#if I let myself stew in the anger for too long (still) my head might explode with rage

[slutforpringles]

Daniel was sacrificed for 7 points. SEVEN POINTS. 😤😤😤

[cuttoothed]

Day 8 of @jonmartinweek for the “AU” prompt.

This week has been such a delight to write for, and it’s the most productive and inspired I’ve been in a long time. I've really enjoyed all the great content coming out of this week. Thanks to the organizers for this wonderful event!

CW here for depiction of depression, though the term itself isn’t used. Depression symptoms are also shown to spontaneously improve over time, though it is stated that this is not a complete or permanent recovery.

*

There is a land with many gods. Gods of war and of peace; of harm and healing; of storms and snows. Gods of life and death; gods of hearth and home. The smallest village has its own small god; the cities have thousands, all clamoring for attention.

There is a valley with a kind and gentle god. He makes sure that the rains fall in spring, and in summer that the sun shines on the fields of growing crops. In winter he tempers the cold winds, gentles the frosts to spare the valley worst of the chill. The people love their god, and trust that he will always care for them.

Until one spring, the rains do not fall, and the clouds do not part to let the sunshine through. A freezing fog rolls in, blanketing the little village and the lands around it; the fields remain frozen, and those few plants that sprout from the frost-bitten earth rot in the clinging damp. The people despair, because their god has never let them down before. Have they done something wrong? Angered him somehow? They will have enough stores to survive one year without harvest, perhaps two; if their god’s kindness does not return by then, they will have to abandon the valley that has been their home for centuries.

The most senior leaders from the village go to speak with the god, in his shrine on the hillside. The god is distressed at their plight, but he tells them he cannot help; his soul is mourning, and he does not know why. He has tried to call on the sun, on the soft rains, but his heart is too sorrowful, and all that comes is fog.

The people of the valley try everything they can think of, to restore their god’s happiness. They bring him gifts, recite stories and songs; they throw a carnival in the foggy village square, with costumes and games and music. They offer to search for anything that will make him happy, if he will only tell them. But the god cannot tell them, and nothing brings him joy, and the fog remains.

*

One day, a scholar comes to the village. Jonathan Sims is from the city, from one of the temples of knowledge, where they have heard about this valley and its inconsolable god. He walks through the cold, mist-shrouded streets, and up to the hillside where the god’s shrine is.

The shrine is a cottage, small and quaint, with lights in its windows and smoke curling from its chimney; it isn’t like any shrine Jon has seen before. He hesitates before knocking on the door, unsure if this could truly be the home of a god. The person who opens the door looks like a man, with a kind face, and rough, home-spun clothing; he is quite unlike the gods of the city, who are sharp and polished and alien. But one look at his eyes tells Jon that this is the god: they are ageless and endless, swirling like silver-gray fog.

“I’m sorry,” says the god, “I’m not really in the mood for visitors at the moment.”

“Please,” Jon says, before he can shut the door. “I’ve brought jasmine tea—I heard you enjoy it?”

The god hesitates a moment, then says:

“All right, you can come in—but just for tea.”

The inside of the cottage is what Jon would have expected from its outside, cozy and cluttered, with a fire crackling in the hearth. The god fetches saucers and cups and brews a pot of the fragrant jasmine tea, and there are little cakes with dried fruit and honey, which the god tells him were a gift from the village.

“I’m not much of a baker myself,” he admits, pouring the tea. Then he asks: “What’s your name?”

“Jonathan Sims—Jon. What, uh, what should I call you?”

“I don’t have a name,” says the god. “The people around here just call me “the god”, and I’ve never thought to ask them for one.”

“You could always choose one for yourself.” The god gives him a curious look, as if that’s not something that had ever occurred to him.

“I suppose that I could,” he says. He takes a sip of his tea. “This is very nice, thank you.”

Jon has never had tea with a god before. The god asks him about the city and his work for the Temple of Beholding, and Jon finds himself talking freely; this god is very easy to talk to. His face is open and kind, and he listens attentively as Jon talks about the city, its people and its gods, about the work of the Temple to gather knowledge, to understand their world.

“Why did the Temple send you to me?” the god asks at last.

“We heard of what happened in the valley—of the fog,” says Jon, and sees guilt flash across the god’s face, the silver-gray of his eyes darkening. “I came to see.”

“Not to try to cheer me, then?” the god asks. There’s a bitter note in his voice.

“No, not to cheer you. Just to speak. To understand.”

“I’m glad you aren’t wasting your time, then,” says the god. “My people have done all they can to lift my sorrow. And I have tried, every way I know how, to send this fog away, to clear the skies, but I cannot—”

He shakes his head in frustration, lines of worry and grief etched across his features. Jon has the sudden impulse to reach out and comfort him; but this is a god, and besides, they’ve scarcely even met.

“I’m sorry that you carry such a burden,” he says. The god looks at him, and his mist-colored eyes are grieved.

“My sorrow isn’t important, only that it causes me to fail my people.” He turns away, his expression pained. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t bother you with my troubles. It’s probably best that you leave.”

Jon wants to protest, but he thinks it’s probably not a good idea to refuse a god’s request. He sets down his teacup and puts on his coat, and at the door he pauses.

“May I come back tomorrow?” he asks. The god considers, and then nods.

“I would like that,” he says, with a faint hint of a smile.

It’s quite a lovely smile, Jon can’t help noticing.

*

In the village, Jon asks about the god. The god has always been there, he learns. The god has always cared for them, has always ensured their harvests are bountiful and their winters are mild. The people of the valley don’t understand why their god is so unhappy now, but they hope it doesn’t linger too long. They need him to be the joyful, attentive god he has always been; they depend upon it.

The next day, he walks back up to the cottage on the hillside; the door opens to his knock, and the god smiles in greeting. They drink tea by the fire, and Jon asks about the valley—about how it is, when the fog isn’t here. The god talks about the farms and the orchards, the beauty of this place in both summer and winter; he talks about the lives of the people, their joys and their trials, how they rely on him for their wellbeing.

“That sounds like a great responsibility,” says Jon.

“They need me to care for them,” the god says simply. “So that is what I do.”

They talk into the evening, and the god insists Jon stay for supper; a rich stew of root vegetables and herbs. The god smiles shyly when Jon compliments the meal.

“I’m a better cook than a baker,” he says.

It’s coming into night when Jon leaves, and the god gives him an oil lamp to light his way to the village. His fingers brush against Jon’s as he hands him the lamp, and there is a jolt of electric sensation; a reminder that he is still talking to a god.

“Walk safely,” says the god.

“May I come back tomorrow?” Jon asks, and the god smiles, his eyes shining silver-gray.

“I look forward to it.”

*

Jon comes back the next day, and the next day, and the next. Sometimes he and the god talk; sometimes, when the god’s sorrow is too deep for conversation, Jon makes tea and they sit together quietly. Some days they walk in the hills, where the fog coils around the god’s feet like a cat. Jon brings the god the books he’s carried with him from the city, and the god—eventually, shyly—reads Jon a poem that he’s written. Jon is no aficionado, but the soft sincerity of the god’s voice makes something warm curl in his chest.

Their fingers brush over tea cups and the spines of books, each touch sending that little electric thrill through Jon’s nerves, and a warmth that has nothing to do with divinity. He knows it’s foolish—utterly ridiculous—to harbor such feelings for a god. But the god is kind and caring and clever; he sometimes makes terrible jokes, and when they walk, he insists on stopping to greet every shaggy brown cow they see.

The god is also sad, a bone deep, aching sorrow whose roots are unfathomable. He tries to explain it to Jon: he has always felt such sorrow, from time to time, as if all the joys of life were far away, seen from behind glass. But it has never lasted for so long, and it has never before prevented him from fulfilling his duties; he has always been able to push it aside, to do what he must.

That, Jon thinks, is part of the problem; his god is too kind, too devoted, too willing to sacrifice himself for his people.

His god, and when did Jon start to think of him that way? Not in worship, but in growing affection?

*

More than anything, the god loves to hear of Jon’s travels. He has journeyed far and wide in service to the Temple, and the god listens raptly as he describes distant places he has been, sights he’s seen, people he’s met.

“I’ve never traveled anywhere,” the god admits. “It sounds quite wonderful.”

“It can be,” says Jon. “Though it’s best when you have somewhere to return to.”

*

One morning in midsummer, the fog curls denser than ever, and Jon can scarcely find his way to the cottage through the murk. He hurries as fast as he can, worried that something might be astray. He worries more when the god does not open the door to Jon’s knock; Jon wonders for a moment if he might not be home, but they had agreed to walk and visit the cows today. His god would not forget.

He hesitates, then lets himself in.

He finds the god curled by the fire, sitting on the floor with a heavy blanket around his shoulders. His face is drawn and tear streaked, and as Jon approaches another shuddering sob tears itself from his throat, fresh tears flowing from his silver-gray eyes.

“Oh—” Jon drops to his knees on the hearthstone, his hands flying up as if to touch the god’s face, but instead hovering helplessly above his shoulders; they have never touched, but for those accidental brushes. Does he have the right?

“Jon…” the god says, his voice rough and choked. “I’m so sorry, you shouldn’t have to see me this way.”

“Don’t say that,” says Jon, distraught. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” says the god, even as another sob shakes his shoulders. “I’m—there’s nothing wrong, not really. I’m just being...selfish. Absorbed in my own foolish melancholy when my people—“

“Forget your people!” Jon snaps, more sharply than he intends, and he sees his god flinch. “Just for a moment, think of yourself. I beg you.”

“My people—this place—they are me,” says the god. “If not for them, what would I even be?”

“You would be dear to me,” Jon says, hoarsely, and the god’s fog-colored eyes go wide, startled. The truth, then, and this time Jon does press a hand to his god’s soft cheek. The touch sends that familiar, tingling thrill through his palm, the feeling that Jon has learned to love.

“Oh,” the god whispers, and his hand comes up to cover Jon’s on his cheek. He leans into Jon’s touch, smiling even as the tears continue to flow.

*

There comes a day, in autumn, that dawns with sunshine and blue skies.

Jon wakes with his god curled beside him in the warm nest of their bed, and watches the light shining in through the window with wonder. It isn’t precisely a surprise: the fog has been lessening these past few weeks, the clouds growing less gray, but still he had not dared to hope that the sun might return—to the sky, and to his god’s heart.

After a time, the god wakes as well—slowly, as he always does—and his tousled head turns towards Jon. His eyes blink open, and their color is the clear blue of summer skies.

“G’morning,” he says sleepily, and Jon’s heart swells with love for him.

“Good morning,” he says. “The sun is out.”

*

The people of the valley rejoice with the return of the sun. This year’s harvest is lost, but they can begin to plan for next spring’s planting. The leaders of the village go to the shrine to give thanks to their god, but the strange scholar from the city answers the door and refuses to let them inside.

“He’s busy,” the scholar says, and shoos them away.

*

“You know that the fog may return, in time?” The god’s fingers twine gently with Jon’s. “I love you more than breath, but love cannot guard against such inborn sorrow. It comes when it wills, regardless of life’s joys.”

“Let it come,” says Jon. “I have loved you in the fog, and I will again. You own my heart, however heavy yours might be.”

He lifts his god’s hand and kisses his fingertips, feeling the buzz of bright sensation against his lips.

“My dear,” his god murmurs. “My heart.”

*

It isn’t long before Jon receives the letter that he knew would come; the fog has lifted and there’s no more to be learned, he is to return to the Temple at once.

He reads the letter once, then burns it.

*

“We should go somewhere,” Jon says, one evening. His god smiles, fingers stroking through Jon’s hair, leaving little trails of electric sensation behind.

“That’s a pleasant fancy,” he says. “I would love to travel with you, see those wonderful places you’ve told me about.”

“Why shouldn’t you?” Jon urges. “Just for a time?”

“I-I couldn’t,” the god stutters. “My people—“

“Your people would carry on without you,” says Jon. “You have given everything that you are to this place and its people for so long; you’ve suffered through pain and sorrow in silence, until you could conceal it no more. You have thought of nothing for yourself, love, and so I must think of it for you.”

His god is staring at him now, his blue eyes wide and wet with tears. Jon grasps both of his hands, feeling the little sparks of divinity dancing across his skin.

“Come away with me,” he pleads. “Be selfish, for a little while.”

“Jon…” His god breathes his name like a prayer, and Jon wonders at the fortune that brought him here. His god smiles, bright and glorious.

“Yes,” he says.

*

They lock up the cottage before they leave, an empty shrine, but only for a time. The spring sun is shining, and in the valley below they can see people working in the fields, planting for their next harvest. The god gives a worried sigh, and Jon takes his hand.

“Your people are well,” he says, gently. “And we won’t be too long away.”

“I know,” says his god, and squeezes his hand. Then he smiles, wry and mischievous. “I had a thought; since we’ll be out in the world, I should choose a name. I expect most people won’t take kindly to calling me god.”

“That may be wise,” Jon agrees, laughing. “Have you thought of the name you might want?”

“Well…” his god says. “I was fond of the protagonist in that novel of yours—The Life and Adventures of Martin Blackwood?”

“Martin Blackwood, eh?” Jon says, considering. His god—Martin now, perhaps—tilts his head quizzically, his blue eyes shining.

“What do you think?” he asks, and Jon smiles.

“I think it suits you.”

[random-imagines-blog]

Perfect Skin {Remus Lupin x Reader Oneshot}

Requested by: @soularsmate Wordcount: 2570 Summary: Sometimes, a little jealousy can go a long way. Notes: Andrew Garfield as Remus Lupin.

To say that Remus got a little testy near the full moon was an understatement. Even James and Sirius knew to keep their joking and pranking of their best friend to a low around those times. It was like he already transformed into a wolf with how he snarled at anyone who poked fun at him. Even you. It wasn’t even like you had said anything mean to him, you just complained a little about a scar that you had from falling off of your broom the last time that you played Quidditch with James. “Why are you even with me if you hate scars?” He asked, making you and your group go quiet. He wasn’t loud enough for others in the Common Room to overhear over the sound of their own chatter, but he was getting there. “If you hate them that much, then I’ll solve the problem for you. I can’t hurt you if I don’t see you. We’re over.”

“Remus,” You protested, trying to reach out for him. Usually a hand on his shoulder or a kiss on his cheek was enough to calm him down somewhat. But he wasn’t in the mood for that today. He backed out from your touch, refusing himself that little bit of comfort. And refusing you that comfort as well. It hurt like hell when he got up and left the room, the cloud of bad temper over his head. You just watched, mouth agape, the sweet boy that you had been dating for four months, walking away like you were nothing.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean that...” James said, running his fingers through his eternally-messy hair.

“Yeah, he cares about you a lot,” Peter added in.

“It’s just his moon time, you know how he gets,” Sirius insisted.

But despite them staying with you and trying to convince you that everything was fine, you felt that sting in his words. He had meant them. You shouldn’t have been so stupid as to bring up scars, knowing that they were an insecurity for him. He often went on and on about how you had such perfect skin. It was like he was ignoring that you had scars of your own. That you went through your own pain and troubles and got to the other side of them. Nothing as intense as his of course but - it wasn’t a competition. It shouldn’t have felt like one.

“I don’t want to be here when he gets back,” You said, getting up after a couple of minutes of the boys trying to cheer you up. “Even if he didn’t mean what he said, he still said it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You left the three boys looking sheepish and upset - they rarely ever saw Remus snap at you like that and it left them feeling uncomfortable. James eventually got up and said he was going to go look for Remus, Peter went up to do some homework before the sunset and they would be going out, and Sirius sat there and stewed. He was close to both of you, closer to you than James and Peter were, anyway.

Remus was going to regret this when he came back to his senses after the Full Moon but Sirius had seen the hurt that was on your face, and wanted to make him regret it even more. A plan started to come together in that devious head of his, and he knew he had to talk to you first thing tomorrow.

-

“That’s ridiculous,” You said at breakfast, watching as the sleepy boy piled food onto his plate. The full moon was a rough night for everyone. You weren’t like the others, you didn’t change your form to try to be with Remus, but you spent the whole night worrying about him anyway. You tried not to, you tried to stay mad at him for attempting to break up with you over something as silly as scars but you loved him too much for that. You stared out the window of your dorm all night, waiting to see the weeping willow freeze and the boys come out of it. So you were much too tired to put up with Sirius’s strange ideas.

“No it’s not,” He said, stabbing a breakfast sausage and shoved it in his mouth. He spoke with his mouthful, making you grimace. How did so many of the girls in this school find this attractive? “It’ll work, I’m serious.”

“Yes, yes, we all know you’re serious,” You said, rolling your eyes at his weak attempt at a joke. “Look, best case scenerio is that he’ll come down for breakfast, he’ll apologize and everything will be okay. Worst case scenario is that he won’t. Why do you want to make an absolute worst ever scenerio by trying to make him jealous?”

“Jealous always works, haven’t you noticed? Plus this will totally help me score a date with that blonde Ravenclaw. Hogsmeade is coming up,” He sang, grabbing the maple syrup to drench his food. “We’ll be doing each other a favor!”

“Sirius...” You said, shaking your head.

“I do love the way that you say my name,” Sirius said, blowing kisses at me. The thought of kissing him, and knowing where those lips had been, made me grimace. But that soon abated when scruffy haired Remus walked past him, bumping into him, and continued down to the end of the table to eat with some third years. Sirius had gotten a head start on the plan before you even realized that Remus was in the room.

You watched him as he sat down and only took a piece of toast for his breakfast. You frowned, getting to your feet so you could tell him to eat more, but Sirius lightly put his hand over yours. “Just let him be for a little while, it was rough last night.”

“You’re one to talk about letting things be,” You said, but lowered yourself back down to continue your breakfast. That didn’t stop you from shooting looks back to Remus though. He looked so lonely down there. Peter eventually joined him, while James bothered Lily near you. He seemed to be trying his best not to look back at you. If he was going to be stubborn, there was nothing really that you could do, except for wait it out.

And that’s what you would do. You’d wait for Remus until the end of the world if you had to.

--

You finally gave into Sirius’s plan, but only because it meant that you wouldn’t have to walk alone to class or study by yourself in the common room. He kept you company, and was a laugh most of the time. He’d tell you about some of the pranks that you had missed out on the group doing, paying careful attention to Remus’s part in them. It had already been two weeks since the full moon, and he still had not spoken to you. You got to the point of trying to send him a letter through your own but Sirius stopped you from doing that.

“Don’t appear too clingy, it’ll blow the plan,” He said, grabbing the parchment from you when he caught the name written on the top.

“I just want to make sure that he’s okay...” You admitted.

“He’s fine,” Sirius said, rolling the parchment up between his fingers. “My brilliant plan is definitely working, though. You should have seen the way that he glared at me after I hugged you goodnight last night.”

“Yeah, why did you do that? It’s not as if the Ravenclaw girl was around to see it.”

“I like to throw myself into the role. Call me a method actor,” He ran his fingers through his hair, flipping it back behind his shoulders. “Plus I like the practice. This girl might actually make me settle down, if I can just get her to notice me.”

“That’s big for you, congratulations.” You said, more than a little surprised. Sirius Black, being serious? Almost unheard of. “But you know, just asking her out might be better than all of this-”

“I already asked you out, I don’t need anyone else,” Sirius said, his whole demeanor changing. He took hold of your hands, running his thumb over the back of them. He didn’t have to tell you that Remus was in the room for you to know that Remus was in the room. “Besides, who could focus on anyone else when there’s you?”

“That’s enough,” Remus’s voice came out in a sharp tone from behind you. You turned your head around, and saw that you were finally able to catch his eye. But instead of the warm, honey look behind them that you were used to, he looked angry. Downright pissed off, actually. “Sirius, what the hell? You could have any girl you wanted, why y/n?”

“I’m sitting right here,” You said, starting to stand up, but once again, Sirius had a good grip on your hands, pulling you back down.

“Calm down, pumpkin,” Sirius said, eyeing his friend. “It’s not my fault you gave her up, mate. She became fair game the minute you broke up with her for whatever stupid reason-”

“You’re a bastard,” Remus said, shaking his head, glare evident. “You’re a bloody bastard, Black, and I regret that I ever thought you were my friend.”

“Remus...” You said, breaking out of Sirius’s grip as the dark haired boy sat dumbstruck. “It’s really not what you think-”

“Save it,” Remus said, the anger in his voice turning to hurt as he addressed you. “Looks enough like you moved on.”

“I didn’t - let me explain, let me talk to you...” You pleaded. This was getting the attention of the others around the common room, and both you and Remus paused as you noticed the stares. “Please.” You said, one more time.

“Fine,” Remus said, taking your hand and pulled you up towards the boy’s dormitory. James was laying out on his bed, passed out, a book about Quidditch resting on his chest. Remus pulled the curtains over him so that he couldn’t see, then sat on the edge of his bed, watching me. “Why did it have to be Sirius?”

“Wow, he must be a better actor than I thought he was, if he had you fooled,” You said, crossing your arms. “Sirius, seriously?”

That usually got the guys to chuckle, but there was nothing this time. Remus’s eyes still looked at you coldly. You sighed. “He’s trying to play you and some Ravenclaw girl into being jealous. I was against the idea, by the way. But then Peter took your side, James was obsessed with Lily and I had no one else to hang out with so ... I sort of went with it. But I didn’t like it. It got all weird when he was start playing with my hair or trying to hold my hand. It never felt right. Not like it did when you did it. Now can we just put an end to this ridiculous mess, and be together again?”

Remus stood up, and paced in front of you. His usually sweet face was contorted into something angry. As confused as you were, and as much as you were wanting to be over, it was pretty hot. He came in close, his warm breath on your face, and took your chin between his calloused fingers.

“All of that - was a ploy - to make me jealous? Is that really what you’re going with?”

“It’s the truth,” You said, unable to look away from his eyes. “There’s absolutely nothing between Sirius and I. I swear.”

He gave a little grunt, and you couldn’t tell whether that meant he believed you or not. After a long moment’s silence, still gazing into one another’s eyes, he finally spoke. “Good, because seeing you with him...” This time a growl came from between his lips.

“Does that mean his plan worked?” You questioned.

“That smart bastard,” Remus muttered. “He knows that you’re my weakness. Seeing you with anyone else makes me a little crazy.”

Rather than feel angry, you felt a bit happy. Relieved. He still cared about you. He still had your chin between his fingers, and he pulled your face in towards his to meet him in a kiss. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself in even closer. Chest to chest. He surprised you even further by letting go of your face, just to go for your  legs, pulling them up so that they were wrapped around his waist.

Sweet Remus Lupin. You knew that he had something of a dark side, becoming a wolf whenever the moon was full, but he was in between cycles right now. This was all him and yet - there was something animalistic about it. Sexy about it, even.

He took a few steps backwards, turning you so that you would fall onto his bed while he was on top of you. With barely a wave, the curtains closed around the two of you, granting you privacy from the sleeping Potter in the next bed. “I thought I was going to go out of my mind,” He admitted, his lips detaching from yours for just a moment. “You’re mine, y/n, and seeing Sirius’s hands on you. Thinking about what you might have been up to...”

“Absolutely nothing, my love,” you said, keeping your legs wrapped around him so that he couldn’t get away from you again. “I’ve always been yours.”

He pressed possessive kisses all up and down your neck, down to your collar bone and then back up. Right at your jawline, he sucked, kissed and nibbled harshly, leaving marks. You didn’t mind at all, but rather you moaned beneath each and every touch of him. Two weeks had been much too long without him. And he clearly felt the same way about you. Hands were running over your ribs, over your chest. He was repeating your name, his arousal felt between your own legs.

The amazing moment of your reunion was interrupted by something bumping against the curtain, and falling down upon the floor.

“Great, you’re back together,” James’s sleepy voice came through. “But do you mind keepin’ it down? Trying to sleep over here, bloody hell.”

“Sorry James,” You giggled.

“I’m not,” Remus grinned.

“Gonna go sleep in the common room then,” James mumbled, and he disappeared out of the room and down the stairs.

The reunion commenced, and you didn’t mind this new jealous side of Remus that sometimes came out. Though afterwards, as he curled up in your arms, you were the one who comforted him that there was no one else out there in the world for you. That he was your one. And that no matter how many scars he had, or where they were, he had the most perfect skin in the world, because it was his.

[archived-kin]

you are hopelessly in love with one (1) librarian

note from kin: i’m (kinda) back baby!!!!!

i thought i’d start with something for myself to get back into the ~groove~ so i chose lisa since i love her so much

in this one you’re venti’s accompanist bard buddy and play the flute! whether or not you’re a vision-holder isn’t mentioned but i like to imagine that venti gives you an anemo vision after the two of you bond as fellow musicians (though of course you don’t know it’s him who gave you it, you basically just woke up one night after a performance and found it in your pocket)

fandom: genshin impact

character(s): gn!reader, lisa, kaeya, venti, razor

pairing(s): lisa/reader (+ some wholesome best friend venti content)

warning(s): none!

genre: fluff

“She’s so pretty,” You groan into the table. “I’m going to die.”

