#ill clean it up and post it to ao3 later

[hivemuthur]

The Game of Teaching Body - Ch. 3.

viktorxfemale!reader mature! (for now, I will mark later chapters as explicit when the time comes)

AU university, AU modern era, slow burn, frenemies to lovers, teasing, pinning, banter, eventual romance and therefore smut, Viktor is simultaneously a menace and needs a hug, TA Viktor

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6. | Ch.7. | Ch.8. | Ch.9. | Ch.10. | Ch.11. | Ch.12.

word count: 5,7K

tag: #the game of teaching body

summary: I don't even know. Just... read it. Trigger warning for this chapter: Hamilton, The Musical.

Cross-posted on AO3 + POV3rd Person Version

—

“How come you’re in the science department and doing a theatre gig during Open Days?” Sue asked, lying sideways on her bed, her legs resting on the wall and crinkling up her Blur poster. Her hair was splayed across the floor as she ate a lollipop, following your pacing with nothing but the movement of her eyes.

“Apparently, Theodor is violently ill, and Hale volunteered my flesh in a ritual,” you scoffed. Ridiculous. You’d told Hale there was no way in hell, but he had thrown himself at your feet, weeping theatrically in front of his entire group, while they chanted, “Do it, do it!” like some cult.

You picked up the pieces of costume Hale had brought you after the fitting. They were supposed to be tailored to your size, yet everything was still slightly too big. “There’s no one else in this world who knows Hamilton by heart,” you muttered bitterly. At that moment, you cursed your good memory and your love of musicals more than ever.

“And it’s like… fine that you’re going to play… a Black guy?” Sue whispered the last part, as if it were illegal to even say it. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Sue… he wasn’t Black, Jesus. It’s just the actor... ah, whatever. Will you come?” you pleaded, your voice laced with desperation. It was clear you wouldn’t go through with it unless Sue promised to cheer you on and then make fun of you for the rest of your days together.

“Y/N. Look at me,” Sue said, attempting to make a serious face as the lollipop left her mouth with a quiet pop. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I don’t deserve you,” you said, crouching down to kiss Sue’s forehead before licking her face for good measure.

“Ugh, you’re so gross. Break a leg!” Sue shouted after you as you ran out, as though you were, well, running out of time.

You tore down the corridor like a madwoman, half-dressed in 18th-century men’s attire because you’d promised Hale you’d make it to rehearsal. Taking a sharp turn around the corner, your forehead collided violently with something hard, and the sound of metal clattering on the tiled floor filled your ears.

Groaning, you rubbed your head and looked up to see that you’d knocked Viktor clean off his feet. What hit your forehead was a hardback version of Bioengineering Fundamentals. Jayce, standing beside him, had to prop himself against the wall to keep from falling over with laughter.

“Jesus, Viktor, I’m so fucking sorry,” you blurted, scrambling to your feet and grabbing him by the waist to help him up. He was so shocked he didn’t say a word. Finally, once you’d managed to gather his scattered notes and hand them back to him, he started laughing.

“Is there a burning need to found a country somewhere?” he asked with a grin, sending Jayce into another round of hysterical laughter.

You tried to regain your composure but failed, laughing along with them. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?” you asked, shooting Viktor a glance and frowning in a friendly way.

The moment felt strange. You hadn’t addressed the A- you’d received on your infamous paper, and you’d been meaning to ask him about it. But he’d fled the classroom before you could ambush him, and it had been like that for the past two weeks.

“Well, for your information, I am helping a friend in need,” you said, patting Jayce’s shoulder as he wheezed with laughter, wiping tears from his face.

“And who are you supposed to be?” Jayce barely managed to ask through his hysterical fit.

“Aaron Burr, pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Before you could think, you took Jayce’s hand in yours, bowed, and placed an introductory peck on it. Thankfully, Jayce thought nothing of it, and the gesture sent him reeling with laughter again. You just rolled your eyes and added, “No time to explain. Come see, the show is in the main courtyard in… shit, in thirty minutes.”

You were about to run off again, but Viktor’s questioning look stopped you. Over your shoulder, you hastily called, “I’ll tell you over a beer!” and fled.

Wait. Had you just invited both Jayce and Viktor to witness your ridiculous performance? And invited Viktor to have a beer with you? That was it—you had completely lost your mind.

Bursting through the backstage doors, you were half out of breath, clutching your costume hat in one hand and your scarf in the other. Hale spun around dramatically, his hands thrown up as though he’d been about to make a grand declaration to the heavens.

“Y/N! My saving grace, my knight in shining breeches—you’re here!” he exclaimed, rushing over to you as if your delay had shaved years off his life. “I was moments away from throwing myself upon the mercy of the audience and telling them the show must not go on. But you’ve come to save us!”

“Cut the theatrics, Hale. I’m here, aren’t I?” you huffed, pulling on the hat and shaking out the rest of your costume. You hadn’t even had time to finish dressing properly.

“Barely,” Hale teased, though his expression softened as he rested his hands on your shoulders. “Really, Y/N. Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

You waved him off, pretending to be nonchalant despite the flush creeping into your cheeks. “Yeah, yeah. You owe me your firstborn or something.”

The rest of the theatre group began to gather around, buzzing with pre-performance energy. Hale snapped into action, leading them into what you could only describe as the most bizarre pre-show ritual you’d ever witnessed. It involved everyone joining hands in a circle, chanting what sounded like a mix of inspirational quotes and nonsense phrases, all while Hale stood in the centre, waving his arms like some kind of benevolent priest.

Trying not to laugh, you leaned in and whispered to him, “You know you’re definitely going to start a cult one day, right?”

Hale turned to you with a mock-offended expression. “How dare you, Mr. Burr? This is high art.” He extended his hand toward you, palm up, a twinkle of mischief in his eye. “Now, are you ready?”

You smirked, placing your hand in his with exaggerated formality. “No time like the present, Mr. Hamilton.”

Hale grinned wide, squeezing your hand once before leading the group toward the stage.

When you stepped out into the courtyard, the cold evening air hit you, but the sight of the assembled crowd gave you no time to focus on it. The makeshift stage was set with a minimalist backdrop, and the audience sat on scattered benches and blankets in the open space. As Hale began his introduction, your eyes scanned the crowd.

It didn’t take long to spot Sue. Your friend stood right at the front, waving frantically and holding up crossed fingers. “Go, Y/N!” Sue yelled, loud enough for the whole audience to hear.

You groaned, covering your face in mock embarrassment, but you couldn’t help smiling. Your gaze drifted to the opposite side of the crowd, where you caught sight of Jayce and Viktor. Jayce, as expected, gave you an enthusiastic thumbs-up, grinning ear to ear. Viktor, standing beside him, met your gaze and offered a subtle nod. His smile was small but unmistakably amused, his golden eyes sparkling in the glow of the stage lights.

A flutter of nerves ran through you, but you straightened your posture and took a deep breath.

Hale’s voice boomed across the courtyard. “Ladies, gentlemen, and beautiful creatures, friends, and foes, tonight you are in for a treat! Our school prides itself on breaking all boundaries, and tonight is no exception. I’m honoured to announce that we have a very special guest joining our cast—a true star from the science department!”

The audience chuckled, and you found yourself bowing awkwardly as Hale gestured toward you with a flourish. You waved sheepishly, suppressing your own laughter at the absurdity of it all. It didn’t help that the audience seemed doubly amused by the fact that you were playing a male role. Boundaries broken, big time.

“Now,” Hale continued, his dramatic flair still in full force, “let us take you back to the revolution!”

You held back a laugh, planted your feet firmly on the stage, and braced yourself for what was sure to be the most ridiculous evening of your academic career. Closing your eyes, you waited for your cue. It was just a couple of songs, and you really knew them by heart. You decided to sink into your role completely, just as you had during those boring summers in the Sheffield suburbs when you and Hale acted out the entire Hamilton soundtrack in your backyard. You had been training to be Aaron Burr for at least five years.

When you performed the first song, you were timid. Alexander Hamilton started with a gentle recitation, balancing on the verge of rap and poetry. Thankfully, you weren’t the main singer in this number, but you did catch the crowd’s surprised expressions as they locked onto the stage chemistry between you and Hale. As you felt the voices of the group swelling behind you, your courage kicked in, and you let yourself sink into the experience. You sang bravely with the choir, hit your cues, and couldn’t help but smile when you saw Sue clutching her chest in awe and Jayce swaying to the music. Viktor, of course, didn’t move an inch.

The next part was far harder. Wait for It was entirely Aaron Burr’s song, and you had no time to transition from the comfort of performing with the group to the isolation of a soloist. As you walked up and down the stage, singing your lines, you closed your eyes and let the music carry you once again. But as you sang the verse I’m willing to wait for it, it struck you that the words felt far removed from the American Revolution. You weren’t singing about history anymore—you were singing about something personal, something closer to your own life. And so, you poured your heart into it.

The crowd was enraptured, and as the song came to an end, you felt tears welling up in your eyes. Not for any particular reason—just the release of tension, the rush of it all.

They finished the set with Non Stop, and it was brilliant. This was what Hale was born for: an artistic, half-sung, half-rapped banter that he got to perform with his best friend while wearing ridiculous, fluffy shirts and oversized hats. You watched him, pride swelling in your chest.

It wasn’t perfect—and yet, it was. The crowd laughed at your mid-song mock conversation, and you had to stifle your own giggles at how absurd it must have looked. Hale was over a full head taller than you, and yet here you were, sparring and singing like equals.

The applause was deafening. You and Hale exchanged a quick, wide-eyed glance before stepping forward to bow. The crowd’s enthusiasm only grew louder, forcing you both to retreat backstage before being called out again, not once but three times. You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, your cheeks flushed as you waved to the audience. You had no idea how you’d gotten roped into this, but somehow, it felt worth it.

On your third return to the stage, the crowd’s energy reached a new level. Sue stood in the front row, pumping her fists in the air and yelling, “Aaron Burr! Aaron Burr!” The chant caught on like wildfire, spreading through the audience until it echoed off the courtyard walls. Your face turned an even deeper shade of red as you covered your face with your hands in embarrassment.

Hale, ever the showman, raised his hands dramatically, silencing the crowd. “Ladies, gentlemen, and all beautiful creatures,” he declared, striding toward you with the exaggerated flair of a Shakespearean actor. “Clearly, the world is not ready for her!” He paused for effect, then bowed deeply before you, extending the microphone as though it were Excalibur. “I give you... Aaron Burr.”

You shook your head, grinning despite yourself, and took the microphone with mock solemnity. “Thank you, Sir Hamilton,” you said, your voice dripping with exaggerated formality. You turned to the audience, gesturing toward Hale with the mic. “First of all, I’d like to clarify that I am, in fact, his hostage. This whole performance? His idea. I’m just a humble victim of his orchestrated chaos.”

The audience laughed, and you spotted Sue in the front, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes.

“And as you can see,” you continued, a mischievous glint in your eye, “the science department at this fine university has so much to offer. I mean, we clearly do everything around here.” Your words were met with more laughter and applause, and as you glanced out into the crowd, your gaze landed on Viktor.

To your surprise, he was laughing. Not just smiling politely but laughing—his shoulders shaking slightly as his lips curled into a grin. For a moment, you froze. You weren’t sure what to make of it, but the sight warmed you in a way you weren’t prepared for.

Hale leaned into the microphone, snapping you out of your thoughts. “All right, all right, that’s enough of a spotlight for Mr. Burr here,” he teased, taking back the mic. “Now give it up one more time for the entire cast!”

The crowd erupted again, and you took another bow, trying not to stare too long in Viktor’s direction as you exited the stage. As soon as you stepped off, Sue threw her arms around you in a tight hug.

“You didn’t tell me you’re a fucking genius!” Sue practically screamed.

“Ah, not much to do around Sheffield,” you laughed, happy but relieved it was over. There really wasn’t much for them to do around Sheffield, so you all knew your musicals better than your own mothers.

“I too bow to your genius, Mr. Burr,” Jayce’s voice startled you as he dramatically bowed before pulling you into a tight hug. “What the hell, Y/N? What are you even doing in the science department?”

“I… wanna be in the room where it happens,” you quipped, your grin widening as Hale laughed loudly—the only one to catch the reference.

“I had no idea you had it in you,” Viktor said, his tone carefully measured. He looked like he was trying not to meet your gaze, but there was something in his expression—a faint flicker of admiration he was trying to hide. You, caught up in your post-performance high, mistook it for mockery.

“Oh, you have no idea. I have so much in me, Viktor. You’re not ready for me,” you fired back, your inhibitions long gone as you basked in the adrenaline and laughter around you.

Hale’s arm slid around your shoulders from behind, pulling you close as he grinned mischievously. “Pub, pub, pub,” he chanted, looking expectantly at the group.

The others exchanged glances before nodding in agreement. Hale pumped his fist in victory, letting out a triumphant “Yes!” as they began gathering their things.

“Wait, I can’t go dressed as Aaron Burr!” you exclaimed, tugging at the ridiculous fluffy shirt you were still wearing.

“You are Aaron Burr, my love,” Hale declared with dramatic flair, spinning you toward the door as though you were about to take the stage again.

“That would mean one day I’m going to kill you, Hale,” you retorted, crossing your arms in mock indignation.

“Darlin’, dying by your hand would be a blessing,” Hale shot back with a flourish, clasping his hands to his chest as if you’d already delivered the fatal blow.

The group erupted into laughter, but Viktor’s voice cut through, calm and measured as always. “It suits you,” he said, his gaze lingering on you, his lips quirked in that rare, faint smile that always seemed to unnerve you.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What does?”

“The outfit,” Viktor clarified, gesturing subtly to your absurd costume. “It is bold and... untraditional. Very much like you.”

You weren’t sure if that was meant to be a compliment or an insult, but the warmth in his tone made your cheeks flush, nonetheless. “Well, I’m glad someone appreciates my theatrical side,” you said, quickly looking away to avoid overthinking the exchange.

“Let’s go already!” Jayce called, clapping his hands to corral the group.

“Fine, but if anyone recognizes me in public, I’m blaming all of you,” you muttered, pulling the coat Hale handed you over your costume.

“And if they don’t recognize you,” Hale added with a wink, “we’ll just have to start singing again.”

“Oh god, no.” You groaned, but the grin tugging at your lips betrayed you.

The group headed out into the crisp night air, your laughter echoing through the hallways as you made your way to the pub—you, still dressed as Aaron Burr, walking just a little taller with the glow of the performance still lingering in your chest.

You arrived at the pub late, yet it was still packed with current and future students seeking refuge after the Camden Open Days. Hale insisted on getting you drunk at his own expense, so when everyone finally had a drink in hand, the group settled by the fireplace, next to a pair of freshers too occupied with devouring each other’s faces to notice.

“I didn’t think it was possible for someone to be having an even better time than us tonight,” Hale said in an exaggerated whisper, clearly hoping the couple would flinch. They, of course, didn’t.

Jayce and Viktor sat on the couch; Sue crouched on her heels by Hale’s head, while you propped yourself against Hale’s hips as he sprawled with his back to the fire, propping his head on his elbow. His eyes lit up as he spotted Mel approaching the group.

“Thank you for adopting me; my bitches ditched me,” she said with an apologetic smile, planting a loud kiss on Jayce’s cheek before settling on his lap. “I hear we have a new rising star?” she added, bowing her head in recognition toward you.

“Please, I don’t think I can handle so much fame,” you groaned theatrically, palming your face. “But I’m honoured to finally meet you,” you added with a warm smile.

“Honey, I wouldn’t miss this opportunity—Hale doesn’t shut up about you,” Mel teased, grinning at Hale, who accepted the jab with stoic calmness.

“I don’t see why I’d ever have to shut up about her,” he replied, deadpan. “She’s the love of my life.” You only smiled knowingly. He meant every word of it.

Mel raised an eyebrow at Hale’s declaration, then turned her attention to Viktor and Jayce, a sly grin spreading across her face. “Speaking of friends for life—when are you two finally going to accept my invitation to hang out with my girls?”

“I thought you said they just abandoned you?” Jayce asked, faking concern as he patted Mel’s head with exaggerated pity. “I’ll have to have a word with them first.”

You raised your eyebrows, a realization dawning on you—had Viktor lied to you? You watched as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly searching for a clever response. Yes, he was definitely busted.

He was saved by Sue, who hadn’t looked up from her phone the entire time. She raised her hand, as if trying to answer a question in class. “Guys, do you mind if I… well, ditch you?”

Five pairs of questioning eyes turned to her, and she sighed before adding, “I might or might not have a date.”

“Sue! Spill the tea, or we’re not letting you go!” Hale exclaimed, bouncing upright and causing you—who were still leaning against him—to jolt and spill a little of your beer.

Sue played coy for a moment, but then she decided to own it. “Alice. She’s from your group. She… approached me after your show.”

Hale clapped his hands together dramatically. “In that case, I sense the rise of another power couple! Sue, you have my blessing.” He placed a hand over the crown of her head with mock benediction, earning a round of laughter.

You leaned forward, curiosity piqued. “Will you be coming back tonight, or should I plan to sleep with one eye open in case Alice kidnaps you?”

Sue simply flashed a mischievous smile. “No promises.”

Mel smirked, resting her head on Jayce’s shoulder. “Well, in that case, Jayce, my room will also be free tonight. Don’t go breaking anything, though. My deposit’s on the line.”

Jayce groaned in exasperation, but his ears flushed red, which only made Mel laugh harder.

Your gaze drifted to Viktor, catching the subtle shift in his posture. It seemed the conversation was circling back to him, and he looked like he was already bracing for it. Before anyone could call him out, he cleared his throat. “Well, in that case, I’ll leave the royal couple to their moment of glory. You’ve earned it after such a successful evening.” He offered a polite smile and rose from his seat.

Hale straightened and turned to you, offering you an exaggeratedly regal nod. “What do you say, my love? Do you want to hang with your old man a little longer?”

You grinned, raising your drink in mock solemnity. “Always.”

With that, the group exchanged goodbyes, Sue leaving with a conspiratorial wink, Mel tugging Jayce toward the door, and Viktor giving a brief nod before slipping into the night.

Once you were alone, Hale sighed contentedly and stretched out in his seat. “Well, Mr. Burr, looks like it’s just us. Let’s reminisce about how we conquered the stage, shall we?”

You laughed, leaning back against him. “You mean how you carried me through the whole thing? Sure, I’m in.”

“You were amazing. But you’re no Aaron Burr, I hope you know that,” Hale said seriously as he leaned you against himself, pulled you closer to his chest, and wrapped his arm around your shoulders as was his habit. When you didn’t respond, he added, “If anything, you’re Hamilton.”

“I think I’ve been all of them at different points in my life... but thank you.” You squeezed his hand and smiled to yourself, the high of the performance slowly fading, leaving you tired but content.

“And how’s it going with Mr. Grumpy? Still making your life hard? Do I need to have a word with him?” Hale mused, gently rocking you back and forth in his arms. He listened through enough rants about Viktor to see where this was going.

You sighed, leaning your head against Hale's shoulder. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “One moment, I want to gouge his eyes out. The next, he secretly fixes my test and then avoids me for two weeks, just to make it impossible to say thank you.”

Hale chuckled softly. “Why do you think he does that?” He’d seen enough clumsy advances in his lifetime to spot one from a mile away. This one was a piece of cake.

You shrugged, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “Probably bored out of his mind. All I ever see him doing outside of class is working on his PhD thesis with Jayce.”

Hale tilted his head, a sly grin creeping across his face. “Or…?”

You scoffed and straightened up. “Please, don’t be ridiculous.” The thought was absurd. If anything, you had the potential for a competitive friendship—food for the brain and all that.

Hale’s grin softened, and he shifted, turning you to face him. He placed his hands firmly on your shoulders, his gaze suddenly serious. The theatrical Hale disappeared, replaced by the steadfast best friend you rarely got to see. “Listen to me,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “I don’t care how many times I have to do this, but I’ll keep doing it until you understand what you are.”

You averted your eyes, your face heating up. You let your head hang slightly as you muttered, “Yeeees, I know—I’m a queen.”

Hale shook his head and tilted your chin up so you couldn’t avoid his gaze. “No,” he said firmly. “You are a king. And you bow to no one.”

You blinked, the weight of his words sinking in. For a moment, your chest tightened with emotion, but you managed a small, lopsided smile. “I really fucking love you, you know?” you murmured, your voice quieter now.

***

Hale gave you a long hug by the fountain before you both went your separate ways to your designated dorm buildings. He kissed your forehead and tucked a cigarette behind your ear, for when you’d inevitably want to brood with a smoke and a cup of coffee.

You took a quick shower, slid into your pyjamas, and decided to make use of the cigarette. You wandered to one of the secluded corners of the dorm, where you could lean out of the window and contemplate life with a fag and a cup of tea instead.

You were deep in thought, analysing everything Hale had said to you that evening when a quiet, deliberate grunt startled you.

“I don’t think such behaviour is legal here, Mr. Burr,” came a dry voice. Viktor appeared out of nowhere, leaning casually against the windowsill where you were curled up.

You let out a sharp breath, your hand instinctively going to your chest. "Jesus, you made my soul leave my body for a moment."

Viktor's lips curved into a small, amused smirk. "Ah, it means you know exactly that you are doing a bad thing." His hand extended, reaching out to steal a huff of your smoke.

You rolled your eyes, leaning back against the window. "Please give me a break, I’ve been a good girl all this time." You couldn’t help yourself and gave him an exaggerated eyelash bat as you passed the cigarette to him.

Viktor’s gaze lingered on you for a moment, then he tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. "Have you?" he asked, making sure your eyes were fixed on his lips curling around the cigarette filter.

He paused to inhale, his voice lowering slightly. "Been a good girl?" And exhaled the smoke into your face.

You felt a weird lump forming in your throat, your fingers tightening around your cup of tea. You knew Viktor was pushing your buttons, but part of you couldn’t help but enjoy it—though you weren’t about to admit that out loud.

"I mean, I try," you replied, your voice casual, even though your pulse had quickened slightly.

Viktor remained silent for a moment, studying you carefully, the playful smirk still lingering at the edges of his lips. "Hmm," he said finally, a thoughtful tone in his voice, as he passed the cigarette back to you, your fingers brushing. "Trying doesn’t always mean succeeding."

You narrowed your eyes at him, feeling your defences rise. "And who’s to say what’s a success or not?" The implication made you uneasy. Or excited, all the same. Your chest tightened, and you straightened up a little, leaning slightly away from him, as if the tiny bit of distance between you could somehow shield you.

"Someone who’s been paying attention," Viktor replied softly, his gaze never leaving yours. His voice was smooth, almost coaxing, and his posture remained relaxed, leaning casually against the windowsill. His eyes glinted, knowing he was starting to get under your skin—just as you were getting under his. Especially after today, when he had seen you in a completely different light.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter if I am a good girl or not, as now you have joined me in my crime, and we can share a cell when they come for us.” You let out a quiet laugh to cover the discomfort taking over you.

"Oh, I will deny everything." Viktor's lips curled into a smirk, the playful gleam in his eyes not quite hiding the challenge behind them. He took a drag from the cigarette that was being passed between you, exhaling slowly, the smoke swirling between you like a silent declaration of intent.

"You’re good at that, aren’t you?" You raised an eyebrow, your tone teasing, but there was an edge to it now—more biting than before. You leaned back slightly, crossing your arms over your chest.

"And what are you getting at now?" Viktor's voice lowered just a touch, as he studied you with an expression that bordered on amusement and curiosity. His eyes never left your face, as though waiting for you to reveal something you didn’t even realise you were giving away.

"Ah, nothing, Viktor. Thank you for that test." You waved a hand dismissively, sliding off the window ledge, ready to flee. Your pulse quickened. It wasn’t just the words—they were playing a game, and you weren’t sure if you were prepared for it. Your stomach fluttered at the thought.

"I see. You have looked through me and now you can read me like an open book?" Viktor's expression shifted slightly—there was a challenge in his voice, but also something else, almost a hint of fear that he quickly masked with another drag of the cigarette.

"Precisely," you replied, your voice smooth, but a little more breathless than you meant. Your fingers tightened around your cup of tea, the warmth of it grounding you, even as Viktor’s presence seemed to fill the space around you. You wanted to stand your ground, but his proximity was starting to unsettle you in ways you didn’t expect.

