldn't want me to call you Miss.Kepner." She smiles, and faces him, and takes a moment to realize that up close, he's even more beautiful. "Um, Ap-April." "Okay, Ap-April. What exactly are you doing at an art elective?" "My roommate wanted to.... um.... she thought it would be nice to-" "She wanted to hit on Nadeen?" He laughs, and she looks at him a little shocked, before joining in, "How did you know?" "Because he's my friend and I know how he works," Jackson, rolls his eyes, "He's a good guy, but tell Reed not to get too involved." "I'll keep that in mind," She smiles at his thoughtfulness, "Is that why you... you, um-" "Stand in front a group of people completely naked for about an hour?" Her eyes widen at his forwardness, and she goes on to stutter out a response, but is slightly overwhelmed and she feels her cheeks burning up. She puts her hands on her face, willing herself to calm down. This was so embarrassing. "You are so cute." Jackson comments, and that does nothing to help her calm down. He called her cute. She never got called cute. Least of all by someone like him. "Um, I don't know how to respond to that." She admits. "You don't have to," He brings his thumb up to her face, and runs it across her still red cheek, "This is enough of a response." She wants to respond, but is cut off by their lecturer walking in. She spends the entire lesson trying her hardest to concentrate, but if she was being honest, that has become almost impossible. Him, sitting next to her, looking like that, being like that, charming, sweet and funny, she was a little distracted, to say the least. The class ends, and she gets up to walk off, wondering if she'd made this whole thing up in her head. "Um, Jackson, I was wondering if...." She turns to him, wanting to say something. She hadn't really made friends in college just yet, apart from Reed, and eventhough she would like more than anything for him to be more than her friend, she's trying to be realistic. "I'd like to take you out on a date? I'd love to." "Oh." "I mean, you've already seen me naked, you might as well buy me dinner." He tells her, walking away from her down the steps. She stands there, flashes of the morning coming back to her. "Okay." She says, running up to catch up with him. She tugs on her bag, and unconsciously pulls her skirt down. "Yeah?" He turns around, towers over her, and she feels things she hadn't felt before. "Mhmm." "Maybe that'll help you perfect the lighter strokes." He winks at her. She takes a minute to understand what he's insinuating. She gasps, and he laughs out loud, as she bursts into giggles herself. He's been teasing her a little bit too much the whole day, and they'd only just met. April figured she wouldn't mind giving him a taste of his own medicine. "Well, I look forward to it." She winks, and walks away from him, but not before she catches the slight shock on his face. Oh yes, her art elective was definitely interesting. xxx Thank you for reading!

[letthesleepingdoglie]

From Whence He Sprang - 09

Title: Never Left or Right

Part: 09 of 18

Rated: M

The Batcave

Gotham City

January 17th, 2012

17:24 EST

Team Year One

“You look like crap.” Artemis noted as she stepped off the open elevator platform that had brought her down into the Batcave.

Dick tore his gaze from the screen in front of him and turned to look over his shoulder at his friend. At least, he tried to. The movement was stiff and sluggish on account of the many bandages and stitches covering his exposed torso. It had taken Alfred the better part of an hour to patch up all the wounds that Dick had received from the fight last night, and the last thing that he wanted to do was tear all the meticulously stitched cuts open.

Now that the adrenaline from the events of last night had worn off, each and every one of the wounds he’d received ached and throbbed as he moved. The fight with the mysterious assassins had been so intense that he didn’t remember receiving half of them.

“You should see Bruce.” Dick grunted as he finally managed to complete his turn.

“Seriously?” Artemis asked, an expression of surprise on her face. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen the dark knight seriously injured. “What happened to you guys?”

Dick shrugged. “Assassins, sword fights, explosions. The usual.”

A cursory glance told him that she must have come straight from school; she was still wearing her hated Gotham Academy uniform.

“What brings you all the way out here?” He asked her, which was a valid question. Batman didn’t have a Zeta Tube installed in the cave, and Wayne Manor was a relatively long trip from her home in the East End.

It was Artemis’ turn to shrug. “You missed class. I was worried.”

Dick suppressed a small smirk, though he tried to hide it. Artemis always put on a tough front so that people wouldn’t see how vulnerable she truly was, but it was always endearing to see that she cared.