“You probably shouldn’t,” Kaeya replies through a mouthful of hash brown. “Your bard friends would be rather sad without their favourite Buoyant Balladeer.”

“What difference is it going to make?” You raise your head and stare at him with soulless eyes. “My life has no meaning anyway.”

“Oh, now you’re just being dramatic.” Kaeya slaps your shoulder so hard that you swear you feel your bones dislocate. “Cheer up.”

You groan, but sit up and take the hash brown he offers you anyway. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” He responds, already shoving another one into his mouth and beginning to chew.

You let out a heavy sigh and begin to nibble miserably on your own hash brown. “Sorry about all this. I probably sound like an idiot.”

“Don’t worry about it,” He reaches over and gives your hair a playful ruffle. “And you don’t sound like an idiot. Lisa’s a very beautiful lady, after all.”

You raise your head in a snap, glaring at your friend through narrow eyes. “Hey, watch it.”

“I’m uninterested, not blind. Calm down.” He flicks you in the head with a chuckle. Raising his eyes to the sky, he gives a content sigh, as if the sun that he appears to be staring directly into isn’t burning his eye. “You know, a sky like this really calls for a nice glass of dandelion wine…”

“You have beyond enough problems to deal with right now without becoming a day drinker as well,” You shoot back. “Don’t you still have a report to file about those Treasure Hoarders over in Windrise?”

“Oh, that’s taken care of,” He says dismissively, taking a sip from his cup of water. “All dealt with.”

“Careful, Mr Kaeya,” comes a familiar honey-sweet voice from somewhere behind you, and you immediately tense. “Lying is a sin.”

“Miss Lisa!” laughs your blue-haired companion as the librarian pulls up a seat at your table, leaning forward and resting her chin on a single gloved hand. It’s an innocent motion by all means, but it still makes your heart skip a beat. “So kind of you to join us. What brings you here?”

“I simply saw two familiar faces while out on a stroll,” She smiles, stealing Kaeya’s mug and taking a sip of his Wolfhook juice. “How have we all been doing?”

“I-I’m doing great,” You quickly reply as her eyes land on you, unable to form a more intelligent response under her clear green-eyed gaze.

Much better now that you’re here, you add silently as she turns her attention to Kaeya, sliding his mug back over to him with such ease that you get the impression she does this a lot.

Kaeya himself either hasn’t noticed Lisa stealing his drink or doesn’t care, since he promptly curls his fingers back around the tankard and takes a long drink without any indication that he’s noticed anything out of the norm.

“Craving some wine, but I suppose I’m fine,” He sighs, tilting his head slightly to the side and swirling the contents of his mug around. “[Name] here says I shouldn’t be drinking during daylight.”

“And [Name] is very right,” Lisa shakes her head, the little rose accessory on the end of her hat tinkling with the motion. You can’t help but silently compare the sound to the ringing of heaven’s bells. Curse your stupidly romantic heart. “You drink more than enough in the evenings.”

“Then what of you?” Kaeya counters, smirking playfully. “I know for a fact that you can drink most of Angel’s Share’s patrons under the table within a single night.”

“Perhaps so, but I spend far less nights in front of the bar than you do.”

You stare determinedly down into the bottom of your water tankard as Lisa and Kaeya continue their little back-and-forth, feeling an odd sensation tugging at the pit of your stomach. What is this? Anger? Jealousy?

Tapping your fingers agitatedly on the tabletop, you kick yourself firmly in the shin. You’re being ridiculous. Kaeya knows just how head-over-heels you are for the Witch of Purple Rose, and even if he is a sneaky little snake who swaps around the chess pieces when he thinks you’re not looking, you know that he’d never do something like… that to you. Besides, you know full well that, even if they’re close friends, they don’t harbour any romantic feelings for each other.

As the songs say, though, jealousy is a green-eyed demon that will listen to irrationality over reason any day, and so you can’t help but glare subtle holes into the side of Kaeya’s head as he continues to converse with the object of your affections as if you’re not even there.

“... I jest, I jest,” He laughs, waving his hand about as Lisa giggles into her glove. “Anyway, as I was saying to our friend here earlier - the weather’s been beautiful recently, hasn’t it?”

You raise your eyebrows at him, a signal that Kaeya clearly sees and pointedly ignores. The both of you know that the weather was far from what you had been conversing about earlier, but you’re glad that Kaeya isn’t giving you away, at the very least.

“Quite,” Lisa agrees, tossing a lock of hair out of her face in a way that knocks all the breath out of your lungs. “Pleasant weather for a stroll around Starsnatch Cliff, wouldn’t you say, [Name]?”

You jolt in your seat and heat up so abruptly that you wouldn’t be surprised if you started smoking. Kaeya sniggers not-so-subtly into his hand as you hurriedly stutter, “U-uh, yeah, totally!”

“Is that an invitation?” Kaeya raises an eyebrow with a coy smirk, and you’ve never wanted to punch him more than you do at this moment. “I’m sure [Name] would be glad to accompany you.”

“Ah, I couldn't impose myself like that,” Lisa shakes her head, and you want to cry because if only you weren’t such a coward you could tell her that she’d never be imposing on you. “Razor could do with some new scenery for his training. I might as well show him the sights.”

“How is training with your protégé going, then?” Kaeya asks. “He seems to have become quite the loyal little wolf since you first took him under your wing.”

“Oh, he’s an absolute darling,” Lisa says breezily. “He still isn’t very verbal, unfortunately, but he’s learning to communicate like a star. And he’s becoming a dab hand at using his Vision more effectively, too.”

“Sounds like you’re a wonderful teacher, then,” Kaeya compliments, then gives you a side-eyed look. “Wouldn’t you agree, [Name]?”

You nod vigorously. “Absolutely!”

“You flatter me,” Lisa sighs, “But a good teacher is nothing without a bright and willing student.”

Kaeya gives you a subtle dig in the side, and you hurriedly go to reply. “H-hey, give yourself some credit. Razor never would have been able to open up so much without you.”

“You’re too kind, darling.” She gives you a brilliant smile, and you very nearly pass out on the spot, but Kaeya helpfully keeps you conscious by stomping hard on your left foot like the little shit he is. You’ll have to get him back for that later - when your heart rate isn’t so rapid that it feels like you might just ascend to Celestia any minute now.

Lisa doesn’t stay for long after that, conversing with Kaeya for another five minutes or so while you stew in your own flustered chagrin and silently continue to freak out over just how… perfect she is. It’s honestly ridiculous. How is she even human? How are you worthy of even being in her presence?

“Well,” Kaeya says as Lisa disappears back down the street, presumably to return to her place in the office. “That went well.”

You glare at him. “You think?”

“You spoke to her, didn’t you?” He counters, grinning cheekily. “That’s a start.”

You open your mouth to give him a grumpy response, then give up and slump forward on the table again. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” He hums, draining the last of his Wolfhook juice and setting the mug down with a sharp thunk. “Anyway, shouldn’t you be preparing for your performance tonight? You should probably go find your partner.”

“Our friend Kaeya is very right,” calls an all-too-familiar figure from atop a nearby roof. “You’re late.”

If it had been any other occasion, you might have jumped, but right now you’re too emotionally exhausted to do anything but let out a long, tired sigh. Ignoring Kaeya’s evil little cackle, you look up and turn to see Venti grinning down at you. “Bard.”

“Accompanist,” He imitates your monotone address, hopping down from the roof and landing softly on the pavement without so much as a click of his shoes. Flicking out his cape, he sets his hands on his hips and offers you his usual cheeky grin. “What’s got you so gloomy?”

“Nothing,” You reply, standing up and dusting off the front of your clothes. “Let’s go.”

Venti doesn’t move. He raises a single, suspiciously perfectly-shaped eyebrow, cocking his head to the side, then looks to Kaeya, who not-so-subtly mouths something at him. You pretend not to notice his obvious hand gestures in the corner of your eye.

“Ah,” Venti says suddenly, his expression taking on a mock-wise air. “Love troubles once again, I presume. Is our dear [Name] still ailed by a paralysing infatuation with one Miss Lisa?”

Kaeya claps enthusiastically, as if he isn’t the one who basically just told Venti the whole story through poorly-done charades. “Correct! I keep telling them to make a move, you know, but they’re too much of a coward.”

You aim a kick at his shin under the table that he dodges easily. “I’m not a coward! I’m just… gauging the territory.”

“You’ve been ‘gauging the territory’ for months now,” Venti whines, holding his fists in front of his chest and giving you the widest-eye look he can muster. “Come on! The eagle that never dives will never catch its prey, after all!”

“Lisa isn’t prey,” You counter. “And I’m not an eagle.”

“Hopeless is what you are,” comments Kaeya, leaning back in his chair and toying absently with a lock of his hair. “Hmmm, why don’t you write her a song? That’s your strong suit, isn’t it?”

“A song?!” You practically combust right there and then - if you’d been a Pyro Vision holder, you have no doubt that you’d have erupted into a column of flame on the spot. “No way!”

“I think that’s a splendid idea!” Venti exclaims, hopping up and down excitedly on the spot, hat threatening to fly off his head all the while. “You write the lyrics and melody, we compose the instrumental part together, and I’ll sing it for you! We’ll be an absolutely unresistable duo!”

“Easy there,” Kaeya teases, holding up a hand. “Our friend here is the one trying to win Lisa’s affections, after all.”

“Then I’ll be sure to try to direct as much of the spotlight to them as possible,” Venti replies, completely unaffected by Kaeya’s attempt to fluster him. You wish you had his coolheadedness sometimes. “C’mon, [Name], what do you say?”

“I said no!” You holler as he jumps energetically up at you like an over-excited puppy. “No way! There’s no way I’m going to just— broadcast my feelings like that!”

“You won’t be,” Kaeya explains, infuriatingly calm in the face of your explosive embarrassment. “Write the song so that only Lisa would be able to understand the true feelings behind it. It shouldn’t be difficult - you’re the master lyricist, after all.”

“Plus you have me to help as well,” Venti chimes in, holding up a single, proud finger. “The Windborne Bard himself - with me by your side, you can’t possibly fail!”

“Look—” You sink back into your seat and hunch forward, burying your face into your hands. A moment later, you raise your head again to see Venti giving you a concerned look. “I appreciate it, I really do, but… I can’t.”

“Of course you can,” Kaeya says unhelpfully, giving you a hearty slap on the back that is also unhelpful in every way. “You’ve performed all over Teyvat - this would be a small feat in comparison.”

“You aren’t helping, Master Kaeya,” Venti says, not-so-subtly elbowing Kaeya in the side. “We need to be cautious here. Like coaxing a young hatchling to fly the nest… we must take baby steps.”

“No baby steps!” You protest, leaning away as he takes a threatening step closer. “No steps at all!”

“Surely writing a subtle confessional song would be much easier than playing an intricate ballad in front of some of the most influential figures of Liyue?” Kaeya doesn’t show any signs of relenting. “Archons above, [Name], it seems that you’ve channelled all of your courage to entirely the wrong places.”

You drop your head into your hands again and glare at him through the cracks between your fingers. “Kaeya, I’d die for you any day, but for the love of the Archons, please shut up.”

He shrugs and obligingly places his finger over his lips, but you can clearly see him hiding a laugh behind it.

Venti hums, leaning over and giving your shoulder a comforting rub as you sigh miserably into your hands. “Hey, relax. I’m not going to drag you out on stage and force you to confess in song, much as I’m tempted to. If you don’t want to do it, we don’t have to.”

You ignore that middle part and choose to focus on Venti’s earnest attempt at consolation. “...thanks.”

“No need to thank me!” He winks playfully and gives your knees a firm pat. “Now come on! Confession or not, we still have a performance to practise for!”

You sigh and smile. “...sure.”

Leaving Kaeya to pay the lunch bill in retaliation for his teasing, you and Venti head off to your usual practice spot in the gardens outside the Cathedral. There’s some debate over who gets to wear the ‘Star of the Show’ Windwheel Aster pin today, but Venti relents quickly and gives you an easy win. You’re pretty sure it’s out of pity for your romantic plight, but you don’t care. The pin looks a lot nicer fastened on the lapel of your coat, anyway - the colour doesn’t match Venti’s cloak at all.

“So what’s the quota for tonight?” Venti asks, giving his lyre an absent-minded strum. “Celestial Destiny on repeat once more, I presume.”

“Shut up,” You groan, flipping open the latches of your instrument case and carefully lifting out your flute. “I’ve just been… lacking inspiration.”

“What you’ve been lacking is emotional fulfilment,” Venti sighs, reaching over and flicking you in the side of the head. “All you do is wander around Mondstadt, practise, and perform. Surely you could compose something flavourful if you had a little more excitement in your life.”

“I have excitement enough just as I am,” You bring your flute to your mouth. “Now shut up and start practising.”

Venti huffs, but begins strumming the opening chords anyway.

The two of you work your way steadily through your usual repertoire for the next hour or so. It goes smoothly as always - you’ve performed these pieces so many times that you could probably play them in your sleep - but you can’t help but feel like something is missing throughout the entire practice. Venti seems to be fully aware of it as well - rather than closing his eyes and swaying along to the music like usual, he just keeps glancing at you when he thinks you aren’t looking, wearing that frown that says ‘I know exactly what’s going on here but I don’t know if I should bring it up’.

Finally, he has enough, abruptly stopping his strumming in the middle of Early Dawn and setting his lyre down on the bench with a huff. “Alright, that’s it!”

You lower your flute and stare at him blankly as he stands and turns to glare at you, hands set firmly on his hips like a scolding parent. “You’re far too dismal! What happened to the Buoyant Balladeer? There’s no breeze in your playing at all!”

“I’m sorry if my heart is too heavy to play as light as the wind,” You retort, setting your flute back in its case. “I’m afraid I’m a little preoccupied.”

Venti looks at you with a furrowed brow as you shut the case with a harsh snap. After a moment, his voice much softer, he asks, “Are you alright?”

You hesitate for a moment. “...yes.”

He raises an eyebrow at you and doesn’t say anything else. After a pause, you groan and concede. “Alright, I’m miserable, so what? Let’s just get on with it.”

“We are most certainly not getting on with it,” He shoots back, turning to face you directly and crossing his arms stubbornly across his chest. “I can’t have my dear [Name] walking around with such a heavy heart. Come on, talk to me. What is it that weighs you down so?”

You stare at him for a long moment. He looks back at you almost unblinkingly, and try as you might to turn away and dismiss him again, there’s something about his wide green eyes that just compels you to tell the truth.

“I’m...afraid.” You say quietly. “It’s such a cliche thing to say, but I’ve really never felt this way before. I don’t… I don’t know how to deal with it.”

Venti smiles reassuringly. “There’s nothing wrong with that. First loves are always scary.”

“I understand that, but…” You bury your face in your hands and groan. “...she’s just so perfect and I’m just so me and it just feels like it’d never work out.”

“Hey, I don’t like that tone!” He scolds lightly, reaching out and flicking you in the cheek. “No talking bad about yourself. Besides, who says it’d never work out? As far as we know, your feelings are mutual.”

“I seriously doubt that,” You sigh, raising your head once again.

Venti raises an eyebrow. “Have you ever asked?”

You’re quiet for another few moments. “...no…”

“Then how do you know what her answer will be?” He asks. “Why assume that it’ll be no?”

You open your mouth to respond, but something suddenly compels you to look over to the town square. Venti goes quiet beside you as you see Lisa, standing beneath the Anemo Archon statue with Razor beside her. She seems to be explaining something to him.

Razor seems to feel your gaze almost as soon as it lands on him and his mentor. His hair bristles, and he abruptly whips around to look at you, but as soon as he sees you, he seems to relax. He lifts a gloved hand to send you a brief wave; you hesitantly return it.

He turns around and tugs on Lisa’s sleeve; she pauses and turns around to follow his pointing finger. You hold your breath as your eyes meet hers.

She raises her hand, and there’s no mistaking it - she’s smiling. An eternity seems to pass within those few seconds of eye contact, and for once your heart isn’t beating in your throat, your breaths aren’t becoming shallow and uneven, you aren’t heating up and boiling over. Instead, you feel a kind of pleasant warmth well up inside you, and you can’t help but beam and wave back.

Lisa looks at you for another moment, smiles once more, then turns around and begins walking away, gently tapping Razor’s shoulder as she goes. He glances back between you and his teacher, then turns around and follows behind her.

A long silence stretches between you and Venti.

You take a deep breath and turn to look at him, and he immediately grins. Somehow, you get the feeling that he knows what you're going to say.

“I need you to help me write a love song.”

[cozycryptidcorner]

Ryota the Kitsune, Chapter 2 (Lemon)

Patrons voted for a second, spicy chapter for Ryota’s story, and who am I do deny them. This was on patreon for two months before being published here, if you want early access to my stories, then join my $1 patron tier!

The humidity of summer lays thick in the air, despite the early morning. Rubbing one eye with the heel of your palm, you tug the basket from the arching branches of a bush as you head over to the nearby river banks, hoping you might find some edible mushrooms growing around in the damp, airy soil.

Ryota is there, standing solid against the current of the stream, his back turned, but his ruddy orange ears atop his head tweak in a way that lets you know that he’s heard your footsteps. The water of the river must be blissfully frigid, with autumn seems to be taking her sweet time in arriving, the sun’s radiation baking the very air itself. You avert your eyes, though, out of modestly, because he’s completely and utterly naked beneath the water.

“How’s the temperature?” You ask, merely for acknowledgment, much less for actual conversation.

“Perfect,” he sounds almost happy, which is a significant change from the wide-eyed, quiet creature he was when you first found him out in the woods.

“That’s good,” you place the basket down and kneel against the mossy ground, digging your fingers around the stones and roots. The one thing on your mind is the mushrooms you plan on using in tonight’s salad, you’ve been waiting for the patch to grow back since you last had them in stew… god, they’re the best.

“You can come in with me?” His tone is carefully neutral.

You’re not entirely certain if it’s a request or an offer, his way of asking for things is to shy away from an actual demand, but given the circumstances, you take it as the latter. “I’m fine right now, but thank you.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, unsure.

“Yeah, I’ll probably go in for the evening.” Stretching out, you stand back up, balancing the basket on your hip. Very, very careful to only look at his eyes, even with the darker temptation to look down south to scope out the kind of length he’s packing, but you still manage to catch a bit in your periphery. “Dinner should be ready soon, but if you’re enjoying yourself, I’ll just set some aside for you to come back to.”

“I can come back with you,” he immediately offers, shifting so that you manage to see more.

Quickly, you avert your eyes from him entirely. “I’m fine, Ryo.”

“My clothes are right there, get them for me? Please?”

You suck in your breath quietly enough for him not to hear, but comply, stepping over a large rock to find his robes out in the sun, warming. With one hand out in the direction, you think he’s in, you hold the cloth out, your fingers only brushing temporarily against his, though it’s enough for you to note their dampness.

The thought of what he might be capable of with those long, slender fingers fills your brain and blood, a heat rising to your face as you pull your hand back, almost too fast. Trying to scrub the images of his bare body from the insides of your mind, you barely manage to stutter, “I- I’ll just meet you back at the, um, back at the house.”

And then you quickly walk back into the trees, not quite catching if Ryota says anything else. God, you’re such a stupid perv, why does your brain try to immediately dress him down every time you see him? Maybe a cold bath would help you out in that regard. Perhaps you need a moment to yourself where you can relieve some of the tension?

You drop the basket off right by the entrance, knowing that Ryota will most likely take care of that, then head up the hill just a bit so that no one important will hear your struggle. Slowly, you let yourself slide down against the rough trunk of a tree, trying to find the mental state you need in order to get yourself off.

Fuck, fuck, it’s been longer than usual since you last touched yourself, with Ryota clinging to you like a babe in a strange land. The amount of privacy you’re used to has shrunk down so considerably that you’ve almost started humping your pillows in your sleep. Who are you going to think about, you muse, and Ryota’s face worms its way into your mind.

No, you can’t do that. You try to think of literally anyone else, pre-apocalypse, but Ryota keeps fighting to stay in the forefront. Unbidden, your hand snakes its way down south, plunging past the elastic of your underwear, and you close your eyes. Again, despite your attempts to maybe think of some Hollywood sex god instead, there he is, your fantasies beckoning him between your legs.

And he breaks through your actual imagination because you hear his quiet footsteps approaching. You almost scratch a gash into your vagina, trying to tear your hand out of your pants, lungs thick with air as adrenaline pours into your veins. God- you didn’t fucking think he’d try to follow you out, and you have to actively untangle the anger from your throat. “I just need a moment to myself.”

He’s here, his robe askew to the point one sleeve hangs off the shoulder, revealing the milky paleness of his chest and you’re going to die. “You don’t-”

You can’t even look at him like this, you’re afraid you’re going to melt into a heated puddle onto the forest floor. “I don’t what?”

There’s a long, tense pause, and he changes the subject. “Do you find me ugly?”

You’re so caught off guard that you turn back around, trying to process each individual word in the sentence to try to comprehend just where it came from. “I don’t- what do you mean?”

“You never look at me,” he says almost too quietly for you to hear, but raises his voice slightly when you won’t turn to meet his eyes, “even now.”

I’m afraid what I’ll think of if I look at you. You’ve never been more thankful not to be a man in your life. “I’m sorry, it’s not… it’s not your fault.”

“Do you find me ugly?” He asks again, stepping closer.

You’re going to die, you think, as you try to glance over to find his face, pinching yourself, so your eyes don’t wander, managing to rasp a simple, “I don’t.”

He bends over, kneeling by your side, and you’re suddenly very aware that your legs are open in a very sexual way. You try to nonchalantly shut them as he speaks. “Then why don’t you like to look at me?”

You don’t want to say it, you don’t, a strand of humiliation wrapping around your throat and tightening. Briefly, you wonder if the bacchanalia he came from follows the kind of reputation that most of them do. A flash of him expertly pressing his lips against yours traitorously flashes behind your eyes and you have to look away, again. Finally, you manage to voice to work. “I think… I think I may be afraid.”

“Of what?” He’s close, too close, you’re going to lose your mind. “I would never hurt you, you know that, yes?”

“Not of that.” Surely he can hear your heart beating loud enough to be a shotgun blast. “I think… I think that I’m afraid of myself.”

He sits, hands perfectly rested on his knees, long, slender fingers tap, tap, tapping against his knees as he thinks what you said over. Hesitantly, he says softly, “so you do not resent me?”

A little bit, yes, but you don’t think that the reasoning is the same. “I resent myself,” you say, looking straight out into the woods instead of facing him.

Is he inching closer? Good lord, you’re going to fucking die. “Why do you resent yourself? Did I do something to make you angry?”

“No,” you have to physically keep yourself from shaking. “It’s nothing you’ve done.”

“Can I help?” He’s so close that you feel his breath on your neck.

“I don’t think it’s something you can help with,” you almost choke, avoiding eye contact, “I’ll take care of it myself.” Inwardly, you cringe so hard you almost fold in on yourself from the stupid wording. Why did you say it like that?

Before you can get up, he leans in closer, and you’re sure that the sound of you trying to swallow away the lump in your throat can be heard in a fifty miles radius. A new, hotter wetness is pooling between your legs, and by the way his nose seems to intake air, you’re almost afraid he can smell your arousal. He places a hand on your leg, right at your thigh, and suddenly he is the one that seems like he’s going to melt away.

“Why won’t you let me take care of you, though? I’d like to.” His chest heaves for a moment, his tongue sliding out to wet his lips, your eyes trailing the movement like a bird of prey.

With a hesitant breath, because you can not believe this is happening, you manage to say, “I don’t want you to think like- like you owe this to me.”

He shakes his head, coming closer, and you can smell his scent, like the outdoors, green and bright and warm. Instead of answering, he places a wandering hand on the mossy ground, in between your legs and moves his lips right up next to your ear, his words barely more than a breathless whisper. “I want you.”

Oh, god.

“Do you really?” You ask, feeling like the very earth beneath you move away, as though you are floating off into an eternal abyss. “Are you sure?”

He leans forward slightly, pressing his lips up against the shell of your ear, and you feel a shiver dance down your spine. “I’ve wanted you since I first saw you in the forest.”

“W-what?”

“Before I was punished,” his breath warms your neck as his chaste kisses make their way down to your shoulder, “I saw you, helping a rabbit with a broken leg.”

That was a few weeks before he arrived, bloodied and bruised, onto your doorstep. Trying not to let out a gasp as he pulls your leg out and over to his side, you whimper, “you saw that?”

He mumbles something in a language you don’t recognize, but have heard him speak of before, in soft increments. “Yes, I was scouting for more people to join the sacred sect, to enlighten you, but you were already kind, nurturing the earth for food instead of ravaging it.”

