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ladyblogger-margie · 3 years

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Motel Adventure - Chapter 2

Pairing: Will “Ironhead” Miller x F!Reader

Summary: You’ve chosen Will Miller for your Motel Adventure. When you get to the room and realize there is only one bed, you hope the well worn pyjamas you packed won’t hurt your plans to confess your love to Ironhead.

Word Count: 2007

Warnings: 18+ ONLY (general smut, oral F!Recieving, cum play, unprotected sex, orgasm denial, fingering, hand job)

a/n: Will Miller is important to me and I totally get why you’d choose to bunk with him in a motel room during a rainstorm.

Back to Chapter 1

Will “Ironhead” Miller

You wanted to spend the night with Will. You’ve been in love with him for a while, maybe this was your chance. Your eyes met Will’s blue ones and your heart fluttered in your chest, and when he half smiled at you, you couldn’t help but smile back.

“Will doesn’t snore, I guess I’ll stay with him if he’ll have me,” you said, hoping the shake in your voice wasn’t detectable.

“Happily,” Will said, taking your overnight bag from you, brushing his fingers over your hand as he did.

You followed him to the room, saying goodnight to the others as they broke off to their own rooms. You two were sharing the room farthest from the lobby. He opened the door and stepped aside to let you enter first.

You stepped inside the room and looked around. The room was simple, so simple in fact that it only had one bed.

“There’s only one bed,” you said, turning to face him.

“I’ll take the floor,” Will said with a reassuring smile.

“Don’t be silly, we can share,” you insisted, trying to stay casual.

Will just nodded, “You can take the bathroom first.”

You grabbed your bag and headed to the bathroom where you looked at yourself in the mirror for a few moments just catching your breath. You pulled out your ratty pajamas regretting your lack of something sexier, though maybe it was for the best to just keep things simple. Besides, they were your favorite pajamas.

After attending to your personal needs, you rejoined Will in the main room. He was standing next to the bed scrolling through the television channels, but he looked up when he saw you, and you could swear there was a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

“I found a dumb movie we could watch before we went to sleep, maybe?” he gestured towards the television.

You smiled and he watched you crawl into bed before he turned to the bathroom himself. When he came back out you couldn’t help it, your jaw dropped. He was shirtless wearing only simple flannel pants. He caught you staring and cocked his head.

“I can put on a shirt, I just don’t usually,” he explained.

You shook your head no so hard your neck cracked, “No, it’s fine.”

His mouth turned up in a half smile and his tongue traced his lower lip ever so slightly and you felt your pulse quicken. He turned the light off so now the only light in the room came from the soft flicker of the television.

“How’s the movie?” he asked, sliding into bed next to you.

You honestly had no idea, “Dumb, like you said,” you replied vaguely.

You stared directly at the screen but didn’t register anything that happened, you thought it was a comedy, but all of your attention was focused on the man beside you. He had one hand propped up behind his head, the other lay across his stomach. From your peripheral vision you saw the brutal scar on his left side of his otherwise perfect abdomen.

Your hands were folded so tightly across your chest that your fingers were tingling by the time the movie finished and Will turned off the television. In doing so he plunged the room into darkness and you felt the tension radiating off your body.

He noticed you frozen in place and asked, “Sorry, did you want to watch something else?”

“No,” you said, your voice cracking.

“Okay, good night,” he said, laying flat on his back completely still.

You didn’t move, your heart racing too quickly in your chest to calm yourself down to sleep.

Not long later you heard Will sigh.

“I can hear you thinking over there,” he said.

“You know me so well,” you admitted.

“Yeah, I think I do,” he paused, “There’s just one thing I’m still curious about.”

“What’s that?”

“Why me?” his voice was barely a whisper.

“Tonight?” you asked, “Like I said, you don’t snore.”

“I’m serious,” he said and his voice sounded like it, “Why do you love me?”

Your brain felt like it short circuited, “You know?”

“Yeah, I know you, remember?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you asked with your mind racing.

“Because I love you, and that means I know you deserve someone better, someone whole,” he said, his voice thick.

You roll over and straddle his hips, catching him off guard.

“Wha-” but you cut him off with a kiss, firm yet soft on the lips. As you deepen the kiss his hands travel up to your thighs gently.

You broke the kiss to look into his eyes, your hands framed his face as you spoke and asked, “You love me too?

All he could do was nod and then you were kissing him again. His hands traveled over your body delicately, staying above your clothes, but the goosebumps came nonetheless. You realized he recognized the vulnerable position you were in - spending your night in his room without your own to return to - and you loved him all the more.

You decided to take charge and lift your shirt up over your head, exposing your breasts to the cold motel room air. You could see the restrained hunger in his eyes as they travelled your topless form. You lifted his hands to your chest, keeping your hands on his as you encouraged him to massage your supple breasts.