There was a beat of silence between you. Viktor took a step closer, watching you cautiously, his body language suddenly more intense. The playful edge in his voice was gone, replaced by something more serious.

You felt your heart rate spike. "What’s that look for?" you asked, half-expecting him to keep pushing, to keep testing you.

Viktor tilted his head slightly, lowering his gaze as if studying your every movement. "You think you have me figured out, don’t you?" His tone was a bit quieter now, almost thoughtful. You knew nothing.

"Maybe," you said, your voice faltering for a brief moment as you tried to regain control of the conversation. Your eyes flickered to the ground, then back up to him, a challenge sparking in your gaze. "But I’m starting to think that’s part of your charm. Always keeping people guessing. It’s exhausting, though." You tried to sound nonchalant, but even you could hear the tension in your voice.

Viktor didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned in just a fraction closer, the tension between you growing thicker. He took a long drag from the cigarette before exhaling toward you, the smoke swirling lazily around you both.

"Maybe you’re starting to enjoy the challenge," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, a subtle yet deliberate provocation laced into his tone. “I didn’t fix your paper. That was Heimerdinger’s decision,” he added, lying without a flicker of hesitation. At this point, it felt necessary.

Your chest tightened, and you swallowed hard, your breath catching as you felt the weight of his gaze on you—sharp, unrelenting, and entirely too perceptive. "Maybe I am," you replied to his tease, your voice quieter than you intended. It trembled just slightly, betraying your unease. You weren’t sure when it had become so difficult to breathe. “And… um… that’s good to know.”

Viktor studied you for a long moment, his lips curling into a small, almost imperceptible smile. He didn’t say anything at first. Then, slowly, he took a step back, handing you the cigarette again. His fingers brushed lightly against yours as he passed it to you, the touch lingering for a split second longer than necessary. Your breath hitched, and your pulse quickened.

"I think you’re more like me than you care to admit, Y/N," Viktor said, his tone low and measured, his gaze steady and unyielding.

You stared at him, your mind racing, your heart thudding in your chest. For a moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to respond. His words felt like a dare, a challenge you couldn’t ignore, even though part of you wanted to. "Don’t flatter yourself," you managed, your voice steadier now as you tried to recover your footing.

He chuckled softly, the sound laced with something serious rather than mocking. “I wasn’t trying to. But I think you might be right. We’ll see.” He turned, starting to walk away, only to pause and glance back over his shoulder. “Were you to decide there’s something you don’t know yet and need help—my office door is always open to you.”

You lingered for a moment, watching Viktor as he walked away, his steps steady and calm. You took a slow drag from the cigarette, letting the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling into the cool night air.

“Hey, Viktor?” you called out, your voice softer now, almost teasing.

He turned his head slightly, his profile outlined by the faint light from the hallway. “Yes?”

“Say hi to Mel’s friends from me next time you see them,” you said, a sly smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Viktor’s expression remained unreadable for a moment, his eyes narrowing just enough to signal he understood your jab. Then, without missing a beat, he replied, “Go to sleep, Y/N,” his voice low and quiet, but with enough bite to draw a small laugh from you. You shook your head, flicking the ash from the cigarette as you watched him leave.

Your thoughts lingered on him longer than you wanted to admit. Viktor, with his sharp words, his unreadable smirks, and the maddening way he seemed to see right through you. You closed your eyes briefly, exhaling one last trail of smoke before stubbing out the cigarette. “Go to sleep, Y/N,” you muttered under your breath, mimicking his accent. Your lips curved into a faint smile despite yourself. But sleep wouldn’t come easily tonight, you knew that much.

[ladylarynn]

Alleyway Affairs Part 2

Summary: This is part two to Alleyway Affairs!

The last you heard from Astarion, he told you to "die screaming." Months later, you find each other again. Only this time, deep in the city, in an alley under nightfall. Perhaps, he will bleed you dry. Or perhaps, he has other plans for you.

Rating: E

Word Count: 15k

Pairing: Astarion x you (fem!reader)

cw: 18+ REVIEW THE TAGS! established relationship pre breakup, post ending for BG3, blood drinking, exhibitionism, p in v, creampie, explicit consent, angst, additional tags posted on ao3

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Six dead. There are six deaths in the past month.

The apples of your cheeks are a wash of watercolor white. The thin scrape of your knuckles hatched in red fissures, curled around the end of a blade. Your pupils narrow in a stencil of black, the shroud of shadows seducing you in, clawing at your bones, imploring you to see,

Compelling you to know.

Your mark is dragging her delicate fingers along the brick walls, legs tangling and feet scrambling over one another in a collage of reckless abandonment. Her name— oh, what does it matter her name? It was something akin to rubies or roses or relics of a time gone by.

She had made her way here to meet her lover. Thinking herself stood up, she became fretfully distraught and furthermore indisposed. Her mirage of expression was soaked in the revelry of liquor. The whiskey stench stuck to her clothes like sweat.

The sight is a slur of pathetic— in a way that makes your skin crawl, and your throat tighten closed. She is a mirror for all you have felt in the past month— and now, in a bout of poetic irony, you will put her out of her misery.

A misery you orchestrated. Yet— you have a choice—

You’re thrust from the shadows satiny palms and come upon her.

A whisking of wind whirls crumbled leaves from the sidewalk to the grey water of the gutter. Your knife, intent with precision, sinks into the carotid artery of her neck.

Her body jerks like a scurrying rat, lurching against the wall. The movement takes you by surprise, as you unsheathe the blade from her throat with a flick of your wrist.

You did not mean to meet her eyes.

Even though you wear a façade of a face, the spell of disguise lingering upon your features, it is as though she knows you. Mouth ajar, eyes brimming with tears. She doesn’t even scream. Instead, she does something far worse.

“D-aniela—”

Oh—

Oh.

You jolt back. She’s delirious. In a bleeding out, drunken stupor. She sees her lover in you.

You are struck ill. Her head lulls back on the brick, body cascading to the floor.

Her hand finds your ankle. She tenses her fingers around it, and gurgles out once more, “Don’t— leave me Da—.”

They never die in this manner. Normally it is quick, painless, quiet.  You crouch down in front of her. Your voice is but a whisper, barely audible over a howl of wind.

“Sleep, my love.”

The woman’s eyelids droop, her limbs pooling into the ground, ceasing their quaking. Her fingers on your ankle are like wilting flower stems, uncurling and falling away.

The sight is grim. The gash in her neck oozes in a thick river of vermillion, spreading into the fabric of her blouse like an ink drop in parchment. The dry pavement will surely be quenched soon. It is quiet once more yet, the vile inside you is a cacophony of violence. You want to scream, yank your hair and sob into yourself yet—

You don’t.

Your hand worms into the pouch tied to your waistband. Inside, you take out a sending stone. You hold it in your palm and speak using your mind.

Twilight, near the ocean, in alley two. Clean up, dispose. No witnesses.

A murmur in your mind, voice like bourbon, smooth and slow.

Sent to you, little Dove. Go fly away now.

You nose scrunches, the moniker enough to make bile bubble up your throat while you place the stone back in your pouch. The heel of your palm massages into your temple as you attempt to steady yourself. Your flesh is taunt and hot, breath coming out in puffs of condensation in the frigid night. Your vision is a greying haze. You feel it coming and you know you can’t let it overtake.

You had thought the panic would subside after the last mark. Seems your subconscious cannot contend with this way of life anymore.

It’ll have to.

A prick of perception trickles up your spine. Someone is watching.

Someone who isn’t involved.

In a flash, you swivel on your heel, blade in hand, cool steel to the stranger's throat as you crowd them into the opposing wall.

Your eyes widen.

This is no stranger.

Astarion, with his stark sharp gaze, with moonlight lilting in the mellow of his downward mouth, wafting in the waves of his white strands. He’s an orchid in bloom.

He swallows, adam’s apple bopping, causing the knife to nicked his pale flesh red.

“We have to stop meeting like this, my dear,” he says with a sly, lopsided smile, his left fang poking out past his lip.

You at once retract your blade, the cut on his neck a dribble of black blood. You sicken at the sight of it, for it is merely a sliver yet…you want to seal it closed, want it healed as impulsively as you caused it.

Your fingers of your left-hand clench. You step back from him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say, gravely annoyed, trying to quell your rampant heartbeat, your quickened breath.

Astarion dazzles with pearly whites, a stretch of lips that mean to rile.

“That makes two of us, but alas… here we are,” he replies in jest, yet his tone shifts, as he tilts his head considering you.

You ignore him, as you look anywhere else but him or the gory reminder laying waste behind you. You recall the face you wear. The body you’ve borrowed from the spell.

“How did you know it was me?” you ask, deflecting. The panic should pass, but instead it amplifies. He may not care about the body behind you, but you care. Shame is swallowing you whole— that, and resentment. You don’t need him to see you even lower than he’s already seen you.

“Different face and body, but same voice. Not hard to track you down when you are within earshot of me,” he explains while cupping his pointy ear; intonation heightened as if the answer were so obvious he could not believe you needed to ask. His hand drops, as does his voice.

“Though I’d very much appreciate it if you would stop avoiding me at all costs.”

“And I’d appreciate you choosing someone else to stalk,” you taunt while rolling your eyes, sidestepping him, and pulling your hood over your head. Your oversized cloak envelops you.

“Someone will collect the body soon. Be on your way,” you grumble. Turning your back on him, you make your way to the balcony ladder. It’s a bit of a jump, yet you grip the bottom step, heaving your weight up and beginning to climb. Astarion whisper shouts after you, apparently irked.

“Don’t shoo me away like an alley cat.”

As you climb to the first balcony and take a moment to pause, you note Astarion heeding the chance to follow. He grips the ladder, then hand over hand climbs after you.

Goddamn it.

You crouch down, peering at him.

You mutter with a scowl, “Why? You going to scratch me?”

He reaches the top step, and you backpedal to allow him space. He leverages himself into a stand, hands on either guard rail at your sides. He leans into you with a leer. He murmurs, syrupy sweet, his gaze unwavering from yours.

“Would you rather I bite?”

Before you can reply, you hear a familiar signal. A set of keys jangle in the distance.

You spin on your heel, hastening up the next ladder, until you reach the third level balcony. From here, you scour the wall for ebbed out brick to place your hands and feet. It’s a thing of instinct now, how you path the way in your mind to the rooftop. You start to ascend, only to hear the soft pads of Astarion’s footfalls using your trail as a guide. He does not falter or stumble, grappling into the wall with expertise that makes you tsk.

When you reach the top, you lay flat on the slightly slanted tiles, and motion for him to lie beside you. Thankfully, he does, though much too close. His shoulder presses yours, the coolness of his touch emanating through the wool of your cloak. You resist the impulse to shiver.

You rifle through your pouch, then hand him an invisibility potion.

“Drink. Now,” you mumble.

His coos into the shell of your ear, “always dictating what I do.”

You snap your head at him and level him with a volatile glare. Footsteps from below peddle their way near the ally. Your palm clamps over his mouth.

Astarion pries your fingers from his lips, then drinks the potion quick, a small drip descending the cut of his jaw before the potion takes its effect. You wrench your gaze from him, plucking a spare invisibility potion from your pouch, and gulp it down.

You lie completely back and still. Astarion does the same. You listen as hooded figures below take the body accordingly; however, the inexorable pound of your pulse makes it hard to hear. Astarion tilts his head to the side, the fluff of his feather-like hair a tickle at the top of your head.

You’re just grateful he’s finally being quiet.

It doesn’t take long, yet it feels like an eternity when the faint sounds of the alley settle into silence, and the sins of tonight soon become the cinders of tomorrow.

You let out a sigh. You should head to your room at the inn, but you are overcome with exhaustion. Let alone the predicament of letting Astarion know where you’re currently residing.

You know he wants the wish scroll. Why else would he have been tracking you for the past month? For a Rouge, he was offensively conspicuous.

You cannot see him, but you hear him rising to sit up.

“How many does this make it, now?”

You consider ignoring him but know it would exacerbate the situation further. It’s easier to think in numbers rather than names anyway.

“Seven.”

He lets out an exhale. You think he may complain about the pace of progress. After all, he never understood the concept of planning. However, he doesn’t badger. He stays quiet for a short while.

“I want in,” he says quite simply.

Your eyes widen.

“What?” you reply, dumbfounded.

“I want a part of this… little contract endeavor. You’ve been doing it on my behalf, and I should be part of the process. It is only what makes sense, of course.”

Something inside you stirs. You fume, your nails delving into your palms. You squeeze down whilst biting your inner cheek. You refuse to turn your attention to the… empty space of him., instead locking your gaze onto the caliginous sky. The milky moon wades in clouds. No stars bejewel the fabric of night.

“What makes you think I’m still doing it for you?” you inquire. It is not a deterrent. It is something you have often considered, ever since that night he fed upon you. Emptied you of all you had in all the ways he knew how.

There is an ache blooming in your chest. It is so familiar now; you do not even know what it means to live without it.

A burn behind your eyelids forces you to shut them. Gods. It was easier when you were evading him.

“Are you not doing it for me anymore?”

The consternation cracking in his tone makes you open your eyes once more.

You wish you could see him. You wish you’d know if this was another ploy to trick you, to guilt you. If this was genuine.

You sigh, quiet. Your wrist that marks your blood oath marks your intent to gain his forgiveness, throbs.

Before you can reply, he speaks.

“I’ll help you. I can drain them, make it a..,” he pauses, searching for the words, “easier kill. We can work together, and this process will be over sooner. You can return to your life of heroism,” he rambles on, “you hardly have the stomach for this. I saw it on your face. The anguish. The remorse.”

You know what he’s doing. Yet. Was he wrong? You don’t have the stomach for it— at least not anymore, at least… you hope you don’t.

You lean up from the tiles. Your words wane with an impassive implication. “Drain them. Like you nearly did to me?”

“That was—” he sputters out, and you deepen your nails into your palms.

“The answer is no,” you assert.

To be around him is to be waist-deep in a ceaseless sea. You can’t afford to slip beneath the waters, let him fill your lungs, sink you far below. You’re already struggling to keep your head above the tide in this conversation—

“I need to drink,” he contends, another bout of suasion sure to pour over you, “you have victims. Unless you rather I resort to innocents, that is.”

“Some of them are innocent.”

“And I’m sure that is quite hard for you to admit,” he sardonically maintains.

“Astarion.”

“See! I know it bothers you, so I could alleviate the manner by—”

“Fine. You won’t stop until I agree, so fine. You can drink from them,” you pause, ruminating in a reply, and you know he is sure to be beaming with a sharp smile right now, “but you will have to prove your restraint in your tendency to pester me on every decision like before. If this is going to work, we need to be able to trust each other,” you confess.

It’s a thicket in your throat. How can this even work? Surely, perhaps, you won’t need trust. He’s only here to get something from you, and it’s more vital than that. He doesn’t care about you, anyways. He made sure to prove that didn’t he—

Astarion says your name. It’s not often he ever did.

You unclamp your nails from your palms. The divots broke the skin.

 You turn to him and see that the invisibility potion has run dry. Astarion is contemplating you, with a disheveled gaze and a slanted mouth.

He can see you now. Not the temporary face or body of a spell, as it has worn off, just as your invisibility spell has. No. He sees all of you.

You place your hands palm side down on your thighs.

A current passes through his countenance, a tidal wave of scrunched brow, tensed jaw, flared nostrils. The wrinkle of his brow deepens, and his hand rests to the side of his leg, near to your thigh. His fingers splay a bit, only to retract again.

His voice is quiet, thick with emotion.

“I… that night I…”

You swallow. There is a lilt of unease in his tone. You know it to be the same tone he takes when struggling to be candid. You turn to look out past the rooftops. You shake your head.

You can’t bear to know if he did or didn’t mean to do it. You provoked him into it— anyways. If it had happened, him drinking you dry, would it be anyone else’s fault but yours?

All of this is your fault.

You move your hands into the deep pockets of your cloak.

“It’s inconsequential,” you insist, voice a touch too tender to be taken as aloof. You continue, “If we do this together, you must listen to me. You must be careful and follow my lead.”

“I’m used to following your lead,” he says, not unkind.

You rise to a crouch.

“Then follow my lead right now,” you state with a feigned smile. Your gaze flickers to the edge of the roof, then back to him.

He gradually rises; brows furrowed together. Disapproval douses his speech.

“Tell me you aren’t considering what I think you’re considering.”

“If you really want to do this with me, you’ll have to get over your fear of heights.”

You inhale, prepping to run. There is a butterfly of exhilaration fluttering in your blood.

Before you can break into a sprint, he seizes your wrist.

“If you’re trying to be petty, then I prefer you polite.”  

You lean into his space, and his adam’s apple bobs.

“When have you ever preferred anyone to be polite?”

The corners of his lips perk up. His eyes flicker to your mouth.

You lean in, a chance away from grazing your lips with his. His eyes become hooded beneath his lashes.

You murmur.

“Don’t fall.”

He registers what you have said a moment too late, as his eyes abruptly open, and his tongue nearly commences an onslaught of complaints.

You ignore him, breaking into a run, leaping from the edge of the building, and swiftly landing onto the neighboring roof. The air whooshing through your clothes and your hair, evokes a euphoric sense of impunity. You don’t turn back to see if he follows.

A clumsy landing omits a loud curse.

“Gods above.”

He’s made the jump behind you. When you turn back to him, he’s on his knees, with a palm over his unbeating heart. You stifle a snort behind your hand.

“Oh yes, very funny. Laugh away.”

“I am not laughing,” you insist, despite the smile adorning your features. “Gain enough momentum and remember to bend your knees when you land, old man.”

“Old!” he gasps, utterly offended, and you do laugh this time, before gearing to sprint and leap once more to the next roof.

He says your name again, astounded.

This pattern of trial and error continues as you traverse from rooftop to rooftop, peaking behind your shoulder to make sure Astarion doesn’t indeed fall. Roof running was always your favorite part of your past life. But right now, it is … made a touch sweeter… knowing a grumbling Astarion is following you.

On the last leap before you can return to the sidewalks, you glance back a bit quicker than you had before, and you swear.

You might have even caught a smile on his face while he leapt.

A flicker of warmth burns within you.

Like a secret, you keep it for yourself, choosing to be polite, instead of teasing him for it as he lands near to you.

His grievances bellow out once more. You roll your eyes, take his hand, and guide him down a balcony.

The warmth is permeating to your fingertips. You hope he cannot tell.

☾☼

The sun slumbers, yet you hasten your step. Astarion quickens behind you.

The inn you have been residing in comes into view. You glance sideways at Astarion. His fingers rest over his lips, too preoccupied taking in the look of the place to notice you staring. His gaze swivels to you, and you glance away, feeling for the inner pocket of your cloak. There inside the lining you find a silver band. You slip it onto your ring finger with a stifled sigh.

The city lanterns sway with the wheeze of a cool breeze.

“Let me do the talking,” you state as you move up the entrance stairs. The door swivels open with a whine. If he means to protest, you pay him no mind. You step in. At the counter, a young human woman—Amelia was her name— regards you graciously.

“Welcome! It’s a bit late, but I can help you here—.”

“I need another room,” you interject, resting your arm on the counter, the silver ring adorning your finger glinting in the candlelight. Her eyes immediately dart to it.

She swallows in recognition.

You worry not about her seeing your real face. She’s seen you wear too many a face to state which one is truly yours.

“Oh… but you see…, we are fully booked.”

Great.

The last thing you need is to share a room with Astarion.

Your thoughts must have surfaced on your face. Amelia relents.

“But! You’re in a suite. There’s a partition I can put up for you to ensure your privacy, and to… to best accommodate your…” her attention shifts to behind you, and her porcelain grin cracks, “your…”

“Accomplice,” Astarion states in a deliciously devious declaration.

“Acquaintance,” you retort over him.

You could pity the awkward look on Amelia’s face. You try to lift her crestfallen expression.

“That would work.”

She beams at this and gives a polite bow. She flips over a handmade sign at the front desk that states “away” and nearly trips over herself heading up the stairs.

You can feel Astarion’s stare.

“You can ask when we’re in our room,” you warn.

“Leave it to you to keep me in suspense.”

He leans close to you, a susurration at your ear. “Seems we’ll be sharing a room. Though the divider doesn’t seem entirely necessary.”

You conceal a tremor.

Your eyes flick to him. He smiles wide, all white and toothy, enough to show his fangs. Your heart flutters in your chest, much to your disapproval.

“And wake up with you luring over me? I’d rather take the peace of mind.”

His smile dips into a pout.

“That was one time.”

“One too many.”

“I seem to recall a time you very much enjoyed it.”

You flush.

“I enjoy you watching your tongue, let alone your fangs,” you counter, yet the damage is already done. He’s noticed the color in your cheeks, and now he’s simpering.

As you are about to deny the shade of cerise adorning your features, Amelia’s descending steps cease any response. With a reciprocal look, you and Astarion follow her to your room.

☾☼

As soon as the door closes behind you, Astarion is devouring the details of your luxurious abode. With its lavish velvet upholstery décor, and the balcony lattice windows peeking from behind puddled drapes, it is no doubt that crime pays. He sets forth scrutinizing your trinkets, jewelry, and closet with all the decorum of a cat swiping books from a shelf. The king-sized feather mattress, with its copious blankets, means to summon you, yet across from it, the fireplace awaits being awoken. Dividing the room is the promised partition. Its intricate wood carven spirals and swirls almost make up for the fact that it barely takes up a quarter length of the room.

So much for privacy.

You internally sigh. You will need to change locations eventually, so maybe one night won’t kill you.

You cross the room and within a few moments the enkindled fireplace crackles with a yawn. The flames are vivacious, and you steep in their heat. Your fingers move to undo the knot of your thick ponytail.

You hear a bottle uncorked. You glance over your shoulder; fingers caught in tangles.

Astarion has found the treasure trove of wine bottles in the cabinet above your desk. Tilting it to you in a wordless offering, you shrug. He sloshes the liquid before unceremoniously taking a gulp, his face scrunching as he groans with a trite repugnance.

“Gods, it’s foul.”

He then plops down upon the bed, languishing on top of it with the bottle in hand. You undo the button of your cloak, letting it tumble from your shoulders and into your arms. You fold it neatly, placing it in your armoire. Tension travels up your neck, and you absentmindedly rub at the ache while taking a seat on a lounge chair opposite the balcony window.

“So…”

He sways the bottle, all cavalier.

“How’d a guild ring manage its way on your finger?”

He tilts his head, then the bottle, as if signaling you. You know his ploy, yet you take the wine. You swallow down a dry, bitter, red.

“Circumstances.”

“That’s a touch vague, darling.”

“The details would bore you.”

“Then bore me to your hearts content. Gods know I’ll need something to mull over while immured in this room all the ‘morrow,” Astarion insists, glimpsing between the curtains to find the sliver of a sallow moon, hung low in the trench of night.

“How much do you know about blood oaths?” you say, while swirling the wine in the bottle.

“I’ve heard rumors here and there. Cazador’s cronies made hints at it, but the process was much too precarious for him to take part.”

“Being a vampire, I’m sure anything blood related would be,” you jest, before taking another chug, chasing an indifference that only comes from inebriation. Astarion sits up and meets your eyes.

“Tell me,” he says, “from what I know, you slice open your palm, do a handshake with some uppity, make a little promise and then you’re bound to keep it?”

“Along those lines, yes.”

“What happens if it’s broken?”

Your fingers clench over the bottle, and your eyes dash away from him. You set the wine down on the floor beside you and focus intently on unlacing your boots. You swallow down your hesitation.

“I don’t break promises.”

He looks to you unconvinced.

You know what he’s thinking. The promise he thought you made about his ascension.

“I don’t break oaths. I wouldn’t be here if I’d broken one,” you amend and take off your boots with a sigh of relief.

“Hmm…” Astarion hums listlessly, “so certain death if you fail…” he ascertains.

“It’s not like the Guildhall,” you offer as explanation, “we aren’t widely known to the Lower City. It’s an Upper City operation, and things are a bit more dire.”

“Another blood cult?” he proposes, dropping his legs over the edge of the bed and resting his chin on his knuckle.

“Less religious. More political.”

“And our young friend Wyll doesn’t know?”