“Oh,” you whisper softly, unsure of how to respond. Was it… strange? Yes, it was strange. But is it unwelcome? “So you… you didn’t tell them?”

“No, not at all, but they found out, they always do.” He traces the scar across his chest, the bright pink skin what’s left of the wound. “But I kept you a secret, don’t worry.”

That- the wound was because of you? You suck in your breath as he leans forward, and you lean back, your back hitting the ground. A thousand questions click and snap in your head, voiceless and garbled with the heat between your thighs, making it almost impossible to concentrate. Swallowing, you manage a mere, “why?”

“I wanted you,” he whispers almost deliriously.

“You could have had me if you were truthful to your brethren” the prospect fills your blood with dread, but you remind yourself that he’s on top of you… in your forest.

“I wanted you to want me, too.” He nuzzles his face in the crook of your shoulder. “And I don’t like to share.”

“Oh,” you say in a quiet breath, tangling your fingers around a long strand of his hair that drapes around your head like a curtain.

And you kiss him.

The kiss starts out soft, easy, and noncommittal, but as you pull him downward with your woven fingers, his body pressing firmly up against yours. And his lips… they’re starving, his muscle tense as though physically restraining himself. It only takes a few moments for his tongue to snake it’s way into your mouth, his advancements more than welcome.

It could be a decade or a century since you’ve last made love, and your very body sings with the weight thrust upon it. Letting out a pathetic whine, you keen your waist up to his, feeling the first blossom of an erection peeping out from his roads. During the few moments you’ve managed to sneak a look, you noticed the girth, and have wanted him in you so badly you couldn’t even focus on your words.

You want him now.

“What do you need?” You choke, almost too afraid to make any requests on your own behalf.

He is kind, though, and responds so very gently into your ear. “To please you. I need, oh, to please you.”

You’re going to cry, because you don’t know where you want him to start. Voice trembling, you raise your legs to show him you’re ready. “How did you imagine pleasing me?”

He’s almost shaking, his breath hard and panting with effort. There’s a thick rod pressing up against your thigh, you can almost feel its pulsing need for your between two layers of clothes. Enraged at the aspect of wearing pants, you wriggle out of them, Ryota seeming at ease with digging his nails beneath the fabric to help you out. The earth is cool and fair against your bare skin, a tad bit of moisture working to fight against the summer’s heat.

“Tell me,” you ask again, almost unsure of if your voice is about to give out, “please, tell me how you thought to please me.”

There’s a steady grinding between your thighs as he says, “Kissing you all over to make you feel wet.”

You’re already so wet, you think, a thrumming in your body sings. But you try to continue steadily on, agreeing, “I think that would help, yes.”

“Hm,” he mumbles, pressing his mouth up to your exposed collarbone. The heat in your core grows larger. His breath is deliciously warm against your goose-bumping flesh, you notice, managing to wriggle the hem of your shirt up over your breast. Ryota wastes no time latching onto one nipple, his tongue almost sharp against the pointed, sensitive flesh.

You don’t think you can survive this.

With little thought for his own comfort, he slides downwards, leaving a trail of hickies as he latches onto your skin and sucks, all the while your core gushes more with every nip, lick, and kiss. He lifts your leg over his shoulder, his shuddering breath cool against the puckered skin of your pussy, sending thrills of shivering shocks up through your spine. He’s like that for a moment, eyes almost closed as he takes your scent in, then leans forward to offer up a single lick, ass to clit.

Unbidden, you gasp, because you’re so lost in the moment you almost forget yourself. God, it’s been long- so, so long since you’ve had another being between your legs, and your body is ready.

Ryota seems to appreciate the noise, pressing up against your clit with his tongue, eyes almost crazed with intensity. After a moment of teasing, he kisses at the pooling slit somewhere lower, and you feel… horrendously ready to cum already. An animalistic part of you would like nothing more than to slam your thighs around his face, grip his hair, and ride out your pleasure here and now. He’d let you, too, and he’d probably enjoy it, but the logical side murmurs that if you take it slow and draw things out, your orgasm might be the one to outshine anything you’ve had before.

So you lean back, closing your eyes, and let him take his time, the feeling of carnal desperation pumping thickly through your blood. And he knows what he’s doing, too, you suppose that the reputation of the bacchanalia cults must be true. One of his arms wraps around your waist, anticipating your squirming as he takes your clit between his lips and fucking sucks.

He pulls back to begin exploring your flower more, using his fingers to open your lips up further for a better view. You’re so exposed that you can feel the air, which seemed horrendously warm just minutes before, which cools the broiling heat between your legs. Again, Ryota takes a moment to sloppily kiss the exposed skin, his teeth pressing up hard enough for the thrill, though not to hurt.

Mindlessly, you reach down for his silky hair, running your fingers over his scalp. Against your skin, the black strands look like lines of ink, dark, geometrical, almost like someone drew a pattern against your hand and wrist with a purpose. As if he’s made for you. Without even realizing that you’re so much as opening your mouth, you passively say, “you’re beautiful.”

He pauses, then looks back up at you. Voice almost broken, he says, “Oh. Thank you.”

It takes you a moment to fully process the interaction because you weren’t paying much attention beyond where his tongue pleasures you, and by that point, there’s a building in your core that steals your focus away. As you whine, your back arches, pulling your hand from the strands of his hair to claw at the earth itself in hopes it might ground you. But you’re close, too close, and you don’t want to be gone, not yet.

“Stop,” you demand, pressing your fingers up against his forehead. ” Stop.”

He obeys, pulling up and away from your quivering core, and your basic instincts scream at you in anger for ending the pleasure. “What? What’s wrong, did I hurt you?”

“No,” you shake your head, “but I’d like to cum with you inside of me.”

“Oh.” again, his voice almost quivers, and he seems entirely unfamiliar with the kind of demands you make. “Y-yes, alright.”

“Come here,” you almost murmur, your voice low but enticing. “Please.”

“Anything for you,” he whispers almost quietly enough for you to miss as he obeys, pressing his mouth against yours in a lust-filled, yet still gentle, kiss. You can still taste yourself on his lips, the damp your body made just for him, to welcome him into your core.

His robes have more layers than you initially expected, though you’ve seen him dress and undress plenty of times, even if you do avert your eyes. You tug at the sash across his waist, managing to find where it’s fastened and pull it loose, and Ryota rewards you with a few robust kisses as he peels the outer layer of faded silk off only to reveal yet another robe beneath it.

You hiss impatiently. “How many of these do you have on?”

He chuckles good-naturedly, giving you a nip on the shell of your ear. “Enough.”

Thankfully, the white layer is the last, you think you’d go insane if you had to slog through even two more, and by the way Ryota is breathing heavily, you know he feels the same way. You share one last clothed kiss as you managed to remove it, pulling the sleeves down his shoulders and discarding the woven fabric somewhere… just, away from the matters at hand.

You can feel him there, experimentally pressing his flushed length up against your lips, and there’s a thrill of relief at the mere idea of how close you are to being filled. His hair is like a waterfall that pours the depths of a great void out around his angelic face, his eyes like stars that beckon you with the promise of ecstasy. As he slowly presses the tip up through your entrance, and you try not to be so overcome with the moment that you lose focus of his face.

To help bring yourself back down from the high of pleasure his slowly sheathing cock offers, you try to trace the contours of his face with your thumb, following the path of his nose, then the outline of his mouth. Again, though more to yourself, you observe, “you’re beautiful.”

His hips splutter at the second declaration, his breath hitching. God, you can see how badly he’s wanted you, just at this moment, his eyes melting like syrup at the mere idea you might find him attractive. As he thinks of a response, you angle your hips to better accommodate him, and now it’s his turn to melt back into the earth.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, but your brain is nothing more than sludge, “I know.”

Ryota loses himself in you. It takes a moment for your body to stretch around him- his length is impressive, or at least you think it is… or maybe the isolation has lowered your body’s standards, whatever the case, once he’s sure you’re comfortable, he’s thrusting into you with a pace that ravages you. Like him, you’re lost, the feeling of his body inside yours so soon after he pleasured you with his mouth? It’s almost too much, too fast.

But he manages to slow to a more leisurely pace, his breath choking and yearning. You’re not sure which of you is enjoying the simple act of sex more, it feels like it’s been an eternity for both your bodies. The friction between his length and your inner walls crescendos, his breath desperate and uneven, so you take the reigns. You flip over, using your hips to beckon him to twist beneath you. His eyes relax at the prospect of no longer having to set your pace, and he lies down, almost shaking, on the moss.

Fuck… fuck, the way his pale, milky skin stands out from the greens and browns of the ground. Fuck. The way he looks at you doesn’t help the matter either, he gazes at you with… such adoration, a kind of worshipping ferver, it sends a special breed of pleasure through your nerves, pooling nicely into your core. You place a hand on his chest, tracing the scare with your finger, fixating on the fact of how he risked so much on behalf of… well, you.

It doesn’t take too much longer for your body to fully come to terms with its pleasure, your knees almost itching with how hard they’re digging into the earth. A shudder dances up your spine, there’s a familiar, taught clenching in your core, and you’re in ecstasy. Loved. Adored.

He’s quick to follow, almost as though he was waiting for you to climax first. A hot, thick liquid fills you to the brim, his voice strangling with praise for you, for your body, for your spirit, for your self. You almost become aroused enough for a second round at his endless praise, but as you lay against his chest and allow your heartbeats to align, you decide that you have been satiated.

For now.

“Thank you,” you say, limp from exhaustion, ear at his chest, “for not reporting me.”

He lets out a breath, his own fingers coming up to rest at your scalp. “Thank you,” he whispers, hoarsely, “for loving me the way I am.”

[megs-mostly-past-random-fandoms]

Foolishly Intelligent

Based on this request:  I love your imagines! I would like to request a Sherlock imagine if that’s alright? Something along the line of the reader being Mycroft’s and Sherlock’s far younger sister. She tries to connect with her brothers but often feels left out. She started in her teens by Learning everything about murders, investigation and politics in order to find common ground with her brothers. Ad an adult this leads to her being part of Scotland Yard and always giving Greg an heart attack due to jumping into dangerous situations. He’s had enough and decides after one close call too many to involve her big brothers to chew her out.

Here you are! *Familiar Characters are NEVER mine!*

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Warnings: Angst, arguing, Caring big brothers that pretend not to care because one is a high-functioning sociopath and the other is Mycroft XD, mentions of possible crush??

Pairings/Characters: fem!reader, brother!Sherlock Holmes, brother!Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade

Greg Lestrade had had it. You were a wonderful detective, that much was true, but you had a bad habit. You liked to put yourself in dangerous situations ALL. THE. TIME! You would often quite literally throw yourself into harm's way to get the job done or to protect others. Greg normally wouldn't say anything even though it gave him a near heart attack every time. But since learning of Sherlock's fake death, it had become worse.

         The man could sort of understand where you were coming from. You had big shoes to fill with your brothers being who they were. Even as a child, you'd had trouble connecting with them. You had gone out of your way to learn and do things to help your relationship. And it wasn't that they didn't love you or respect you. It was that they could often have full conversations just through a look or that they would play their little deduction games and you would feel left out.

         You'd told Greg, after having a few drinks one night, that you had been trying since your teens to connect with Sherlock and Mycroft. You were just as intelligent as they were so you began learning about murder, investigations, and even politics from an early age. Still, nothing seemed to help you connect with them. You'd even joined the Yard to spend more time with Sherlock.

         But this last time was one too many for Greg. You had nearly died and the DI had a soft spot for you. In fact, you were the only Holmes the man could stand being around for more than a few minutes at a time. He didn't think he could take it if you kept running head-on into danger, but he knew you wouldn't listen to him. So, as he sat there next to your hospital bed waiting for you to wake up, he contemplated who you would listen to. There were only two people that popped into his head.

         With a soft sigh, Greg stood and left your room to make a call. "Hello, Gavin. Has there been a murder?" Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn't lose his temper now. "No, Sherlock." Sherlock scoffed on the other end of the line. "Boring. If you've nothing interesting to offer me, I'll say goodbye now."

         "WAIT!" Greg shouted, then a little more softly added, "Your sister's in hospital." For a moment, there was only silence. Then Sherlock spoke again, "Watson, call Mycroft. St. Bart's?" Greg confirmed and was promptly hung up on. You were going to hate him when you woke, but at least your brothers might be able to talk some sense into you.  

         Sherlock burst through the doors a little while later, with Mycroft sauntering in a few moments after. "Would someone care to explain why I have been dragged from an important meeting?" Mycroft asked, prompting Greg and John to glare at the younger Holmes brother. "You didn't tell him?!" Greg hissed before turning to Mycroft, "Long story short, your sister's here. She decided to go into a hostage situation, alone, with no sidearm." Mycroft's brows furrowed briefly before a look of pure rage came over his features for a moment.

         "And you didn't stop her?" Greg opened his mouth, but it was Sherlock who answered, "Oh please, Mycroft. Y/N would never listen if the lives of others are in danger. Not to Gordon anyway." Greg once again rolled his eyes. Would that man ever call him by his actual name?

         "He's right. She doesn't listen. She's always throwing herself into situations like this. I thought, when she wakes up, the two men she looks up to the most could talk some bloody sense into her. Maybe then she'll listen." Both Holmes brothers merely stared at the DI, causing him to huff and walk away with John at his heels. He couldn't deal with them any longer for the moment. He needed to return to your side.

         Just his luck, you were already awake when he pushed the door open. "Inspector," you greeted tersely. You had seen John behind him so you knew Sherlock wasn't far behind. "Don't look at me like that, Detective." You scoffed. "Like what? Like you betrayed my trust by calling them in? I know they're here. Might as well bring them in so I can hear all about how disappointed Mummy will be." Greg's brows furrowed in confusion. "Y/N…I just want you to be safe. Your brothers do too."

         "Oh? Which brothers? The one who chucks himself off a building and pretends to be dead for 2 years? Or the one who knows about it and says nothing? Or the ones who refuse to let me into their lives, no matter how hard I try? I know I'm not brilliant like they are, but I try, dammit. And this is the only time I ever seen them away from home. When I'm in hospital."

         "Fine," Greg soothed, "Fine. Don't talk to them. I don't care. But you have to stop being so reckless and stupid, Y/N. For my sake." Greg gaze your hand a little squeeze before leaving the room and allowing your brothers to walk in. For a moment, you said nothing, watching the space Greg had just been occupying. You were trying not to cry. Your brothers didn't do well with hysterics.

         "Sherlock. Mycroft," you said. "Look at me, Y/N." You sighed softly. You knew you weren't exactly acting like an adult at the moment. That would get you nowhere with them. You swung your (e/c) eyes over to them. Sherlock stood with his hands in the pockets of his coat while Mycroft stared intently at you. They were both trying to deduce something about you. "Stop it," you ordered sharply, "Stop trying to deduce me and just ask me the question you want to ask." They exchanged a glance before turning back to you.

         "Inspector Lestrade informed us that you threw yourself in harm's way yet again." You shrugged a bit. "I would again too. There were children in there. The elderly." Sherlock let out a scoff. "And that makes it okay for you to be so monumentally stupid?"

         "I'm NOT stupid! Just because I'm not as callous as you are doesn't mean I'm an idiot, Sherlock! God, now I see the problem. It was never my fault we never connected. It was yours. You never tried." Your brothers stared at you in surprise. You had never spoken to them that way before. You rolled your eyes and groaned when your head began to hurt again.

         "Just go. Both of you. You can tell John and Inspector Lestrade that they are welcome here. I don't want to see you two again for a while." You turned your head away from them both, indicating that you were done with the conversation. You heard them open the door to leave. "Oh, and don't you dare call Mummy. I'll tell her myself when I know I'm alright." Neither of them said anything, but left the room.

         When you heard the door close behind them, you let a few tears finally fall. You hadn't wanted to blow up at them and you'd mostly likely end up apologizing later, but for now you were upset. You didn't have long to stew in your anger though before the door opened again. You turned to look and sighed. "I thought I told you to go."

         "And we did. You failed to specify just how long you consider to be a 'while'. We listened to what you said and now it is your turn to listen to us. Despite what you may think, you are no closer to 'connecting' with Mycroft or myself by running head-long into danger." You arched a brow at him. "Oh, you mean like you do?" Sherlock didn't look impressed, but you could see Mycroft trying not to smirk.

         "The point, little sister, is that, in spite of everything, your welfare is important to us. We need to know that you are safe. The career you've chosen lessens that likelihood, but deliberately putting yourself in situations where you could die destroys our hope for it completely."

         "Oh gee, Mycroft, you do care," you replied sarcastically. You let out another sigh, "Look, I'm sorry. I know you're right. Just…please. Please stop letting this be the only reason you even check in with me. I know I'm not like you two. I never have been, but stop shutting me out. Okay? If you can promise me that, then I will promise to try and be more careful. For Mother and Father's sake. And for Greg's." You tried not to let your face show any emotion. Nothing to give away anything.

         "Who?" You laughed lightly while Mycroft arched a brow. "We will discuss that topic at another time. I suppose I can agree to your terms. Sherlock?" Sherlock's blue eyes met yours and he nodded. You smiled; a genuine smile for the first time since they walked in the room. "Good. Now could you please leave? I'd really like to sleep now that I've been yelled at by both my brothers and my boss."

         They opened the door again and you sat up. "Oh, and seriously. Don't tell Mummy." With a chuckle, your brothers left and you laid back to get a little more rest. Mycroft and Sherlock nodded at Greg when they exited the room, knowing he'd heard everything anyway. Greg breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully things would get better now. Greg looked in at you and smiled when you gave him a tiny wave.

(a/n: I hope this does your request justice!)

[donteattheappleshook]

Playacting

~*~

This fic was written as a thank you to @darkcolinodonorgasm​ for tainting her screen with Neal's face to make an amazing gif for me that sadly won’t load now.

Summary:

Emma has finally left her awful boyfriend after nearly a decade. But when he makes her meet him in a bar to pick up the last of her stuff, she risks falling victim to his usual tactics of sending her crawling back to him. Thankfully, the handsome bartender is there to lend a hand. A fake-boyfriend AU. Heavily Anti-Neal so don't read if that's not your thing.

Read it on Ao3

~*~

Emma sits down heavily on the stool, her elbow landing on the bartop as she lays her chin in her hand, exasperated. Stupid fucking Neal. It’s just like him really, making her come here to meet him after everything he’d made her put up with for the last ten years. Finally, finally she’d worked up the nerve to leave him, to say enough was enough and convince herself she deserved better and then of course as soon as she walks out for good, he finds a way to drag her back, to make him face her one more time. 

She should never have gotten involved with him in the first place. She hadn’t known any better in the beginning. She was seventeen and he was twenty five and she thought it was so cool that someone so mature wanted to be with her. She thought that had to mean she was mature as well. It wasn’t until much later, when half a decade had passed, that she realised how messed up it was… but by then they’d been together five years and he was her whole life. Nearly all her friends were his friends, they lived in his apartment… she can’t believe she stuck it out another five years after that. 

You can do this, she tells herself. You’ve already done the hard part. You left and nothing he can say will make you come back. But still, she steels herself for what will undoubtedly be an excruciatingly unpleasant interaction. Neal is just… he’s just so good at making her feel worthless, at breaking her down and chipping away at the little things he knows she’s self-conscious about until there’s nothing left and she just feels small and broken. She clenches her fists, staying her nerves and bracing herself. Not anymore though. Because you left and you just have to see his stupid face one more time and then it’s over. It’s just words. 

She jumps as a glass is set down in front of her and looks up to see a somewhat familiar pair of brilliant blue eyes looking back at her. The bartender. The handsome one. She’s seen him around before. She’s come to the bar fairly often over the last year or so and he seems to work most nights. She likes him, well, as much as you can like a stranger who pours you drinks all night. He’s always nice and friendly and extremely polite and he doesn’t hit on her the way most bartenders do. She’d never admit it, but sometimes it bothered her a little that he didn’t. She can’t quite remember his name, having never had a real conversation with him, and she stares at the drink in front of her, raising a suspicious brow at him. 

“I didn’t order this.”

“I know, but you look like you could use it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demands, scowling. She’s already having a shit day, she doesn’t need some bartender trying to analyze her and telling her she looks as terrible as she feels. He doesn’t even bother to look embarrassed. Instead, he crosses his arms on the bartop, leaning on his elbows. 

“It means, you look sad.” He tilts his head then, scrutinizing her face. “Or angry,” he adds. “And you look like you could use a drink.” 

Emma wants to glare at him a little longer but his tone is light. There’s no judgement or pity on his face, just a friendly offer of a drink, and she can’t quite bring herself to be annoyed. And besides, he did guess her drink right. She reaches for her wallet and goes to pull out some cash but he waves her away. 

“It’s on the house,” he tells her and honestly her night is going to be so terrible that she doesn’t have it in her to turn down a free glass of rum. She takes a sip, noting that it’s damn good rum, and tilts her cup to him in thanks. He smiles, a little smugly and a little mischievously, and leaves her, going back to whatever work it is he has to do. 

A few minutes pass and Neal still hasn’t arrived. She glares at her watch. Of course he’d be late. He’d want to make her wait as long as possible so she’d have time to stew in her decision, both to leave him and to meet him. Her glass is nearly empty and she raps her fingers against the bartop rhythmically, waiting, bored, anxious, and impatient. 

The bartender looks up briefly when she does and then goes back to his task. The bar is empty apart from the two of them so he doesn't have anyone to wait on. He’s counting something, concentrating quite seriously and she takes a moment to study him. Of course she’d noticed he was attractive before. It would have been impossible not to. But she hadn’t really let herself look, not properly. She was in a relationship after all. But you’re not now, she realises suddenly. 

So she casts her eyes over him slowly, noting how soft his hair looks in contrast to the sharp angle of his jaw and the scruff that covers it, notices the muscles of his shoulders and his arms under the fitted black shirt he wears, the slightest bit of chest hair peeking out of the v of his collar. 

When she looks back at his face again he’s biting his lip against a smirk and she wonders if she’s been caught looking. But he doesn’t acknowledge it, doesn’t come over to try pick her up and so she turns back to her drink and to waiting. But she doesn’t last long. She’s never done well with waiting and her impatience grows until it spills out of her mouth in the form of small talk. 

“So which is it?” she asks finally and he turns to look at her, a little surprised. He doesn’t quite seem to get her meaning. “Sad or angry. Which is it?” 

“Ah,” he says, as understanding dawns on him and he walks back over, leaning against the bar and looking at her carefully. She tries not to react under his intense appraisal. “Both, I think.” Emma grumbles into her drink, annoyed that he’s read her so easily, and he laughs. “Although, perhaps the anger is my fault. Maybe I should have made your drink a double.”

Emma smirks around the rim of her glass and then sets it down. “Well, it’s never too late to make amends.” 

He laughs again and grabs a bottle from the shelf behind him, refilling her drink. “So tell me, love, what brings you here tonight?”

“Are you always this nosy?” 

“It comes with the territory,” he shrugs. “Although people are usually much more forthcoming with their ails and secrets. You’re a bit of a puzzle, I’ll admit.” He smirks then, wicked and bright. “But I love a challenge.” Emma rolls her eyes. 

“I’m meeting someone,” she says finally. 

“I see. A first date?” he asks and she nearly chokes on her drink, coughing. 

“God, no. Hopefully the last one.” 

He raises a brow in interest. “Are you here to break up with someone? Should I have security on standby?” 

She shakes her head. “No, that part’s already done. I left last week. But now the asshole is making me meet him here so that he can give me back the files I left behind and need for work.” 

“You couldn’t just go pick them up?”

“I wish,” she frowns. “He put them in a bag and has been holding them hostage until I agreed to meet him.” 

“Sounds like a real winner,” Killian drawls sarcastically. 

“You don’t know the half of it.” 

“Bad breakup then?” 

She nods. “Bad relationship."

“What sins is he guilty of?”

Emma laughs. “Take your pick. Lust, wrath, greed, pride. Throw a dart at any of the seven and you’ll hit something that sticks.”

“I’m sorry love,” he says and she shrugs. It’s not his fault. “So tell me something then, because I can’t quite seem to figure it out. Why are you so nervous to see him?” he asks and she looks at him in surprise.  “You look like you can handle yourself and you’ve certainly got enough rage and fire under the surface to burn this whole bloody place to the ground. What is it?” 

Emma catches her lip between her teeth, a little pleased at the compliment, at the suggestion that she looks like a badass, but the question hits hard. She’s been asking herself that for ten years. Why is Neal able to get under her skin so easily, to make her doubt herself and her worth?