“Plus,” she continued, pulling a handful of papers from her backpack, “Barb wanted me to make sure you got your homework.”

Dick groaned, but took the papers from Artemis and flipped through them. It wouldn't take more than an hour to get through, but it would be tedious, and he had bigger fish to fry at the moment.

Artemis took advantage of Dick’s momentary distraction to glance at the screen that he'd been working on. A meaningless scroll of names, numbers and code flashed across the screen.  “What’re you working on?”

“A difficult case.” He put his homework to one side and hit a few keys on the bat-computer’s keyboard, bringing up the relevant files and images for Artemis to skim through.

“About two weeks ago, Batman and I met a kid named Jason Todd and sent him over to the Catherine Hershey school. Yesterday, we got word from Commissioner Gordon that he’d gone missing. We went to the school to see if we could find any leads on what happened to him and ended up being ambushed by a group of assassins working for something called the Court of Owls.”

He pointed up at the corner of the screen, where the image of a man with inverted eyes was displayed. “He was their leader. Called himself Shrike.”

Artemis frowned as she looked at the picture. “What’s the Court of Owls?”

“We have no clue.” Dick sighed in frustration. “The assassins blew themselves up when they realized that they were going to lose. We’ve been looking since the attack and haven’t found anything. Batman’s never heard of it, and I can’t find any references to it in anywhere.”

Artemis’ frown deepened. It was rare for Batman to have never heard of something. “Do you have any leads?”

“Not many.” Dick admitted. He gestured over to the side, where several items sat arranged on top of a high-tech scanning bed. The mask that Robin had removed from Shrike. The swords and throwing knives the assassins had dropped in their fight. Charred pieces of limbs and barely identifiable chunks of tissue.

“Most of the physical evidence was obliterated in the explosions. We’ve run their DNA through all the databases we could and come up with nothing. Their gear is also untraceable. We’re analyzing what’s left, but nothing yet. Batman’s back at the school, looking for anything we missed.” Dick sighed. “All we really know for certain is that the Court of Owls is good.”

He tapped at the keyboard again, bringing up a series of case files bearing the GCPD’s logo. “Look at this.”

Artemis moved so that she was standing next to Dick’s chair and peered at the display. Dozens of names and faces populated the screen, each identifying a child between the ages of 10 to 13. “What am I looking at?”

“GCPD missing persons reports. Specifically, children listed as missing from the Catherine Hershey School. Notice anything?”

Artemis frowned. Some of the kidnappings stretched back decades, with some going all the way back to the 70s, when the GCPD had started keeping track of missing kids. She realized what she was supposed to be looking for as she read the dates listed on the files.

“Like clockwork… One kid disappears every four years. Jason was just the latest.”

“Right.” Dick confirmed. “And those are just the disappearances that we have official records for. Unofficially, I managed to dig up reports of similar disappearances stretching all the way back to the school’s founding.”

“Why?” Artemis asked, incredulous. For a school to have this many missing kids… Granted, this was Gotham City, but still, even accounting for the fact that a boarding school oriented towards strays and orphans would probably have more runaways and disappearances, how had someone not noticed?

“I don’t know.” Dick said. He was clearly frustrated, which was understandable. He’d been trying to come up with the answer to that question for the last few hours. The problem was, he didn’t know if that was the right question to ask.

At first, both he and Batman had based their theories on the assumption that Jason had been kidnapped because someone was trying to bait them; after all, it was a common enough strategy amongst their regular rogue’s gallery. But now that he’d dug deeper and found the reports of serial disappearances, he was forced to come up with new theories to work around.

It was like trying to put together a puzzle, except he didn’t have all the pieces, he didn’t know which pieces he had were useful, and he had no idea what the final image would look like.

Knowing that a child’s life was likely on the line, his inability to figure the situation out was maddening.

“Any ideas?” Dick asked her. “I could use a fresh pair of eyes on this.”

Artemis hesitated, considering how she could best contribute. It wasn’t that Artemis thought she wasn’t smart enough to help, or that she was intimidated by the fact that her mentor wasn’t a world renowned detective. The simple truth was that most of the things that she could think of right then and there would have already occurred to him. If she wanted to help, she needed to draw on the resources and skills that she had exclusive access to.

