#ill clean it up and post it to ao3 later

[melithril]

[Adar] Never Again

♫ - It Will Be Me - Melissa Ethiridge

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.

[bitchimasnake-sss]

hiii this is the anon that requested part two and i return begging for part three of tennis! zoro.

ahem.

PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE

thanks for coming to my tedtalk! :)

in all seriousness though i would love to see a part 3 and definitely think you should have an ao3 to post longer content!! please keep up your lovely writing 💋💋 (MAKE ZORO REALLY WORK FOR IT HEHEHEHE [i was sobbing over how cute his little offerings were AND FALLING ASLEEP AT THE DOOR i cant])

UR THE ONLY ONE KEEPING ME GOING GIRLY 🎀😞. SO GLADDD YOU LIKED THAT ONE, HERE HAVE THIS ONE NOWWW. ILL MAKE ZORO EXTRAA PATHETIC FOR YOU MWUAH😚

bitchimasnake-sss presents: the one piece AUs

03. AITA for going back to my ex? ft. roronoa zoro!

set-up: part 03 [FINAL PART] to my badminton player!zoro au lol. you can find the first two parts here! (i recommend you read those first!) getting your heart broken when you were seventeen was inevitable, getting it broken on camera seven years later was also inevitable, it seems. but letting your ex back into your life with the glittering promises of "i'll win you back in a month?" was getting your heart broken again and again and again also inevitable? most importantly: was roronoa zoro worth your sanity? warnings: dumb people, even dumber plot by me! includes angst towards the end, zoro is an idiot trying his best to win you over! cameos by nami, sanji, perona and mihawk because i love writing them tysm. and obviously smut (hehe u nasty). nsfw thoughts include: feral!zoro. this man is nasty, he likes blood, sweat and tears. a lot of overstimulation, a little bit of bimbofication, hints of dub!con, car-sex, penetration, teasing, dirty talk, a little bit of feral!zor. OKAY THAT'S IT!! MINORS DNI OR I WILL HUNT YOU! wc: 10.6k m.list

17th of october 11:43 p.m.

"really?" and you could hear sanji drop his precious cigarette onto the ground in pure, unaltered shock, "are you toying with me right now, love?"

"no." you replied firmly, nimble fingers getting caught against familiar, green locks as roronoa zoro pressed honeyed lips to your stomach. he trailed downwards, uncaring as your manager spluttered on the speaker.

"you are actually dating that green-haired freak?" from his tone alone, you could imagine sanji to look wide-eyed and tongue-tied. meeting the eyes of the said “green haired freak”, you found a sour expression plastered to his handsome features.

"no... well, not yet.” you swiped your fingers against his scalp, manicured fingers softly scratching the frown on his face away, “we're on a one-month trial phase."

"are you and him a netflix subscription, mon amore? what do you mean one month?" the blonde hissed. but you were far too gone, too warped within the feeling of the athlete’s soft kisses on your hiked-up thighs to even offer a hairsbreadth of attention to your critic.

"well–" as the sportsman hands trailed over your thighs all-too-intimately, you found yourself sighing blissfully, "he said he wants a month to win me back.”

“that is insane.”

“maybe. but his time starts today, so, we have until 17th of november to come to some sort of conclusion." zoro didn’t dare still against your soft skin. kneading the fat of your hips, pressing hot kisses to thighs and nipping at fading bruises to renew them. but you tightened your grip on his locks, tipping his head backwards as you pulled on them. glaring at him, you breathed out a warning, “either he cleans his act up, or i leave him in the dust."

but who was roronoa zoro if not the man made to get on your nerves?

his mouth fell agape as his eyes met yours, and a soft moan tumbling past him at the sharp sting of your pull. that wayward moan soon turned into a grunt as the sportsman toyed with the band of your shorts.

“stop that.” you whispered, eyes growing wide as the blonde on the other end of the speaker continued his distressed rants.

"and what do i do about it?!" for the first time in the five years vinsmoke sanji had been your manager, you heard his voice shake in panic, "you two just broke up! in front of the cameras! like a week ago!"

"it's fine, sanji. people get together all the time—"

"—not if they're olympic level athletes!"  

"hey, you have no idea how much shit goes down in the olympic village." you shrugged, "last time 160k condoms were given out, and people flew threw them like it was nothing. there’s lots of crying. and fucking too, actually. sometimes both, now that i think about it."

“rabid monsters.”

“don’t be jealous. athletes just have a lot of stamina.” while you were busy rolling your eyes at the blonde and his dramatic antics, zoro climbed back up over you. a smirk on his lips, flashing you his canines, and mouthing “really? stamina?”

clad in a fitted, black tank top, your eyes drifted down to his arms and chest. shamelessly staring at the muscles flexing and unflexing under the flimsy material, you brought your free hand to run wild against his bicep. finding his index under your jaw, he tilted your face up to meet his eyes again. you smiled up at him without much thought and his heart stuttered out in the rhythm of his shallow breaths. fuck you for being so pretty.

before you could nod and ask what he wanted, he pressed a chaste kiss against your lips. next, he sunk his face in the crook of your neck. you felt the nip of his sharp canines against your sensitive pulse. but that sly bastard. all of that was to distract you from the way he dipped his hand under your shorts and pulled your panties aside.

“zo–“ you started slowly, but it was all in vain. the man above you was on a mission. and that mission was apparently to get your own manager to report you as a sex offender or something?! atleast that’s what it felt like from the way he rubbed his thumb against your sensitive clit. 

“either ways.” your manager huffed, ignoring the way your breath hitched at the new bruises against your neck and the stuttering swipes of his thumb against your folds, “this is still insane.”

"weren’t–” you gulped, trying to keep your voice steady, “you were the one saying that my job is to playand yours’ to take care of such things, so, do that.”

“and i can! i can fix it.” you heard a thud ring through the speaker and imagined that the blonde had fallen back onto his back helplessly, “but i need time to fix this. gotta talk to nami-san, and then i will need to fix the narrative using the media. i need time.”  

barely raising his lips off of your narcotic skin – with a flushed face and husky voice – zoro replied coolly, “don’t worry, nami’s on our side with this one.”

“HUH?! WHO WAS THAT?”

pinching the taut skin of the athlete’s bicep as a warning to stay shut, your tone stayed sickly sweet, “who? ‘twas the wind, sanji.”

“don’t try to sway me with your use of ‘twas.” he hissed like a wet cat, “is that mosshead here right now? is he in your room right now?!”

“and if you’re worried about the paps, roronoa will buy them out, you know?” as if to protest against your suggestion, zoro flicked his thumb faster against your swollen nub. you glared at him. “a-and if you’re worried someone will see us, they won’t. we won’t go public with it.”

“none of those suave answers.” sanji firmly stated, “answer what I asked first. is he there right now?”

you whistled a soft, “dunno what you’re talking about…” before drawing your phone away from your face, “because that’s blasphemous!!” purposefully covering the speaker with your palm, “hey, hey? sanji- hello? can’t hear�� hear you right now. hello?”

you heard a muffled, “DON’T YOU DARE PULL THAT ON ME OR SO GOD HELP ME–“

“still can’t hear you.” your thumb hovered over the red button, “g’night, sanji!”

beep.

“i’m paying for the paps?”

trying to push his weight off of your relatively smaller frame, you huffed out, “c-can’t you stay shut when i ask you to, roronoa?”

in retaliation, he pressed more of his body weight onto you. snuggling his face into your crook and inhaling your scent like a man crazed, his fingers kept toying against you like it was as easy as breathing.

you tried to push him off again, gritting out, “do you think a good dick is enough of a reason to come back? cause it is not.”

“it is one of the reasons, is it not?”

“no. is it not.” you repeated, “shut it, and find a new strategy or something.”

“fine, tsk.” and with that the sportsman got off of you. pulling his hand out of your flimsy shorts, leaving behind your aching body as he got up. standing at the door, he looked back just to delve his long fingers past his lips to suck down on your essence. smiling as he pulled out, he made his conclusion in one, swift word, “sweet.”

and you just threw a pillow at him, face flaming up at the way he just simply caught the pillow and threw it right back at you, “fuck off, roronoa.”

“hm?” he cocked his eyebrow, careful hands still not attempting to open the door and leave, “I’ll just head back to my room, then.”

you found yourself crossing your arms over your chest, half to give him attitude and other half to soothe the skin that had been alit with his body over yours, “go, then. you’re the one who wandered in my room with unholy intentions.”

somebody could mistake his as the reincarnation of the devil with the way he was grinning. all unholy thoughts and malicious actions, “you’re the one still laying, waiting for me to do something.”

at his (correct) accusations, you sat up haughtily. adjusting the tank top and pulling it upwards, you found yourself glaring at the towering man for the nth time, “you’re insufferable. is this how you’re gonna win me back?”

“hey,” he shrugged, broad shoulders moving up and down with delicate ease, “worked the first time, didn’t it?”

“i was seventeen.” your eyes narrowed, “and you used to be way more handsome back then. it won’t work this time around.”

he hummed again, and within his cocky tone you could anticipate he had something to nag you with, “so i was handsome to you? that’s adorable.”

“fucking insufferable.”

