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animereaderinsertwriter · 3 years ago

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Cupbearer (Eren/Reader)

Part III

Part I

Part II

Part IV (in progress)

Warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT (im watching you, if you see this, begone!), vampire!eren, hunter!reader, fem!reader, smut, some amount of predator/prey dynamics but only kinda?? there is also a significant age difference but only cos eren is immortal and all that jazz. we're all adults here. there will eventually be smut.... and do i really need to say that there's gonna be blood in a vampire fic?

Description: A story of falling in love in 4 parts.

Eren is a bad man (well, a bad Creature) who has done bad things. When he meets the great-great-great granddaughter of one of his former friends in his favorite blood bar, however, he thinks it might not matter so much what happened in the past, so long as he can make the future something worth living to see.

Ao3 link here

After that night, it became increasingly hard for (Y/N) to leave, and for Eren to let her do so.

Something between them had changed. There were moments— when Eren would press feather-light kisses against her forehead, when he would casually leave a cup of her favorite tea where she would find it— where (Y/N) felt as though her heart might burst. It was all the little things that baffled her, all the ways in which he seemed to understand exactly how she felt; it was as though he knew her more than she knew herself. On the mornings that she would wake in his bed, sleepy and sticky and wholly content, (Y/N) wondered what it would be like to have this life forever.

Other days— on days like today— she was reminded exactly why that could never be, and it broke her heart.

Today, they had planned a romantic dinner in the park, an evening under the stars. It was supposed to be something special, a little getaway just for the two of them; they had wanted to leave as soon as (Y/N) was relieved from her patrol, so Eren had moved her things to his place, hoping that they could leave together from there for their evening alone.

In and of itself, that was fine… but when (Y/N) came in, covered head-to-toe in viscous Creature blood, Eren was furious.

“And you call me a monster,” he growled, looking her up and down with hate in his eyes. “I can’t believe you.”

He stood from his seat on the sofa, and (Y/N) began to back away, still wary from the fight she had narrowly escaped from unscathed. Her every instinct told her that she should run, fire a round of silver bullets into his chest, but she steeled herself, doing neither.

“It’s not my fault— they were attacking a civilian,” she told him as he stalked towards her, his face twisted into a horrific scowl. “I tried to stop them— tried to find out what was going on— but then they came at me with their claws, and I was left with no choice.”

“There is always a choice,” he snarled, and it was then that anger filled (Y/N) from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head. "They were probably terrified of you— how could you possibly blame them for lashing out?"

(Y/N) grit her teeth.

“This, from the man who thought genocide was his only option to the same problem?”

Eren made a low, warning sound in the back of his throat, but (Y/N) pressed on.

“You would rather me have died?” she demanded, stepping into his space. “Would it have pleased you more for my body to bleed out on the pavement, ripped to shreds by an aggressive werewolf? Would you even care, or would you just find the next blood bag and move on with your life?”

“Maybe so,” he shot back, “Then I wouldn’t have to deal with your insufferable mouth.”

That stung— but if there was one thing (Y/N) knew how to do, it was to strike back twice as hard as she had been struck.

“Fine then,” she said, turning on her heel. “I won’t bother you any longer. I’ll go out and find someone who actually wants my company, someone who’ll fuck me good and proper over the counter at some hole-in-the-wall bar over on Easy Street, someone younger, with a nicer cock and less fucking baggage— ”

She didn’t get to finish the sentence, or even walk a single step further— Eren grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to him, his fist painfully tight against her scalp.

“Wanna say that again, to my face?” he asked, tilting her head back.

“I’ll go find someone else to fuck me,” she spat, struggling in vain against him. “I’ll spread my legs for the next available schmuck in the closest bar I can find, so you can hear me scream his name and not yours.”

It was a low blow, to threaten a vampire’s claim on something they had previously assumed had belonged to them, but (Y/N) didn’t care. She had almost died today, and she’d be damned if she was going to take shit from anyone about what she had to do to survive. If Eren wanted a fight, she would damn sure give him one.

“Like hell you will,” he told her, pulling her head back so that she had to strain to remain standing. “You’re mine. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood— you are my Companion.”

"I belong to no one!"

Those words ripped from her throat and echoed throughout the empty house, and it was then that Eren stopped, looking at her with calculation in his gaze.

"You're right," he said, releasing her hair. "No mortal can serve two masters, lest they love one and despise the other; an archaic religious concept, but an accurate one nonetheless. You've made it abundantly clear where your loyalty lies. I was a fool for thinking otherwise."

(Y/N) began to tremble. "Eren, what are you saying?"

"I release you from our pact," he replied coldly, his eyes so dull and lifeless that it sent a chill down her spine. "No longer are you bound to be my wine-press— I free you from me."

"Eren—"

"Go," he commanded, and (Y/N) felt terribly, horribly empty.

Once, he would have told her to come freely, go safely, and leave something of the happiness she brought him; now, he gave her a cold dismissal, and it frightened her more than she was willing to admit. Still, she went, feeling hollow and used, and she didn't bother to shut the door behind her as she turned to walk home, weary from the day and sick from fighting.

***

Armin had lived for a very long time, but even so, he had yet to meet anyone so foul of temper as Eren when the Hunger was on him.

"Eren, you have to feed."

The vampire, as ill in health as in temper, glared weakly at him. "I'm not hungry."

"But you are Hungry, and don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about. Look, if this is about that girl—"

"I told you not to speak of her!"

Ah, so it was about her. By the looks of him, it had been two weeks since Eren had fed; Armin would bet that he hadn't seen her in the same amount of time.

"If I need to, I'll drag her here to make up with you myself," said Armin testily, "I refuse to watch my best friend starve himself because he refuses to feed on anyone else."

"You will not touch her."

Armin rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything further. He just patted Eren's arm in farewell and set about finding the little lady who was the root cause of his current consternation.

It took longer than Armin had anticipated to find the young woman who had, for all intents and purposes, completely unraveled Eren's composure; her scent, while thick and memorable in Eren's apartment, was hard to track otherwise. Armin spent two hours just wandering the city while trying to catch a breath of it here or there, and when he finally did manage to catch a whiff of her scent and follow it to her, he understood exactly why it had been so hard to track her down.

The girl was a Hunter, of all things.

When Armin found her, she was knee-deep in sewage, her knife embedded to the hilt in the skull of what appeared to be some species of winged reptile. Armin, having been a tad desperate and not actually having been expecting to find anything when he lifted the lid to the man-hole on 32nd and Main, was surprised to say the least— and when (Y/N) ripped her knife free and readjusted her stance into a defensive one directed at him, his surprise turned to intrigue.

“Er, hello there,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t suppose you’ll take my word for it that I just want to chat, will you?”

Curiously, the words gave the woman pause. She relaxed her stance ever-so-slightly, and then her eyes lit up with recognition.

“Armin Arlert?” she queried, craning her neck up to see him. “Is that you?”

This one grows curiouser and curiouser, he thought, but responded affirmatively.

“Can you give me a bit, then?” she asked, kicking the corpse of the Creature she’d just killed. “I’m not exactly fit for company. Perhaps we could meet later for a discussion over tea?”

“I’m afraid it’s urgent,” he said as she knelt to decapitate her prey— likely for proof of victory. “I think you know why I’m here, so you understand that time is of the essence.”

She didn’t look up at him as she replied.

“If this is about Eren, then I don’t have time to talk.”

Her tone was hard, bitter, and matter-of-fact, and it reminded Armin so much of Jean that it hurt… but just like Jean, Armin would bet that she could be won over by appealing to her inherent sense of human decency

“He’s suffering (Y/N),” he said, awkwardly crouching above the manhole so that she could better see the truth written in his eyes. “He won’t feed.”

“That’s hardly my problem.”

And oh, how well Armin knew that state of mind. If there was one thing Eren Jaeger knew how to do, it was push away the people who loved him most. Armin had dealt with that particularly lovely quirk of his for centuries, and it never got easier to deal with no matter how much time passed. If anything, it got more difficult the older they both got.

“When you’re the solution to a problem, you become a part of it whether you like it or not,” Armin replied, patient and understanding. “He cares for you.”

(Y/N) looked up at him then, fury in her eyes.

“He hurt me.”

Armin shrugged. “He hurts everyone he cares about. It’s just who he is. Nothing comes for free— least of all the love and loyalty of someone as old and as powerful as Eren.”

“Your heart may be toughened to his meanness,” she told him, the head of the creature she’d slain in her hands, “But mine is not, and I don’t like him well enough to willfully remain for him to use as an emotional punching bag.”

At that, Armin couldn’t help but let loose a wry grin.

“No,” he said, “I should think not; but I do think you love him well enough to make sure he doesn’t starve himself to death because he can’t have you.”

(Y/N) was silent for a long moment, then she crossed her arms.

“I won’t come crawling to him. He’s going to have to come to me.”

Armin grimaced. He wasn’t looking forward to that conversation.

“Is that at all negotiable?”

(Y/N) shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

Well, there was nothing for it.

“And you will let him feed if he comes to you?”

(Y/N) thought, then nodded. “If he proves himself deserving.”

Armin couldn't help himself; he laughed. Eren might have met his match in this one.

"Very well. I'll work my magic, and you work yours."

She nodded and bade him farewell, but before Armin left, he paused.

"Hey, (Y/N)?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

With that, he left her, ready to take Eren by the ear and throw him at her if he had to.

***

(Y/N)'s heart was racing as she opened the door, knowing good and well who would be behind it.

After her little talk with Armin— and the near heart attack he had given her in the process— she had called in to Zeke and told him she needed to go home to deal with an emergency. A replacement for her patrols had been sent, and she had come home to wash the grim from her skin, making herself as presentable as possible with the time she had. (Y/N) was worried, so worried, that the filth she had been wading in earlier would have left a lingering stench, or even that it had affected the taste of her; she had scrubbed and scrubbed until her skin was raw, hoping to erase every last remnant of her day from her skin…but as it turned out, she needn't have bothered.

Two, three, four hours later, and Eren hadn't shown— it was only now, right at the six hour mark, that he had decided to come to her.

Needless to say, (Y/N) was… less than pleased, but when she opened the door to find Eren pale and drawn, with dark circles beneath his eyes, her heart softened ever-so-slightly. It seemed that Armin was right; he had been suffering.

"You look like shit," she told him quietly, opening her door widely to let him in.

"I assure you, I feel worse," Eren grumbled, but stepped in as she closed the door behind him.

For a long, awkward moment, they just looked at each other, silent and unsure. It was unsettling how unlike himself Eren seemed; he was almost soft when he looked at her, and (Y/N) didn't know how to feel about it. Eventually, though, like two opposite ends of a magnet, they were drawn together, and Eren brushed a piece of hair back from her face.

"Hi," he said, his voice low and rough. (Y/N) caught his hand in hers before it could fall from her hair, and she pressed it against her chest, keeping it trapped there, touching the skin above her beating heart.

"Hey."

They watched each other a moment more before the dam broke between them, and they both spoke at once.

"I'm sorry."

A shared grin, a shy laugh— and then (Y/N) said what they both were thinking.

"You need to feed first, and talk later," she told him, her hand still clasped in his. "You're not off the hook, but I doubt we can have any real conversation with you like this."

Eren nodded gratefully, tugging at her wrist— his usual biting spot— but (Y/N) shook her head, indicating her neck. The thickest, richest blood, she knew, would come from there; and if there was ever a time to be generous with the placement of Eren's bite, she figured that it would be now.

The worst of it was over quickly. There was a brief sting at the intrusion of razor-sharp fangs, and then the vaguely uncomfortable feeling of having something poking down into places that decidedly should not be poked at all, but then (Y/N) quickly eased into the rhythm of the act, focusing wholly on the way Eren's lips felt against her skin. In a few moments, she would become pleasantly light-headed, and then Eren would pull away and look at her like she'd hung the stars. Oh, how she'd missed that look! (Y/N) found herself longing for it even before she quite realized it.

And then, without warning, a vision came, and (Y/N) was swept into another world entirely.

The evening sky rolled endlessly out towards the horizon; it seemed to go on forever, sparkling with more stars than (Y/N) had ever seen before. The full moon was so bright that it cast the whole world in what seemed like silver sunlight, and (Y/N) wondered how anyone could sleep on a night such as this. It was far too beautiful an experience to miss.

Alongside her— alongside Eren, through whose eyes she saw the world— strode Armin and two older-looking cadets who she recognized from previous memories as Reiner and Berthold. Eren was feeling anxious over something, and Reiner and Berthold were… well, they were kind. Reiner especially seemed to be like an older brother, and Eren admired him.

"You'll do just fine tomorrow," said Reiner, placing a large, warm hand on Eren's shoulder. "I'm certain of it."

The memory ended, and (Y/N) came back to herself as Eren's tongue laved over the wounds his fangs had left in her neck, sealing them.

"See anything?" he asked, his breath warm against her skin, and (Y/N) nodded.

"You loved them, too," she said softly, remembering the fondness Eren had felt as though it had been her own. "You loved the Hunters that tried to take everything from you, and— and I think they loved you, too."

Eren pulled away from her, and it was then that she saw the tears shining in his eyes.

"Yes," he replied, his voice broken. "We were children. How could we not love each other as God intended? Hate was never in our nature; it was an inheritance that we couldn't escape."

He paused for a moment, then spoke again.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," he told her, cupping her cheek in his hand. "I lost my temper. I forget— I forget that you're not them."

And (Y/N) understood. She understood that no matter how many centuries passed, there would be wounds that just wouldn't heal for Eren. He would lash out at things that wouldn't make sense to anyone who hadn't experienced the horrors of war as he had. Suddenly, she felt petty for having lashed out as she had, and guilt threatened to rise up and choke her.

"You're forgiven," she replied, leaning into his touch. "It takes two to tango— I shouldn't have baited you like I did. I knew how badly that would hurt you, and that's exactly why I said it."

At that, Eren cracked a grin.

"I expect nothing less from a Kirschtein. Your grandfather would have punched me square in the jaw— and as big as that bastard got when we were older, he probably would have put me on my ass."

(Y/N) couldn't help but laugh, and Eren joined her, their combined joy swelling until there was nothing else in the world but their happiness.

How they started kissing, neither one of them would be able to say afterwards, but in the grand scheme of things, it hardly mattered. Their love was too large to contain, too much to hold back— and it was love, (Y/N) realized, though she hadn't quite put words to it yet. She loved Eren Jaeger, a Creature, a monster, as much as her grandfather before her had and more. She loved him with a desperation that felt like being knocked over by an ocean wave and plunged into depths where her feet no longer touched the sand. She loved him more than she had ever loved anyone before.

And, as he placed her gently on her bed that was barely big enough for two, divesting himself of his shirt above her, (Y/N) thought that maybe she didn't mind it so much as long as he loved her in return.

"I missed you," said Eren, dropping kisses by her ear as he unhooked her bra. "I missed this."

"Me too," she gasped as his mouth wandered to her nipple, her hands fisting in his hair. "Oh, God, I missed you too."

The time for words was soon gone, however; Eren's sinful, sinful mouth traveled lower and lower until he was kissing at the insides of her thighs, parting them to access what lay between, and (Y/N) threw her head back as he spread her open with his hands and sucked brazenly at her clit.

How long he spent there, worshipping her sex, (Y/N) had no idea; all she knew was that she came once from his mouth on her and a second time from his fingers inside her, and when he finally, mercifully withdrew, she was broken down to the simplest parts of herself; there was nothing left but an affection so deep that it threatened to overtake her if she didn't let it out, and she did the only thing she knew to do to release the overwhelming pressure that was building in her chest as Eren pushed his big, veiny cock into her.

She told him what she should have said a long time ago.

"Oh, Eren," she gasped as his cockhead shoved deep inside her. "I love you."

As soon as the words came out of her mouth, Eren went unnaturally still. He looked at her with pupils blown wide inside emerald eyes, and his fangs slightly distended; in any other situation, (Y/N) might have laughed at how surprised he seemed, but it seemed as though she were frozen in time, unable to do anything but stare earnestly up at them, hoping he understood how much she cared for him.

"You… what?"

"I love you," she repeated, her body moving without her permission to roll her hips up into him, moving his cock even further inside her. "Please, Eren, I need—"

He cut her off with a forceful, bruising kiss, and his hips started making slow, deep thrusts inside her, her legs hiked up over his shoulders.

"Again," he said against her lips."Say it again."

"I love you."

Another thrust or two, a hand circling her wounded throat.

"Again."

"I love you, Eren."

"Again."

This time, it was only a whisper.

"I love you," she said, and Eren began fucking her in earnest.

"You are so fucking beautiful," he told her as he thrust hard and deep inside her. "You're every man's dream, a nirvana the damned such as myself were never meant to reach. (Y/N), you are everything, and I—"

He seemed to choke on the words, and (Y/N) kissed him as he tried to regain his composure.

"I don't deserve you," he said, shaking with the force of their passion. "I don't deserve your love."

It's not about deserving, she wanted to say, It never was, but then she was coming again, her climax contracting her walls around her lover, and it was all she could do to remain conscious as Eren fucked her relentlessly through it all, chasing his own high.

It was only later, after a shower and something to eat that they finally spoke again. They were back in bed, and Eren's arm was wrapped around her, as though he were afraid to let her go for even a moment; truthfully, (Y/N) thought he was asleep, but then his breath tickled her ear as he said,

"I love you, angel."

And that, (Y/N) thought, had been worth it all, in the end.

#aot x y/n #aot x reader #aot #aot fanfiction #eren x reader #vampire!eren jaeger #aot smut

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raelly-writing · 3 years ago

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Tiny Big Demands

Silly 5.4-5.5 fluff that’s been lounging in my WIPs folder for several months. There’s some Thancred/WoL at the end but otherwise it’s mainly uh... nutkin shenanigans.

---

“What the Hells Than..red…”

Frowning, Viana rolled over onto her stomach and buried her face into her pillow to shut out the early morning light. Another sharp, nipping sensation at her other ear followed shortly afterwards, rousing her involuntarily further from her sleep.

Her quiet curse was muffled against her pillow as she blindly reached out a hand to find Thancred and hit his shoulder or chest for the unpleasant wake up call.

But all she found was empty air and cold sheets. Immediately, a harsh sense of disappointment cut through her sleep-logged mind.

Right, he’d be far past the Garlean border by now.

Exhaling, she burrowed back into the covers in a sudden bout of moody resignation. As ridiculous as she felt for missing him so sorely, it was a small comfort that the scent of him still lingered on her sheets, even after the days since his departure.

Maybe she should heed the voice at the back of her head that urged her to rise and face the day, but the warmth of her bed was too comfortable. After the hustle of finding a cure for tempering and applying it to the kobolds, nevermind dealing with a new Ascian’s gloating, she was ready to drift back to sleep, if just for a little while longer.

The soft brush of fur against her arm, followed by a familiar, insistent chittering made her crack open an eye to squint against the morning light. Dark eyes stared back at her, a pink nose and long whiskers wiggling in what could only be described as petulant manner as the nutkin squeaked loudly at her.

Viana blinked owlishly, utterly confused at its appearance. Surely she wasn’t missing Thancred so much she was dreaming about his pet. “Why're you…?”

The only answer she got was another series of high pitched noises. Before she knew it, it’d scampered up her shoulder, sharp claws digging into the fabric of her shirt and soft fur teasing the bare skin at the back of her neck. Definitely not a dream then.

“Ow, okay okay, I’m awake, you little monster,” she groaned, and carefully pushed herself up on her elbows.

If she didn’t know better, she could swear the critter sounded victorious as it scurried up over her head before hopping down onto her pillow. It’s big dark eyes stared up at her as it made a big show of rubbing its clearly empty cheeks while fluffing up its tail in an indignant manner.

Viana snorted and slowly sat up. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes she yawned widely, “How did you even get in here?”

Glancing down at the nutkin, she watched as it stood on its hind legs, squeaking up at her.

“Mhm, well, figures,” she muttered drowsily. “Now I assume this isn’t just a friendly visit?” It flicked its tail and gave a singular squeak. It would appear that in Thancred’s absence it’d decided that she was best to see to its needs. “Thought as much.”

Sighing, she held out her hand to the nutkin, and it quickly hopped up into her palm, evidently eager to have its demands fulfilled. “Very well then,” she mused as she climbed out of bed. “Let’s see what we can find for you.”

In response she got a series of satisfied squeaks as it excitedly turned in circles in her palm. Though the stone floor was cold beneath her bare feet, she couldn’t bother to find a pair of socks for the short walk - besides, judging by how the nutkin kept chittering while twisting and turning, she doubted such delays would be tolerated to start with.

“Why, I agree, it’s most cruel of him to leave you again so soon.”

Taking her keys from where she kept them on her desk, she left her room and wandered down the empty hallway towards Thancred’s. Well, at least nobody would give her strange looks for walking around in just shorts and a simple top while talking to the small rodent in her hand. “And he didn’t leave you with enough tasty treats?” The nutkin chittered and nuzzled into her thumb when she absentmindedly petted it - a rather abrupt shift from its more aloof behaviour with her in the past, and one that left her feeling oddly manipulated at that. As sneaky and charming as its owner, clearly.

“Just Tataru refilling your bowl with plain seeds and nuts?” she tutted. “How dreadful. You better have a chat with him once he gets back from Garlemald so he knows such things won’t be accepted.”

The nutkin gave a singular high squeak in reply, one paw braced on her ring finger as it peered up at her expectantly. A small smile curled the corner of Viana’s mouth. It really was adorable when it wasn’t driving Krile to the brink of sanity by stashing nuts all around Thancred’s unconscious body.

Or when it decided to demand attention from Thancred just when the two of them were having a private moment.

The moment she unlocked his door and slipped into his room, the nutkin’s attention immediately fixated on one bookshelf in particular.

Her gaze found the familiar wooden box sitting amidst the various books, one she’d seen Thancred retrieve several times. “Suppose you never made a fuss to anyone else before, because nobody else knew where he kept the good treats, hm?”

It squeaked again.

“Well, don’t think I’m going to spoil you just because Thancred’s not here,” she said firmly as she set down the nutkin on his desk, the dark wooden surface being void of any of the document folders and notebooks that usually had occupied its surface since their return from the First.

The nutkin instantly hopped to the edge where it perched atop a discarded book, watching her intently as she took down the simple but sturdy box from the shelf. The heavy lid opened easily on well-oiled hinges and Viana took out approximately the same amount of the big nuts she’d usually seen Thancred retrieve before closing the lid once more.

Before she’d even had a chance to return the box to its place, the nutkin was squeaking excitedly. It stood on its hindlegs, small pink paws already raised as if grasping for its treats.

Viana paused, clicking her tongue. “Such ill manners,” she tutted.

The only response she got was an impatient flick of its fluffed up tail and wiggle of a pink nose as it defiantly stared up at her. It really didn’t have a shred of fear, did it? Sighing, she held out her empty hand and it quickly jumped into her palm, attention honed in on the nuts in her other hand.

But rather than waiting patiently for her to find a bowl for the nuts, it leaned off from the edge of her hand, as if readying to jump.

“Hold on now, no jumping!” Without thinking Viana quickly cupped her hands. A delighted chirp instantly resounded from the nutkin as it surveyed its pile of nuts, then latched onto a particularly big one, twisting and turning it in its hands before starting to gnaw at it.

“My my, one would almost think you’ve had naught to eat for days,” Viana chuckled. Then she looked around, the mirth making way for dismay when she was unable to locate any bowl or other container into which to deposit the hungry critter and its nuts.

Hells, she was too tired for this. With a sigh of resignation, she walked over to Thancred’s reading chair and curled up in it, cold feet tucked beneath her, while careful not to disturb the happily gnawing nutkin that was utterly oblivious to her dilemma.

Viana looked on as it began to make short work of the sturdy shell and dug into its delicious prize within, stuffing it into its cheek for later. “You know, if you’re gonna wake me like this while he’s away,” she drawled, “you could be nice and not interrupt us when he gets back.”

The nutkin paused to look up at her, almost as if it was contemplating her words, before digging back into the next nut.

Huffing out a little laugh, Viana leaned back and closed her eyes. “Well, it was worth a try,” she sighed.

With one thumb she slowly petted the nutkin’s soft fur, earning her another series of happy little noises and the distinct feeling of a nose nuzzling against her hand. Maybe she should just get a box with nuts and seeds and put it in her own room. And a bowl.

It would save her the walk over here every time it decided it wanted some attention.

Yawning, she snuggled back into the chair. Well, she could look into that later today. Before she knew it, the sound of the nutkin happily eating was lulling her back into a light sleep.

---

Thancred carefully set down the sturdy clay bowl on Viana’s nightstand, but the nutkin barely noticed, too busy with digging around amongst the seeds and nuts for its favourites to pay him any heed. For now, at least, he thought as he climbed back into bed.

“Well, I am glad to hear that the two of you got along while I was gone,” he said. “I do apologise though, I did not expect her to bother you.”

Viana made a drowsy noise as she rolled over to rest her head on his shoulder once more. “‘tis fine,” she murmured. “I suppose we did come to an understanding. Even though it required a few early mornings.”