“How good were the assassins who attacked you?” She asked.

“Very.”

“League of Shadows good?” She pressed.

“No. Better. Much better.”

Artemis considered that for a moment before pulling out her phone. “I’ll ask my mom if she heard of anyone like them when she was part of the League. They try to keep tabs on anyone that has skills like that.”

“Thanks.”

As Artemis took a few steps away so that she could call her mom without disturbing Dick, an automated notification popped up on the Bat-computer’s screen to tell him that the detailed scan he’d been running on the assassin’s bodies was done.

“Whoa…” Dick breathed as he read through the results.

Almost every biological sample that he and Batman managed to collect displayed some evidence of either chemical or genetic manipulation. For example, the assassin’s blood contained cells that looked like normal platelets, but upon closer inspection, appeared to function much more effectively, clotting in a matter of seconds rather than minutes. Fragments of bone revealed that their skeletons had been coated in a porous material that allowed biological materials to pass through, but was as strong and as light as titanium. There were even remnants of organs that the bat-computer didn’t recognize as human.

No wonder he hadn’t been able to find a match in any of the databases he’d looked at. Even something as fundamental as their DNA had been re-written to include what looked like distinct strands of animal genes. This was almost Cadmus level gene-manipulation; there were parts that barely looked human anymore.

It wasn’t just the sheer scale of the enhancements that Dick found overwhelming, but also the amount of time it must have taken to implement them. He’d seen full body augmentation and reconstruction before, of course, but it wasn’t something you could do all at once. Even with advanced tech from STAR Labs, someone undergoing this much surgery and gene therapy would need, at best, several years to adjust to all the changes being wrought on his or her body.

Years… Dick realized with a start, as a disturbing thought crossed his mind.

Working quickly, he minimized everything on the computer screen except for the picture of Shrike’s face that the cameras built into his mask had captured, then opened up a program that had been designed for forensic investigators so that they could “age” pictures of young children to find out what they might look like several years after their respective disappearances.

Dick ran the process in reverse, taking a scan of Shrike’s face and reversing the aging process so that it displayed an approximation of what Shrike might have looked like at the age of 12. Granted, the image was very, very, very rough, but at least it gave him something to work with. He ran the image through every database concerning missing children that he had access to, both within the US and internationally.

Even with a super computer as powerful as the one that was built into the Batcave, the search still took a few minutes.

That gave Dick a moment to ponder. And to hope he was wrong. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice Artemis was done with her phone call until she was standing next to him.

“Nothing.” She told him, tucking her phone away. “My mom says she’ll ask around though.”

He looked over at her. “Are you sure? I don’t want her to get into any trouble.”

Artemis waved his concerns away. “It’s fine. She knows how to take care of herself. Besides, I think she likes being able to help with hero stuff. It gives her something to do besides sit around the house all day, you know?”

“Mmm.” Dick conceded. He could empathize with that.

He sighed, rubbing his face, giving his eyes a rest. He’d been working non-stop on this since the ambush last night. Just because he was used to long hours of work didn’t mean that it never caught up with him. It was just hard to focus on things that seemed as trivial as food and sleep when someone’s life was on the line.

“Are you alright?” Artemis asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah.” Dick said, pushing himself upright in his chair. “It’s just been a rough day.“

“You should get some rest.” She said. Dick glanced at her. He recognized that tone. Despite phrasing it as a suggestion, Artemis’ voice made clear that she was prepared to frog march him upstairs if she thought it would be necessary.

Oh, to have an big sister like Artemis.

“I’m just gonna finish this search, then I’ll grab a quick nap.” Dick promised.

Artemis crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow at him. It wouldn’t have been the first time that he’d made a similar promise to her, only for her to return hours later to find him slumped over the keyboard, fast asleep.

“I will.” He insisted when she didn’t budge.

She continued to stare at him for a few moments longer before she uncrossed her arms. Inwardly, Dick breathed a sigh of relief.