“but handsome nonetheless?” and you almost threw your phone at his pretty face when he just grinned and exited the room. actually, no. you almost threw your phone when you realized that you were blushing, and fighting off a smile as he left your room.

what was this man doing to you?! ──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

19th of october, 7:58 p.m.

🍓attempt 01: no limits.

“okay, and i have no limits?” you asked again, just to ensure that you heard him right.

“yes, you do not.”

“and you’re not gonna sue me for using your money?”

“no, i will not. i don’t think i can legally.” he sighed, “do you wanna do it or not?”

“i do, but…” zoro's heavy voice kissed your ears, cutting you off, "then, stop whining. no buts, no ifs.”

“is this really how you’re gonna win me over?” mumbling, your lips fell into an easy pout, “feels more like bribery.”  

“nami said the quickest way to a woman's heart is shopping. or just cold, hard cash, really. but i figured this was more romantic." tilting his face downwards, his voice dropped down to a whisper, “does it feel romantic yet?”

goddamn that freak!

your skin erupted into a violent goosebump as you felt his words against your soft skin. your face heated up as your fingers stilled against the keypad of your laptop, the home page of your favorite shopping site pulled up and resting neatly. ready to do some damage on his wallet. well, honestly, what damage? he was a well-paid nepo baby who had a personal gym and court in his house. this would probably barely feel like a pinch to him.

“again, i ask for your consent.” you asked anyways, trying to remind yourself to be a business-savvy woman who had only come to absolutely wreck his wallet. zoro declared monotonously, “i give it with full consciousness. jesus, woman.”

“okay then, no taksies backsies.” you cleared your throat in anticipation. stretching your fingers slowly as they hovered over the keyboard. his arms wrapped around your middle and you fell against his chest with a soft thud, “start already.”

“what’s even the reason for this?”

“your manager said we can’t go out, like in public. and blondie hates me enough as it is right now. so, i didn’t wanna risk taking you shopping outside.” roronoa zoro found himself revelling in your dishevelled demeanour. voice honeyed, he rasped out, “what’s wrong with my room, though? nice ‘n comfy, isn’t it?”

“I meant what is the reason for me to sit on your fucking lap?”

“oh that?” he was laying in his bed, with you atop him and your laptop atop you. you grumbled on, “and is it necessary to do this in your room? the living room is a perfectly perfect place to shop online.”  

“you want me to get handsy in front of my father? that’s too much. the old man would probably die if he saw me like that.” he hummed, “not sure he’s ever even done anything. you know, given both me and ‘rona are adopted.”

you glared back at him at the shit he spewed but then your eyes widened as realization sunk in, “holy shit is he a forty year old... virgin?”

“dunno.”

“but he’s like emo, and vampirish. there’s no way he didn’t get some during the twilight era.”

“he was also the world champion at that time,” zoro reminisced, “he must have gotten girls.”

a laugh escaped you by, “zoro.” you stressed, “you’re the world champion right now. and the tally of girls you get is at a great zero.”

zoro mulled over your words before slowly shifting his pelvis so that you fell back at him unexpectedly, “not zero. got a girl on my lap right now.”

his laugh echoed yours as he held you tighter, and you tried to wriggle free, “jus’ cause you’re paying. no other reason.”

“how does it feel to lie to yourself?” he asked with mock grievance in his tone, and you tried to elbow his side to break free, “die.”

“kill me yourself, coward.”

“i will.” you admitted, still laughing as he decided to somehow tighten his grip even more firmly, “don’t. you’d look horrible in orange.”

“how dare you, roronoa zoro.” your palm struck his forearm playfully, “do not talk about my fashion choices when you shower once a week.” 

“nobody had a problem with it thus far,” he answered back easily, “but if you have a problem, i suppose i could shower semi-regularly.”

“semi-regularly?” you almost coughed up a hairball, “jesus christ, i don’t think i would able to fuck you ever again.”

“liar.”

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

22nd of October, 7:43 a.m.

🍓attempt 02: the way to the heart is through the stomach (i think??)

“roronoa.”

“father.”

“what are you doing in my kitchen right now?” the man raised a careful eyebrow, staring at his dishevelled son who he had caught not a minute earlier bickering with a red-head on his phone.

“cooking,” zoro deadpanned, “i'm trying to make waffles.”

his fathers hawk-like gaze swept over the kitchen. flour sprinkled over counter-tops, some on his cheek, a batter that looked more radioactive that the what remained of Chernobyl. the older man drawled on, “and i presume you know how to cook?”

“no. she's helping.” he flashed his father his phone-screen and the familiar, scorned woman who was on video-call. when she caught sight of mihawk, she smiled, “sir mihawk, how are you?”

“just passing by. come by for dinner someday, nami.” the man deadpanned and the manager laughed, “of course. how can I refuse?”

now his hawk-like stare was trained on zoro, who stared back at his father as if they were sworn enemies on court, “what is it, now?”

“is it for her?”

“who else?”

 “don’t burn my house down.”

“understood.”

and with that brief conversation, mihawk disappeared back into the mazes of his house, and zoro went back to bickering with the red-head.

“you add milk.” she emphasized, clicking her manicured nails together as she tried to guide an idiot to build the equivalent of rome, “do you not know what milk is?”

“i have enough calcium in my bones and I will not fall for scams like milk or medical insurance.”

“what?” she spluttered, “y-you don’t have insurance?!”

“when am I ever gonna need it, woman?”

“oh my god. you don’t have insurance!” and the last thing zoro saw the manager do was flip him off as she ran to some place elsewhere. possibly to get him some sort of medical insurance that he totally didn’t need. beep.

zoro’s fingers hovered over his contact list, the next stop being perona neesan 💗👻 .

“'rona.” zoro grumbled as he caught the face of perona on the other side. huge sunglasses were perched on her nose, a silky bandana flowing from her coloured hair, “awh, you remember me, zoro. finally.”

“quit that,” he mumbled helplessly before turning the back camera, “i need your help.”

“you’re committing arson at dad’s place?” she raised her sunnies so as to see the kitchen better. flour everywhere, and whatever the fuck was in that batter. kissing her teeth, she admitted, “i mean i don’t endorse violence… but that kitchen could use a makeover.”

“no. jesus, perona.” he turned to camera around to his face, “i– uh, i need to make waffles. an’ i don’t know shit. can you help or what?”

“huh?” her bug-like eyes widened impossibly wider, “yeah, obviously i can. but why are you cooking? is dad dying? and is his last wish to eat burnt waffles?”

“haha, funny.”

“wasn’t being funny. you have like... two left hands.”

“just to remind you, i’m ambidextrous.” zoro replied, poker-faced, and perona pouted, “who are you making them for, then?”

“myself.”

“liar.” narrowing her eyes, she probed further, “is it your ex? oh my god. are you guys actually together?”

“what?” zoro narrowed his eyes in return, “fuck off, ‘m not asking you for help.” he sighed, “where did you even hear about that?”

“it’s her?!” the goth girl squealed, “and you didn’t tell me?! I thought it was regular PR stuff that nami dragged you into. but she’s back? i remember how you sobbed when–”

“bye, 'rona. don’t call me back.” beep.

roronoa zoro had barely breathed when his elder sister called back. he picked it up with a groan, “what? I’m not answering your stupid questions.”

“okay fine.” she huffed, “’m not gonna ask you about your pathetic, little crush right now. keyword: right now.”

“perona.” he tried to threaten but the woman just leaned forward till her face was all zoro could see, “show me some respect, i’m older than you.”

“sorry.” the green-haired mumbled and his sister nodded in self-satisfaction, “and as far as waffles as concerned, don’t cook. you’d burn the house down. just order them in and say you made them.”

“isn’t that like, practically lying?”

“it is, yes.”  

“and aren’t you gonna tell me how it’s morally wrong to do that?”

“it’s a fucking waffle, zoro. not the olympics.” she finally pulled the sunnies back to her face and carefully perched them on her nose again, “nobody cares about cheating. just win her over, and thank me later.”

“you’re a bad influence, you know that?” a small smile cracked across his face, “oh, by the way–” the sportsman quirked an eyebrow, “do you have health insurance?”  

“i mean, who doesn’t?”

“me.”

“what?”

“nothing. thanks, i appreciate it.” the goth girl eyes widened all over again and zoro cut the call before her concerns could reach him.

8:55 a.m.

“you know what’s insane?” you mumbled through a mouthful, “i can swear that joanna’s bakery down the street makes these exact waffles.”

“do they?” zoro leaned forward, pouring more syrup to distract you, “that’s wild.”

“it is.” you nodded before taking another mouthful, “you know what else is insane?”

“how much of a good cook i am?” he tried, before having a bite himself.

“no.” you smiled at the way he gulped down the sweet breakfast up, “the fact that i swear i saw a brown bag with their logo in the trash, and now these waffles taste exactly like theirs.”

zoro froze, eyes trained on the mess of fried batter and syrup. he slowly looked up, “that’s insane, indeed.” he averted his gaze as you deadpanned, “you’re a terrible liar.”

“isn’t that an ideal quality though?” he tried again, “like, i could never lie to you.”

“mhm,” you nodded as a smile pressed to your lips, “try harder next time.”

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

25th of october, 10:03 p.m.

🍓attempt 03: with love, from an idiot.