“Neal,” she says finally and the bartender doesn’t push, just leans on the bartop, waiting, giving her time. “He’s the only guy I’ve ever been with. We dated for ten years and he knows everything about me… and he knows exactly how to use it to make me feel like crap about myself, like if I didn’t have him I wouldn’t have anything, nobody else would want me.” And she can’t exactly prove him wrong considering she’s been faithful to his selfish ass for a decade, regardless of the fact that he had no problem showing her how many women wanted him. 

Her hand tightens against her glass and for a moment she worries she might crush it but then the back of the bartender's fingers brush against her knuckles and she feels the anxiety and the hurt start to seep out, to dissipate at the warm touch. He’s not holding her hand, he’s barely moved his own across the space between them, nudged hers with it in a way that could almost be an accident. But when she looks up and meets his gaze she knows it’s not. And his next words confirm it. 

“Believe me, I can guarantee you that’s not true.” 

She swallows. “I just -” He waits again. “I just wish I hadn’t stuck it out so long, you know? I wasted ten years with the guy, all of my twenties. And that whole time he never wanted to get married, never wanted to make any commitments or promises, kept saying he didn't want to be tied down.” Didn’t want to be tied down to you, her memory supplies. “And I - Why am I telling you all this?” she asks herself suddenly and he smiles, letting out a little huff of a laugh. 

“It’s not your fault,” he tells her. “It’s the bartender thing, people can’t help themselves.” 

She doesn’t know if she believes him. She knows people like to treat bartenders like therapists but there’s something about him, an honesty and a sincerity that makes her believe he actually gives a shit about her and what she has to say, like he really cares about her troubles. But maybe everyone projects that onto the people plying them with alcohol. 

“Well now you know my entire sad life and I don’t even know your name,” she says and he straightens, holding out his hand between them. 

“Killian Jones.” She reaches out, shakes it, almost laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. 

“Emma Swan.”

“I know,” he says and before she can question him he speaks again. “Now that we’re not strangers anymore, can I be candid?” She hesitates but only for a moment and then nods. “Your ex sounds like a complete and utter douchebag.” Emma bursts out laughing, the sound of the insult on his tongue seeming wrong, not fitting his accent and the smooth, slightly rogeish way he carries himself. 

And then, suddenly for some unfathomable reason, she catches herself doing what she always does: defending Neal. “It’s not all his fault,” she says, the words coming out automatically. “He had a really rough upbringing. His dad was never around and then he had to run away when he was really young and -” Killian cuts her off.

“That’s a really sad backstory,” he says. “But he's still a douchebag.” Emma bursts out laughing. It’s almost manic, shocked and disbelieving to hear someone dismiss Neal’s history so flippantly, that story which had been used by her friends and his to defend and forgive every shitty thing he ever said or did to her. And now here Killian is, refusing it. Refusing the excuses and the justifications for treating her poorly. 

As if on cue, the bell over the door jingles and Emma turns to see Neal walking in. Killian must know who he is by the way her whole body stiffens at the sight of him. But Neal hasn’t noticed them yet and Killian leans in. 

“Hey,” he says, brushing his warm fingers against her arm. “You’ve got this.” And then he’s gone, disappearing into the back room without another word and Emma tries no to take it to heart, not to let it feel like a dismissal. She thought they had something going there for a moment. She didn’t really know what, an understanding maybe, a connection, the kind she always thought she had with Neal but didn’t realise until now how wrong she was. 

Before she can get too caught up in her disappointment, Neal sits down in front of her, setting the bag with her files on the bartop unceremoniously but keeping his hand on it. She goes to reach for it, hoping that maybe she can get through this whole interaction without having to exchange a single word with him, but as soon as she does, he drags it back towards himself, out of her reach. She glares at him. 

“Give me the bag, Neal,” she sighs and he looks at her with that look she’s seen so many times, that look she hates, the patronizing, belittling look that makes her feel like someone to be pitied, someone worthless. She can feel her hands start to tremble and so she clenches them into fists. “Neal,” she says again when he doesn’t answer. “The bag.” 

“Come on, Ems,” he says and it’s a long-suffering kind of thing, her name sounding exhausting, like more trouble than it’s worth, like she’s some toddler throwing a tantrum. “Can we stop this now? We both know you’re not leaving - why else would you have agreed to meet me here?”

“To get my files back,” she bites through gritted teeth. “I need them for work.” She was going to lose this skip if she didn’t get them back and he knew that. 

“Are you sure you didn’t leave them behind so that you could find a reason to drag me out here and sit through your little charade of ‘woe is me’ until I agreed to take you back?”

“You made me come here,” she reminds him.

“Because I know you, Emma,” he says. “I know that you don’t want to do this. You’re pissed, I get it, whatever. But it’s time to get over it. You’ve made your point, time to come home.”

“I’m not coming home.”

“Yes you are. You always do.” When she doesn’t agree he sighs. “How many times have we done this? You’ll sleep on Ruby’s couch for a few days, stew in whatever it is you’ve convinced yourself I’ve done wrong, and then you’ll come home because you know as well as I do that we belong together, I’m it for you. What do you think you’re gonna do without me? You think you can support yourself just by chasing skips?”

“Yes,” she says but her voice wavers. Don’t let him get to you. 

“Emma, enough, alright. I know you’re mad about that whole thing with that girl from work but it’s not really my fault.” They’ve had this fight before. She won’t do him the decency of asking him to explain what that means. But he does anyway. “Maybe if you weren’t always off trying to play superhero, coming back looking like a mess and acting like a dude I wouldn’t need to go find what I need somewhere else. I won’t do it again, okay? Not if you really try. But I’m not gonna put up with it again, you walking out.”

“I’m not coming back,” she says, refusing to take the bait and reaching for the bag again. He still holds it away. 

“Do you really think you’re gonna find someone better?” he asks then, some anger creeping in. “You’re not going to find someone who treats you better than I have, Emma, not after everything I’ve had to put up with over the years. Nobody wants all that sad, lonely orphan baggage that you drag into the room with you.”

Emma can feel the tears burning her eyes and she knows he can see them too and she hates it. She hates how every word he says digs deeper, how carefully calculated and crafted his speech is to target all the things she dislikes about herself, all the things she knows push people away, all the reasons she knows she’ll probably be alone from now on. This is usually the moment when she breaks, changes her mind and comes back because the idea of being alone is far scarier than being with him. 

She can feel herself weakening when a voice cuts through the silence of the nearly empty room. “Swan! Love, I’m so sorry I’m late.” 

It takes her a moment to realise that it’s Killian talking, that he’s somehow managed to come through the doors from outside, a jacket thrown over his tshirt and his apron abandoned. She opens her mouth to ask him what he’s doing as he strides towards her but before she can finish saying his name he’s caught her face between his hands and captured her lips with his. 

He catches her gasp on his tongue, kissing her with a desperation and an intensity that threatens to knock her off her stool but he holds her fast. There’s a heat and a passion behind every pull of his lips and flick of his tongue against her own that shoots straight to her belly. She groans against him, she can’t remember the last time she’d been kissed like this and her hands find his hips, hanging on for dear life as he uses his hand at her cheek to tilt her head, his thumb pulling down at her chin so he can kiss her deeper. His other hand finds the leather of her jacket, bunchin in it and using it to pull her closer, as if there was any room left between them. 

When he finally pulls back she’s breathless, her eyes and her head feeling foggy and every inch of her skin humming. He smirks, his lips still brushing hers and then capturing them in another slow, soft kiss, this one shorter than the last and it sends waves of desire through her. Her own hand tightens in the leather at his hip. He breaks the second kiss and she’s ready to pull him back in for a third when someone coughs behind Killian. 

Neal. She’d forgotten he was here. 

She looks up into Killian’s eyes, glad to find them as heavy lidded and swallowed by black as she’s sure her own are. He brushes his thumb over her cheekbone, a smile crossing his face and then, he winks. He fucking winks and her, his back still to Neal. Emma sits gaping like an idiot, waiting for an explanation.

“I’m sorry,” he says again instead. “I got caught up at work. I hope that makes up for it a little.” 

It takes her another second to catch on but when she does, a wave of gratitude and relief and a little bit of disappointment washes over her. It’s an act. He’s doing her a favor because she told him about her shitty ex boyfriend and he’s a nice guy. Killian smiles at her again, encouragingly this time and Emma decides to play along. Let Neal be the one feeling small, and unwanted and replaceable for once. 

She reaches up and cards her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s just as soft as she thought it would be, and then allows herself the small pleasure of sliding her hand around the back of his neck and down to his chest where she teases the hair poking out of his shirt. “It’s a start,” she tells him. “You can really make it up to me later.” His eyebrow shoots up as a barely contained laugh, impressed and conspiratorial, crosses his face before he catches it between his teeth. 

“Oh, I intend to,” he promises and while she knows they’re just playacting, the timber of his voice stirs some very real desires in her. She can feel the flush creeping up her cheeks, weighing the pros and cons of dragging him into the bathroom and seeing how far he’ll take this charade. Neal clears his throat again, interrupting her fantasy and Killian smirks, smug, though she can tell it’s not at the reaction he’s drawing from her, but rather at the annoyance he’s managed to evoke from her ex. 

“Hi, mate,” he says, reaching over and grabbing the bag from Neal’s stunned and limp fingers. “Thanks for this, we really needed it,” he tells him, gesturing between them with the bag. He hasn’t taken his hands off her. When he turned, his hand snaked around her waist, settling low on her hip, fingers playing idly with the waist of her jeans, teasing at the skin beneath her shirt and it’s all Emma can do to hold back the shivers that are forming at the base of her spine. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Neal frowns, glaring at Killian before turning it on Emma. “Who the fuck is this guy?” he demands. Emma blanks, the ferocity of Neal’s anger freezing her on the spot. She’s never seen him jealous before. Thankfully, Killian jumps in again, his hand sliding up from her hip to the back of her neck, playing with the hair at the nape in a way that’s both sweet and oddly possessive. 

“Take your pic,” Killian says breezily, looking at her with an extremely convincing imitation of a lovesick expression on his face. “Lover, paramour, beau, flame... boyfriend,” he says finally with a brush of his thumb under her ear and she practically melts. He’s very good at this pretending thing. Too good. “I’ll take whatever she’ll give me,” he says finally when she looks up at him and her certainty that he’s pretending waivers. 

He stares at her for a moment longer, something weighted in his gaze that sends her heart beating frantically in her chest before he turns back to Neal, throwing the bag over his shoulder.  “But I don’t need to tell you that,” he says dismissively. “You know what it’s like to be lucky enough to have Emma Swan give you the time of day.” There’s an edge to his voice when he speaks next. “Only a fool would have let her go.” He presses a kiss to her temple.

Neal is angry again. This time, it’s directed at her. “You expect me to believe that in the week since you stormed out you’ve gone and found yourself some boytoy to follow you around? Some guy you just met?

“I didn’t just meet him,” she says and it’s not technically a lie. She’s known him in passing for a year now, even if she did just learn his name tonight. “We… work together,” she says finally. 

Neal looks at Killian with a wary expression. “You’re a bail bondsman?” he asks and Emma doesn’t miss the surprised and flatteringly impressed look Killian gives her before flawlessly answering that yes, yes he is in fact a bail bondsman. 

“I’ve spent the last year working alongside Swan. Pining for her, waiting for her to walk into the office, to see that smile light up her face.” He traces the line of her lips. “The way those unreasonably tight jeans cling to her.” His fingers trace their way down her throat, over her shoulder. “Watch her face down one creep after another.” 

He catches her hand, her knuckles a bit bruised from the last skip who wouldn’t stop fighting. He brushes his thumb over her knuckles before he brings them to his lips and kisses them. She watches him, enthralled by the picture he paints of her and he meets her gaze, looking no less mesmerized himself. “She’s a marvel, my Swan.” Emma swallows, she likes the way that sounds coming from his lips. My Swan. “But mostly,” he adds finally and he’s still not looking at Neal, only at her and god he’s handsome and he smells so good and he’s so… kind. That’s not something she’s used to but she’s drawn to it. “Waiting for her to break up with her idiot boyfriend so that I could tell her so,” he finishes. 

Emma’s not sure what comes over her but suddenly her hands have found the back of his neck and she’s crushing his lips to hers. She can feel his surprise and nearly pulls back but his arms go around her waist as he draws her in, deepening the kiss. His hands alternate between gentle caresses and desperately fisting in her shirt and his mouth over hers is no different, languide strokes of his tongue alternated with bruising kisses and teeth nipping at her lips until she’s dizzy. Neal coughs a third time and Killian breaks away with a frustrated groan. One that feels very real. 

“Are you still here?” he demands, glaring at the other man over his shoulder. 

“I think I deserve some answers,” he says then, seething, and Emma feels a rage building in her like nothing she’s ever felt before. He deserves answers? He’s the one who’s spent years cheating and blaming her for it, who put her down at every opportunity, who reminded her that he could be with anyone if he wanted to and she couldn’t. She’s done with it. That final demand is the last straw. She owes him nothing. 

“What’s going on,” she bites out and sees Neal almost recoil from the venom in her voice. He’s not used to her standing up for herself. Killian steps back, giving her room to finally tell off her awful ex, keeping his hand on her lower back and she appreciates the small gesture of support. “Is that I found someone who doesn’t treat me like garbage. Someone who doesn’t blame me for all their shortcomings and who actually gives a shit about what I think and feel and want.” She can see that her words are affecting him, for the first time ever, and so she digs in. She wants to hurt him. 

“Someone who actually knows how to make me feel good, how to drive me insane and leave me desperate and wanting.” Killian raises a very interested brow at her then, listening attentively and she feels the blush creeping up her neck but continues. Neal had always been angry about how much difficulty she had finishing when they were together, accusing her of being cold and frigid.  “Someone who doesn’t last thirty, underwhelming seconds and then rolls over like some useless lump. Someone I don’t have to beg to go down on me like it’s a chore so that I can have the hopes of a sub-par orgasm.” 

She can feel Killian’s fingers twitch against the skin of her back but she can’t bring herself to look at him. His hand begins tracing up and down the base of her spine in a way she’s not even sure is intentional. His eyes are burning into her. 

“Okay. Enough, I get it,” Neal says finally. 

“Yeah. It is enough. I should have done this years ago.” She feels a pride swelling in her chest, mixing with the arousal that Killian is stirring in her and it’s a heady combination. “I think you should leave,” she tells him and she watches with vindication as his shoulders sag and he slinks out of the bar without another word. 

Emma is so lost in the thrill and the satisfaction of watching her horrid ex leave so demolished, knowing that she likely won’t ever have to speak to him again, that it’s a moment before she remembers that she’s still standing here with a near stranger. A stranger she’s made out with three times now and who is currently removing his hand from where it had been playing against her skin. She misses it immediately. But the charade is over, she realises. It hadn’t been real, he’d been doing her a kindness and she was grateful to him, even if she was a little crushed that they couldn’t go on playing happy couple. He’d been very good at it. 

Killian clears his throat, scratching at the back of his neck as he gives her a small, slightly embarrassed smile. “Well, I guess he won’t be bothering you again,” he says and Emma shakes her head. 

“No. I’m sure he won’t. Thank you. For… well, all of that. You didn’t have to.”

He smiles at her again. It’s a nice smile, and she notices that he has a smudge of her lipstick on his bottom lip. She’s torn between reaching to wipe it off and leaving more marks on him. She does neither. 

“Yes I did,” he says, drawing her attention away from his mouth. “He had it coming. I heard what he said to you and if what you said was true… well. You’re better to be rid of him.” 

Emma clears her throat, a small smile playing at her lips. “Did you see his face when he thought we’d had some elicit office affair of the heart going on?” Killian nods, smirking proudly. “How did you even come up with all of that on the fly?” she asks. He’d been… very convincing. 

“I didn’t,” he says and her eyes snap to his. But he doesn’t explain or elaborate, just lets it hang there in the air between them. She reaches out and takes his hand, tries to ignore the way the calluses feel rough against her soft skin, how warm he is. 

“Thank you,” she says again. “I don’t know how I’ll pay you back for that.” 

His smile is soft this time as he takes her hand in both of his and kisses her knuckles again. “You don’t. It was the right thing to do.” 

He goes to leave her, to walk away but the feel of his lips against her skin is still burning through her fingers, burning everywhere that he’s touched her, like he’d branded her and left the marks behind. Her cheek, her neck, her spine, her hip, her lips, all of them are simmering after the raging inferno he set off in her and she’s not ready to let it die out just yet. He said he hadn’t made it all up. 

She has no idea what she’s doing. She’s never been with anyone but her shitty ex and a few guys when she was a teenager. She doesn’t know how to seduce a stranger into taking her home - or on the bartop, she’s not picky - but she shoots her shot. She catches his hand more firmly in her own before he can walk away. 

“Unless…” she starts and he stops, takes a step back towards her. 

“Unless?” There’s something a little hopeful in his eyes when they meet hers. And something a little less innocent and a little darker as they trail down to her lips.

“I mean, you were late,” she says coyly and watches as the playfulness crinkles the corners of his eyes and the smirk pulls at his lips. 

He raises an eyebrow at her as he closes the last of the distance between them, standing close enough that she needs to spread her legs on her stool to allow him to stand between them. His thumb finds her chin, tilting her face up to his.

“I was,” he says, ducking his head and pressing his lips to her neck, just below her jaw. She takes in a shaky breath. “How very rude of me,” he adds before kissing the other side of her neck, this time at the hollow where it meets her collarbone. Emma squirms in her seat. He’s facing her again then, his lips barely an inch away from her own, so close that she can feel his breath on them when he speaks. “How will I ever make it up to you?”

She doesn’t think, she just acts, grabbing his shirt and yanking him forward until he’s trapped between her thighs and she can feel the hardness growing where he’s pressed against her. He lets out a surprised but pleased sound and it emboldens her.

“Why don’t you think about that while I thank you properly,” she says and he doesn’t need anymore encouragement. He catches her face in his hands again, slanting his mouth over hers, his tongue teasing hers as he presses himself closer to her as one of his hands travels down to her thigh, sliding along it before hooking her knee and pulling it up around his hip. She nearly loses her balance on her seat but he holds her steady, his kisses growing deeper and headier and she’s letting out whimpers and soft moans, sounds she didn’t know she had in her and he swallows each of them up greedily, repeating whatever he’d done to draw them out so he can hear them again. 

Her hands find their way to his hair, fisting and tugging and he lets out a groan so she does it again. And again. Her hips roll up against his of their own accord and he practically rips his mouth away from hers, the sound he makes somewhere between a gasp and a growl before he finds her neck again, lips and teeth and tongue laving at the skin there, biting and licking and sucking until she’s sure he’s left a mark but she holds him fast, tilting her head back to give him more access. 

He takes it appreciatively, his tongue sliding down her throat until he reaches the top of her breast. The hand at her knee starts a slow journey up her side, under the skin of her shirt, burning and leaving goosebumps behind in their wake as he trails his fingers along her ribcage to her bra, his thumb tracing over her nipple and she gasps, dragging his mouth back to hers. She can feel his smirk against her lips but she doesn’t care, nipping at his bottom lip and slipping her own hand under his shirt and scratching at the trail of hair on his stomach, a trail she desperately wants to see and he shudders under her touch. 

The bell rings above the door as a group of friends walk in, chattering happily and Killian pulls away, drawing his hand out from under her shirt. His forehead falls against hers, panting. His tongue comes out to run over his lip like he’s tasting her there. He’s looking at her like he’s waiting for her to decide what happens next and so she grabs the front of his shirt, tilting her head to brush her lips against his own, tongue flicking against the one he’d just licked and drawing another groan from him. 

“Bathroom?” she asks and he shakes his head, stepping back and before she can even start to think she’s been rejected, he holds his hand out to her, nodding towards the back of the bar. She takes it and he begins practically dragging her towards the 'employees only' door before she remembers why she’d come here in the first place. 

“My bag!” she says and he looks confused before he remembers, turning to grab the duffle and tossing it behind the bar and then pulling her along behind him again. Emma giggles at his enthusiasm, excitement and arousal and want making her giddy. He hears her laugh and turns, a bright smile on his face, crinkling his eyes and lighting up his features as he pulls her to him. He captures her lips again, his fingers tangling in her hair as they both try and kiss with grinning mouths. 

They pass someone in the staff area as Killian continues to walk them backwards to wherever his destination is, refusing to give up the kiss, and Emma feels herself flush as the young man sees them and smirks smugly and knowingly. 

“About bloody time,” he says and Killian glowers at him. 

“Get to work, Will. We have customers,” he barks and the man holds his hands up innocently, the smirk not leaving his face. Killian pulls her along a few more feet then until they reach a door that he fumbles to open. They’ve barely made it inside before he’s pushing her against the wood, pinning her there with his hips and his mouth and her head is spinning but his lips have started down her neck again and he rolls his hips against hers in a dirty grind that has her crying out. 

When her eyes open she notices they’re in an office and she worries about what rules he might be breaking, worried about his job and asks if he’ll get in trouble for bringing her in here. He shakes his head. 

“I own the place,” he says, his voice muffled against the underside of her jaw. 

“You own the bar?” she demands, surprised and he sighs, pulling his head up to lean his forehead against hers. 

“Could we perhaps talk about this later?” he asks, his talented fingers following her ribs up to her breast again, cupping it in his palm and dragging against its peak. Emma nods furiously before kissing him again. His hand is still moving over her, massaging and flicking and teasing before he grows frustrated by the fabric between them, grabbing the hem of her shirt and pulling it over her head. 

As soon as it’s off, he’s pulling at the cup of her bra, exposing her breast to him and taking her nipple in his mouth. Emma gasps at the feel of his tongue dragging against the sensitive tip, swirling and licking, teasing it with his teeth. She has a death grip in his hair, refusing to let him move, not that he seems particularly inclined to.  

“Fuck, Killian,” she gasps when he finds her other breast with his hand, working her up more and more until she thinks she might come from this alone. She can feel his smirk, his scruff scratching against her skin and it sends a shiver through her whole body. 

“That’s the intention, love,” he tells her and she tightens her hold in his hair for his smugness, yanking until he’s forced to pull away from her chest and look at her. 

“Then get on with it,” she tells him and thrills at the way his expression darkens. He slides his hands between her and the door, palming her ass and rolling her hips against the hard ridge of his erection before he lifts her, wrapping her legs around his waist effortlessly. Emma’s arms wind around his neck as he turns, carrying her across the room and setting her down on the desk. 

“As you wish,” he tells her, slipping the straps of her bra down her arms. She reaches behind herself and unclasps it, tossing it aside and watches as he takes her in, eyes roving hungrily over her. Nobody’s ever looked at her like that, like he wants to devour her. Maybe he does. 

He’s still wearing his jacket and Emma is suddenly overcome with the unfairness that he’s spending so much time just looking at her while she doesn’t get to see any of him. She reaches for his shoulders and pushes the jacket down his arms until it falls to the floor, reaching for the hem of his shirt and beginning to slide it up but she gets distracted when his fingers resume their tortuous exploration of her breasts. 

She gasps, her head falling back as his touch sends wetness pooling between her thighs and her nails dig into the skin at his sides. He’s watching her, taking note of her reactions, figuring out what makes her tick and then doing it again and again until she’s writhing under him and he hasn’t even undressed her yet. It’s never been like this, all consuming and desperate and wanton. She needs more and she whimpers his name. 

The sound of his name falling from her lips so needily does something to him and suddenly he’s dragging her mouth back to his, swallowing her moan as his tongue does sinful things to hers. He pushes her back until she’s laying against the desk and his lips leave hers, trailing down her neck to her chest, taking a moment to pay attention to each of her breasts before continuing down her belly, playing at her navel a moment before he reaches the button of her jeans. 

“I must say I’m quite a fan of these,” he tells her as he flicks open the button and starts to pull down the zipper. “But I think it’s time for them to go.” Then, he’s hooking his fingers into her waistband and pulling them down with enough force that she slides to the end of the desk with them. Emma sits up on her elbows as she watches him pull them off, one leg at a time until she’s left in only her underwear. He's watching her as well with something predatory in his gaze. 

“I want to see you too,” she says, grabbing at his shirt but he seems too distracted to catch on. “Hey,” she says finally, sitting up and grabbing the collar to get his attention. “Fair’s fair.” 

He lets out a low huff of laughter. “You’re right,” he agrees. “Bad form,” he chastises himself before reaching to pull the shirt over his head. Emma’s eyes widen as she takes him in, the strong curve of his shoulders and his arms that his shirt hadn’t done justice, the long lines of his torso, pale skin covered in dark hair that blankets his chest and tapers down over his stomach, disappearing beneath his jeans. She doesn’t fight the urge to burry her fingers in it, hands tracing over the planes of his chest, scraping her nails over his nipples and down his sides and he lets out a soft hiss. 

She reaches his belt then and as she begins to pull at the leather to loosen it, he stops her. She frowns at him but he only presses his lips to her jawline, tongue flicking out to tease. “Ah, ah,” he says, taking hold of the last scrap of material keeping her from being bare to him. “Ladies first,” he insists with a soft nip before he pulls them down her legs. He’s parting her thighs then, and while Emma expects him to undo his pants, instead he slides down to his knees, placing a leg over either shoulder. 