At the sound of her voice the nutkin looked up and squeaked, as if in agreement, before digging back into its meal.

With a soft chuckle, he grasped her hand and - mindful of her shoulder - pressed a kiss to her fingers. “Glad to hear it,” he mused. Why he hadn’t thought of putting a box with the nutkin’s food in her room he wasn’t sure. Unwillingness to intrude on her space, perhaps? Ah, well, she’d taken the step herself.

“Hope this means fewer… interruptions,” she mumbled. Thancred couldn’t help but smile at the sleepy tone of her voice while his chest felt warm and comfortable. Twelve, he’d missed mornings such as this - nutkin interruptions or not - where he just got to treasure her presence. It wasn’t many who got to see the fearsome Warrior of Light in a half-asleep state like this.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” he snorted with a glance at the critter in question.

The only response he got was a muffled hum. Clearly she too was still worn out from the fighting in Pagl’than the day prior.

With a quiet, fond laugh, he brushed his fingers through her hair, prompting her to snuggle closer to him. After giving the nutkin a last pet, Thancred let his eyes fall shut and sleep reclaim him.

#Thancred Waters #Thancred #Thancred x WoL #my writing #ffxiv

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purrsonaimagines · 4 years ago

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Face the Music - [ Akira Kurusu x Reader ]

prompt: The Phantom Thieves flee a rather difficult Palace early, but some sacrifices are made.

How could have happened so fast?

You were infultrating a palace of a pop-star in Japan, who manipulated those beneath her to ruin lives of other threatening her career. Though her palace seemed dainty and soft... It was difficult to manuver.

“Joker! What do we do?” Panther asked in a scared voice.

“I don’t think anyone else can take anymore danage...” She continued, glancing to where her friends were. They were all beaten and tired, trying their best to push through alongside their leader.

“We need to get out of here..” Joker replied with a determined nod, glancing over to everyone.

“You guys! We need to run!” He yelled, causing everyone to look up in surprise. Though as they overcame that, they all started to group up and fend off the smaller shadows as they began to retrace their steps.

“[CodeName]! How’re you holding up?” Joker asked, turning to your faltering form behind the running group. He tried his best to mask his concern, but you saw it seep through him like he was an open book.

“Could be better.” You replied with a smile, “But I’m gonna pull through. No sense in becoming dead weight now.” You chuckled weakly, clasping a hand over your aching side before forcefully picking up your pace to get to the front of the group.

Joker watched carefully before shaking off the ill feeling in his gut, also picking up his pace. Though suddenly, a heavy rumble in the palace caused a few thieves to lose their step. A few stumbled into something, and other fell. Though you stood up alone, looking at you weakened team mated in concern.

“W-What was that?” Ryuji stuttered out, his breaths labored as you all turned behind you in sync.

A large shadow figure was scrambling over, letting out a demonic yell. It’s body was deformes, and on all sides were heads of people’s careers who were ruined by this woman. Your heart sunk as you urgently turned to everyone on the floor, some still recovering.

“Go! Go!” You urged in a shout, helping Ann up before pressing them to run again.

You followed suit, taking quick strides as adrenaline now fueled you. You looked back, only to have your eyes widen once you noticed the creature getting closer. Hope filled your heart as you all sprinted towards the wide double doors, breathing heavy in uneven puffs.

Suddenly it let out another yell, and before you knew it something flew past you and into the wall. As you shielded yourself from debris, you couldn’t help but joticed the steaming residue on the burn mark on the wall. Your eyes widened as you kept your gaze focused on the monster. Though suddenly it let out the same noise, and this time it sent a ball hurdling towards Joker.

“Joker!” You bellowed pushing him forwards, sending him in between Ryuji and Yusuke.

You yelped once the shot met your shoulder, grazing it and leaving a sizzling burn. You fought the urge to clutch it with your dirtied glove, sucking in a breath as you struggled to stand your ground.

“[CodeName]! Let’s go—!”

Your breath was sucked from your lungs when something latched onto you, causing your to freeze up. Your widened eyes met Joker’s for a split second, catching their flash of fear, before you were sucked back towards the beast. You screamed in pain at the collision of your shoulder, the shadows of the beast curling and twisting around you.

Your shoulder ached as it slowly began to pull you into it’s shadowy abyss, leaving your hand outstretched for Joker. You hopelessly stared at everyone as they stood quietly, unsure of what to do. You panicked before grabbing your weapon, hitting the creature with it harsh. It let out a yell and suddenly you fell out of it’s flesh and onto the ground. You let out a grunt, and you hardly registered the hands on you, helping you up to keep going.

Your body entirely ached, as you hobbled to the door. You ducked as another shot flew towards you, gliding over your heads and into the door. Just as you reached the exit, Morgana became your getaway, and you all hurriedly climbed in. You couldn’t help but notice the shadow monster scurrying away now, just as You got into the van, your body hitting the seat.

“Holy fuckin’ shit!” Ryuji exclaimed, noticing your shoulder.

Your head weakly turned to it, only for you to let out a choked gasp at what you saw. The skin was dirty and caked with blood, along with the skin being burned harshly from the heat of the attack.

“You’re bleeding!” Haru exclaimed in concern, her eyes wide in shock.

“Jus’ a burn..” You slurred out tiredly, your head lolling onto Akira’s shoulder.

“We need to patch that up.” Makoto advised, scanning your wound.

“Mhm... I’l.. I’ll patch..” You mumbled, eyes fluttering open as you leaned forward for any medical supplies, but Akira’s hand stopped you.

“Rest. Please..” He pleaded with soft eyes, watching your weak gaze shift from his sincere gaze to the front.

You nodded slowly and shifted against the seat, your head falling into his lap. Soon enough you drifted off into sleep, calm consuming the car.

“She took a hit for ya.” Ryuji mumbled, elbowing the boy beside you.

“I know that.” Akira hissed, watching as Ryuji finched.

“S-Sorry.. It’s just nerve-wracking. I didn’t think that.. That we’d have to retreat, and I especially didn’t think she’d do that. Especially when she was already hurting...” Akira admitted softly, brushing a hand through your messy hair.

“Love makes you do crazy things..” Ryuji shrugged, looking out the window.

That was one thing Akira heard and agreed with all night.

— —

You groaned in discomfort against the creaky mattress, a damiliar scent hitting your nose. You opened your eyes slowly, relief filling you at rhe dark room, the only thing you saw was a desk lamp.

Your eyes followed and you saw Akira hunched over in his chair, soft snores escaping his lips. A small smile net your lips as you began to push yourself up, but a sharp pain in your shoulder made you gasp and loose your grip on the bed.

Your head shot over to Akira who suddenly shot up with a snort, his head darting directly at you. You both stared with wide yues, before he reached up to rub his and stand.

“You’re okay..” He breathed out in relief, hurriedly stepping over to where you sat.

“Yeah, I am.. Just.. My should is killing me..” You said with a chuckle, looking down at the wrapped wound.

Akira stared too, but remained silent. He cracked no smile, he just.. Stood. He was observing you, after being together for a while you’d know this. You sighed and reached out for his hands, holding the frigid appendages in your own.

“Whats on your mind, babe?” You mumbled, scooching back to let him sit down with you.

A pang of guilt passed his stare as he sat down beside you, a heavy breath leaving his nose.

“I.. I caused this.” Akira voiced, looking down.

“What.. Honey, no you didn’t—“

“But I did.. I was reckless, and I didn’t think ahead. I shouldn’t have let a member of the Phantom Thieves get hurt so easily when—“

“Akira Kurusu. Stop scolding yoursef, I mean it.” You growled out, swatting his shoulder lightly.

“I chose to take that shot, Akira. An besides.. It hardly even hurts anymore. I bet it’s just a scratch now.. It happened in Mementos, didn’t it? So that means-“

“It doesn’t matter where you got hury.. You still got hurt..”

“Akira..” You sighed taking his hand lightly.

“People get hurt doing what we do.. It’s something we accepted when becoming Phantom Thieves. I knew the risk when I took that hot. I made the choice, not you.” You explained in a motherly tone, reaching up to brush a hand through his hair.

“But you shouldn’t risk your life.. Not for me..”

“Akira.. You can’t always protect everyone. You can’t burden yourself always about other people...”

“Then what good am I?!” He said in a eaised fone, whipping his stare to you to reveal hos tears.

“W-What good am I...? If.. If I just c-cause more pain..” Akira whispered with a soft cry, causing you to frown and take him in your arms.

You pressed his head into your shoulder, rubbing soothing motions into his back as you held him tight.

“Akira.. Sometime, it has to be about you. Other people do not determine you and your worth. Do not limit yourself to those around you.”

“Now I want you to stop blaming yoursef for my short comings. It was stupid, I know. But would you do the same?”

“Yes, of course I would.” He answered softly.

“Would you want me to blame myself?”

“No..”

“Then that’s how I feel. And.. This stuff takes time. Learning your sef worth, and understanding yoursef.. But, I trust that it’ll happen. In due time, of course.”

“I know...I know..” He whispered, a sob racking his body as he grabbed onto you tighter.

“I-In the van.. You fell asleep, and I was.. So..S-So scared that I lost you.. T-That you were going to leave me. T-That because of that one moment, y-you weren’t.. I thought...”

Akira’s voice grew overgrown by sobs, causing you to whisper lovingly into his ear as you rocked him side to side delicately.

“Akira.. I promise. They’ll have to completey tear me to shreds before I leave you, understand?”

“Mhm...”

“Good.. Now let’s get back to bed, okay? In the morning I’ll make us some coffee.”

Despite his tears, Akira couldn’t help but laugh.

“You’re terrible at making coffee.” He croaked, shaking his head.

“Well then we can make it together. babe.. Let’s just head to bed, alright?”

“Okay.. Goodnight.. I love you..”

You both settled down before you lightly pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, a smjle growing on your lips.

“I love you too, Akira Kurusu.”

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years ago

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Enough, Always: Izzy

CW: Newly adult child of whumper and whumpee, whumper in prison, references to romantic/intimate whump, referenced child emotional abuse, verbal abuse, brief gendered appearance insults with single line of brief homophobia at end, plus final crowning moment of badass for Izzy.

Izzy’s mother Savannah Marcoset has been locked in prison on a life sentence without parole for eleven years for abducting Izzy’s father Jax, keeping him captive, and forcing him into a horrifying facsimile of domestic bliss - and Izzy last saw her in person fourteen years ago, when her father escaped with her and her infant brother in one desperate final bid for freedom.

Newly eighteen and feeling the need for some kind of closure in one of the foundational aspects of her identity, Izzy decides to visit America - and pay a visit to her incarcerated mother.

During the visit, she learns that Savvie Marcoset, in the end, couldn’t change - but Izzy fucking Gallagher did.

For the first time with her mother, Izzy finds her voice.

Jax Gallagher (referenced) belongs to @comfy-whumpee and is used with permission.

---

“Is this how you dress now?” Her mother’s voice is sharp-edged and still familiar, even fourteen years since Izzy last spoke to her face to face. It’s funny, how she barely remembered it, but as soon as she hears it, her heart starts to race, and it’s the feeling of her heart beating wings inside her chest. It’s the way other people might remember the sense of a warm hand to forehead, checking for illness, or laughter, or praise.

It’s a voice like a fever, a rush of chill down her spine and through her arms and thighs. Is it familiar from real memories, or because Izzy has heard it in interviews and documentaries and recordings, during her nights spent researching the woman who makes up half her genetics and absolutely none of her life?

She almost gets up and leaves right then.

Almost.

But Izzy Gallagher fought for this trip, had declared herself able and willing to do this, had more importantly convinced her father she needed to do this. She can’t just give up because it didn’t start well.

Even if he wouldn’t judge her, or at least he wouldn’t show it, Izzy Gallagher sets her shoulders and declares herself her father’s stubborn strong daughter, and not her mother’s weak and frightened one.

She steels herself against the instinctive uncertainty, the rush of anxious shouldn’t have done this, shouldn’t have tried. Instead, she gives her mother a faint smile as a plastic-and-metal chair is pulled out and she sits down across the small round table, just enough space there isn’t any danger of accidental - or, hopefully, purposeful - touch.

The walls are beige, the top of the table is a wood so pale it might as well be. There are bars on the window that lets in a pale and faded winter sun. There are some others, nearby, people younger or older than she sitting at other round tables, seeing mothers, wives, aunts, sisters. Izzy wonders if all of them are scared, or if none of them are. If it’s only her who has to remember how to breathe, in her mother’s presence.

She can do this. She told him she could do this.

“Um.” Izzy looks down at herself - just a band shirt and faded jeans worn with holes, her still-knobby knees showing through, the boots a birthday gift from Nana she’d thought would help her crunch through the grayish snow in the parking lot, a light hooded sweater over it all - and then up again. Her mother’s eyes are still wide-set in her face, which is less rounded as time has passed.

Those eyes are still overbright, and very blue.

It’s been so long since Savannah Marcoset saw her eldest child, and Izzy can’t ever remember having been the focus of her mother’s all-consuming interest before. It feels like standing in the eye of a storm, where everything is still but the air carries weight, electricity, and threat.

“Mostly,” Izzy says, finally. “Mostly this is how I dress. I mean, I couldn’t wear gray, could I? They wouldn’t let me leave.” She tries to sound lighthearted, then winces. Bad joke.

Her mother, in what looks almost like flat gray scrubs, with a high-cut V-neck and a waist without a drawstring, smiles back, apparently unoffended. There’s a shift - subtle as a cat moving onto its back paws in grass, eyes focused on a nearby bird. Izzy has always been sensitive to changes in the tension of a room, and her own eyes - hazel leaning towards brown, her father’s eyes through and through - move to a nearby guard, reassuring herself with his presence.

Savannah Marcoset is firmly locked in prison for life, with handcuffs and ankle-cuffs that ensure she can’t make herself a threat here, and still the soft nearly-buzzed hair at the back of Izzy’s neck stands up, and she feels like she is being inspected, a bit of bacteria in some scientist’s microscope.

“I had hoped for a little more color, is all,” Her mother says, tilting her head to the side, giving an impish little smile. “As you can imagine, there isn’t exactly a surplus of art here. You look lovely, Isabella.”

Izzy swallows against a lump in her throat. Absurdly, she feels outnumbered, one-to-one. “I, yeah. Thanks.” She tries for a responding smile, maybe half-successful at it. “You have-... you have art classes here, I read.”

“You read up on me.” Her mother’s expression changes a little, opens up. She sits up a little straighter, then, and there’s a flash of still-white teeth in her smile, now. “You know about me. I would have thought you wouldn’t be allowed to know a thing.”

“I’m, um.” Izzy’s hands fold in her lap, and she rubs over the shredded white threads along a hole that’s worn over one thigh, the softness of a patch of fabric she’d sewn herself beneath. “I’m eighteen now, so. I get to pick what I know, more or less.”

“You’re eighteen?” Her mother’s surprise is genuine, and she glances sideways at the clock as though it will become a calendar, back to Izzy. “When did that happen?”

Why that question hurts, she doesn’t know - but it does. It’s not like Savannah Marcoset has anything to do here but remember, and yet-... she didn’t.

“About three weeks ago, actually,” Izzy says, and hears herself sounding embarrassed, like she should have not grown up at all, if that wasn’t what Savvie wanted, or expected. Like the turn of the Earth is her fault, something she did on purpose just to spite Savvie by stealing time.

“Oh. Well.” Savvie folds her hands with a soft rattle as the cuffs knock into the shiny, sealed tabletop. She leans over, and Izzy can see the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, now, the hint of them around her lips. Her jawline seems stronger, more carved, she is a statue version of a parent that Izzy remembers as a kind of terrifying whirlwind. Her hair is less overwhelming, the deep brown graying at the temples, pulled back simply against the nape of her neck. It isn’t so long, as it once was. Savvie pauses, waits for Izzy to look her in the eyes. “Happy birthday, Isabella.”

The name is wrong - it’s always been wrong - but Izzy smiles, anyway. “Thanks. Eighteen is a bit weird, it doesn’t feel any different than seventeen did, but-”

“My no-contact orders were signed here, in the US,” Savvie says, interrupting her, thinking this through. “So you, what, had to be eighteen to come see me? Have you wanted to before?” She leans forward, and Izzy leans back, feeling her back press into the chair behind her, letting her right hand drop to rub at the seam of her jeans on the outside of one thigh. Her heart beats harder. “Did he keep you from seeing me?”

He.

“No,” Izzy says, and her voice is thin at first, but she clears her throat and the second try is stronger. “No, he didn’t. He would have, if I’d have wanted to, before. I just didn’t ‘til now. We’re, um-... we’re doing an American holiday, more or less.”

Shit. She shouldn’t have said-

“‘We’?” Savvie’s expression brightens, with real interest now. Her eyes pin Izzy like a butterfly to a display case, jam tiny needles through her wings, hold her fast. “He’s here? Jax is here?”

“He’s not,” Izzy lies, smooth as silk, without hesitating. She’d planned for this question, prepared for this. She’d sat up til two in the morning prepping for the ways her mother might try to talk about her father, and more importantly, the ways that Izzy wouldn’t give her what she wanted. She’d just been hoping to hide it better for longer. “He didn’t come with m-me here. It’s just me, Mom, and some friends.”

Savvie clicks her tongue against her teeth. “He didn’t think I was too dangerous, for you to speak to?”

She can’t help her slight, sardonic laugh at that. “You’re in prison, Mom.” It feels weird, to hear herself say Mom out loud, as though that was ever what Savvie had been. She was four the last time she said Mommy to Savvie’s face, and even then it had been an apology Izzy can barely remember now, her own sense of a small voice saying, I’m sorry, Mommy, I won’t do it anymore, but she can’t remember what she’d done to get in trouble.

Breathe, probably.

“You’re in prison,” She repeats, and her heartbeat settles a little, reassuring herself with the words spoken out loud, made real. “You’re the least dangerous you’ve ever been, to us.”

Savvie sits back, less pleased now. “I was never dangerous. Did he tell you I was dangerous to you? I never was. That was a lie he made up, so they would help take you and your brother away from me. I only ever wanted us to be a family, Isabella.”

“Mom.” Izzy’s voice wavers, and Savvie might smile a little at the sound, but if she does, it’s because she sees the wrong reason for the waver, or… maybe she enjoys the annoyance, the anger, as much as she would fear. “We both know that’s not true, none of that is true.”

“I wanted a family,” Savvie says, in a low voice, not quite a whisper. Regretful, mournful. She trails a fingernail along the top of the table, and Izzy tenses at the scrape of it. Barely audible but it grates on her nerves nonetheless. She swallows, presses her lips together, tries not to watch it move.

Fails.

Savvie’s nails aren’t painted - in Izzy’s blurry remaining memories of her, Savvie’s nails are always painted colors - but they shine, perfectly filed edges moving, catching a hint of light.

“Your dad,” Savvie says, in that same mournful, grieving tone, “didn’t want you at all. Did you know that? He never did. He hated the very idea of you, and your brother. He thinks I don't know that he cried over the concept of you. No… you were never wanted by anyone but me, until he realized he could steal you to hurt me. He could always be cold that way. He took you and hoped I would-”

“Stop.” Izzy struggles to say it. Even now, with therapy a constant foundation of her life and a stronger one than her mother’s terrifying rage, it’s hard to make herself say the word. She has to fight to make it audible, but it’s still clearly surprising - Savvie goes silent, watching her with those unnerving wide blue eyes. “Please-... stop. I, I know how he felt. You can’t-... you can’t rewrite history, Mom. I know… I know how it was, or I know enough.”

“It’s the truth, Isabella.” Her mother’s expression is so earnestly sincere. Izzy licks at her lips, suddenly dry and chapped, and thinks that if there were a lie-detector test, her mother would pass it, stone-cold. No way to tell she didn’t believe her own words. She might, actually, believe the story as it leaves her mouth, believe it so utterly she can lie without even knowing she’s doing it. “That’s all I ever wanted to do, is have the chance to tell you the truth. But he got that no-contact order and made sure you would only ever know how he saw it.” Savvie smiles with wistful regret, every inch the mother mourning her lost children.

Izzy knows better.

Jamie, her little brother, fifteen and with no memory of his mother at all, might fall for this. She's a stranger to him. But Izzy remembers the hours locked alone in the dark, and the sound of her father screaming in pain.

She swallows trying not to think too much about that memory. “It’s not about-... there aren’t two sides, Mom. This isn't like any other divorce. You held him prisoner.” She’s falling into a trap, and she can feel it but she can’t stop herself. Her mother hasn’t tried to so much as reach for her - it wouldn’t be allowed, the guard would step forward if she did - but Izzy still feels like she has been pinned, claws sliding into her shoulders and a heavy weight holding her to her seat. A bird that didn’t see the threat in time to take flight. "You-... held us all-"

“Well, now he’s made sure I’m a prisoner, hasn’t he? Must be nice, to pin all your problems on the Big Bad Witch in prison who can no longer defend herself. But, of course, everything is always my fault.” Savvie shrugs as she cuts Izzy off, almost idly.

"Mom, he has-..." Izzy feels unmoored. Drifting, like this can't be real, this conversation. This can't be real. "You abducted him, you-"

"Everyone has problems, sweetie." Savvie's head tilts a little more, eyes moving over Izzy’s face with an awful, palpable weight. “Don't try to make it a competition." Something gentles, then. The hard planes of her mother's face soften. "You know, you look like him.”

Izzy warms, a little, at that. She shouldn't and she knows it, but still, she does. She smiles, slightly lopsided, and raises one hand to touch the silver rings in the shell of her left ear, two of them right next to each other, one for Jax and one for her brother Jamie. “I hope so,” she admits. “I’ve always wanted to.”

The moment of gentleness in her mother’s expression slips away, replaced by a brittle frigid chill that washes over Izzy, a wave that breaks against her.

Oh, no. I cared more about him than her. Even now, fourteen years on, she still shivers in an old fear.

“He is handsome,” Savvie says, tapping her fingernails again, scraping them along the table. The sound is starting to grate on Izzy’s nerves. “He always was, even in the earliest days. He never knew it, I don’t think. I tried to tell him.”

He didn’t want to hear it from you.

“He hears it enough now,” Izzy says, and her heart goes cold with dread as she realizes she’s nearly given away something much, much worse to say than accidentally admitting her dad came on the trip with her.

Damn it, Izzy, don't let her know about Kieran.

Savvie doesn’t seem to notice the clue. She just keeps tapping. “Do you play music, Isabella? I wondered if either of you would have talent, in the end.”

It’s an abrupt change of subject, and Izzy doesn’t see it for the trap it is.

“I play-... um. I can play some things,” Izzy hedges, shifting uncomfortably from the simple truth that she can play almost anything, if she hears it a couple of times, remembers note-for-note the songs on the radio or the forbidden ones she still hides in playlists buried in playlists, the soft strains of violin that draw her but she would never admit to. “I’m-... in a band, actually.”

Savvie’s eyes are back on hers, then, that unnerving total focus. “What do you play in that band? Is it a real band, or just noise?”

Izzy rubs at the back of her neck, flushing in embarrassment. “Um. I guess it’s about fifty-fifty noise and real. I play bass guitar, actually.”

She’d read somewhere that bass guitar was easy, and figured if she played that, no one would realize the music was inherent in her, demanding expression. She could say she wanted to be in the band because of her father, who had been in one once upon a time, too. She wouldn’t have to admit that the music didn’t come from Jax, but from Savvie’s blood in her veins. She could pretend, with the bass guitar, to be worse at it than she really was without ruining the songs.

Her mother snorts, derisive. “Anyone can play that,” She says, waving one hand in dismissal - but the other has to come with it, and it’s a reminder that, no matter how Izzy feels in the moment, there is no real danger here. “That hardly counts. Can you play a real instrument?”

“It is a real instrument.”

“Hardly.” Savvie looks disappointed, and it’s weird - she hasn’t seen her face-to-face since she was four, and she hasn’t said a word to her in that time, and still… the disappointment hurts, a little. “You weren’t allowed to do music, were you? He forbade you, because of me.”

“No, he absolutely didn’t.” It’s Izzy’s turn to lean forward, her hands closing into fists in her lap now, an old habit from childhood she’s mostly broken but it comes back, now, as her irritation rises in eternal defense of Jax. “He’s always supported whatever I wanted to do-”

“Because he doesn’t care enough to make sure you’re doing something worthwhile.” Her mother’s sigh cracks open a dark door inside her, it’s familiar even to her fading memories. It’s a sigh she knows from birth. Before Izzy can respond again, she changes the subject, deft as a dancer. “What are you doing for school, then? Are you going to go to college?”

Izzy blinks, thrown off track. “Um. Yes, I do plan on it, I’ll be going to university next autumn-”

“You’ve got the accent, too. Guess they’ve painted over everything they didn’t like, didn’t they?”

“Wh-what?” Her heart stops as her mother’s voice is sharp again. Her fists tighten, pressing down into her thighs until they nearly ache. “What’d you-”

“You look like him, dress like the dime-store version of him - honestly, Isabella, look at you, you look… grimy. You even talk like him. What is this, trying to look like the daughter he might have actually wanted? Is that it?”