“if this backfires, then what?” the man asked, and you could only make out faint noises from his phone. a faint, “if it backfires, then, you don’t get the girl, genius.” but nothing beyond that could deciphered as you stood with your ear to the door of your room.

“are you done?” you knocked at your door when the bickering on the other end ceased momentarily. the wood echoed under your faint hits as you called out again, “can I come in or what?”

there was no answer and you busied yourself with tracing the pattern of wood on the door once over. your forehead touched the cold wood, frustrated at yourself for allowing that beast to take over your territory.

zoro had waltzed into your room and declared that he was going to kick you out of your own room.

“huh?” you had mumbled, too confused at the way he tugged your arm and tried to push you outwards, “no way I’m leaving. fuck no.”

“I need like half an hour. I promise–”

“–if you intend to paint my room green, zoro.” you had barely started when he asked you to leave again. so, obviously, you both bickered for a good five minutes, got yelled at by mihawk cause you two were interrupting his wine drinking hour, and proceeded to bicker in whispers before you had to finally cave in and go out.

now, you were sitting in front of the closed door, and tracing patterns in the hope that sooner or later, your territory will be given back to you.  

“yeah, come on in.” you heard the man finally yell back from the other side, and you sprung up to your feet in part-excitement, part-fear. your fingers tried to turn the sleek metal handle to swing it open. except it wouldn’t open. moving it front and back, your eyebrows bunched when the door refused to budge open.

“what the fuck?” and to your surprise the green-head on the other side yelled back, “jesus, stop trying to break open the door.”

“it won’t open!”

“because I’m trying to open it for you.” he hissed back, “and you’re pulling from the other side. stop it.”

“you stop it.”

“if you could just let me do that for you. fuck–” the door swung inwards with such abrupt, wicked force that you almost kissed the ground face-first. glaring up at the man, you seethed, “what was that for?”

“i was trying to be a gentleman.”

you straightened up, squaring your shoulders defensively, “don’t. you’re barely a fully-functioning man.”

while you were waiting for him to counter you with his regular flirting disguised as hostility, instead his face softened and he apologized, “sorry. come on in?”

“huh?” your shoulders went slack, eyes narrowing at his broad figure as you walked past him and into the room.

the lights were dim.

“what’s this?” your eyes scanned the place, he had made a pillow fort on the ground with whatever haphazard sheets and pillows you had been hoarding in the room. the tv in your room showed a still from netflix: Ten Things I Hate About You.

you bent down, thumb and forefinger raising the sheets upwards to properly see inside, you saw packs of chips and instant ramen, coke and chocolates stashed to the side.

still frozen, you found him meekly call out your name, “do you hate it? do you? you do, right?” you heard the door lock behind you, “i can undo it, it’ll take me like ten minutes tops. it is literally not a big deal, i’ll take it down.” his voice dropped down to a whisper, “jesus fuck, I told nami this was stupid.”

he knelt next to you, forearms stretched forward as if he was itching to pull the flimsy housing to shreds. your hand grabbed his, face turning to meet his shy one.

“you did this for me?”

“uh,” he hesitated, “remember, blondie said no going out. so, I thought i’d try… this?” his voice grew weak, “you hate it.”

“you did it for me?” you repeated, almost in disbelief.

he sighed methodically, “who else?”

a grin broke on your face, “i didn’t take you for a romantic, roronoa.”

he shrugged off the goosebumps that threatened to break on his body at your reaction, “pfft. whatever. it’s not a… it’s not a big deal. nami helped… so, yeah.”

“you even put on my one of my favourite movies.”

“yeah, yeah.” the sportsman stood up, walking away from you to duck inside the fort and arrange the food items. but you could see his ear-tips growing redder, coy eyes carefully avoiding yours, “you’re, uh, you’re welcome.”

“but if you’re trying to impress me.” you followed suit, “this is not gonna work.”

he turned back to stare at you. a deer in headlights. “’s not?”

“well, I know you’re not a romantic. nami surely is though, it seems.” you settled down on the comfy mattress, turning your body so that it faced the wall the tv was plastered on, “i know this won’t happen again once we’re actually dating.”

“hey, it’s not like I’m not romantic at all. see, i’ve been doing well these couple of months. i think?” he tried to defend but you cut him, “you’re off season right now. once you have your five a.m. trainings and regular matches, you’d forget I even exist. you forget to eat, to fucking breathe when it comes to your game. a whole ass human?” you found yourself scoffing, “you would give up in a day. and that’s me just speculating based on observing you from afar per these past few months.”

he fell silent, probably reeling from your accurate observation. you sighed, trying to ease the unnecessary tension you had created, “i’m not attacking you, zoro.”

features downcast, lips pulled into an emotionless straight line. he repeated, “you’re speculating based on observing me from afar per these past few months?”

you probably should have drawn the line here, probably should have said okay and turned on the movie. but you were so well-versed in the language of self-destruction that someone should arrange a fucking pulitzer for you.

“you’re a sportsman first, son next.” you prayed your voice held atleast an inch of sympathy as you did a neat, little character assassination of the poor man. “as much as I appreciate the gesture, I am not sure where lover falls on that priority list. you like the chase, the idea… that i am something grand.” you stilled, “but i’m not. i am not an olympic medal, or a grand slam title. i'm just some woman.”

“you’re not just some woman.” he breathed slowly. “i suppose you have a point. i am not a lover. my hands find the racket before they find a bouquet, my words find silence before they do declarations of love. i- i don’t how to… just love.” he repeated to plead his case.

and this was it.

you barely held your breath as the man next to confirmed just who he was. he was not a lover. he was the number one on the global charts. and how selfish had you been to demand that he be anything but that demon on court?

“but,” zoro proved you wrong. “i wouldn’t have sacrificed long days and sleepless nights for just some woman. you underestimate how much you mean to me.” his breath grew strained, words unsure as if it was the first time he was telling the truth, “five years is a long, long time to come back home and yearn for your arms.”

you didn’t turn your head to gawk at him even though every cell in you wanted to. every inch of you wanted to turn your head, grab his face in your smaller palms and ask him to confess just how much you meant to him. but you were not sure you could listen to him come up empty handed like a fish out of water. you were not sure you wanted to find out just how easily roronoa zoro could break your heart.

but as the two of you fell into silence, your eyes zeroed in on the zooming in and out title card on tv instead, “let’s jus’ watch.”

“you mean everything to me. always have, always will.” you felt his palm on yours, and you flinched at his careful touches. pulling your hand back to your chest, you felt the familiar speeding up of your heart against your ribcage, “don’t. zoro, please.”

“don’t what?” he tried to ask, tried to turn toward you with anticipation making a home in his irises and vile thoughts on his lips.

don’t what? you tried to find the answer to the very same question. don’t what? what did you want to say to him? was it “please don’t make me think you could love me all over again.” or “please don’t break my heart again.” or just a simple “don’t say another word or i’d find myself risking it all for you. and i cannot stand to be the fool who fell for you yet again.”

just a series of unfortunate ‘agains’, it seemed.

instead, you turned your body towards his, tentative hands coming up to hold his face in yours before falling back to the mattress. you raked in a forbidden sigh, the sound so loud in the eerily quite room. finally looking at him, you found yourself growing dumber.

somehow, like this – vulnerable – he looked like just another twenty-two year old. not a world champion. not somebody capable of destroying you.  

“i am not sure i’m ready to get my heart broken by you again.” you confessed slowly, like a coward. “i am not sure i can celebrate my next birthday, just to beg some meaningless god above for you once more.”

“then don’t.” his eyes drifted downwards, heartsick fingers twitching as they inched closer to your warmth. his words were low, like yet another coward. “don’t ask for me back if i break your heart again.”

was it that simple?   

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

26th of october, 8:09 a.m.

you woke up with open packets and stacked cups of ramen on the floor, some episode of friends blaring on the tv and zoro stirring you awake.

sunlight filtered through the window, streaming in and pouring through the linen onto the man in front you. he was pretty, achingly so. his hair was tousled, lips parted, and thick brows bunched together like he was playing a match right now, “wake up.”

“huh?” rubbing your eyes, you tried to blink sleep away but instead grew more confused the longer you ruminated about his words, “what?”

“up and runnin’.” he repeated, “i need you.”

“need me?” your face contorted to show pure, unadulterated confusion, “zoro, ‘slike eight a.m.? can’t you wait a while?”

something nostalgic stirred within you as he smiled and bent down to face you easily. did the sun always get caught against his frame like he was a deity with a chokehold on you?

his smile was easy-going, and suddenly, you were fourteen year olds planning to ‘run away’ from home because you wanted to see the world. his voice shook you out of the daze, “get your head out of the gutter. didn’t mean it that way.”

“huh?” you couldn’t even find yourself growing offended amid your sleep-infused, hazed state. “what do you mean then?”

he tugged on your arms to help you sit up, “we’re going on a road trip.”

“we… are?” your expression grew awry, “where?”

“pack up and meet me outside,” he stood up, “you’d find out once we get there.” 

“but zoro, hey–” you tried calling out. but it was futile as he walked out of the room, and you stay seated in the mess of sheets and pillow and tried to make sense of what was and what is.