“What are you doing?” 

He raises a brow at her from between her legs, a slow smirk creeping across his face and it’s so goddamn sexy that her toes curl against his back, a shudder rippling through her. 

“As much as I’d like to hear you beg,” he starts. “I’d also like to make sure you have at least some chance at a sub-par orgasm,” he says echoing her words from earlier and she grins, biting her lip at how ridiculous he is and he takes that as permission. He turns his head, trailing slow, languid kisses along her thigh, scruff scratching at the sensitive skin until he reaches her hip. He bypasses where she’s hot and desperate for him to do the same on the other and she whines, trying to pull him in with her leg on his shoulder. 

He chuckles against her, his breath ghosting over her folds and she sucks in a shaky breath. “Please, Killian,” she says and suddenly his mouth is there, placing a deep, hot kiss against her center and her whole body clenches with the intensity of it. 

“I told you, Swan,” he says. “There’s no need to beg.” He smirks at her. “This time.” 

And before she can say anything his tongue is dragging a slow line from base to top and every thought in her mind is gone except for him and fuck. He eats into her like a starving man, tongue lapping at her folds, sliding inside of her and thrusting in a way that has her back arching off the desk and her hands fisting in his hair. He lays an arm across her hips to keep her still as he replaces his tongue with his fingers, dragging slowly and steadily against her walls in a rhythm that has her writhing, desperately trying to rock her hips against him. 

“Bloody hell, love,” he says as he watches her ride his fingers. “You’re a vision. So wet, so wanting. Tell me what you need,” he asks then, begs, and she’s too caught up in the feelings he’s sending through her body to find words so instead she presses her heel against his back until he gets the message and closes his mouth over he clit, tongue flattening against it as he circles in time with his fingers. 

“Fuck!" She’s already so close. It’s never been this easy, this quick, this intense, but her whole body feels like it’s burning, the coil in her belly tightening and he picks up his pace. His fingers curl inside of her pumping hard and fast as he wraps his lips around her clit and sucks and her whole world shatters. 

Killian works her through it, fingers still thrusting slowly, his thumb replacing his mouth as he slides up her body, working her back up before she’s even sure she’s come down. He takes a moment to pause at her hips, her stomach, her breasts and by the time he’s claiming her lips she’s desperate for him again. 

She sits up, taking hold of his hips and pulling him against her until their flush, the hair of his chest scraping against the sensitive skin of her nipples and only making her want more. This time, when she reaches for his belt he doesn’t stop her and she makes quick work of his jeans, sliding inside and taking him in hand. 

He groans into her mouth and she smiles against his lips. He’s hard and hot and heavy under her touch and she drags her palm along his length a few times until he growls out a warning ‘Swan’. 

She takes pity on him, pushing his jeans down his hips and wrapping her hand around him, pumping him slowly and his head falls back, eyes squeezed shut and lips parted in pained bliss and god she wants him. She can’t remember the last time she wanted someone like this. So she tells him. 

“Now,” she adds and he nods a little frantically, patting his pockets before he spots his wallet on the desk next to her and retrieves a condom from it. He brings the packet to his teeth, fumbling for a moment as she squeezes him and he gives her another warning glare. 

She smirks, leaning in to press her lips to his neck, catching the hard, tense lines of it between her teeth, biting and then soothing the spot with her tongue. He groans and she gives the other side of his neck the same treatment, thrilling when he curses under his breath, desperately trying to roll the condom on. 

She’d help but she’s having too much fun, particularly when she sucks a bruise into the spot just behind his ear and he lets out a stuttering cry, his hand grabbing hold of her hip, fingers digging into her skin. She’ll probably have a mark there and she likes that idea, likes the idea that she can get him as out of control as he can her. 

“Minx,” he accuses, using her hair to draw her mouth back up to his and sliding his tongue deep without preamble. His kiss is sloppy, desperate, wanting. He’s on the edge and she brought him there. She wonders if she can push him over. 

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this?” he asks then, releasing her mouth to say it low in her ear. “Ever since that first night you came into the bar with your friends. Gods you were stunning.” His fingers slip around her hip to between her thighs, finding her center again and she whimpers at his touch, slow and teasing, circling without ever hitting where she needs him. 

“I wanted to curl my fingers into you bloody ridiculously long hair,” he tells her, doing just that as his fingers slip inside her once more and she gasps. “Aye, and in there.” She’s clutching at his shoulders as he fucks her with his fingers, continuing to rasp filth into her ear. “I thought about how you’d look, splayed out on the bartop with my head between your legs, or bent over this desk. It was bloody torture.” 

His thumb finally brushes over her clit and her whole body wracks with the force of the pleasure that courses through her. “Why,” she gasps again when he circles tighter. “Why didn’t you?” she asks. She doesn’t usually like dirty talk. She'd always found it derogatory. But it’s not with him. It makes her feel wanted and desirable.

“Because you had a bloody boyfriend,” he growls, exasperated. Who? She wonders before remembering and then wishing she hadn’t. “But that didn’t stop me from imagining how you’d look with your back arched just like this,” he says, eyes raking over the length of her. “Or the sounds you’d make when I touched you,” he adds, then pulls his fingers from her heat and sucks them into his mouth, making her squirm. “I imagined you writhing just like this, begging me to take you.”

She doesn’t need to beg though at this point she would, dignity be damned. No one has ever made her feel this way and she never wants it to end. She’d give him anything he asked for if he just didn’t stop. She wraps her legs around his hips, pulls him against her so that his cock pushes through her folds and they both moan. Killian ruts his hips against hers a few times, the tip of him brushing against her sensitive bundle of nerves and when she thinks she can’t take it anymore he finally takes himself in hand and lines himself up with her entrance. 

“Gods, I imagined how tight and hot and perfect you’d be around me,” he confesses before pushing in and grabbing hold of her, staying still for a moment as she adjusts to the sensation of being filled by him. He’s big. Thick and long and so much better than what she’s made do with for the last decade. She doesn’t think she’s ever felt so full, so properly full until now. “You’re even more perfect than I imagined,” he manages, his voice strained. 

“Move,” she begs then. “Please.” He obliges, pulling out slowly and thrusting back in hard and fast and Emma cries out from the force of it. He’s barely started but she can already tell she’s never been properly fucked either. 

He starts moving then, thrusting in and out of her at a punishing pace and she takes all that he can give her. Her hands are in his hair again and his finds her leg, hitching it higher over his hip so he can thrust deeper, hitting new places inside of her. His hand slides down to the cheek of her ass, pulling forward to meet his every thrust, rolling his pelvic bone over her clit each time he pushes back into her and Emma’s already nearly ready to fall again. 

“That’s it, love,” he tells her as a litany of embarrassing sounds fall from her lips and she claws at the skin of his arms, hips rolling in a desperate grind. “Take what you need.” His free hand comes to her breast, teasing the hardened peak the way he’d spent time figuring out she liked. Everything he does is just how she likes it, how she never even knew she liked it. But he’s figured her out in the time it took to get her out of her pants and now he’s using all of it to bring her higher, higher than she’s ever been. 

And she falls. He slants his mouth over hers, like he wants to swallow her ecstasy, feel it humming through his body and then with a final few thrusts, she feels his own release echo through her. They stay there for a moment, frozen in a half kiss, mouths open and panting, breathing each other in as they both try to come down from such a fierce, earth-shattering climax. 

Emma finds his hair then, brushing he damp strands from his face as he holds her to him. “I wish you’d told me,” she says finally, thinking of all the time she wasted with him when she could have been having this with Killian. 

He huffs out a laugh against her cheek, pulling back and stroking it gently. “Aye, I was a bloody idiot,” he tells her. “Everyone who works here knew I was pining for you and they all told me so.” Emma smiles, her heart beating rapidly and her cheeks reddening at his confession. He’d already told her he’d thought about her but to hear that he’d been pining… 

“Well, you may be an idiot,” she grants him and he pinches her side playfully. “But you’re the best fake boyfriend I’ve ever had.” 

He beams at her then, and then a wicked look falls over his face. The hand at her side begins tracing her thigh, from knee to hip and then up to her ribs. 

“What are you doing?” she asks, though it’s fairly obvious when his skilled fingers find her still overly-sensitive center and she gasps at the sharp pleasure. He raises a brow at her. 

“I’m wondering,” he starts, lips finding her ear as his fingers start a slow stroke that has goosebumps blossoming over her skin. “How many sub-par orgasms it would take to earn the title of real boyfriend.”  Her heart is racing, from his touch, or his words, or both. She doesn’t care. She wants both. She likes him. It’s been so long since she liked someone and for it to be someone like him, and for him to like her back, to have pined for her as he put it… 

She smiles. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

~*~

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[woodrokiro]

Do It For the Band, Part Six (fic)

Fandom: Bleach

Pairing: IchiRuki

Summary: When Tatsuki said she wanted their sophomore album to be the next Rumours, this is NOT what she meant. Band AU. Read Part One, Two, Three, Four, and Five. 

Tatsuki never thought she’d live to see the day that she has to drag herself to jam with her friends.

Sure, she’s been pretty hung over on some of her work days; but she was always, always able to pull herself out of bed, pop a couple of Tylenol and be on her way to make a racket. It made no sense how she could still be giddy to beat some loud drums when she had a throbbing headache - but.

She loved it. She loved her band. 

She still does… But she hates Ichigo right now.

Ichigo, who’s being a real insensitive dick. Ichigo, who went on a date with Orihime, aka her-best-friend-aka-longtime-love-of-her-life-maybe-who-knows-she-never-got-a-chance-to-find-out-cuz-of-her-dickwad-friend. 

Ichigo, who is doing this as some stupid fucking vendetta against Rukia, or to forget her, or whatever the fact is being a dumbass and everyone is having to pay for it.

Needless to say: she’s worked herself up to a pretty furious state by the time she rages to practice.  

She stomps over to Chad’s garage, viciously lifting the the heavy door while simultaneously (unreasonably) half expecting to be faced with the sight of Ichigo and Orihime making out - 

When her eyes adjust to see into the garage, there’s none of that (thank God). They’re not even next to each other. Instead, she’s met with a very different sight.

Ichigo’s stewing in the corner, hands stuffed in his pocket and visibly grinding his teeth. Chad is sitting quietly next to him but definitely trying to blend himself into the shadows more than usual. Orihime is looking down at her hands across the room, silent and stiff.

And Rukia is plugging her phone into their speaker jack rather manically. 

“Ah, good afternoon Tatsuki!” Rukia greets the drummer with a too-large, sparkling smile that she recognizes as Rukia’s favorite mask to put on when she’s pissed. The vocalist has noticeable bags under her eyes from… Lack of sleep? Crying? Who knows. Her heart cracks for her.

The pity doesn’t last long when Rukia continues, sickly-sweet. “Since Ichigo was so kind to tell us we should start working on new stuff - “

“Woah woah woah, I didn’t tell you - ”

“My mistake!” Rukia sends Ichigo a somehow-withering smile that could kill. “You’re so right, we all agreed. In any case, I decided to start sooner rather than later. I recorded a quick version by myself last night at - oh, I don’t know, two A.M. - and sent it to Urahara by five.”

Ichigo’s foot starts tapping as he leans forward, arms crossed. “You sent something to Urahara without showing us first?”

“He said he liked it, but to get it passed through you guys. Of course I agreed, so… Here we are.” Rukia’s not looking at him any further, instead sending a hard glance to Tatsuki. 

The drummer knows it’s not really directed at her - more like a woman’s communication-without-words kind of thing - but she finds herself gulping anyway.

--

Here we are indeed. 

Oh you got stars in your eyes, baby

If you think this will work

I won’t follow your galaxies

Won’t fall for that fucking smirk. 

When will you realize the stars were never yours?

Never at any time, never at any time.

The song has turned to pure obliteration by the end. Rukia’s voice intentionally fades out at the finish, but not without absolute raw emotion, pure fury that leaves goosebumps on Tatsuki’s skin. 

Rukia stands in the middle of the garage, hands on her hips, looking proud and dangerous and fiery as she stares straight back at Ichigo’s stone-faced glare. 

Good for her, Tatsuki thinks before remembering: wait. She shouldn’t be rooting for this. 

This is the beginning of a war. 

As if on cue, Ichigo clears his throat, raising his chin to match Rukia’s arrogance.

“Great work, Kuchiki. Way better than anything you’ve done so far, I’d say.” 

Rukia’s nostrils flare. “Is that a comment on my previous work?”

“Not at all. Just… Inspires me to step up my game. In fact…” Ichigo stands up, dusting off his pants. “Is it cool with you all if I cut out early? Think I have some writing to do too, alone.”

“Absolutely not, Ichigo.” Tatsuki is shaken out of watching the trainwreck that’s her life. “Chad, Orihime and I did not come here for you to cut out without even practicing - “

“No, I think it’s fine, Tatsuki.” Rukia’s eyes glint with a challenge. “We can practice… Without Ichigo.” 

An excruciating silence follows. Tatsuki can practically hear Ichigo’s teeth crack beneath his grinding.

“... I can wait to write.” He roughly grabs his guitar, quickly getting to work on tuning it. “Teamwork is important. We’re nakama, after all.”

Something about the pointed word visibly causes the keyboardist to flush, but she starts to unplug her phone from the speaker jack anyway.

The next hour of practice may just be the most painful hour in Tatsuki’s life.

--

She thought she might have an idea of what happened between Ichigo and Rukia from Rukia’s song Celestial Lies - okay, so Ichigo broke a promise? - but seeing what kind of songs follow after that practice from both of them leaves it all… A little muddled.

The next day, Ichigo sends the group chat audio of a break up song.

Eyes softly gazed 

Heart breaking stare

Who knew you’d crush me 

Lying is your best jewelry you wear. 

Everyone hits a wary thumbs up reaction except Rukia, who hours later only replies: Did Urahara approve of this one?

Yes. Ichigo sends back at a neck-breaking speed… 

Followed by a :).

A few days later, Rukia sends another audio. 

It only took you ten days to realize 

I wasn’t good enough, but no one’s ever good enough

No one’s ever nice enough, 

No one’s ever fucked you enough

Called your bluff enough

Said your name like a God enough.

Now Ichigo’s response is a weird song about a siren with lavender eyes feasting on a golden-haired sailor’s skull, and Tatsuki didn’t know what to think happened but frankly? She doesn’t care. 

She calls Urahara immediately. 

“You know what this is gonna do to us, right?!” She shouts into the phone. “This isn’t doing anything but hurting the band, letting them go at it like this!” 

Urahara - to his credit - listens patiently from the other end as she explodes. He has the decency to voice his sympathies, that it must be really tough working in a group with… So many opinions.

“These aren’t opinions. These. Are. Fatalities.” She grits out. 

“I understand, Tatsuki-san, but…” She can nearly hear their manager shrug. “This is… How good music is made. I hate what it’s doing to your nerves, but you have to understand that this is how I get you guys out there.”

“At the expense of our friendship? What kind of manager are you -”

“A good one.” His voice drops low, suddenly serious in a way she’s never heard before. “What would you have me do, Tatsuki-san? Tell everyone to stop writing mean songs? Have them hug it out? You know that does nothing for any of us.” 

“That’s not what I’m... “

“Tatsuki.” His voice lifts, a bit gentler. “This is what you all wanted, what you’re working hard for. Whether or not they get through this… Nobody can say. But that’s not gonna change whether or not they stop writing these stellar pieces. You know how good they are. So… I hate to tell you, but you’re gonna have to suck it up. Enjoy it while it lasts. It might make your career.”

She hangs up immediately, knowing he won’t be offended.

He knows that she knows he’s right. 

--

Almost like a God-sent gift for Tatsuki’s suffering, Orihime breaks it off with Ichigo after only a few weeks. 

The relationship ends - quite spectacularly - in disaster after a couple of dates… Just as Tatsuki thought it would, but hey. She’s not going to gloat about it, only promises whatever deity is responsible a huge offering the next time she happens upon a shrine. 

She hears all about it from Orihime, of course - she’s way too pissed at Ichigo to speak to him about anything besides business - who tells her they got a couple of drinks, dinner a few times. 

“It’s a very nice time! But he’s not… It’s…” She sighs forlornly and it makes Tatsuki hurt for her. 

“He hasn’t made any moves, huh.”

The stage manager shakes her head, suddenly grabbing her water to keep the tears misting her eyes at bay. 

Tatsuki wants to kill him. 

“He said I looked nice. He opens the doors for me, pulls out my chair, pays for my bill. He and I have… Fun, I think. At least I do - and he’s very kind, such a gentleman -”

“It’s okay, Orihime. You can say it: he fucking sucks.”

Orihime laughs a watery laugh. “No, nothing like that. I just… This Rukia thing. It’s so… Intense, right? In practice? I should’ve known. I feel so stupid.”

“... Orihime.” The drummer puts her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Nobody could’ve known. Had I known? You’d find me on a cruise ship, drumming for some dumb cover band.” 

“You make jokes like that, Tatsuki, but you’re the band’s lifeline.” Orihime shakes her head, blinking back tears. “I just… Rukia is so… Goodness, she’s lovely. And talented. And so, so kind - “

“Orihime - “

“And I’m not one to be jealous, I know I’ve only known Ichigo for about a month now so I’m really not too upset about that. But I’d - I’d love to be someone’s first choice like that. I’d love to be the person that someone wants to write songs about, that inspires someone so much. Because that anger that’s coming through their songs… That’s them caring, you know? That’s them caring so much that good or bad, they want the whole world to know, and yeah I don’t love the bad so much but I do love love and want to be cared about like that one day but I’m not as smart or talented as Rukia-chan so - “

Tatsuki interrupts her by firmly pressing her lips to Orihime’s, her hands snaking into her gorgeous auburn hair and suddenly: everything is perfect, angels are singing and if she died at this very moment she would be too blissed out to fight it. 

She briefly breaks it off, nudging Orihime’s forehead with her own. “Rukia is also my friend, but don’t get it twisted. They’re both absolute shits.” 

Orihime laughs, smiling softly at the drummer before she goes back in and Tatsuki thinks band drama?

Who gives a fuck. 

--

Her new girlfriend calls her the next day to say she’s told Ichigo, and Tatsuki sighs. She was about to enjoy her morning by smoking a joint, but. Priorities, she guesses. 

She arrives at Ichigo’s apartment door within the hour, banging until he opens it.

“Y’know, how you get beyond the buzzer at the building entrance is beyond me - “

Tatsuki wastes no time. “Orihime told you, yeah?” 

Ichigo rolls his eyes, but a rare, small smile betrays him. “Yeah, she told me. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. You mad?” 

“What? No. Of course I’m not mad.” 

“Cool. ‘Cuz what the ever-loving fuck, Ichigo.” 

“... Not sure what you mean.” Ichigo’s eyes turn to flint as understanding dawns on him, and he’s about to close the door when she stomps on his foot. 

“Tatsuki, what the hell--”

“Don’t ever try to do that to me again. What is this all about?” 

“God, we didn’t have a - Orihime and I are friends! It’s all been worked out! What do you care, you got your girl - ” He shuts his mouth at the giveaway as Tatsuki narrows her eyes. 

“Is that what this is about? You didn’t get your girl so you tried to get mine?”

“No, Tatsuki. I had no idea you liked her, I would’ve never had - and what do you mean ‘my girl’?!”

She ignores the question and chooses instead to ask in reply: “Have you talked to Rukia?”

A beat.

“... We’re not discussing this, Tatsuki.” 

“Like, really talked to her? ‘Cuz I know you, and a whole lot of this bullshit could’ve been avoided had you just - “

“I’m not discussing this with you Tatsuki.” He looks down at his phone, lighting up the screen to look at the time. “Look, there’s a few more hours until practice and I wanted to get in some writing - “

“Of course you do.”

“... Just do me a favor. Please? Don’t - don’t ask me to talk about that stuff. You’re my friend and you scare the shit out of me - but I’m drawing the line there. Unless it has something to do with the band - “

She’s getting pissed all over again. “Ichigo, you know it effects the band - “

“We’re professional.” He snaps, and the quick show of temper stuns Tatsuki. He’s never had the nerve to talk to her like that, ever.

She’d be impressed if it wasn’t for the circumstances.

“... Congrats again on you and Orihime. I’ll see you two at practice tonight.” 

He slams the door.

“... And you can kick my ass for doing that, later!” His muffled shout sounds from the other side of the door. 

Tatsuki leaves in a hell of a less good mood than when she came.

[bre-meister]

I need some pre married/family angst

this is early relationship so pre-family and pre-married Cleon. I hope it’s angsty enough I kind of got distracted while writing to fight a huge ass hornet in my room ( I was super terrified ngl). This was such a journey for me to write that I don’t even have an official title for it like I normally try to do lol. This has also taught me that I need to work on angst that is not “person A and Person B fight”. Sorry for the rant here's the actual work:

Claire was mad. No, Claire was beyond mad. Claire Redfield was absolutely furious. Her rage was so blinding that she couldn’t even be bothered to apologize to the nice looking doorman as she barreled through the lobby of the apartment building of the object of said anger. She was sorry - felt the apology in her bones as soon as the smaller man began to cringe and cower slightly in her presence - but again, her anger prevented it from passing her lips.

Secretly, she did take a little pride in the fact that, as she entered the elevator, a young-looking couple decided to “wait for the next one” instead of sharing with her. It gave her a little more time to stew in her anger - pulling from the depths of her soul, every time that she had said it was okay even when it wasn’t - before she came face to face with him.

“What the hell Leon!”

The door to his apartment opened with such force that if circumstances had been different, she would have been worried about possibly putting a hole in the wall. Alas, her attention was not on the wall, but instead on the man lying on the couch in front of her. Leon was clearly either drunk or hungover. Although considering what she’d heard from both her brother - half the reason she was here in the first place - there was a distinct possibility it could be both. Claire wasn’t sure that could actually happen, but if anyone could make it a thing it would most definitely be Leon S. Kennedy.

All that came out of his mouth was unintelligible garble mixed in with a few pained groans. Claire took pleasure in that for a moment and allowed it to further stoke the flames inside of her. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was about to do. She’d kind of just gone on autopilot after getting. Chris’s concerned texts. Apparently, Leon had been ghosting everyone over the last week. So, there she stood, upset and silent until Leon made the mistake of finally speaking real words.

“Red,”

Claire didn’t let him finish. She exploded,

“No! You don’t get to do that, you hear me? You don’t!”

Claire moved towards the couch and yanked off the blanket covering Leon with more force than was probably necessary. The blanket had apparently been completely wrapped around him and, in his current state, that was enough to cause him to tumble to the floor. He let out another grunt of pain as he landed but Claire didn’t care.

“Get your ass up.” Her voice had calmed, steadied to an even tone. Her anger no longer manifested itself in yelling, but instead as a low growl behind her words.

When he didn’t make any effort to move, she said it again,

“I’m not asking Leon. Get up.”

He finally did as told. Standing he slowly moved to the small kitchen behind the couch. There he found a glass that looked somewhat cleaned and began to fill it with water.

This wasn’t the first time that Claire had been there to pick up the pieces whenever Leon fell apart. Safe to say, those instances had never quite played out like this one and Leon was a little jarred and, admittedly, a little afraid of what the red-headed woman might do. 

They stared at each other as Claire gave Leon a moment to swallow the little bit of water that was left in his glass. When he sat it in the sink and she remained silent he let his impaired brain convince him that meant he should speak.

“What’s your problem? Chris piss in your Wheaties this morning?”

The look on her face caused concern. The laugh that followed chilled him to the core. Leon S. Kennedy had faced down and won so many B.O.Ws that he had lost count but at that moment as he looked across the room at a laughing Claire Redfield, he knew that he had quite possibly signed his death warrant. He also knew that if this truly were how he died, several people would help her cover it up, and frankly, he couldn’t blame them.

“My problem?” she continued to laugh, “What’s my problem?”

Leon was getting a little nervous. In yet another mistake, he even let out a few nerve filled chuckles himself.

“No, you don’t get to laugh! This isn’t funny,” and yet she was still laughing. 

Leon was not.

“Do you know why this isn’t funny? Because I don’t think you do.”

He couldn’t have answered even if he wanted to - Claire cut him off as soon as he opened his mouth to fumble through some bullshit excuse.

“You don’t. I know you don’t because if you did you would have had your ass at the restaurant last week, Leon!”

Leon felt his stomach drop. Oh no. He really had fucked up this time.

“Sherry’s birthday.” He felt more than heard the mumbled words slip past his lips.

“Ya, Sherry’s birthday,” Claire turned around to finally close the door and Leon took the opportunity to sit down in one of the few chairs at his tiny kitchen table.