Izzy swallows, sitting back again, thumping into the back of the chair. Someone nearby is crying, soft, muffled sobs. Someone else is whispering, in vicious intensity, in fury. The guards are impassive. There’s no sign they even hear Savvie speaking at all. “It’s just who I am-”

“No, it isn’t. I saw your name, Isabella Gallagher. You were born a Marcoset, but he was happy when he changed it, wasn’t he?” Savvie’s eyes won’t let her look away. She feels completely captured, the center of Savannah Marcoset’s world, the most terrifying place on Earth, somewhere Izzy has never once been. “I asked you a question, Isabella. He was happy to have you change your name, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.” She’s not sure why she answers. The anxious shivering inside of her is stronger than it should be. Her voice is a whisper, a rush of air with only a hint of sound. “But it was-... my idea-”

“I’m sure he let you think that. I feel sorry for you, you know. I really do. He must care for James so much more than he does you, don’t you think? My beautiful son wasn’t old enough to even speak to me, but you… you’re a reminder, aren’t you? Oh…" Savvie's lips purse, in a sort of smug smile. "Oh, you are. God, what torture it must be for him to be around you."

She’s supposed to be stupid. Izzy has watched all the documentaries that mention the case, she read an awful unauthorized true crime book she found in a thrift shop once that just had a little teensy chapter on Savvie buried between other femme fatales. She’s done her research, to understand the woman she was going to meet as best she could.

Savannah Marcoset is supposed to be… well, stupid.

Izzy wasn’t prepared for cunning not being the same thing as smart. And she didn’t think through what eleven years in prison, with almost nothing to do but think, and no chance of leaving ever for the rest of her life, might do to hone her mother’s ability to wound. That Savvie might have taken a blunt instrument and whittled it into a blade.

“I-I’m not-”

“You are.” Savvie hums, and the tapping of her nails is going to drive Izzy up the fucking wall. “Even just being alive, you are. And your hair, well…” Savvie’s eyes go up to Izzy’s hair, the same deep chocolate brown as Savannah’s own, a shock of curly brown that falls over her forehead and against one side, nearly shaved on the other side and along the back. “You can cut it, but it’s still my hair. You walk around a living reminder of what he stole from me, just to hurt me, what he didn’t even want. You were never wanted, Isabella. That’s why your birth is part of my crimes, don’t you think? You and James both. You’re a crime I committed against him, right?”

“A crime-” Her voice cracks, but if she sounds uncertain, it’s only her nerves, her inability to stand up for herself sometimes. It’s not fear. She is not afraid of this woman, and she doesn’t believe her.

Okay, a little afraid.

But she doesn’t believe her, she doesn’t. She knows better, because she knows how hard her father has worked to build the life around her, the one she’s living now. She knows how many times he has held her after nightmares - hers and his both. She knows he could have left her and James behind, but he didn’t.

Every chance he had to set them down, he chose to hold them instead.

Most of all, she knows the way her father has carefully, day by day and year by year, taught her that love is not the same thing as danger.

Her shoulders square, and her back straightens. “You keep saying that, b-but… there’s a difference between not wanting someone who will be hurt to, to be there to be hurt, and caring about someone. There’s-... you can’t see the difference, is all, but I can. I know-” She swallows. “I know how it looks like when he loves someone, and you don’t.”

“Hm.” Savvie’s fascination flags, a little, at that. Her stare is unnerving, unblinking, but Izzy feels the anger coming off of her, hidden and still plain as day. “Changing the subject, I see. So much of you is just a walking reminder. You’re just a tragedy on two legs, aren’t you, Isabella?”

Part of Izzy thinks wryly, how long ago did you think of that and how long have you been waiting for someone to say it to? but the rest of her can’t find the breath to say it out loud. “You can’t make my life worse than it is, Mom. Not anymore. I didn’t come h-here for this, I came here for-”

I came here to see if you could see me, even now, or only a reflection of what you can’t have. I guess I have my answer.

Savvie hasn’t stopped talking. “What of you is even yourself, Isabella? Are you just… trying not to be me? Do you not want him to think of me?” Her smile widens. Flash of teeth. For a second, just one brief second, Izzy sees fangs. “Oh, sweetie. You can’t ever change that, no matter what you do. I was important. I ruined his life, remember? There was a whole court case about it. Two, really. It’s why I’m here. Because I’m the Big Bad Wolf, or so I’m told.” She snorts. “You should have worn red, Isabella. Or something.”

“Or something,” Izzy whispers, looking down at her hands, at her knuckles gone white, her fists. The round clock is ticking on the wall, and it’s only an hour. She told herself she could last for an hour, when she walked in here. She told herself she could make it, and she would.

“Isabella-”

“You didn’t, by the way.” Where the words come from, she’s not sure. But they come out sure, and strong. "You didn't ruin his life. It’s better, it’s good.”

“Oh? Is it?” Savvie feigns disinterest, but she’s so bright and sparkling, pulling Izzy in. “What about it is so good, Isabella? What does my husband do, in his whole new life without me? What can he do? Show me how I’m wrong.” Savvie’s presence is heavy, it takes up too much space, feels like Izzy is pressed against the wall, suffocating. How did they live like this, surrounded by her on all sides, all the time? How had Jax ever survived so long alone with her?

Her voice trembles more than she wants it to when she speaks. “What?”

“You say I’m wrong - about him, about you.” Savvie is a shark, and Izzy is blood in the water. She seems bigger, suddenly, or maybe Izzy is smaller. Younger. Has too much hair for her age and a frilly dress she hates and she has to be good, and so quiet, and do exactly what she is told or her father will be hurt, and it will be her fault, because it’s always, always her fault-

Savvie’s voice is not quite a whisper. “Tell me, Isabella, all these things I am so wrong about. Even if you believe his side of the story, he’s all I thought about, the only thing that mattered, right? So I know him better than anyone else, don’t I? And you’re mine. I know everything about you, without even trying."

“You don’t-... know anything about me.” Izzy knows she’s getting quieter, and knows as she retreats, her mother presses forward, thrilled to play a game she hasn’t played in… in eleven years, more or less. “And you don’t know a single thing about him.”

“I know every fucking scar on his body.” Izzy’s stomach flips, but Savvie is leaning forward again, and the blue of her eyes is overtaking everything else around them. Plain beige walls and plain table and plain bars over plain windows can’t compete. The gray of everyone’s prison outfits, her own black-and-slightly-less-black, none of it is a good enough distraction, enough to tear her away. “That’s what I know. You’re sweet, Isabella, and it’s lovely of you to try and be the dutiful little daughter all over again. But I know things you don’t, I always have. I know I still do. He hasn’t told you half of it, and he won’t.”

It’s a strike, a feint and then a jab, and if this were a real fight Izzy would be ready for it, but words are so much harder to defend against. “I was a little kid, I didn’t need to know it, I didn’t want to. I don’t need to know-”

“You had colic, for a month or so.” Savvie cuts her off, raising her voice a little. One of the guards behind her shifts, might look at them from behind the dark of his glasses at the volume. “When you were little. Cried like a banshee, day and night, no reason. I could hear you in my practice room. Still think you know everything?”

“This isn’t-... I don’t know why you’re telling me this."

“I had my responsibilities, sweetie. I mean, I was a new mother, but I was still a person. I didn’t need to change all that much, really. Jax spent half his time trying to keep me away from you, your own mother, and the other half trying to shut you up.”

“You could be-... he said you were up-upset, sometimes, um, you c-could be-”

“Violent? Never. I was tired, maybe - we both were. Jax has never slept well."

Because of you.

"Oh, here we go. One of my favorites of his little insults… does he say I was unstable? I’m sure I’ve heard it all. Probably in court, no less, he very much enjoyed getting on stage to put on his little show. Taking the jury around and around in circles acting like I never did anything kind for you.” Her eyes move back to Izzy’s hair, shaking her head slightly, one lip curling upward in a sneer. “I certainly would have been kind enough not to let you make yourself look like that.”

“Mom-”

“Shut up, Isabella. I am talking to you, and I am not done yet.”

Izzy’s mouth snaps shut, teeth clicking together, her nails digging into her palms. Her eyes flicker to the guard, trying to catch him, but no, she’s going to last the whole hour, she promised herself she could do it, she promised.

Besides, it's… sort of harder than she thought, to look away when Savvie is talking.

“We ended up getting my, well, Isaac’s servant Hannah to help with you. Because of the colic. He asked for her, really. I was prepared to bring in someone else, but Jax had his demands, and when he really wanted something, well.” She shrugs, calmly, casually. She is talking about a reality that never existed, moving all the pieces around until the past suits her and not the court documents. Until her story is the one circling Izzy’s head, and not the story she knows has to actually be true. “How could I refuse?”

“He asked-... but when he wanted-”

“What did I just say?”

“Mom, I need to-”

“Let. Me. Finish.”

“N-No, I don’t want to hear this-”

“You know what he started to do? Once we had Hannah around, a few days a week? When the steward began to come as well? Do you know what the number one change your father made to his life was, once that happened?”

“Mom, please. Please don’t do this.” Her voice is nearly gone, and Savvie leaps.

“He started getting the hell away from you.” Savvie throws her head back and laughs, loud enough to make people look over at them. Izzy wonders, face burning in embarrassment, what they see. Do they know who Savvie is? Is she really famous, here, like Izzy thinks she is? Does everyone know they’re watching Savannah Marcoset push her daughter under the water and watch her struggle to breathe?

But… the words hurt. He got the hell away from you. “He did-... he did what?”

“Fucking escaped you. He thinks I didn’t notice. Everyone always thinks I don’t notice, didn’t know things. Your father - my Jax - thinks I’m a fucking idiot, I get that now. But I saw that, him handing you off to Hannah or the steward and get as far away from you as he could without-” Savvie lifts her hands to tap at the side of her neck with a slight, almost dreamy smile. “Everyone says I’m the bad mom, the bad parent, but I’m not the only one who shoved you aside every chance I got.” Savvie hums, almost idly. She’s playing, Izzy thinks dimly. Cat with a ball of yarn. Somehow the words hurt a little less when the realization comes. “That’s the thing, though, isn’t it, Bella-”

“Izzy,” She whispers, but her mother doesn’t hear her, or doesn’t care.

“You know you are, fundamentally, his fucking nightmare. Your father sat up there before judge and jury and told everyone that I only had you so I could control him just a little bit more. Did you see that, in the documentaries you watched? Did you hear about it? Did he tell you that you only existed to be a weapon, that you're just a pretty little tool in my toolbox?"

She doesn’t want to answer any of those questions, and keeps her eyes down, focuses on the knuckles of her hands. How they sit over her lap so nicely, if you ignore that they are fists. Her face still burns bright red, and her eyes are hot with tears she blinks rapidly away before her mother can see them fall.

“He’ll say I didn’t love you.” Savvie’s expression is chilled, disdainful. “But your father had whole days he could barely stand to touch you. He had days he couldn’t even look at you. You ran around after him begging for, what, for someone to pat you on the head and say you were good just as you are? No wonder he couldn’t give you that.”

“He did give me that, over and over-... how you’re saying it isn’t how it happened, you’re not remembering what actually happened, Mom-”

“I think, deep down, you know it’s because no matter what you do with your hair, or your clothes, he is always going to look at you and see me. That’s the fear, isn’t it? That you're me, or you will be. That’s why you’re here, why you flew all the way across the fucking Atlantic to pay Mommy a visit. You wanted to see how much of you is me. How much of me is in you. How much of a fuck he can even give, in the end, for my daughter." She laughs again, and Izzy flinches. "He must hate you, deep down, and part of you knows it. Am I right?”

Izzy can’t answer at first, and her mother clicks her tongue, falsely sympathetic.

“Oh, sweetie. It’s okay. I can’t do a fucking thing to you, or him, or anyone now. But I’m glad you came to see me. I'm glad to see that you're just the same, easy to break as ever. You'll end up with exactly the love you deserve, Bella. Won't you?"

Izzy's eyes are blurred, struggling to focus. What rises in her isn’t fear, or doubt, or even sadness. It’s anger, the same simmering slow burn that that comes whenever someone tries to push her and her father down, when they have to force their way back up. "N-no-"

"Yes. You'll get what you were born for, one way or another. Don't worry, sweetie. You're not like me at all. You're just… a mirror, and the reflection isn't even a good one." Savvie laughs, cold and cruel, delighting in the pain on her daughter's face. "Here I was worried you’d be angry, but I don’t think you can be. Is that too much like me, too?”

“No, I’m… I get a-angry sometimes, I can… it’s not like that-”

“Not like what? Speak up, Bella. Stop mumbling, you were always a mumbler. Most children shout, you know.”

“Most children don’t get locked in closets if they do.” Izzy is still whispering at the start, but the words come more strongly as she works her way through them, eyelashes heavy with tears she tries to pretend don’t exist. “Most-... most kids can throw a fit without their dad getting hurt, and most kids get to leave the h-house sometimes, and if I-... if he couldn’t-... it was because of you, not because of m-me.”

“Tell yourself that.”

“I do. I do tell myself that. I only have to tell myself that because of you, and you-... you just wanted to be his whole life and the only thing in it and you’re n-not, and this isn’t even about hurting me, is it? All of this-... telling me about, about him-...”

She can remember it, can’t she? Faint traces remain, of asking for Jax and being told by her Aunt Hannah that he needed some time, of asking and having her Papa Stewart give her a hug instead, of asking and asking and then learning not to ask…

“You aren’t telling me this to hurt me. You’re telling me this to hurt him.” Izzy raises her eyes, aware of the bright red blotches on her cheeks, aware of the tear tracks, aware of her hands in fists and the zinging anger in her that simmers underneath her fear. “You want me to take this out into the-... into the world, back to Dad, and tell him what you said because it’ll hurt him to hear that you said it, and you’ve been in prison for eleven years and missed most of my life and nearly all of my little brother’s - who you haven’t asked me a single fucking question about, by the w-way - and all you can think about, even now, is the… the one who got away from you.”

The balance shifts, some of the glittering brightness fades from Savvie’s eyes, the fascinated sadism seeps out of her expression. “Isabella-”

“Izzy. I’m called Izzy. And you know that, because you’ve known it ever since the trial. And maybe I was-... was hard, for him, when I was a baby and I can’t fix that or make it any better, it’s all already happened and I’ve had to learn not to feel guilty about it since I was four years old, but of the two of you, only one has ever bothered to give any solitary fucks about who I am! I came here to see if you could-... if you could change, or rethink, or even just, just feel something about me, and all you can feel is the parts of me that are him!”

“Isabella-”

“You shut up! You do it, now, and you listen to what I have to say! I was sc-scared, all the time, because of you, not him. He was the one who came to let me out, and he was the one who held me when I was scared, and even if he didn’t want to be near me, he still tried! You don’t-... you don’t get to change the story and make it not what it was, Mom, I know what it was.”

“You know what he told you it was.”

“No. I know what it actually really was. There is no other alternative world where you’re the good guy, or better than he was! Maybe I was a hard baby to l-love, because of whose baby I am, and I-I carry that forever… that I'm not the kid he would've wanted to have... but he tried, and if he didn’t love me at first, at least he tried until he learned how! But… but I know he did. I know he loved me, and Jamie, so much that he did the scariest thing he could imagine by running with us and having to hope we could make it to Grandpa before you could catch us again. I think you don’t know him at all, and you’re going to die in prison still not knowing, and that’s why you’re doing this now. It is killing you that you could lock us up and put that thing on his neck and keep us trapped and you still don’t know any of us at all.”

“I made every single scar-”

“Scars aren’t who someone is! They’re just marks of you being shitty to him! They don’t say who he is now, or how his mind works, or how fucking brilliant he is at being a dad! You know some marks on his skin, but I know who he is when he’s safe, and strong, and happy, and you will never know that man. You won’t ever know what he looks like really in love, and I do, and it is absolutely nothing like he looked around you!"

Her eyes flare. “Bella, what are you talking about, in love? With who? Who would-”

“I came here to see if-... if any part of me really is you, and it’s not, because all the parts of me that matter are from him and Grandpa and Papa Stewart and Nana and my aunties and none of the important bits are yours at all! No one loves you, because you can’t love anyone, but I can, and he can, and Jamie can. You are never ever going to see him again… and I’m going to walk out that door and give him a fucking hug."

She shoves her chair back, making a metallic screech along the floor that makes her mother wince, adrenaline pumping through her veins. It’s a kind of fight, this, she’d been pinned to the mat and fought her way back to standing in the end.

“I am proud of him, for all he’s done to make an even better life for Jamie and me, and I am proud of him for finding Kieran, after you - and Kie’s a better bonus dad by a million years than you ever were a mom - and… and he’s proud of me. He’s proud of the person I am and not just the person he thought I was supposed to be. That’s more important than, than anything, is that he and I-... we can be proud of each other, and you can’t be proud of anything but yourself.”

Savvie looks startled, now, struggling to regain the surety she’d felt before. She can’t stand or the guard will come, and so she stays seated, and looks up at Izzy, no taller than her father but wiry still. “I think we’re done here,” Savvie says coldly. “You’re clearly too swept up in your father to be worth talking to.”

“Maybe,” Izzy shrugs, shoves her hands in her hoodie pockets, finds the comfortable weight of her phone, switched off for during the visit like the guards had asked. Wonders if her dad, sitting in the rental in the parking lot, has started pacing yet. If he’s watching the clock, waiting for her text to come through, bouncing his foot like he does sometimes. If he’s pretending to read or texting Kieran or if he’s just staring at the squat building that stretches wide on either side, waiting for her to come out. “Did I disappoint you, then? How I am, just me?”

“Oh, sweetie.” Savvie shakes her head, ruefully. Her expression shifts into mournfulness, just a few seconds too late for it to be convincing. “I had high hopes for you. But he ruined you, in the end. Absolutely ruined you.”

“That’s… that’s probably good. I don’t think I’ll come back, Mom. But I might-... I might write a letter.” Why she throws the offer out, she doesn’t know, only… only some part of her will always, always want to keep hoping that this will change.

Savvie’s eyebrows raise. “I might answer it. Can you fix your hair, if you ever come again? And wear something… nicer than this?”

Izzy blinks, rolling her eyes back to look up at her hairline, down to look at her shirt and jeans, and then back to her mother. “Why? Because it’s shorter than you want it to be? Because you don’t like my clothes?”

“Because you look like a lesbian, Isabella.”

Izzy blinks, too thrown to find the words at first, and then she shrugs, rubbing her thumb along the side of her phone in her pocket, her palms aching where her nails had dug in so deeply, over very old scars. She can’t quite help her smile. “Oh. Well, fuck, Mom, my girlfriend will be shocked when she hears you feel that way.”

“Your what?”

Izzy turns and walks away, past the other tables with crying or hurting people, or people who look like they want very badly to hug and can’t, and she doesn’t look back.

The door clangs open and slams shut behind her, the hallway stretching out ahead, and she walks down two sets of stairs and around a corner before she sees the big heavy doors that lead out into the world, the huge parking lot warmed by sunlight with no trees to break the glare of it. She gives the guards manning the checkpoint a little wave of one hand, pushing the door open, and moves into the glaring, brilliant light, turning to face the corner where her father has been waiting by the rental.

He’s definitely been pacing.

She smiles and heads towards him, giving him a big wave. He’s moving towards her before her hand is even fully in the air.

If her mother’s words are designed to shatter, her father’s love - starting with his desperate attempts to protect her, his whispered be brave for me, Izzy as they boarded a train, written across every single day of her life - is a foundation too strong to be broken.

Her mother, Izzy thinks, can’t understand love like that.

But Izzy does.

And it's more than enough.

Always.

---

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @wildfaewhump @whump-tr0pes @moose-teeth @orchidscript @sableflynn @pretty-face-breaker @raigash @vickytokio @eatyourdamnpears

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fluffypeachwriting · 3 years ago

Note

hiyaaa~~

its me, the hitoya and reader getting transported to some unknown place! im rlly happy that u had fun writing it and i enjoyed reading it too! ٩(*•͈ ꇴ •͈*)و ̑̑❀

hehe u mentioned that u would be more than happy to write a sequel and oh my gosh id like to take up on that offer!! huhuu~ im already invested on what would happen to hitoya and the reader, and what theyre gonna do!!

thank you for writing my request and ill be waiting on for the sequel of it! good luck and im wishing you good health now and in the future! (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)

I’m sorry that you had to wait so long for this, but it’s finally finished! This sequel turned out to be around 3700 words, so I hope you don’t mind that! I had so much fun with this concept, and so I hope you like reading it! Maybe I’ll do more isekai concepts in the future - I’m so happy that you requested this! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Let’s get back to what Hitoya and Reader are up to! Maybe they’re alone on the boat, but are they alone in the water?

When you had stopped crying, you and Hitoya tried to investigate this strange boat. The unease of being thrown into a new world slowly morphed into a strong curiosity. It took about an hour for you to find your sea legs. It was surprisingly easy to get used to the swaying. The occasional movements you had to make to counteract that swaying came naturally to you.

An unexpected calm washed over the boat, and it became easier to think. Only for you though, Hitoya hadn’t said much in a while. In a strange change of heart, Hitoya had warmed up to life on a boat, in his own way. Either that or he was bored of complaining about it. There was a rugged-looking crewmate’s jacket folded over one of the seats inside the ship, which he took a liking too right away. It fit him perfectly, and while the pirate-y look wasn’t his usual deal, it certainly did him favours.

You had also found something – a pocket watch that had been dropped on the top deck. You were keeping an eye on it, checking on it constantly until an hour had passed. At least, the hour hand had moved from six to seven – that was the only change. The sun hadn’t moved, the air was still brisk, and the sea still looked like red wine.

You sighed and put the watch back. Hitoya was looking over into the sea, thought you couldn’t tell if he was searching for something or simply contemplating things. Usually you wouldn’t hesitate to ask him what was wrong, and usually he would smile and pat your head, saying that everything was alright. But things were not like how they usually were. You thought it was best to leave him alone and stay close by.

In your other hand you were still holding that unusual hat, and until now you hadn’t paid it much mind. There wasn’t any need to, until a harsh gust of wind caught you off guard and knocked it out of your hand.

“No!” You instinctively yelled out, reaching to grab the hat.

Inches from sliding into Hitoya’s legs, you fell flat on your stomach and caught the hat.

“That was close,” You said, standing up and putting on the hat without thinking. Then the unease in your stomach vanished. The salty air felt natural to breathe in, like it was cleansing you from the inside out. A sense of purpose filled you, and the boat felt like home.

“Nice hat you got there, captain.” Hitoya said endearingly, though with a hint of sarcasm. “Where’d you find that?”

“I didn’t find it anywhere, it’s just mine,” You said without thinking. That was surely wrong, since you didn’t have a captain’s hat on you at all this morning. Wait, a captain’s hat? You patted it, and sure enough, it was just like a captain’s hat you’d see in a cartoon.

“Makes you look the part.” Hitoya smiled fondly, making the last shred of unease float away. If he had your back, then everything really would be alright, even in this crazy situation.

With the unease gone, your mind was clear enough to realise how exhausted you were. It was only just this morning when you woke up early to buy Hitoya a cake. That cake sounded really good right now. You were hungry too.

“Hungry… I hope the wind doesn’t pick up… don’t wanna eat when the ship is moving too much,” You said to yourself.

However, life wasn’t so kind, apparently. The sails of the ship started flapping quickly, almost enough to make you jump. A box came from nowhere and slid on the deck, lightly hitting your leg. “Geez…” You held onto your hat pre-emptively, expecting wind.

A moment passed, but no wind came.

“Kid, let’s put this back.” Hitoya knelt down to move the box, but stopped. “Hm.”

“What is it?” You bent down to see what he was curious about. It wasn’t a sight that stopped him, but a smell. It took no time to figure out what it was, in your hungry state, “Food!”

Pushing past Hitoya, you opened the box to find it full of yummy-looking snacks and treats, from sweet pastries to homemade bentos. They were all fresh, too.

“Where did this come from?” You asked into the air.

Hitoya didn’t reply. The ship did. You looked up to see the sails flapping again, and the crow’s nest twirling around. The ship was��

“Alive?!” You exclaimed, already munching on a croissant.

“Hey, are you sure that’s safe?”

“Mm!” It tasted like it was fresh out of the oven.

“Alright, I won’t stop you.” Hitoya threw up his hands and stood, not taking anything from the box.

So this was a magic ship with a magic food box. You thought about this, pacing around the ship while munching on more food, until a glimmer of something caught your eye.

Something shiny had been dropped onto the deck. You went to pick it up, and found that the water was also shiny. Flecks of water surrounding the shiny thing, which was sitting in a pool of glitter, though it didn’t look as artificial as plastic glitter. It was a ring, just a plain silver band, with lots of little scuffs and scratches around it. A voice in the back of your mind told you that it was safe to pick it up, so you did. The water was fine to touch, and the ring itself was normal.

Something was also caught on the inside of the ring, something small, thin, flat, and a little bit curved. It took you a moment to get it out without breaking it. Though, when you got it out, none of your questions were answered. It looked like a holographic fish scale. Tinges of blue and purple reflected off it, in such a way that you could have mistaken it for a precious gem. It felt too hard to be from a normal fish, but then again, you were in no normal land – or, water.