5:42 p.m. 🍓attempt 04: next destination: love!

zoro stared at his phone for what seemed like an eternity. your gaze shifted from him to the deserted road and back to him. the dull sun inching near the horizon skeptically as if watching you two making a fool of yourselves. the winds were warm, and your road-trip was in the hands of an absolute idiot.

you slumped back into the leather, muttering, “should’ve never let you navigate.”

“let me concentrate, woman.” he huffed as his forefinger and thumb zoomed in on the unknown streets on his maps.  

“how do you ever go anywhere?! your navigation powers are in the negatives.” tone haughty, you turned around to stare at him, “what kind of grown ass man gets confused on google maps? it literally said go straight!”

“i did go straight.” he turned to stare at you, tone just as haughty. “and i have a driver usually, i don’t drive by myself.”

“you went straight?” you repeated, somewhat amused by his ability to get lost on a straight highway. you craned your head, eyes peering past the black, tinted windows to stare at the deserted road, “and we ended up here? near a ghost town?”

“hold on.” he shifted his attention to the useless app pulled up on his phone screen. his face bunched up in irritation, throwing his phone on the dash-board before shifting the gear to start moving, “no point staying in one place, let’s keep movin’ and we will eventually figure it out.”

“figure what out?” you groaned, slumping back all over again, “atleast tell me where we’re going.”

“surpr–” you cut him off, “there would be no surprise if we never reach it!”

“okay, fair.” he breathed in slowly as the SUV made its way down the deserted road, passing by curated farms only inhabited by scarecrows. he sighed, “if we don’t figure out the road by nightfall, i’ll tell you.”

10:53 p.m.

“so,” zoro avoided your heated gaze, finally admitting the truth, “guess we’re lost."

“yes. yes we are, roronoa.”

“and it’s nightfall, so, i should tell you the destination.”

“yes. yes you should, roronoa.”

“don’t use that tone with me.” he tried meekly and your eyes narrowed in response, “why? are you scared?”

“no.” he cleared his throat, trying to sound like his usual self as he looked around in the lonely diner. the wooden table was rickety, the theme of the diner felt vintage-y, but in a way that was more unused than vintage. a lone, old woman waited behind the counter as you both munched on your dinner. once done with his inspection, he continued, “but it’s unnerving. you sound like nami, and she’s a witch as far as i know. red-head, you know.”

“you have moss-green hair, roronoa.”

“witches support witches.” he emphasized, and in return, a witch-like laugh past your lips, “you should be unnerved. good, because i feel like i have no choice but to sacrifice you in a satanic ritual to go back home now.”

the old woman behind the counter looked at you with utter dread in her eyes but you were too busy stabbing your fork in your grilled cheese, “now, spill. where were we going?”

he sighed, “home.”

“home?” you repeated, “home?”

“i thought i’d take you back to our childhood home,” his voice trailed off.

“why?”

why that wretched place? the place that become bleak, repetitive once you were left all alone five years ago, once he left in the blink of an eye. you routine had become monotonous after him: badminton court, school, home, practice, home, practice, home, sleep. rinse and repeat. repeat. repeat. repeat.

pursing his lips together, he looked down at his plate, “for old time’s sake, i guess?”

“old time’s sake?”

“there was a time when neither of us hated that little, suburban town.” he grinned, “remember that park with the broken swings?”

“that shit was haunted.” you took a bite, conspiring through a mouthful, “i mean why else was it never fixed?”

he continued, “and that public swimming pool? how was every guard there a creep?”

“except dave.” you nodded in agreement, a slight smile playing on your lips, “dave was cool.” 

"he liked you so much, it was stupid." zoro huffed before popping a french fry in his mouth.

“you're the one to talk. do you remember courtney?” you grinned, shoving an index in his direction, “she had suchhh a huge crush on you in middle-school. it was honestly confusing.”

“why was it confusing?”

“you looked like a kiwi,” and you laughed when his eyebrows bunched together and he almost pouted, “i believe it was you that liked this kiwi.”  

“tch, that was lifetimes ago.” your voice softened as he stayed quiet, the two of you just looking at each other as if registering each other’s silence as the only, absolute truth. the knife lodged in your grilled cheese slipped past your grip and a soft clang rang out as it hit your porcelain plate. you hummed, “should’ve told me we’re going back. i would have helped you navigate, zoro.”

“’sfine.” he shook his head, right hand coming up to scratch the itch away and re-set the strands of hair, “we can just head back. if we leave now, we’d reach by dawn. it’s pointless to go back to that old town now.”

you sighed, fingers interlocking as you slumped back against the worn out seat. the booth was cold against your back, the light bulb flickering momentarily as the two of you existed in a place far removed from reality, a place where the two of you were just twenty-somethings eating dinner at a worn-out diner.

“are you done eating?” you asked once he pushed his plate away. he nodded and you found yourself tugging his arm to leave the diner.

“what’s wrong?” he asked, confused, as he trailed after you. you glanced back once, “if we keep moving forward, we’d probably figure it out, right?” you stilled, turning fully to face him, “let’s go home, yeah?”

if roronoa zoro could, he would follow you to the miserable depths of hell. what was a small town compared to that?

he nodded, “yeah.”

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

27th of october, 6:29 p.m.

“this is it, huh?” you stared at the massive suburban home in front of you. the lawn was trimmed, kept nice and clean as you two stood in front of what was once your humble abode.

your family had sold the place once you expressed that you wanted to move away to do better in your profession, and you had never had the heart to come back and check who bought the place or who didn’t.

“wanna walk around town?” zoro offered his palm, albeit a bit hesitantly, “let’s see what has changed.”  

well, that small creak behind your middle school had dried up, now littered with popped soda cans and torn packs of chip. cigarette butts stuck between jagged rocks and dried leaves. the ‘haunted’ park was still not fixed, but you saw little children running around, the scarfs against their tiny frames flying behind them momentarily as they chased each other around. and the leaves on the ground stirred like they were alive under their light footsteps. the old public badminton court had been renovated, it seemed, and the streetlights had been upgraded to a softer orange-y shade rather than the harsh white you both grew up under.

“they made another mall where the theatre was.” zoro commented as you both walked by what used to be your old cinema hall.

“you remember the theatre?” you asked as your eyes raked over the looming white structure with faces of celebrities plastered onto hoardings with the bold declarations of ‘now playing’.

“of course,” he shrugged, muscled arms methodically going up and down, “we had our first date there.”

“it wasn’t a date. you told me you wanted to catch the movies and then you tried to hold my hand for the next two hours.” you emphasized, kicking the dried twigs on the sidewalk. zoro joined in, lazily kicking fallen leaves and scoffing, “perona said it was. i even bought you caramel popcorn.”

and you found yourself giggling, “you even remember the flavour?”

“i remember everything.” his tone appeared to be nonchalant, “a white tank-top with strawberries on it and a blue-wash jeans, that’s what you were wearing.”

you lips pressed together, “can’t believe you remember that.” you came up to softly poke his side, “who would’ve thought you’re a romantic?”

“yeah, yeah.” he rolled his eyes, biting down an infectious smile, “i just have a good memory.”

“good memory?” you scoffed, “how come you’re such a bad navigator then?”

“tch, i’m just a bit geographically challenged.”

you laughed as your footsteps fell one in front of the other, and he trailed behind wordlessly.

as zoro saw you walk in front of him, your dainty hands interlocking so you could stretch them overhead and the way you looked back at him to beckon him towards you, so as to follow you faster. all of it made his heart twist unnaturally in the pit that was his chest. all of it.

next, you both passed your old high-school. standing at the metallic fence, the sun dipped far below the horizon as the streetlights behind you flickered and came alive. the two of you stood behind the metallic, looking at the buildings that had seen you grow in it’s hallways. when you sighed, the air fogged up just a tiny bit, “your blue jersey from state championships, and black jeans. white adidas too.”

“hm?” zoro cocked his head to your side, and you continued, “that’s what you were wearing on our not-date.”

“you remember?”

you pressed your forehead to the metal, the cold fence digging indentures onto your forehead, “of course i remember. i actually have a good memory.”

the two of your stood in frigid silence and the nightly winds grew stronger around you both. you pulled back, turning your face towards zoro, “it’s growing cold, wanna head back to the car?”

his thumb came up to ease away the red markings on your forehead, the friction of his touches melting away the cold essence of the metal. once he was satisfied with his damage control on your forehead, he nodded, “one more pit stop, then, let’s head back.”

10:02 p.m.

the car was parked in the middle of the field where you had spent reckless evenings just like this with zoro five years prior, to the very field where you had last seen him before he left without a word.

you remembered that cruel night as if it was your whole existence. it might as well have been considering how many time you had replayed the same night in your head over and over and over again, wondering if you had done something stupid.

you had sneaked out of your home, and he had sneaked here after his practice was finally over. his hair was sweaty, boyish features coloured a brutal shade of petrified as he approached you under the night sky.

“what’s wrong?” you had asked once you had noticed his downcast eyes and his shivering hands.

“nothing.” zoro had pressed his lips into a thin smile, “’m just tired from the practice.”