“No one knows unless they are in it. Or… in what was Cazador’s case, potential affiliates.”

He gets up. Paces the room. You drink until the wine is gone. That purring haze of intoxication is settling in. He stops before you, hand on his hip. The crease in his brow, the crinkle in his nose, and the tautness in his tone make you sink deeper into the lounge chair.

“And not once, during our treacherous escapade against the mind flayer invasion and potential end of the world scenario, did you mention this to me.”

You answer a touch sheepish.

“If it makes you feel better, I didn’t mention it to anyone.”

“No, that doesn’t make me—” he rattles on, before suddenly pausing. He raises a brow, frown deepening.

“Not even Gale?”

Your brows furrow, and you smile aghast. You tuck a stand of hair behind your ear and shake your head.

“Why in the world would I have told Gale?”

He dismisses the response with a wave of his hand and a sulk.

“Just a thought.”

Astarion with arms crossed leans on the bedframe. The weariness of your bones and light buzz swim inside your chest. A brief quiet sets in.

He barks out a laugh, then contemplates you.

“So, all the things I told you...about my assorted past, and yet… I really don’t know much about you,” he suggests, half humorous, half miserable. His shift in tone is a riptide.

“You do know me,” you refute, stern and swift.

In all the ways that mattered.

To remember was to ache.

You used to fear he could feel all you kept from him in every touch. The callous rough of time. It was tar, stamped on scars made over and over, hidden beneath your clothes. The white knuckling of your beating heart. The room you never left, even after all the molding months, the unyielding years. It stays. You had thought before that it was enough for him to know the good. The worthy. The clean.

But to confess it all felt futile after that night in the alley, when you limped into bed, when you did not recover for a week. Truthfully, you haven’t fully recovered since.

How could you let him see any more of you? Yes. You had betrayed his trust. Yet, he had broken your heart...  

 Feeling yourself overflow, about to pour out, your head drops. You hold it in your hands, reminiscences pitting themselves into you like prickles of thorns in palms.

“Who I was before wasn’t worth knowing,” you confess.

 “Dabbling in a little upper city crime is hardly the most shameful act—” he mocks and then stops short at your appearance. It is distraught. Distant. He knows he’s pushed too far, yet he itches to persist, to rouse the quiet parts of you.

“You’re right,” you say sweeping the bottle from the floor, and standing up.

Approaching him, you meet his eyes, then hand him back the bottle.

“It’s not.”

He doesn’t quarrel.

 You proceed to the curtains, drawing them completely closed. Mutely you gather blankets from the armoire and toss them out on the lounge chair. It’s not ideal, yet you had already decided from the moment you entered the room that Astarion would have the bed. In the armoire, you collect a change of clothes. It is a simple white linen chemise. However, you pause before going behind the partition.

For some reason, getting undressed like this— even behind a divider wall, feels risqué. You wonder if it is merely the liquor that implores you to ask.

“Do you mind if I…” you trail off, and his wayward attention snaps back to you.

He quips with a sneer, holding the empty bottle in his hand, “Don’t be so modest. It’s not as though I haven’t seen everything before.”

You raise a brow, bristling.

“Fine,” you bite back. Choosing not to stand behind the partition, you begin to undo the latch of your waist belt pouch. You drag it off and set it in the armoire, the fuzz of your senses riddling you with the need for retaliation.

Maybe this is a bad idea.

 After a second of delay, you start plucking at the laces of your under-bust corset.

He sets the bottle at his feet and combs a hand through his locks. His voice carries a lilt of strained triviality, and discreet curiosity.

“Who’s our next mark?”

Before you respond, you loosen the knot at the back of your corset with a few tugs, the laces unraveling. His stare unfurls a fever in your blood.

“Cedric Lao. I’ve been tracking him for a few weeks, though I have a feeling his movement doesn’t match his polished routine,” you reply, while unhooking each clasp, one by one, at the front of your corset. You notice his chest rise and fall, as if lulled under the same impulse.

You slide the corset over your stomach and hips, and it falls to the floor with a dull thud. Grasping the bottom of your blouse, you tug it over your head in one fluid swipe to reveal your brassier. You inhale. Your fingers wedge into the waistband of your pants, and you pause.

Like a tempo dripping in indigo, the rhythm of your heartbeat builds. You glance at him. His hand splayed over his plush lips, holding his chin, as he surveys you with low lidded eyes and heavy lashes.

“Dabbling in debauchery then,” he suggests, subdued, yet attempting in vain at appearing aloof.

The syllables are molasses stuck to your teeth. You swallow, then speak.

“It’s more like backroom betting...” you say while pushing at your waistband, slow, sliding it over your hips, “I’ve pinned down a potential location, but the time frame is uncertain.”

The blaze of the fireplace encompasses the room in swells of enticing fervor. His gaze dips and follows your fingers as you glide your waistband further down the expanse of your thighs.

“I plan to go tomorrow evening to comb for clues at his home,” you finish concurrently as the firewood splinters, cracks, and pops. Your pants pool at your ankles.

 Astarion bites the tip of his index finger, traversing every single inch of your exposed skin. You wonder when it was the last time he fed. He is watching you as though he craves to devour you all over again.

You pluck your left bra strap and slink it down the slope of your shoulder. You do the same with the other side.

He licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry.

“A bit of breaking and entering, then?” he queries.

The hint of a smile tugs at the corners of your lips, all coy and mischievous.

“Will you be interested in coming?” you ask, then undo the back of your brassier. Before it can fall off, you press it to your breasts, choosing then to sidestep behind the partition. Out of his line of sight you hold your brassier in one hand for his view, then let it plummet to the ground.

“Hmmm…” he hums, and when you discard your panties in the same manner, he nearly chokes. An amused grin finds its way onto his rapt countenance.

He manages an answer with some effort.

“Of course, darling.”

When you step out from behind the partition, you’re adorned in only your chemise. You pick up your clothing articles, putting them away. You are a tad indolent in putting out the candles in the room, eyeing him with each blow. After, you sit on your lounge chair, chin resting on your knees and arms hugging your legs. The fireplace coats the room in a cadence of yellows and shadows swimming over your form. You tilt your head at him.

“Do you think you can really handle it?” you state with a feigned concern, “We won’t want to get caught.”

He huffs out a short laugh, and then gives you a feline smile, all fangs, and pearly teeth.

“We won’t be.”

☾☼

The sinking sun slips its fleeting fingers over serpentine streets. You wade in its waning glow, nimble body fluttering from one rooftop to the next. Before you reach the inn, you settle into a familiar space atop slanted tiles, overlooking the vast blanket of city. The coast of serene salt and collapsing waves whoosh at a far away distance, sparkling in ribbons of sanguine pink and tangerine. Remnants of the recent past speckle your mind in color, and with it comes an ache that mourns the mornings.

You used to hold him most nights.

With your arms wrapped snugly around his chest, your cheek pressed to the raised skin of his scar on his back, your body melded to his.

He had confessed, quiet, sincere.

“I prefer this way, you know,” he murmured, “I can feel your heartbeat against me. It feels as if it is both yours and mine.”

You had placed gentle kisses over the coarse ridges and bends of his scar, once, then twice, then over and over, until he shuttered, until he trembled with the awe of your affection.

Your pulse was a garden of flowers in bloom.

“It is both yours and mine,” you whispered.

The memory tangles with the reality of now.

If he only knew what you were willing to do, and what you had already done, to see him bask in daylight once more.

But would it be enough?

 Would he at least forgive you before he left again?

You drag a palm down your face, then rub your wrist, scanning west of the sea. Far off, copious somber clouds are billowing toward the city.

Eight. This will soon be your eighth kill.

Gods.

Even if he forgives you, will you ever be able to forgive yourself?

☾☼

A whimpering wind weakens your grip on the balcony’s limestone ledge. The impending storm sure to overtake the whole of the city, wails out in aguish. The rain has not come yet, but it will. You heave yourself over, and glance downward at Astarion. Wordlessly, you reach for his hand. He grips your forearm as you leverage him up with a silent wheeze. Sneaking over to the ornate windows, you peak in.

Inside is a sanctum shrouded in the darkness of unuse. Even if the servants are home, they were not permitted in these private quarters.

Your eyes flick to him, and he understands. His hand slides across the small of your back as he passes you. You suppress a shiver as he makes swift work of the lock.

You creep inside with Astarion following close behind. You both survey the sanctum, only to find obscene opulence. On the left are floor to ceiling oak bookshelves brimming with collections of novels and ornaments. On the right, framed oil paintings of the master of the house cover the wall. There are two doors, one perhaps leading to the hallway, and the other you aren’t too sure. In the center of the room is a desk smothered in parchments, feathered pens, a wax seal, and a lone candle stick. A velvet chair sits behind it.

The home is reticent. You light the candle, and it awakens saturations of maroons and gold leaf detail in the furniture.

 “A manor in the upper city, and yet we camped out in the dirt for weeks. I don’t think I can forgive you,” Astarion states in a hushed tone, taking interest in the engravings of the wood shelves, tracing his nimble fingers over the ebb and flow of design.

A hint of playfulness creeps into your whisper, “It’s not as if I could house everyone here, you know.”

“You could have housed me, at the very least.”

“Mmm. A missed opportunity, then,” you say while inspecting the documents atop the desk. You make sure to memorize the order or things before touching them, so that you may put it back accordingly, however, there is nothing of note.

“If I knew we could have been living in the lap of luxury, I would have insisted upon trespassing much sooner,” he responds back.

You try the drawers and find that one of them will not budge. There is a keyhole.

A distant creak stills your hand. Your eyes dart to Astarion opening one of the doors to reveal a closet of long tunics and cloaks. He skims over the silk, admiring the embroidery and embellishments of exquisite stones, lace, and gold trim.

He holds up a sleeve to his arm and glances at you.

“You once spoke of my beauty like poetry. Does this make me seem more enchanting?”  

“Astarion…” you warn, but he tsks.

“No. You’re right.”  

He pulls out one of the cloaks with a flourish and holds it to himself. “This one is more befitting of me. Brings out the crimson of my eyes.”

“It’s a bit gaudy. So yes, quite suitable for you,” you tease, skating your fingers along the underside of the desk. He scoffs in reply, turning his back on you to rifle through the clothes once more.

Your finger bumps into the unmistakable edge of a key. You extract it, and with a pleased smile, unlock the drawer. Inside are open letters sent by the initials TC. You rake over the parchment and find it. A location and a time.

20, Mirtul at the Blushing Mermaid. Midnight.

Shit.

That’s tonight.

Before you close the drawer, an unsent letter catches your eye. The handwriting is different, and ends with the initials CL.

Yes, we can still meet at Sharess’ Caress at the end of Mirtul. Though Theo, perhaps you should be less conspicuous about your frequent visitations---

Your stomach drops at the brothel’s mention.

Theo.

Theo Cordelian, your subsequent mark.

 But you know more than just his name.

Dammit.

You had hoped--

The muffled tap of footsteps echo from outside the room, coming up the stairway. Your eyes widen and meet Astarion’s. Mutely, you place the letters back inside the drawer, lock it, and then put the key beneath the desk once more. Right as you hastily blow out the candle, Astarion yanks at your arm, tucking you into the closet with him and shutting the door with a soft thud.

You find yourself wedged to the wall, Astarion flush to your body. His warm breath gusts over the slope of your neck. You try to be silent as footfalls stop before the sanctum, and the familiar click of a key unlocks the door.

Fuck.

You listen to the movement outside the closet and the stranger steps inside. They light a candle and hum to themselves a whimsical tune.

The flick of book pages turning, one by one, sets a pace for your pulse.

You try to move ever so slight to peer through the crack of the doorway, yet Astarion’s hands clamp down on your hips, hindering your movement with a shaky exhale. You can feel every part of him pressed into you, his lips a feather’s length from brushing over your throat, his chest to your back, his lower half…

Fuck.

You close your eyes tightly, biting your lip.

You can feel all of him like this.

Your breath hitches, your heartbeat an accelerating thump, thump, thump, in your ears. The darkness of your surroundings makes the sensations all the more insurmountable, and impossible to ignore. You attempt to shift, only a susurrus away, yet his lips skim your skin, and the swell of his crotch bumps against your backside.

“Ah,” a barely audible noise leaves your mouth, and immediately Astarion’s hand clasps over your lips.

The flick of pages pauses, if only for a moment, and then continues.

Whoever this person is, they have no intention of leaving any time soon.

Astarion’s fingers clench and unclench over your hip.

You hear him swallow.

Then, his lips are at your throat once more. You flush, color flooding your cheeks, as you know he can feel the pounding of your pulse, the inaudible whimper against his palm. An amalgamation of desire and trepidation stipples up your spine. A salacious shame burns between your thighs, and though you try to alleviate the heat by rubbing them together, it is simply not enough…  

It feels as though an eternity has passed, when a rumbling of thunder tumbles through the room, followed by a sudden shaa of rain pelting the windows.

Astarion nudges into you again, and there you feel it— the undeniable arousal straining against his trousers, the full weight and thick shape of him pressed firmly to you. His uneven breath fans out over your neck once more, and he curses into your skin, the sound a tremulous hum.

“…Shit.”

Yet he does not move, his left hand still clamped down on your hip. His labored breath shares with you secrets you keep yourself, and so, despite yourself, you rest your palm over his knuckles and give it a reassuring squeeze.

Astarion needs not to ask.

He knows.

He rocks against you, his mouth flat to your throat, molding his silent moans to the silk of your skin. Patters of rain dampen the sounds of your shared sin, crackles of thunder rippling through the room. Astarion’s hand finds its way into the front of your pants, wedging beneath your waistband and slipping into your panties, melding his fingers over the curls of your mound. His middle finger dips between your folds, the slick of your cunt causing him to shudder. It shamelessly drips down his fingers.

He rubs torturously slow circles over your clit, then slides the pad of his ring finger along the seam of your sex. His tongue glides over your pulse, lips sucking wisteria blossoms into your flesh, his palm over your mouth concealing your mews and sighs. You feel the sharp tips of his fangs, the mouthing of your name as he sinks his finger into you. He pumps it into you with an agonizingly succulent rhythm of in, out, in, out…

Gods.

You know you should stop… yet it is akin to a monsoon, the sleek stark strike of lightening in your core, the roaring thunder that reverberates in your bones, the scent of petrichor and the taste of fresh rain--

Astarion stills his fingers.

You inhale, quivering all over. You realize the light of the candle has been put out.

The stranger starts to move about the room.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Footsteps halt near the front of the closet.

Neither of you breathe.

Yet, the person stalks off toward the other door, opening it and closing it with a thud. The click of the lock punctuates the air. You listen as they retreat down the stairs.

 The only sounds left are those of the rain and your heart.

We can… go.

You mean to say it aloud, but no such utterance leaves you. Astarion’s lips hover over your ear.

 “I’m thirsty,” he states in a rasp wrought with hunger, “will you let me taste you?”

You freeze.

He cannot mean…

There is no way he would try to…

Yet as the thoughts swarm your mind, Astarion opens the closet door and steps out in front of you. A flash of lightening floods the dark room, and it is then that you realize the true meaning behind is words.

His scarlet irises are thin ringlets encircling the vast bloom of his pupils. His lips are pedals slightly plush and swollen. There are no inklings of humor or mischief upon his countenance.

Your mind goes blank.

You watch as he kneels before you.

Thunder booms in the distance.

It’s not enough to nod.

You have to say it aloud.

“Yes,” you accede, and then his eager hands are at your hips, sliding down your pants and your panties in one swipe. He drags them to your ankles, yanking them over one of your boots. He cannot bear to waste time doing the same for the other leg, so instead he grasps your legs and spreads your thighs. His lips pepper open mouthed kisses up the inside of your thigh as your hand finds leverage in the coils of his white curls. He drags the pad of his tongue up until his mouth is snuggly placed over your sex.

He is languid.

His tongue swirls over your clit and your arousal leaks down the cut of his jaw. You feel him groan deep in his throat, the vibrations drenching you in molten pleasure. You whine, teeth secured onto your knuckle, your other hand caught in his locks, urging and pleading him closer, nearer, and oh--

He sinks his tongue into the velvet of your sex, plunges it in and out, in and out, like a tide meeting the shore, relentless, endless— and you weep with the overwhelming sensation, as it is too fucking good, and almost too fucking much---

He hums your name like a prayer, his fingers taking the place of his tongue, his tongue finding its way to your clit again.

You know it is coming, can feel the hot haze of fizzles scattering under your skin, speckling your eyes in starry heavens. You glimpse downward at him just as a strike of lightning illuminates the room.

There, you find his eyes are already on you.

Watching. Wanting. Devouring.

And yet, for some foolish, impulsive reason, you want to tell him that you love him.

It is then that your orgasm ripples through you, dazzling, made of both light and sound. He clasps your thighs and doesn’t stop lapping at your cunt until your knees buckle, until you fear you might collapse from the raptures of your high.

When it is over, he wipes his hand over his wet mouth and chin, only to clean his fingers with his tongue.

You rest your weight on one arm, flushing behind your palm.

Fuck.

As he stands you fumble with pulling up your panties and pants, your eyes anywhere but his, but then you see the tension of his trousers, and gods.

You want to make him feel good too.

So bad.

He must read your mind. His hand touches yours.

“We don’t want to be caught,” he reminds you in a tone attempting mischief yet spoken with a lilt of bewilderment, as if he cannot believe what occurred between you either. He swallows.

“And we have Cedric Lao to kill,” he continues, his timbre a touch more composed.

“Yes,” you numbly respond, chest heaving, heart syncopating in your chest, “I know where he’ll be, and when.”

 “Then let us be off,” he says, then takes your hand in his, and leads you to where you first entered.

Gods.

The eighth mark tonight.

Nine more after.

Yet you can only wonder if you will be the one surviving this.

☾☼

[melithril]

[Adar] Never Again

♫ - It Will Be Me - Melissa Ethiridge

main masterlist | blog playlist

A/N: For @marciamolitor13 on AO3. This is quite angsty and a bit long, but I hope its worth reading! Enjoy! <3

Every day began to feel the same. The same four walls, the same footsteps outside his cell. The same view of the wall before him, everything unchanging. The damp wood smell was not the most pleasurable of smells, either. His current circumstance was also less than desirable, but Adar's will was much stronger than the elves had perhaps anticipated.

They interrogated him every day, and every day he gave the same answer. They asked of Sauron's whereabouts, he would reply with ignorance. The torture grew each time, but so did his willpower. The elves would not believe him, but he was not lying.

Adar simply did not know where Sauron was.

In truth, Adar did not know why he was here in any aspect. It wasn't him that the elves were after. It was Sauron, he was the one they needed. But would they listen? No, they would not. The elves believed if they kept Adar and tortured him, that he would either tell them what they wanted to know, or Sauron would show up and save him.

What they had failed to realise, however, is that Adar and Sauron were far from friends. Even on his best day, Sauron would not save Adar from anything. Despite all of his protests to the elves about this very thing, they chose to turn a blind eye,believing entirely in their cause. Adar pitied them, more for wasting their own time than his situation.

There were things the uruk was missing about not being chained up like a dog. Fresh air, fresh food, the ability to walk more than five feet without metal binding him to a post. But, more than anything in the world, he missed you. Your scent, your arms, the soft kisses you pressed against his skin. Adar missed your beauty, the light you radiated in his dark world.

Now, he thought back to the first time you had met.

You had come to him in his hour of greatest need. He was alone, having suffered already at the hands of Melkor. You had found the uruk in the woods, quite wounded and leaning against a tree. Something compelled you to help him, and you were a skilled healer. You gave him some herbs from your satchel, and made sure his wounds were bleeding no more. Grateful, Adar allowed a small moment of vulnerability and let his eyes close. He was shocked to find you still sat with him against the tree many hours later.

"Hello," your voice was soft, like music to his ears. "I am glad to see you well."

"Why did you help me? We have not met, I could have been anyone."

"You still are anyone, elf with no name," you played, brushing a stray hair from his face. "I am a healer, it is what I do best. I could not just leave you here to die."

Adar simply stared at you, in awe of the kindness you had shown him. He wasn't used to someone being so gentle, without even knowing so much as his name. Still a little weak, he used up some of his energy and took your hand, graciously squeezing it.

"Thank you, stranger."

"You are most welcome, stranger."

Adar had joined you back at your home, a small hut in the middle of the forest. You offered him your bathroom to clean up, and clothed him in fresh linens you had lying around, albeit they were semi-ill fitting. After he had returned from the bath, he found a table of food and drink before him.

"You look fresh, you must feel it," you smiled, calm and welcoming. "Come, sit and eat, you most certainly need it."

Silently, Adar sat across from you and began to eat, feeling guilty for putting such a burden on you. His eyes had not met yours since he had sat down, a sign to you that he was nervous. You stood, kneeling down before him. Taking one of his scarred hands into your own, the uruk's eyes finally landed on your own, as you looked up to him.

"You need not fear anything here, mellon, you are safe inside these walls. I promise you, I will keep you safe as long as you need."

Adar went to sleep that night for the first time in so long, warm and comforted and with a sense of belonging. The last thing he thought of with his newly unclouded mind was that he never did tell you his name.

Commotion outside his cell brought Adar from his thoughts, though it didn't seem too loud. The feint sound of metal hitting the stone floors suggested to him, as a man who had heard his fair share of it, that it was armour and men inside it. Wondering just what had happened, Adar's head snapped to his door, eyeing the shadow that now had arisen on the wall just outside. A trip and curse from an all too familiar voice made his head spin.

Keys were inserted in the door keeping him trapped in the cold, stone walls, and as the iron bars swung open, your form appeared from around the corner.

"Adar!" you whispered, but with urgency behind your voice. You ran to him, though you did not throw yourself into his arms in case he had any injuries. He most certainly did, and the extent of which you were not expecting. "Oh Adar, what have they done to you?"

"Shh," he cooed, pulling you onto him, ignoring every searing pain that ran through him. "You came for me? Why would you risk your life like that, you could have been killed."

Adar's voice was raspier than normal, and you knew he had not been fed or watered properly in so long. You opened your flask, allowing him to drink. You stroked the side of his face, placing your forehead against his own once he was finished.

"I would not so easily abandon you, my love. I always said I would protect you, and I will keep to that word. I may be a healer, but I can also kill, too. They have harmed the man I love, and so they suffered the consequences. I am sure the elves will not take too kindly to their dead soldiers, perhaps we can make haste. Can you stand?"

"I can," he muffled out, as you helped him up and undid his shackles. Before you could do anything else, once he was free Adar's arms encased you, and he kissed you with a needy passion. You entangled your hands into his brown locks and kissed him back, stopping him from stumbling over.

"Come, Adar, I have a horse waiting. It is dark enough outside that we can escape undetected."

With that, you left, supporting Adar's weight as you went. You heard a chuckle come form your lover, and you looked up to question what was so funny to him.

"I find it humourous that you told me that the darkness would be the reason we were safe to escape, and not twelve dead elves that were at my guard."

You smiled, shrugging your shoulders. "Well, the darkness helps, no?"

Adar laughed again, a beautiful sound to your ears, as you made your ways across the field between you and the horse. Helping your injured lover up, you rode into the forest and headed for home. It did not take long, as your steed was among the fastest in the land. Perhaps two hours had passed and you were at your door.

The ride home had been silent, and you knew the experiences Adar had inside that prison would have taken its toll on him. You allowed him to sit, and fetched him some water and food. Gratefully, he began to eat. You headed to the bathroom and ran him a hot bath.

"Starlight," Adar spoke, beckoning you forward to him. You were pulled swiftly onto his lap, where he held you by the waist, resting his forehead on your shoulder. Silently, you held him. You knew that what he endured with the elves would have reminded him of his past, and for that you would not pressure him to speak. Instead, you whispered to him words of comfort.

"My love," your lips by his ear as you placed a kiss on his temple. "You are safe again. I told you when you first arrived here as a stranger that no harm will come to you in these walls. That remains true. I have you, and I will always protect you. There is nothing in this world I would fear enough to not follow through with my promise. You are my light, my love, and never again will I let you suffer in this life."

Tears fell from Adar's eyes in a moment of complete emotion, and you felt them race along your skin. Gently, you tilted his chin up to look at you, cupping his face with your hand and smiling softly. Your lips met his, pausing to give him time to reject. But, he closed the gap instead and rested his hand on the back of your neck. The kiss lasted for what felt like forever for him, and he pulled away to marvel at you sat before him. Taking the opportunity, you traced his features with your fingers and spoke.