“You know, I was okay with this when it was only me you were fucking over. I know I shouldn’t have been, but I was. I told myself over and over that it was fine, you needed this time, you needed me and I was more than happy to give it to you - everything. I give you everything! But it was okay because you were always there for me too. Most of the time at least. And I get it, Leon, hell I get it more than probably anyone else. What we went through was hell, no one should have to go through that once let alone as many times as you do. But I was there too, I have to deal with that shit too. Sherry has to deal with that shit. She was Twelve Leon.”

“I know -”

“Then where the fuck were you? This was all she wanted! All she asked for for her birthday was for all three of us to be there, together and you couldn’t even get your shit together enough to give that to her. No call, no text, not even a half-assed excuse just nothing. The hurt and disappointment on her face - I’ll never forget that Leon. And to top it off, I had to cover for you and as much as I love you,” she saw that way his whole body seized up at her words, “I’m tired. I refuse to do that anymore.”

“I’m sorry, Claire.”

Claire pulled at her hair which, for once, wasn’t in its usual ponytail.

“Stop! It’s always sorry with you. For once could you just stop!”

“Stop what? Tell me what I have to do to fix this.” He was desperate. He didn’t want to lose her or Sherry. The idea of that - of finally being completely and utterly alone - was almost too much to bear.

“For starters stop making promises if you know you can’t keep them. Stop overcommitting yourself. Stop overworking yourself because that’s always how you get this way in the first place. And stop looking like that.”

“Like what?” he was a little puzzled. He may have also been on the verge of tears but, if anyone asked later he would deny it vehemently.

“Like...like I just killed your puppy or - or like I’m taking away everything from you - it’s making it really hard to stay mad!”

In any other situation, he might have laughed at that but he had sobered up enough between when Claire had burst through his door and now. Now, he really did feel that Claire leaving here like this, Sherry being disappointed with him - that truly was as if everything were being taken away from him.

“I’m sorry. I - I don’t know how to make you believe that I am, but I truly am sorry. I would never hurt you, Claire. I would never hurt Sherry.” He was pleading at his point. He didn’t know what else to do.

“But you did. You hurt us Leon, and I’m not saying that I won’t forgive you, but it’s going to take some time. You fucked up and your usual ‘sorry’ isn’t going to fix it when we always end up in the same cycle again.” She sighed and as the air left her body she could feel all of her anger leaving as well only to be replaced with immense sadness and disappointment.

Claire turned and walked towards the door. A small clang echoed through the silent room and, although Leon couldn’t see from his spot in the kitchen, he knew that Claire had dropped her spare key on the table next to the door.

“Wait! Claire, please, don’t.”

“Don’t what Leon?” She didn’t turn around, she knew she wouldn’t be able to leave if she did. So, head down she gathered her strength and continued,

“Don’t leave? Give me a reason to stay then.”

“ I love you.” It came out in a soft whisper. 

Those three simple words - the first time he had ever said them to her in a non-platonic way. They made her heart soar and ache, both at the same time. She’d imagined this moment a lot but never like this. Never at the end of a fight that had been building for a long time. Never with her back to him, preparing to leave. Never with him sitting in his kitchen, a mess, crying in a way she’d never seen from him. Never like this. And, as much as she wanted to stay…

“ I love you too Leon. But that’s not what this is about. Call Sherry, she deserves to hear from you why you couldn’t do this one thing for her.”

With that, she left. With her, Leon felt a part of him leave as well.

The tears turned to outright sobs as he collapsed on his kitchen floor - dirty. The floor was dirty. He was dirty. He hadn’t cleaned or showered in a while but it was kind of fitting. His apartment was dirty, his clothes were dirty, his body was dirty but he was dirty in a way that was deeper than just the physical sense. 

He’d let them down. The only two people in this world that he still gave a damn about. The only two people he would try for.

Then why hadn’t he? Why hadn’t he pushed himself harder? In the same sense, why hadn’t he taken a break when he had pushed too hard. Why hadn’t he tried harder to stop her? Why hadn’t he?

There were too many questions. If he left himself to ponder them for too long he’d never get up from this dirty kitchen floor and he couldn’t afford to stay here forever. He had business to attend to, phone calls to make.

First, to his job. Claire was right, he needed to stop overworking himself and he’s acquired more than enough hours to take some time off. Then, to Sherry, because he owed her an apology in more than just words. He only hoped she would allow him to make it up to her.

He wanted to call Claire - show her he was trying, that she was right and he would do better. However, he knew that would probably only make things worse. She always gave him the time he needed, now it was time for him to do the same.

But before anything, he had to get up off the floor. The floor was dirty. He was dirty. Leon was tired of the blood and grime that seemed to fill almost all of his waking hours as D.S.O Agent Kennedy. He decided he wouldn’t let it follow him home anymore. So, Leon got up.

On his way to the bathroom he passed by the bowl he kept on his front table by the door. It was a housewarming gift from Claire who knew he was always misplacing his keys and yet never making an effort to get more organized. Always looking out for him, his Claire. 

Leon wouldn’t even let himself question if there even was a ‘his Claire’. Not that he owned her, no one could ever own Claire Redfield. But, looking at the two keys laying together in the bowl, Leon couldn’t help but think they were the same - a matching set. One complementing the other in a way that, while they were separate, they were still part of the same.

Yes, Leon Kennedy got up and as he looked at his dirty face in the mirror, he turned the faucet on because he was tired of being dirty. He was ready to get clean.

[mortuarybees]

@ratfriends​ this is mostly just jaskier being an idiot who’s protective of someone who could crush a man’s head like a grape pls enjoy

Before Geralt, Jaskier’s experience traveling was fairly mundane. He would show up at a tavern, get a room, and hope to the gods he would make enough coin performing there to pay for it. Food was often a second priority to getting a bed and a roof over his head, because he truly never considered another alternative, and he often fell asleep hungry on lumpy straw mattresses in seedy taverns.

Geralt, however, seemed to loathe taverns, and Jaskier wasn’t entirely sure why. He enjoyed hot baths, food that wasn’t travel provisions or whatever game he managed to hunt, a nice bed; he would deny it, but Jaskier knew him well enough by now to see he clearly preferred it. Still, he tensed the moment they entered--the moment they crossed into any kind of settlement, really.

The reason only became clear after several months together, the first time they entered a tavern and the whole room quieted, a wave of silence rippling out from them like a stone tossed into a lake, as the patrons leaned over to whisper to their neighbors.

“That’s a bloody witcher, that is,” one murmured, and his companion gasped. “The Butcher of Blaviken, I’ll bet.”

Geralt paid them no mind, lumbering over to the least visible table, and Jaskier hurried to keep up with him, chattering with insistent cheer. “What a fine place,” he said. “Really, isn’t it? A wonderful...atmosphere, yes, and smell that, Geralt, is that lamb? You love lamb. A leg of lamb, here for my friend,” he called to the wide-eyed servant stopped in her tracks carrying ale to a nearby table. Geralt cut him an amused look, as if he knew what Jaskier was doing. “Please, if you would. And a big plate of potatoes too--and you might want to get another leg cooking, he’s a heavy eater, my friend. What else have you got? Stew? I’ll take stew.”

He took the seat opposite Geralt, his own back to the room, trusting him to keep a look out if anyone unwisely decided to try and start something with a witcher. “I think I’ll eat before I sing,” he said thoughtfully, determined not to acknowledge the still-silent tavern. “You’ve coin to pay for this round, yes? From the vampires you killed? Did I tell you, I finished the ballad I was writing for that one?” He put his lute on the table and opened the case, strumming before he was even entirely situated. In his experience, the best way to settle down a suspicious town was to play until he was the last conscious person in the room. “In the Old Manor’s shadow, ’neath the ghoulish green light--”

“Hey, bard,” one of the patrons yelled, and Jaskier turned around, mildly irritated--Geralt was going to like the one about the vampiress, he was sure, he liked the maudlin ones that lent sympathy to the monsters.

“Yes, good sir?” he asked, cheerful as he could.

“Play the Butcher of Blaviken,” he called, and his table erupted in laughter. “Come on, you must know it. Cold was the the night, and harsh was the wind, when came that horrid blight, to the town of Blaviken--”

“I don’t,” Jaskier snapped. “I’ve never liked those silly maudlin children’s songs that could not more obviously be false.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned.

“I do know Toss a Coin to Your Witcher, if you’d like to--”

“False, huh, bard?” the man said, getting to his feet and prowling towards them, several of his friends in tow. “And how would you know?”

Jaskier clenched his jaw. “As it happens, I’ve met Geralt of Rivia, my good sir, and I happen to know he would never butcher an entire village.”

“That so,” the man said. “This him, I take it? Yeah,” he said, eyes trained on Geralt without waiting for an answer. “Eyes like a wild animal, and what’s the song say? Hair white as the bones he cracks.” The man spit, and Jaskier leapt to his feet, alarmingly close to the horrible man, close enough to smell his breath, reeking of ale.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, standing, but Jaskier ignored him.

“Excuse me,” he snapped, “but I’m simply trying to have a quiet drink with my friend here. As it happens, he just slew an entire nest of vampires which plagued a village for some years, and I imagine he’s quite tired. So if you could return to your table and continue attempting to eat that steak with all three of your teeth, I think we would appreciate it a great deal.”

“You think you’re tough, bard?” he sneered, and shoved Jaskier back against the table.

“That’s enough,” Geralt said, his voice tight with barely-controlled fury, and his hand landed on Jaskier’s shoulder as he came to his side, angled in front of him.

“We’re not scared of you, witcher,” said the man. “You raise your sword against us and it’ll be the last thing you do.”

“I think you should leave now,” one of his friends, who didn’t seem to agree. “And don’t come back.”

There was a beat of silence, a muscle in Geralt’s jaw jumping, but he nodded. “So we will,” he ground out, and Jaskier sighed.

He returned his lute to its case, Geralt hovering at his shoulder, and they made their way toward the door.

“Ha!” One of the man’s friends laughed. “Say what you want about them, never heard of a coward witcher before.”

“They’re all cowards,” the man sneered, following after them. “Takes a coward to mutate himself to get a leg up in a fight and slaughter an entire village.”

Jaskier stopped and whirled around, and the man almost crashed into him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped. “He’s leaving to protect you, you irrelevant idiot, though you hardly deserve it--”

It wasn’t the first time Jaskier had been punched, but it had perhaps never taken him so off-guard, and he stumbled back, clutching at his nose and gaping at the man. “What is wrong with you?” he spat, and because this wasn’t his first time being punched, he immediately punched back.

Geralt was in front of him before he could blink, fisting the man’s shirt in his hand, and lifted him onto his toes. “You’ll walk away,” he seethed, and shoved him back, and gods, if that wasn’t a little hot.

“Yeah,” Jaskier said, still shaking his hand out. Fuck, punching someone fucking hurt. How did Geralt do this all the time? 

“Go crawl back into the mountains, witcher, and stay there until you rot,” said the man, stumbling back and clutching at the bruise forming on his cheek. “Nobody wants your kind.”

He wasn’t sure, exactly, what possessed him to try and shove past Geralt towards the man, something hot and furious surging in his chest, but Geralt caught him by the waist, hauling him out. “I hope you get eaten by--by--by a bloody graveir, you ungrateful, stupid bastard, I hope you die remembering this--”

“Jaskier!” Geralt snapped, slamming the tavern door closed behind him. “Shut. Up.”

“Why do you let them talk to you like that?” he demanded, pushing away from him. He stalked towards the stables, his anger bubbling in his blood. 

“Because it doesn’t matter what they say,” Geralt said. “It matters what I do.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jaskier muttered, and took a deep breath, reminding himself that Geralt was the last person he was angry with right now. “I know. I know. It just makes me so angry.” He entered the stable and went to Roach immediately, eager to be out of this horrible village.

“Why?”

Jaskier frowned, stroking Roach’s nose. “What?”

“Why does it make you so angry?” Geralt asked, and Jaskier turned to see him leaning against a post, head tilted as if he was genuinely curious. “They’re not talking about you.”

“Because you’re my friend, you big idiot,” Jaskier said, absolutely baffled. “I know, I know, you’re not my friend, but you are. I might not be yours, but you’re mine, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Geralt looked at him for a long moment, brow furrowed, and Jaskier--waited. He did a lot of waiting for Geralt, he was beginning to realize, but he didn’t mind so much. It didn’t feel like waiting, just--falling into step, maybe.

He said nothing, though, only hummed, and said idly, “don’t touch Roach.” Jaskier rolled his eyes, moving away so Geralt could retrieve her from the stall. He stopped after a moment, though, hands pausing in the practiced ritual of bridling her, and he didn’t look at Jaskier when he said, “that was stupid.”

“What was?” Jaskier’s brows raised.

“I could’ve let them beat the shit out of you,” Geralt said. Jaskier rolled his eyes.

“Firstly, they wouldn’t be the first,” he said, and Geralt snorted. “Secondly, I would’ve talked myself out of it, as I always do--I do! Don’t laugh. Thirdly, you wouldn’t have.”

“I could have,” he said, and it was Jaskier’s turn to laugh.

“I know you, Geralt,” he said, and Geralt finally did look at him, something odd in his eyes. “I trust you. You wouldn’t have.”

Geralt held his gaze for a beat and looked away. “Hmm,” he said, eloquently. “Maybe not.”

Despite the cold drizzle of rain as they left the village behind and the ache in his nose and his hand, Jaskier couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

[retvenkos]

alright, Olive, I'm back with a weird question. (but first of all, I hope you're doing good! how awfully rude of me to not start my ask by that) because you're so good at psychoanalyzing people (and I adore your rambling thoughts), I was wondering if you could maybe help me? I've always wondered who my godly parent would be in the PJO universe - it's been the biggest mistery in my life since I was 8. I just haven't found myself in any figure of the Olympus, maybe because I'd be the child of a minor deity? I've thought about Apollo, and I genuinely like it, but idk, maybe I need a more thorough analysis. I've also gotten Iris and Hemera from other people? I just think your piercing mind could see right through me. anyway, this is weird lol, I hope you don't mind me asking this! and don't worry if you can't answer, it's totally fine. 💜

asdfgfddfgfd, when i get my two weeks off for summer break, i should just do placements for inquiring mutuals because honestly it's one of my favorite things,,,

also, before i get into it (because i have some thoughts™), i'm going to plug one quotev quiz that i think is better than the rest when it comes to these matters: this godly parent quiz.

now, clara, i am not nearly as versed in pjo cabin placements as i am in hogwarts houses, but i'm going to give this my best shot:

first, i think i would be remiss not to mention that you are a libra, and libra is associated with themis, (idk really what that means since i'm not into astrology, lol), but themis isn't mentioned as one of the gods with a cabin, so i'm disregarding that. if we are following this logic though, i think that aphrodite is also associated with libra, so perhaps you could fit into that cabin? personally, i don't see it as strongly as i see others, but you do have a hopeless romantic streak, and a strong sense of community, which could sway you in that direction.

as for apollo, i'm going to unpack that for a minute, because it's very interesting that you'd place yourself there, and i'm on the fence with that myself, lol. (this is very stream of consciousness, so let's see where this section takes us)

i definitely see the association with the arts - music and poetry - although in my mind apollo has always been the performer, and less of the creator. i always associated the muses more with the creation stages of music and poetry. like... the muses are the fashion designers and apollo is the model going down the runway. or the muses are the writers and collaborators in the writers room and apollo is the actor or director. so, while i see the association, i think it's a little weak, because you strike me as more of the quiet artist who's behind the scenes, rather than the bard singing in the pub, trying to get coins. but, you know yourself better, so maybe it's a good association.

and after that, what always strikes me about apollo is the volatile contradictions of his personality. i mean, he's associated with the sudden death of children (rightfully so, i mean he slaughtered all of niobe's sons), along with his sister, artemis, but he's also a healer. he's like that "i'm a healer, but..." meme, which is funny as hell but also a little concerning. like, in many stories he is that godly sort of intelligent strength, but also he's really volatile and has quite a temper on him. i don't really think this relates a whole lot to you, because i get the vibes that you are generally mild mannered, but when something pisses you off, you let is really simmer. i feel like you aren't one to fly off the handle - if you do, it's probably been stewing within you for a while, and whoever your anger is directed at really knows that you're upset, and they knowingly pushed you to that place. i feel like you're more of a grudge holder than hot-tempered (but girl, same).

and then, of course, we have apollo's prophecies. now, maybe this is me reading too much into your scientific mind, but i think you are concerned with the future, but also don't think too much of it is predetermined. i feel like you are more of a trailblazer than that, and might just be prone to ignoring or actively working against anything you saw in the stars, asdfghgfsdfggfdsdfggfd

oh, and, apollo just has so many unfortunate romances, and on one hand, i have you quoted that you are more of an eponine than a cosette, but also, no hate to apollo and his tragic affairs, but he's openly mocked eros, and that truly gives off the vibes of working off of one (1) braincell, and you are too good for that, clara.

and just going back to personality, i think you have a lot of flexibility that just doesn't fit with the apollo cabin.

tldr; kinda but no?

now, i'm gonna kinda hop back into possible theories.

one of my gut reactions was the say athena, but after thinking about it, i'm still a little unconvinced. you have the intellect and pride for this cabin, and i feel like you would get roped into helping a lot of heroes like athena, but you also just have a charm to you that athena lacks. part of athena is that she's unapproachable and her pride is excessive. you, again, are too flexible to be athena. she's staunch where you are willing, and i feel like the rigidity of her nature is too constricting for you. it's very similar as to why i didn't place you in ravenclaw.

i also considered nike because of your competitive streak, but this placement kind of takes away from the underdog vibes i get from you. the righteous fury... the glee in the moment... it's definitely there, but i feel like there's a level of unsurety to your psyche that you don't really get with nike.

which leads me to my final analysis, where i think you would do well as a child of tyche.

let me go through this. so, i mentioned your competitive streak with nike, and that is 1000% evident in tyche. tyche is all about luck and fortune, and i feel like competition is a shoe in. children of tyche like to dabble with the unknown or the novel - it makes life interesting. they like to go against another and see where the cards fall, and if lady luck isn't on their side.... well, tonight's just not their night. they have a secure base to fall back on, and that allows them to stretch their wings and fly.

furthermore, with nike, victory is expected and guaranteed. luck is far more fluid and unpredictable - it's harder to pin down. you can have a lot of luck and a lot of things working in your favor, but still, the desired end result isn't set in stone - it's likely to happen, but there's always risk. this risk leaves for an air of quiet self-assuredness that isn't overbearing. there's always uncertainty in the mix, and that leads to less overt confidence. it also adds to the thrill (or the anxiety).

plus, i think that the gap between fortune and certainty (a pitfall of risk) leads to a lot of checks and balances that i really see in you. there's a lot of clear headed logic that gets weighed against ambition and desire, and it makes for a kind of pragmatism that doesn't stomp out dreams, just looks at them realistically.

which means i feel like a lot of people ask you for advice, clara. it also makes you a decision maker for sure. you might falter for a moment, but in the end, you make a choice and you live with it.

also, i have a personal headcanon that children of tyche are really well rounded, which harks back to my gryffindor analysis of you, where i mention that you have many tools in your box. you are able to manipulate many different things, and you can look at them from many angles, and i love that for you.

i also think this is a good placement for you because luck is all about what-ifs. it's about actively manipulating the world around you. like i said when i mentioned apollo's prophecies - i don't think that you do very well with the predetermined. some things, certainly, but one (1) you are too stubborn to believe you can't change things (oh, the contradictions of a gryffindor and child of tyche), and there's also a level of desperation that things won't always be like this. luck can come to anyone in any place. this is definitely tied to your bleeding heart - you care for people who have fallen on hard times, and you can't help but pray that it's only temporary.

oh, and i headcanon that tyche holds grudges sO BAD. she is only outdone by nemesis and hades.

anyway, this was long and it winded, but TLDR; i hereby herald you a child of tyche. you are my lady luck, clara.

[johaerys-writes]

Fandom: The Song of Achilles

Summary: During his two month long sea voyage from Phthia to Skyros, Patroclus makes an unexpected friendship.

Chapter 3: Fate, the final chapter of At the Water’s Edge, is up! Where Patroclus finally reaches Skyros, and has an important decision to make.

Read here or on AO3! Or read from the beginning

The sun had set, and the night birds were gliding into the fast-approaching dusk when we finally returned to the ship.

The rest of the sailors had already gathered for dinner, the wide galley filled with the sounds of jest and song, with the smells of the fish stew that was being prepared. I didn’t usually join the crew during their meals, preferring to take them in my room, by myself, but that evening Xanthos had insisted I stay. He was sitting next to me now, with his cheeks still flushed from our trek through the verdant hills back to the port, and the wind that had combed through his locks had given him a wild appearance. There was a gleam in his eye, that I imagined matched my own.

The fish stew was rich and savoury, heavy with the taste of the sea and spices. Not all ships fed their crew this well, but the captain was a generous man, or so Xanthos had told me. After we had both finished our dinner, a nearby sailor treated us to some watered down wine. It was from the northern plains, near Macedonia, I was told, and quite strong, with a heavy aftertaste of berries and honeysuckle.

“Xanthos,” one of the men called. He was a tall man, strong like an bull, with his large head shaved clean. He had a bright and easy smile, which always made me somewhat uncomfortable, especially now that it was directed at both me and my companion. His gaze fell on the bracelet on Xanthos’ wrist. “What’s that you’re wearing? A little too fancy for you, isn't it?"

Xanthos smiled brightly, seemingly unaware of the laughter that broke out over the wide space. He raised his arm to show his bracelet to everyone who had lifted their heads from their drinks to look. “Do you like it, Thaddeus? I wasn’t aware it would be to your taste. I thought the only place you liked to wear jewellery was on your teeth.”

The other men laughed and jeered, banging their mugs on their tables. The jab did not seem to deter Thaddeus, who grinned even more brightly, revealing several golden teeth. “Everyone knows that, boy,” he said, laughing. “Did your friend choose it for you? You and I both know you couldn’t pick something nice if your life depended on it.”

I felt uncomfortable with everyone’s piercing stares that suddenly fell on me. Xanthos turned his body ever so slightly towards me, as if shielding me from the sailors’ crude jests. “He did,” he said, waving his mug casually. “He has a good eye. Which is more than anyone can say about you lot.”

They all laughed again, and Xanthos and Thaddeus exchanged even more jests, some of them crude, but none ill-natured. Before I knew it I was laughing with them too, and soon some of the sailors had come to sit around our table. Talk shifted away from Xanthos’ bracelet and into other matters, the ship’s journey and the highest price the captain had been able to get for some of the oils and herbs they carried, the details of the trade.

“Barley always sells cheaper here than it does in the mainland,” they would say. “Don’t know why the captain bothers with the Sporades.” Or, "Piraeus has raised the cargo tax to thirty three talents. Soon, they'll be charging an arm and a leg just to let ships into port."

I listened to their talk, quietly sipping on my wine. Trading held little interest for me. I had never in my life had to barter, sell or buy anything, apart from the rare occasions that Achilles and I would sneak away from the palace and go to the harbour to watch the street performers and musicians that sometimes ended up on our shores. It was always fun and exciting at first, but I would soon grow weary of the chatter and noise, of the heavy and sour smells of discarded fish and sweaty human flesh, of the rattling sound of the dice games at every corner. We would quickly retreat back to the olive grove, or our small secluded beach, where Achilles could run and throw his spears undisturbed. I would sit back on the warm sand and watch him move for hours, watch as the muscles rose and fell under his skin, as shadows pooled and stretched across his features with the passage of the dying sun.

A pang of longing drove through me at the thought, before I was able to stop it. My memories of Achilles had always been gold- tinted, as if the brightness of his presence made everything it touched resplendent, just like he was. They had always been a source of comfort for me, yet now they just made me ache for him all the more.

“Do you play, lord?”

I blinked at Thaddeus, jolting out of my reminiscing. At my baffled stare, he nodded at the stretch of table between us, smiling. “Do you play?”

I followed his gaze, and there I saw them. Four dice, their pips staring up at me like eyes. They were not white and made of bone like I was used to; they were red instead, made of terracotta stone. The pips were carved on their flat and smooth surface and painted over with dark dye. The shape and colour of them mattered not, though, as I found myself staring at them for what felt like a lifetime.

It was then that I remembered one of the reasons why I never joined the crew during their meals. Sooner or later, the tables would be cleared, and dice would be drawn out for games that lasted well into the night.

My pulse thrummed in my temples at the images that promptly rushed through me in waves; my anger at Clysonymus, at his blatant disrespect, his mockery. His eyes that widened as he fell back, losing his balance; the crack of his head against the stone. His blood trickling slowly on the dry ground beneath him, mixing with the soil and turning it crimson. I remembered how bright it was, as if it were before me just then. My stomach turned.