“oh?” you held his palm in yours, pressing a sweet kiss to it, “don’t worry, soon you’d win the state championship and then we would have all the time in the world to hang out, right?”

maybe you should have understood it right then when roronoa zoro simply nodded and looked away you. he had never been a good liar anyways. 

that night, you both had sat down on the ground. staring up at the night sky, you had traced the constellations with your finger-tips and made false promises of a candied future that never came by. the soft grass under you both had tainted your cream coloured shorts green that day. yet another cruel reminder of him, yet another proof that he and you were real, yet another physical evidence of the love that once was.

“why’re we here?” you couldn’t be bothered masking up the irritability in your voice. the raw edges of hurt cut right back your mortal body as you stepped out of the passenger seat.

“c'mon.” that’s all zoro said as he lend you a hand and helped you climb the car’s roof top.

“zoro.” you repeated sternly, but he just helped you up without much explanation. once you were perched on the metallic frame, he climbed up and your voice momentarily wobbled, “a-are we sure the roof’s not gonna break?”

“no, ‘snot.” he clarified, slowly inching closer to you till you could feel his body warmth against your arm.

tilting your face upwards, you drunk in the sight of the malevolent sky littered with heavy, grey clouds that covered the usual litter of stars; so cruel but so pretty underneath it all.

zoro pulled his knees to his chest, softly perching his chin atop them with a sigh, “pretty, isn’t it?”

“why’re we here of all places?” you pulled your knees to your chest, mirroring his actions.

“it felt wrong to leave without seeing this place once.” he admitted softly, “d’you hate it that much?”

“yes. i do.” you nodded, burying your face against the jagged, scarred skin of your knees. you hated this place, and the pair of green-stained cream shorts in your cupboard were nothing if not the proof of that.

“such a shame,” he sighed, “’s a pretty place.”

“zoro–” but he cut you off, “we’ve changed so much in these five years, haven’t we? let’s get to know each other again.” he lifted his head to look at you, “what’s your favourite hobby?”

you scoffed, “you’re kidding.”

“i’m not.”

“did perona put you upto this?” your eyes narrowed, head still tipped back to stare at the grumbling sky, “or nami.”

“no.” he stressed, “my hobby is probably playing pool now. luffy put me onto it, it‘s kinda cool.”    

“i thought sleeping was your favourite past-time.” you turned to look away from the sky and at him but somehow couldn’t. you sighed, slowly admitting, “that was what you always said in interviews.”

“did you stalk me via interviews?”

you tucked your knees one over the other and straightened up, “says the man who watched every match where I got my ass handed to me.”

“i never said i did or didn’t stalk you.”

“you also didn’t say that you won’t break my heart again.” his eyes were boring into yours as you turned your face to finally find his, “you just said to not pray for you back.”

“would you believe me if i told you i won’t break your heart?”

traces of sleep lingered in his eyes, patterns from guilt long-gone-by traced onto his cheeks. you realized with a certain ache that you would probably believe this man if he told you he made the colosseum in his past life, and that he was Genghis Khan re-incarnated. but the fact that he won’t break your heart again? doubtful.

you turned your face back to the thundering clouds. they flashed a myriad of colours and loud sounds enveloped your mortal figures as they churned impatiently above you. you heaved in a breath. slowly exhaling, you asked, “when i lost women’s doubles against the boa sisters, you know what they said to me?”

you believed he knew the answer, being an interview-stalker himself. but he played along, “what?”

“they asked me if you broke up with me because I threaten your legacy as number one, zoro.” a deep sigh passed you by, “since i’m still number two, and from the looks of it they don’t think i’ll be one any time soon.” a mirthless laugh escaped your lips, “honestly, i don’t think I’ll be one any time soon.”

“do you really think i give a crap about shit like that?” zoro raised his face fully, widened eyes looking at you as if you had just accused him of skinning men alive.

“why else would you leave everything behind to be number one, roronoa?”

to you it was clear. he wanted to be number one, so, he left everything behind to be it. simple as that. he wanted to go after his dreams, so, he sacrificed everything he loved. you just happened to be unfortunate enough to be one of those things he loved. simple as that.

“i promised someone.” he finally admitted when you stayed silent, “back when i was in foster care.”

“what?” you found yourself turning your face to look at his, and the man who stared back at you seemed to be a man ravaged and hunted, like a mere prey for guilt.

roronoa zoro had never kept any secrets from you. never. not when he met you as a kiwi-looking middle-schooler at thirteen, and not when he was about to be twenty-three a decade later. no secrets other than his past in foster care. you knew mihawk adopted him when he was eleven, and perona when she was fifteen but no more than that. his past in the foster-care, that one was off-limits.

no questions, no answers.

and you had never pushed. it was something he wanted to forget and you’d be damned if you brought his demons to his under the pretence of harmless curiosity. that was it.

no questions, no answers.

then why was he speaking of it now?

“i only had this one friend. no. she was more like a sister, really.” his eyes hardened, “kuina. she was obsessed with this game, and i hadn’t even heard of it. every fucking time she got her hands on the tv to the communal room, she would turn on sports channel and tear through them till she found one playing re-runs of badminton.”

your muscles ached, and suddenly you were reminded of the air you had ceased to breath in. zoro continued, “she used to drag me to play, and then she used to beat my fucking ass at it. every fucking time. then, one night…” his voice grew thicker, like tar lodged right in his larynx, “she told me that one day, she would make it out of that shitty foster system and she would be number one.”

“somehow, seven year old me thought it would be fun to argue with her. so, i told her ‘no, i’d be number one and you’d be watching.’ she told me no. she had every right to. she was a better player than I was. she deserved this more than i do.”

“zo,” your hand found his bicep as his eyes glossed over, “you don’t have to tell me.”

but you didn’t know any player by the name of kuina, so, it didn’t take you long to guess where the story was headed. somehow, you stomach still dropped when zoro spoke the next part aloud, “she died a day later. ran into the fucking street while chasing the shuttle that the wind blew over. died on the fucking spot.”

“zoro.”

“i made a promise. a-and she was my sister.” 

“zoro.” and you moved to engulf him within your arms. you felt him shudder under you, face pressed to your chest in a bleak effort to hold back tears as you held him tighter and tighter against yourself. as if your weak, mortal body could undo the past or stop him from the torment that was his own mind.

“i’m sorry.” your words paled in comparison to the feelings that brewed within the depths of your stomach. as if to reflect the words you couldn’t utter, drops of rain poured down onto you both mercilessly, as if the skies were mourning.

“i’m sorry.” you repeated, arms moving haphazardly to hold him to yourself closer. his hand moved with just as much desperation, trying to clutch onto you as if you were the only tangible thread of sanity left within him, as if your touch was all that grounded him, kept him alive.

“i- i can’t, i won’t lose you.” he mumbled into your skin, “i won’t let it happen. not again.”

he raised his face to look at you and bloodshot eyes met yours. his hair stuck to his forehead, lips quivering and you couldn’t tell which drops were tears and which rain on his soaked face.

your eyes racked over his frame. from his uncaring hair, to the eyes that had grown weary far too young, to the same pair of lips you had ached to call home, and finally the arms that you had yearned for much the same for the past five years.

“zoro?” you leaned towards him as your voice grew weaker. rain drops on your lips clung helplessly as he followed your voice, face falling forward till your foreheads were mere hairsbreadth apart, “y-yeah?”

why did your breath sound so strained? how come you could feel your heart pumping wildly against the bones lodged in your chest? how could you taste the metallic taste of blood and rain on your lips like as you heaved out ragged words?

you bit your lip to stop it from quivering helplessly. words failing to voice what not even your brain could, you asked for similar candied lies, “say you won’t break my heart again.”

words desperate, he nodded, “i won’t.”

“no,” your breath grew more ragged as each second passed you by, “no. swear on it.”

his calloused palm came to rest on your cheeks, forehead touching as he closed his eyes shut. “i swear on it. i, roronoa zoro, promise to never break your heart again.”

“and if you do?”

“you’re more than welcome to break my skull with my own racket. plummet it down really hard.”

a small smile cracked at your lips, “really?”

“promise.” he hummed. and as he leaned forward to catch your lips against his in a sickly, sweet routine, you pulled back.

he barely had the second to react before you crashed back into him. you couldn’t wait any longer. your lips against his in a clash of teeth and lips and tongue and the faint taste of rain on your skins.

“’s pouring.” he panted, words barely being processed in your lucid state, “wan’ you s’bad though. so, so fucking bad.”

the next you knew, your wet back met the leather backseat of his car.

the sportsman hovered over you momentarily. and next, all you felt was his naked skin pressed to yours, his calloused palms tracing patterns long-forgotten to your sides as he gulped down anything you had to offer. any cries, any grudges, any desires.

you pushed him away just to be able to breath, but air seemed to be the last priority on zoro’s mind as he caught your lips against his in a methodical, little game all over again. panting against your pretty lips, his fingers tried to rid you of your soaked jeans and panties. and all of it was so lewd, so unbearably lewd.

from the sounds of his skin on yours, the sound of the rain violently crashing against the tinted windows and the sounds of his desperate huffs and pants as he tried to manhandle you and get rid of the whatever unholy layers separated you from his feral touches.

“z-zoro,” you stuttered helplessly and the man that peered down at you resembled more a demon ready to fester on the last bit of your lucidity rather than the man you loved.