You started to rock your hips over his, feeling his erection pressed against you as he hitched his breath.

“We don’t have to -” he started.

“I want to, if you want me,” you said.

That’s when he finally let go. He gripped the back of your head, firmly and pulled your lips to his as he flipped you over to your back.

You felt his beard scratch against your skin and it was a sensation you had only fantasized about prior to this moment. He scratched across your jaw, kissed behind your ear, and trailed down your neck taking his time.

You on the other hand weren’t quite so patient. You reached down to the waistline of his pants and gripped his erection in your hand. He was thick, and long in your hand as you pumped him. You wiped your thumb over his tip, spreading his precum over his shaft as you did.

He pulled himself free as he pushed down your body and took your nipple in his mouth, rolling it between his teeth. Your hands travelled to his short hair instead, gripping as much as you could between your fingers.

When he felt he had paid enough attention to your breasts, he moved to your ribs, then your midriff, then the waistline of your ratty pyjama bottoms.

You giggled, despite yourself, and Will paused to look up at you.

“What’s so funny?” he asked with a small smile.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you said, giggling again, “And I’m wearing the ugliest pajama pants.”

He kissed you, “I like these pants, I like everything you wear.”

Then he scratched you deliciously with his beard as he trailed down your body and pulled your pants off all the way. He returned his lips to your skin at your inner thigh before he trailed up to your eager pussy.

You felt your whole body shudder as he pressed his tongue through your folds. That moment changed your life, your body, your soul, and you knew you’d never be the same again after this night. You thanked the rain and the room with only one bed for the opportunity before you turned your attention back to Will.

He was watching you as he licked your clit, his tongue thick and confident. He had a finger at your entrance, trailing lightly around, teasing you and causing your walls to clench around nothing, desperate for something.

“Please, Will,” you begged with a strained voice.

Your plea pleased him and he rewarded you by slipping his finger just barely inside you making you hungry and impatient. You had know Will was patient and calculating, but you didn’t realize he’d use that to torture you like this.

Thankfully he pushed his finger deeper inside you and stroked you g-spot expertly. Combined with the slick pressure on your clit you felt your orgasm quickly approaching.

Then he stopped suddenly and you sat up on your elbows with an offended gasp.

“You’re going to learn patience, sweetheart,” he told you, “You can cum when I decide it’s time.”

There was a commanding finality to his statement. It wasn’t a proposition, it was a promise.

“Yes, sir,” you said, your eyes on him, using all of your willpower to remain completely still.

“Good girl,” he praised you, and your patience was rewarded as he slipped two fingers inside you this time, one tapping your g-spot, the other swirling against your walls.

You moaned his name desperately as he sucked on your clit, and you were ready to cum, so you asked permission.

“Will, baby, please can I cum?” your voice needy.

He spoke directly against your heat, his breath warm on your wetness.

“Yes, you can cum,” and he pressed his mouth against you and pushed you through the strongest orgasm you’ve ever had. Your vision went black, blacker than the dark room you were in.

Breathless you fell back against the bed. Will crawled up, spreading your own wetness across your body with his damp beard. He settled in the crook of your neck, muttering soft praise against your racing pulse point.

When you caught your breath, he guided your shaking legs around his waist.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide, hair disheveled, and lips parted.

“Make love to me,” you told him.

He kissed you as he pushed into you, taking his time and being gentle as you got used to his massive size. Your legs squeezed him close to you and you wrapped your hands around the back of his head and neck as his arms wrapped around underneath you.

He pushed in and out of you slowly, dragging his length against your g-spot, building a warmth in your core to match the warmth in your heart. When Will fucked you, he looked at you with complete and utter adoration. You felt your heart swell with your orgasam and you could feel your bodies becoming one being.

He dropped his head into the crook of your neck as he shuddered through his own orgasm, painting your walls with his cum. He pulled out of you slowly, and reached his hand between your legs. You could feel him push his cum back deep inside you with his fingers and you licked your lips, marveling in the sensation as he repeated the process a few more times.

Then he carried you to the bathroom and ran you a shower, apologizing for the terrible water pressure and the questionable soap, but you couldn’t care less. In the light of the bathroom, you could fully appreciate his impressive form.

Under the water, you brushed your fingers over the gruesome scar on his side.

“This is from South America, right?” you asked him and he nodded.

“We don’t have to talk about it right now, but I promise, now that we’re together, I’m always going to take care of you, unconditionally,” you told him.

“You want to be with me?” he asked with a big smile.

You kissed him, “We’re in love, I don’t want to lose anymore time, if you’ll have me I’m yours.”

“You’re mine,” he whispered in your ear.

He cleaned you up and kissed you all over your body as he did. He whispered praise and love across your skin with such enthusiasm you were sure he couldn’t believe his good fortune, just as you couldn’t believe yours.