"I love you, Adar. More than you could ever know, but I hope you feel it every day. Now come, let us bathe and rest, and as the sun rises tomorrow we can make this a thing of the past."

You would never know just how much your words meant to Adar. To have someone who cared so fiercely made his heart warm. To him, you were everything. He had found a new lease on life loving you, and vowed to love you to the end of his days and with everything he had left in his heart.

[zeggyzone]

off-air | isekko

iso/gekko (valorant) tags: love confessions, domestic fluff, feelings realization, snuggling & cuddling, might be ooc, cross-posted on ao3

synopsis: while iso is trying to blow off some steam after a stressful day, gekko texts him. fifteen minutes later, he's in his best friend's room on wash day. bonding ensues.

sfw. 5.1k words.

notes: - most of this was written at 3-5 am, so if you see any grammatical errors, *no you didn't.* - iso and gekko have a pre-existing friendship; a close one at that! they have platonically held hands, hugged, all of that while trying to break iso out of his shell :) - sorry if it's out of character - i also wrote this while listening to iso and gekko's canonical spotify playlists, along with the isekko playlist made by lili on spotify! - the name of this fic in my documents is "The Oneshot Where Iso and Gekko Confess Over A Bathtub On A Random Tuesday" hahaha

STOKYO DRIFT, Cemetary Drive I said I’m ready to cash out I said I’m ready to– I said I’m ready to– I said I’m ready to–

Iso exhales.

Just a round at the Range. It’s that simple. Blow off some steam, Zhao Yu.

It’s that simple. No strings attached. It was just him, his Raging Hunter (which he customized with the help of Raze just a while back– she helped everyone with it at one point, and Iso was on her supposed list of clientele), and a bunch of robot dummies.

Truth be told, Iso didn’t even know why he was here. In recent meetings with Sage, he found himself sitting across from her in her own bed, talking about the nightmares he experiences on the daily. The gunfire, the blood, the flashes of violet.

Especially the gunfire.

Yet here he was, Raging Hunter in his hand, doing the one thing he knows how to do in a last-ditch effort to calm himself down. He pulls back the hammer with his thumb, exhaling as he flicks his arm towards the ‘start’ button, squeezing the trigger ever so slightly–

Bzzt.

What.

Iso tries to ignore the buzzing in his front pocket, gently vibrating against his side. He steadies his aim, but it buzzes again, and he sighs, holstering his Raging Hunter, and pulling out his phone.

SECURE SERVER_VAL.VP // PRIVATE MESSAGE: GEKKO-ISO

GEKKO [15:41 UTC]

yo yo yo can u help me clean wings ?

Iso blinks.

You have to send five back-to-back texts to get that point across?

ISO [15:42 UTC]

Why so sudden ?

GEKKO [15:42 UTC]

yk how he gets and he likes u Hes fussing so fuckin bad rn holy shit

[SYSTEM] Gekko sent an image. [A 0.5x photo. Gekko looks disgruntled at the camera. He’s in a black shirt, and you can see Wingman crawling out of the tub.]

Iso almost laughs.

ISO [15:42 UTC]

Let me clean up. Ill be there in 15

GEKKO [15:43 UTC]

THANK YOU DUDE I was going actually crazy you are like a life saver

ISO [15:42 UTC]

👍

Thumbs-up? Thumbs-up?

Holy shit.

Iso unholsters his sidearm, putting on the safety as he makes his way to the teleporter, walking through it with a shudder (he’ll never get used to it) and making another healthy stride toward the locker room. He passes Omen’s desk, glancing at his bonsai tree left with a refilled watering can as he puts four of his fingers on the handle, the fingerprint scanner whirring and clicking the locker open with a little green light. Iso puts away his gun in the tiny mold left in the back part of the locker.

On the little hanger for his mission outfit, he has a woven bracelet Gekko made him a few weeks prior; red, purple, white, and black in nature. He took it off before training. It means quite a bit to him, and he would hate to mess it up.

He goes to close his locker, looking at it for a moment, hesitating, then closing it.

He was going to help bathe Wingman– he doesn’t want to get it dirty.

Iso’s sneakers pitter against the floor, narrow steps suddenly growing heavy as he approached Gekko’s door. He knocks, putting his hands in his pockets immediately after.

Gekko doesn’t seem to notice, as Iso hears small Spanish curse words leave his lips behind the muffled door. Iso shrugs, pushing the sliding door open with a small huff. He closes it behind him and walks towards Gekko’s bathroom door, generously left open for his incoming guest.

The sight is comedic. Wingman is hurdled over his owner’s shoulder, trying to squirm his way out of Gekko’s grip, both hands reaching outward like a baby trying to reach something. Gekko has his hands on Wingman’s chubby jelly sides, holding him back with an iron grip. Wingman suddenly falls limp at the sight of Iso, except for the grabby hands that continue. Gekko turns around, confused.

“Oh, shit, you’re here.” His eyes widen, letting go of Wingman. He hops down to climb Iso like a jungle gym, and Iso picks him up before his pants get any soap on them, walking over to the tub once again, and placing Wingman in.

“Let me take off my jacket. I can’t really help with all this stuff on–” Iso says, turning on his heel. Gekko gives him an acknowledging ‘aight’ and very gently scolds Wingman to stay.

Iso walks to Gekko’s bed (his radivore sling was notably discarded on the bed— a pair of eyes look at him) tugging his hoodie over his head. He neatly lies it on the end of Gekko’s bed, having done so quite a few times before (Gekko often called Iso up for a friendly hangout that consisted of Iso knocking out a few hours into their gaming sessions). He looks at the gloves on his hands, removing them with the tiniest bit of clamminess.

He feels weird without them.

He tucks them into the pockets of the hoodie, sliding over to Gekko’s post, and kneeling on the bathmat. Wingman looks up at Iso expectantly. “I’ve never… washed a radivore before.”

“All good. It’s pretty damn simple if you ask me. Just lather the little guy up with some soap until he’s extra squeaky clean. It’s the same for the rest of my crew.” Gekko explains, handing Iso the soap along with a little glove with bristles. Gekko has one on his non-dominant hand. “And you literally can’t mess this up. Bro loves you.”

Iso nods, taking it. “Pfft, I hope so,” he responds, feeling the warm water against his one bare hand.

He’s not particularly used to having his gloves off. Sure, he takes them off when he has to, but otherwise, they stay on. He feels practically naked without them. The same goes for his headphones. His little earbuds are in his ears, playing music low enough to the point where he can still understand what Gekko is saying.

UBER EATS, Northside Hollow & Ethan Ross

Gekko watches as Iso puts on the glove. He places his bare hand to hold Wingman gently as Iso puts a generous amount of soap on the garment, lathering it on Wingman’s jelly head. He watches attentively, folding his arms on the edge of the bathtub to rest his head in. Gekko takes in the sight in front of him; Iso, in his bathroom, washing his little buddy with all of the benignity in the world.

Iso glances toward Gekko, a small huff leaving his lips, “So you called me here to do your dirty work for you?”

“No, I called you here to be Wingman’s .. uhh, social … buffer. He likes you. I’m using my resources to my advantage! Boom.” Gekko moves his hands to the best of his ability despite resting on them– his animated self refuses to go unseen even in a moment of exhaustion. “He’s been fussy all day,” Gekko reaches his gloved hand to lather some soap on the radivore’s back, “but the second you show up,” a short breath, “se convierte en un angelito.”

Iso understood ‘convierte’ and ‘angelito’ when placed together. He assumed from context clues… “He turns into an angel.”

He stifles a laugh.

…

“Hey,”

Gekko blinks, “What’s good?”

“I’ve been wanting to ask–” he keeps his gaze on Wingman, but he can feel Gekko staring him down, “–we never exchanged names. Of course, we have our callsigns, but … that’s different. I just feel since we’ve been hanging out so often we should refer to each other as something more … uh, friendlier than … Gekko. Or Iso.”

“Oh?” Gekko furrows his brows, running his bare hand through his prickly green hair, “Damn, you’re right,”

It was… odd, admittedly, but, when he really thought about it, Iso was right. How many weeks has it been? Hell, it’s probably been a bit more than a few months. He’s been hanging out with this guy almost non-stop and yet, they don’t know each other’s actual names.

Iso knocks him free from his thoughts. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“No, no, I’m so down. Just, how do we like, go about this? Like… yo, man, my name is blah, blah, blah.”

 Iso offers a playful smile, “Rock, paper, scissors for it?” he asks, swatting his bare hand in the air to remove excess droplets, drying it to the best of his ability. “If I lose, I go first. And vice versa.” He holds his fist out to indicate the beginning of the game.

Gekko laughs, a small grin on his face as he puts his fist up. “Oh, you’re on.”

“Aight– rock, paper, scissors, shoot–!”

Iso plays paper.

Gekko plays scissors. “Tough luck.”

Iso lets out a small laugh, returning to washing Wingman. He keeps his gaze on the radivore, feeling Gekko’s eyes burn into him like fire.

“My full name is Li Zhao Yu.” Iso makes sure to accentuate every letter.

“Li … Zhao Yu,” Gekko repeats it back to him, getting a few of the syllables wrong, but Iso is quick to correct him— gently, of course.

“Shit, that’s cool. So, it’d be just Zhao Yu, right?” He asks after the mild training, lifting his head up from the side of the tub, holding himself up by his chin.

“Yeah, basically.” Iso shrugs, returning to washing Wingman.

“Yo, could I mash those together? I think that’d be a pretty sick nickname,” before Iso could say anything, Gekko spits out, “Zhayu. It’s like, not even that different, but, it sounds cool as fuck, right?”

Iso looks at Gekko, eyes wide.

“I don’t have to use it if you don’t wanna—“

“No,” Iso says almost immediately, “I mean— no, I like it. I just haven’t had someone give me a nickname in— I don’t know— forever,” Iso admits with a small laugh, rinsing Wingman. “It’s nice. I like it.”

Gekko lets out the tiniest sigh of relief, “Good. I didn’t wanna like, overstep.”

Iso nods followed by a small hum of acknowledgement. “It’s your turn.”

“Oh, yeah— we doin’ full names, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Oh man,” Gekko says between a laugh, pushing himself to sit up straight. He reaches over for the towel on the counter, holding it and awaiting Iso to hold him up, clearing his throat, “My full, legal, name is Mateo Armendáriz De la Fuente.”

“… what.”

Gekko laughs even harder than last time, “Dude, that’s why I asked. It’s kind of a mouthful.” He bites back a laugh, “You can just call me Mateo.”

“Mateo … Armen—what? Woah, you’re right,” Iso says with a tiny laugh punctuating the end of his sentence, “if you think you butchered my name, I wouldn’t even know where to begin with yours.”

He then realizes the meaning behind his words, quick to defend himself, “I’m not saying your name is weird or anything— it’s just hard for me to pronounce— or uh, remember, in that sense.”

“Maybe I should just stick to Mateo.”

Gekko laughs, thankfully.

“I’ll learn your full name, trust me,” Iso says, drying off Wingman like a little baby.

“I know, man.”

“But, now that I’m looking at you… you really do strike me as a Mateo.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gekko raises a brow, a little smile on his lips.

“Oh— nothing, it just— makes sense?” Iso quickly explains, not wanting to offend.

“Dude, you’re chill. I’m just playin’.”

Iso blinks, turning back to Wingman. “One more thing,”

“Yeah?”

“Where did your crew’s names come from?” Iso asks out of the blue, holding Wingman up in the air next to his head, making him face Gekko with him.

“Honestly, most of them kinda just … came to me,” Gekko admits, not having an exact answer. “I kinda named them based on their whole ability thing—? I dunno how to explain it.”

“Dizzy has that plasma thing— and guess what! Makes people dizzy. Get it?” He shrugs, “Wingman’s kinda self-explanatory. He’s my wingman.”

“Then, uh, Thrash. She was kind of the more aggressive outta-all of them? And if we’re goin’ back to the whole ability-based-name-thing, Mosh seems pretty self-explanatory too, yeah?”

“I guess— makes more sense now,” Iso shrugs. “And that’s pretty cu—“

Cool.

“— cu-ool,” Iso catches himself, making a weird new word in trying to save himself from that embarrassment.

He quickly holds up Wingman for Gekko to dry, and lest Iso’s anticipations, Gekko doesn’t take Wingman from his hands, just running the towel on Wingman to dry him off.

Iso feels Gekko’s hands against his, hindered by the towel between them as he holds Wingman while Gekko pats him down to dry the little guy. A tiny rosyness creeps up to the round of Iso’s cheeks as he watches Gekko’s hands, hyper-aware of the fact that they would be touching if it weren’t for the towel working as a barrier.

Iso looks away, tapping his finger on Wingman as gently as he can to the beat of the song playing in his earbuds.

Gekko’s eyes flick up to Iso midway through the task, and he smiles. Gekko smiles up at Iso and he returns it without a second thought.

“Yo, you’re all red, amigo.”

No fucking way.

“Há? No, am I? I’m not, no, it’s just the light, no?” Iso sprints through his words, looking at Gekko everywhere but his eyes. He utters a curse in Chinese, tilting his head away in an effort to hide his supposed blush. “Sorry.”

backseat, jungle bobby & lentra.

“Pfft,” Gekko lets out the tiniest giggle, “It’s aight.”

Iso comes back to reality when Wingman shimmies out of his grip, running back to the harness on Gekko’s bed. He almost begs the little radivore to stay– to save him from this terrible situation. He thinks he could die.

Instead, Iso looks at the radivore harness like a broken man, and Gekko laughs even harder, forcing Iso to get up.

“I’m grabbing my hoodie.” He announces, shuffling towards the bed.

“Oh, come on– I don’t mean to tease–”

Iso rolls his eyes, falling onto Gekko’s bed, face first. He grabs his hoodie– gently pushing Gekko’s harness out of the way– now pulling the pull-over up under his chin as a pillow. 

He didn’t want to believe he was in love with his best friend, but Iso knew he was too far gone to even deny it anymore. The way Gekko laughed, the way he teased him, the jokes he made, and the considerate things he did for him, whether it be making little woven bracelets or buying him Boba whenever he went out— that was all casual, right? It had to be.

Gekko walks out– Iso doesn’t notice– and sits near the headboard, looking down at him with yet another teasing grin. It’s fucking lethal.

Then, with that smile, Iso realizes.

Of fucking course it wasn’t.

Iso averts his gaze, jaw dropped as he came to that realization.

“Relax, bro. You’re gonna pop a blood vessel.” He hears Gekko say.

Iso shoves his face into his hoodie. There’s silence until Gekko asks the burning question,

“Were you going to say that it was cute, or am I crazy?”

Iso groans. “Do we really– do we really have to talk about this now??” He says with half of his speech muffled as he finally peeks up from his hoodie, blush flaring into his pale skin.

“I mean, you’ve slipped up a lot like that before. I dunno why you’re tweakin’ right now,” Gekko shrugs.

That sentence makes Iso’s heart drop.

“I’ve what.”

Gekko looks at Iso and is met with a beautiful picture; he’s resting on his bed (his!) and his eyes are a bright violet, looking at Gekko with a wide expression. If Gekko could peer into his mind, he’d only find that Iso is so embarrassed that he might as well have been stripped bare in public– but despite all of it, he finds Iso sprawled like this endearing. It’s hilarious, even– how did Iso not notice Gekko noticing all of the little moments? The stolen glances, the lingering touches, the late-night talks– Gekko almost laughs at his obliviousness.

The silence is almost suffocating, so Gekko begins, “Zhayu,” a breath, “you’re not as slick as you think.”

Gekko looks at Iso’s hands, and they’re balled into tight fists, and when he looks into those raging violet eyes again, they’re twitching.

“And…” Iso sounds out of breath, “You never told me?!”

Gekko blinks. Then he howls.

“No! Don’t laugh–!“ Iso pushes himself up, kneeling on the bed in a position that would definitely make his feet numb later, “Gekk– Mateo. How long? And— just how many times have I slipped up like this around you?” Iso curses just a few seconds after the delivery of that sentence, running a hand through his hair, forehead moist.

Gekko sits up straight, adjusting his sitting stance into crisscrossed, looking away as he puckers his lips, drumming his hands on his thighs, “Man, you know… like… was I supposed to count?”

Iso’s eyebrows drop.

“Mateo, I will strangle you right here, right now.” Iso threatens, but his hands don’t move from his knees. Gekko looks at him with a dubious look, and Iso realizes he isn’t exactly feeding into the whole ‘fear factor’ of it. He’s quick to lift up his hands in front of him and exaggerate the motion as if he’s moving Gekko’s head back and forth like a maraca.

It’s silent.

Then, it’s enough to make Gekko fall into a giggle fit. Then, Iso gets mad that he’s not taking his threat seriously. Then, Iso is so mad that he starts laughing. Hard.

He’s hurled over on his knees, holding his stomach as he falls onto his side, just next to Gekko’s knee, and his gut hurts. His gut hurts from laughing, and Iso realizes he’s laughing with no one better than Gekko himself. Iso cough-laughs, covering his mouth. Gekko is hitting himself with his fist, smack dab in the chest to stop himself from coughing. Iso remembers the little ‘I lowkey have asthma’ and one last laugh bubbles out from his throat.

He looks at where the woven bracelet Gekko made him a few weeks ago would be and imagines it; purple, white, red, and black, all woven together to create a sense of Iso in itself.

He feels naked. Yet the mirage reminds him that he would protect it with his life.

Gekko deflates, his arms lining up behind him to keep himself steady. His head falls to where Iso’s head is, then his unusually bare wrist.

“Where’s your bracelet?” He asks, reaching over, and tapping on the little pulse point where it would be. “I thought you liked it.”

“I didn’t want to mess it up when we cleaned Wingman,” Iso breathes, his voice tired.

Gekko hums.

Iso blinks.

“You’re my best friend, you know that?” Iso says blankly, feeling Gekko’s fingers brush up against his wrist ever so slightly as he retreats them back to hold himself up. Iso’s fingers twitch with anticipation. He bites his lip softly, looking at Gekko’s surprisingly soft hands, despite them looking so rough.

Iso keeps half of his face in the sheets, left cheek squished up against the surface. He rests on the bed, getting comfortable with Gekko at his side, legs crossed and looking at him like he is a piece of valuable, fragile treasure and not the cold-hearted ‘Dead Lilac’ killer everyone made him out to be.

No, Iso corrects himself, not everyone. Me.

Iso is who makes himself out to be the Dead Lilac. He leaves that behind today; hopefully forever.

“And you’re mine, querido.” Gekko breathes, his foreign tongue slipping. Gekko registers what he said seconds later, quick to change the subject, “You look like a cat like this.”

Iso mumbles, “Querido? What does that…” But he gives up halfway through the question, mostly because he knows Gekko won’t tell him what it means. “A cat?” He instead asks, raising a brow. Gekko flicks his cheek, and he mumbles a small “ow” as soon as the stinging feeling occurs. “I’m not going to meow if that’s what you’re asking.”

A chuckle, “That sucks.”

“Ew, you want me to meow?” Iso feigns a laugh, hiding his full face in the sheets to muffle the tiny effervesce, before coming back to look up at Gekko. “You’re so weird, Mateo.”

“Hater.”

Iso sticks his tongue out, lifting his right arm to flick Gekko’s nose.

“Ow.”

Then it’s quiet. Iso hates quiet.

“Teo. I want to ask you something.”

supernova, Godly the Ruler.

Gekko feels like he knows what’s coming. “Ask away.”

“Have you ever thought about …” Iso pauses, looking away to regain some of the composure that he lost as he began the sentence, “Have you ever thought about us? And what we are?” Iso exhales, unaware he is holding his breath. “Because I don’t know what we are at this very moment.”

Iso had avoided eye contact for so long. He brings himself to look at Gekko, and he looks at him the second the look in his best friend’s eyes alters.

“I have.” A deep breath, “Many times.”

“What do you think about? What are we?” Iso asks.

He quickly adds to the end, “To you?”

“I…” Gekko purses his lips, “Well, right now. We’re just homies, yeah?”

“At the moment … I’d say so.”

Iso looks at where the bracelet would be— a fond reminder of their camaraderie. Then he looks into Gekko’s eyes and finds the same unreadable look. He looks at Iso’s wrist with such fondness. Happiness. Content. A secret fourth thing. Iso finds comfort in it.

“What about everything else you’ve thought of?”

“You really wanna know?”

“Do you want to tell me?” Iso asks, avoiding Gekko’s gaze, and he realizes that their two hands are almost grazing— holding each other. Iso’s hand twitches again. “If so, yes.”

“Pfft,” Iso swears he sees a mischievous glint in Gekko’s eyes, “Least serious… uuh…”

“I’ve thought of kissing you.”

Iso’s face distorts, pursing his lips as he shoots up from his lying position. “Least serious?! That’s the most uncasual thing I can think of!” He almost shouts out of pure shock. He’s not angry, just confused.

Gekko belly laughs, his hand smacking onto his stomach to support himself, “I’m playin’! There’s stuff before that, tonto.”

Iso wants to smack him for messing with him like that. That thought is wiped when he sees the red against Gekko’s ears and he’s done for. Smitten.

“And… compared to other shit, I think that’s pretty tame.”

…

“You’re so gross.” Iso blurts out.

“What? You wanted the truth, so you got the truth,” Gekko holds his hands up in defense before falling next to him again, “and to give you the whole truth, if I were to tell you what I’m thinking now, it’d be... that… ay…” Gekko’s right hand returns to his face, covering his mouth and trailing down his jaw, “maybe there have been times I’ve thought about us– and not as what we said we were a few minutes ago.”

Iso understands those connotations. He looks in the middle of their laps, almost touching. He exhales.

“I would say that the thought is mutual.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A pause, “... Yes.”

“Mateo, I—“ Iso purses his lips. “I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

“You welcomed me. Open arms. I don’t know if you… if you knew, but, you invited me anyway. I didn’t know if you were just like that with everyone, but– either way, you– you are just… perfect. I got to know you and I was like, how could anyone ever hate this guy? You’re everything, you’re all that there is right, and, wǒ qù, I can’t even fucking describe–” 

It’s hot. Then Iso realizes why.

Gekko leans in, pressing their lips together in a tender, soft embrace. Iso’s lips are the tiniest bit chapped against Gekko’s fairly soft ones, and he eats it all up. He relishes the feeling of his lips on Gekko’s— his best friend.

He stays like that for a hot minute, pulling away and looking at Gekko like a lost kitty who had found homage in him. He catches his breath.

“... I didn’t know how to shut you up–”

“Oh my God.” Iso smacks Gekko’s shoulder and in return, he pokes him in the side.

Iso jolts, letting out a quiet yelp— one that’s a bit out of character for his assassin background.

Then Gekko has a devious look on his face.

Was the fabled ‘Dead Lilac’ … ticklish?

Iso quickly covers his mouth in embarrassment, grip tightening as he realizes the noise he just let out. He looks at Gekko.

“No way.”

“No. It wasn’t anything. That wasn’t me, it was … Thrash—“ Iso quickly tries to back himself up, hand slipping from his mouth and immediately going to cover his sides as a last defense.

“Uh-huh. And where is Thrash?” He asks, nudging his head towards his harness as his hand reaches over to an exposed part of Iso’s side.

“Mateo!” Iso quickly scrambles away, rolling over to the other side of the bed, getting on his knees, and holding his left arm in front of him, creating distance between them as his right arm wraps around his own waist, trying to protect himself from an impending tickle attack.

“I will wrestle you on this bed and win.”

“I have little siblings and cousins. Fuckin’ bring it.”

And then he pounces.

The tickle match is full of empty threats, foreign curses, and lots of giggles. Too many. There was a cackle here and there, maybe even a snort. By the time it ended, Gekko fell from his place on top of Iso, lying next to him with a few laughter-filled coughs. Iso catches his breath.

“Mateo,”

A breathless “Yeah?”

“I wanna be your boyfriend.”

Iso’s headphones die.

A deep breath, “Can I?”

Iso stares at the ceiling. He notices Gekko is, too.

It’s quiet. So fucking quiet.

But Iso can handle it now.