A ring and a fish scale. It seemed like the more time you spent here, the more questions needed to be answered. However, it was something to go off. Before you could form a coherent thought, it was all coming back to you, or at least you would be thinking that if you had been here before.

You quickly looked around to relay this exciting development to Hitoya but he was nowhere to be found. After a frantic search, you found him looking through a cabinet inside what was probably a kitchen.

“We have to look for the water that sparkles. That’s right, we’re here to look for something.” The weight of the captain’s hat got a little lighter.

“Huh?” Hitoya looked at you like you had lost your mind. He shut the cabinet (that seemed to have whisky bottles lined up inside) and faced you. “What’re you on about now?”

You held out the ring to him, “This is a clue. It hadn’t been dropped on the deck by someone on the ship – someone in the water threw it on.”

“There’s not gonna be anyone in that water alive. There’s no one for miles. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head or something?”

He wasn’t ready to humour you just yet.

“I’m sure! This ring is totally a clue, you have to believe me! We were sent here for a purpose!” In your other hand, you showed him the scale, “And this is our way out!”

“Haah, I hate to burst your bubble but, are you really sure you didn’t hit your head? What if we go the same way we came, with a candle. It’s crazy but it’s not out the blue like that – wait, let me see that ring.” Hitoya, with his brow suddenly furrowed in concentration, took the ring from you and examined it. “Tch. I hate to say it, but I think I recognise this ring. I dunno if I like what it implies though…”

“What is it what is it what is it?!” Hearing about this was very exciting. “Your captain orders you to tell me!”

“Heh. Don’t get used to that, kid. Well, this ring looks like it belongs to someone we know. I don’t think we’re the only ones out here.”

“Get to the point!”

“You really can be like my kid,” Hitoya mumbled, “Alright. This looks like Kuko’s ring.”

“What?!”

“It’s a shot in the dark but, yeah. It’d be nice to see those two again, rather than bein’ stuck here.” Hitoya rubbed the back of his neck.

“Aww. Maybe you miss them.”

“Hmph. I’m not saying any more on that.” He crossed his arms, then spoke with a little more energy in his voice, clearly wanting to shift the subject: “Any leads on your end, captain?”

“I’ve got no clue. I… I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t fall overboard. I’m not jumpin’ in after you.” Hitoya said, knowing that he actually would jump in.

“Gotcha.” You left, going out to the deck to look around.

The sun was high in the sky, raining down an intense heat – it was about midday. As you stepped out, a gentle breeze blew away the cobwebs. The afternoon air was nice, although it was not helpful. It had been midday for a few hours. But the last time you saw the sky it was still orange, and you were sure that the sun had been setting. None of this made sense.

“Sparkly water, what does that even mean?” You pondered, pacing around the deck.

The ring and the scale sat in your pocket. You closed your eyes and focused on the smooth surface of the scale, trying to figure out what it all meant. As captain, leading the ship to its destination was your job, and it was even more important to keep your crew in check. That was hard to do when you didn’t know what you were here for.

“And a ring was thrown onto the deck. Even if it’s not Kuko’s, that’s pretty weird.”

Waves gently crashed against the side of the ship, which had been smoothly sailing itself for a while. A soft wind pushed the sails forward. The ocean was endless, with no islands in sight. There weren’t even any other ships. The horizon was visible from all angles, and from all sides. All except near the back. There was an odd contraption laying there, and upon further inspection, you had idea what it was. It looked like an old washtub connected to a wooden crane. There were no levers or cranks for a human to work it by, so you left it alone. For now, you stood near the side facing the sun. Watching the sunlight catch the peaks of little waves was mesmerising. You found yourself watching it for a while, forgetting about this whole ordeal.

Among the waves, there was a small patch of bubbling water. You strained to look at it – there was a pair of binoculars inside, but you didn’t want to move in case this anomaly went out of sight.

At first you thought it could have been mist from a whale’s blowhole, but it was too calm for that. The more you considered it, the more you thought it just looked like someone blowing bubbles underwater. Either way, your heart swelled upon seeing it. It struck you that this whole time you were staring out at sea, you hadn’t seen any wildlife at all – whatever this was, it was something that needed to be checked out by the ship’s captain.

“Ship!” You stood up straight and called out.

The ship’s sails flapped excitedly, like they were responding to you calling out them.

“I want to look at that patch of bubbles from the side, can you sail slowly over there?” Going full speed ahead would certainly sound cool, but approaching this with caution was a smarter move.

The ship lurched forward, obeying everything you told it to do, apart from the ‘slowly.’

“What the hell was that?” Hitoya scrambled onto the deck. He looked like a cat that had just had its nap disturbed.

“I’ve found something! Stay alert, matey!” You kept your eyes peeled and focused. The patch of bubbles split into two smaller patches. One was moving fairly quickly away from the other, but the other soon caught up. The ship, somehow defying the weak breeze, matched its pace with the bubbles.

“Stop, ship!” You braced yourself against the edge of the ship as it stopped. Yes! The water here was ever so slightly sparkly. It looked warm and inviting – you had to hold yourself back from jumping in.

“This seems like the place. You got a good eye, kid. Hey, is that a voice? Is someone drowning?!”

Hitoya was right – from the two patches of bubbles, there came two voices. Though you weren’t too far from them, they were barely audible.

You lowered a rope ladder off the side of the ship and took a few steps down it, hanging on just above the water. “Hey, is someone there? Do you need help?” You called out.

The voices stopped, and everything was quiet. With bated breath, you and Hitoya waited for a reply. Even the ship’s sails were still.

You were about to call again, when a long, red mass swam quickly through the water, creating ripples that splashed on your legs. Another mass was following behind it, though it wasn’t as temperamental as the first.

“Captain, it’s just a weird fish. Come back on board before you fall in.” Hitoya said. “I don’t want you gettin’ eaten.

You stayed right where you were: “No, we’ve come this far! And fish don’t let out bubbles.”

“Fine. It’s a tiny whale.”

“No! We’re staying here.”

Hitoya huffed and leant over to look.

“Listen to your captain, Hitoya.” A voice from under you said.

Your head whipped round to meet the source – it was Kuko! Or at least, it was his head that was peeking out of the water.

“Kuko! Come on board – don’t drown!” You held out your hand to help him up, barely registering the ‘how’ or ‘why’ of him being there.

“Nah thanks, I can’t exactly get up.”

You were about to ask what he meant when another familiar face popped up from the water – it was Jyushi!

“Jyushi! Why are you two in the ocean? And why do you look different? Come on board before you drown!”

“Hey, I hear ya.” Kuko rose up to the surface, just past his shoulders, so that he could freely talk with his hands and he spoke. “Yeah, shit’s different about us – we got other things to worry about first.”

Jyushi, however, only let his head come above water. “Aha! I’m so happy to see both of you again, ehe. I can’t wait to get home!”

“Get home? We can’t even get on the boat,” Kuko snapped.

“Uuuu… I know, but still,” Jyushi whined, and dejectedly blew bubbles under the water.

“You two,” Hitoya butted in, “Don’t keep us out of the loop. What’re you hiding from us?”

“Alright alright. Check this out!” Kuko grinned before diving down into the water and holding himself there, showing off his blue and purple… fish tail. In a flash, he righted himself again. “How’d’ya like that, huh? We’re mermaids – me and Jyushi!”

With your free hand, you took out the scale from your pocket and held it up – it was a match. “So this is from you? And your ring… How did that even happen?”

“Haah? We can talk about all that later. Just help us go home. I wanna get back to takin’ a nap.” Kuko was getting more frustrated by the second.

“I thought you were training today?” You innocently asked.

“Whatever.” Kuko frowned and turned his head.

Instead of his grown out shave, Kuko had long flowing hair like he had been growing it out for years. That long mass of red you saw earlier must have been all that hair. Jyushi was the same; he had no mullet anymore, just a waterfall of black hair.

Kuko must have seen you staring, because he called out to you: “Listen, I dunno if mermaid hairdressers exist but I know they’d have a hard time cleanin’ up all the cut hair when they’re floatin’ all about.” Kuko wasn’t too happy about detracting from the real issue, though he mumbled just loud enough for you to hear: “Kinda like it. Maybe one day.”

“It looks good on you!” You said.

“H-hey! Listen, kiddo. There are things more important than this, like how’re we gonna get up there? Figure that out, captain.”

“I don’t know…”

There was no way you could pull them up by hand – neither you nor Hitoya – and they couldn’t climb the rope ladder only by their arms (maybe Kuko could, but definitely not Jyushi).

The ships sails rattled impatiently. The ship… they needed to get on the ship. If only there was something made just for getting mermaids on the ship. But there was, you realised, thinking back over the past few hours: The strange contraption on the ship was made just for this!

“Ship! Lower the… tub thing… into the water!” You commanded the ship, and it answered.

With a few creaks, the ship turned the gears of the crane and lowered the tub into the water. The managed to swim inside and get settled with minimum fuss. Jyushi was having fun splashing his tub-mate with water, and Kuko was holding back from throwing Jyushi over the side. Soon, the two boys were on board, and lounging in the tub as the ship sailed forth.

Or, you would be going forth, but you didn’t know where you were going.

“Oi, Captain,” Hitoya said, “Where are we headed? If you don’t mind, your first mate here is gonna hit the hay.”

You were starting to feel sleepy yourself. “I’ll join you. I’m tired after all that.”

A loud whine came from behind you, which ended as a yawn. Of course, it was Jyushi. “Uuu… don’t leave me out here with Kuko… He might…”

“What?” Kuko butted in, “Worried I’ll make ya train here? In this boat, as mermaids? Nah. I’m gonna take a nap.” He rested his arms on the rim of the tub and let his head lull back. In almost no time, he was snoring.

You looked to Jyushi, preparing to go and comfort him, only to find that he was fast asleep too. Hitoya had already gone to his quarters so you assumed that he was asleep too. The afternoon was warm, so you could understand why everyone dozed off so quickly. Sitting down on the deck with your back resting against a barrel, you soon fell asleep. You didn’t remember if you were there long, but the sounds of the waves and having everyone safe on board made it easy to rest.

Though you were the last to fall asleep, you were the last one to wake up.

The cabinet behind your head, and the carpet you were sitting on… it was familiar. You were in Hitoya’s office.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” Kuko was peering down at you.

“Huh?” You rubbed your eyes and fully woke up, “Was that all a dream? I don’t remember falling asleep.”

“It was real, kid.” Hitoya offered his hand and helped you stand up. “How, or why, did this even happen?”

“M… maybe it was all a freaky dream! That was all had at the same time!” Jyushi said, but his idea was quickly shut down.

“I dunno. I was takin’ a nap, then I fell into the water.” Kuko said, as nonchalantly as if he was telling you what he had for breakfast. “I don’t think worrying about the ‘how’ or ‘why’ will do us any good, guys.”

“Me too… I took a nap… I mean –! I was really tired after band practice and… and…!” Jyushi looked like he was about to make another ocean with his tears, “I wasn’t being lazy… oh… I hope Amanda isn’t lonely without me…”

Kuko clicked his tongue in annoyance as Jyushi whimpered, Hitoya sighing at both of them. Things were well and truly back to normal. Everyone was in their rightful place.

Out on that strange ocean, where time didn’t move in a regular fashion, it would have been so lonely if you were taken there by yourself. You were glad that you weren’t alone, even if the meaning of it all didn’t make sense. You were all back, so why did you have a feeling that you’d left something behind? Was everyone here?

Even without the help of the captain’s hat, you figured out what you left behind: “We never got to find out the ship’s name… It was kinda cute, like a big puppy! Ships all have names, don’t they? Maybe we could name it!”

“Be thankful we all got back in one piece. Don’t go worrying about a boat.” Hitoya sighed, again.

“Right. Um… happy father’s day…?” You weren’t sure if it was still that day.

In the real world, not much time had passed, so it was now around lunch time, despite it feeling like a whole day had passed.

“Heh. Thanks. What do you all say we go out for food? I’m starving.” A chorus of “Yes!” went around, which made Hitoya crack a smile. “Great. You guys argue and pick something.”

“Hitoya, it’s your day, you pick!” You insisted. It was nice that he didn’t dismiss the whole father’s day thing after all.

“Still hung up over that, huh? Alright. I could go for anything right now. Apart from seafood… huh?” Hitoya apparently noticed something new on his desk. “What’s this? Did you get me this?”

“No, what is it?”

Hitoya picked it up and showed everyone. It was a snow globe, with a tiny model ship sitting in the middle. Around the base, ‘The Chiroptera’ was engraved. The ship was alone in its miniature ocean. When he shook it, little blue flecks flew around, with the occasional fleck of glitter.

And if you looked close enough, the sails were flapping.

#hypmic #bad ass temple #hitoya amaguni #reader insert #mystery prompts #kuko harai #jyushi aimono #hypnosis mic

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brasskier · 4 years ago

Text

@badthingshappenbingo trope #3 (and this one was actually requested!)

Thank you to the incredible @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde for reading this one over for me!

Trope: Suicide attempt

Summary: Yennefer's just running a few errands, and doesn't expect to end up talking Geralt's bard down from a rooftop. Jaskier is ready to leap, and doesn't expect a certain mage to interrupt his grand finale. Both of them might just walk away with a better understanding of one another. (Or, a character study in borderline personality disorder.)

TW for suicidal ideation/threats/gestures and reference to self-harm. The descriptions aren’t graphic and he doesn’t actually jump, but this whole fic deals with suicide and mental illness. Be safe y’all <3

Read it on my ao3 or below the cut:

The trip to Tretogor wasn’t supposed to last long. Replenish her stock after the utter disaster that was the dragon hunt, some odds and ends as she came upon them, maybe get absolutely shitfaced and forget the whole thing happened. That was all. And it looked like, for a pleasant change of pace, there weren’t going to be any complications. Errands finished, Yennefer was enjoying a hearty roast at one of the better taverns in the city when she noticed the early warnings of a brewing commotion. First murmurs, then the voices grew louder and more persistent, and then people were pushing outside. She ignored them; a petty barfight was not something she particularly wanted or needed to get involved with. The bar was still stirring, and eventually when she finally shifted her focus off her roast, the tavern was near-empty, only the drunkest of patrons remaining. Even the barkeep was shuffling outside. Clearly, something was happening. Something big. With a beleaguered sigh, she pushed up from her chair and headed out the door.

A surprisingly large crowd greeted her outside, more expansive than the usual clamor around a simple drunken brawl. She approached the barkeep, standing on the outskirts of the mob, and she didn’t even have to speak before the barkeep jerked his head skyward. She traced his gaze to the roof of a towering building casting its shadow over them.

“Poor sod’s gonna jump, I reckon,” the barkeep ruminated, eyes still fixed upwards. In place of the massive beast she fully expected to be perched atop the building stood the figure of a man, trembling at the very edge of the roof. She squinted, an uncanny familiarity settling into her gut.

She mumbled her half-hearted thanks, already pushing through a portal to the rooftop. The man, still frozen in place on the opposite edge, didn’t seem to notice the sudden company, and her uneasiness grew into a sinking dread.

“Jaskier?” she called, tentatively, afraid to startle him. Any last shred of hope that she was mistaken (though the intricately embroidered doublet was hard to mistake) was gone when he jerked his head back to face her. His mouth was agape, an uncomfortable mixture of surprise and disappointment drawn across his features. “What are you doing?”

“The fuck does it look like?” He snapped back. There was more than his usual sarcasm or mock-incredulity in his voice, real and deep-felt anger coloring his tone.

“Don’t do it,” she urged, surprising herself with the tenderness in her own words. “Come on now. Just come down.” Why did she care? The question gnawed in the back of her mind, and she did her damndest to push it aside. She’s a good person, after all, right? She’d do it for anyone, surely. None of Geralt’s not-getting-involved nonsense.

“Fuck off, Yennefer.” He let out a barking laugh, thin and breathy, pitching forward ever so slightly with the force of it. She felt her whole body tense, hands reaching out reflexively.

“Where’s Geralt? What happened?” This was, apparently, the single worst line of conversation she could’ve settled on, because he dropped abruptly to a squat and for a split second she was certain she was about to witness the man’s death.

“I’m not his fucking keeper.” He was nearly at a roar now, a fever-pitch that sent a shiver down Yennefer’s spine. “Haven’t seen him in a week. Not since— not since—” Though she couldn’t see his face, his eyes fixed resolvedly on the ground below, she could hear the tears cut through his words, his breath hiccuping.

“Shh,” she hushed him. Clearly, something had happened after she stormed off. What, precisely, could wait until later, when he was back on solid ground. “I know. It’s not fair.”

“The fuck do you know about fair?” he scoffed, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around his abdomen against the biting wind.

“He fucked me over, too.” She should’ve been offended, and she would’ve been if she wasn’t far more concerned with making sure the bard didn’t fling himself into an early demise, which would be decidedly unfair. That sentiment did little to ease him, and withdrew no response. “Fuck Geralt,” she declared, trying again. “Damn brute thinks he can just take as he pleases.”

“And— and then discard you once he’s had his fill,” he mumbled, offering her the slightest glance back, tears glistening against the pink of his cheeks.

“You’re better than that,” she set forth like a thesis. “You’re — loathe as I am to admit it — talented, bard. People like you. You’ll find plenty of material to write about.” Perhaps an appeal to both logos and pathos would be sufficient, at least enough to get him off the ledge.

“It won’t be the same.” He frowned tragically over his shoulder at her. “I've lost it all, Yen. Look at me— I'm just a silhouette.”

“That's nonsense. He… you're more than him. He's not everything.” It felt ridiculous to her, throwing yourself off a roof over an argument with a friend. After all, Jaskier had always managed to exist in the spaces between Geralt before; teaching, or penning his next obnoxious ballad, or bedding married women, or whatever it is overgrown manchild bards do. But, then, she'd almost killed herself to restore something she knew she could never get back. So perhaps they were even.

“Look, this is awfully sweet of you, but—” he swept his arm, gesturing vaguely at nothing in particular. “Just let me go. I’m doing everyone a favor.” He turned his attention back to the ground, wind rippling through his hair. “Should’ve done this a long time ago.” She felt her heart skip — a long time ago? This wasn’t just a histrionic reaction to whatever might’ve occurred between him and Geralt; gods knew how long he’d felt like this.

“You know I can’t do that,” she retorted, drawing tentatively closer. “Don’t make me portal you down.” He huffed, waving her off with a trembling hand.

“Please, Yen.” Realistically, she knew it would be easy to oblige his request. Walk away, pretend not to hear the sickening thud, and carry on. He was only her ex-witcher’s ex-bard, after all. “I always knew it'd end like this. I’m just… I’m glad I even made it past thirty, really.”

“That’s— I’m not— no, Jaskier. I’m not letting you throw yourself off a roof, for the love of the gods. That’s insane.” She wasn’t sure what was more insane, letting him go, or standing here arguing with him. “You’re going to be real glad when you make it to forty, bard.”

“Am I though, really? This isn’t my first time, believe it or not. And every time I live, or I back out, or I let someone talk me out of it. And I always regret it in the end.” Her mind reeled again — every time? How many had there been? She pushed the thought back.

“You won’t find out unless you get down,” she argued, drawing closer still. He tensed, sensing her presence, hands balling and unfurling repetitively. “Come on. Go to the tavern with me, get something to eat, have a—” she was close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath now “—more drink. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning, and if you still regret it, well…”

“Fine,” he finally agreed on the tail end of a sigh, turning to fully face her. “I’ll do it tomorrow.” She didn’t like the resolve with which he said those words, but he was agreeing to come down, which at least was a small victory. She’d handle tomorrow when it came around. In the meantime she needed to get them both down. “Or eventually,” he tacked on as she held her hands out, forming a portal back to solid ground. “Inevitably.” The word rang in her mind as she looped an arm around him and led him through the portal. As an afterthought, she summoned a blanket with a flick of her fingers; it was one of those cheap, thin blankets they kept at the inn, but it would do. She tossed it over his shoulders and he dug his fingers into the fabric, drawing it closer around himself.

Once they were back in the tavern, that thin blanket still draped over Jaskier's shoulders and mug of ale held in shaking hands, it was time to talk.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, dragging his thumb up and down the cool tankard, avoiding meeting her eyes at all costs. “I’ve caused such a fuss. You must be anxious to get out of here.” He finally glanced in her direction when he felt a hand land on his forearm.

“It’s fine, really,” she insisted, and he couldn’t bear the pity in her eyes. “Now are you going to tell me what that was all about?” He huffed a laugh, looked away again.

“It’s just, you know. Me and my theatrics.” He shrugged, running a hand along his jaw.

“Bullshit.” When, exactly, Yennefer had gotten so good at seeing right through him, he wasn’t sure. But he did know he definitely didn’t like it.

“I’m sorry. I just, I… I get like that, I guess,” he muttered finally, dragging his thumb along the rim of his glass.

“Suicidal, you mean? You just get… suicidal?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow, moving her hand up to his shoulder.

“Yeah, I guess.” He reached blindly, dropped a hand over hers. “When something goes wrong. Someone leaves me again. I just, I fuck up a lot, and I’m no good at dealing with the concequences.”

“That’s— gods, I know you’re an idiot, but that’s really worth killing yourself over?” She tried to keep her tone light, clipped, maybe a little detached. He was uneasy with the attention, it was obvious, and she was also certainly not ready to admit that maybe, just a tiny bit, she sort of cared about him.

“Geralt, he ran me off,” he mumbled, sinking further into the blanket. “After the hunt, after your fight, he blamed me. For everything, the entire two decades of our, well. I guess it wasn’t friendship.” He chewed at his lip, a nervous habit, anger bubbling below the surface at the thought of that day. “Told me the greatest gift life could give him would be to take me off his hands.” Yennefer balked at him, finally hearing the context of his despair, and she was just about ready to portal right over to wherever Geralt had fucked off to and give him a piece of her mind.

“That’s terrible,” she told him, the best she could really offer. Nothing she could say would undo what’d happened, and nothing could change how much it hurt him. “He really is a bastard.” Jaskier nodded slowly, raised his tankard up in toast. “When’s the last time you ate? You must be starving.”

“Stew would be nice,” he replied quietly, meekly. She haled one of the barkeeps, ordered him a stew, and requested another round of drinks. “It’s not just the fight, though,” he added once the server was gone. “I don’t know how to explain it, Yen. Why I do the things I do, or feel the way I feel. It’s just, it’s all too much sometimes, you know?” She knew. All too well, she knew. She was only just beginning to understand herself, just beginning to feel some semblance of control. He was so young — perhaps not by human standards, but comparatively.

“I know. It’s hard.” They felt like empty platitudes, like she had no idea how to truly connect with him, and it was frustrating. She wanted to help him, but she wasn’t sure how, wasn’t sure he wanted it.

“Yeah.” He bobbed his head, picked at the wood of the table. They drifted into silence, neither sure how to fill it, neither sure this was a conversation either wanted to have. The stew arrived, and he picked at it rather than devouring it like he usually did his rations.

“You know I’m sterile, right?” she finally broke the silence once he’d finished his food and pushed the bowl aside, leaning closer, her voice pitched in a conspiratorial whisper. He nodded solemnly, averting his gaze, watching the light catch in his amber ale. “And you know I’ve gone to great lengths to rectify that, correct?” Another slow nod.

“I know, Yen. I’m sorry, I know you have far more right to be miserable than I do. And here I am, wallowing like a toddler—” She waved a hand to cut him off.

“No, listen, stupid bard. It’s really not about being able to have kids. It’s about the fact that I don’t have a choice, that I’ve never had a choice,” she elaborated, hiking the blanket further up his shoulders as it started to slip.

“I know. And here I am, I’ve gotten everything I wanted. I got to choose; running away, going to Oxenfurt, becoming a bard, traveling. Gods, I followed Geralt to the ends of the bloody Continent for two decades of my life I’ll never get back — but that was my choice.”

“Would you please let me finish my point, instead of interrupting me to wallow in guilt?” He gnawed at his lip, finally turning to face her. “It wasn’t about being a mother, it was about choice. So this—” she waved her arm dramatically, wondering for a moment when exactly she’d started picking up his mannerisms. “This isn’t about Geralt at all, is it?” After a moment of contemplation, he carefully shook his head. “Then what is it about?”

“I don’t know, to be honest,” he muttered at the tail end of a swig from his tankard. “I’ve just always been like this,” he said with a sweep of his hand, palm upturned, string-callused fingers twitching aimlessly. Her violet eyes bore into him expectantly, and he felt angry for a flicker of a moment — she was a witch, right? He should be able to just sit back while she delves into the darkest crevices of his psyche, let her root around and not have to struggle to put his life into context and language. “Can’t you just, y’know…” He tugged at his fingers, tilted his head.

“Read your mind?” she finished the question, scooting closer to him, and he felt the hair on his arms rise. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” He nodded, and she pressed her forehead against his, pulling him in close, enveloping him in the lilac and gooseberries he knew Geralt loved so much. He understood why; he felt inexplicably safe, even as the logical half of his brain urged him to pull back. This was all for show, and he knew that— she didn’t need to touch him to read him. Either way, he was grateful to not have to give language to the nameless, that she could just see.