“c’mere.” he husked, and within moments he was under you. laying prettily on the backseat as your honeyed heat hovered only inches away from his pretty lips. as he stared up at you, his strong arms wrapped around your hips and he pulled you to his lips.

“fuck,” his eyes rolled back as he ran an experimental flick of his tongue against your core, and you flinched, already pulling back from him.

and how could you blame roronoa zoro for tightening his grip against your thighs and fully seating you over his face?

“none of that hoverin’ shit.” he declared in a series of hot pants against your drenched cunt, “let me eat my girl out properly.”

“z-zoro,” you bucked forward as his lips attached around the sensitive nub, sucking like he knew your untimely demise was his very duty. strong fingers digging into the fat of your hips as he ate you out like a man starved, like a man ravished.

it was all so messy, all so untamed, feral. just a mix of spit, your honeyed fluids and his insane determination to make you unravel at the tip of his tongue.

he sneaked in a hand, forefinger and thumb pinching the nub as his tongue delved deeper into your velvety hole. your eyes rolled back as his strokes stayed unrelentless against your heat and you found yourself falling apart at his preying touches, “oh my god, zo. ‘m gonna fuck–”

“cum f’me.” he rasped against you, the other hand coming down to smack the fat of your ass. you ass recoiled under his pressure and you jolted as he rubbed the stinging area better. hot tears pricked at your eyes as he brought down a unrelenting hand at the same strawberry-red patch of skin. the pain mingled in with the methodical strokes of his tongue and the messy rubbing from his fingers pushed you past your limit.

your walls spasmed, sickly sweet dew pooling at his lips as you bucked forward with a strangled cry in your throat, “zoro, zoro, zo.”

you weren’t quite sure if you imagined it, or if you truly felt roronoa zoro smirk against your aching cunt before pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses onto the damage he had done.

as you tried to catch your breath, zoro kissed – no, devoured – your clit. your throbbing bundle of nerves caught between his lips dangerously, he sucked on it as you bucked and keened over him, “one more. c’mon, baby.”

“no, please.” you tried to cry out but the maddened man could hear nothing over the blood rush against his ears and the ecstasy of your orgasm on his tongue. clenching his eyes shut, all he could focus was on the way you squirmed over him. trying to run away? pushing him away?

he couldn’t help but grin like a man gone far too gone because this was like a challenge, and what did roronoa love if not challenges? you were practically begging him to eat you till you cried and begged him to let you go, were you not?

“z-zo.” your voice failed you at your fourth orgasm and all you could feel was the muscle pushing in and out of your sore, aching cunt and his fingers pulling on your nipple so, so meanly. “z-zoro,” you tried again, this time without stuttering, “you’re s’mean, zo.”

“am i?” the way he sounded, you felt like only more torture was on your way, “am i so, so mean?”

you nodded, tears rolling down your pretty face as he thumbed your sore clit and cooed, “sorry, baby.”

“y-you’re not sorry,” you hips spasmed at his careless touches and you threw your head back to hold back a cry, “you’re n-not sorry at all.”

“’m not,” he admitted cockily, pulling you upwards so he could press kisses to your sore thighs, “only i get to ruin my girl.”

“y-your girl?” you sounded so out-of-it, so innocent with the way he had fucked you dumb. wobbly lips, teary eyes and hoarse voice. god, he loved you. he nodded, peering at you as if breaking it down for you, “my girl.”

pulling your quivering thighs off of him, he sat up and softly placed you on his lap. when you met his pussydrunk face, his lips were drenched off of your essence. he wiped his face off the back of his hand, then using the same hand to pull your jaw forward to kiss you senseless all over again.

his mushroom tip sat hotly against your inner thigh, smearing the glossy precum all over your soft skin. as zoro battled his tongue against yours, your nimble fingers toyed with his flushed cock-head. as you softly thumbed the slit, zoro found himself whimpering against your pouty lips, slowly pulling back.

“ah, fuck.” he breathed in slowly, eyes rolling back as you finally stroked his dick. you met his eyes definitively as you brought up your soft palm to your mouth. spitting on his soft skin, you brought it back to his angry shaft nestled against your thighs.

moving it up and down, your face dipped down to his neck to bite down on his pulse. instead of whimpering the way he was, his strong hand came to push your head harder against his tanned skin. he rasped, “harder.”

and you sunk your teeth into his skin with enough force to break his skin, just to find the man under you stutter and his white seed to coat your hand. his hips stuttered, eyes clenching shut as realization set in, “f-fuck. shit hah, i came?”

growing cocky at the way he came undone, you bit down a teensy bit harder. until you felt the sweet taste of iron on your lips and you pulled back to see a small droplet of blood beading at his neck. but before you could apologize, zoro noticed your crimson hued lips. pulling you towards him, he revered in the sweet metallic tang of his blood against your tongue. madman.

the sportsman hummed against you as he pulled your sore hips upwards and positioned his cock to nudge your slit ever-so-slowly.

“mmph, zo–” you tried to speak but his mushroom tip got caught against your clit so deliciously. moaning, he guided his dick to finally push past your hole and your jaw went slack at the sinful stretch.

hair sweaty and clinging to your skin, your head was thrown back as he pistoled his dick in with slow circular motion of his hips, and you tried to ground himself by digging your nails into his shoulders. zoro grinned, his canine on display unabashed, “feel good?”

your jaw slacked open, just for nothing to come forth other than half-coherent jumbles of his name as his tip kissed your sugary sweet spots with the urgency of a madman. shallow thrusts into your cunt only resulted in persistent prodding of his tip against your g-spot. his thumb pressed debauched words to your clit as your hips moved on their accord, with only one goal: to forget anything but his ungodly thrusts into your rueful cunt.

“feel s’good, zo. feel so, so good hah mhph–” you babbled, nodding as he moved your hips up and down to fill you up and leave you empty over and over and over again. a hand snaked upwards to pull at your roots, tipping your head back so that he could sink his teeth and brand up your soft skin just over the column of your throat. 

“feel good?” he repeated, eyes almost crossing over at the crimson mark on your neck. if you felt like you were losing sanity, there was no need to feel lonely cause zoro trailed not farther behind. he laughed, bringing you down harder on his shaft, “feel good, baby? does my girl feel good?”

you nodded, eyes clenching shut as his cock massaged your gummy walls and his thumb tortured your poor, aching clit so well.

the familiar feeling built within you again, like a fire that burnt you to a crisp from within. your walls spasmed, head thrown back, drooling as roronoa zoro made it his life’s purpose to fuck you as hard as he could. to a point, where, you felt like he was just holding back to not break you.

“l-look at me, angel.” his hand squished your cheek mercilessly, pulling your face down just to press a mocking peck to your pouty, drooling lips and laugh when you jolted from the orgasm, “oh my g-god, zoro! fuck aah, hah shit shit shit.”

you slumped forward, sweaty forehead pressed to his heaving chest while he continued to fuck into your overused cunt. his thrusts grew weaker – erratic – before he painted your walls white.

“shit, baby.” the man laughed, his chest vibrating from the stuttered falsetto, “one more?”

“zo…” and the way you looked up at him so teary-eyed, shaking your head no. another challenge?

so now, of course zoro had you pressed in such a mean mating press, mumbling against your swollen kiss-bitten lips, “you’re doing so well, baby. ‘m so proud of my girl.”

“y-yeah?” you stuttered out, batting your tear-stained eyelashes so well that zoro couldn’t help but lap at the tear-drops cascading down your cheek, “mhm, course angel. take one more for me, can you?”

you nodded as if you had a choice.  

his chest pressed up against yours, broad hand pulling your knees so far high so that he could plunge in and out of you so very easily. zoro panted with every slow drag of his shaft against your addictive, sugar-sweet walls because every small movement seemed to set you alight. your cunt grabbed at him hungrily, clutching him so tightly as if you refused to let him go.

managing a few more thrusts, he brought your weak hand upto his throat and pressed your hand onto his pulse. you stared at him, wide-eyed, before pressing harder. as your soft hand pushed harshly against his pulse, zoro pushed into your heat harder with a low whimper.

his hips sputtered as splashes of white painted your walls all over again.

the sportsman heaved, dipping his sweaty face down to the crook of your neck and pressing his body weight on yours. after what seemed like eons of just catching up his breath, zoro slowly pulled out and you gasped at his absence.

“are you okay?” he pressed a chaste kiss to your collarbone before trailing upwards and pressing another to your cheek. your muscles went slack under him, soreness creeping up the tendrils of your flesh as you fluttered opened your eyes, “’m tired.”

“already?” the man grinned, licking a soft stripe up your jaw. your weak hands pushed him away, groaning, “already?!”

“sorry, c’mere.” settling beside you in the cramped seat, he pulled you to his chest. humming faintly as his fingers softly caressed the damp tressed and you melted against the feel of his warm skin against yours.

the soft pitter-patter of the rain against the windows quietened, the morning mist hovering around the car like some forbidden protector and dew clung helplessly to leaves in the field. zoro pulled you closer to himself, his shallow breath against your forehead and his soft fingertips massaging your sore hips, “i think i love you.”

“you think?” your eyes fluttered open, trailing up softly to take in his peaceful expression. you bit the inside of your cheek, stomach churning as you dug your cheek against his chest and nodded, “i think i love you too.”