“Patroclus,” I heard Xanthos say beside me, but his words reached me as if through wool. “Are you well? You are pale as a sheet.”

I think I muttered a brief apology before standing up, almost making my chair topple over in my haste, then half-running towards the deck. My heart was racing; my mind was spinning, spinning. I was shaking like a fish out of water when I finally reached the railing and clutched it with trembling hands, my breath clawing at my throat.

It wasn’t always this bad. The sight of the dice didn’t always leave me this shaken, but my nightmares, ever since I had boarded the ship, were the worst they had been in years. Almost every night I would wake up trembling and out of breath, with cold sweat running down my spine. Those memories, Clysonymus’ face, the dice that rattled incessantly in my head; all those things were part of me, embedded in my bones. Had I honestly thought that one half day of careless enjoyment would be enough to ward off those ancient terrors?

I squeezed my eyes tightly, willing the images that seemed to be lodged there away. The night was dark upon the world now, and I felt swallowed by it, a pebble sinking to the bottom of the sea. It seemed as though if I let go of the railing for even a heartbeat, the waves would rush up and swallow me, drag me into their dark depths.

I jolted when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to Xanthos, who was watching me with evident concern.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“I’m fine. Really.” I gripped the railing hard, taking in a deep, steadying breath. My heartbeat was gradually getting slower, and I could feel the fear that had gripped me only a moment before easing away. I stared out into the darkness, at the stars that now shone brightly above me.

“Did, uh…” Xanthos started shyly beside me. “Did Thaddeus do something to upset you? I could talk to him if you wish. He’s a rough fellow, but he didn’t mean to—”

“No. No, of course not. He did nothing wrong. It wasn’t… it wasn’t his fault.”

Xanthos remained silent. He didn't press me to speak further, to explain; still, I felt like I had to.

I took another deep breath, this time to ease the words out of me. I had never spoken about my nightmares to anyone but Achilles. Without him by my side, it felt like every memory, every image from my past was a stone, slowly grinding me to meal. The last thing I wanted was to dig them up again, but the need to share the burden, if only for a moment, was what urged my tongue to weave the words.

“There was a boy, once,” I started quietly. “When I was younger. We fought over… over a pair of dice. I pushed him. He fell and broke his head.” My fingers tightened so much about the railing, that my knuckles had gone white, the wood digging into my flesh. “I killed him.”

Xanthos did not speak then, but I could sense no judgement or horror in his silence. Only patience. His very presence there gave me heart, and I continued. “I did not mean to. It was an accident. Yet every time I see dice… they just remind me of him.” I glanced up at him, fearing what I would see in his eyes, but there was only understanding.

“How old were you?” he asked softly.

“Ten.”

He let out a slow breath. “To have seen something like this, so young…” He shook his head, and his eyes glinted oddly in the night, reflecting the light of the waxing moon above us. “I am sorry you’ve had to live with this burden all those years, Patroclus.”

The sympathy in his voice made a wave of bitterness rise within me. I swallowed thickly, but the knot in my throat remained. “At least I got to live,” I said quietly. “That boy didn’t have that chance.”

I had never admitted those thoughts to anyone, not even to Achilles. I wished to stop my tongue from forming the words, to think of anything else, anything at all, but could not. “Sometimes,” I whispered, “I try to imagine what might have happened to that boy, had I not pushed him. How his life would have been, if I hadn’t been in it. He would have been at marrying age now. He might even have had children. He would have inherited his father’s titles, his lands… He would have been a man, in his own right. But he got to live none of that. Because… because of a pair of dice.”

My eyes burned as I spoke. I rubbed them stubbornly, determined to not shed any tears. I did not want Xanthos to think less of me.

Xanthos kept his silence for a long while. When he finally spoke, his voice was gentle, mingling with the sighing of the crisp sea breeze. “The night before I boarded my first ship,” he said, “I was terrified. The priests of Apollo had spoken of a terrible storm that was to come, the worst we had seen in ages. They’d seen it in the blood of a lamb they’d sacrificed, on Apollo’s holy day. I did not want to go. I sat on my bed while the wind blew outside and shook with fear. My father came in and saw me. He told me something then. It stuck with me.”

“What was it?” I asked.

“He said… 'A man whose fate it is to die in a fire, will never die in a storm'.” At my confused glance, he laughed softly. “What my father meant was, every one of us has a path in life. The moment we come into this world, the three Fates spin their threads and decide what is to come. If my destiny was to die in a sea storm, even if I stayed on land and herded sheep all my life, the storm would eventually find me. ‘Meet your fate proudly, boy,’ my father told me that night, ‘because you cannot escape it.’ ” He turned to look at me, his dark, almond shaped eyes meeting mine squarely. “You have your path. So did this boy.”

“But…” My old pains and fears rose to the surface, the dreams that had haunted me for most of my life. I struggled to find a justification for it, for what had happened to me, for what I’d done, something that would make it all make sense. I could not.

“It is cruel,” I whispered. “Is it not?”

“It is life, Patroclus.”

His hand on the railing was so close to mine, I could almost feel the heat emanating from his skin. I thought of his words, turned them this way and that in my mind. I had my path. So did Clysonymus. It did not change what I  had done, his life had still ended too soon. His death was still my fault. Yet if I had not pushed him…

I would never have left Opus. I would not have gone to Phthia. I might never have met Achilles. I would never have known him, followed him, loved him. My life, as I knew it, would only be a shadow of what it was, what it could have been. It was still cruel, but it was my life. My path, the one the Fates had carved for me.

The Fates had never been kind, nor fair. But they were absolute. Inexorable.

My hand crossed the distance between us to land gently beside Xanthos’. The waves splashed against the ship’s belly, and the night owls at the shore cooed. We stayed silent, side by side, watching the night stretch endlessly before us.

The following evening, when I went to the ship’s galley for my dinner, none of the sailors were playing dice. It didn’t take long for me to notice that it was Thaddeus’ wrist that Xanthos’ bracelet was gracing now. When I glanced at him, the unspoken question lingering in my gaze, he only smiled and winked.

“Fate,” he jested cryptically, and took a large sip of his wine.

I didn’t see another die being thrown for the remainder of the days I stayed on the ship.

~

The day that the rolling hills of Skyros came into view arrived much slower, and much faster than I’d expected. The bay that we pulled up on shimmered golden in the early morning light. I could just make out the last of the Pleiades disappearing into the rosy fire of dawn when the ship was pulled to harbour. I leaned against the railing, my bag with my handful of belongings hanging by my shoulder, my heart beating in my throat. Somewhere on that island, perhaps in that palace atop the hill, Achilles was waiting for me.

Xanthos was by my side when the ship’s ropes were tied to the old and worn out palisades of the long and narrow wharf. I had thought he would go straight to his bed after his shift had ended, to get what little sleep he could before they would be setting off again, but he walked down with me, then followed me to the beach, where the wharf ended.

We gazed at each other for a long moment, standing ankle deep in crystal clear water. I found myself tracing the lines of his features, the slope of his nose, his strong eyebrows, his heart-shaped mouth. His eyes were kind and warm as ever, but there was something else hiding in their depths. During those heartbeats that we looked at each other I noticed everything, even things I had never paid much attention to before, as if I was trying to commit his features to memory, keep them safe with me.

“So,” he said softly, “it is time.”

I nodded. “It is.”

I expected him to leave then, to climb back up to the ship and sail to his own destiny. But he stayed there, gazing at me.

“We’ll be going back to Euboea now. To Kymi.”

“I know. The captain told me.” I smiled when I said, “And then you’ll be setting off for the Eastern ports, right?”

His lips widened in a smile that mirrored my own, but it was not quite as bright and effortless as I was used to. It was almost timid. He shifted on his feet, cleared his throat. “It won’t be for very long. Three, perhaps four months. And then we’ll be back.” A light, barely perceptible flush crept up his cheeks as he said, “I was hoping perhaps… I could see you. When I come back.”

I blinked, taken aback. I wasn’t rightly sure how long I’d be staying in Skyros, whether I would be going back to Phthia next. In my heart of hearts, I wished to find Achilles and leave with him straight away, return to Pelion, where Chiron was waiting for us. Yet all of my hopes seemed uncertain and hazy, like trying to grasp at shifting sand. Three, four months… I did not know if there was any way for me to plan that far ahead. Gods, I didn’t even know if Achilles was still where I’d been told he would be.

My stomach tightened as I told him earnestly, “I… I’m not sure where I’ll be in four months, Xanthos.”

“I know,” he said hastily. “I know that it’s all uncertain now. But… You could wait for me here. I could come back for you. And then we could leave together.”

"Leave?" I frowned a little as he spoke, my confusion increasing by the second. “Where would we go?”

“Anywhere. Anywhere at all. We could return to Phthia together, or… or anywhere else you like. Go to the mountains, perhaps. You like the mountains. Right?” His flush brightened, and his eyes flashed with something that I couldn’t quite decipher. Something akin to hope. “After my trip to the East, I think I’ll have enough gold to build a home. A small one. Like... like the one you told me about. With a garden out front…” He let his words trail away, searching my face. His throat bobbed when he swallowed. “We… could stay there. You and I.”

I froze when I finally caught on his meaning. He wanted me to… to go with him. To build a life with him. To be with him. To… love him.

I took a breath, preparing myself for the blow I was about to deliver. “I’m sorry, Xanthos. I… could not.”

I saw the joy and hope that had been there a moment before drain from his features. I saw his smile quiver, and his shoulders slouch. “Oh.”

“It’s not—” I started, then stopped myself. My fists opened and closed by my side, helpless. “I can’t give you what you want,” I said quietly. “This person I’ve come here to find… He’s everything to me. He’s…” I paused, looking about me. My mind worked furiously as I searched for words that wouldn’t hurt him anymore than they had to.

Xanthos spoke the words for me.

“Your fated one,” he said softly. He gave me a wan smile, his eyes kind and earnest as they met mine, but I could still see the hurt I’d wrought there. “I understand.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” The sun was rising slowly over the mountains in the East, painting his sun-bronzed features golden and bright.

“Pepromenon fyghein adynaton,” he said. Fate is inescapable.

I nodded slowly, not knowing what else to say. He reached out and tentatively placed his hand on my shoulder. “I wish you all the best, Patroclus.”

“So do I.” I met his gaze, looking deep into his warm, honey brown eyes. “Thank you, Xanthos. For everything.”

His fingers squeezed my shoulder gently, feather-light, before he turned to leave.

I stayed there for a long while, at the water's edge, watching as the ship slowly rowed away. When its sails were nothing but a white speck on the golden horizon, I turned around.

Somewhere on that island, in the palace atop that hill, my fate was waiting for me.

[starryknight09]

The worst demon to bear

Soooo on a whim I decided to do Febuwhump this year.  Surprise! 😝

Febuwhump Day 1: mind control

Summary:  Peter always thought of mind control as something that only happened in movies. He should've known better, especially after all the craziness he'd already seen. After it happens to him, he has to learn to live with the consequences.

Read on AO3.

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The sun sank down across the horizon sending out splashes of orange and red across the sky.  Peter couldn’t appreciate the beauty of it.  All he saw was another day fading away and darkness on the verge of encompassing everything.  Not that it mattered.  Even in the light of day, nothing seemed any brighter.  Ever since what had happened a week ago, everything had lost its gleam.  He knew everyone was worried about him, but he there wasn’t anything he could do about it.  They’d all forgiven him.  May.  Mr. Stark.  The Avengers.  But he couldn’t forgive himself.

He’d killed people.  Innocent people.  So he didn’t deserve their forgiveness, no matter what anyone tried to say to convince him otherwise.

Just because he’d been taken over and mind controlled by some black alien ooze, it didn’t give him a free pass for what he’d done under its influence.  He’d only been in its clutches for a week, but that had been more than enough time to do some serious damage to the citizens of New York and Spiderman’s reputation.  The Avengers had held a press conference and announced that it had been a copycat, and not Spiderman himself, who had committed the crimes, but not everyone seemed convinced yet.  And Peter knew the truth.  It had been him.  But it’d been Venom at the same time.

Luckily, Mr. Stark had caught on quickly enough, and they’d all ganged up on him to take him in, because he definitely hadn’t gone willingly.  But once they’d captured him, it hadn’t taken them too long to figure out the source of the problem and free him from its control.

He’d never forget the mixture of horror and absolute relief on Mr. Stark’s face when the black sludge had finally oozed out of him.  Once it was gone, his mentor hadn’t treated him any differently than before, and it’d thrown Peter for a loop.  Because he thought Mr. Stark should be disgusted and horrified by what he’d done, not still looking at him like some kind of proud dad.  He shouldn’t want to have anything to do with him anymore.  He should never want to speak to him again.  But that’s not what happened.

Peter couldn’t handle everyone acting the same around him so he’d left the compound as soon as he could, like a dog with its tail between its legs, back to his apartment in Queens with May.  Since he’d gotten back a few days ago, he’d refused to answer any texts or phone calls from Mr. Stark or any of the other Avengers.  If they wouldn’t do the right thing and ignore him, then he’d just have to do their job for them.  He didn’t deserve their forgiveness or their friendship anymore.  And he didn’t deserve to be Spiderman.  He hadn’t so much as touched the suit.  He hadn’t even taken it with him when he’d left the compound, even though he’d healed up fine.  A concussion from the battle, when Steve had landed a lucky strike while the Avengers had been fighting him, and ruptured ear drums from the sound waves when Bruce had finally cracked what they needed to do to get the alien creature to leave his body.

He was almost angry with how quickly he’d healed.  His soul churned with agony, but physically, he remained unharmed.  Outwardly no one could tell that he hurt so bad he didn’t know how he could keep on breathing.  How he could keep on living.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if he couldn’t remember it.  If Venom had just taken him over and he’d left the building.  But he’d been there.  He hadn’t had any control over his body, but he’d watched himself do despicable things.  Take lives.  Something he’d always promised he’d never ever do.  No matter what.  He didn’t know how to live with himself now.

He wasn’t even sure if he deserved to live.  He swung his legs back and forth over the ledge of the building where he was perched.  His webshooters rested in a box under his bed, so if he somehow slipped and fell, he’d plummet the entire forty stories to the ground.  Not even Spiderman could walk away from that.  The idea of jumping, barely a fleeting thought, entered his mind as quickly as it left, leaving a burst of adrenaline behind.  No matter how much he might deserve it, he couldn’t jump.  He could never do that to May.  No, he’d spend the rest of his life suffering instead.

He blamed his dark thoughts for distracting him so he didn’t hear the characteristic hum of thrusters until it was too late and Ironman landed with a clang behind him.  He closed his eyes in resignation.  He should’ve known Mr. Stark wouldn’t let Peter ignore him for long.

“Nice view.” Mr. Stark remarked, and even though Peter’s back was to him, he could tell the man had removed his helmet because his voice didn’t come out tinny.

Peter stayed silent.  Dealing with Mr. Stark was the last thing he felt like doing.  He just didn’t have the energy.  Ever since he’d been freed from Venom, he’d barely slept and even when he had, he’d been awoken my nightmares.  Memories.

Mr. Stark let out a small hum at the snub and Peter registered the barely audible buzzing as the nanotech retracted back into its casing.

“Talkative tonight, huh?” Mr. Stark said, this time from right behind him.

He still said nothing.

Mr. Stark sniffed, and in the next moment, hauled himself up on the ledge to sit next to him.  Peter tensed imperceptibly, having to remind himself that even though Mr. Stark wasn’t wearing the armor, he’d have enough time to engage it and save himself even he accidentally slipped.  But knowing it, and believing it, seemed like two separate things.  Peter had been hyperaware of Mr. Stark and his safety for the past six months, ever since the man had barely survived the snap.  That he had survived at all was thanks entirely to Dr. Strange’s quick teleporting and Shuri’s skills with Wakanda’s state of the art medical advancements.

“May called me.” Mr. Stark said after a long minute of silence had passed.  “She’s worried about you.”

Peter kept staring straight ahead, face blank, not acknowledging the statement.

Mr. Stark sighed.  “I’m worried about you.”

He tightened his jaw.  He didn’t understand what they wanted from him.  To act like none of this had happened?  To go right back to living his normal life and acting like his normal bubbly self?  Well, they were going to be disappointed.

“Kid, talk to me.” It came out like a plea.  He’d never heard Mr. Stark use that tone before.  His brow furrowed almost indiscernibly, not liking that he’d made his mentor sound like that.

“Pete.” Mr. Stark tried again, but Peter was nothing if not stubborn.  There was nothing to talk about anyway.

Mr. Stark let out another heavy sigh, and Peter could sense his frustration.

“Listen, I know I can’t say I know what it feels like, because I don’t.  But kid, none of what happened was your fault.”

Peter flicked his eyes over to the man with a disbelieving frown.  Of course it was his fault.

Mr. Stark gave him a self-satisfied smirk at having finally broken his stony indifference.  Peter kind of wanted to hit him but he settled for a glare instead.

“I know.  I know.” Mr. Stark continued.  “You don’t believe me.  It’s all your fault.  You should’ve done better.  Should’ve never let that alien psycho sludge thing take over you.  You should’ve been able to fight it off.  Blah blah blah.”

His anger flared as his mentor made light of some of the very thoughts that’d been buzzing through his mind. He couldn’t stop himself.  His mouth opened unwittingly and he grit out, “You seem to get it, so I don’t know why you’re even here.”

“Ah there he is.” Mr. Stark smiled.

Peter rolled his eyes and tried to go back to ignoring the man, staring straight ahead as he stewed over the fact that he’d broken his silence.

“Peter.” Mr. Stark said, using his full name, which he almost never did.  “Look at me.”

Peter glanced over at him.  Even after everything he’d been through, after how much he’d grown up and matured, he still couldn’t ignore a direct order from the man.  He wondered if that’d ever change.  Mr. Stark turned and gripped each of his shoulders to make Peter face him head on.

“What happened was terrible.  I know.  But it wasn’t your fault.” Mr. Stark shook him slightly to exaggerate his words.  “Nothing you did while under control of that thing was your fault.”

Peter scoffed and tried to twist away but Mr. Stark wouldn’t let him, his grip tightening.  No matter what the man said, it sure felt like his fault.  He’d witnessed everything, felt every movement the creature had made using his body.  But he hadn’t been strong enough to break free, and people had died because of that.

“It wasn’t.” Mr. Stark said sharply as if he could read Peter’s mind.  “You need to forgive yourself.”

A lump settled in his throat as he shook his head.

Mr. Stark sighed and his thumbs moved back and forth over his shoulders.  “If it was me, if Venom had made me do those things, would you think it was my fault?”

He froze and contemplated it for a minute before begrudgingly shaking his head.

“Would you forgive me?” Mr. Stark asked.

“Of course.” He mumbled.

“Then why can’t you forgive yourself?”

“If it had been you, would you be able to forgive yourself?” He countered.

“Yes.” Mr. Stark answered surprisingly fast.  Peter blinked, shocked.  He honestly hadn’t expected that answer, and it didn’t seem like the man was lying.

Mr. Stark gave him a soft smile as he explained, “Because I’d have to.  To move on.  To keep living.”  

Peter frowned as he considered the words.

Mr. Stark continued, “I’ve had to forgive myself for a lot of things over the years Pete.  Probably a lot of things I didn’t deserve forgiveness for.  But I had to.  Because if I didn’t…  Well, all I can say is, it’s hard to hold on to all that self-hatred.  And it doesn’t do anyone any good in the end.  Least of all yourself.”

Tears welled up in his eyes.  He knew Mr. Stark was right.  He didn’t want to carry these feelings of guilt and self-hate around forever, but he didn’t know how to stop.

“Come here.” Mr. Stark tugged him forward into a hug and Peter didn’t resist.  The comfort of the embrace unleashed the dam on his emotions.  He couldn’t help it.  He started crying.

“You’re such an amazing kid.” Mr. Stark said into his hair, holding him tighter when he started crying.  “And none of this was your fault, so you need to forgive yourself so you can move on.”

“I don’t know how.” He croaked.  He didn’t.  After talking to Mr. Stark, he wanted to, but he didn’t have any idea how to start.  All the hatred and anger he felt toward himself was like a gaping pit of darkness seeded inside.  He couldn’t just magically will it away.

“I’ll help you.  Ok?” Mr. Stark answered.  The man always had an answer for everything.

Peter sniffled but nodded in the embrace.

“It’s going to be ok kid.” Mr. Stark pressed a quick kiss into his hair.  “I promise.  It’s going to be ok.”

And for the first time in over a week, Peter let himself believe it.

[yconic]

Can you do “We went to school together but haven’t seen each other in a long time and wow have you gotten tall.” With stony pls?

Sure!! Sorry this took so long lol, things were hectic. Hope this is what you looked for :>

∆∆∆

"Tall. Beard. Tall. Handsome. Tall. Cute. "

"Tony, " Rhodey had that barely restrain amusement clinging to his tone, the familiar note he had whenever Tony was being his trademark ridiculous self and he was getting a great kick out of it, but Tony was too preoccupied with oogling Steve to care. "Either kiss the poor guy or let him go."

Naturally, Tony's supposedly genius mind chooses to glitch at the moment he intended to dish a smartass quip or witty one liner, all he give is a small, high pitched "Huh? "

Rhodey holds back a laugh, but the way he bites the inside of his cheek gives him away. "You've been holding Steve's face for like 10 minutes now."

Huh. It's true, Tony realizes, as if he can only now see the pair of warm blue eyes looking down at him, shadowed with a fondness that makes his heart stop for a good second. His hands are cupping Steve's grinning face, and tries not to blush at how Steve nuzzled into his palm, not at all inadequated by the predicament he's in. "I'm good here, actually."

"This is hard to watch, " the scary shadow with the name of Bucky comments from Steve's side, eyeing Sam's back frame from his spot at the bar (Because Tony went through enough bullshit in high school, the least this reunion could amend for him is to be held in a bar)

Tony doesn't think anyone has the right to judge or blame him. This is Steve, the same little spitfire with heroic streak miles wide from the North pole that could barely touch shoulders with him in their youth. With Tony, who, although sulkily, knows was the shortest in his class.

Who, now, was smiling brightly down at him with a small but prominent blush dusting his fair features. Tony pouted, not missing the way Steve tracked the movement. "God. Did they give you Popeye's canned spinach in the army, or something? Who let you be this tall?"

Steve's eyebrow quirks upwards, in synch with his lips. "Well, who let you be this pretty?"

Twin groans of disgust leave Rhodey and Bucky at once, both of course painfully unimpressed by their spectacle. Tony will deny it for the rest of his life even with the photographic evidence Rhodey most likely took, that he did not, in fact, flushed in pleasure at that compliment.

"Wow, " he mutters, clearing his throat so the break in his words is less noticeable, asaa last-minute attempt to dignify himself. "Well, it's a good thing the boldness remained intact. I always did say it'll get you in trouble, but it was also my favorite thing about you, so I can't really complain."

But Steve always had a more timid side to him, one that Tony loved as well, something very gracious and modest only men with old souls have, and he could still spot it now by how Steve ducked his head then as it did years ago. His younger self shined through his actions and it was more than endearing.

"Well, didn't do me much good back then after all, when I... There's really no nice way of phrasing this, when I left you on Prom, " Steve winced, eyes soft and apologetic. "Still sorry about that, by the way. "

"It was a dick move, " Bucky nodded. "Natasha beat his ass for it, if it's any consolation."

Tony sighed in the inside, anticipating this moment. He would've been more affected, probably, if that hadn't been the precise motivation that lead to him attending the event. He never had the chance to question Steve's change of heart as he enlisted as soon as he could, without as much as a peek back and no word of goodbye for Tony.

It had hurt terribly, back then, when he was young and deadset on letting the anger stew in him, but as the years stacked on top of each other he learned to move on, and the little grudge he held for his high school sweetheart turned into a curiosity, declining from a stab of pain to a subdued aching.

His feelings for Steve remained as strong as they were since the blonde asked him on their first date, which, he realized was more than pitiful, still harboring emotions for something as little as High School romance, for someone who most likely moved on.

But he needed to know, even when knowing it wouldn't do much to squash the crush that gradually blossomed into something... More. On his part, at least.

Tony forced a smile on his lips and shrugged, taking his hands back so he could play with the warm amber of his whiskey glass, promptly ignoring the saddened shade taking home in Steve's look. "No hard feelings, Captain Crunch. If I wasn't trapped in this objectively hot body, I'd ditch myself too."

The air felt heavier somehow, an imaginary weight falling over them, even with the faux chipper in Tony's joke. Rhodey must have taken notice because he grabbed Bucky's arm, excusing them to the bathroom. Not before he looked directly at Steve and did a slit motion across his throat using his thumb, making Tony snort.

Quietly, Steve took the smaller man's hands into his own, lacing their fingers together. Tony gasped slightly at the tender gesture, but didn't pull back or encouraged Steve to let him go. Steve took that as permission to go on.