Gekko is next to him, their arms are touching, and the silence isn't deafening for once. He feels the energy in the room and it doesn’t suffocate him, if anything, he’s breathing better.

“Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

Iso turns on his side. Gekko faces him.

Iso’s tired expression shifts into a happy, close-eyed smile as he tackles Gekko into a bear hug, invariably pushing him down onto the bed, putting his full body weight onto the poor guy, hugging him tightly. “Thank you.”

Gekko let out an involuntary gasp as Iso suddenly tackled him down onto the bed, nearly winding him as felt Iso’s full weight. He laughed softly, the air knocked out of him as he lay there under, returning the hug with equal enthusiasm, wrapping his arms around Iso and holding him tightly against his chest.

“Yeah, mi corazón,” he said softly, “Thank you.”

“Corazón,” Iso exhales against Gekko’s neck, pushing himself off from the top, “what does that mean?” He asks, breathing against Gekko’s chest, cheek squished against it. He holds him softer now, breathing in Gekko’s cologne.

“My heart,” Gekko says, a careful hand running up Iso’s clothed back, drawing small circles, “you are my heart, Zhao Yu.”

“If I am your heart,” he feels Gekko’s heartbeat against his cheek, “then, you are my treasure,” Iso smiles, “bǎo bèi.”

“Bǎo bèi…” he repeats sleepily, “mi tesoro.” Gekko breathes.

“I love it when you speak Spanish, Teo.” Iso says, nickname rolling off his tongue tiredly. “I don’t understand it, but it’s…” a huff, “nice.”

Gekko has a feeling he wanted to say something else, “Yeah?”

Iso realizes he’s fucking done for (again), “¿Te gusta cuando hablo español, mi tesoro?”

“Augh, stop it,” Iso rolls his eyes, pushing Gekko’s face back by his chin, looking away, laughing just a little bit. “You’re such a tease, sha bī.”

“Aww, is that another cute nickname?”

“No. I called you an idiot.”

“Oh. Chúpamela.” Gekko deadpans, flicking Iso’s forehead with little to no remorse.

Iso laughs and realizes that this is all he has ever wanted. This was bliss, and Iso has felt this way for as long as he was in Gekko’s presence. He moves ever so slightly, just so he can smell Gekko’s cologne, and his new boyfriend allows it. It smells of lemon zest with the faint undertones of green apple and vanilla. Iso swears that he can smell the tiniest bit of cedarwood. That combination with Gekko’s personal musk makes him dizzy. (Pun intended)

“You smell good.”

“You like my cologne? I wanted to try a new one.” Gekko says breathily, drumming the pads of his fingers on Iso’s back in a rhythmic pattern.

“I know. You smelled different.” Iso mumbles, inhaling. “I like this one better, though. The other one was too…” He thinks of a descriptor, “Smoky.”

“I used to layer two colognes,” Gekko admits, “The footnotes on it were tobacco, vanilla, then uhh… truffle, I think.”

“Too smoky.”

“It was a gift from Brimstone. I felt kinda bad,” He mumbled, “I’d feel better if he taught me how the hell he got his score so high in the video games in the basement.”

“You’re still trying to beat it?”

“Yeah.”

“… wait, you noticed that I changed my cologne?” Gekko blinks, looking down at Iso, who looks up to him bashfully.

“Maybe,” he exhales, adjusting his position to face away from Gekko, “it’s a very discernible smell— anyone would notice.”

“Sure.”

Gekko slightly spoons Iso, resting his head atop his, breathing in. “Damn, your hair smells like…” he thinks, “Tangerines?” he says with a slight hint of confusion in his voice.

“It’s just my shampoo,” Iso hums, shifting himself to tilt his head up at Gekko, “I like tangerines.”

“Me too,” Gekko says.

Quietly, Iso asks, “We just gonna stay like this?”

“What time is it?”

Iso looks at the alarm clock to the side. Before he can speak, his stomach grumbles, which prompts Gekko to ask instead, “Have you eaten?”

“I had breakfast.”

“You need to eat.”

Iso exhales knowing there’s no stopping Gekko– he’s already getting up and Iso follows that action. It’s quick, it’s swift, and his new boyfriend grabs his wrist and pulls him up onto his feet, intertwining their hands. They’ve held hands before– you know, in cases where Gekko is dragging him through a crowd at a festival or Iso has to pull him away from getting distracted while the agents go shopping. But this was different. The old Iso would probably tug his hand away, but the new Iso is comforted by this scenario– better yet, he seeks it. He never wants to let go of it and he doesn’t think he ever will. Gekko’s touch is grounding and Iso feels his mind go quiet as their fingers interlace. His free hand comes to remove his headphones and awkwardly puts them in the case, shoving his hand into his pocket.

“Alright.”

He’s gotten used to this.

hope you enjoyed! it's my second valorant fic i've written, so hopefully i did them justice.

here's my twitter! check it out please i need moots (not just valorant) LMAO

[not-poignant]

112/132 - Underline the Black (omegaverse)

Title: Underline the Black Rating: Explicit Pairing: Efnisien ap Wledig/Dr Gary Konowalous Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Darkfic, Disturbing themes, Age Gap, Omegaverse, Alpha/Alpha, no Mpreg, Medical experimentation, Medical trauma, Dominance/Submission, Dystopian universe, Forced bonding, Forced relationship, Imprisonment, Nonconsensual medical procedures, PTSD, Flashbacks, Nightmares, Chronic illness, Mating cycles/Heats, Knotting, Miscommunication, Trauma recovery, Mind control, Child Abuse, Hope, Hopeful ending.

Summary: Efnisien ap Wledig is an omega born into an all-alpha family. Abandoned by his birth mother and raised by his aunt, he is subjected to a lifetime of medical experimentation and brainwashing and believes himself to be an alpha. But the experiments begin to fail, and he is abandoned yet again to an Omega Rehabilitation Facility, where the family expects he will be retrained into the ‘perfect omega’ and placed in an arranged marriage, or be eliminated if this is no longer possible.

The Facility don’t know about the experiments, and Efnisien doesn’t even know why he’s in there in the first place, since he’s an alpha…isn’t he? One thing’s for certain, he definitely doesn’t need an alpha companion, no matter what the staff at the facility seem to think.

Underline the Black - Chapter 112 - A Growing Burden @ AO3

In which an unwell Efnisien is visited by Flitmouse, who realises something is very wrong with Efnisien’s health. Later, Efnisien contacts Gwyn, and learns Crielle is rattled and stressed about the articles and has cleaned out her home laboratory.

– Thanks to all the Patreon and Ream supporters for making this story possible!

Those who join the community get access to early chapters, polls, chapter commentaries, a special Discord channel where more excerpts are posted, even merch, an unpublished Fae Tales novel, and personal thanks in novels depending on what tier you sign up to!

There are currently 9 early access chapters and they include -

3 chapters of Underline the Red (Augus+Gwyn tier or higher) 1 chapter of Underline the Gold (Augus+Gwyn tier or higher) 2 chapters of Constellations (Gary+Efnisien tier or higher) 1 chapter of Second Star to the Right (Gary+Efnisien tier or higher) 2 chapters of Underline the Blue (Augus+Gwyn tier or higher) (as well as 3 edited chapters of Game Theory, one with significant new content! - Gary+Efnisien tier or higher)

So, want another way to support my writing so I can keep doing it? // I have a Patreon account! // Come check out REAM! (Patreon mirror) // Buy a Ko-Fi!

[a-shade-of-green]

The Call Was Coming from Inside the Closet, my stranger things slasher horror au is up on ao3 now! happy early halloween!

here's a summary for everyone that missed it lol:

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The Party is staying at Camp Hellfire over fall break to help their older siblings and a so-called team of experts clean the camp up in time for its grand reopening. Even with the odd jobs and the questionable company, the Party tries to make the best of it. Strange and frightening occurrences prevent that and make them realize that someone is messing with them— is it a harmless Halloween prank? Or is there something more malevolent hidden in the shadows of Camp Hellfire? When Mike finds himself in mortal danger, he realizes something surprising about his feelings for Will.

Well, he always did work best under pressure.

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

i wanted to make art for it but i didn't have time unfortunately :( i apologize my friends. maybe ill post some later?

hope to see you there! read it here: The Call Was Coming from Inside the Closet

happy october!

love,

ashadeofgreen

[folliesandfolderols]

Writing prompts day 131

From this prompt list. If you’ve read this far, I’m not sure you need any explanation, but the short version is I hadn’t written any fiction since 2019, I set a goal to write at least 150 words/day in 2024, and this list was my way to restart. Also I abruptly decided on day 2 I would write an entire Tim/Damian story connecting all the prompts, because I am Good at Judging My Limits. /sarcasm

This is the last post! I hope you enjoyed.

Read from the beginning here, or on ao3 here.

Day 130 here

***

25. “I want you in all the ways you’ll let me have you.”

115. “You can have all of me if that’s what you want.”

***

straight into the nsfw under the cut

When his brain kicked into operation again, he saw that Damian had come too, striping the sheets and Tim’s hand with white. He lay with his hands spread over his face, concealing his expression from Tim's gaze and maybe his own. His breath rattled the slightest bit on each unsteady exhalation.

Tim held Damian tight to his chest and kissed his shoulder blades, his ribcage, the nape of his neck. He petted Damian like a cat, stroking from his chest down to his thighs. He whispered, "You did so well for me," and "you're amazing," and "so beautiful," and all the other things he could think of to reassure him without acknowledging he knew how exposed Damian must be feeling at the moment.

Damian's body began to relax beneath his ministrations within a minute or two. By the time Tim had to pull out or risk losing the condom, his breathing had slowed to the very edge of sleep's pattern.

Tim went to the bathroom and cleaned up, then went back to give Damian's shoulder a gentle poke. "Hey, Dami. I know you're so tired you wanna kill me, but you'll hate it in the morning if you wake up with this mess all over you."

Damian groaned in protest, but got up and went into the bathroom himself. Sure enough, a second later the shower sputtered on. Tim spread the top sheet over the mess and fell asleep waiting for his return. 

When he woke up, his cell's screen read 12:18 PM. Damian had adhered himself to his body, every inch of Tim's back in contact with some part of Damian's front. Tim's head rested on his arm beneath Tim's pillow, and his other arm was clamped around Tim's waist, holding him fast.

Tim smiled and overlay the arm circling his torso with his own. "How long have you been awake?"

"Almost half an hour." Damian kissed his neck.

"That must've been boring." Tim burrowed deeper into Damian's embrace.

"Not at all. I was doing precisely as I liked." Damian kept kissing him: his temple, his ear, the top of his head.

Tim rotated in the circle of his arms, and Damian lay on his back to give him more room. Tim caressed his chin to turn it so he could check Damian's expression. "How are you feeling?"

Damian lifted his brows in imperious dismissal. "I am in peak physical condition, as usual. How are you feeling?"

Tim knew it was going to come out as unbearably cheesy even before he said it, but he did it anyway. "Lucky."

Damian cradled his face in the palm of his hand. "I think I'm lucky, too," he said, eyes alight with fondness.

Tim kissed his fingers and rested his head on Damian's chest.

He had almost fallen back asleep when Damian's voice vibrated beneath his ear. "Timothy."

The mild shock of hearing it echoed down his backbone. He craned his head back to look at Damian again. "Yeah?"

Damian frowned pensively. "Last night . . . you said you . . ."

"I said I'm in love with you," Tim finished for him, with an ease he didn't feel. Saying it out loud still felt like offering his chest up to Jason for target practice.

"Yes." Damian rubbed Tim's back as he spoke. "I don't like it." Tim froze, but Damian kept going as if he didn't notice. "It feels unequal."

Tim relaxed again. "Oh. Well, you don't have to worry about it."

"Tt. I'm not worried, I'm merely objecting to you having made your position more assailable through ill-advised exposure. The stability of our relationship depends on being in an equitable stalemate." Damian lifted the hand Tim had rested on his chest and kissed his fingers, one by one. When he'd finished, he added, "It was reckless of you."

Tim couldn't help but laugh. "I'm sorry, are you objecting to me having confessed before being sure you felt the same because it was a bad tactical move?"

Damian gave him a faint smile. "You're a brilliant strategist, but your impulsivity does occasionally take over."

Tim wrinkled his brow. "I'm not sure how to respond to that. Are you insulting or complimenting me?"

"Neither. It's a statement of fact." Damian's grip tightened on Tim's fingers where they rested on his sternum.

"Okay." Tim rolled to straddle his hips, hands planted in the mattress on either side of his head. He dropped a kiss onto Damian's forehead. "Well, so's this. You listening?"

Damian took a deep breath as if he were bracing himself, though his expression remained unchanged. He nodded.

Tim had to kiss his nose, too. "Good. I don't mean to burden you with the facts. But I do love you, and I want you in all the ways you'll let me have you."

Damian lifted his hands to Tim's thighs. When he spoke, after a long pause, his tone was tentative in a way he rarely allowed others to hear. "May I ask why? What's the incentive?"

Tim couldn't stop one corner of his mouth from pulling up, though the question sent a pang through his heart. "The incentive is that I want to. Now are you going to let me, or not?"

He wasn't sure Damian would catch the reference, but a quick flash of recognition and amusement lit the serious features beneath his gaze. "Ya 'amar, you can have all of me if that's what you want."

Tim's breath caught at the endearment. He lowered his body to press his face to the soft skin beneath Damian's jaw. "I do," he said, words hushed by Damian's neck and his own nerves. "I do want all of you."

Damian held him close, arms steady and sure. "Then that is what you've got."

"And . . ." Tim swallowed. "And is that what you want, too? Me, I mean?"

Damian put his hands on either side of Tim's face to lift him up so they could make eye contact. "Why want what I already have? Rather, I will keep what you've given, and protect your heart with far more care than you have shown for it. You cannot have it back." He pulled Tim’s mouth down to kiss it, one brief press like punctuation. “Will you agree?”

Tim nodded and hoped his face didn't look as stupid-stunned as he felt. “I agree.” 

“Very well.” Damian released his grip. “Then it's settled. I won't entertain any further equivocation. You’re mine.” 

Tim laughed, and kissed him, and let himself be owned.

the end

[mortalfaerie]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡

Chapter Five: Amends For Trespasses

Cregan Stark x (Strong) Velaryon! OC

tw: nothing i can think of

note: this is cross-posted on ao3 and a commenter has dubbed them "dragonwolf" which i love!!

Much to the malcontent of the men-at-arms at Winterfell, Seasmoke had chosen to dig out a trench ten feet deep in the nigh-frozen earth outside the keep. After meeting with the lord of Winterfell, it was Celaena’s second order of business to go and see her mount, and try to ease some of the tension he was causing with his presence.

Seasmoke was older than her mother’s dragon and larger for being male. While still far from the size of Dreamfyre or Vhagar, he was larger than any beast the northern soldiers had ever seen. His head alone was the size of a canon, and the nest he had dug out in the earth could have fit a regiment inside of it.

Before she was in sight of him, he lifted his head into the air sniffed, detecting her scent and scanning for her. When he caught her, skirts clutched in her hands as he tromped not terribly gracefully through the snow, he thumped his massive tail on the ground like a dog. He drew up from his roost, shaking off the snow that had settled and hopped out to close some of the distance between them. When the massive beast reached her, he squatted down and lowered his neck to her level so she could rest her head against him and speak to him in High Valyrian. In response, he made a rumbling noise that sounded reminiscent of a cat’s purr.

The men on the parapets were dumbfounded by the sight. The dragon had nearly killed the best of them when they tried to retrieve the princess’s saddlebags, but faced with the princess herself he was practically docile. Combined with Celaena’s limited stature, having never caught up to her siblings in height, the experience of seeing a massive dragon be pet by a girl the size of one of its bones was uncanny.

“I heard that you’ve been causing trouble,” she spoke to Seasmoke in High Valyrian, eliciting a noncommittal huff of smoke from him.

“I’m sorry I worried you, Seasmoke. I know you don’t like it when I’m gone and you don’t know where I am.” she added, stroking his scales that were sandy grey trimmed with red. He nuzzled her head with the side of his own, wrapping her in his warmth.

“I’m not ready to fly again yet,” she apologized to him, “I was ill, and I’m better but still very tired.” Seasmoke huffed smoke again, but didn’t act out. She considered that perhaps he had truly been fretting over her these past two days, only remaining because of her scent within the keep kept him fixed. At that thought, she attempted as much of an embrace of his flank that she could, and leaned into his big body. They remained like that for some time, until the chill of the air forced her to withdraw, and promise to return later.

In the meantime, it was time to make amends for Seasmoke’s trespasses.

Celaena sought out Jeyne again when she returned to the keep. The woman was hauling flour bags - which no doubt required great strength - when the princess appeared in the threshold. Upon slinging one into the chest that contained the others, she clapped the loose powder from her hands and then looked up, seeing Celaena.

“Your grace!” she exclaimed, startling the other staff in the kitchen to attention. “Are ye lost?”

“No, I’m quite alright, Jeyne,” she assured the older woman, stepping down the two stone stairs into the kitchen proper. “I was wondering if you had the opportunity to pass along the purse I gave you earlier.”

Jeyne glanced to the kitchen, which was being cleaned between the midday and evening meal. “Eh, no, your grace.” she replied.

“In that case, could your staff spare you to help me with an errand?” Celaena asked, nodding in acknowledgement to the kitchenmaids who curtsied low in deference, murmuring their respects. “It would mean very much to me.”

One of the older maids nodded to Jeyne, who reached to untie her apron and replied, “Of course, princess. What is it you need me for?”

As they walked through the keep and out to the inner bailey - stopping to retrieve warmer clothes on their way - Celaena explained her intentions. The groom in the stable was more than willing to allow the princess use of one of the wheelhouses for her purposes, and Jeyne explained to the driver where they needed to be taken. After half an hour, they arrived outside of a thatched-roof farm, with smoke billowing out of the chimney in its center. In the adjoining field, a man was carrying hay out to a barn.

“Should we approach the house, first, Jeyne?” the princess asked, suddenly feeling more wary. Her bravado had carried her this far, but actually standing in the snow outside the farm, it occurred to her that in speaking directly to the smallfolk, she was out of her depth.

“Aye,” Jeyne nodded. “I ken that’s the right thing to do, your grace.”

Celaena hovered a moment longer, and Jeyne added, “Would ye like me to accompany you?”

“Would you?” Celaena implored, and the cook chuckled.

They walked, arm in arm, to the wooden door of the house and knocked. Children noisly called out within to their mother, and a short woman appeared in the opened doorway. She clearly had not been expecting them, and her expression shifted from consternation to shock as she opened and closed her mouth without speaking.

“Hello,” Celaena began, and looked to Jeyne for assurance. The old woman nodded in encouragement and the princess continued. “I understand that my dragon has caused damage to your property, and I would like to effectively compensate you. May we come in?”

The woman’s eyes went wide, but she nodded vigorously. “Certainly,” she said, a distinct northern brogue, thicker than Jeyne’s was evident in her speech. “If you’ll, eh, excuse the mess, madam.”

The door opened into a large central room, a fireplace and stove in the middle of the room, with a dining table and benches nearby. Two worn chairs were sat by the fire, and three small children sat on the ground nearby, playing with wooden toys. A few rooms broke off from the central room into other parts of the house, and a back door exited into the field. The smallfolk woman ushered her children into one of the rooms, apologizing profusely to Celaena as she gathered toys into her apron, and offered her one of the worn chairs.

“Will you take a drink?” She offered, fidgeting with her hands after she had tucked the toys into a cabinet.

“Oh, that’s quite fine, I don’t want to impose,” Celaena began, but Jeyne placed a hand on her shoulder and said to the woman. “We’ll have a tea, please.”

“Oh,” Celaena said, then affirmed, “Of course. Thank you,”

The woman returned a few moments later with two mugs of a hot, spiced liquid and sat awkwardly across from the princess.

“It was very kind of you to welcome us in,” Celaena began, and considered her words. “I am an emissary of Queen Rhaenyra, who has just come into her crown. I was sent to Winterfell on dragonback to deliver a message, but alas, I became ill shortly after arriving. My dragon, Seasmoke, was unsettled after not seeing me for several days, and I understand her may have pursued your cattle during that time.”

The smallfolk woman, still evidently shocked at the visit, nodded. “Afraid so, madam. Three of our heifers were lost.”

“I am very sorry.” Celaena said, and took a sip of the tea. “And I am sorry as well I could not have addressed the loss sooner. I would like to compensate your family, either by purchasing new cattle or perhaps paying you for the cost of them.”

The woman shook her head, “I could not ask such of thing of you,” she said, but trailed off for lack of a name or title.

“Princess Celaena,” she supplied. The smallfolk woman’s eye widened and she waved her hands in objection.

“Princess, certainly not,” She said hoarsely.

“I insist. And you are not asking, lady, I am offering.” Celaena countered.

The woman appeared torn, but finally nodded. “I - the heifers are important for us, in money means.”

“Of course,” Celaena nodded, and looked to Jeyne. The cook fished out the purse, and offered it to the woman. “Will this be enough?”

The woman carefully opened the strings of the purse, and looking in, drew in a sharp gasp. “Mada- your grace, this is too much,” she said, shaking her head.

“Please,” Celaena urged. “If not outright for the cows, then consider it to be an… investment in your farm.”

When the smallfolk woman still appeared torn, she added, “It would mean very much to me if you would accept this.”

Finally the woman caved. “I - I don’t know what to say, your grace. This is most generous.”

Celaena beamed. “I am very glad to help, in anyway I can. I will be at Winterfell for some more time yet, and I fervently hope that if you have need of aide in some way, you will feel comfortable coming to me.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, “Truthfully.”

Unsure of how to reply exactly, Celaena nodded, and sipped the remainder of her tea.

Back at Winterfell, Celaena and Jeyne dismounted from the wheelhouse just in time to see Cregan Stark saddling his charger to ride out.

“Princess,” he called out, surprised, stepping away from the groom and the horse. Though not expecting to see her, it obviously was not an unwelcome surprise - he grinned as he approached, and stopped directly before them. He had dressed more for the weather, with his great bear cloak on and leather riding gloves. Celaena tried not to stare at him, but felt her cheeks flush all the same as his gaze in turn settled on her.

It was the cold wind, she told herself.

“Lord Stark,” she greeted politely. “Your cook, Jeyne, was kind enough to humor me on an errand of some personal importance.”

He glanced to Jeyne, who nodded in corroboration. “Well, in that case,” he said, “I am glad she was available to aide you. If you need help with another matter, you may also ask me, princess. Not that Jeyne,” he smiled at the older woman, “Is not competent for the role, but as your host, I should like to aide you where I can.”

“Oh,” Celaena nodded, “I will bear that in mind.” she paused, and regarded his horse behind him. “Where do you go now, my lord?”

“Hm? Oh, yes - into town to mediate a dispute. I should be back in time for supper, where I hope to see you, your grace.” he explained, nodding towards her.

“I should like to be there,” Celaena smiled. His own grin grew a little wider, and his eyes passed her over appreciatively, before his stormy eyes landed back on hers again.

“Good. Until then, princess.” He bid her goodbye for now, and turned to go mount his horse.

Jeyne saw the princess back to her rooms, and urged her to rest before supper. Celaena begrudgingly agreed, beginning to feel the fatigue settling in again.

As the cook returned to the kitchens, she considered the interaction she had witnessed in the stables. She had been in service to House Stark since the old lord, Cregan’s father, was a young man. She had watched Cregan grow from a babe and helped nurse him through his childhood ailments. She had seen him make eyes at women at revels, but not to his guest - a princess, no less - in his own stables, in broad daylight. She believed him to be - generally, knew him to be - an honorable man. She didn’t mistrust his intentions, so much as found his sudden behavior amusing.

She would keep her eye on them, she decided.

[paging-possum]

Egwenes

[id: two black and white digital sketches. The first is of three teen halflings- Egwene, Erlin and Beverly. Egwene, with her hair down, is smiling at Bev and Erlin, holding a nail polish brush and saying “if you want, I can teach you guys” Erlin, a teen with a mullet, holds out his hands, excited and Bev, a teen with short, curly hair, is pointing to them, smiling. In the upper right corner is a doodle of Egwene holding Pawpaw in one arm and looking confused at a bottle of nail polish in the other. The second doodle is of Egwene from the shoulders up. She has freckles and her hair is pulled into a short ponytail. She is looking to the side and wearing an unbuttoned flannel, and her hair and undershirt are colored in green. End id.]