See Jaskier at seventeen, screaming at Valdo from across the courtyard, "if you leave me I swear the fuck to melitile I'll kill myself," knowing he's made this exact threat verbatim so many times Valdo can't believe him, unable to recall what they were even arguing about anymore. When they break up, his mother tells him the first heartbreak always hurts the worst; it hurts all the same every time thereafter.

Jaskier at twenty, slicing thin lines into his thigh for what had to be the millionth time, running out of unmarred skin, witcher/tentative friend asleep somewhere beside him in the darkness. If asked, he’s not sure he’d have an excuse. Sometimes to feel something, sometimes to feel nothing. Either way, this uncertainty is what keeps his wrists clean.

Jaskier at twenty-three, wailing great, hiccuping sobs, shoulders rattling, blind beyond teary eyes. Geralt, gods bless him, doesn’t know what to do, stands arm’s-length away, regards him with uncertainty and pity. They’d fought about something that didn’t matter and he couldn’t remember, and that rage washed over him, red-hot, balled fists trembling at his side. “Get out! Gods, are you thick? Leave, Geralt; I fucking hate you.” But then Geralt listened, because Geralt didn’t play Jaskier’s games, and now there he was, sobbing, babbling, “don’t leave me, I’m sorry, I’ll be better, I can’t lose you, it’ll kill me, don’t go.” Geralt stays; they pretend nothing ever happened.

Jaskier at twenty-seven, at the ashes of his latest burnt bridge, just another failed relationship that feels altogether more like death than separation. Grieving it more like death, too; sobbing until he could do little more than stare at the ceiling and try to breathe, mourning a cemetery of mistakes and a lifetime of failure.

Jaskier at thirty-two, depression blanketing him with the fresh snow, the man he'd tangled up his entire identity in fucked off to the mountains for the winter while he sludged through classes, distracting himself from having to confront the fact that he doesn't recognize his own face in the mirror. Jaskier does exist in the spaces between Geralt, but, sometimes, that Jaskier is a husk.

Jaskier a few days ago, marching back to Oxenfurt because that's all he knows, doubtful Jaskier even exists anymore, the emptiness in his mind unbearable and somehow terminal, altogether certain he's been incompatible with life from the very moment he entered it and resolved to rectify nature's mistake himself.

Jaskier who, his entire life, has felt everything, too much, all at once. Who's always been led by his heart — and not in the beautiful, Romantic way, but messy, tragic, and uniquely Jaskier. A man so utterly at the mercy of his own mind, drowning in feelings he doesn't have the language to name, his entire being defined not by who he is but what he does and who he loves.

Jaskier, on a rooftop in Tretogor, itchy feet ready to fling him off the ledge. He'd told Valdo once, in the in-between hours not quite night or morning when everything seems strange and far away, that he knew how he was destined to die. Pressed on, even as Valdo chuckled and called him presumptive, “I'm going to kill myself.” Not today, or tomorrow, but inevitably. He said it not with the certainty of someone who's seen into the future but the cynical resignation of a man who knows no other escape. And Valdo punched his arm, told him not to talk like that, promised it would get easier one day. He hates Valdo now, not that he remembers why, and that day has yet to come.

She pulled back eventually— finally — and swept a shaky thumb over his cheek. He chewed on his lip, staring expectantly with hauntingly wide eyes.

“Jaskier.” It was barely a whisper, uttered at the end of a sharp exhale, and when violet eyes met his they shone with an uncanny recognition. He wasn't sure what, precisely, she'd seen, but he knew whatever it was had been enough. He'd invited her to the bleakest corners of his mind, and now she regarded him like a lame horse. He ducked his head, but she caught him with a hand on his chin. “You know that's not how destiny works.”

“Hmm?” He wracked his brain to figure what she might be referring to, coming up empty-handed. He didn't have a big, grand destiny like she or Geralt did. He was just Jaskier the bard, Jaskier the one-night stand, Jaskier the disappointment.

“It doesn't have to end like that. You have a choice,” she elaborated, still painfully vague, but he understood.

“This isn't the first time, Yen, I—”

“I know. I saw.” Right, she saw, probably everything, and he had the wherewithal to feel humiliated for it.

“I've cheated it enough times. I can't outrun it forever.” It felt nice, at least, to let his walls down a little, stop playing the perpetual naive optimist. Almost a relief, even, a weight off his shoulders.

“I know. But you're strong, Jask.” She moved her hand from his chin to the back of his head, guiding it to rest against her shoulder. “We have more in common than I thought, you know.” He laughed, thin and heady, but with a little more conviction this time, and pressed his face against her neck.

“Is that your way of telling me you're fucked up, too?” He asked, and, despite the levity in his tone, he truly was curious.

“Yes, bard,” she hummed, reaching out to sip at her tankard.

“You're not going to give me any more than that?” He fought off a yawn, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth. “I just told you everything.”

“Maybe someday,” she replied, setting the mug back on the table. “But right now I think you could use some rest. We both could.” She slipped out of the booth and he let his head tilt back against the wall, mourning the absence of her warmth.

She returned a few minutes later, room procured, and hiked the blanket back over his shoulders as he reached for his lute and followed after her. It was a nice enough room, two beds on opposite sides, a bath he had no intention of utilizing. Exhausted, he kicked off his boots, shrugged off his doublet, and dropped onto the bed. He let his mind wander, dozing as Yennefer readied herself for bed, eyelids heavy by the time she blew out the candles.

“You won't try again?” Yen asked from across the room after a while, barely a silhouette in the faint moonlight. Jaskier rolled over to face her, finding her staring distantly out the window.

“You, uh, you have to be more specific,” he muttered, tugging the blanket closer to his chin. It smelled of lilac and ale.

“How am I supposed to make that more specific?” It came out sharp, like her usual tone with him, but he could still feel an uneasy twinge to her words.

“I mean, I don't know.” He felt stupid for reasons beyond his grasp. “Not today, or tomorrow. But I can't promise never.” There was a long pause, and Jaskier barely breathed, wondering if he'd managed to upset her as sleep crept up on him.

“Not today is enough,” she said finally, sounding almost far away, and his breath hitched in his throat.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, voice thick with impending sleep. “When are you leaving?” The me he omitted at the tail end rang in his mind, unspoken but understood, heavy in the nighttime silence. She was supposed to leave in the morning, so he could either move on or finish what he’d set out to do; he wasn’t sure he wanted her to uphold that promise anymore.

“Not today.” He exhaled slowly. Not today is enough. And maybe, just maybe, enough not today's would add up to never.

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #the witcher fanfic #jaskier #dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #tw suicide #jaskier whump #bad things happen bingo #brasskier does bthb

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improving-the-truth · 4 years ago

Text

Flowers

Skittery is “sick.” Mush brings him a present to commemorate the start of spring, and to hopefully make him feel just a little bit better.

_____

“Hi, Skitts!” Mush beamed at Skittery, holding his hands mischievously behind his back. The first thought that came to Skittery’s mind upon seeing him was that he wasn’t in the mood for games of any kind, let alone a guessing game, which he predicted was coming if Mush's expression was anything to go by. “Feelin’ any better?”

Skittery only glanced up from his book once, pretending to cough. He hadn’t planned on speaking to anybody so soon yet. He’d estimated a solid few hours before anybody got back to the lodge, and on such a nice day as it was, maybe even longer.

A few months ago, alone time all from the comfort of his very own bed had seemed like a dream. It was more of a nightmare now that he was actually anchored to his new bed in the infirmary, and the lies just kept piling up, and the more of them there were the more worried he was that somebody would find out they were actually lies, and then they would ask him why he’d lied about such trivial little things, and then he’d be in trouble in more ways than one, and he just really didn’t want to deal with that.

It had been two days that he’d been ill, displaying a vast myriad of symptoms from a sore throat to nonexistent fever that plagued him whenever it was convenient. Kloppman had given him a certain look that morning when Skittery said he didn’t feel well enough to sell today, a look that spelled imminent doom. Blink told him that Mr. K was thinking of calling up a doctor if he didn’t get better soon. That would only serve to make things even worse. There was no sense in calling a doctor when there wasn’t anything wrong with him to begin with. Nothing physical, anyway. Nothing that had an end in sight.

Skittery shrugged at Mush’s question, sighing as he slipped the bookmark he’d folded from a shred of last week’s paper between the pages he was on. “I feel sick, Mush. That’s how I feel.”

“Blink said Mr. K said he’s gonna call you a doctor if you don’t get better soon.”

“Blink told me that already,” said Skittery, “And I don’t need no doctor. I’m fine.”

Mush tilted his head, because Skittery didn’t seem so fine to him, seeing as he was missing now three whole days of work all because of a cough. Sometimes he would have a fever, but Mr. K said it wasn’t a bad one. Maybe there wasn’t a fever at all. It wasn’t Mush’s job to know all that stuff, but what he did know was that Skittery probably wouldn’t have enough to skip work for much longer.

“Resting is good,” Mush rationalized, “It helps you get better faster. Soon you’ll be good as new, I know it.”

Skittery looked away, feeling the dread trickle through him again. “Bet I will.”

“Hey, I got you a present to help make you feel better.” Mush was smiling again. “Well, maybe it won’t go and do all that, but I hope you like it anyway.”

Skittery raised an eyebrow, taken aback when Mush pulled a little Silvikrin bottle out from behind his back. The label was scraped off, and it was filled with tiny flowers - or weeds, rather, Skittery noticed as Mush carefully handed it to him.

“The flowers is all blooming, but you can’t see ‘em yet. I felt bad so I went and collected some for you. Blink helped too. He said for me to tell you he hopes you feel better.”

Skittery vaguely saw Mush shifting on his feet as he turned the jar over in his hands, examining the mixture of dandelions and wild violets through the bleary glass. He’d never been much for gift-giving, or gift-receiving for that matter. He supposed it wasn’t out of character at all for Mush to go around doing nice things for folks, and it probably was nothing more than another day for him, collecting flowers with Kid Blink.

Mush became increasingly more antsy at Skittery’s silence. “Do you like it? It’s no problem, I can find something better if you don’t.”

Skittery cleared his throat, “No, no. That’s okay. This one’s good. It’s good, thanks Mush.”

Mush nodded, clearly thrilled that he’d managed to single-handedly make Skittery’s day just a little bit better.

Skittery wanted to say something more, tell him all about how he wasn’t really sick anywhere else but in the head, and how he didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to go on like this. Mush was already on his way to the door before Skittery could so much as open his mouth, wired shut, just like always.

#newsies #newsies 1992 #1992sies #92sies #1992 newsies #newsies fanfic #newsies fic #newsies writing #skittery newsies #mush meyers #kid blink #fanfiction #my writing

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thewayshedreamed · 4 years ago

Text

This Time— Part 2

A Nessian Fan Fic

Fic Masterlist

Alright, here it is! All of your responses to my first post were so encouraging, so I thank all of you for that! I was so nervous to post anything that I’ve written, and y’all made me feel so welcomed. Anyway, here’s the continuation of my angsty Nessian fic, This Time. It’s a long one, but I wanted to give some insight into Nesta’s headspace while also setting the occasion for the next part! Hope y’all enjoy it.

If you missed part one, you can find it here.

———————————————————————————-

A dull throb in her temples caused Nesta to stir in the early hours of Sunday morning. She was vaguely aware that it was raining, thunder rolling in a steady rhythm. She turned onto her back and gritted her teeth at the intensifying pain in her head. It suddenly radiated from her temples, meeting in the middle of her forehead and behind her eyes. For the briefest of moments, she wondered about the luck she had (or didn’t have) to wake up feeling like this. No recent illness, no allergies, no alcohol the night before. She blinked into the darkness as she considered, willing her cognition to catch up to her conscious state. Her answer became apparent when her eyes felt gritty as she blinked, and upon rubbing them, she felt a faint tenderness over and around her lids.

Ah, that’s right. The crying.

The events of the previous night flooded her memory.

I’m so gone for you...

You should go...

We can’t be friends after this conversation.

You don’t mean that...

The maddeningly soft click of the door echoed in her mind repeatedly, emulating the rhythm of her heartbeat. She slammed her eyes shut and turned sharply onto her side to bury her face into the pillow.

So often, people talk about the all-consuming relief that comes with waking from a nightmare and realizing none of it was real. These are the stories told at dinner with family or friends, at lunch with co-workers, or at larger social gatherings. Account after account is shared of cheating spouses, car accidents, home invasions, etc., followed by an expression of overwhelming relief at realizing it was all a dream.

Almost never do people discuss the ugly alternative. The micro-interval of time immediately upon waking where one exists in blissful ignorance, followed by the sudden gut-punch of recollection. The ambush of emotions surrounding some life-altering event.

Nesta caught herself grasping for that tiny shred of time, just moments prior, where she was only navigating a headache.

She felt her pulse quicken and her body start to flush, both being clear indicators of her heightened anxiety. Her heart thundered in her chest, and she felt a slight tremble starting to run through her chest and stomach. She closed her eyes as tears threatened to pool yet again and focused on taking a few deep breaths. She lazily reached out, feeling around until she located another pillow across her too large bed. She clutched it tightly against her chest and abdomen, willing it to ground her somehow. Tucking it close to her body and keeping an iron grip, she started to count her breaths until she finally drifted back to sleep.

———-

She had to cancel lunch with Elain and Feyre that Sunday, having slept long enough that she didn’t have enough time to make herself presentable. After explaining that she was suffering from a crippling headache (with no mention of its origin), they sent their well wishes and told her to call if she needed absolutely anything.

Her mornings persisted in a similar manner for the rest of the week. Usually one to rise on her first alarm, she couldn’t find the motivation to do so no matter how hard she tried. She snoozed her alarm a half-dozen times, finally dragging herself out of bed to dress quickly, grab a protein bar, and fly out the door for work.

Work served as a decent distraction from current events. She stayed busy and engaged, allowing her to completely ignore her phone and avoid any personal questions. She knew her sisters would be worried after telling them she was ill, and it was a matter of time before news of her and Cassian’s fight permeated their group of friends. Her sisters would likely put two and two together. Busy bodies. Fiercely loyal, protective, and supportive, but busy bodies all the same.

Several evenings that week she had received several variations of “check in” texts from them, as well as a couple of their friends.

Elain:

”Hey, Nes! Hoping you’re feeling better. Just wanted to check in and see how you are!”

Feyre:

”Just checking in, sister! I hadn’t heard from you since we cancelled lunch, so I hope you’re doing okay! Love you!”

Mor:

”Hi, love! I haven’t seen you in DAYS. Far too long. Please tell me I’ll see you soon! And that you’re alive and well. <3”

Amren:

“Alright. Spill. What’s going on with you? You haven’t responded to anything I’ve sent you, and I’ve sent you some funny shit.”

Nesta drafted one text, copying and pasting it to each and every one of them. She didn’t have the emotional energy to answer the question at all, much less several times over.

“Hey! Thanks for checking on me. I’m sorry I’m just getting back to you! Things have just been crazy this week. I’ve been busy, but I’m fine! We’ll get together soon.”

She stared at the lie over and over again.

I’m fine...

Although, deep down, she knew. If she were fine, she wouldn’t keep scrolling to a certain text thread. She wouldn’t be reading and re-reading their previous conversations, and she definitely wouldn’t be focused on the date and time stamp of the last received message from days ago.

———

Nesta had been conflicted about Saturday all week long. She had very specific plans: sleep as late as her body would possibly allow, have coffee on the back porch, catch up on her reading, take a long nap, stream as much nonsense television as she could handle, have a bottle of wine, go to sleep. She had been looking forward to the peaceful oblivion of deep sleep, yet she found herself dreading the passage of her free time. It had taken a couple of days to land on an acceptable itinerary, and she felt better with a certain course of action.

She awoke to her covers being abruptly pulled away and the pillow pulled off the top of her head. She groaned dramatically and turned over to identify the offender, fully prepared to sling insults their way for interrupting her sleep. Before she could formulate a cohesive thought, a deep, familiar voice interrupted her.

“Enough of this, Nes. Get up. We’re going to brunch,” the voice announced, his tone dry and neutral.

Nesta’s eyes shot open, falling on a pair of hazel eyes that dared her to be uncooperative.

“What the fuck, Az? How did you even get in here? And what if I were naked?!”

”Look, I pulled the short straw. You’ve barely spoken to anyone all week. When you did, your responses were short and contrived. Your friends and family are worried, and I got volunteered to enter the lion’s den as the only one who isn’t afraid of waking you up.”

”That doesn’t answer all my questions,” she muttered as she sat up and rubbed her eyes.

“I’ve driven you and your sisters home on enough drunken nights to know where your spare key is. And I saw the sleeve of your sweater before I pulled the covers off. Give me a little credit.” He turned away from her to walk out of her bedroom. As he crossed the threshold, he paused with his hand on the door jamb. He glanced over his left shoulder as he said, “You have 15 minutes. I’ll be in here waiting for you.”

Nesta really contemplated throwing a full-scale temper tantrum by throwing herself under the covers and refusing to get up. A deep rumble in her stomach ultimately made her decide against it, so she stood up and padded over to her closet. She selected her favorite pair of jeggings, silently thanking the Cauldron that she had worn them once already so that they were perfectly stretched. She grabbed a sports bra and a long-sleeved tunic, put on some casual sneakers, and walked over to her bathroom to finish getting ready.

She wasn’t one for much makeup anyway, so she opted to wash her face, moisturize, and apply a little mascara. She brushed her teeth, applied a generous layer of chapstick, and quickly French-braided her hair down the center of her back. She glanced down at her phone; 12 minutes. Suck on that, Azriel.

She walked out of her bedroom, down the hallway, and found Azriel perched on the arm of her sofa, scrolling through his phone. Sensing her approach, he locked his phone and stood.

“All ready?” He grabbed his keys from his front pocket.

“Sure. Whenever you are.” She looked around for her small purse and grabbed it off of the coffee table. “Wait... did you clean up in here?”

She knew there was something different when she walked in, but it had taken her a minute to realize what. Gone were the take out containers from her countertops and coffee table. All the various cups she had left all over her apartment were nowhere to be seen, and her blankets were folded neatly in a stack.

Azriel cleared his throat and looked around. “Not really. I noticed your trash can was full when I threw my gum away, and I thought it would be pointless to bring it out and not get everything.”

She bit her cheek to stop her smile at his sheepishness. He had always been a good friend to her, but she knew he preferred when it went under the radar. No one blushed faster or got more awkward than Azriel on the receiving end of appreciation or a compliment.

“Ah. I see. And I guess the blankets folded themselves, then. Or did you need to fold them to ‘get everything?’”

“Nes, you know I cleaned up in here, so can we go already?” He was already turning toward her door, flustered and mildly irritated with her teasing. She gripped his bicep to turn him around before he made it outside.

“I’m sorry, Az. You’re a wonderful friend, and I don’t deserve you. Let’s go have some brunch and forget it, ok?”

He gave her a sideways smile and playfully shoved her shoulder. “Fine. But next time, you’re walking.”

———-

The drive over to the small cafe was short, so the pair sat in comfortable silence on the way. Upon arriving, Azriel found a small table in the corner of the patio, instructed her to sit, and walked inside to place their order. When he returned, he was holding a mug of coffee for Nesta and a mug of earl grey tea for himself.

“The food should come out in about 10-15 minutes. I couldn’t remember how you take your coffee exactly, so I just brought you a ton of shit.” He wasn’t exaggerating. He placed a handful of different creamers and sweeteners in the center of the table.

Nesta gave a small chuckle at his gesture, noting that it felt good to laugh for the first time in days. She couldn’t help but feel grateful that it was Azriel who had pulled her out of bed this morning, if it had to be anyone. They were more alike than most would assume, and they had made very fast friends all those years ago. She loved the purity of their relationship, built on years of trust and mutual respect, but never crossing beyond anything other than platonic. Cassian had always joked about being “outnumbered” around the two of them, commenting on their likeness and how he managed to find kindred spirits as his best friends.

The thought of him elicited a slight pang in her stomach, and she quickly shoved it down. She was pulled from her thoughts by Azriel’s voice.

“So. You want to talk about what’s going on?”

”Gods, Azriel. I haven’t even gotten the caffeine in my system.”

He took a sip of his tea, only breaking eye contact to blow gently on the hot liquid. He regained eye contact as he set his mug back down.

“We haven’t heard anything genuine from you in a week. Forgive us for being a little worried. I’m assuming it has something to do with Cassian?”

As she suspected, hearing his name struck a nerve and caused a certain heaviness in her chest. She felt herself becoming defensive, and even though her logical mind knew it had nothing to do with Az, she was snapping at him before she realized it was happening.

“Why is everyone acting like I’m off the deep end?! Maybe I’ve just been busy for a week. Cauldron forbid if I take some time for my damn self. And why the fuck would you immediately jump to him? As if my life doesn’t exist beyond all of you? And beyond him?” She felt herself flush out of anger. Or embarrassment. Who the hell knew anymore?

Azriel seemed almost entirely unaffected by her verbal lashing. He took a couple of seconds, leaned forward with his forearms on the table, and clasped his hands in front of him. He looked at her intensely, and she knew she was not going to get anything sugarcoated in this conversation.

“Need I remind you that I know both of you like the back of my hand? I’m not shooting in the dark here. You’ve been essentially MIA for a week, and that timespan directly correlates with Cassian being an absolute terror to be around. The odds of that being a coincidence are incredibly low. So, Nes, I’ll ask you to please cut the shit.” He voice remained even and steady. There was no true malice in his words, just the bluntness that exists between two close friends. He picked up his mug, leaned back in his chair, and waited.

Nesta’s posture softened slightly as she rubbed the bridge of her nose with her thumb and middle finger. She let out a long breath and looked up to meet Azriel’s gaze again.

“Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. And I should also realize by now that you notice fucking everything.”

He merely nodded, acknowledging her apology and prompting her to continue with one simple gesture. She blew out another breath, preparing herself to explain everything. In the meantime, their food arrived, so she waited until the waiter walked away before beginning her story. She told him everything, even the uncomfortable details. Cassian’s confession. Her reaction. His anger. Her anger. The devastation on his face. As much as she could remember of their interaction. And finally, the words she couldn’t stop replaying in her mind. This time, it’s on you.

He listened intently, only offering small nods or slight facial expressions during the more intense parts of their conversation. Once she was finished, he let out a long whistle and said, “Damn, Nesta. You’re officially the most savage of the Archerons.”

“I’m sorry... what?”

“I’m not saying that to be insulting. I just meant that you kind of handed him his ass there.”

Nesta started at him, urging him to elaborate before she felt inclined to jump down his throat again. He picked up on her prompting and continued.

“Well, to be fair, Cassian’s full of it. The fact that he thought he was going to be able to sleep with you and continue being friends is short-sighted at best. Can’t blame him for trying, but considering how long he’s been in love with you, he was setting himself up for failure there.”

Now, she was gawking at him. How was he being so nonchalant about this bombshell? How long had Cassian been in love with her? And why the hell had he waited until now to say a damn word about it?

”How long, Azriel?” Her voice was so quiet that she wasn’t sure that he’d even heard her.

It was his turn to look surprised. “Are you telling me you didn’t know? Anyone within a mile of the two of you could have seen it.”

She shook her head, realizing she didn’t think she could handle the direction of this conversation. “Never mind. Regardless, we had an agreement that our friendship was too important to risk on anything serious and that it was supposed to remain purely casual. It’s done now. It’s not like it matters.”

A few seconds passed before she glanced up at Azriel. His brow was furrowed, conflicted with what he was going to say next.

”What? Just tell me.”

“Don’t you think that’s kind of bullshit, Nes? I get that you both agreed on those terms, but I think it’s kind of fucked overall. You’re telling me that the potential of a relationship wasn’t worth the risk but casual sex was worth it? That doesn’t make sense.”

She breathed sharply out of her nose before she responded. “Had the agreement been honored, we could have enjoyed our time together, and we could have stopped once life events called for it. If one of us started dating someone... if one of us moved... things like that. It’s fairly straightforward.” She wasn’t trying to hide the bite behind her words, but he still didn’t seem offended. She tried not to find his level-headedness infuriating, but her patience was thinning by the second. To her surprise, his composure slipped a little.

”And how did you think that was going to play out? You both would shake hands, go your own ways, and continue to hang out with each other as before? You would have been totally fine with Cassian dating another woman? And do you really think Cassian would be a-okay with sitting in the front row at your wedding one day? Has it ever occurred to you that you two always dislike anyone that the other dates? No one ever loves Cassian the right way. No one ever makes Nesta happy enough. Why do you think that—“

”Alright, alright! I get it.“ She held her hands up in supplication. “The fact remains, though, that it’s over. It’s done. We screwed up, and it cost me my best friend. We’ll never be the same.” She felt her eyes brimming with tears.

She was vaguely aware of Azriel apologizing for his outburst and suggesting that they head back. She forced a nod, stood up from her chair, and walked to his car. Once inside and buckled, he turned to her.

”Hey. I really am sorry.”

”Don’t apologize. You were being honest with me, which is something I’ve always valued so much in you. Don’t go soft on me now.” She managed the smallest of smiles.