──★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

11th of november, 12:01 a.m.

“go on,” you shoved the cupcake in his direction, the candle light flickering softly and barely holding out against his stuttered breath, “for real?”

“hm,” you nodded, “make a wish, zo.”

“i don’t even have a religion.” he mumbled and you pinched the taut skin of his bicep in retaliation, “jus’ do it.”

“okay, fine. here goes nothing.” he closed his eyes. eyebrows bunching up in concentration and high cheekbones coloured orange from the weak flame. a moment passed by as the two of you stayed huddled on his bed, him praying and you looking at him.

a soft breath and the flame went out. when he opened his eyes, you smiled at him, “what did you wish for?”

“nothing,” he replied softly, calloused fingers interlocking with yours, “think i have everything i could ever need already.”

“happy birthday, zo.” you pecked him and pulled back, but he pulled you back to him.

knock, knock, knock.

“are you both done?” perona knocked at the door, “everyone’s waiting for you out, idiot.”

the next morning your twitter was flooded with the same blurry photo of you kissing zoro at his birthday party.

@/roronoaswifeyy said: yOU TWO ARE MY ROMAN EMPIRE OMG!!! @/sweatytoenails asked: IS THIS ANOTHER PR STUNT?11 OMG I CANNOT TAKE ANOTHER BREAK-UP. @/boaboaboa said: GUYS I THINK THIS PICTURE IS LEGIT, SOMEONE SAW THEM GO ON A ROAD-TRIP TOO

@/monkeydluffyofficial: very proud of zoro to be able to pull such a pretty woman without showering for days on end ❤️😃 @/dailycelebgossip: BREAKING: two-times grand slam winner and current number #1, roronoa zoro confirmed to be going out with his former flame!

@/vinsmokesanjiofficial: we will be releasing an official statement, until then PLEASE STOP TAGGING ME, YOU’RE BLOWING UP MY PHONE. AND @/ynln ANSWER MY CALLS. @/nami_bizconmgmt: like@/vinsmokesanjiofficial said, please wait for the official statement and @/realroronoazoro PICK UP MY CALLS.   

zoro wrapped a strong arm around your waist. sleep lingered in his eyes, and the pattern of the pillow case was imprinted onto his skin instead, “what’re you reading?”

you giggled, “people are losing their mind over the fact that we’re dating.” you looked over your shoulder, “can’t believe a PR stunt got us here.”

“oh, about that.” he mumbled, “nami never asked me to do that, i was just feeling bold that day. paid off pretty well though, didn’t it?”

“huh?” your eyes widened, words sinking in at a much slower rate, “HUH?”

“what?”

“HUH?”

“what?” he repeated with a grin, “it worked, didn’t it?”

“YOU ASSHOLE!” you pushed at him and he just held you tighter against his chest, “mhm, love you too.”

ladies and gentlemen, this is your friendly reminder to not go back to your ex by the way! they don't deserve you and aren't roronoa zoro!  

a/n: i cannot believe this has come to an end!! aaaah took me fucking forever to finish it (and i have like 5 more characters to write for ://) but im so so grateful for anyone who loved this and has shown me that love. thakyou so much you guys! i'd be making an ao3 soon enough so that it's easier to navigate. again, thankyou for keeping up with me <3 tagging: @litlebruh @mist-ixx @briezy04764 @otkuhotgirl [the credit for feral!zoro goes to her] @mars-mizuko @florallyarranged @ayumitho @lyany2k @dietcokefizz @kokanee-readinglist @angelsforever999 @rengokushuaige @imlikeacoffeeconnoisseur @gojoistetti tysm for reading!! you all were so incredibly nice that im sobbing :')) i hope y'all enjoyed this! much love, vix <3 m.list

[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

[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:

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

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.

[da3drat]

Okay this is silly but i keep seeing people post their fic with a link to ao3 but also in the text of the post, and somehow that had never occurred to me. So. i'm doing that. Last repost of this fic i prommy lol.

Palla, Pygmalion, Meridian

In which the Nerevarine discovers complicated feelings regarding the one woman on all of Nirn she should be avoiding at all costs.

The long, long walk to Ebonheart had left Meridian exhausted and irritable. Arriving in town well after the sun had set, she had been in no mood to track down transport to Mournhold and had taken a room at the inn instead. This had been a mistake. Not two hours later she had awoken just in time to dodge a dagger arcing toward her throat. The scuffle with the Dark Brotherhood assassin had been loud and bloody, and she had been promptly asked to leave.

Now, as she shivered and stewed outside the Six Fishes, she figured her only course was to head straight to Mournhold and give those gods damned assassins a piece of her mind. If she was feeling particularly contrary on arrival she may even demand compensation for all the cleaning fees she'd owed after dispatching her would be murderers.

She stalked through the freezing night air and considered that this Asciene Rane who was meant to provide her transport would likely be asleep at this hour. Had Meri been in a less foul mood she may have considered camping outside the city until the sun had risen, but as it was she had no qualms about finding this woman, waking her, and insisting upon teleportation that exact minute. It was lucky for Asciene then that she was tucked away in a locked bedroom and would not be found by anyone until she awoke at dawn. It was not lucky for Meri, whose lack of sleep and growing impatience grated on her by the minute. When the two finally met in the Grand Council chambers one glowed from a good night's sleep and hearty breakfast, while the other could have been mistaken for a scrawny, ill-tempered spriggan from a distance.

All the same, Meri was a fine actor and put on a relieved smile as she closed the distance to Asciene.

"Oh, I've been searching for you all morning! I need passage to the mainland and was told you could help me, it's a bit of an emergency."

Asciene gave her a suspicious look, and Meri took the cue to up the pathetic fawning.

"The Dark Brotherhood is hunting me," She said in a sorrowful voice. "Even last night at the inn I was attacked, and in my sleep no less. Please, my only chance is to get help in Mournhold."

"The Dark Brotherhood?" Asciene's eyes widened. "Oh, Matius told me you may be by. Poor thing. Yes, I can get you to Mournhold, but you're likely to be even less safe there than here."

The corner of Meri's lips quirked upward involuntarily at being called "poor thing", but she did her best to cover it by giving her a thankful smile.

"It's the only chance I have," She reiterated. "Thank you so much for helping me."

"I can send you now if you're ready. Talk to the argonian Effe-Tei if you need to come back."

"Yes, I'm ready. Thank you."

Asciene put a hand on Meri's shoulder and she closed her eyes, soon feeling the pins and needles sensation of teleportation. When she reopened them she fell lithely out of the air and into the Mournhold Palace's reception area.

Scowl returned and mockingly muttering "poor thing" under her breath Meri marched out into the courtyard without bothering to take in her surroundings. The 'City of Light' did not interest her- she had eyes only for the good night's sleep that awaited her at the end of her quest. She caught the arm of a guard and managed to get some information out of him; if she was looking for the Dark Brotherhood she should investigate the Bazaar sewers. Simple enough.

Meri rolled her eyes as she made her way through Mournhold Plaza, of course the den of assassins was set up in the sewers. It felt cliche to the point of poor planning, shouldn't they at least have a codelocked safehouse? Though maybe she should take it as a warning, if they were that blatant it was because they felt safe. Her mind drifted to a checklist of pre-expedition errands as she walked, but she didn't make it far before she felt a prickle on the back of her neck that made her hair stand on end. Was she being watched? She slowed to a stop and turned, scanning the plaza for the source of her discomfort. Her eyes landed on the large ceremonial statue in the center of the square and a shudder crawled up her spine, her feet suddenly glued to the ground. Almalexia's masked gaze seemed to pass through her vanquished foe and onto Meri- and it pinned her in place like a startled deer.

She was suddenly aware of how little she had considered the Tribunal since arriving on Vvardenfell.

The Three had always stayed at the periphery of her thoughts, never breaking through the daily focus of travel or investigation. Too many nights she had collapsed into a fighters guild cot and been sucked into sleep before she could recount the events of the day, much less think ahead to the future. But now the statue made her wonder. She wondered what kind of people - what kind of gods - they were. If she was the Nerevarine, would they know her? Would she know them? What were their stories? Their teachings? She knew nothing. She had learned the proper way to make friends with the ashlanders, to predict cliff racer attacks, even memorized the alchemical properties of near every ingredient in Morrowind, but she knew nothing of its gods. Mostly, consumingly, she wondered about the color of Almalexia's eyes.

She had considered the Tribunal very little, but faced with the visage of Almalexia in her war mask she now found herself unable to consider anything else. She approached the statue slowly, resisting the urge to reach out and touch with a greedy hand. It depicted Almalexia locked in a moment of victory over Mehrunes Dagon, her blade plunged through his abdomen as he recoiled in horror. Even in stone, the instability of the moment was evident. Long claw marks along Almalexia's side, her stance powerful yet faltering, but it was Dagon's face that was twisted in shock and agony.

Etched in stone and larger than life, Almalexia looked every bit a god.

An old, old ache awoke in Meri then. One she had squashed so many times in so many ways, only for it to return tenfold in it's own time. She wondered if Almalexia would abandon the people of Morrowind the way Meri's gods had abandoned her. No. No, she could see it even in the statue. Dedication, love, divinity, power. A living god, one you could see and touch, whose loving hand you could feel in the flesh. Desire and curiosity bloomed in her chest in equal measure, taking her beyond wonder and dangerously close to tunnel vision. She needed to find a book, a priest, anything that could tell her about the goddess in the statue.