“Fine.” Artemis said as she made her way back towards the elevator leading up to the manor. “But if you don’t give Zatanna a call by the time I get back from the Cave, I will beat the crap out of you.”

“Fair enough.” He conceded.

Artemis rolled her eyes, but gave a quick wave goodbye as the elevator doors slid shut.

The computer chimed in with a notification, letting him know that the search was done. Facial recognition had found a relatively close match for a child that had gone missing in Oregon.

“Matthew Board.” Dick said to himself, reading the name at the top of the report. Born to David and Serena Board, September 1975. The youngest of four children. Reported as missing January 16th, 1988. The official notes listed it as likely the child had run away from home.Interestingly, it hadn’t been his parents who had reported Matthew as missing, but a teacher at the school he had gone to. He ran a quick check and found that both the mother and father had criminal records, mostly for drug related offenses, though there were more than a few citations from Child Protection Services as well.

Dick’s discomfort was starting to grow. It felt like the picture on the puzzle was starting to become clearer. Matthew matched Jason’s profile almost exactly. A child from a rough background, around the age of 12, whose disappearance wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.

This being the United States, which maintained a national database of missing children, there were DNA records for Matthew on file that Dick could access. He pulled these up and compared them to the samples that he had recovered from Shrike.

After Dick edited the sequences of animal DNA and removed them from the analysis, they were almost a perfect match.

Shrike was, or had been, Matthew Board.

Dick’s blood ran cold at the realization. Whatever the Court of Owls was, it had been kidnapping children in order to turn them into super-powered sociopathic killers. They’d been doing it in Gotham for years, decades even, right under their noses.

And he and Batman had put Jason right in their path.

——————————————————————————————————————————

The Labyrinth

Location Unknown

Time Unknown

Jason knew he was going to die.

That was his only rational thought as he stumbled forward through the dark, displaying none of the learned caution or stealth that he normally would have used. In truth, he was so consumed by the realization of his impending demise that he was scarcely aware of his surroundings, moving forward out of stubbornness rather than any real hope of going anywhere.

He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.

The way he would die was irrelevant. Cut apart by another booby trap. Bludgeoned to death by the fists of ferals and torn apart to be eaten. Finally succumbing to the gnawing pit of hunger and thirst that was welling up inside of him. It would all mean the same thing in the end: dying, alone, down in the dark.

Strange, to think of his death in such dispassionate terms. In a way, the only thing that surprised him was the fact that he was still alive.

He hadn’t seen any signs of life for…

He didn’t know.

He didn’t remember.

He didn’t care.

Lorena. Joseph. Chris. Sean. They all probably thought he was dead.

Maybe they were right. It certainly felt like he was in hell right now.

For all he knew, they were the ones who were dead. The tunnels reeked of so much decay and abandonment that he couldn’t really believe that there was anyone friendly left in the world. Moving through the darkness, still covered with clotting blood and other visceral filth, he felt so cut off and isolated from everything that nothing felt real.

One of the few reassuring things he still felt was the weight of the knife in his hand. He vaguely recalled prying it, his own hands still sticky with blood, from the grasp of a fragmented skeleton that he’d tripped over as he’d stumbled through the dark. Judging from the size of the remains, it had probably belonged to a past aspirant. One who had fallen into the blood pool, just as he had, and somehow died, just as he would.

The knowledge had scared him at first. He had stared at the knife for a long time, knowing that he could have turned the weapon on himself, ended all of the pain that he had endured and the pain sure to come by slitting his own throat.

The prospect had, admittedly, been tempting.

But Jason hadn’t done it. Instead, he thought back to when he’d found James’ body.

His friend had known he was going to die the moment he realized he’d been caught in the floor trap that had dumped both of them down here. Even with everything that had happened to him, he’d gone down fighting, quite literally tearing the guts out of his feral killer.

Even in death, James would have avenged himself had Jason not intervened.

That seemed like a good example to follow.

If Jason was going to die no matter what he did, he wanted to die doing something, die fighting his fate. As much as he wanted the suffering to end, he wouldn’t take the easy way out. As much pain as it would bring, he would keep moving, resist, even if brought him to the bitterest of ends.

Jason clutched his looted knife tighter and kept moving forwards.

It was as good a direction as any other.