“Deal. But the same goes for you. Our mutual honesty has saved us a lot of trouble over the years. Makes our friendship easy.”

”You’re right. Why couldn’t it have been us to fall in love?” She huffed a laugh, making sure he knew her comment was in jest. She turned to look at him as he finished backing out of their parking spot.

Azriel hit his brakes a little harder than usual at her words. He chuckled, turning to look at her with a small smile. “What good would that do us? What would we do for fun? Brood?”

Nesta laughed, truly laughed, at the truth in his words. Azriel made a wonderful friend to her, but there would be very little personal growth within their hypothetical relationship. She smiled at him, squeezed his forearm briefly, and said, “Fair enough. I guess we wouldn’t push each other to grow all that much.”

He continued to drive, eyes straight ahead. He still wore signs of amusement on his face, but his tone turned a little more serious. “No. We wouldn’t. I think that’s why Cassian has always been a great balance for people like us. We get way too comfortable in the dark.”

”Mmm. People like Cassian, for sure. Maybe people like Elain, too?” She gave him a knowing smile.

He pulled up in the driveway and placed the car in park before looking at her. She could see the faint blush on his cheeks at the mention of her sister, but she wouldn’t push him. She knew he was smitten with Elain and had been for some time. She hadn’t spoken to him plainly about it, but she could tell by the way they interacted that they were a matter of time. Inevitable, even.

“We’re not talking about me today. Only you.”

She giggled at his deflection. “Thank you again for today. I needed the coffee, the waffles, the venting, and the swift kick in the ass.”

”Of course. Speaking of Ellie, what’s your plan for her birthday party next weekend? You know Cass will be there.”

“Oh, man. I think I blocked that out.” She opened the door, stepped out of the car, and peered down at him before adding, ”That, my friend, is something I will have to play by ear.”

——————————————————————————-

A/N: Sorry for no Nessian interaction this time, but I just love the idea of a Nesta x Azriel brotp. I couldn’t help myself. Nessian interaction to come, I promise!

Tags are below! If you’d like to be tagged in future parts, you can comment, reblog, or message me!

@polireader // @lord-douglas-the-third // @justgiu12 // @notyournymphetish // @sjm-things // @strangeenemy

#nessian #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron #nesta #cassian #acotar #acowar #nessian fanfic #nessian au #nessian angst #nessian fwb #acotar fanfic #This Time Nessian #nesta x azriel brotp

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eleanorfenyxwrites · 4 years ago

Text

((~2.4K of a much larger fic that I’ll keep posting snippets of!))

(Part 1)

———

“Father?”

“A-Yuan,” he replies as he cleans his brush and turns his head, the sharp, raw edges of his grief softening as he watches A-Yuan rub sleepily at his eyes in the soft candlelight warming the Jingshi. “What’s wrong?”

He sits still as A-Yuan crosses the room to clamber into his lap, sitting himself squarely in the hollow of his crossed legs facing him, and Wangji wraps his arms around him automatically, a concerned frown on his lips as A-Yuan collapses forward to nuzzle into his chest.

“A-Yuan?”

“I’m sad,” he replies softly and Wangji’s own grief is immediately shoved aside in favor of his son’s.

“Why? What happened?” he asks, his voice as neutral as it can be when he’s already burning inside with the desire to protect his and Wei Ying’s son from any and all harm.

“I don’t know,” A-Yuan replies and then he’s sniffling and Wangji realizes that he’s crying and he immediately curls around him, shielding him with his arms and shoulders, his unbound hair falling around them in a dark curtain. He ducks down to gently kiss A-Yuan’s bare forehead where his headband sits during the day and he strokes a hand slowly over his hair, brushing it back from his face as he lets the boy cry uninterrupted. His child will never have to mourn in lonely silence like he did, even if what he’s mourning may be trivial by an adult’s standards.

Wangji holds his crying son and lets a tear or two slip as well, his heart too fragile and raw today to stay stoic while his child hurts.

“What’s wrong A-Yuan?” he finally asks softly when the boy’s crying has subsided and he keeps stroking his hair back from his face for him even as he turns around to sit forward and face the table holding the guqin, his back and head resting on Wangji’s chest.

“I don’t know,” A-Yuan repeats, audibly pouting, and Wangji panics a bit. How can he fix it if A-Yuan can’t tell him what to fix? “I tried to sleep, but then I got sad and I wanted to cry.”

Wangji knows that the fever A-Yuan was fighting when he found him in the Burial Mounds has, perhaps in an act of divine mercy, kept him from remembering his life before he woke up properly in Cloud Recesses. But sometimes Wangji wonders if those memories are still there somewhere in his mind, and if sometimes he misses his first family, the village that raised a happy child in the midst of war and death.

“I am sad tonight as well,” Wangji confesses quietly, his barriers nonexistent around the person in his life who loves him unconditionally with the sweet trust of a child. “It is alright to be sad, even if you do not know why,” he adds as he reaches out to rest his hands on his guqin. A-Yuan immediately stretches his arms out to rest his little hands on top of Wangji’s and he relaxes just a little, thinking to himself that it’s nearly time to begin helping A-Yuan choose the instrument he’ll wish to learn for his musical cultivation.

“Close your eyes, A-Yuan. It’s time to rest,” he instructs gently and then he starts to play.

Memories of Wei Ying come flooding in as he plays the song he wrote for him. As he plays he can almost imagine the sound of a flute accompanying the strings and he sucks in a deep breath, his entire being - the very essence of himself - longing for Wei Ying.

A-Yuan dozes in his lap, his hands going limp where they still cover his own, and once he’s sure that the boy is unlikely to wake again Wangji closes his eyes and begins to channel the familiar flow of his energy. He stills the strings with his palms and then begins to pluck them delicately, listening hard.

‘Wei Ying?’ Wangji knows that it’s unlikely to work. He has to try anyway.

When there’s no answer, he pours more spiritual force into the question, sends it out further.

‘Wei Ying?’ He lifts his hands from the strings and stares at them, willing them to play Wei Ying’s response.

Nothing.

Wangji lingers for a while longer until his last glimmer of hope that Wei Ying will come to him tonight fades into nothing. A-Yuan is fast asleep in his arms so Wangji stands carefully and returns him to his bed, tucking the covers tightly around him to make sure he feels safe and warm. He extinguishes the candles in the main room with a wave of his hand and then he retires to his own bed, feeling numb. Tomorrow he will do it again, and nothing will change.

By unspoken agreement in the days following, A-Yuan begins to attend as well when Wangji practices his guqin in the evening.

It began the following night, and has continued every night since, with A-Yuan leaving the toy he was playing with to climb into his lap and rest his little hands on top of his again. Wangji can’t help but feel pleased that it seems the boy is going to want to choose to follow in his footsteps.

When he puts A-Yuan to bed after their practice has relaxed him, Wangji continues to return to the instrument and ask for Wei Ying. He knows that it’s fruitless, that there have been five years of nothing now and it’s unlikely that he remains. Even his body can’t be found, and Wangji knows that it’s entirely too possible that the resentful energies he held were too powerful to leave even a corpse or a shred of spiritual cognition once the spirits had him in their grasp.

He can’t stop searching.

Three weeks have passed since he sent his last search party out before one of the other pairs returns. He’s walking with A-Yuan around the training yard and observing the swordsmanship lesson when the husband/wife cultivation partnership he’d sent out towards Lanling approaches. He freezes in place and feels A-Yuan look up at him in confusion, but now is not the time or place to answer his questions. Wangji glances at the disciples practicing their sword forms, spots one he recognizes quickly, and he signals her to approach.

“Please take A-Yuan to play with his friends in the Children’s Hall, either myself or his uncle will retrieve him in a few hours,” he instructs.

“Hanguang Jun,” she replies with a bow and then she holds a hand out to A-Yuan and Wangji gives him a nod to reassure him as he glances back at him over his shoulder on his way around the courtyard with his new escort.

“Hanguang Jun,” the pair greets as he turns his attention to them and he returns their bow with his heart in his throat. Thankfully these are cultivators who know him reasonably well (as well as anyone outside his very small family circle can) so they know he has no interest in pleasantries.

“We flew the perimeter of Lanling, as instructed,” the husband of the pair begins. “We sensed nothing unusual and began landing in towns and cities to ask about strange occurrences, night hunting where necessary but always deferring to our fellows in the Jin Sect where possible.” Wangji is growing impatient so he’s relieved when the woman rests her hand on her husband’s arm to stop his full report.

“We see no sign of him, Hanguang Jun. Not even a whisper of the Yiling Patriarch except for idle gossip that flows like water from the mountain. We apologize for our shortcomings.” Wangji watches as the pair sketch another bow, discomfited by their nervousness to approach someone they saw as such an imposing figure with bad news.

“Do not apologize,” he replies simply around the tightness in his throat. “Rest today and return to your regular duties in the morning.” He begins to bow and then quietly murmurs, “Thank you.”

He watches them as they leave, walking almost close enough to touch and in perfect synchronicity with each other, and he aches.

For the next few weeks things go much the same way. One by one the search parties return, and one by one his hopes for news are dashed. By the time the last pair he’d sent out have returned from Yiling itself with empty hands, he’s too exhausted to continue asking others to search for Wei Ying. The waiting, the hope, and the inevitable disappointment have become too much to stomach. He wants to go himself, continue the search when he can be in control of it.

But he’s got A-Yuan to think of, and bringing him along is out of the question. The places he wants to search are dangerous and certainly no place for children, especially since Wangji wants to go by himself. He hasn’t hunted with another partner since Wei Ying and quite frankly he doesn’t ever want to, and he can’t singlehandedly fight and protect his son at the same time. But the idea of leaving A-Yuan behind now that they’ve become so bonded and such an important part of each other’s lives makes him feel physically ill.

The only thing that makes him feel worse is not looking for Wei Ying.

After his period of isolation but before he had officially taken over raising A-Yuan, Wangji had gone searching for him. He’d heard the news from Xichen that Sect Leader Jiang had been unable to find any trace of Wei Ying’s whereabouts, but he’d refused to let that discourage him. As soon as he was able, he’d gone to Nightless City to begin the search for him, only returning to Cloud Recesses when he had exhausted the potential of every possible ravine, every crevice, every dungeon, every rock. It was only the thought of A-Yuan and Wei Ying’s overwhelming love for the boy that had convinced him to return home to his duties. It’s been two years since the end of that search and the parts of him that ache for Wei Ying are yearning to return to it.

Playing the spirit communion pieces on his guqin helps curb his desire to go flying off without a word to keep looking.

‘Wei Ying?’ he asks for what feels like the thousandth time. As long as he receives no answer, he’ll never tire of sending those notes into the air. He takes comfort in them, really. In the music that communicates his soulmate’s name.

Wei Ying?

“Wangji.” The voice at the door startles him, his surprise evident only in the way his fingers twitch on the strings.

"Uncle," he greets stiffly in return. He makes no move to stand and he knows it's disrespectful but he can't quite bring himself to care. It's late and he'd expected to be alone. He wants to be alone.

"Enough of this, Wangji," Lan Qiren says with no other preamble and Wangji doesn't even deign to look up at him. He'd always hated Wei Ying, and the longer Wangji’s mourning goes on the less inclined he is to forgive the people who feel such negative things for the other. "Do you think people don't notice that you search for Wei Wuxian endlessly? Do you think they don't wonder at the reason?"

"Gossip is forbidden in Cloud Recesses," he recites dutifully, voice edging a little sharper. A warning, if Lan Qiren is willing to hear it.

"That doesn't mean they don't notice, Wangji," he retorts and only then does Wangji raise his eyes to meet the older man's. His face is as impassive as his Uncle's is twisted in anger.

Wangji meets his Uncle's glare levelly and, without breaking eye contact, gently plucks the strings again.

Wei Ying?

"WANGJI!"

"Shouting is prohibited in Cloud Recesses," Wangji replies and then adds, as an afterthought, "And in my home. A-Yuan is sleeping."

"You have duties here, Wangji," Lan Qiren replies tightly, though he's at least lowered his voice so Wangji can stop worrying that he's going to wake the boy sleeping just one room away. "You're distracted."

"Does my work displease? Xichen says nothing."

Lan Qiren is silent and Wangji stands slowly, tucking one hand behind his back and facing his uncle straight on. He used to fear him, the impact he had, the influence. He used to be so, so afraid.

His fear of the judgement of others died with Wei Ying.

"Uncle. I will continue to do my duty to my family and sect. Wei Ying is my familial duty as well. I will continue to search," he says quietly and he's fascinated to watch some unnameable emotion pass over Lan Qiren's features.

"It will only hurt."

"Even so," he murmurs, practically soundless, as he nods and keeps his eyes trained low. "I have a duty to him."

"Why?"

Wangji doesn't even dignify that question with a response. It had been asked of him before in various ways, and he is tired of answering when it seemes like it should be so obvious. Why would he stand with him? Side with him? Fight with him? Heal him? Care for him? Do his best to find him not once but twice now? Why? Why? Why?

He can't believe people are still asking him. He hates himself a little for not making his thoughts and intentions clearer, because clearly he didn't if everyone still feels the need to question his motives like this.

"Wangji. Eventually you'll have to stop."

"When I find him, I will stop."

His words are met with nothing but a long-suffering sigh and Wangji knows already that he's won this particular argument. The feeling is..almost novel, to win an argument against Lan Qiren.

"Nothing will dissuade you?"

"Nothing."

"Go, then."

Trust uncle to still find a way to surprise him and make him feel like he's on his back foot.

"Go?"

"Search for him. Xichen and I will watch Lan Yuan for you. Go find him."

Wangji freezes and thinks about the implications of his uncle offering this to him. No time limits, no rules, just an offer to care for their son so that Wangji can go find Wei Ying and bring him home. He's struck momentarily speechless and he's grateful that Lan Qiren lets him have this silence, letting him think it over in his usual ponderous way.

"I will leave in the morning after I deliver A-Yuan to the Children's Hall," he decides. It's fast, but he's been anxious to leave and search for weeks now. He feels guilt surge through his chest at the thought of leaving his son, but he knows that he, at least, will be safe and loved in Cloud Recesses, and it's Wangji who will be aching more for his own bed and his family.

"See to it. Goodnight Wangji."

"Goodnight Uncle."

#the untamed fanfic #Lan Wangji #Lan Sizhui #Lan Qiren #Wangxian #cql fanfic #a bit of grieving dad!wangji for your soft angsty needs

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unohanadaydreams · 5 years ago

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Can I have headcanons for Jushiro having twin boys with one being healthy and the other inheriting his condition. Would it be clear he favored one over the other? Does he feel guilt over one of his children being bedridden?

Anon, this has been in my drafts for a bit bc it was too sad to finish all at once. What did I ever do to you to deserve this tbh. There was a lot more I could’ve said but uuuuh it was getting super long. Now you all have to suffer through sad Ukitake with me!!

Jushiro Ukitake:

Upon learning that one of his sons has inherited the terminal illness he suffered from, Ukitake attempts to transfer Mimihagi with the help of Captain Kurotsuchi and a reluctant Captain Kotetsu. If it works accordingly, then that’s that; Ukitake sacrifices himself so his son will have a fair chance at life.

He would labor under moon after moon to construct note after note, trying to infuse his love and well wishes and hopes and dreams for his sons (AND siblings) into ink and parchment. There would be people he would entrust countless trinkets and gifts to. And somberly, he would extract promises from some of his fellow captains and underlings that they would look after both his children & siblings, in his name. (Ukitake can’t simply leave behind just ONE god parent)

It would be horrible and tearful and he would cradle his little sons, the children who make his hardships and struggles seem completely worth it, and sob before he had it in him to smile and coo their names. But, he would end his life to keep his twins living with one another and he trusts his twin in spirit, Shunsui, to say things he won’t be present to.

If he CAN’T transfer Mimihagi, he would be heartbroken, but he would do his best to spare his sons his sadness. More than anyone, he knows the weight of a parent’s sadness and frustration constantly choking the air around him, overpowering every success and accomplishment. Ukitake would try to mourn before his sons had the coherency to understand.

There is a guilt and tenderness that he shows his bedridden son that he can’t hide completely, of course. Who knows how long he will live, after all? How can he press his undying love into so few years? How can he give him the experiences he’ll never truly have?

Of course he gives more time to his sick son, who will not live to be an adult. Everyday he lives longer than Ukitake could without Mimihagi is a precious gift. There can’t ever be true fairness when one of his sons can’t run or swim or play the same as his peers, when each morning is held breath and a slow sliding door to learn if his child survived the night.

Ukitake would try to explain the situation as delicately as possible, would try to be as fair as he could, but there is guilt in going where one of his sons can not follow and giving one son what he can not give the other. He isn’t alone, though, even when the weight hunching his shoulders convinces him of the opposite; Shunsui especially is constantly there to help, pulling every shred of responsibility he usually shirks to be there for his dearest friend and little god children. His siblings delight in getting to know their little nephews, so happy that their older brother–who has always, without fail, taken care of them–has children of his own after years of fondly saying “aaah, it’s almost as though you’re my own kids!” to them.

His son, who escaped inheriting his father’s condition, would certainly inherit a sort of bitterness over it as a child. He would throw tantrums related directly to it. He wouldn’t fully understand. Why must he almost always play politely inside when neither he nor his brother want to? Why must family time mostly be in his brother’s room when all his brother wants to do is go outside? Where is his brother going that he can’t follow and why are his parents just letting it happen?

I don’t think his son would last much longer than he did, and would be gone at around 3 to 5 years of age.

He doesn’t lose his cheerfulness, though. He doesn’t become sullen and unmoving, even if, especially right after his son’s death, he struggles to keep his head above water. Even if his attitude wears more like a mask than real feeling.

Ukitake LOVES children. He writes for children in every Seiretei Bulletin, he has always doted on his siblings and the younger members of the divisions. He has always tried his best to approach life from a child-like sense of wonder and determination. Nothing in his life has ever made that untrue. He won’t forget his living son. And he won’t overwhelm the memory of his dead son with sadness and guilt.

What can not be forgotten is that Ukitake would always do his best to make his sons’ lives fun and fulfilling, even when the circumstances are hard, even when he feels like curling into bed and sobbing all day. He spoils and cherishes and is thankful for them–so incredibly thankful for them. It’s beyond belief to lose his son, it’s horrible to know while he lives that it’ll all be over within a few years, but he tries his best to give both his sons–and himself–wonderful memories of the time they all have together.

He would absolutely have both himself and his son (and his partner) in therapy sessions under Captain Kotetsu, because he’s a very emotionally intelligent man and understand that coping with this by himself would not turn out well and isn’t necessary and he wants his son to understand the same.

#jushiro ukitake #ukitake jushiro #bleach #bleach headcanons #bleach imagines #bleach scenarios #uuuuuuh this was big sad especially since while writing this little happy memory ideas popped up and made it hurt WORSE #anon i love this ask but also: BRUH

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blissfulalchemist · 4 years ago

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"Did you expect this to turn out better?" for Cat angst!

Okay let’s start out this angst Friday strong! Uhm trigger warnings for mentions of death. It’s angst and gets deep. So uh yeah. Sorry.

Their footsteps are slow, steady...hollow as they bounce off the wood of this hallowed ground. His hair is still soft as she runs her fingers through it, head cradled in her lap as the steps move closer to her. The chains clink as they hold the empty bird cages above her, tears falling in time silently, the sobs having passed long ago. This isn’t real. It can’t be real, her eyes can’t focus on his features as they are, bloodied, bruised...pale. All she can see is the brown eyes that shined when he smiled at the world, his hair a mess when he woke in the morning after having slept with it wet, the lean muscle that held her close or teased her when they found themselves in the kitchen together.

How did they end up here? How did she end up here all alone? The plan was fool proof everything went as planned….and then….it didn’t. The Saint was the first to fall when reinforcements no one anticipated came at them from all sides. She was never meant to run into the battle but she did, watching him stumble to the ground, a hope that if she made it fast enough he could live. Misplaced hope as she had seen the three bullets hit him in places that one could never survive even if he made it to a hospital in time. The distance she made him walk didn’t grant him any more time with her either.

The edge of the battle field was met with words of comfort and reassurance while trying to stop the inevitable. Bandage after bandage was wrapped around him, her hands still working on placing more when she heard a commotion in the middle of the field. She looked up, there in the center was the Sinner, arms held behind his back by three men. He trashed against them his gold earrings flashing in the afternoon sun, dragged to his fate, forced to join like she was. Even after John’s death, one everyone blamed him for, it was still Joseph’s will to bring him into the fold, a fate worse than death for him. Mercy, swift, given as a falsely loyal follower took it upon themselves to shoot him….point blank.

Hesitation rooting her to the ground, eyes wide, as his captors half threw him to the side to yell at their fellow member, her scream silent to her ears, rough and rattling her vocal cords. Her heart pulled to bring him back home like he would have done, overpowering any voice to stay with the love of her life. Lungs burning she made it to him, avoiding the blank gaze his hazel eyes held for the sky, she pulled, lifting him to her back. “I’m here. I got you,” repeated like a prayer as gravity from the hill helped her bring the two of them together once more.

The three of them needed safety and only one place close enough to offer them that. Stretcher attached to her back with Wes lying on it and Rafael clinging to her, his steps faltering holding more of his weight, she walked, leading them to the church.

Back to where it all began.

That same church she sits in now, clinging to the last memory of him, the words he spoke softly, his thumb still trying to wipe her tears when it was obvious the two were going to part. “Tenerte y amarte significa que mi corazón está en paz. Nunca fuimos destinados a igualar las historias que adoramos porque somos nuestro propio romance épico,” his last words to her. The first declaration of love he spoke that she had understood fully after months of only ever putting pieces together. A tear in her chest with each word he spoke, breathing slowing down, heart in shreds. Clinging to him, rocking him, she waited until his last breath to scream out. Deafening in the empty church.

She only let go of him long enough to try and fight off those that came to drag Wes’ body from her. He was to become a display. A warning. She put up a fight, best she could keeping Wes as close as possible, but when it was five against one, she was easily tossed to the side. Her friend, best friend, the older brother she never had, and wanted back, “You just be careful out there. Can’t stand to see you lose.” “Always careful, Cat.” She couldn’t remember if she reminded him that he was loved by her as he had been taken, stolen, to be desecrated.

Alone.

Left to cry and apologize to deaf ears. Back at square one sitting in silence until those footsteps joined her. He finally stood in front of her, tattoos and scars on full display, hair tied back, and yellow glasses that turned his blue eyes green. She pulled Rafael closer to her, gripping as tightly as she could as he kneeled down to meet her eyes. “You can’t have him too,” she whispered, “You’ve already got the one you wanted.”

His breathing was even, she knew his face would have sympathy on it, the same look he gave Catlina when she first found herself in the middle of Montana lost and alone. “My child,” he reached out to her, she pulled back from his touch, his hand falling. “Did you expect this to turn out better?” Yes, “After everything that’s happened to you.”

“It’s not fair,” her voice is soft.

“I know,” she looked up slowly meeting his eyes briefly, “This world has been unfair to you. To us both.” His words were calming, drifting to her ears with a summer breeze guiding them. “Come with me. We can make this world a better place.”

She shook her head, fingers tracing her love’s features, “I’d rather die,” she brushed his curls from his face, “I think I just might.”

“You’re not destined to die yet,” the flame that sparked when he spoke of her destiny, her fate, remained cold now, embers fading. “How many times have you defied death in your life,” she kept her mouth closed, throat closing in on her, “Four times now?”

Catlina was twenty-two the first time, her mother left her behind, admitting that if she couldn’t be cured then she was no longer capable of loving her. Then again three years later, neighbors found her lying on the floor of her living room clutching the picture of her husband, pill bottles tossed to the side. Finally, months ago when she found there was no way out of Eden’s Gate, Catlina threw herself from the bridge. Each time someone was there in just the knick of time, saving her, granting her another chance at life. A life she no longer wanted, if she ever really did.

“This last time, God spoke to me,” I don’t believe in a god, “Showed you running to your friend through the gunfire. So many bullets you missed, knives grazing your clothes and not your skin.” She wanted to cover her ears, stop his false prophecies from reaching her brain. Too late though, her soul tired and saddened let his words sink in, little by little. “And then an image of you below the cross cradling the Saint,” Rafael, her savior. The one she placed all her faith in.

“I don’t want a purpose anymore,” she mumbled under her breath, sobs that had started to form, dissipating.

“I compassionate thee,” a sermon, a prayer, “sorrowing Mary, for that martyrdom which thy generous heart sustained,” she’d been to many services, “in being present with thine agonizing Jesus.” Never once had Joseph quoted this. There was never anything about Mary ever said. Not since she baptised before being married off. The change of her name and her first purpose given to her, “O dear Mother, by thy heart undergoing so severe a martyrdom,” this wasn’t the Mary she knew though, “obtain for me the virtue of temperance, and the gift of counsel.”

Tears fell silently looking up to Joseph curiously, “What are you talking about? You never speak of Mary.”

He held out a scorched thin paper out to her, she took it gingerly looking it over, “Because I misunderstood her purpose.” There was only one line that was complete, “35 so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too.” “Luke two, thirty five.”