Then he dried you off and carried you back to bed where you slept together, your naked bodies completely intertwined, as they would be for the rest of your lives.

Back to Chapter 1

#triple frontier #Will Ironhead Miller x F!Reader #charlie hunnam #Motel Adventure Chapter 2 #motel adventure

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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 4 years

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For six months the Lady Elena has been the sole recipient of Jaskier's affections. It started as a distraction - they met at a party he attended with both Geralt and Yennefer - something to keep his mind off the fact that Geralt's heart, rough and closed-off as it is, was claimed by someone else. But Elena was bright and funny and she lavished praise on Jaskier and he was easily drawn in.

They've been sort of on-and-off since Jaskier and Geralt left Vattweir, but whenever they separate, Jaskier finds himself back beyond the mountains. And when they don't, Jaskier sings of her regularly, earning little praise and much grumbling from Geralt, but he doesn't care. For the first time since they met, Jaskier's attention isn't focused solely on Geralt and he thinks maybe if ever was to settle down and stay somewhere, it might be with Elena.

He sings of love and romance and tells Geralt he'll never love like this again - getting only grunts and hmms in response. But he is happy and more than that, he's happy that for once something has pulled him out of the slump he didn't realize he was in. His songs are cheery once more, not impeded by his unrequited feelings for Geralt. Not that those feelings aren’t still there every time Geralt smiles at him over the fire or presses a little closer on cold nights, but it doesn't hurt so much anymore.

But like most happiness in Jaskier's life, it doesn't last long.

He's been invited to sing at a banquet in Vattweir and since Geralt is with him at the time, he considers it a bonus that he finally gets to introduce them. Not that Geralt cares very much, but Jaskier does.

But things don't go quite as planned; as soon as Jaskier walks into the hall, he spots Elena and she's not alone. She's sat delicately in the lap of some nobleman Jaskier doesn't recognize and at first, he doesn't think much of it. When she leans in for a kiss, he reconsiders.

Jaskier’s heart sinks. They never specified that they wouldn't see other people, but he hasn't and he had hoped she hadn't either. Ah,well, he decides, simply a bump in the road - at least Geralt isn't with him to see the shock on his face. He can't imagine how he would react after hours of Jaskier going on about her being the one.

So he keeps this small detail to himself. Everything else is going as planned and he's sure to come out of this night with a heavy purse if nothing else. But Elena doesn't even acknowledge his presence - a difficult feat considering he's the main source of entertainment for the evening - and it doesn't take him long to figure out why. After his first set, there's an intermission and he seeks out Geralt, slipping in next to him at the table.

There's a toast. A speech. An engagement announcement - and engagement announcement for the Lady Elena and some noble or other that Jaskier’s never heard of. Well, he thinks, that would explain things.

He spends the remainder of the night wondering if he just over thought their relationship. Obviously, if she's now engaged to someone else and acting like he doesn't exist. Geralt asks after her, but Jaskier lies, tells him she didn't show up and he'll just have to wait to meet her later. Jaskier is used to heartbreak and for now, at least, he’d rather suffer this one alone.

Without their impending introduction, Geralt insists they leave early and for once, Jaskier agrees.

He never tells Geralt. Partially because he's embarrassed, but mostly because he knows Geralt will say something stupid like you'll find someone new in a couple of days. But Elena was special. He falls in love often and without intending to, but there are people he's found who strike a different sort of chord with him - Elena was one of them. Geralt is another. And maybe he won't find someone new because it's been over a decade that he's been searching for something to fill the Geralt-shaped hole in his heart and now he's lost that, too.

Now he's back to the beginning; in love with his best friend and unable to share that love because Geralt is an unfeeling mutant.

But he tries to keep up the charade for a little while. He still talks about Elana on occasion and when the longing becomes too much, he pulls himself from Geralt's side under the guise of visiting her. Mostly, he turns to the closest tavern and drinks unless someone will pay him to sing. It's not hard pretending still to be in love, the difficult part is hoping Geralt doesn't realize it's all a sham and all the lovely things Jaskier is saying are actually just about him.

But both the stories and the pretend visits start to dwindle over time and his relationship with Geralt slowly returns to what it had been prior to meeting her.

Only Geralt notices because of course he does and Jaskier is forced to lie every time he asks about her. And he asks more about her and Jaskier suspects he's trying to trip him up. But he feels better when Geralt sleeps closer at night or when he lets Jaskier sing them both to sleep on nights that are otherwise too quiet.

It takes five months for him to find out the truth and his response isn't anything Jaskier would have expected. They're outside of Oxenfurt, as far away from Elena and her new husband as Jaskier could hope to be. And yet, they're here, sitting at the edge of the river where Jaskier was hoping to enjoy the rest of his afternoon alone. Geralt is off killing some plant thing that's been killing people along the road and Jaskier had planned to sit and drink wine by the river, but he can't very well do that now.