"First of all, " Steve's voice took that firm edge it possessed back then, even with his weak lungs that gasped for breath after every P.E. class he was determined to attend because he refused to be left out. " don't talk about yourself that way. You know how much I hate it. Second of all, if I could punch my old self for making you think I wanted to ditch you, I would."

"He'd probably die because he would not hesitate to fight you, " a small smile graced Tony's lips, feeling more real than he felt comfortable with. "Can I just... Ask why? I mean, you don't owe me an explanation or anything, we were kids, it's not that big of a deal, but I mean... If I did something, I'd like to at least know.''

Steve sighed, his own smile sad and barely there. "Would you believe me if said I didn't show up because I couldn't fit into my Pa's suit?"

Tony giggled. '' You're still shit at lying. Steve, " his own tone softened slightly, squeezing Steve's large hands, rough skinned with callouses, but still comforting. "Just tell me."

"... I didn't wanna embarrass ya, " the confession left Tony flabbergasted. Blinking slowly, as if he just mishear something. His words failed him, but nodded, processing, giving Steve the Que. "Tony, you just... Ya were a big shot, you know? You were handsome, rich, smart, popular, everything everyone wanted to be.

Everyone had their eyes on you, your father, the school, the media. It was bad enough you were dating a guy, but being taken to prom by one who looked like me back then? It would've, it just, - it would've been humiliating. I couldn't do that to you. Not only was I a riff raff, I was too skinny, I was ugly, I was, -"

"You stop that right the hell now, Steven, " Tony growled, sharply, so sharp it made Steve shut his mouth with an audible click. "There wasn't and isn't even one ugly thing about you, do you understand me? Riff raff- Steve you had a job since you were 15! You helped paying bills even if you shouldn't have, because you wanted to help your parents. What's embarrassing about that? Do you really think I give a fuck about how much money you made?"

"Tony, - I've seen the people you dated after we graduated , " Steve sounded wounded as he said it. Tony wanted to kiss all his pain away as his life depended on it. "I could've never compete with that, - Hell, for some, I still couldn't compete. I was less than dust put next to them. "

"I didn't care!" He might have been a bit loud, because some heads were turned, yet quickly retreated after the death glare they received from the angry brunette.

"Steve. I liked you because you gave your food to the homeless in every lunch period, because you volunteered at canteens with your mom and because you kept on drawing me every day for 4 years. Because you were outspoken, and funny, and kind, and cared so much about other people. Because you treated me so damn well. These people that you mentioned, they didn't treat me half as good as you did. I didn't give a shit what the world had to say about it. Between the world and you, I pick you. I'll always pick you."

Steve listened. Steve nodded. And Steve cried. One trembling hand wiped at wet eyes, and Tony resisted the urge to take his hand back and press comforting pecks on it.

Inhaling and exhaling, Steve got a grip on himself, wet laugh puffing out. It made Tony's chest hurt. "God, I was such a fucking idiot, huh? I, - I knew you wouldn't care, I knew, but I still went ahead and - God, I'm so sorry sweetheart. " Laughter deeming, a pinched but guilty expression taking its place. " I... I at least hope Hammer treated you half right. It's more than I ever did, -"

"Wait wait wait. Wait. Back it up a bit, - Hammer? As in, Justin Hammer? Why would he have anything to do with this?" At Steve's blank expression, the wheels in Tony's head sped up, allowing him to connect the dots. "Steve... You know I never went to prom, right?"

Steve paused. "What?"

"I never went to prom. And even if I did, Hammer would be the last reject I'd pick from the toolbox. He tried, sure, but I told him the same thing I said to Howard. 'I'm going to Steve, or I'm not going at all. ' "

"But, - But, Hanmer told everyone that he took you to prom, that, - " Steve stopped mid-sentence, face wooden as if he only now got a very simple epiphany. He facepalmed. Hard. Tony was concerned he'd get brain damage. "I'll let Natasha shoot me. It should be illegal to be this dumb."

"Not dumb. Just taking your own pace, " Tony chuckled. "So... All this time, you didn't contact me because you thought I was with Hammer? " His nose wrinkled in disgust just thinking about it, an expression Steve mirrored.

"No. I was just? Too chickenshit to face you, after everything. Honestly, I thought you hated my guts, which, who could blame you, but... I couldn't have handled that. So I stayed away." A self-deprecating snort accompanied a shake of head. "Guess all these extra inches are wasted, huh?"

Tony thinks about Steve, with his frail fists drenched in blood from split knuckles, fighting back against bullies who thought they could walk all over him or others, with his loud voice battling ignorant, hateful ideas, against big foes and bigger, and he says: "You were tall back then, too."

Steve stares and says nothing for a prolonged moment, content to look at Tony as if he's falling in love all over again. It makes Tony hopeful, fills him with something warm he didn't think he'd want to indulge again.

He's building up nerve, Tony can see that much, and right when he thinks he'd lose it, that they'd part again, Steve pulled him against his chest and pressed light kisses on top of Tony's head. It felt like pieces of love. "We're going to go on a date, " Steve murmured, voice hoarse. " and I'm going to give you the night I should've given you years ago. I'll give you the fairy tale, baby."

Tony smiles in the chest, nose taking in the scent he missed so much, listens to the heartbeat whose pattern he could still remember, still knows as well as his mind. " You get the story. Leave the happy ending to me."

The kiss they shared was shy, and timid, and felt too young, but it was just right for them.

[dont-tempt-me-frodo]

Overindulging

Also available to read on ao3 

For the first time in a long time, Jaskier wasn’t completely bereft of coin. ‘Toss A Coin To Your Witcher’ had proved very popular with the masses and in the months that followed after writing it, the pouch he kept on his belt jingled merrily with every step.

It was why, when they stopped in Novigrad to discuss a contract with a merchant, he got a little excited in the market and decided to indulge in something sweet. Geralt had rolled his eyes at him as he popped brown paper bag after brown paper bag into his satchel and fixed him with a look that Jaskier was quickly learning to decipher as ‘I don’t understand you and we need to move this along before I let out an annoyed grunt.’

Jaskier joined him again, grin lighting up his face as they wove their way through the busy town square towards the tavern they were to spend the night in.

“Why waste your coin?” Geralt grumbled as he spotted Jaskier patting his satchel.

“Because dear Witcher,” the bard hummed, “I’m allowed to treat myself to nice things, things that I want. With coin that I earned, might I add, so there comes a feeling of satisfaction with the purchase. Spending isn’t wasteful if it makes me happy.”

“Hm.”

“Why shouldn’t I enjoy the things I like? It’s been too long since I’ve had chocolates and cakes and other sugary delights. Not that your rabbit stew isn’t lovely and all, but I’m allowed to indulge a little in finer things. You can’t tell me you’ve never bought something just because you want it?”

“Hm.”

The tone of this ‘hm’ was subtly different than the last and Jaskier was starting to get good at picking them apart.

“Really? Never? Not even a sneaky sweet? Have you even had chocolate and the like before?”

“No,” the Witcher grunted, “If it isn’t essential to my survival, I’d rather save the coin.”

“Brothels are the exception,” Jaskier smirked at the glare in Geralt’s amber eyes, “No, no, I get it. We all have needs.”

Geralt’s jaw twitched and Jaskier had to bite back a laugh as they entered the tavern.

They were met by a wall of heat, the scent of ale and sweat heavy in the air. The buzz of chatter was loud and Geralt pulled a face at the onslaught to his senses.

As Geralt marched over to an empty table in the corner, Jaskier sidled up to the bar to discuss a warm meal and rooms for the night with the barkeep.

The Witcher found that Jaskier was much more successful in this endeavour than he had ever been, and it was easier to leave the young man to it.

Since Posada, he had begrudgingly allowed Jaskier to travel with him with the agreement that when they reached Oxenfurt, they’d part ways. Geralt had tried to dissuade the bard from his company many times but Jaskier was stubborn, and for some reason unknown to him, had stuck around.

He had to admit, having Jaskier by his side did have its benefits.

For one, negotiations for contracts went smoother and he was paid better for his work. The bard, even only eighteen years old, exuded this charismatic charm that seemed to make people feel guilty for short-changing or trying to cheat the Witcher. Those who still tried were met with Jaskier’s sharp words and indignant anger and often the threat of a rude song being composed about them.

For another, there was the whole tavern and inn situation. On his own, Geralt would be extremely lucky to get a room anywhere, often having to camp under the stars, which he didn’t really mind, but there were times when a roof over his head was definitely preferable. Since meeting Jaskier, they were rarely turned away as long as Jaskier promised the Witcher’s best behaviour and a set or two to entertain the patrons.

Then there was the song, and the other ballads Jaskier had started composing about his daring deeds. Geralt couldn’t deny that the general attitude towards himself had improved ever so slightly, and Jaskier assured him that the more songs he put out into the world, the more the fame of the White Wolf spread, the easier things would become.

It almost made the endless talking and impromptu lute playing and complaining about sore feet, the cold, the heat, being hungry, being tired, worth it. Almost.

Jaskier joined him at the table with two frothing ales and a coy smile.

“Plates of stew on their way, and two rooms. Fought hard for them too. Stingy bastard was only willing to give us one room to start with,” he perched on the chair opposite Geralt and took a deep drink from his tankard.

Geralt shrugged, “One room doesn’t bother me.”

A strange look crossed Jaskier face but it was gone before Geralt had the chance for it to fully register.

“Meh, I thought you’d prefer having the bed to yourself seeing as how I apparently steal all the sheets,” there was an air of nonchalance about Jaskier’s tone.

“You do,” Geralt narrowed his eyes at him.

“Do not,” Jaskier retorted, then after a beat, mumbled, “Not my fault if I’m cold.”

“Hm.”

“Riveting as this conversation is, as always with you Witcher, I agreed to play a few songs before our food is brought over.”

“Singing for your supper?” Geralt grunted, a hint of amusement in his expression.

“Yes, yes, alright,” Jaskier scowled at him.

He pulled his lute case onto the table and then lifted the instrument out to make sure it was in tune.

The first thing Jaskier had done with the first coin he had earned was to buy a protective travel case for the lute Filavandrel had gifted him. Even with his youthful clumsiness and brash impulses, Jaskier took very good care of his instrument. Perhaps even more so than Geralt did his blades. The Witcher couldn’t help but admire the bard for it.

Jaskier settled back in the chair a moment, scanning the tavern to pick out a good spot for a performance then inhaled sharply as a thought struck him.

He took out the brown paper bags he had slid into his satchel and arranged them on the table in front of him, peering into each one until he found what he was looking for. He popped a delicate looking chocolate truffle into his mouth and hummed in contentment, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

Geralt arched a brow at him and Jaskier tilted his head slightly.

“Want one?” he asked, offering the bag to Geralt.

The Witcher could smell the thick, rich sweetness wafting from the bag and sighed. Jaskier smiled in delight as Geralt took one and shoved it in his mouth. His jaw almost dropped, and his eyes blew wide. He chewed enthusiastically and swallowed.

“Good?” the bard grinned.

Geralt nodded, his pupils still dilated.

“By all means, have another,” Jaskier hummed as he stood and practically skipped between the chairs and tables to take up a position in front of the crackling hearth.

He shook himself, trying to dislodge the knot of nerves that had settled in his gut, and beamed at the patrons, none of whom were really paying him any attention.

“Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen,” he lilted, “My name is Jaskier and I will be playing for you throughout the next few hours.”

There were a few eyes on him now and he darted his tongue across his lower lip.

With a strum of his lute, he launched into ‘Toss A Coin,’ and felt himself relax a little in the familiarity and safety of the music. A ripple of recognition crossed many of the faces watching him with a new intrigue.

Jaskier still couldn’t believe how quickly this song had spread and when he hit the chorus a few of the patrons joined in. A giddy feeling rushed through him.

He let himself get lost in the moment and when he finished with a flourish, the round of applause that followed had him beaming.

“Thank you,” he chirped.

Filled with confidence, he went into a ballad he had recently composed about Geralt taking on a wraith that had been haunting an orchard. He was still fine tuning it, but by the reactions of the crowd, he was getting close.

He took a few requests after that, and after over an hour of playing, he announced he was taking a break but would be back soon. This was met with a mixture of cheers and protests and he made his way back to Geralt, vibrating with the adrenaline that came with performing.

Jaskier knew something was wrong the second he approached the table. Geralt was hunched over in his chair and the plate of steaming stew in front of him lay untouched. Then Jaskier noticed the brown paper bags. The very clearly empty brown paper bags.

He bit his lip and gingerly sat opposite the Witcher.

Geralt looked very sick. He was slightly grey, and he was clutching his stomach.

“Oh Geralt. Please tell me you didn’t-” Jaskier felt his chest ache at the miserable expression on the Witcher’s face.

“M’sorry,” Geralt mumbled.

“You ate all of it? Everything I bought?” Jaskier would be annoyed if it weren’t for the pitiful groan that escaped from the Witcher.

Jaskier thumbed his temples, forcing away the bubble of laughter that rose with how ridiculous this situation was.

“I don’t feel so good,” Geralt whined. He whined, and Jaskier felt his heart melt.

“I’m not surprised,” the bard sighed, trying to decide the best course of action.

He wanted to eat, to fill his stomach with warm stew and then get back up and continue his set, but Geralt needed him right now. The Witcher’s distress was blinding and Jaskier swallowed down his petty selfishness, deciding that Geralt was being punished enough for his lack of self-control. Not a phrase he thought he’d ever associate with the white-haired man.

“Come on, let’s get you to your room and settle you down,” Jaskier rose again, bringing his lute with him as he placed a hand on Geralt’s shoulder.

The Witcher slowly got up on unsteady legs and Jaskier looped an arm around his shoulders to keep him upright. The bard led him up the stairs and guided him into a small room, whispering quiet words of reassurance as he did so.

The pallet bed with its straw mattress crowded the left wall and a washstand with a basin inhabited the right corner.

Jaskier lowered Geralt onto the bed. The Witcher gurned, paling a shade greyer, and watched with dull eyes as Jaskier hovered awkwardly.

“Jaskier… I think… I think I’m dying,” Geralt groaned through a spasm of pain.

“You’re not dying. It’s just stomach-ache. You’re going to be fine,” Jaskier fidgeted with his fingers, “Has this never happened to you before?”

“No. Don’t like it. When will it go away?” the Witcher grunted.

“You should just be able to sleep it off. With your Witchery metabolism, you should feel better in no time,” Jaskier chewed his cheek as Geralt lay back, hands splayed over his extended stomach.

Jaskier knew what he was supposed to do, he just didn’t know if he should, if it would be welcomed, if he was crossing some sort of boundary. He’d known Geralt for a few months. He didn’t think that giving his new friend a stomach rub for overindulging was quite acceptable yet.

Geralt closed his eyes, his breath coming in sharp huffs and Jaskier perched cautiously on the edge of the bed.

“Geralt,” he said timidly, “Do you want me to…to help?”

“Is there something you can do?” Geralt’s eyes snapped open, wide and imploring.

Jaskier gave a shy nod.

If it weren’t for the tight ache in his guts, Geralt would have pondered the unusual reservedness of his young bard companion. But another wave of nausea crashed over him and he grunted out a “Please,” instead.

Jaskier swallowed thickly and very gently, rested his hand on Geralt’s firm stomach. As he started to massage soothing circles, the fabric of Geralt’s shirt bunching under his fingers, the Witcher let out a shaky sigh and pressed his head back into the pillow.

“Feels nice. Thanks,” Geralt muttered as he closed his eyes again.

Jaskier’s heart leaped into his throat at the trust the Witcher was placing in him. He knew this relationship he was trying to build with Geralt was very one-sided. He wasn’t an idiot. But this moment right here, as Jaskier rubbed Geralt’s aching stomach, it sent curls of warmth through him.

He let the tension in his shoulders release when he realised that the Witcher had fallen asleep and pulled his hand back into his lap.

A strange emotion sparked in his chest as he looked at Geralt and he forced it away.

Don’t do it Jaskier, he told himself, don’t fall for him. That is a dangerous path to heartbreak. But he couldn’t help the shiver of emotion that thrilled through him when Geralt sighed softly, looking so peaceful and utterly beautiful.

Jaskier pushed himself up from the bed and reached for the door, glancing one last time at Geralt before leaving the small room.

He paused in the hallway, listening to the muted sounds of the tavern below, trying to let it drown out the rapid pattering of his heart.

They were friends. Not even friends. Geralt didn’t have friends. He’d told Jaskier often enough in the past few months.

But he knew now. That would never be enough. And all Jaskier could do was hope.

[padawanlost]

Do you think anakin might be narcissistic or might have narcissistic traits?

No, I don’t. But, please, let’s remember I’m not a mental health professional (I just like Google :P). Here are some Symptoms and behaviors someone Narcissistic personality disorder might display:

Have an exaggerated sense of self-importance: Nope.

“I am convinced, Master Yoda,” said Palpatine. “I know that, as a rule, I leave the strategic planning to you and your Jedi Council and the GAR war cabinet—but in this case I feel compelled to intervene. It was only thanks to young Master Skywalker that Kothlis—and before it Bothawui—did not fall into Separatist hands. But Anakin is only one man—and the Jedi cannot expect him to save the day every day.” Anakin closed his eyes. Please, please, stop talking now, Chancellor. Really. Just stop.[…]“Anakin, Anakin.” He shook his head, ruefully smiling. “I embarrassed you, didn’t I?” He felt heat rush into his face. “No, sir, I—” “Yes, I did,” said Palpatine. “You can say it. I won’t bite.” […] [Anakin] couldn’t speak for a moment. This is the most important man in the galaxy … and he speaks to me as though I’m his own flesh and blood. He has cared about me since I was a boy. “Chancellor …” He had to wait a moment before he could trust his voice. “Please, don’t ever doubt my regard for you. It’s too deep for words.” Eyes moistening, Palpatine smoothed the nap of his rich blue velvet trousers. “I know it makes you uncomfortable when I praise you in public, Anakin. Particularly to Master Yoda or Master Kenobi.” [Karen Miller. Star Wars: Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth]

Have a sense of entitlement and require constant, excessive admiration: Nope. Anakin wanted to be accepted and respected for his achievements, nothing more.

Expect to be recognized as superior even without achievements that warrant it: Nope.

He wasn’t sure why, beyond the fact that he didn’t relish responsibility for—or power over—others. And she talked too much. And she was far too cocky, in that naive, chirpy, why-can’t-we-fix-it way, as if he and the clone troopers had never been in combat before. When it came to battle—well, he’d still take lessons from them, thanks. And she could do the same. [Karen Traviss. The Clone Wars]

• Exaggerate achievements and talents: Nope. Anakin talents and achievements are not exaggerated. It’s a fact that he was the one of the best ever.

“So you don’t believe in it?” “I didn’t say that.” Shaking his head, Obi-Wan stared at the floor. “Qui-Gon believed in it. And I believed in him. And there’s no escaping the fact you’re the most gifted Jedi the Temple has ever seen.” He looked up. “So if Yoda’s reluctant to risk you, Anakin, it’s not on a whim. He has good reason.” [Karen Miller. Star Wars: Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth]

• Be preoccupied with fantasies about success, power, brilliance, beauty or the perfect mate: nope. Anakin’s only recurring fantasy was saving slaves:

When the war was over he’d go back to Tatooine and see. When the war was over he’d buy any child he found enslaved to Watto and find them a home where they might live and love in safety. Belonging to no one but themselves. I should have done it before now. Wasn’t that my other childhood dream? Become a Jedi and free the slaves. Instead I became a Jedi and let myself forget. Let them convince me that it’s not our job to remake the Republic. [Karen Miller. Star Wars: Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth]

I know now that I should have paid more attention to his words. But I was eager to tell him about my dream of becoming a Jedi and freeing the slaves on Tatooine. [Todd Strasser. Anakin Skywalker Journal]

Believe they are superior and can only associate with equally special people: nope

“But—” Gathering his thoughts, disciplining himself, he watched Anakin scoop up one small excited boy, too young to kick the ball, and zoom him overhead like a fighter chasing a vulture droid. The boy nearly sickened himself with laughing. “Greti, are you saying—” […]Anakin’s amusement vanished. “He wasn’t heavy. These younglings are skin and bone. I look at them and—” He clenched his jaw. [Karen Miller. Star Wars: Clone Wars Gambit: Siege]

Monopolize conversations and belittle or look down on people they perceive as inferior: nope.

“I think—” Anakin kicked his heel against the polished marble floor. “I think I hate it when I can’t stop my men from getting hurt. From dying. I think—” “What?” he prompted, when Anakin didn’t continue. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” “It matters, Anakin,” he said gently. “What you think matters.” [Karen Miller. Star Wars: Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth]

Take advantage of others to get what they want: nope.

She sat down again. “I understand. This is war. You have to look at the big picture. You can’t afford to see the little people.” Scurrying like rodents. Sacrificed for the greater good. “That’s not true!” Anakin protested. “That’s what the big picture is. Lots and lots and lots of little people. You matter, Bant’ena. The friends you lost on Taratos Four, they matter. We’re fighting this war so no more like them will die.” He was very sweet. Very young. Full of grand ideals and breathtaking, intuitive compassion. She looked at Master Kenobi. Now, there was a pragmatist, a man possessed of a scientist’s soul. [Karen Miller. Star Wars: Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth]

Have an inability or unwillingness to recognize the needs and feelings of others: nope.

“Oh. That’s right.” There was still dried blood on her fingers, and a dull, throbbing pain in her head. “I’m sorry. I’m not normally this stupid. I just—” And then she felt her face crumple and heard herself sob. Her knees buckled and she began to sink toward the floor. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she choked. “Don’t mind me. I’m fine.” He caught her before she tumbled completely. Lifted her without effort and carried her to the sofa. Boneless and unprotesting, she let him. Let her face turn to his roughly shirted, dirty chest and howled her rage and shame against him. Dimly, she felt his hand warm and comforting on her back and heard his soft voice saying, over and over, “It’s all right. It’s all right. You’re safe now. It’s all right.” The crazy thing was that she did feel safe. For the first time since those Separatist blaster bolts seared the air and sand of Niriktavi Bay, since she saw her friends and colleagues slaughtered, she felt safe. [Karen Miller. Star Wars: Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth]

Be envious of others and believe others envy them: nope

The dining hall was a paneled room with soft, recessed lighting and thick red veda cloth hangings at the windows that muffled sound and cast a rosy glow on the diners. It was just like the exclusive restaurants Anakin had glimpsed on Coruscant — just like the spots the students were used to eating in, he was sure. And, like an exclusive restaurant, seating in the dining hall was subject to an unspoken code. It hadn't taken Anakin long to realize that the best tables were by the windows and he was not welcome there. He didn't know why he felt a coolness from most of the students, but he definitely felt it. When he was looking for a seat at a table, an empty chair would be pushed aside to another table, or a datapad or a pile of durasheet notes would be quickly placed on the seat. It was clear that no one wanted to sit with him. There was a power elite in the school, and everyone else fell in around it. Yet Ferus had been accepted almost immediately, and had his pick of places to sit. Was it because word had gotten out that he belonged to a powerful family on his homeworld? You can travel to the ends of the galaxy and it will be the same — those with power do not like to share. His Master had told him that once, in a voice of weary resignation. But sometimes Obi-Wan seemed to forget that Anakin had been a slave. If anyone knew about power, it was a slave. He knew about the hunger for it, and he knew about the humiliation of getting your nose rubbed in the fact that you didn't have it. He took his bowl of aromatic stew to an empty table and sat. It wasn't that he needed company. Jedi were comfortable being alone. But inside, something burned, something deep and hot that he had hoped had been long forgotten. He took a bite of stew and tasted shame and anger. It was hard to swallow, like a mouthful of sand. [Jude Watson. The School of Fear]

• Behave in an arrogant or haughty manner, coming across as conceited, boastful and pretentious: nope.

Anakin was looking relieved. “Water would be greatly appreciated, thank you. Food, too, but I’ll wait for Obi-Wan to come back before I eat.” She crossed to the small kitchen table, put down the precious holoprojector, then nodded at the commercial-sized conservator her keepers had so kindly given her. “It’s entirely up to you. The water’s in there. Help yourself to as much as you like.” He drank three full bottles, hardly taking a breath. Noticing her surprise, he shrugged. “Sorry. My manners aren’t usually that bad. It’s just—it’s been a long, hard day.” “I can tell,” she said, disposing of the emptied bottles down her makeshift kitchen’s waste chute. “You should sit down. If you don’t mind me saying so, you look tired.” He considered his filthy clothes. “Are you sure? I don’t want to dirty the furniture.” [Karen Miller. Star Wars: Clone Wars Gambit: Stealth]

Insist on having the best of everything — for instance, the best car or office: nope. There’s no evidence of Anakin ever concerning himself over status or material possessions.