Catlina shook her head handing it back, “I don’t want this life. I never did.” She looked at Raf’s face, she’d be joining him soon, “Please,” she tried to plead again, “just leave me be.”

“You want to die,” his hand brought her face up to meet his eyes, “and I can help you with that.”

Her chest felt so hollow, and yet….something spoke to her, “How?”

“We bury you with him,” she searched his face for any indication of lies or ill intent. Nothing. “And once he’s been laid to rest next to you, we give you a new life. One where all this pain makes sense, has meaning.” Metaphorical death, that’s all he could offer her. Another fake life, one where she was open to the pain of being hurt again. Catlina was tired of living….tired of being. “You’d never be alone ever again. You’d never live a life feeling lost. Catlina could be free from that life.”

Catlina….that’s who held all this pain. She was the one that was forever destined to end up alone. Always lost. Catlina was the one that wanted to die.

Did she want to die?

“You promise I can give Rafael a proper burial?” Joseph nodded, her mind straying to the horrors that awaited her brother. “I want to bury Wes too,” her eyes met Joseph’s with determination, “He deserves to leave this world loved and cared for.”

There was no hesitation, “Yes,” relief creeping in her chest, “Mary was always a symbol of love and compassion for all people. We should follow suit.”

“I want to oversee it all with my own eyes,” or no deal.

He gave a slow nod, “Of course.” He stood holding his hand out to her, “Come. We must prepare them.” She looked longingly at her heart committing his face to memory, etching it onto her soul. When it finally cemented she inhaled deeply.

Mary gently laid Rafael’s head on the floor, her blue sweater softening the wood below him. She closed her eyes, placing a kiss gently on his forehead, “Till we meet again, amor de mi vida,” she whispered, letting go. Mary looked up to Joseph, placing her hand in his standing, the setting sun silhouetting her frame in golden light. Giving him a small nod Mary followed him out of the church to recover Wes and lay the three of them to rest.

#tw death #tw mention of suicide #I am so sorry this hurts my heart too #I just must have been in a mood a bit #idk but any way #x: top chefs #brotp: red brooks bros #yeah okay I'm glad this is something I'm q'ing so i'll be sleeping while you read it #brains and disaster

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celosiaa · 4 years ago

Text

steady, love (chapter 4)

Summary:

Martin is not doing well.

Jon is there with him through every step.

(because I became obsessed ™ with the idea of Martin dealing with the physical and emotional aftermath of leaving the Lonely)

Chapters 1-6 are up on ao3 under the same username!

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8)

WARNING: brief depiction of panic

Jon pulls the car in park as they return to the cottage, and once again, Martin bolts—slamming the door behind him with enough force to make Jon jump. Left alone now, Jon sighs deeply and rests his forehead on the steering wheel.

Foolish. Foolish foolish foolish.

You knew better.

You knew.

He slams his hand on the steering wheel thrice before picking up his head. Martin occupies his peripheral vision, still standing but doubled over, hands on his knees.

Jon does not want to get out of the car.

(two hours previous)

Driving through the countryside awakened emotions in Jon that he thought were long since dead. The greenery of it all, the rolling hills, dotted with the occasional farmhouse or cottage—something about it made him feel…

Serene.

…I could actually see how Martin might want to write a poem about this.

Turning his head toward the passenger seat, he finds Martin gazing out the window, eyes crinkling at the corners to give away his hint of a smile.

Warm.

Jon turns on the CD player, and Martin’s “lo-fi charm” begins to play softly from the speakers. Martin turns his head, eyebrows raised in surprise, before his face melts into a smile.

“You packed these?” he whispers, voice still ragged.

“I thought it might—just—you seemed out of it. When we left, I mean. I thought they might help…ground you.”

Jon can feel Martin’s eyes still on him, although his own gaze is focused on the road. Peripherally, he sees Martin reach toward his burned left hand where it rests on the steering wheel, and takes it carefully. He then begins a gentle massage, fingers working over where some soreness remains from his encounter this morning, then over the length of each finger, before kissing the back of Jon’s palm.

Jon is a puddle.

Martin looks extremely pleased with himself, and doesn’t let go of Jon’s hand.

As they enter the village, Jon can sense a shift in Martin’s mood. Though he still has not let go of Jon’s hand, he sits up straighter now, eyes glued to the people walking along the narrow streets. It’s not crowded by any means—especially compared to the streets of London—but Jon must admit, it is rather a shock to recognize that they are not fully isolated, not even here.

Looking up, Jon sees dark clouds rolling in from the east.

It will rain soon, the Eye tells him unhelpfully.

They drive around at a leisurely pace until Jon finally finds the shop. It’s a tiny, cramped little thing, and the parking lot is filled with shoppers hastily unloading their groceries as the sky begins to weep. Jon puts the car in park and turns to Martin, who is still staring out the window with an unhealthy flush.

“Twenty minutes maximum,” Jon says softly. “Just twenty. Will you be alright?”

His gaze remaining fixed, Martin nods determinedly before taking a grounding breath. At last, he turns to Jon, eyes still glassy, but—

Warm. So warm.

He leans forward, hesitating for just a moment before pecking Jon’s cheek.

Jon smiles then, placing his hands gently on Martin’s face, brushing his fringe back as he does. They look deeply into each other’s’ eyes for a moment, unhurried, before Jon plants a kiss on Martin’s lips. To his dismay, Martin jumps bodily, pushing Jon’s chest back in alarm.

Oh Christ what have I done?

Jon immediately leans away from Martin, eyes wide in horror.

“Oh god—I-I’m so sorry Martin, I should have asked—”

Martin hold his hands up, shaking his head.

“You’ll catch ill,” he whispers, eyes full of concern.

Jon freezes, momentarily blinded by relief, before exhaling a brief laugh. Taking Martin’s hand in his, he says,

“If I do, then that’s alright.”

He kisses the back of Martin’s too-warm palm.

“You’ll just take care of me, then.”

Martin’s flush deepens, and a sunny smile creeps onto his face. Placing a hand behind his head, Jon pulls Martin’s head forward and plants a soft kiss on his forehead before getting out of the car, leaving a blushing mess of a man in his wake.

Martin hides his face in his hands, more grey tendrils spilling out of him. He giggles, of all things, which turns quickly into a punishing coughing fit. But he hardly minds, giddy grin remaining fixed on his face.

I must look really daft.

Attempting to force his face into some semblance of normality, he turns to look out the window again, spending several minutes watching the shoppers with their trolleys and their bags and their children. It strikes him, suddenly, that their greatest worry at this moment was the rain. The rain.

Must be nice.

…

…are you really jealous of people just minding their own business? Jesus, Martin.

With a sigh, Martin tips his head back against the seat, and notices absently that the rain is becoming steadier on the windshield. It’s relaxing, gentle, calm.

Martin closes his eyes and drifts away.

He awakens with a start, some uncertain amount of time later. The rain is pouring down in sheets now, thudding against the windshield so hard it echoes through his skull. Trying desperately to see through the endless grey, he sees nothing, no one, not even a stranger. Just him and the car and the grey.

Please just leave me be, please

His breath begins to come in ever-shortening gasps, and he leans forward onto his hands, head pounding.

I can’t see I can’t see I can’t see I can’t—

Jon glares at his watch impatiently, the bright green of his eyes reflecting back at him sharply.

Of course. Of course it would be pouring the rain, and it’s been well over twenty minutes.

Of course.

He lets out a frustrated sigh, adjusting the heavy bags in his arms once again. Next to him stands a young mother with one child seated in the overflowing trolley, another swaddled in a carrier slung over both her shoulders.

The Eye pulls at him, begging him to See what horrors the child in the trolley dreams of each night; what hurt he has suffered, even as such a young thing. Some sick part of Jon—or is it really Jon?—is desperately enticed by the meal before him—his mouth floods with saliva, he’ll do anything just to be satiated—

Jon squeezes his eyes shut, bowing his head.

You can’t have it.

It is not for us.

He attempts to direct his focus on the groceries in his arms, distracting himself by planning for their meal. Some kind of soup is most definitely in order, he’ll make that first. Unsure of what ought to be part of his vague notion of “soup,” he had purchased an array of vegetables and beans that he thought looked appetizing, and threw in some vegetable stock for good measure. Thankfully, he had remembered a conversation he’d overheard years ago in which Martin had argued with Tim over the values of vegetarianism.

Jon smirks.

Always going on about “good cows.”

With any luck, after the meal, he could coax Martin into taking the mountain of medicines he’d purchased. Something for the fever, at the very least. Maybe then he’d be able to get some dreamless, healing sleep.

Feeling a bit steadier now, Jon looks back up, in the hopes that the rain has let up. It hasn’t, of course, so he tries his best to see Martin through the curtain of rain.

Over thirty minutes now.

Jon Knows this without checking his watch.

Something is scratching it’s way out of his skull, and Jon can no longer hold it back.

T͉̟͇ͤͭ́̓h̥̟͚ͫͤ͊ͬḙ̲̞͑ͣ̍́ ̞̼͓̯͋͒̔r̖̮̙͑̓ͯͬa͙̹̭̘̳̺͐i͎ͤ̋̍̑̂̾n̞͕͕̞̅͆͛ ̪̥̥̻̇͒ͫî͎̰̖ͤ͒ͩs͚̱ͥ͗͊̈̓ ̤̪͋̽̇͂ͣw̙̙̟̰̃ͬ̈́r̺̤̙ͦ̈̂̆ȏ̳̗͈͛͛ͅn̽͂͗ͨͧ̉͒g̠̅̊͋ͭ̓ͅ,̦͍ͩ͊ͨ̚ͅ ͔̹̼̥̽͗̂J̫̖͙̳͊̇ͭo͎͖͓̥̫̒̎n̲̩͆ͧ̾̅̓.̘̼̲̬ͩ͂ͭ ͖͇̦̺͌ͧ̌ ͍͈̮͑̾ͪ͒C̮͖̝͊̄̐̽å̺̹̺ͤͧ̚n͚͉̰̘̫ͩ̃'̫͛̈́̅ͤ͐̚t̪͚̞̫͇̅́ ̥̗̩̙̻̿̌y͓̞̤̻̠ͮ̚ó̩̹̣̅͌͋u͓̤̝̘̹̒̋ ̙͓͙ͮ̾̽͛s͎͍̾̆ͧͦͮe͚͔̫̒ͪ͐̋e͖͕ͨͪ̈ͭ̄?͖͙̲̳̰͂̏

Static explodes through his mind, permeating every thought with anxiety, leaving him breathless.

I̯͕ͩͭͧͪͩt̗̹͉̽͗̄̂'̣̮̤̅ͣ̅͗s̞̣̃ͫ̏͐ͅ ̜͉͈̞̽͊̀w̗̯͔͋̏͆͊r̖̙̈́͐͂ͯ̉o̖͔̟ͩ̍ͨ̒n͕̮̪̐̎̏̑g͖̐̉̏̀͑̅.͇̺͓͒͆̾̏

It is, isn’t it.

D̟̹̫̽̅̓̚o̲̤̟̒ͧͨͅn̯͓͕̤̽̀ͭ'̻̋̍̏̂̔́t͙̬̙̰ͤ̉̎ ̱͙̯̝͑̑̾y̹̱̽͑̎ͅͅo̲̠͍̼̻ͯ̅û̘̖̯̆͐ͅ ̯ͤ͆̂͌̏ͅN̫͚̺̫̞̅ͫĖ̯͚̠͈̤̇Ē̖̪̺͓̈́̚D̠͙̘̏̈́̇͂ ̤͇̭͕̻͋̄ẗ̙́ͮ̋͂̔̚o̤̲̻ͭ̌ͣ͐ ̙̖̬̖̓̄̐s̙̙͓̺͖̣̋e̯̦̱̳̗ͣͮe̮̲͖̪ͧ̇ͧ?̟͇̦͗͗͆͗

D̳̤̪͆̉͋̿o͈̮̥̿̆̐ͮn͓̺̽̄͋ͫ͆'̘̯͎̊́ͮͅt̠̟͉͗̓̀̃ ͉͐͒͗ͦͫ͂y̦̣̞̪̍̍͑o̥̫͍̒́͛̔ȕ̻̜̑ͫ͛̚ ̻̳̰̝̈ͪͨn̠͚̾̏̆͛͂e̒͒͆̋ͥ̐͐ë̤̻͎̘́ͦͤd̥̟̜ͣ̅̾̀ ̪͚̟̦̎̎̇t̯͓̻̱ͭ̾͛ŏ̖̠̫̇̍͋ ͔̑̄̿̋͋ͮp͉̬̲ͩ͛ͨ̂r̙̝̰̦͑̓̒o̫̤̤̜̍ͪ͌t͔̟͚̻̝̽̅e͚̲͙ͫ̑ͭ̂c̫̳̹̿͆̂͂ẗ̳̦̩̦̯́ͦ ̞̱̉ͭͨͦͯh̰̣̺̆ͯͪ̈i̤̘̬ͭͣͭ͛m̗ͫ̈̽̃ͪ́?̳̩͊̋̇ͨͩ

He doesn’t want it, he doesn’t want this. He wants to refuse the Eye its every wish, but he has to Know if Martin is alright, he has to he has to he has to—

He does.

He sees Martin sitting in the car, head in his hands, trying to control his breathing, when suddenly—Martin jolts. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifts his head—

He looks directly at Jon.

Jon’s head begins to split.

He stumbles, back in the shop now, wincing and trying not to drop his bags.

“Alright there?” he thinks he hears the woman next to him say.

He doesn’t respond. He knows he has to make a run for it now.

Martin knows what he’s done.

He dashes through the parking lot, ignoring the rain soaking through his shoes, nearly slipping as he reaches the door. As he throws it open, he hears a loud BANG as Martin slams his body into the passenger side door, eyes wide and terrified and—

Betrayed.

Jon slows his movements intentionally, setting the bags on the seat behind them before lowering himself to sitting, and closing the door.

“…Martin?”

Martin is still gaping at him with those wide eyes, beginning to hyperventilate. Jon reaches out a hesitant, shaking hand toward him in a gesture of comfort, but—Martin slaps it away rather forcefully. Jon inhales sharply at this, a bit shocked at his anger.

“I-I…sorry, I…what can I do? How can I help?”

Gaze never leaving him, Martin shakes his head rapidly before doubling over into painful, gasping coughs that must be tearing his throat to shreds. Tears gather in Jon’s eyes as he watches, utterly at a loss for what to do, Knowing how much joy the Eye is taking in this moment, drinking in all of their pooled sorrow.

Martin recovers some ability to breathe at last, but his eyes have not softened.

“Just—drive,” he chokes out between gasping breaths.

Jon complies without another word.

(present)

He has to get out eventually.

Might as well be now.

Glancing to his left again, Jon sees Martin standing up fully now, pacing back and forth in front of the cottage, and he makes his decision. He lifts the groceries from where they had been knocked on their sides due to his speeding, and closes the car door softly—enough to alert Martin to his presence without startling him.

Again.

At the sound, Martin stops pacing, standing with his back to Jon, overlooking their neighbor’s field filled with cattle. The gravel crunches under Jon’s feet as he approaches, careful to stop before getting too close. They stand in silence for nearly a minute, and Jon takes some comfort in the fact that Martin has not sent him away.

At last, he turns, teary eyes boring into Jon’s.

“That? Cannot happen again,” he rasps, with as much force behind it as his voice will allow.

Jon nearly drops the grocery bags in astonishment, relieved that Martin seems to want to talk this out.

“Y-yes of—of course, Martin, I-I’m so sorry, I just—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Jon,” he hisses.

Jon snaps his mouth shut immediately.

Martin sighs, running a hand through his hair before replying with a slightly-softened tone.

“I just…don’t. You can’t do that. Not to me. Understand?”

“Yes. Yes, I..I’m sorry.”

“Good. Let’s go then.”

Martin marches quickly toward the cottage, leaving Jon staring after him. Jon knows that this is far from over, but makes a decision to be grateful for small progress. Hitching the bags up on his hips, he follows Martin inside.

#tma #tma fic #sickfic #jonmartin #fanfic #tw panic #my writing

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mcfreakin-bxtch · 5 years ago

Text

Are You With Me?

Pairing: Arthur Fleck x Reader

Warnings: NSFW (not too graphic), some angst? Trigger warnings

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: Y’all getting fed today. My first Arthur Fleck fic! I’m still taking requests and prompts so please send them in! <3</p>

Masterlist

Gotham could be so beautiful at night when it wanted to be. The lights flashed through my apartment windows, the city always so bright and alive despite the darkness that crept through. On these nights I imagine that I’m some where’s else, far away where the sun would always shine and there were no signs of danger when walking on the sidewalks. I had been saving money since I started working, hoping that one day I would be able to reach my goal; deep down I think I knew it was never going to happen for me, but it never hurt to try.

The mornings were easier, that was when I barely had any costumers. Being a prostitute and working at the popular brothel in Gotham city had its perks despite the dangers that came with it; it made a lot of money and that’s all I cared about. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t my first choice. But it’s my only choice of surviving in this god forsaken city.

Most of the men (occasionally women as well) were crude and rough. One of my costumers – whom I never bothered to learn his name – were always rough to the point of blood in particular and the only reason why he was still allowed to come around was because of the money he threw around handsomely; my boss had told me to suck it up and accept the payment. I’ve gotten used to it by now, being bruised and battered by the residents of Gotham.

However, there was one man that had showed nothing but kindness and understanding towards me, and always made it a point to visit frequently. I waited for him now, late in the evening. He was always punctual with our little appointments, and he greeted me like I was his lovely wife waiting for him to come home from work. I only indulged in this little fantasy of his to humor his money, or what little of it he had. I would feel guilty afterwards, he was genuinely a gentle and caring man and I knew he was mentally ill as well – which I never looked at him differently for. At least that was what I could see on the surface.

There was a knock on my door, followed by a small ‘it’s me’. I sighed gently, taking another drag of my cigarette – it was nothing but ash at this point – and unlocked the door to let him in.

Arthur Fleck grinned at me, shuffling into the small but comfy apartment. The news was playing in the background in the living room, the story of the three men killed on the subway bringing Arthur’s attention to the screen. He had an odd look in his eyes as he scanned it, and it made me feel a little uneasy. Like he was proud of the murders that took place.

“Did you hear about this?” Arthur asked suddenly.

I sat down on the couch next to him, legs curled under me as I propped my head in my hand. I never seen the men before, and a sick part of me had hoped one of them was the man that made a habit of hurting me during his visits.

“A little,” I answered. “It’s Gotham for you though. So much hatred and disgust.”

I couldn’t decipher the look he gave me, it left as quick as it came. He pulled out a cigarette, lighting it up and taking a deep inhale. I watched as he did, waiting for him to bashfully give her the look; though he had grown more comfortable with me and our physical relationship, I was still the one who had to initiate the act.

Except this night was different, Arthur was different. One look into his eyes and I could tell something was off, he was changing. Time would tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Putting out the cigarette in her ashtray, he turned to me fully.

“I look at it as a good thing.”

I frowned at him, not understanding where he was coming from.

“I mean-.” Arthur stuttered as he tried to find the right words. “They were cruel. The world is better off without them.”

I knew that Arthur did not have an easy life. Society did look and treat him differently just because of the fact that he was a little different from the rest of them; damaged, unhinged. He had every right to hate them, to resent them, but to take it to this level? It was dark, dangerous, and I was starting to wonder on if I should let him into my home anymore.

“Yeah.” I licked my lips. “But that’s no reason to murder them. I mean we’re supposed to be better than them, right?”

Arthur shook his head, his legs bouncing furiously. I could tell laughter was bubbling up in his chest and he was trying his damnest to keep it down. He started to let out the chocked laughter anyway, doubling over in pain as they continued. When he first explained his illness I was admittedly awkward and scared around him. It took time for me to become used to it and to look at it as simply a normal thing; I spent a week trying to make up for it as an apology.

“How was your day?” I asked softly, running a hand up and down his back as he calmed down.

“It was… it was okay.”

“Job?”

Arthur put his head down in shame. “I- I got fired.”

I gave out a small gasp. “What for?”

He seemed embarrassed, and I almost changed the subject before he spoke up. “I brought a gun with me on the job. They found out.”

I froze. Arthur sensed this and shifted uncomfortably, not meeting my gaze. I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. I mean I had a gun, bought it once I took the job for protection, so it made sense that Arthur had one as well for the very same reason.

“Okay… where is it now?” I finally asked.

Arthur shifted, pulling the pistol from the back of his pants, setting it down on the coffee table. I eyed it up, burning holes into the table.

“Are you… are you upset with me?” Arthur asked quietly.

I slowly shook my head. Placing a hand under his chin so he would look at me, I climbed onto his lap, his hands hovering over my hips before softly placing them down. His breathing picked up a little at the proximity, body shaking from the contact.

“It’s just for protection, right Arthur?” I asked softly, gazing into his eyes.

He nodded. “Just for protection.”

I leaned in then, waiting for him to give the okay before pressing my lips into his chapped ones. I could feel him becoming hard under me, and I rolled my hips against his. He moaned into the kiss, tightening his grip on my hips. I invited it in, moving my lips from his to place kisses on his jaw and neck.

“Wait,” Arthur gasped out after another roll of my hips.

I leaned back, hands playing with the hair on the back of his neck.

“I don’t have much now,” he said, voice shaking. “It’s okay if you want me to stop. Or leave. I just… I just wanted to see you.”

If it were anyone else, I would’ve already kicked them to the curb. But sometimes I imagine that I was someone else, and that I could actually let myself fall in love freely with Arthur Fleck. Maybe I already have. Maybe that’s why I only shake my head with a soft smile, kissing him deeply before shredding off his jacket.

“It’s okay,” I whispered into his ear. He shuddered, whimpering as I ran my fingers through his hair.

It didn’t take long for our clothes to be thrown carelessly on the ground and for him to be inside me. Usually I was the dominant one, which was just fine by me. But Arthur was full of surprises tonight, and pushed me down on the couch, hovering over with a new kind of intensity that shook me to the core.

“Oh!” I gasped as he thrusted in, not giving me a chance to adjust before starting a brutal pace.

I splayed my hands over his bony back – every visit ended with me telling Arthur he needed to take care of himself – and tightened my legs over his waist. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, panting as he moved wildly. I couldn’t lie, this new side of him was endearing and exciting.

Arthur placed a kiss on the skin of my neck where it met my shoulder, and bit down hard.

“Jesus – shit Arthur just like that,” I moaned. “You’re doing so good, keep going please!”

These words fueled him, letting out a quiet growl before pounding into me. The couch shook from it, and I was sure I would be hearing complaints from the occupants of the building; I couldn’t find it in me to care.

I placed a hand in between our bodies, circling my clit with vigor. My walls clenched around his impressive girth, and it didn’t take long for the both of us to reach our peaks, his mouth swallowing my moans. He collapsed on top of me but I welcomed the weight, holding him to me as we caught our breaths.

“Thank you,” Arthur whispered into my lips.

It took several moments before Arthur pulled out of me with a soft groan, getting dressed and placing a blanket over our laps.

“Is that man still bothering you?” He asked.

I sighed heavily. This was a question he asked daily after walking in one of the ‘appointments’. The face of the man that left bruises and cuts on me was burned into his mind, who simply laughed at Arthur’s face as he gave one final, painful thrust as tears streamed silently down my face. Normally I would’ve had the door locked and Arthur would’ve knocked but he was in a rush to show me his new joke book and I barely had a chance to get the door when the man dragged me to the couch.

I yelled at Arthur to get out and cried the entire night, immediately calling – he was the only one I ever allowed to call – him after to apologize.

“Not really,” I lied smoothly.

I could see he wasn’t buying my lie, but he kept his mouth shut to which I appreciated.

The rest of the night was spent just talking, sharing jokes for his joke book. When he left, boldly placing a hand behind my neck to pull me in for a passionate kiss that honestly left me breathless, I couldn’t help but think about the men on the subway and the gun that once sat on the table.

…

The next time I saw Arthur Fleck was the night before The Murray Show and the night after the death of the man was announced; I immediately thought of Arthur and his gun. He excitedly told me that was going to be on, and I felt happy for him, proud even despite the dreading news. This was his dream, and it seemed as though he was getting a second chance at life. He deserved it after all.

But he changed significantly, and I knew something was wrong when he first walked in, barely giving me a chance to say hi before he was on me. The lovemaking was rough but gentle that left me wanting more. It took me a second to realize Arthur was saying my name.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

He gave me a soft smile in return. “I got you something.”

Clothes back on and fixed, he reached next him to his jacket, where it laid on the floor next to my bed. It was wrapped – I could tell he wrapped it himself – and small. Arthur was anxious as he handed it to me, watching as I unwrapped it and opened the small box. Inside was a beautiful ring, a small pearl wrapped in the middle. It looked cheap, definitely not worth much but it was still so beautiful and it made tears build in the back of my eyes. But then I thought of the man, and my stomach sunk.

Clearing my throat and setting the ring down, I was close to breaking down and forgetting what I had to discuss with him when I saw the rejection on his face.