So he returns to camp and sits and plays for Roach instead, singing songs of heartbreak and betrayal. She presses her nose to his head, ruffling his hair with heavy breaths and Jaskier smiles up at her.

"At least I've got you," he says and just as he does there's a loud crack from behind. He turns to see Geralt with what looks - maybe - like the head of some giant mutated flower over his shoulder. Or maybe a snake, he's not quite sure.

Geralt drops it on the ground and crosses over to sit on the log across from Jaskier, carefully removing his armour.

"What happened to songwriting by the river?"

"Ah, well, the river was already... occupied."

"That's never stopped you before."

"Yes but-" well, it's been five months, maybe he should just be frank with him "-you see Elena was down by the river with her new... husband." Geralt's head lifts at that, his face worryingly neutral as he meets Jaskier's eyes.

"Husband?"

"Er, well... yes. It seems she was finished with me only she never bothered to tell me that." Jaskier has been avoiding looking at Geralt, afraid to see the betrayal in his eyes for lying to him for so long, but when it does it's not betrayal he sees burning there. It's anger.

"I'm sorry," he starts, "I meant to tell you, but I just-"

"Why would she do that?" Oh.

"I suspect she didn't care all that much."

Geralt's eyes narrow and Jaskier isn't quite sure what to make of that. He can feel the anger coming off of him, but it isn't directed at him and he's not quite sure what to do with that. People don't get angry on his behalf, they get angry at him.

Jaskier tries to calm him down, but Geralt is fuming and Jaskier's never seen him this angry before and for the first time in their friendship, he's almost a little afraid of him. But Geralt would never hurt him and the anger is probably more to do with lingering elixirs from the hunt, so when Geralt gets up and stomps around the camp, Jakier lets him. And then, when his pacing and irritability starts to wear thin, Jaskier sits him down and promises that it isn't all that bad, not really, and he rubs his shoulders and runs patient fingers through his hair. And Geralt relaxes.

But he's different after that. Not in big ways, but he makes a point of keeping himself between Jaskier and anything that could hurt him. He sleeps closer when they camp in the open air, practically right on top of him - not that Jaskier is complaining - and he's defensive in a way Jaskier hasn't seen him before.

Jaskier is used to hecklers - no one can please everyone - but Geralt has taken to shutting them down with a single look, glowering at them from his seat until they're silent. Some leave, some are braver and just return to their drink, but none speak up again. Jaskier revels in this newfound attention and struggles not to find ways in which to provoke it.

It all comes to a head one night when they've stopped to eat and Jaskier is singing. He's distracted and doesn't notice at first when the couple walks in, but they sit down right next to him and it becomes hard not to notice. Elena is as beautiful as always, but her husband - Jaskier assumes that who he is, but he barely recalls the man from the banquet that night - has a sneer plastered on his face. Perhaps he knows who Jaskier is, though Elena doesn't show any sign of it.

Fine, he thinks, let her be like that. The next song he plays is his most romantic ballad, one very thinly disguised as having been written about a princess when in reality, it was written about Geralt.

As soon as he finishes, he picks his lute case up and crosses to sit back with Geralt. He knows they have to leave now, which is a shame since he never even finished his drink earlier, but he doesn't want to start something in the middle of the tavern. They were hoping to find a room for the night and Jaskier doesn't want to spend another night in a row on rocky, uneven ground.

"Shall we go?" he asks and Geralt casts a look between him and his unfinished drink. He doesn't respond before a loud, overly enthusiastic laugh fills the air. Geralt looks up with a scowl. Jaskier sighs.

He doesn’t know how he recognizes Elena, but there's an instant change in his demeanour. He goes rigid, staring directly at the corner of the room where she and her husband are seated and Jaskier can feel the rage radiating off of him.

"Geralt," he whispers, "let's just go, it's not that big a deal anyway-"

"She hurt you," he seethes and through the well of emotions swelling in his chest, Jaskier decides not to point out that Geralt has also hurt him in the past. It distracts him long enough that he doesn't realize Geralt is standing until he's nearly pushed out of the way.

He knows Geralt wouldn’t hurt them, especially for something so trivial, but he's so desperately trying to keep the peace. And if he's honest, he'd rather just forget about the whole Elena thing altogether. He thinks quickly, pressing himself up against Geralt's chest and it works, for a moment at least. Geralt looks down at him and something in his expression makes Jaskier's heart beat a little quicker and this is very much not the time for that.

But then Geralt moves to brush past and Jaskier's mind goes blank. He's been in danger - actual life threatening danger - before and Geralt has never been this defensive, protective, of him. So Jaskier acts without thinking. Working off the very slimmest chance that his suspicions could be correct, he pulls Geralt back to him and kisses him.