[mrs-nate-humphrey]

dan's cradling milo in his arms, singing along to "your mother should know" by the beatles, swaying slightly as he sings seriously, and nate opens the loft door with the spare key, about to let himself in, but the sight makes his breath catch in his throat, and he hesitates at the door.

he looks at dan, singing the song with a strange sort of solemness, so absorbed in singing to milo that he hasn't even noticed nate yet. he can see milo in a pastel blue onesie, a narwhal themed knitted cap on his head. it's a sweet image, sweetly familial. yet again, nate's aware that he does not belong here.

but dan's singing a song that goes, "your mother should know," and nate thinks of milo's mother, thinks of how that's going to end for milo. thinks of his own mother, feels a heaviness in his stomach like granite. for a ridiculous moment, he thinks he and milo have two things in common - their terrible mothers, and the way that dan humphrey is very much their anchor. if dan held nate in his arms like that, nate thinks he'd feel quiet, at peace, and safe, too.

dan finally turns, eyes widening as he sees nate. he blushes, stops singing. nate smiles, hopes it doesn't look too forced. "i think 'does your mother know' is a better song choice," he tells dan. "abba over the beatles, any day."

"nate, i am not going to sing about hookup culture to my infant son," dan says drily. "also abba is not better than the beatles. you and serena are the same person, i swear to god."

does that mean you'll kiss me? nate wonders. he looks at dan, the slope of his shoulders, the edge to his smile, the sharp edge that is his jaw. he wonders if this is how serena thinks about dan. beautiful, compelling, solid dan humphrey.

"maybe serena and i are the same person," nate agrees. he walks over to dan's fridge, pops it open, pulls out a carton of cranberry juice.

"that would explain a lot, frankly," dan says. he looks down at milo, and asks, dead seriously, "what do you think?"

milo, it appears, is too fast asleep to comment on this statement. he might also, due to being a baby, not have any voiceable opinions. nate doesn't say anything, he'll humour dan.

nate kind of really wants to hear dan singing again. oh, fuck. he's in deep.

[jellypear]

I think you're worth holding onto PT3

Ayo wassup @wolfythewitch, I return. I started this like a week ago and I've already got 8 pages on google docs, this is going really well for me.

Also! I posted this on AO3, and I'm going to update these around the same time so if you wanna stay up tp date and don't want to deal with the mess that is my tumblr go check it out there <3

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

On the third day, the storm finally calms. 

The third day is also when Techno grows ill. 

There are consequences to bottling one's magic. And while these include more fantastical symptoms as the magic tries to escape, which can range anywhere from chilling the air around you, to summoning storms to setting off a magical inferno, though that’s in extreme cases, there are also the mundane symptoms. There’s the constant achiness, decreased stamina and a weaker constitution. 

(Phil has a plethora of recipes that can help. Not all of them are remedies as not all the symptoms can be fixed, but they sure do help.)

And despite Phil’s constant watch, the cocktail of bottled magic, storm drenched clothes and extensive journeying can only lead to one thing for Techno, and that’s sickness. 

Which leads Phil, ever the bleeding heart, to be seated here next to Techno’s bedside. 

He’s dutifully changing the damp cloth on Techno’s forehead to keep his fever down, making sure Techno keeps his fluid and blood sugar levels up no matter how much Techno doesn’t want to and keeping Tommy out of the room lest he also grow sick. Philza doesn’t want two sick kids in the cottage. 

Though keeping Tommy out of Techno’s room (which is totally not a spare storage room that Philza speed cleaned after realizing that he cannot keep his young guests in the living room) has never been easier. After all, with the storm gone the crows are back. And Tommy fucking loves the crows. 

(Philza later regrets the day he introduced Tommy to the crows. They get along like a house on fire. Phil fears that one day they will influence each other to start a house fire.)

But as much as Phil fears the consequences of this action, he needs Tommy safely out of the way so he can focus on Techno. And maybe it’s not wise to make a six year olds only guardian a murder of crows and give him free reign of a forest, but quite honestly it’s probably safer for him out there.

With the sickness Techno’s iron control over his magic, which Phil has witnessed many times in the past three days, grows dubious. He’s more prone to magical flare ups, ones larger than the sparks of the first night and the flames of the second, and it’s easier for Phil to be damage control with Tommy out of the house. 

Thus Phil stays by Techno’s side, keeping his fever down, his fluids up, cleaning up the frosts and the dews that appear and ushering away the sparks. 

(It reminds Phil of simpler, kinder times. And even though he longs for them, he feels as if beginning to understand why events occurred the way they did.) 

(Phil’s not a big believer in destiny, but he’s beginning to wonder.)

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

Tommy Careful Danger Kraken Innit may be the biggest man there is, but he’s really fucking bored. 

Yeah Chat, the crows that Phil introduced him to, are really fucking cool.

(“There’s too many of them for them all to get an individual name so I call them Chat. They’ll look after you while I look after your brother”)

And being able to run around the forest is also really fucking cool, but he misses Techno. Yeah sure it’s only been like a few days since he got sick, but Tommy isn’t used to not having Techno constantly over his shoulder like a fucking shadow. 

The first few days were fun. No Techno telling him what to do and he was finally let outside? So fucking poggers. 

He spent the first little bit of it chattering to the crows as he explored the forest, and honestly it’s only been a couple days but Tommy already feels like he knows the whole thing like the back of his hand. 

He knows where to find the best berries, ones that aren’t poisonous but are very sweet and he knows where to find the clean streams and ponds where he can wash his hands of the berry juice. He knows where to find the hill with the best view and he’s found where there’s a small meadow, hidden between the trees that has the prettiest flowers and so many bees. 

He’s found all the best spots and climbed all the best trees and now he’s bored. 

Tommy’s tried exploring further into (or out of depending on your perspective) the forest, but everytime he passes a certain spot, one he can’t figure out, Chat begins squawking at him. And he means like, really losing their shit. 

So he can’t explore the forest further, he doesn’t want to explore the same areas alone again and he’s not allowed into Techno’s room.

…

But Philza’s in Techno’s room.

So Philza’s not in his room.

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

Okay so as it turns out, Phil’s room is really boring. 

It’s just like. A bunch of books. His bed. A desk. Closet. 

Tommy's not great at reading, he’s better than to sleep on another big man’s bed, he already played with the hourglass on the desk for a bit and he can’t reach up high enough into the closet to get any of Phil’s clothes down. 

There’s a really old looking mirror on the wall though, that’s kinda cool. 

Clearly the answer here is to bring the chair over to the mirror. 

So that’s what he does.

He clambers on top of the chair and looks into the mirror. It’s got a bunch of drawings and crystals in it, but it’s cracked. 

“Well this is fuckin’ boring innit,” Tommy’s words lay still in the air for a moment.

Then the glass on the mirror riples. It’s as if someone dropped a pebble into a puddle and then put it in a mirror. 

For a moment the face of the mirror shines and its light is reflected onto Tommy. And then a face appears in the cracks. But it’s no longer Tommy’s face. It’s another boy, older than Techno but younger than Phil. He’s got dark curly hair and tired blue eyes, the same eyes that Phil has. He looks surprised.

“Oh, you’re not Phil”

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

Orignal AU by Wolfy | AO3 | 1 | 2 | Part 3 | 4 |

[dominimoonbeam]

Scars That Remind - Part 2

More teen pack drama! I will be aging them up soooooon.

AU where Gabe basically adopts Darlin and they end up being like a sibling to David. 

Posted on ao3 as well as here!

tags: homelessness, pack family, dysfunctional darlin aka canon darlin, bullying, family dynamics, learning to trust.

Scars That Remind - Part 2

“You drove Darlin to school,” Milo notice allowed.

David grunted once in the affirmative and dumped some books into his locker. They went to an empowered high-school, one of the perks of growing up in Dahlia. He heard empowered people outside of big cities either had to homeschool or try to go to unempowered schools—which could easily get messy. Just the other day, Asher flirted with an electro until they accidentally fried the lights in the gym.

“You’ve driven them to school every day this week,” he added, not noticing when Asher stole the second half of his sandwich from his lunch.

“Mhm…” David finished his apple and looked up at the sky where a cloud was sliding in front of the sun, casting a shadow over the crowded quad and all the students eating lunch. Milo was a year younger than him and Asher, and a year older than Darlin. The week had been weird to say the least. Darlin was living in the guest room at his house, eating breakfast with them in the morning before going to school and then coming home with him. They pretty much hid in the guest room except for meal times, where they cleaned their plate and eyed the rest of the food but never took anything more than whatever his dad put on their plate—which was a lot.

“Didn’t they leave the pack? Why are they still in Dahlia?” Asher asked, mouth full of Milo’s sandwich. He asked the way only Asher could, without any offense or ill thought, only vaguely curious.

David shrugged but it was only a matter of time before they knew. Any day now, Asher usually went home with him on Fridays and slept over sometimes on the weekends. And plenty of the pack hung out at the house. It was actually kind of weird no one had noticed in the last few days. “They’re parents left the pack and Dahlia.” It was a fact. Not a secret.

Milo had been about to yell at Asher for stealing his sandwich when the words hit him. “Wait. You mean…Their parents left without them?”

David nodded once, still scrutinizing clouds.

“So…What, they’re living with you and Gabe?” Milo continued, voice pitching.

David felt Asher watching him. Asher could be flighty as fuck but he never missed a detail and he was often first to put them all together. He’d asked David about the bandages on his shoulder on Tuesday in the locker rooms before gym class.

The bell rang and Milo swore, grabbing his shit and hustling off to his class. Asher and David had their next period together and he waited until Milo was gone to ask, “You said someone bit you when I asked. You weren’t joking?”

David sighed and got up. He started walking, Asher falling into step beside him. “No.”

Asher smirked curiously. “Did Darlin bite you?”

David snorted. “No.” He sighed, glancing around to make sure they were alone, walking around the outside of the buildings toward gym. “Don’t say anything?”

Asher nodded once and David knew whatever he told him now, he’d take to the grave.

“They were sleeping in a park and this other wolf showed up. We got in a fight.”

Asher glanced at his shoulder again, like maybe he could see the wound through his t-shirt and hoodie. “That’s rough. I can’t imagine being alone like that.”

David sighed, nodding. Leave it to Asher to find the point and ignore everything else.

“Can I still come over after school tomorrow?”

David nodded again as they ducked into the locker rooms. “Yeah. Of course.”

A couple hours later he was sitting in his truck waiting for Darlin. Waiting too long. What the fuck? The parking lot was almost empty. Had Darlin finally made a run for it? Did they really think Gabe was bullshitting when he said he’d chase them down? It wouldn’t even take him that long to do it. His dad would probably have them back at the house before dinner.

David considered driving home without them and growled at himself for thinking it. Asshole. He got out of the truck, slamming the door and storming back into the school. Where was there last class? They always came from this direction…

“Do it!” he heard someone laugh-shout.

He followed the voices outside, to a spot between buildings where kids sometimes snuck out to smoke.

He heard the very clear sound of someone slapping someone just before he rounded the corner to see the group of younger students. Darlin’s age, and Darlin was the one with a growing handprint across their cheek—the one that was still bruised yellow and brown. The four other kids had them cornered. Still, Darlin should be able to knock these idiots out. He’d seen them fight.

“Shift! I wanna see it!” the air elemental shouted, shoving hard at Darlin’s chest to slam them back into the wall, using a little wind to give themself more force, that air rolling around between the buildings to kick up leaves.

Darlin grinned, lip bleeding onto teeth. “If I shifted you’d shit yourself and I don’t wanna smell it.”

One of the other kids moved fast, grabbing at Darlin’s arm. Darlin growled and tried to shake them off but there were too many hands and for some reason Darlin wasn’t throwing punches or shifting. Smoke rolled off their arm where the other kid was holding—a fire elemental.

David growled when he stepped forward, the sound loud enough that it started all of them. All eyes turned to him, growing bigger when they had to turn their heads upward. He bared teeth. “You want to see a wolf shift?”

The fire elemental stumbled into a second, both looking around for an exit but David was in the way now. The air elemental grew instantly teary, jabbing a finger at Darlin. “They threatened us!”

Darlin’s eyes widened at that. “What? No! Fuck you, I didn’t do anything!”

“I saw you. I heard you,” David said, stalking closer. They all backed up—except for Darlin who just grabbed their bag up off the ground and rubbed at their arm, their sleeve burned. “You were using your powers on them—to cause pain. You know you could get expelled for that, right?” He took another step and they were backed into a brick wall. “You know they belong to the Shaw pack right?”

“But-But they’re always by themselves,” one cried, full tears now.

David growled and one of them screamed. “Pack is pack and if anything like this happens again, you will be enemies of the pack for life. Am I understood?”

They whined and nodded.

David sneered before turning on his heel and catching Darlin by the arm, pulling them along with him around the building and toward the parking lot. “What the fuck was that?” he asked when they were well out of earshot of those shits.

“What?”

“You were just going to stand there and take it?” He kept walking, only stopping when he got to the truck. He pulled them in front of him and then lifted their arm. He grabbed their hand and carefully lifted the sleeve to get a look. Red and welted but not a burn that would scar. “Why?” he demanded when they didn’t answer.

“I…If I did anything they would have told someone. You think anyone would believe me over them?” They jerked their arm back from his hold. “And I can’t get in trouble again. They’d try to call my parents and it’s not like that’s going to work. Then they’d call—” they stopped suddenly, jaw ticking when they snapped it shut.

David stared. “My dad.” They would call Darlin’s pack alpha if they couldn’t get ahold of their parents. “So?”

Darlin looked away.

David’s dad had been called by schools plenty of times. “What? You think he’d believe those assholes over you?”

“Would it matter? It would be a scene. I would have fucked up. Either way I didn’t handle it myself. The last thing I need right now is your dad regretting letting me stay.”

David actually took a step back. It was like this kid learned new ways to hit him. “No one is letting you stay,” he said clearly. “You belong with your pack.” Did they think his dad would kick them out for getting into a fight at school? They made it sound like they were a criminal granted mercy. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Darlin. You aren’t in trouble. Your parents just…” He tried and failed to understand what exactly Darlin’s parents had done or thought they’d been doing. “They left. But that doesn’t mean you did anything wrong.”

Darlin stared back at him, eyes big with surprise, like they were actually trying to absorb everything he said. They swallowed hard and nodded once, looking away.

David sighed and opened the passenger door of his old truck. “Get in.”

Darlin did, slinging their backpack onto their lap. It was always just as heavy and full as it had looked Monday night when he found them in the park. He wasn’t sure if they’d actually left anything in their room at the house. He suspected they took everything they owned with them every day.

After that, Asher or David would find Darlin on their way to lunch and drag them along to sit with them.

 -

 Darlin made the bed in the guest room, grabbed their bag and headed out to the living room. Asher and David were in David’s room playing video games and Darlin had overheard something about Asher staying the night.

They planted themself on the couch, in the corner, and pulled a book from their bag, thumbing it open.

When Gabe came home they tensed but kept there eyes on the page. Why did they always want to run away when he showed up? He’d never been anything but nice. They knew that but it didn’t change the gut reaction.

He hung up his jacket and took another couple steps into the house, stopping and looking at Darlin on the couch.

A million thoughts flashed across their mind. Were they not supposed to sit out there? Darlin’s parents hadn’t had house rules, aside from staying out of their way and not touching any of their stuff. Did Gabe consider the couch his stuff? Fuck.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

Darlin creased the cover of their paperback. “Yeah. Why?”

Gabe shrugged. Was he smirking? “Haven’t seen you come out of your cave all week.”

David and Asher laughed in his room down the hall, the sound carrying.

“Ash is spending the night, so I moved to the couch,” Darlin explained, suddenly worried they’d made the wrong move. Maybe they weren’t allowed to sleep out there?

Gabe took another step closer, shoulders eased back. “Asher sleeps in David’s room when he’s over. The other room is yours as long as you want to stay, Darlin. You don’t have to give it to anyone and you don’t have to share it with anyone.”

Darlin stared, surprised. He sounded so firm on that—like it was a real rule, like it was their own space and no one else’s. They got the feeling he wouldn’t go back on it either.

Gabe’s gaze flicked to their backpack for a second and then away. “If you want to leave stuff in there you can too. No one’s going to go in there and take anything.”

“I don’t have anything,” they said reflexively. They didn’t have anything anyone else wanted, anyway. It was just their junk. But they wanted to keep their junk. It was all they had.

Gabe was so calm—so different from how Darlin’s parents had been and even farther from how they’d said he would be. They’d been staying at his house all week and there hadn’t been any red flags, no signs that his invitation had been a trick or anything to suggest he’d done it for any reason other than…what? Loyalty? He said they were family like it meant something.

“You have things,” Gabe said clearly and Darlin felt heat in their face. “But I mean it, Darlin, your room is your own.” He smirked and turned toward the kitchen. “But you are always welcome to sit out here too.”

Darlin looked at their bag, considering grabbing it and bolting for the guest room…their room. Gabe was going to make dinner, so he’d be in the kitchen for a while. They chewed their lip and went back to reading on the couch.

Next week when they went to school, they didn’t take all of their junk. They left the clothes they weren’t wearing in the drawers and their toothbrush on the desk with some of their books and the rubbed duck they’d had since they were a kid on the bedside table. It was all right where they left it when they got back. Eventually the surprise of that wore away. Eventually they even thought of the room as their own, slammed the door when they were pissed at David, and told other teens from the pack to stay out with the full belief that they couldn’t come in.

[solemnlyswear93]

"Freedom” a Pride and Prejudice era “Eren x Reader” one shot

Welcome to my dusty corner of the internet!

This one shot was requested by a wonderful reader of mine. It's SFW. Although, I generally write more adult stories, so I ask that no one under the age of 18 interact with my posts or profile, please.

I usually write Levi X Reader fiction on AO3. You can find me under the links attached to this post. :)

Reader has a name, because I refuse to use "Y/N", as I feel it takes away from the flow of the story.

I did edit this, but there might be a few errors I may have missed.

I hope you enjoy!

-SolemnlySwear93

Word count: Roughly 4497

----------

You huffed, wiping the sweat with the back of your palm that insisted on accumulating along your brow line. The scorching heat that bore down on your neck and arms while you scrubbed at the floors for the second time that week, was miserable.

The relentless heat only served to remind you that it was indeed the dead of summer, your thick, cotton dress sticking to bits of your skin in uncomfortable folds and creases that caused you to grimace.

You didn’t want to be cleaning, but you were all but forced to by your mother. What was worse, was the knowledge that cleaning right now served as a punishment, and not because the floors needed the scrubbing at all.

You were being disciplined because you didn’t want to go to another ball that evening. You never wanted to go to social gatherings, if you were honest. You had no interest in finding a life partner, though you were reaching the ripe age of twenty-three.

Your elder sister had chosen a husband not two years ago, followed by your younger sister only six months later. You were the middle child, by all accounts. You were the black sheep, never quite fitting anywhere.

Whilst your sisters enjoyed crocheting, learning how to cook and sew, you spent your time reading, imagining, and drawing.

You held no love for the idea of molding yourself to fit any sort of standard, and you certainly did not need a man to help you find fulfillment.

Your parents worried, of course. They worried that you would have no one to take care of you once they were no longer able. They worried your crassness, your blunt nature, and your sarcasm alike, would continue to drive any possible suitors away.

Really, they weren’t wrong, per say. You made it your personal mission to drive men away. To repel them and never take one for yourself.

You didn’t want to be tied down. You didn’t want to birth countless children and be a homemaker.

You wanted to be free and to ultimately explore more of the world.

As a woman, though, your options were limited. The expectations of you were swiftly catching up to you and you weren’t certain how much longer you could stave off the impending call of wifehood.

When you were asked to go to yet another ball that evening, you did all you could to refuse. You feigned sickness, citing a lack of sleep due to insomnia.

Your mother, however, for all the good it did you, knew better than to fall for your lies and manipulations.

“Eliza, you are a lady. Heavens, when will you come to accept that? You need a gentleman who will take care of you. Is it really such a terrible notion to marry? The ball tonight is being held at the Yeager estate. I’m told the youngest son is looking to court a woman with the intent for marriage. You will go.”

Your mother’s words echoed around your mind, and you only worked at the floors beneath you all the more violently. You had fought her even then, of course you had. However, you earned your stubbornness from somewhere, and it was indeed from her.

You finally relented, but not before she forced you to clean because of your continuous insubordination. Or rather, what she deemed to be unacceptable behavior.

“I think you could eat off the floor at this point and you would surely not become ill.” Your father’s low voice drifted from the doorway.

You looked up at him, scrubbing brush in hand. You sighed and sat back on your heels, tucking a stray bit of hair behind your ear. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint mother.” You stood, depositing the brush into the bucket of water near your feet.

Your father smirked at you knowingly, a raise of an eyebrow telling you everything you needed to know. “Ah yes, my daughter disappointing her mother, that would surely never take place in the walls of this home.” He sounded amused and you couldn’t help but send a playful glare his way.

He heaved a great sigh, striding further into the room until he came to a halt in front of you, a gentle hand on your shoulder and another cupping your cheek. You allowed yourself to frown up at your father, your earlier fire and resolve fading.

“I don’t want a husband.” You spoke so quietly, so feebly, that your father pulled you in for a hug. Just as you had since you were a girl, you embraced him tightly and allowed yourself to draw comfort from the greatest man you knew.

“I know, my girl. I know. In this world, I’m afraid you don’t have many options. I wish you did, my beautiful Eliza. Your mother and I worry about you, you know how greatly we do. I only long for you to be happy and taken care of. Won’t you try and attend this ball with an open mind?” Your father pulled away from you and your frown deepened upon seeing how he was smiling at you with open hope splayed across his face.

You groaned, your shoulders falling in defeat. “Fine. I will go. But only because Cassidy is as well.” You straightened up, wiping your hands along your dress and bending down to lift the bucket of filthy water.

“I gather we should be glad for Cassidy, then.” Your father mused, chuckling, and shaking his head at you. “Go wash and dress, Eliza. The carriage will be here within the hour.” With that, he left you and it was only then that you allowed your eyes to roll within your head.

———-

“Eliza, honestly, stop your fidgeting.” Cassidy chastised you from across the carriage.

You scowled at her. “It’s not my fault they insist on making these ghastly excuses for dresses so unbearably awful.” You hissed, shifting against the stuffy silk material that clung to your skin in the beating of the setting sun. You pulled at the short, straight sleeves that cupped your arms and mumbled a slew of indecent words under your breath.

“You could at least try and have a nice time, you know.” Cassidy remarked kindly.

You stopped moving only so you could properly fix your gaze on your best friend. “This is me trying.” You indicated to your hair twisted into a delicate updo, the satin slippers that adorned your feet, and the subtle way your chest was pushed up just enough at the neckline of your gown.

“Yes well, I myself would like to find and converse with Zeke Yeager. I hear he’s just returned from a trip abroad. I can only imagine the stories he has to share.” Cassidy gushed, toying with a finger on her pale pink gloves.

“You’re welcome to speak to whomever you like. I’ll not ask you to sulk with me.” You promised your oldest friend.

“Thank you, Eliza. You’re too generous.” Cassidy deadpanned.

You narrowed your eyes at her, but the pair of you ended up giggling and smiling at one another a moment later. You could never remain cross with Cassidy for long.

A short while later, you were jolted forward a bit as the carriage came to a stop in front of a large and terribly assuming building.

You were helped by the carriage driver, giving your thanks and a polite tilt of your head as you stepped out. Your eyes took in the mansion before you and you frowned.

It was every bit the gaudy, overcompensating sight you imagined it would be. They were all the same, really. The pristine red brick, the countless tailored hedges, the wrap around drive surrounded by vast fields of green. The white, stone steps and the perfectly polished and painted banister to hold onto as you walked inside. From where you stood near the carriage, you could just make out the candlelight of a chandelier lighting the foyer.

“Shall we?” Cassidy asked you, holding an arm out for you to wrap your hand around.

“Two hours, Cassidy. I will stay and mingle for two hours, and then I will gladly return to my book.” You warned your friend, grasping her waiting arm and walking toward the property that you honestly wanted nothing to do with.