“Arthur honey,” I sighed, scooting closer to him until I felt his thigh pressed up against my leg. “I um- I have-.”

“You don’t like it,” he interrupted harshly.

“That’s not it!” I quickly interjected. “It’s beautiful Arthur. It’s just… I’ve been watching the news.”

His body stiffened, but I continued.

“I understand if you get angry at this, and I’m not jumping to any conclusions-.”

“I killed him.”

I stared at him, mouth agape. He said it so nonchalantly, as if we were discussing dinner. It felt like I was chocking on air, the shock hitting me like a tidal wave.

“Y-you k-killed him?”

Arthur brought a lit cigarette to his lips. “Yeah. He was hurting you. It was only a matter of time.”

I shook my head, trying to comprehend what he was telling me.

“Have you seen it out there?” Arthur asked before I could utter another word.

He waited for my answer, but I could not form any coherent sentences.

“It’s crazy,” he continued. “Something needs to be done, and there are people out there that are actually noticing me! I’m the only one who’s taking action right now, and I- I want you to join me.”

My name flowed from his lips with such love and devotion it hurt. It hurt because now I could only see him as a murderer. He wasn’t the same Arthur I invited into my home, my body, the man that I had fallen in love with despite convincing myself I haven’t. And yet somehow he still was.

“Arthur,” I struggled to keep my voice steady; I hadn’t realized I was crying until he wiped a tear from my cheek. “I don’t think I can. This is wrong.”

Arthur’s legs started to shake as he shook his head. “No no you’re not – you’re not thinking clearly!” His voice was starting to rise, and I couldn’t help but feel frightened from it.

“What have those people ever done for you, huh?!? You’re just like me, overlooked, used, and stepped on by these people! Take control!”

His ramblings were making my head spin. It felt as though the air was constricting around them, but oddly enough I still felt safe around him; I was confident in my Arthur enough to know that he wouldn’t dare hurt me on purpose.

“What do you plan on doing on that show Arthur?” I whispered.

Arthur sighed, roughly throwing his jacket and shoes on. I could only watch as he did so.

“Are you with me?”

I mulled over the situation. I never enjoyed violence, had thoughts of them but never acted upon them. But I couldn’t help but feel joyed over the news of my abuser’s death. And Arthur was right, no one really cared about me, I had no family left that cared; he was really the only one I had left. The only one that had only showed me love and kindness. This world was a dark and cruel place, but was any of this right or justified?

“Can I… do I have time to think about it?” I croaked. “It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no either. I just need some time,” I added for good measure.

Arthur grinned, rushing over to place a sweet chaste kiss. “Of course, my love.”

I stared at the ring after Arthur left. Slipping it on, I pondered over his words and the fear of what tomorrow would bring. I only hoped that no matter the outcome, Arthur Fleck would be okay in the end.

Tags: @riverquartzuniverse, @beepbeepyabitch, @smol-flower-kiddo, @teenagedirtbagg2, @goththespian

#joker #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck #smut #angst #joaquin pheonix #joaquin pheonix joker #arthur fleck x you #joker x reader #joker x you

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sixqueendom · 5 years ago

Text

New Fanfic: If Only You Would Listen, Chapter 4

So, after having a few requests to, I’ve decided to post my new fic on here as well as AO3. If you would prefer to read on AO3, I have included the link below! No real warnings for this one. Just the usual angst I'm sure you've grown accustomed to with my fics if you’ve read any of my previous work!

A huge thank you to Phoebe (@theatergirl06), Lilac (@timetoriseabove) and Blue (@pen-and-a-microphone) for beta-reading this fic! You guys are the best! An extra special thank you to Blue (@pen-and-a-microphone) for your support, thoroughness and help with this fic! Without you, my grammar would be tragic and i’d never be able to conjure the right words I want to say! I hope you all enjoy this final chapter! AO3 ------------------

There was a deep sense of nervous anticipation the following morning as, one by one, the Queens came downstairs for breakfast. Jane, as always, was the first to rise. She couldn’t resist peeking into Kitty’s bedroom with baited breath, before her shoulders slumped as her eyes fell onto the neatly made bed. But she clung onto the tiny shred of hope she had left, as she padded downstairs to the kitchen, only for her heart to sink at the sight of the vacant space. Despite this, she soldiered on and prepared breakfast, determined to maintain the usual routine for the others’ sake. The smell of sweet pancakes and toast must have sparked some optimism, as a disheveled Cathy sleepily trudged in next, her eyes hopeful, her hair hastily tied up into a messy bun. But, seeing the room empty besides Jane, her face fell as she slid into a chair at the table. Even Catherine, who always waltzed in breezily each morning, fresh-faced and bright, couldn’t conceal her bitter disappointment, the smile slipping from her lips as she poured herself some tea.

Finally, a familiar thump at the bottom of the stairs announced Anne’s unceremonious arrival. The reality hit her hardest, her hopes of Kitty having returned home dashed as she froze in the doorway. The others watched as her head dipped in an effort to hide her quivering lip, her hands clenched into fists by her sides as she tried to fight her anguish. Jane slowly lifted herself from her place at the table, casting her a sympathetic look.

“Come on, love,” she said, softly, wrapping her arm gently around the girl and guiding her to the seat between herself and Cathy.

As Anne buried her face in her hands to quietly cry, Cathy abandoned her toast and pulled her closer, resting her head on the younger woman’s shoulder for comfort. Despite the glorious sunshine outside, the solemn mood cast a shadow over the room. Breakfast in the house was usually quite predictable in nature, with each of the women having their preferred times of rising from bed. It was always buzzing with discussion - the exchanging of plans for the day ahead, bubbly laughter in the air from Anne or Kitty - the soundtrack to their everyday life.

But today, there was simply silence.

The playful skip of an entrance from Kitty, the flash of pink hair, was missing. There was no giggling as she was teased by Anne, no light-hearted roll of the eyes from Cathy when she realised they’d swiped the jar of Nutella, no general banter exchanged as Anna finally made an appearance, barging in to help herself to a slice of toast. Instead, the whole routine was stiff, subdued. Once Anna finally arrived, there was no loud proclamation; the German sank into the nearest seat without a sound, propping her head up with one arm. Catherine made a half-hearted attempt at normality as she flicked distractedly through the pages of her magazine in a futile effort to divert her attention away from the empty chair beside her. The gaping hole where Kitty should be.

Finally, Cathy stood wearily, fighting against the heavy feeling that almost overcame her. She made a quick call to their agent to cancel the interview scheduled for later that morning, fabricating a lie about a stomach bug amongst the Queens, before retreating to her bedroom. Jane began to stack the dishes up to wash, Catherine quick to volunteer her help, feeling the need to keep herself occupied. That left Anna and Anne exchanging despondent looks across the table, silently admitting they should probably be going to do something. After a small staring match, it was Anna who finally stood to leave, deciding to move to the lounge to binge-watch TV. Then Anne was alone, her head resting on the table. She had no motivation to move, not without the insistent tug of her cousin to lift her from the table and lead her upstairs. Her legs felt like they were made of lead, her head foggy. She wanted nothing more than to lie there all day. After all, what was the point of doing anything if Kitty wasn’t there?

Catherine finally broke the silence, turning to face Anne, desperate to try and instill some hope back into the younger woman.

“Maybe she’ll turn up for the show this afternoon.” It wasn’t a suggestion, it was a statement.

Anne tilted her head, her eyes still red-rimmed and puffy from her earlier tears. Oh, how she hoped Catherine was right. But she still couldn’t shove away the thought that Kitty’s decision had been final; that her patience had run thin, and they had driven her away for good. After all, she didn’t owe them anything, and she certainly had no obligation to turn up for the show today. They would have to call the theatre and arrange for her understudy to be brought in. But even the thought of performing without Kitty there made her heart ache. How could they possibly be expected to continue without her?

Shaking her head, Anne gave a sigh and silently left the room.

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

Meanwhile, at the hotel, Kitty had come to the conclusion that her current situation was unsustainable. She couldn’t just stay in a hotel forever, especially not with limited funds. She had no way to support herself, to eat, or to keep safe. And she was getting so lonely.

She needed her Queens.

But, did they need her? After all, they had been the ones to shun her, push her further away. Picking at her breakfast, Kitty mulled over her options. Part of her felt pulled back to them, like a lifeboat back to shore, to the security of a home and the people that she knew and loved. Everyone deserves a second chance, right? But then, there was also the unrelenting fear that she had irrevocably changed the home dynamics and her relationships with the other Queens. Could things between them ever really go back to the way they were before? When Kitty seriously thought about it, the obvious answer was no. After all, the “normal” she now longed for had also resulted in the dispute and resulting rift. Back in that “normal”, she had felt childish and insignificant. Yet, there had unquestionably been aspects of that familiarity that she’d loved. What she would give now to have a spontaneous, carefree dance off with Anna and Anne in their dressing room, inevitably getting glitter everywhere as they giggled. To have that delicious sweet smell of Jane’s baking floating upstairs on a warm, sunny afternoon, which would bring them all outside to sit on the patio and laugh over lemonade and cakes, the sun shining on their faces. She had felt part of the group then.

Then, there was the other part of her, telling her to persevere; she’d made her choice, now it was up to them to deal with the consequences. After all, she’d had no say in being reincarnated in the first place, so what was there to say that she was meant to stay with the other five wives who had also been mistreated and subsequently united by a mutual ex-husband. Maybe she was destined for greater things that didn’t involve them?

But again, surely there had been some purpose for them being reincarnated together? Surely that had to mean something?

There was also the issue of the show, which she had signed a contract for. She owed it to them to turn up...didn’t she? No, wait, she didn’t owe them anything! Not after the way they treated her! But then, there was the problem of her contract; if she bailed out with no notice, what would happen then? Her reputation would undoubtedly be tarnished.

Kitty groaned, her head throbbing as her inner thoughts conflicted. She felt free, yet lost , independent, yet painfully lonely. Why couldn’t someone just tell her what was for the best? What path was right for her? This had all happened so fast; she was having to readily make choices most people would have days, if not months, to consider, prior to coming to a decision.

She pulled out the photo once more.

So, what’s it to be, Kitty? Are you ready to go home, or are you ready to leave them behind?

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

Having consulted with Jane after Anne had left the room, Catherine decided they should hold off on another search in the morning and, instead, suggest to the others that they go to the theatre as normal. Despite lying to their agent to get out of the interview, it was still plausible that the fictional illness could have subsided in time for an afternoon show. The feedback from the others had mostly been positive; Cathy and Anna seemed hopeful that Kitty might be pulled back to perform. Anne, however, was in denial, finding it impossible to shake the feeling that Kitty’s actions had been final, that she wasn’t coming back. So, with that, the Queens arrived early for their afternoon performance. They tried to stick to their usual pre-show routines, but the atmosphere was quieter than normal, muted. There was no lively chatter or banter between them, no music spilling out from Anna’s portable speaker, which, on most days, would be enough to prompt a spell of singing.

The silence was the first thing Kitty noticed as she let herself into the stage door. As she walked down the narrow corridor, approaching the adjoining two dressing rooms, her heart was pounding in her ears. She clamped her eyes shut as she took a deep breath, doubt still gnawing away at her. She prayed that she was doing the right thing, that she would not live to regret this.

When she peered around the corner into the dressing room she shared with Anne and Cathy, she was stunned to see how solemn and quiet they were, just going through the motions without uttering a word. Kitty felt her heart wrench. Was this about her? Did they really miss her? It was Anne who looked up first, the familiar flash of pink, catching the corner of her eye. Her mouth fell open, her eyes already glistening with tears as she launched herself from her seat, throwing her arms around Kitty in relief, the force almost knocking the wind right out of her. Cathy whirled around, her eyes wide, before breaking into a smile. Kitty could barely breathe, Anne was squeezing her so tightly, but she didn’t argue. If anything, it only confirmed one thing: this was where she was meant to be. Burying her head into her cousin’s shoulder, she too began to cry.

After a moment, Kitty pulled away, wiping her eyes.

“There’s something I need to do,” she said with conviction, before moving next door.

She ignored Catherine and Anna gawping in bewilderment as she entered, not hesitating to walk up to Jane and wrap her in a hug, causing her to gasp in surprise.

“Oh, Kitty, darling!” she breathed, returning the hug with the same intensity, the tears coming quick.

“I’m sorry,” Kitty sobbed into her shoulder, relishing in finally having the feeling of Jane’s comforting arms around her once more. It filled her with love: this was home.

“No,” Jane shook her head, pulling back and brushing a tendril of hair from Kitty’s eyes. “It’s me who should be sorry. I’ve been too scared to acknowledge that you’re not a girl anymore, that you’re an adult and you should be treated like one.” Jane paused to compose herself, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “I’ve been so consumed in trying to replicate what I could have had, instead of accepting that’s all in the past now. I’m not your mother, after all, although sometimes I wish I was. I bet you’re thankful I’m not.” Jane chuckled jokingly, which in turn made Kitty smile through her own tears.

“But that’s just the thing,” Kitty sniffed, bowing her head. “I love nothing more than your hugs, your baking...and I do sometimes wish you were my mum but…” Kitty hesitated, biting her lip as she considered her words carefully. “I...suppose I just want more space? More, um, freedom?”

Jane nodded in agreement, a smile still on her face.

“Maybe we can compromise? I won’t nag at you for what time you’ll be home if I still get to fuss over you, on special occasions?”

Kitty laughed.

By this time, all of the Queens had congregated in the room, all surprised and relieved in equal measure.

“We all owe you an apology too,” Cathy admitted, standing tall.

“We never meant to ever make you feel insecure, or that your words were less valued than anyone else’s. You’re every bit a part of this family as anyone else,” Catherine said, wrapping her in a brief hug, giving her shoulders a reassuring squeeze as she moved back. “And, I’m sorry. For being so harsh on you.”

Anna stepped forward, wringing her hands. “We really missed you. I want you to know that I’d never, ever wish you weren’t here. You’re a vital part of our slightly dysfunctional family.” The comment prompted several chuckles. “What i meant to say is...I’m so sorry, Kit. I never wanted to drive you away.”

Kitty pulled the German close.

It left only Anne, who stood rather forlornly in the middle of the room, distractedly picking at her fingernails. After a moment, her gaze lifted to meet Kitty’s eyes.

“I think I probably owe you the biggest apology,” she mumbled, ashamedly. “It was my idea to stop discussing certain things in front of you. I just...wanted to protect you, not realising that you are more than capable of holding your own. I didn’t mean for it to go this far, for you to feel like you weren’t a part of us, like we were talking behind your back all the time. I would never have suggested it in the first place if I’d known how much that would hurt you.”

Kitty tilted her head in sadness, watching as Anne began to crumple in front of her, shame bringing yet more tears to her cousin’s eyes.

“Oh, Annie…”

She hurried over to envelop her in a reassuring hug.

“I know you were all just looking out for me. I don’t blame you for suggesting it either. I mean...we all don’t like talking about our past sometimes.” She nuzzled her face into Anne’s shoulder. “I know you were just trying to stop me getting hurt.”

Feeling a heavy weight being lifted off of her shoulders, Anne sunk further into Kitty’s hug, a smile breaking out on her face. “Beheaded cousins...right?”

Kitty grinned, pulling away and giving her hand a gentle squeeze, with a wink. “Right.”

It was like the entire room breathed a sigh of relief, the air finally clearing. But Kitty wasn’t finished. She looked around at all of the Queens.

“I want you all to know I’m sorry, too. I should never have run away like that, leaving you all worried.” She gazed purposefully at Catherine. “You were right, I should have taken a more mature approach to my problems. I shouldn’t have raised my voice like that and said what I did. I was just feeling so...lost. Like I wasn’t that important because I wasn’t included in all your conversations. I just wanted the chance to speak up, to feel more included, not left to feel like I was just like a little kid who was incapable of making their own decisions. Some of the topics that come up, sure, they’ll be hard. But I can handle them now. And, if I’m not having such a good day, or I feel like something might get upsetting, I’ll just walk away.”

The Queens listened intently, giving Kitty their undivided attention. It was the first time in a while that they had all listened to what she had to say, and they knew, now more than ever, how important it was. As Kitty continued, they made motions of encouragement

“Whilst I was away, I realised that I really needed you all. I missed every single one of you.” As she spoke, she turned to each Queen in turn.

“Jane, believe it or not I missed your comfort, your hugs. I just wanted you to tell me that everything was going to be okay.”

She held out her hand, pulling the older woman close to her.

“Cathy, when I couldn’t sleep I wished so desperately that I could sneak into your room and just talk, about everything and anything.” The writer gave her a warm smile, a glint in her eye. They would do that again soon.

“Anna, I missed your jokes; you always know how to make me laugh and cheer me up when I’m down.” The German was quick to ruffle her hair at the comment, pulling her closer to give her a squeeze.

“Catherine, I actually love getting to spend some mornings with you and you do give the best fashion advice.“ Kitty watched as the older woman’s face lit up, genuinely touched by the words. When Catherine didn’t move, Kitty beckoned her over to join the rest of the group.

Finally, Kitty turned to her cousin. “And Anne, well...who would I cause trouble with if it wasn’t with you?

At that, Anne practically flung herself forwards, and the youngest girl was suffocated in the tightest group hug she had ever felt. With the final piece of the puzzle in place, she felt like she could finally breathe again.

They were interrupted by the half an hour call over the tannoy.

At that, Anne scurried off, before quickly re-appearing with Kitty’s costume in hand, a huge smirk on her face.

“So, what do you say, Kit? Ready to be a Queen again?”

#six fanfiction

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ficsandcatsandficsandcats · 5 years ago

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Ohhh I loved your last Punk Jaskier and Indie Reader... how about... after show party, they casually find eachother celebrating and keep on arguing what takes them to super hot wild angry sex. And maybe she leaves in the morning and a couple of months go by and they meet again he is angry and they confess their feelings and she leaves Valdo? (Actually this might be a whole series XD, sorry)

Fandom: The WitcherPairing: Punk!Jaskier x Indie!ReaderWord Count: 1,556Rating: ETaglist: @heroics-and-heartbreak @whatevermonkey @mynamesoundslikesherlock @magic-multicolored-miracle a/n: Hey loverly – thank you so much for the prompt! I love that you guys are digging the Punk!AU that Joz and I have created! I tweaked the end of this request a bit because canonically Jaskier is with Reader BUT I did give you angry smut and Feelings and Valdo’s Origin Story(ish) and gave Indie!Reader an HEA all of her own. I hope you like it!

“You’re such a fucking bitch,” Jaskier spat the words as he thrust into you, one hand gripping a bared breast and the other holding your hips, guiding it down onto him.

“You’re such a pretentious fucking asshole,” you snarled back, seizing a handful of chestnut hair and using it to pull Jaskier’s head to the side, exposing the thick expanse of his neck that you sucked and kissed and moaned into as he fucked you harder.

“Always have to have the last word don’t you?” he groaned, “I’m going to fuck the sass out of you.”

You laughed and clenched tighter around him as he sped up, gripping his broad shoulders for support, trying hard to force out words but only guttural moans are driven through you.

This wasn’t what you had anticipated when you ran into Jaskier in the parking lot. Vicious Mockery and Feather Fall had both performed at a show that went wildly better than either of them could have anticipated. It went so well they nearly didn’t badger each other as they had their separate after show parties at the dive bar just off the highway. You were usually the cooler headed one of the group but when Jaskier made some snide little comment about enjoying this moment cuz the next time they’d just be an opening act for his band, you hadn’t been able to bite back the words. You called him a prick and a mediocre lyricist. He’d retaliated just as swiftly, throwing in your face that Aevryn had chosen Vicious Mockery over them. You’d told him his singing was like a fillingless pie, not entirely sure that made sense in your half-drunk state but it had struck a nerve. He’d pulled you in for a bruising kiss that you eagerly returned and now here you were, having angry sex in the back of his two door car that you’d tried to insult by comparing it to a clown car but he’d ripped your panties off by then and pushed you into the backseat with his fingers already seeking your wet warmth.

“You know the worst thing about you?” Jaskier asked, gripping your chin and forcing your eyes to his, the usually serene blue stormy with anger and lust.

“What? That I’m better than you? That you want me even though you hate yourself for it?” you challenged, gasping the words out as you felt yourself nearing release.

“That you’re actually really fucking talented but you waste it on that shit band and for what? Valdo’s money? You could do so much more on your own and you fucking know it.”

You opened your mouth to fight back but your orgasm caught you off guard and all you could do was moan and thrash against him while he kept his relentless pace until he came as well, the two of you left panting and spent in the backseat as the adrenaline slowly left your systems. You pulled on your panties and righted your shirt, getting yourself together before climbing over Jaskier to get out of the car. He gripped you for a moment and you shot him a dark look, fuming over his last words.

“Y/N,” he said, “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Fuck you,” you bit out and then crawled out of the car, marching to the tour bus Valdo’s father had bought you, trying to swallow the bile that rose in your throat.

—–

You nervously tapped your fingers against the porcelain mug, staring at the pretty leaf design the barista had poured into your latte. You didn’t know if Jaskier would show. When you’d DM’d him, four months after your horribly ill-advised but not at all regretted hate fueled quickie in the back of his car and two months after it was announced that you were leaving Feather Fall, you’d expected him to back out. The only thing that had really tied you two together was your mutual disdain for each other’s bands and now that you didn’t have the band there was really nothing left. At least that’s what you told yourself to expect, trying hard not to get your hopes up as you heard the little jingle of the door and looked up to see if this time it was Jaskier.

He looked the same as always. Maybe a little more tan, a souvenir from his recent tour through California, but he was still wearing his signature jeans and button up (well, half-buttoned up). He had his glasses on today, a little reminder to himself that he didn’t have to be On and could focus on what he came here to do. He smiled when he saw you and you were relieved to see it was a genuine one that lit up the clear, sky blue eyes. You thought back to the last time you’d seen them and just as quickly put the thought out of your head. You weren’t here for that today. You were here to make amends.

He ordered something at the counter and then walked over to you. You did the awkward dance of shake hands or hug or kiss cheek and settled on a hug, laughing slightly at the absurdity of it.

“How have you been?” Jaskier asked, settling into his seat.

“Good! Doing pretty ok, actually. I’ve got an agent and I’m working on a demo right now,” you said, clutching the mug in front of you for comfort. Jaskier’s drink arrived and you rolled your eyes. Of course it was a London Fog.

“That’s brilliant! Is that why you’re in LA?” he asked. You nodded, taking a sip of your drink.

“Yeah! I don’t go home much. It’s still a bit… awkward,” you said.

“Valdo still pissed?” Jaskier asked, as though he hadn’t seen all of the interviews or the soundbites where Valdo was very clear about how he felt about you. He’d made a big deal about not letting the band be “abandoned” and that it was going to be best for the group overall. You thought you’d be hurt by it but you knew you’d hurt him when you chose to leave. First Aevryn and now you. He was losing his little group and sure, that wouldn’t happen as often if he didn’t push everyone away or act insufferable, but you knew there was a lot to unpack there and wished him and whatever therapist he landed in front of well with that.

“I’m really happy you reached out. I’ve been thinking about you,” Jaskier said.

“Jaskier I know the way we left things was… a bit intense,” you began. He snorted and tried to hide it by taking a drink but the twinkle in his eyes gave him away.

“I needed you to know the truth. I don’t hate you. There were times I did and honestly you made it so damn fun to mess with you. But you are talented. And Vicious Mockery is a good band. And you’re right, most of what we accomplished we did through Valdo’s dad. And I was fine with that for a long time but… it just wasn’t fun anymore, you know? There was more fighting, especially after Aev left. I think we took for granted just how much of a buffer she was between Valdo and the rest of us. And I’m not trying to just pin it on Valdo. I think as a group we just brought out the worst in each other. But I don’t want to do that anymore. And that’s why I left. That and what you said,” you took another drink and Jaskier waited patiently for you to look back up at him and continue talking.

“I can do more on my own. Maybe not more famous or more money, but I can do more that I’m proud of and that I want to do. And I didn’t want to think about it but you helped me face it. So… I wanted to say thank you for that. And set the record straight,” you finished. He smiled at you, a soft, warm smile that made you feel a bit braver. He reached forward and placed his hand on yours.

“I’m really happy for you, Y/N,” he said, “And I said some shit I didn’t mean too. Well, I meant it at the time, but when I wasn’t half-pissed I didn’t as much. You’re gonna do great.”

“Thanks. You too. I mean I’m not going to be going around to any Vicious Mockery concerts or buying merch, I have a shred of loyalty left in me after all. But you don’t need my well wishes. You’re already killing it and I know you’ve got what it takes for the long run,” you said.

“From your mouth to our agent’s ears,” Jaskier joked.

The pair of you sat for a bit longer, joking and sharing stories. He was headed to Washington next and you told him you had a feeling something good was waiting there for him. You would’ve said it about anyplace he was going but he still beamed at the words, ever eager to find an adventure on the horizon. When you hugged goodbye you exchanged numbers that you knew you’d probably never use but still liked having and you headed back to your car, heading out to find your own next adventure.

#Anonymous #Punk!Jaskier x Indie!Reader #Punk!Jaskier AU #Vicious Mockery AU #jaskier smut

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