He stuns even himself and for a split second he's afraid Geralt might be upset with him, but Geralt drops back into his seat with a thud, pulling Jaskier into his lap. He takes Jaskier's face in his hands and kisses him fiercely.

Geralt kisses like a man who's been denied for years and all Jaskier can do is let himself be led. Geralt brings him close so their chests are pressed together and Jaskier can hear the way his heart thuds in his chest. It's highly unusual and if he wasn't being kissed stupid right now, he might be worried about it.

As reality settles around him, Jaskier slides his hands up Geralt's arms reverently, easing the rage and adrenaline out of him. And Geralt visibly relaxes under him, sinking back against the wall and relaxing his hold on Jaskier. Geralt loops his arms around Jaskier's lower back, but even calm and quiet, he doesn't let go. He just kisses him softer, more deliberately and Jaskier happily takes everything he's offering. Geralt is never this soft when he's insincere and this is maybe the worst time to talk about it, but he understands that this anger and rage were about more than just defending a friend.

When Geralt's tongue slides against his own, Jaskier lets out a little whine, shifting further into Geralt's lap. For that, he gets drawn closer and Geralt's hands slide up his back. Vaguely, Jaskier is aware that people are watching and regularly, he might worry about what people thought of him, but right now he couldn't care less. Right now Geralt is kissing him and he's solid and real and he feels so good around him.

Geralt pulls him right up against him and his cock, thick and hard in his trousers, presses up under Jaskier's, pulling a soft moan from his lips. As if pulled from a reverie, Geralt breaks the kiss, panting heavily as he looks into Jaskier's eyes. He doesn't say anything, but Jaskier hears the unspoken words and he nods, giving his consent freely.

A rush of adrenaline flows through him as Geralt hoists him up to his feet and presses a hand to his chest, guiding him backward. Jaskier is blind, trusting Geralt not to let him run into anything and he knows they're creating somewhat of a spectacle, but he loves it. Part of him wishes Elena would see him and regret the way things went between them, but right now with Geralt's cock pressing into his hip, Jaskier couldn't' be happier about the way things turned out.

Geralt directs him toward the door and Jaskier regrets not having paid for a room when they had the chance. He stumbles out the door and Geralt carries him down the stairs to keep him from tripping. After that, Jaskier finds himself pressed up against every vertical surface between the inn and wherever Geralt is taking him.

The sky is darkening but it's still light enough that anyone walking past could see them, but Geralt finds a small patch of trees right on the edge of town and apparently it's just what he's looking for.

Geralt sets his things down, but keeps Jaskier in his arms, sitting himself down in turn. As soon as Jaskier can touch the ground again, it becomes a race to get each other out of their clothes, grabbing and pulling until Geralt finally stops him, kisses him and tugs his shirt up over his head while he's distracted. Jaskier huffs at him, but he manages to get a hand fisted in his shirt and kisses back, temporarily distracted from his mission of undressing him.

Geralt moves under him, around him and Jaskier just hums and goes along with it, unbuttoning as many of Geralt's buttons as he can reach before shoving the shirt up over his head. He doesn't even mind when Geralt gets him out of his trousers and the Witcher is still mostly dressed. He doesn't mind because Geralt holds him close and kisses him like he doesn't think he'll get another chance. Jaskier continually proves that he will.

He kisses him hard, touches his face, rocks his hips against him even when the ties of Geralt's trousers are too rough against his swollen cock. He wants to prove to Geralt that this is more than just an attempt to distract him. And when Geralt pauses, just briefly to pull back and look at him, Jaskier thinks he knows.

Geralt reaches down, pushing Jaskier back and quickly unlacing the ties of his trousers. He shoves them down just low enough to expose his cock and hauls Jaskier back up over him, shifting under him so his cock rests against Jaskier's ass. He's quick and efficient, if not impatient and Jaskier shuts his eyes for a moment as Geralt's touch overwhelms him. He rolls his hips again, pushing back against Geralt's cock and grinding against him.

Geralt leans to one side, keeping a hand on Jaskier's hip to hold him steady as he turns. Jaskier leans back over him and Geralt kisses him as he rummages through his belongings. When he finds what he's looking for - a small half-empty bottle of oil - he pushes Jaskier back upright. His grip on Jaskier doesn't loosen, but he moves his arm up pushing his fingers into the hair at the back of his neck. His free hand moves, popping the cork on the oil and Jaskier groans in anticipation, rutting shamelessly against Geralt's stomach.

When Geralt's slick fingers press against him, Jaskier drops his chin against his chest, breathing Geralt's name into his night. When he slips into him, Jaskier's eyes flutter shut and he braces himself on Geralt's chest, looking down at him. Geralt shifts under him, readjusting himself and when he presses his cock against him, he meets Jaskier's eyes.