“Yes, Eliza. I know your usual rules.” Cassidy responded coolly.

You smiled at her a bit sheepishly, ducking your head as you stepped across the threshold and entered the Yeager residence.

It was breathtaking, even you couldn’t deny as much. The great, spiraling staircase that winded all the way to the second-floor landing, the polished wood floors, the music that drifted from a grand ballroom and the laughter to echo with it.

It was everything a lady like you should want, and it was everything you detested and more.

Cassidy led the way to the ball room, gently pulling away from you once you were inside.

You smoothed a few creases across your pale blue gown, drawing in a deep breath as your eyes wandered across the room. Couples of all kinds were dancing, the women’s dresses sashaying, and the men’s fall fronts dutifully held together by gold and silver buttons alike.

The atmosphere was immediately stifling, and you fought the urge to leave at once.

“I’m going to seek out Zeke. Would you like to accompany me?” Cassidy whispered, leaning so she was speaking directly into your ear and over the volume of the orchestral music.

“I’ll wander a bit. There’s no need to concern yourself with me.” You gave her a smile that you hoped was sincere and reassuring.

She beamed at you and nodded. “Alright. Farewell, then!” With that, she twirled away from you, the hem of her blush pink gown flowing around her in captivating circles.

In a way, you were envious of Cassidy. She was two years your junior, her eyes affixed on the precise future you should also want. She longed for the husband, the grand home, the children, and the memories that they would all create together. She yearned to be wanted, to be sought after.

You wondered what that must be like. To know. To pine for a future that was possible. That was easy.

With a tired sigh, you watched Cassidy approach the young man in question. You saw as he greeted her with all the poise of a well-oiled gentleman, and you noted the blush spreading across Cassidy’s cheeks even from where you stood near the entrance of the ballroom.

You didn’t want to be here. You wanted to be at home, curled up with a book by the fire, a steaming cup of tea clasped in your hands.

With a rather pathetic sigh, you turned away from the ballroom in favor of finding refuge elsewhere. You promised Cassidy two hours, and you would uphold your word.

————

You found yourself wandering the halls of the estate, taking in the various pieces of colorful artwork that decorated the way and the candelabras adorning the walls every five or so feet. The floors shifted to carpet as you traveled further away from the ballroom, the music all but floating into the background.

The Yeager’s were clearly a well to do family and you wondered what the head of the household took part in for work.

You reached another winding set of stairs, your gaze on the landing above while your hand closed over the banister as you carefully ascended. Your gloved hand brushed along the railing, your eyes smiling at the smoothness with which it glided over. There wasn’t a single particle of dust to be found on the surface of your glove when you reached the floor above.

Humming softly to yourself, your eyes peered into each open doorway along the hall, taking notice of how many bedrooms there were, and how many washrooms. There were many, though you were privy to the knowledge that the Yeager’s only had two children.

Such an estate as this was unnecessary.

Your head tilted to the side when you reached the last door on the right. It was only half open, but even so, you could make out at least a dozen bookshelves beyond.

Against your better judgement, knowing full well it was completely rude to prowl around the halls of someone else’s home, you pushed the door open.

You heard yourself audibly gasp as your eyes flurried around the room in an attempt to take in everything that this room, this vast, seemingly endless space, had to offer.

It was a library, to be sure, but it was magnificent. Shelves upon shelves lined the walls, several armchairs nestled near a roaring fire that crackled deliciously on the west wall. It was everything you could possibly want from a space to read and disappear from your reality.

You simply couldn’t help yourself and your feet carried you forward, your hands itching to touch a book. To read one.

You came to a pause in front of one of the many shelves, your fingers barely grazing over the spine of a book you didn’t recognize.

“Did your parents never teach you that it’s impolite to wander a stranger’s home?” A low, velvety voice spoke from somewhere behind you.

You yelped, your hand falling taut to your side. You spun around and your gaze fell to a man sitting in a chair near the fire. His legs were crossed, the chocolate locks of his hair barely grazing his shoulders. From where you stood, it was clear that someone had attempted to tame his mane, but it still flowed in visibly soft tendrils around his face anyway.

His pressed suit was black and white, his shoes as dark as the night sky just outside the windows of the library. But his eyes, oh… They were emeralds. Emeralds glowing by the soft light of the fire. And they were looking right at you.

The man could not have been much older than yourself, but his face was youthful. Youthful but tired, you were easily able to gather. He was frowning, a set of plush lips downturned as he took you in.

“Pardon me, sir. I only wished to find a reprieve from the ungodly noise below.” You winced at your own honesty; certain you should at least try to withhold even a bit of your unpopular truth.

To your surprise, the man raised his eyebrows, the faintest hint of a smirk moving in place of his frown. “I see. I can’t fault you. I was looking for much the same thing.” He sighed and stood from his chair, and you gathered two things. First, he was tall. Very tall. He would easily tower over you. Two, the buttons of his suit jacket were undone, the button down underneath still tucked in, but his ascot all but unwound completely from around his neck.

You gulped, suddenly feeling far too warm. Your heart was fluttering behind your ribcage. You had never been attracted to any sort of man, but this man, this man… You would have had to be a fool not to notice that he was indeed quite handsome.

You squared your shoulders and cleared your throat. “Ballroom fanfare not quite your thing, either?” You asked as casually as you could manage.

The man smirked all the more, coming to a stop near you, but leaving a polite amount of space between. “You could say as much. This ball is being held so that I may find a woman to court. Although, I must admit that the women down there are rather dull. They’re all the same, really. All looking for a man to take care of them, to save them from their wretched lives.” He sighed, his hands peeling a book from the shelf in front of him.

You watched him with mild curiosity. “I gather you’re Eren Yeager, then. The younger of the Yeager brothers.” You asked him, watching as he opened the book for a moment before placing it back on the shelf.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. I prefer to be referred to as only Eren, though. Yeager is my father’s name. He’s a doctor, you see. Quite the shoes to fill. My brother Zeke, he’s already working to take over his legacy.” Eren walked to the next shelf, his hands clasped behind his back as he moved.

You weren’t certain why, but you followed after him. “What do you dream to do with your life, sir?” You asked him, your voice but a whisper.

Eren scoffed in front of you, shifting on his feet so that he was facing you. “It doesn’t quite matter, does it? My future is set for me. I’m to follow in my family’s footsteps and take a wife along the way.” There was an unmistakable edge to his tone now, his brilliant green eyes narrowed down at you.

You snorted at him, shaking your head, and rolling your eyes. Eren withdrew slightly, his eyebrows raising in surprise. “I’m sorry, am I meant to have sympathy for you?” You asked incredulously. “You do have options. Of course, you do. You’re a man. A man has options in this world.” You reminded him with an annoyed click of your tongue.

You shifted around him, taking the lead as you carried along the shelves of books, your gloved fingers dancing across the varying spines as you went.

“Why were you looking for a reprieve from the ball? Surely a woman such as your self would rather be dancing with any number of eligible men.” Eren wondered from behind you.

You could feel his eyes on you, but you kept yours trained ahead and on the shelves you skimmed over. “That is precisely what my mother and father would want from me, yes.” You quietly agreed.

“It isn’t what you want, though? What do you want?” Eren’s own voice was low, his tone more inquiring now.

You shifted to look at him. “What do I want? You can’t possibly be asking a woman what she wants. We aren’t afforded that luxury.” You snapped at him.

Eren frowned down at you. “You should be.” Came his nearly inaudible reply.

Your breath caught in your throat. This… This man… He was agreeing with you? You were stunned into momentary silence.

"You should be allowed to decide what sort of life you want to build for yourself.” Eren continued, seemingly able to gather that you could not speak just yet.

“That is… That is wholly inappropriate of you to say. You should… You should be encouraging me to know my place, the very boundaries that I as a woman am subjected to solely because I am not a man.” You were stunned, your heart galloping noisily in your chest. You wondered if he could hear it.

Eren stepped closer to you, his eyes never leaving yours. “What would you want out of life?” He breathed.

Your mouth was dry, your tongue but a flaccid muscle. You had never been asked what you wanted.

“I… I would love to… Well, I suppose I would love to write books. To construct novels, and to publish them under my name. My real name.” Your words sounded foreign to you as you spoke of the most reverent desires of your heart.

“What sort of books would you write?” Eren whispered, his eyes softening as he gazed upon you.

You felt your face flush warm, your hands sweaty within your gloves. “I would write about a woman who did not want to be what others wanted her to be. I would write of her grand adventures as she traveled the world and took in the wonders of nature.” You forced yourself to swallow and meet his piercing eyes.

The way he looked at you. The way he drank you in. It was as if he knew you. Understood you.

“Is that what you long for? The freedom to travel? To be?” Eren tilted his head to the side, his beautiful locks of his tilting with him.

“Y-yes. I-I would give anything to be able to do that. To not marry simply for the sake of money, or status. If I ever marry, I wish it to be for love. Real love. Everlasting love.” You weren’t certain why you were being so honest. Far more honest than you ever dared to be with even Cassidy.

Eren hummed, nodding his head at you like he believed and agreed with every word that tumbled from your quivering lip.

“I see. May I ask you something?” His voice was low, lower than it was before now.

“You may.” You hesitantly agreed, skeptical but no doubt intrigued all the same.

“Dance with me?” Eren requested, extending a hand for you to take.

You gawked at him, not at all expecting to be asked that.

“There is no music.” You pointed out, staring at his hand, your brow furrowed in confusion.

“That’s precisely why we should dance, wouldn’t you agree? If you’re wanting to live life the way you dream of, perhaps you should start with dancing in silence and by the glow of a fire, and not the strings of an instrument." His hand still extended toward you; his long fingers poised at the ready to grasp your own shorter ones.

“I… Alright, then.” It was as if your mind and heart were deciding for you, reaching out and accepting his hand.

Your whole body warmed at the contact, your eyes locked on his, entirely unable to look away. You didn’t know what you were feeling. You couldn’t put a name to it. You couldn’t describe it. You were entranced. Under a spell.

Did you want to break it? To leave this library? Or did you want to see what else could happen with this man you only just met?

Eren shifted you near the fire, his free hand resting at your waist. He guided you in a slow, two step dance, twirling you and moving you along with him.

The room was quiet, save for the sounds of your shoes, or the occasional crackle of an ember from within the fireplace. Your eyes never left each other, your heart pounding away in your ears, your mind foggy at the contact of his hands placed along your body.

Your breaths mingled together, your bodies pressing closer than they needed to be with your dance.

Who was this man? This man that didn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps. That didn’t want to live by the standards that society set out for him. Who was this stranger? This stranger who believed you should be able to carve your own path in life.

When his head angled down to yours, your own met him halfway, still moving as if it were being pulled by an invisible string.

“May I kiss you?” His words caressed your face, his eyes seeking your own.

You had only ever kissed one man, and that had all but been forced upon you after Robert Trembly courted you for two wretched weeks a year ago.

You never imagined you would want to kiss a man. To feel his lips against your own. Much less after knowing said man for all but an hour.

“Yes, you may.” You said the words, you know you did. But you couldn’t believe you did. You couldn’t fathom that you wanted him to kiss you. To keep holding you.

A brief smile passed over Eren’s face, and then his hand was cupping yours rather gently, his thumb caressing the bone of your cheek. Your eyelids fluttered closed, one hand pressed to his chest, the other along his bicep.

Your gasp was drowned out by his lips greeting your own, soft, and warm and far too welcoming. You allowed the kiss, you angled your head to meet his movements, and you felt as you nearly ascended where you stood.

It was chaste, lasting perhaps no more than thirty seconds. When Eren withdrew from the kiss, his face did not move far from your own. He leaned his forehead against yours.

“What is your name?” He asked you, his eyes seeking the answers from the plains of your face.

“Eliza.” You responded rather breathlessly.

“Eliza, would you do me the honor of exploring the world with me? Or writing your stories and reading them to me? I feel as if I’ve known you for a thousand years, though I know its been but an hour. Even still, your soul… It’s singing to me, calling out to me. I… I long for freedom, as do you. Will you find it with me?” Eren’s words were near insanity, you knew that.

You knew he had no right to be speaking to you the way he was. To be propositioning you with such foolishness. You had half a mind to laugh at him and dismiss every bit of the confession he was offering you.

There was another part of you that longed to agree, though. To comply. To accept, even though it could never work. How could it possibly?

“How would we manage any of that, Eren? How is it… Well, it isn’t possible.” Your mind called for reason, whilst your heart yearned for freedom. For Eren. For this man you hardly knew, but you indeed felt for him the same way he described his feelings for you.

“It’s only possible if you believe it is. I can make it happen. I have the means to. You need only say yes, Eliza.” He placed a chaste kiss along your lower lip, and you shivered.

You were insane. You were lost to the feeling of Eren, of freedom, of a world where you didn’t have to do or be anything other than what you wanted.

“Aright, Eren. I’ll search for freedom with you.” You heard yourself agreeing, despite how utterly mad it was.

A knock on the library door caused you both to stumble apart. The man you recognized as Zeke poked his head in the doorway. “I knew I’d find you here. Father wants you to dance with at least one woman tonight, Eren.”

Eren’s eyes shifted to yours. “Shall we?” He held his arm out for you and you smiled up at him, apprehension, excitement, butterflies of all shapes and sizes flooding your system.

“We shall.” You gripped his arm tightly, warmth filling you once more.

Eren returned your smile and nodded once, guiding you out of the library and down to the ballroom.

You never imagined you would ever willingly enter one with a man. You never imagined you would kiss a virtual stranger. You never imagined you would agree to see the world with that same stranger.

But you had. And you did. And you would, though you knew it wouldn’t be easy. Though you knew no one would understand or approve of such a rash decision that you could barely comprehend yourself.

You would carve your own path in life. For the first time, that felt possible. Exciting.

It felt like freedom.

[paramouradrift]

"Can you hear me?"

@febuwhump

Fandom: Avatar the Last Airbender, Pairing: Zukka Modern AU in which Zuko is the captain of the fencing team.

You can scry for the location of this fic on AO3 here.

Sokka lay in his dorm room bed, sick as a dog. He was alone, his roommate having vacated the place to go and stay with his girlfriend for a few days while Sokka recovered (and in turn, he was sure, his roommate’s girlfriend’s roommate was probably staying elsewhere, continuing the chain of exiling and sexiling ad nauseam). He had a box of tissues and a massive two liter bottle of water next to his bed, a sick bucket on the floor, and every blanket he owned piled on top of him. His body ached, and his nose hadn’t stopped running in days. He felt like death was upon him. His monitor was on while he tried to stream something mindless he could try to enjoy, but frankly all he had the energy for was 90s infomercials and Chinese soap operas. He took a swig of water and settled in for another episode when his phone buzzed. It was Zuko.

“Hello?” he said, and was greeted by a blast of sound.

“Sokka!” Zuko yelled over the cheering crowds. He must have still been in the fencing arena. The team had gone to regionals, leaving Sokka and a few other unlucky teammates at home to recover from illness. “Hello?”

“Hello! Zuko, can you hear me?” Sokka asked, voice as thick as his sinuses were full.

“Wait, let me get somewhere quieter,” Zuko yelled over the background noise. There was the sound of a door opening and closing, and then the roar of the crowd was cut off. “Is this better? Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, captain,” Sokka said.

“Hey,” Zuko said, and Sokka could hear the smile.

“Hey, dork,” Sokka said. “How’d we do?”

“Jet came in second in the senior foil division,” Zuko said. “And you’ll never guess who swept all their matches.”

“Aang?”

“No. Suki,” Zuko said, and Sokka loved how proud he sounded. “She was incredible, Sokka. It was almost a clean sweep, too. Her epee was so clean, it was like she just danced around her opponent’s swings. She didn’t get touched once until her last match, but she was up against Haru from BSSU, and I’ve heard he’s their rising star.”

“That’s great!” Sokka said. “Wish I could’ve seen it.”

“I think coach filmed it, I’ll show you later,” Zuko said. “You know how he gets, he wants us to do some post mortem thing if we lose or have something to post to the website if we win.”

“How’d you do, though?” Sokka asked, dabbing at his nose with a tissue.

“I did alright,” Zuko said. Sokka snorted, and then coughed. He put the phone down to blow his nose.

“Come on, Zuko,” he said. “What the hell is ‘alright’ supposed to mean?”

“Well, I’m bringing home 1st place in the senior saber division,” Zuko said. Sokka sat up.

“Alright!?” he cried. “Zuko! Congratulations! That’s incredible!”

“Thanks,” Zuko said. Sokka could picture him blushing while trying not to look smug.

“Seriously, who hurt you?” Sokka asked. “You should be waving that medal in everyone’s face.”

“Well, growing up with my dad and my sister, I guess I got used to thinking of myself as…untalented?” Zuko said. Sokka’s heart squeezed painfully. “I know, I know, it’s dumb. I’m not the team captain because of my winning personality, but. I don’t know, I don’t like showing it off in case I’m not as good as I think I am.”

“Wow, my handsome and talented boyfriend is so humble,” Sokka said. “What a man. What a catch.”

“Shut up,” Zuko said, chuckling into the phone and sending shivers down Sokka’s neck. “I’d kiss you if I was there.”

“You’d get sick again,” Sokka said, sniffing loudly. “Hey. When you get back. Can we…?”

He heard the door open through the phone, and his teammates called to Zuko. Zuko replied, and then said to Sokka, “Listen, I’ve got to go. Coach is treating us to dinner, and then we’ll be on our way back. Probably won’t be until midnight, though, so don’t stay up for me.”

“Hadn’t planned on it,” Sokka said. “I feel like shit.”

“I love you,” Zuko said. “Get well, okay?”

“Okay,” Sokka said, grinning despite himself. “Bye, boyfriend.”

“Bye!”

The call ended, and Sokka burrowed down into his blankets. He turned off his monitor and forced himself to sleep, determined to get better as quickly as possible so that he and Zuko could properly celebrate his win. Scenarios played out in his dreams, warped though they were by his subconscious mind, and he had more than sweat to wash from his clothes when he was mobile enough to do laundry again.

[wistfulcynic]

The Outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan)

SUMMARY: Emma Swan is a schoolteacher, respectable and respected in the small town of Haven, Wyoming. She does her job and minds her business, but she has a secret. One that brings meaning to her dull life and excitement to her restless soul. One that she knows could end at any moment. 

Killian Jones is a man with a powerful enemy and nothing to lose. He’s prepared to sacrifice every bit of that nothing for the sake of his revenge. 

Or, at least, he was. 

-

I am THRILLED to be here, kicking off the @cshistfic​ Historical Fics event! I’ve always loved reading romances set in the past and Westerns are a long-time favourite. Given how deeply entrenched the Western genre is in American culture, it’s funny to think about how a) most of it was made up for dime novels and, later, radio and television shows and movies, and b) the actual historical period that we call the Old West only lasted roughly thirty years—from the post-Civil War westward expansion under the Homestead Act to around the turn of the 20th century. This fic is set right around the end of that time—late 1890s to early 1900s—in the waning moments of the open range and the “lawless” frontier and the start of the modern era with its trains and barbed wire and cars and world wars. I’ve tried to capture a bit of that sense of transition in the story, mostly with the way it ends. 

Huge thanks to @shireness-says​​ for coming up with and running this event, and to @thisonesatellite​​ for Just Being Her. 

Words: 4.9k Rating: T Tags: Western AU, historical, outlaw Killian, schoolteacher Emma, all the historical detail, I did so much research for this 

on AO3

-

The Outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan): 

The hour was late, afternoon edging into evening in the town of Haven, Wyoming. ‘Town’ as a designation flattered it, this tiny settlement tucked back against craggy and striated formations of rock and nestled amongst ragged brush, being, as it was, scarcely more than a handful of rough-hewn cabins, a church, a general store, a blacksmith and livery stable, a saloon with its attendant whorehouse, and a school. 

The store and the smithy did the town’s most active business; unsurprisingly, seeing as they were the only examples of either within the radius of a good fifty miles. The residents—those who lived within the town’s scant limits—were certainly insufficient in their numbers to support either one, but the owners of those ranches that lay outside the town, they and their ranch hands, their wives, and their daughters, frequented both with pleasing regularity. 

The general store doubled, as such establishments generally did, as a post office, in which capacity it served as the sole tenuous link between this stark western land and the fashionable cities of the east. The Sears and Roebuck catalogue and that of Montgomery Ward, both prominently displayed beside the till, were tattered and well-thumbed, and the monthly mail delivery never came without piles of brown-wrapped parcels containing the latest in fashion and technology from the wider world—hints at the wonders promised by the new century. 

Very little of this prosperity touched the actual residents of Haven. The lives they lived were hard ones, scratched from unforgiving soil, but they were good folk, honest and hard-working. They lived simply and piously and for the most part happily. They tended their gardens and their livestock, read their Bibles, loved their children, and whenever possible sent those children to school. 

The Haven school, a single room with two windows, one on either side, and a disproportionate bell-tower on the roof—both this tower and the bell it contained were gifts from a local rancher, who considered them a better use of his money than blackboards or books—was located well away from the town’s main street. It had no fireplace, only a tiny, smoky, potbellied stove, and in the warmer months no breeze blew through the unglazed windows. The pupils sat on simple benches and copied their lessons onto slates that sold at the general store for rather more than their parents could comfortably afford; lessons their teacher laid out for them on a thickly-whitewashed wall with a piece of charcoal, the dust of which stained her fingers and her clothing, and embedded itself beneath her nails so deeply there were times she felt she’d never be free of it. 

This teacher’s name, the one she used, was Miss Emma Swan. A solitary and self-contained woman of about twenty-six, far too pretty for a schoolteacher most said, and if pressed these same would likely agree that teaching was not what folks might refer to as her calling. Though none could deny that she did her best and was kind to the children—a thing not always guaranteed from schoolmarms—she exuded such a restless air, an impatience with the tedium of her job and the pace of life in Haven which she did not trouble to conceal, that it was a subject of great curiosity amongst the residents why she continued to stay there. 

“I have my reasons,” she would say, whenever anyone dared to broach the subject, “and those reasons are my own.” There it was and there it would remain as far as Emma was concerned, and as the townsfolk knew her to be a courteous woman but one who never minced her words when riled, they declined to press the issue. 

By the time Miss Emma Swan had finished up in the schoolroom on this particular late afternoon, the floor swept and the board cleaned and lessons all prepared for the following day, the sun was already slipping behind the craggy rocks at her back and casting upon the town a peculiar sort of distended twilight—shrouded in shadows beneath a glaring blue sky. As she made her way the short distance between the schoolhouse and her own cabin—or rather, the schoolteacher’s cabin, perhaps the most compelling perk of her job—a brisk breeze ruffled the hem of her skirt and the few flyaway hairs that had escaped her tidy Gibson bun. The night would likely be another chilly one, and Emma wondered absently if she had enough wood left to leave the fire high for an extra hour or two or if she should resign herself now to another cold, dark evening spent alone. 

The cabin where she lived, she and sixty years of schoolteachers before her, was small and rough like most in Haven and comprised only two rooms: a small bedroom to the rear and a larger space at the front used equally for sitting, cooking, and dining. In this front room was both a fireplace and stove, the latter surprisingly modern and another gift from a different rancher, to the previous teacher. Near this stove sat a small wooden table and two matching chairs; a soft and generous armchair had pride of place before the fire. 

The bedroom was by far Emma’s preferred room. The walls in it were painted, in a pale and soothing blue, and on one of them a charming watercolour of forget-me-nots was hung. There was a white wardrobe with a mirrored door, a washstand and a vanity table, and a large bed with a sturdy iron frame. The curtains on the single window were of dotted swiss that Emma had sewn herself, and in the morning when she opened them she was greeted by the colours of the dawn. 

Emma removed her buttoned boots the moment she was through the door; they pinched her toes and she disliked wearing them indoors. She replaced them with a well-worn pair of carpet slippers then headed for the bedroom, there to change out of her school clothes and into the more comfortable, loose wrap dress she preferred at home. When she entered the room she had already undone most of the buttons on her high-collared blouse and so made straight for the wardrobe, without so much as a glance at the bed. 

The mirror on the wardrobe door as it swung open flashed the brief reflection of a face, just as Emma heard the sound of a chair leg scrape against the bare wood floor. She gasped and spun around, eyes wide and one hand pressed against her chest. 