Somewhere in her a small voice of reason tried to draw her away. It insisted that whatever she felt now was dangerous, that following it would end in tears if she were lucky and blood if she wasn't. But Meridian had never been a woman of reason, nor was she particularly fearful of her blood being shed. And the voice was not loud enough to distract her from the expertly carved coils of hair that fell loosely around the slope of Almalexia's neck, nor the defined musculature of her arms. She pulled her journal and charcoals from her backpack; her hands were itching with inspiration and she was not one to deny them. She would sit and sketch as long as she was able and then she would be off to find an inn, a temple, and a bookshop.

The Dark Brotherhood, she decided, would have to wait one more day.

[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.

[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.

[uwingdispatch]

This Heart and Yours

This Heart and Yours

Notes: Cassian Andor/Reader, everyone lives au, post-rebellion, hurt/comfort, chronically ill/disabled reader, established relationship, domestic fluff, light angst

CW: chronic illness, chronic anxiety/PTSD

Ao3 Link

★★★★★★★★

He left the house angry today. Cassian has a way of letting his temper overwhelm him, to the point where if he’s not being mindful a small thing can push him into heated words that he later regrets. And it’s something you know about him. Just as you know he’ll come home today ashamed and upset and likely with some sort of food as penance. He’s actively working on this problem, on his own and in therapy. But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel like garbage right now, having left your favorite caf bar early because you couldn’t concentrate on your work.

You haven’t heard from him since this morning when he woke you from a dead sleep to remind you to go by the pharmacy today to pick up your medications. Half-asleep, you snapped at him that you were an adult and you had already been planning to run errands today and he didn’t have to remind you to do basic tasks. You were about to apologize for snapping when he told you that you’d been forgetting everything lately and he didn’t have the energy to deal with an extra crisis if you had a flare up because you forgot your meds.

You told him he needed to leave before one of you said something stupid that couldn’t be taken back. He did.

And now you’re here, in your kitchen, weeping over a cup of tea, feeling like a burden. Even though you know Cassian would never normally say what he did. That something must have been wrong for him to speak like that with you. But you can’t help this feeling. Your life has been a series of people telling you in one way or another that you were a liability. This hurt. And Cassian knew.

*

You remember your first fight. You’d made a jogan fruit pie for your first Life Day together, and it was the first time you would be meeting some folks who were really important to Cassian. So when you had an unexpected tremor in your hand while pulling the pie out of the oven and dropped the whole thing on the floor, you started sobbing. Cassian had been at your place that day, and he couldn’t understand why you were crying over pie.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he said, his hands on you arms, a warm touch steadying you. “You can make another pie.”

“This took me three hours,” you said, trying to control your tears. “We have to be at dinner in two.”

“It’s okay. Everyone will understand. I’m sure there will be plenty of food.”

You tried to catch your breath and had to sit down. You couldn’t even clean up the mess on the kitchen floor—it was still too hot to touch and you were far too exhausted.

“This was really important to me, Cassian,” you said, already embarrassed that you were crying over a pie, but it was what it was. “I really wanted to do something special for your friends—your family.”

“It’s just pie. Nobody will care.”

He sat down next to you and tried to wipe your tears away. But you put up your hands to push him away.

You tried to explain why you were so upset, but Cassian seemed frozen. Almost afraid. And eventually you asked him to give you some space and he left. You sat by yourself and cried, your back sore from being hunched over a pastry for hours. A part of you thought that this might be the beginning of the end for you and Cassian.

*

Today, years later, when Cassian comes through the front door, he looks terrible. His hair is disheveled, his face has paled, and there are dark circles under his eyes.

You’ve brought your tea to your comfy spot on the sofa and you try to calm yourself, waiting for him to figure out what to do. Because you’ve been too anxious today to have to figure it out yourself. Eventually he asks, “Can I come sit with you?”

You nod. And as he approaches from the front door he pulls a smaller paper bag from the shoulder bag he carries. Sandwiches from your favorite spot. He puts the bag on the little table in front of the sofa, sits down, and takes your hand.

“I was out of line this morning, my heart.” he says. “I spent so much of my life having to be in control of everything. Sometimes I slip and forget that that’s not how it is with us. It shouldn’t ever be that way with us.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” you say. You feel tears prick at the corners of you eyes again.

“I’m so sorry. I hate that I made you feel this way.” He takes a long breath, runs a hand through his messy hair. “You know that new guy at work that makes me crazy?”

You nod.

“He reported me to the boss for some bureaucratic nonsense that she already knew about but the forms he filled out ended up triggering a whole mess I’ve been sorting out for a week. And last time you got sick…I—” He stops himself, takes both of your hands in his. “It’s not an excuse. I just thought you should know why I’ve been in such a sour mood.” He pauses and closes his eyes, perhaps blinking back a few tears. “I need to do better.”

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you either,” you said. “But it’s just…I can’t be a burden to you, Cassian. I can’t live like that.”

“Oh, my heart,” he says. “You could never be a burden. Not to me.”

He takes you into his arms and you bury your head in his neck as you cry, breathing in the comforting smells of his hair and his leather jacket. These tears are both anxiety and relief. All these years, you had no idea how much you had to hear those words.

*

When that pie fell on the floor before Life Day, you’d felt like perhaps you were too sensitive for a man like Cassian. Sometimes it seemed like he compartmentalized things so well that he would never understand someone whose heart was on their sleeve.

But then he sent you a message on your com, asked if he could come back, that he wanted to make things right.

He came through the door not long after you told him he could return. He had bags with him from several local grocers, and you had no idea what nonsense he had planned with that, but he looked absolutely ridiculous.

“I’m an idiot,” he said, putting the bags on your dining table. “And if you forgive me, I know I’ll be more than fortunate. But I hope you will.”

“Is this you apologizing?” you asked, feeling a bit tearful again.

“Yes. I’m so sorry, my heart.”

This was the first time he’d ever used that term of endearment with you, and you felt immediately relieved.

“It’s not really about dessert,” you told him. “I put a lot of myself into that pie. It’s something nice I can do for your family. That I would make for my family if they were here.”

“I know,” he said. With just the slightest trepidation, he took your hand. “I called Chirrut and he gave me an earful. I…well sometimes I am…as he put it, ‘considerably less perceptive than a former intelligence operative should be.’”

“I thought I might be too much for you. That you might not come back,” you confessed. “Ever.”

“I can’t imagine a universe in which you could get rid of me this easily,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching up just slightly. “My heart, you feel things so deeply—I admire that about you." He let out a breath before continuing. "I kriffed up. And I’m sorry. And I bought some things that we might use to make a quick dessert. Chirrut sent some recipes that should only take a half an hour with both of us working on them.

“That’s a lot of food for a half hour recipe.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure what you would want to make, and I didn’t know what you already had on hand, so…”

You took Cassian’s face in your hands and pressed your lips to his. As a tear rolled down your cheek, he reached with his thumb to brush it away.

“So, is this you forgiving me?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said. “I think it is.”

Cassian wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close. You wanted to just stay there on the sofa kissing this beautiful idiot as your anxiety abated. But those groceries were calling. And you had a deadline.

“Let’s look at what we’re working with.” you said as you got up from the sofa. Before you could walk across the room, Cassian brought your hand to his mouth for a featherlight kiss.

When you opened the first bag, you couldn’t help but laugh. “There are enough meilooruns in here to feed an army.”

“I may have over-shopped,” he called from the kitchen where he was cleaning up the pie, which had finally started to cool on the floor. “To be safe. And you can never have too many meilooruns.”

*

Today Cassian wipes away your tears and presses a kiss to your forehead. You take a deep breath, look up at him, and sweep his hair out of his tired eyes.

“I can’t stay mad at you,” you say.

“And for that I am quite lucky,” he says.

When he presses his lips to yours, it’s like a wave of calm washing over your body. Your hands are in his hair as the kiss deepens, and his hands wander under your shirt to caress your back. You feel safe again, and the overwhelm begins to subside as he kisses your jaw and then your neck before Kay comes loudly through the front door. You both freeze.

“I have the pastries,” Kay says. “I suppose I should just leave them in the kitchen. Based on your current activities it will be some time before you consume them.”

“Pastries?” you ask.

“The captain told me he has committed a pastry-level offense. There’s a 72% chance he will be sleeping on the couch tonight.”

You can’t help but laugh. Kay tells you he did not make a joke. But it’s starting to feel normal again. Cassian runs his fingers lightly down your cheek before getting up to retrieve plates for the sandwiches he brought in earlier. Kay settles into a chair he insists is not his favorite, though you know it is. And as you and Cassian eat dinner on the sofa, you feel a warmth spreading through your body, a feeling of security as you realize that once again things are as they should be. Your little family is at peace.

★★★★★★★★

Thank you as always for reading. I hope you feel seen and loved when you read this.

Some folks who might enjoy this: @waterpancakeao3 @zinzinina @princessxkenobi @maul-ologue @operation-spot @aeryns-library

[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