Everything slows to a stop as Geralt sinks into him and for a second Jaskier thinks it's going to end. Geralt was caught up in the moment and sometimes sex is just sex, but then Geralt smiles at him, slides a hand into his hair and pulls him into a firm kiss. Jaskier's eyes drop shut and he winds his arms around Gealt's neck and presses himself back onto his cock as Geralt wraps him in his arms again, pulling him close.

Jaskier's used to the finer things in life; silk sheets, warm beds, but out here in the forest in Geralt's lap he's never felt so loved. He doesn't want to say anything to spoil the moment, but the words are there, bubbling up in his chest and no amount of convincing or persuasion is going to stop him from feeling them. He presses his face into Geralt's neck, breathing the words into his skin instead.

When Jaskier comes, he stifles his moans into Geralt's skin as he rolls his hips against Geralt's slick stomach. Geralt follows a moment later, catching Jaskier's lips in a rough kiss as he continues thrusting into him.

When he stills, Jaskier rolls off of him, exhausted and still reeling. His chest heaves as he remembers how to breathe properly and next to him, Geralt is also panting, eyes shut and lips just barely parted. Jaskier feels like he should say something, but he doesn't know what. That was incredible? Thanks for the fuck? Are we gonna do this again?

"I'm sorry," Geralt breathes and Jaskier turns to look at him. That didn't even make it to the list of possibilities.

"What?" he asks, wondering if he's actually been fucked stupid or if there's something he's missing.

"I was angry, I got wrapped up in it."

"What were you angry about?"

"Elena-" Oh "- that she could hurt you like that and just... go on with her life. She had you and she just... found someone new."

"Oh," he says out loud.

"Why? Do you-"

Jaskier feels the word regret, unspoken and lingering between them and he shakes his head, turning to face Geralt. "No. I'll admit it was unexpected, but don't be sorry. And don't be angry on my behalf."

"Why shouldn't I?" Geralt growls, leaning up over him. Jaskier smiles, reaching up to brush his fingers along Geralt's cheekbones.

"I don't need them. I don't care anymore." He pauses, pulling Geralt's face low enough to kiss him again. "Although, if you're going to get all protective like this every time, I might-"

"Don't even think about it." Jaskier grins, looping his arms around Geralt's neck and pressing his fingers into his hair.

"Okay."

They fall into a comfortable silence, just the sounds of their breath mingling in the evening air, then Geralt’s voice, just above a whisper. “Are you alright?”

“I’m not a child,” Jaskier huffs, amused. “I’ve has sex in the woods before, although I do generally prefer-”

“I mean about Elena.”

“I think that’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to ask before you fuck me,” Jaskier quips.

“Hmm.”

“I’m fine. It’s been months, I’ve had time to think about things.”

“And?”

“And I think if things had worked out between us, I would have missed you too much to stay with her.”

“I thought you loved her more than anyone.”

“Well,” Jaskier smiles, turning to brush his fingers through Geralt’s hair, “maybe not more than everyone.”

#idk how to tag this #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #the witcher #first time #first kiss #posting bc i had a shitty day #and i want to feel productive #i'll put it on ao3 when it has a title #rex writes

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yourillusoryenvy · 4 years

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Omg could i request some wholesome Phantom Troupe headcanons on how they would celebrate a member's birthday? What gifts and what sort of celebration? 💙

Omg hiii there! This is the first time I get a request from someone!! Thank you anon, you made my day!! I’m really excited about this, so let’s go -

Chrollo: He is without a doubt the best gift-giver in the troupe. As the leader he shares a strong bond with every member and knows them a bit more than anybody else. He uses this knowledge to get everyone the best, most-fitting gift based on their current interests, needs and personality.

He will participate in any party, but if nothing is planned he will gather the troupe to go out to the bar to celebrate. He will definitely be the first one to wish a happy birthday in person, and reminding them that they are valuable member of the spiders. He prefers more quiet, calm celebration but if the rest of the troupe has something else in mind he will happily indulge and appreciate the sight of the troupe enjoying something so simple.

Nobunaga: Any type of celebration is fine by him. Big party? Count him in! Night out? Perfect! Chilling in? Thats works! Don’t ask him to make the decision though.

As for gift, he tries. Truth is he is not that good at finding a gift, but as I said at least he tries. If Nobunaga makes a gift it goes one of two way: either he gifts the person a sword/katana OR he gets them a very basic last-minute gift. Why a sword? Because it is a skill that he has developed with years of training and, not that he would say aloud, something he would actually love to share with some of his fellow troupe members. Thing is a this point everyone as received a sword from him, and even though everyone is grateful, there is not much point in getting them multiple swords, so basic last-minute gift it is.