There could be no question that the man currently in occupation of her vanity chair, sprawled in it with an air as casual as it was deceptive, was one who had followed quite a different path of life than that afforded to the residents of Haven. His untidy hair and the thick scruff on his jaw might not be especially remarkable out in this still-wild corner of Wyoming, but the narrow cut of his coat and the embroidery on the waistcoat beneath it, the silver chain of his pocket-watch and the ostentatious knot of his tie marked him as a man who knew his way around a gambling table for both good or ill and could likely acquit himself equally well in both scenarios. A man who dealt with the hardships of life by shooting rather than working his way out of them—as the gleaming six-shooter currently pointed straight at Emma would most certainly attest. 

Emma forced herself to breathe, slow and steady. Her heart was pounding. The man greeted her with a brusque nod, and cocked the hammer on his revolver. 

“Don’t let me interrupt you, love,” he drawled, in an accent that suited this town less even than his clothes or his gun. “By all means, keep going.” 

Emma swallowed hard and with trembling fingers undid the remainder of her buttons. Her blouse hung open to reveal the hooks of the corset underneath. 

The man gave his gun a menacing wave. “All the way now, there’s a good lass.” 

She shrugged off the blouse and let it fall to the floor. 

“And the skirt.” 

She unhooked her grey wool skirt and released it to pool around her ankles. 

His voice rasped. “Take down your hair.” 

Emma shivered.

Three pins and two combs held her hair in place. She removed them, dropped them into the pile of clothing at her feet; the bun tumbled down and over her shoulder. 

“Shake your head.” 

She did, vigorously. The bun unraveled further and strands of silky blonde fell across her face. 

He swallowed audibly. “Now the rest.” 

Emma hesitated, fingers hovering over the hooks on her corset. She wore nothing beneath it but a combination made of thin cotton lawn.

The man raised his gun and growled, “All of it.” 

She tossed her head back, jutted her chin out high in defiance. Her belly churned with a dark thrill of anticipation as she unhooked the corset and flung it away. He chuckled, low and rough. Emma fumbled with the buttons on her combination as he uncocked his gun and set it aside, then undid the belt designed to hold it. His eyes locked with hers as he stood, pale blue and profoundly tired, eyes that had seen far too much. 

She finished with the buttons but left the combination on, parted to reveal a thin strip of pale skin. Her heart thundered as he approached, her breaths short and heaving. He swaggered up and stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell the dust and sweat on him, so close she had to tilt her head again to see his face. His hand slipped beneath her shift to curl around her waist, fingers rough on her soft skin. 

“I—” Emma gasped as he pulled her closer, flush against him. His voice was a rumbling growl in her ear.

“You what, love?” 

“I was expecting you yesterday!” she snapped, and then she kissed him. 

-

“Gold is dead.” 

Emma’s head shot up from where it had been resting on the bare and hairy chest of Killian Jones. The most notorious outlaw in three states, or so the Wanted posters would have folks believe. Train robber, bank robber, high-stakes gambler—but only the trains and banks and gambling dens controlled by one particular man. A man in whose side Killian Jones had been an exceptionally troublesome thorn for near to six years. A man whose wife Jones stood accused of murdering. A man who was, it seemed, now dead himself. 

Emma stared down at his face, at the sharp definition of his cheekbones and lines of strain around his eyes. Such heavy burdens he’d been carrying for as long as she’d known him, but now, despite the exhaustion writ plain on his face he seemed lighter. Relieved, in some intangible way. 

“He is?” she gasped. 

“Aye.” Killian nodded, grimly satisfied. “Shot him right through the place where his heart should be. That’s why I was late.” 

“Oh, Killian.” It wouldn’t do to feel happy about a murder, even that of a wicked man, but Emma found that she too was grimly satisfied. “You did it.” 

“Aye, it’s done. And now I have a price on my head so high I’d turn myself in if I could, and special team of bounty hunters hired by Gold’s son to bring me to him, dead or alive.” 

“Oh.” Her fingers flexed on his chest and his tightened where they curled around her hip. “What—what will you do?” 

“Leave the country.” He spoke as though the answer were obvious, and Emma supposed it was. “I’ve no choice.” 

“Will you go back to England?” 

“No. There’s nothing left for me there.” He paused and his hand slid up her back to tangle absently in her hair. “I was thinking South America. Argentina.” 

“Argentina?” 

“Aye. Land’s selling down there for cheap and I’ve enough saved to buy myself a ranch. I’ve never tried ranching before so it’ll probably be an utter failure, but the idea’s crawled into my head and made itself a nest there, so I think that’s what I’ll do.” 

Emma slipped from his arms and out of bed. She could feel his eyes on her as she took her house dress from the wardrobe and wrapped it around herself, as she tied it at her waist with jerky movements. 

“You must be hungry,” she said. 

“I could eat.” 

“Stew?” 

“Perfect.” 

In the front room Emma piled wood on the embers in her stove and coaxed a fire to life beneath the pot of stew she’d left on the hob. She swept the ashes from the fireplace, arranged the logs and the kindling, then struck a flint to light it. She could hear Killian in the bedroom washing and dressing in the spare clothes she kept on hand for him, and by the time she sensed his presence behind her the larger logs were catching nicely and the hearty aroma of stew had begun to waft in from the stove. 

“Shouldn’t be too long before it’s ready,” she told him without turning around. “There’s cornbread too. It’s a few days old, but—” 

“Emma.” 

“—it should still be good if you dunk it in the stew.” 

“Emma, love.” Killian’s voice was soft, full of the tenderness he showed only to her. “Talk to me.” 

“About what?” 

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t known this day would come, this one or another very like it. She understood the dangers of the life he lived, out on the edges of society, pursued by an influential man with a terrible grudge, and she’d done all she could to make her peace with it. Killian could have died any number of times in the three years of their acquaintance; she had always been aware that every time she bid him farewell might be the last. 

And now she knew for certain that it would be. Nothing had changed. 

She heard him pull out one of the dining chairs and sit down in it, and though she kept her back to him she he knew he would be leaning his elbow on the table and running a hand over his face. She could picture the gesture in her mind’s eye with perfect clarity, so often had she seen him do it before, and her heart hurt because she knew he only did this when he was deeply troubled. 

“Emma, you know—you know why I spent so long trying to kill Gold,” he said roughly. 

“For Milah.” Her voice hardly broke on the name. “To avenge her.” 

“Yes. That bastard hunted her like an animal, shot her right in front of me then framed me for the crime, and all because she couldn’t bear to spend another moment as his wife. He took her life rather than allow her to live it free from him, because he couldn’t countenance her finding happiness with another man. And I swore to her as she lay dying that I would make him pay for that.” 

“Because you love her.” 

“I did.” In the silence of the cabin, she could hear the rasp of his scruff against his palm. “I did.” 

Emma had been watching the fire, now dancing merrily in the hearth, and it took a beat or two for his words to register. When they did her heart gave a shuddering thump and she spun round to gape at him. “Did?” she repeated. 

Killian’s lip quirked and humour flared briefly in his eyes before they became solemn again, and heartrendingly soft. “It’s a funny thing, revenge,” he remarked. “It begins as a simple quest for justice but so easily descends into obsession—almost before a man knows what’s come over him, it’s all he’s got left to live for. That’s how it was for me, for years. Until…” 

He trailed off and Emma found she was holding her breath. “Until?” she prompted.

He looked up at her. “Until I met you.” 

She inhaled sharply as their eyes met, his own warm and such a brilliant blue, full of an emotion to which she didn’t dare give a name. “I kept after Gold because of my vow to Milah, yes, but also because I had to, because it was him or me. His life or mine. When that bullet pierced his chest and I saw him fall, I realised that it wasn’t about Milah for me anymore and it hadn’t been, not for a long time. I was fighting for my life, my right to have it and to live it in peace. That’s all I want, just peace and a simple life. And you.” 

“Me?” gasped Emma, blankly and ungrammatically, as she attempted to grasp what he was saying. 

Amusement coloured the tenderness on his face, alongside a hint of exasperation. “Don’t you know, Emma?” he asked with a shake of his head. “Why do you think I kept coming back here?”

She offered a weak smile and an abashed shrug. “My cornbread?” she ventured, and he laughed. 

“I don’t know how to tell you this, darling, but your cornbread is dry. Try again.” 

Emma elected to ignore this ungentlemanly slur on her culinary skills. “Well… I suppose the town is quite secluded, good for hiding out,” she observed.  

“It is that. But that isn’t the reason, love.” 

“Isn’t it?”

“You know it isn’t.” Killian stood and moved towards her, slowly as if she were a baby faun he was apt to startle, or possibly a sleeping mountain lion. “It’s you, Emma Swan,” he said softly. “You are what I will always come back for. You are the reason my soul is hale and unconsumed by hatred. Because it wasn’t revenge I was after, in the end. It was the future I wanted with you.” 

Tears clogged Emma’s throat and pressed insistently behind her eyes. “Killian,” she choked, “I—”

“Shh.” He closed what small distance remained between them and folded her in an embrace to which she clung tightly, face pressed against his shoulder so the soft flannel of his shirt might absorb her tears. “Emma, I know I have next to nothing to offer you.” Killian stroked her hair soothingly as he spoke. “A tenuous existence in an unfamiliar country, backbreaking work that likely won’t pay off, a struggle for everything we have. I shouldn’t ask this of you. I should have the decency to walk away and let you find happiness with a better man than me.” She could hear tears in his voice now, and when she looked up she saw them glistening in his eyes. “But I won’t,” he continued gruffly. “I can’t, because I am a selfish bastard and I love you. I love you so much, Emma.” His voice broke. “So much. And if you could see your way clear to coming to Argentina with me, I would spend every day I have left on this earth working to make you happy.” 

A rush of joy filled Emma Swan then, joy such as she had never known before. Her tears fell freely and unheeded as she tightened her hold on the man she loved and pressed her forehead to his own. In that stance they remained for some considerable time, until Emma became aware that the silence had drawn out far too long and she must speak. There were words he needed to hear from her, crucial words, and yet Miss Emma Swan, despite being quite a competent schoolteacher in all respects including her vocabulary, had always found words failed her when in the grip of strong emotion. 

“Did I ever tell you I grew up on a ranch?” she blurted, then shook her head. That wasn’t what she’d wished to say.

Killian’s brow wrinkled. “You’ve mentioned it.” 

“My daddy’s place out near Casper,” Emma pressed on. “A thousand acres of cattle, mostly, and some horses.” 

“It sounds nice.” 

“It was.” She snuffled and shifted until her head was resting on his shoulder and she felt cradled in his arms. This wasn’t the speech she’d planned but now she found herself determined to give it. “I was his only child, his only family after my mama died, and he reared me all my life to take over from him,” she continued. “But then when I was nineteen he got married again, and had a son. And suddenly ranching was ‘no job for a woman,’ or so he said, and I should look into teaching instead. Or better still get married and become some man’s pretty possession. Preferably the son of a neighbouring rancher, ‘for the future of our family’s land and legacy’.” She paused, remembering, and rubbed her cheek against his shirt. “I told him to go fuck himself.” 

Killian’s laugh rumbled through the both of them. “That’s my tough lass,” he said, with a pride in his voice that warmed her, and made her desperate. 

“But you do know what I’m saying, don’t you Killian?” she persisted. “You hear what I’m telling you?” 

“What I hear is that in addition to being beautiful and brilliant and tough as old boots, you also know how to run a ranch. Which would be bloody useful I must admit, as I haven’t got the first faint clue where to start. Is that what you wanted me to understand?” 

She nodded in relief. “That’s it.”

He brushed the hair back from her face with fingers gentle as the wing of a butterfly. “And is that... all you have to say?”

She felt caught in his eyes, and like to drown in them. “There may be one more thing.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It’s that I—I—” Emma drew a steadying breath. “I love you too, Killian, and of course I’ll go to Argentina with you.” A smile broke across his face, that rare and brilliant smile of his that set her heart to soaring and broke the dam that held her words in check. “I’d go anywhere with you,” she declared, laughing as he squeezed her tight. “To the moon. To hell itself, and then back out again.” 

“Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.” 

He leaned down to her and she swayed up to him and their lips met in a kiss that sang of love and of hope and of a most solemn promise, if something of a dramatic one. He dipped her back and kissed her until she was dizzy and overcome with laughter, and then swung her up again and into a dance. 

Emma put her head on his shoulder and leaned into him as they danced to music they alone could hear, all around the cabin with the aroma of stew in the air and hope for the future in their hearts. 

-

The disappearance of Miss Emma Swan, schoolteacher and respected resident, shook the town of Haven, Wyoming as nothing had before. Even the escape and subsequent stampede down Main Street of Mr Murchison’s pigs had caused less consternation, since, as the residents all agreed, for that at least there was an explanation. A rusty gate hinge, investigation later revealed, had been the culprit behind the Spectacular Pig Hullabaloo of 1893, whereas Miss Swan had simply vanished, with no explanation given or obvious method of egress. She owned no horse and had not boarded the stage; no one matching her description had been observed at the train station in Casper or anywhere else that a woman alone on foot might reasonably have been expected to turn up. She had taken nothing with her save some clothes and a few books and left nothing behind but a brief letter hastily scrawled on a scrap of paper—her resignation from her position as schoolteacher effective immediately, and a recommendation for her replacement. 

Haven residents were thoroughly baffled, and for many months afterwards the Fantastical Vanishing of Miss Emma Swan was the number one topic of conversation amongst them. Theories were dismantled nearly as quickly as they had been constructed, replaced by newer and ever more fanciful speculations, and each resident had his or her own pet notion as to how and why the trick was done. Rarely had they felt so stimulated or enjoyed themselves so thoroughly, however time, as it inevitably does, soon began quite noticeably to pass, and the town’s attention moved on to other happenings. For although new events in such a quiet place may never again be as deliciously sensational as the mystery of the vanished schoolmarm, they do possess the not insignificant advantage of being new.  

And thus Emma Swan passed into Haven legend. 

Some years later, on the eve of her wedding, Miss Mary Margaret Blanchard—soon to be Mrs David Nolan—sat at the very table where Miss Swan’s letter had been left and composed a letter of her own, to an old friend she’d first met at the State Normal School of Colorado. In her letter Miss Blanchard informed her friend of the imminent blessed day and thanked her for the recommendation that had not only brought Miss Blanchard many years of enjoyable work as schoolteacher to Haven’s children but also led, in that roundabout way life sometimes takes, to her current state of blissful happiness. 

This letter travelled by mail coach from the Haven general store—where Miss Blanchard posted it to the care of a P.O. Box in San Francisco—to the main post office in Casper. From there it went via train to Cheyenne, where it was loaded onto the mail car of the Union Pacific Railway and thence made its journey to the west coast. In San Francisco its fortunes underwent a curious change, for it was redirected by a clerk there, in accordance with instructions, and placed back on the Union Pacific, headed this time for Denver. From Denver it voyaged onwards to Kansas City, then Chicago, and finally to New York, where it abandoned train travel forever in favour of a steam ship bound for Buenos Aires. 

Upon arrival at port it was placed in the charge of a courier who carried it along with a scant handful of others over the rough roads of the Argentinian coast to Puerto Santa Cruz and then inland, where it finally, many months after its departure, came to rest at a tiny, dusty outpost in southern Patagonia. And it was from this inauspicious locale that the letter was collected, at long last, by its intended recipient—a woman none of the residents of Haven nor indeed the erstwhile Miss Blanchard herself would be likely to recognise as Emma Swan. 

The clothes she wore were utilitarian in design and plain in colour, liberally coated in fine brown dust. Her pale hair hung loose and wavy down her back, and her face beneath her wide-brimmed hat was tanned and marked around the eyes with the fine lines characteristic of those who spend a good deal of time squinting into bright sunlight. But these were superficial changes. The woman who collected the well-travelled letter and rode with it back to her ranch, who sat at the table in her kitchen and read it with a wide smile and sincere pleasure at the news from her friend—this woman was happy, as Emma Swan had surely never been. It was a happiness born of deep contentment and the satisfaction of a life lived on one’s own terms. And it was the happiness of a woman who is loved. 

Emma was reading the letter a fourth time when the sound of boots on the porch alerted her to Killian’s arrival; she looked up just as he came through the door with a smile on her lips the like of which neither Mrs Nolan nor any other in Haven could ever imagine her smiling. 

Killian hung his hat on a hook and met its brilliance with a smile of his own. “What are you thinking about, love, that has you so radiant?” he inquired. 

“A letter from Mary Margaret.” Emma indicated the sheet of paper in her hand. “She’s getting married. Is married now, I suppose.” 

“To a fellow worthy of her, I hope?” 

“A rancher, but not one of the arrogant ones,” Emma replied. “I think he is. Worthy of her, I mean. I think they’ll be happy.” 

“That’s good news indeed.” 

“It is.” She set the letter aside and went over to him, tucked her head beneath his chin as he enfolded her in his arms. “But that’s not why I’m radiant, as you say.” 

“I say it only because it’s true, darling.” 

“It’s because I’m happy,” said Emma softly. She nuzzled her nose against his neck; he smelled of sweat and dust and horses. “For Mary Margaret, of course, but also for me. It struck me just now, reading her letter, how happy I am. I’m so happy, Killian.” 

His arms around her tightened and she felt him stroke her hair, and when he spoke his voice was gruff. “No regrets then, about abandoning everything you’ve ever known to live out your days on the lam with me?” 

“Nope.” Emma pulled back just enough to look up at him, to caress his cheek with her fingertips and press her forehead to his. “No regrets at all.” 

-

Historical Note: Emma in this fic is based loosely on a woman named Etta Place. Very little is known about her, but she is thought to have been romantically involved with Harry Longabaugh, a.k.a. the Sundance Kid, and to have accompanied him and Butch Cassidy to South America. However, verifiable details about her are scarce—even her real name is uncertain—and only one photograph of her remains. Some believe she may have been a prostitute but in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid the writer chose to make her a teacher instead, and honestly I have always found that such a compelling tale. A “proper” schoolteacher having a secret affair with an outlaw, then running away with him to another continent? The romance, am I right? 

And thus the inspiration for this story. 

-

@ohmightydevviepuu​ @thisonesatellite​ @katie-dub​ @kmomof4​ @killianjones-twopointoh​ @mariakov81​ @stahlop​ @optomisticgirl​ @spartanguard​ @shireness-says​ @snowbellewells​ 

[cvtqr]

365

pairings; eren jaeger x reader [+ jean x reader]

notes; this was also posted on my ao3, which has the same username as this one [cvtqr]

“i never loved you y/n.” 

“WHAT DON’T YOU GET? I NEVER LOVED YOU SO STOP COMING HERE Y/N.” 

he slammed the door in your face. you didn't know why he was treating you this way. you've been with him every step of the road. there was no way he couldn't love you. you didn't want to leave. you didn't want to stop coming to see him. so you didn't stop. you weren't going to leave. you sunk down onto the concrete in front of his door.

on the other side eren was doing the same thing, just sitting against the door. he didn't want to see you. he didn't want to give into you. if he hurt you now he wouldn't hurt you in 365 days. but seeing your face was so hard. he never wanted to scream at you and slam the door in your face. right when you showed up the only thing he wanted to do was pull you into his arms. he wanted to feel your warmth. but he can't. he knew you were like a drug, he couldn't get enough. he also knew that he could never be with you again. no. not after 365 days. he could never give you a family, the life you deserved. his biggest mistake was falling in love with you. it was impossible to give you everything he wanted to. he never even knew when it happened. when you walked with him in the snow during training? when you saved him countless times? your soft, sweet smile? he needed you, but you didn't need him.

you ended up falling asleep on eren’s front porch, waking up the next morning from the bright sun shining directly onto your face. and the blonde boy standing in front of you.

“so he won't talk to you either hm? you should go, you don't deserve that y/n. he hasn't talked to anyone in days, im just leaving a bag for him to make sure he's taking care of himself and all.” 

you nodded and stood up, walking down the step on eren’s porch. 

“the captain wants to see you too. i think he wants you and jean doing field work today.”

“thanks” you mumbled out before going to meet up with levi. 

armin was right, you and jean were out on the field today. jean secretly cared about you and he hated seeing you like this. the bright cheerful girl, now not saying a word. you lost the glow in your eyes. as the sun set, you and jean were about done. riding your horses back to the stables, jean took a turn.

“where are you going.”

“come on, y/n.”

sighing, you turned the direction of your horse, following jean.  

he stopped over the lake, the sun setting above you two.

“i used to come here with marco all the time.”

you looked up and over at jean.

“s-sorry, lets go.”

“wait jean.- i, i miss him too.”

“do you maybe wanna get dinner in town? we haven't ate in awhile and you seem very down today.”

“i don't know jean...”

“oh come on, my treat.”

knowing you couldn't go home and cook with eren like you used to do, you accepted his offer. 

279 days

the time for you and jean to do field work all day came around again. after, you found yourself in town with him again. over the past 86 days you found yourself going to eren’s less and less. after hanging out with jean all day for the first time, you realized that you both had a lot in common. jean lost someone and even though eren was still here, you lost him. you now only go there about once a week with armin, just to leave a bag with a note on his doorstep. he completely ghosted everyone. he hasn't talked to anyone in almost 100 days. you were the last person he spoke to. 

back to today, you found your smile slowly coming back. but were you over eren? no. not at all. jean just simply made you somewhat happy. out in town the both of you decided to try food from a bunch of carts. that was until you got to a small band playing music. jean pulled you close to him and started slowly swaying the both of you together. jean knew you were probably wishing he was eren, but that was ok with him. he had you in his arms.

what you didn't know, eren was sitting on a nearby bench. from a far, he was un recognizable. his hair draped over his shoulders and he hasn't shaved in months. he looked like shit. he questioned his decision of pushing everyone away. should he have spent the 365 days with you? no. no no no no no, he made the right choice. now he would just have to watch your life with jean. even though it hurt, it hurt like hell, this is what he wanted for you.

123 days 

wow, its been awhile since you've seen eren. you stopped going there. you didn't feel like need. its been way over 200 days. you had jean now. you were so close, yet so far to being over eren. but you didn't want to hurt jean by going to see your ex-lover. jean didn't bring up marco, you didn't bring up eren. you haven't had as much time with jean that you had with eren, but you were slowly falling in love with him.

just the little things.

4 days

letters. eren had written a letter to each and every one of his friends, but no. he only needed you to see yours. he ripped up the rest, but put yours into a plain white envelope, leaving it on his kitchen table. he needed to think about a lot of things in the next four days.

1 day 

eren took all his decorations down. all the pictures of you two that he's been looking at for the past 364 days. the only thing left was the letter, still set on his counter.

2 days after 

y/n. open in five years. i understand if you want to throw this out and forget about me, but give it a chance.

that's what you read on the envelope left on eren’s counter. 

you and close friends cleaned out eren’s house, collecting his personal belongings.  

saying the day was gloomy is being generous. the next few years were gloomy.

1825 days after

“marco kirstein! get back here right now or im getting your father.” 

you never imagined yourself chasing after a three year old toddler while your husband drank coffee on the balcony five years later. 

1826 days later

“have fun on your camping trip boys. connie loose my child when jean goes on that interview and ill kill you.”

“mommy stop worrying! uncle connie is a great babysitter!” 

6 hours later

you un crumpled the old envelope sitting in a box of belongings. 

hey sugar! so i see you didn't forget about me. if im right you have started a family? or that's what i hope at least...

those last 365 days were painful as all hell. sorry for bringing up old memories but i just want to clear things up with you. i lied the last time i saw you. i love you. i loved you so much. that's why i needed to let go. I've been watching you and jean over the past few months. you seem happy. stay that way please. i fucking cannot stand jean but please don't let go of him. if you're reading this and you did, i hope your children get/got your genes so they don't have horse faces. 

i don't even know why im writing this, i guess i just wanted to say i had to let go so you wouldn't get hurt once i died. i thought it would be less painful for you that way. im so sorry if i hurt you at first. so, so sorry. at least you had jean. someone, just like i wanted you too. 

im not sure if i regret my decision. actually scrap that i shouldn't have wrote that because i don't have an eraser. i don't regret it. but i just wanted to let you know that i loved you over those last 365 days. tell the gang i said hey.

i love you, my atlantis.

-eren