Feitan: Rightfully so, Fei is not big on birthdays. He can’t help but feel a bit jealous when his fellow troupe members celebrate their birthdays. He doesn’t know when his own birthday is and therefore never celebrated it.

He will still attend any parties, and wish the birthday boy/girl an happy birthday but that would be it. No present for the most part.

Though, he would make an effort for Danchou, Phinks and Shalnark and steals them something they might like (a very rare book for Danchou, a new Gucci track suit for Phinks and the latest technology for Shal).

Machi: She is the most quiet about it, and doesn’t make a big deal about it but she definitely cares. A lot.

She is very crafty and will often create a gift for each member. No-one dares mention to her that this shows just how much she cares for them but every one enjoy the gift she came up with. And when I mean crafty, I mean CRAFTY, the girl can make anything from scrapbooks, to clothes, but also decorative and other household items. (Fun fact: she is the one that made Shalnark’s red bat phone case!).

When giving the gift she will just hands it out coldly with a short “Here”. She will then secretly watch the look on the receiver’s face, and will hide a smile when the birthday boy/girl thanks her or otherwise shows any sign that they enjoy it.

Hisoka: … I don’t think he cares. I mean not only does he not normally care about birthdays (unless you know it is one of his unripe fruit that he is not-so patiently waiting for to ripen) , but he also doesn’t care about the troupe.

He only spend time with them if the gathering could create an opportunity to fight Chrollo, and birthdays are not it, so he simply doesn’t attend any..

If there was a new member he actually cared for, (or maybe, just maybe, for Machi), he would invite them out to eat in a nice restaurant. Just the two of them. He is the most likely to tell someone that he is the present. *eye roll*

Phinks: He secretly remember every single troupe member’s birthdays and will get everyone a gift. This is the one time (well twelve times technically) that you can catch Phinks actually buying something rather than stealing. He believes that stealing the present would remove some of its value. Now don’t worry he wouldn’t tell anyone that. He actually make sure to plan in advance so no-one can see him buy the gift. He tries to find a gift matching the person but if cannot find any good idea, just like Nobunaga, he will resort to basic gift.

Every year, on the same day, he gets Fei a gift. It matches the day these two first met. He doesn’t tell him it is for his makeshift birthday. Feitan has no idea Phinks has a makeshift birthday for him and he seems oblivious to the fact that he get something every year on the same date.

He also has a weird way of giving gifts. He usually doesn’t sign it, and doesn’t give it directly but rather leave it where he knows the person will find it. Everyone know who it comes from, but Phinks will adamantly deny ever getting anything.

Shalnark: This man is on top of it! He doesn’t forget a single birthday, thank you technology. He has reminders weeks before so he is not caught off guard. He loves birthdays!

Even though his fellow troupe members often ask him to not make a big deal out of it, he will be making a big deal out of it. He will make sure to remind every troupe member, and will organize a party. In fact, he uses birthdays as an excuse to gather all the members together.

As far a gifts go though, Shalnark, is… let’s say he just tend to forget that presents are suppose to be targeted to the receiver’s interests. He can’t help but get everyone some of the latest technology. Why? Because he would love to get it so surely his fellow troupe members will too. Most of the time the receiver barely know what it is, don’t know how to use or are missing some other pieces of equipment to properly use it. But hey it’s the thought that counts!

Franklin: Another member who is fine with every type of celebration: a quiet at-home evening or loud party. He is more than willing to help prepare for the party though and ends helping with either distracting the birthday boy/girl if it is a surprise or helping with some of the decoration. He is also on top of last meeting details such as making sure Shizuku actually shows up, or helping Uvo get more booze to compensate for what he already drank. For presents he is really thoughtful. Franklin is a quiet member of the troupe but he pays careful attention to everything happening in the troupe. He listens in on conversation and take mental notes about what each person mention they saw, like or needs and then uses that to come up with a good birthday present.

Shizuku: Sorry, but she forgets about it every. single. time. She really tries to remember but she can’t. Too many numbers, too many people. She can’t do it. She will walk in the party, unaware of what is going on, and will get offended that no-one reminded her about the birthday even though she was told about it dozens of time.

She will wish the person an happy birthday but that’s about it. It is not that she doesn’t want to get them a gift, it is just that she ends up forgetting to get one, or forget she got one, or she looses it. Alternatively, she might just give the gift weeks later when she remembers what that weird thing in her room was meant for.

Pakunoda: She is the mother-ly figure of the group, and will be the one baking a beautiful birthday cake. She remembers to get candles and will personalize the cake to fit the birthday girl/boy’s age and interest. She is the one that gets a card for every body else to sign.

Paku will ask people in advance what they want. But she wouldn’t just ask, no, she would make sure to put her hand on the person’s shoulder first and then ask them. Thanks to her nen ability, she ensures that she always gets the best possible present for them.

Also, because she knows that Shizuku tends to forget, she will try to plan an extra gift, and give it to Shizuku so she can gift it.

Bonolenov: He is the one member of the troupe that had the most normal childhood, and by that I mean he grew up with a family with whom he was able to celebrate his birthday. He is used to celebrating other people’s birthday, however his tribe celebrated them quite differently than our current society tradition.

He makes sure the birthday is not celebrated early, nor late, due to superstitious beliefs from his tribe. He doesn’t do present in the common sense of the term but he will be wearing his traditional outfit (no bandages!) and do his tribe’s celebration dance, used for birthdays and supposed to bring happiness and fortune to the receiver.

Uvogin: He loves to party, so you bet that he will be using every single troupe member’s birthday as an excuse to throw a big party.

He will turn any small quiet party, in something bigger. He is bringing the booze, the party music and make sure people are actually having fun. If there is no group party I totally see him bringing some of his fellow troupe members to a strip club!

As for gifts, you bet that he is getting some of these pranks gifts to embarrass the hell out of the receiver. Well he might spare Danchou because… it’s Danchou. From socks with pictures of his face on it, ridiculous clothes, very girly sexualized outfit for the men (especially Phinks, we all know his reaction would be hilarious), fake present (eg: gifting an empty box of the latest computer Shal has been talking about 24/7) and of course sex toys and other sex-related stuffs, there is nothing this man will not gift.

Kortopi: He doesn’t care about birthday. Just like Feitan, he never really celebrated his own. He doesn’t mind celebrating them but will be mostly quiet. Regardless of where the party is and what is being done, he will help Shalnark with recording the event (cause Shal’ is too giddy and all over the place to properly record anything). Prior to the party he may also be task with decorating because inflating 100 balloons is a pain, but you know what isn’t? Inflating one and making 99 copies of it!

He doesn’t really do presents either. Well, truth is he did once following Shalnark’s advices and he almost killed everyone in Meteor City… (All I can say is that it involved Kortopi’s nen ability, a couple stolen firework, too much alcohol, Uvogin interfering, and an unfortunately placed pile of highly flammable trash.)

#phantom troupe #genei ryodan #chrollo #nobunaga #feitan #machi #hisoka #phinks #shalnark #franklin #shizuku #pakunoda #bonolenov #uvogin #kortopi #hunter x hunter #hxh

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hikaridemina · 3 years

Text

Short background story for my character Demina and how Asmodeus ended up becoming a single dad.

Alternate universe, non-canon.

-----------

Near the centre of the Lust Ring stood a four-story high building, decorated with stained glass windows and heart motifs everywhere, the yard well-kept from front to back and surrounded by metal fencing which was also made up of heart shapes. The building doubled as both a home and workplace, the first floor being a designated office space for business matters, while the rest of the floors above were living spaces akin to a mansion.

This was where the ruler of the ring, Asmodeus, also known as "Ozzie", lived and worked.

It was a late night as he was seated in his office, sorting through stacks of papers at his desk. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, the lack of sleep beginning to wear on him a bit. He could leave his office at any point and literally just go to the upper floor to call it a night, but there was a backlog of things that needed to be addressed and he wanted them done properly.

Suddenly the intercom on his desk began to ring. With a sigh, he pressed the button to answer it.

"Yes?"

"Uh, sir, there's something at the front door. You uh, may want to come look at this." He recognized the voice as one of his imp security guards.

"I'm very busy, can't you handle it yourself?"

"No, sir I'm sorry but you really need to come here."

Another heavy sigh as Asmodeus pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Fine, I'll be there in a moment."

He rolled his office chair back and stretched his legs out before going to stand up. He was caught off guard by a sudden crack in his back.

Ow. Had he really been sitting at that desk for so long? As soon as this issue was taken care of, he planned to just go straight to bed.

He opened the office door and peered down the hall to the open lobby area, immediately he saw his entire staff of imps clambering at the front entrance.

As he walked over, all heads turned to look up at the large demon, who still could not see out the front door.

"Alright, what is this about?"

The staff said nothing as the crowd spread out to make way for their boss. Asmodeus continued forward to the door.

"I swear this interruption better be worth... it.” He trailed off, raising a brow in obvious confusion.

An open cardboard box covered in a blanket was set on the front step. Asmodeus knelt down to carefully pull the blanket back, revealing a tiny demon with a white complexion, fuzzy black hair, and oval ears that looked way too big for their small head. The baby was swaddled in another blanket and was sound asleep, oblivious to the crowd of people that were fixated on it.

"Uh, sir this was left here too." An imp in a security uniform came up to his boss, likely the same one who had called the intercom earlier. They were holding a folded piece of paper and promptly handed it over.

Still kneeling, Asmodeus unfolded the paper and proceeded to read the crude message written on it.

'It's yours asshole'.

His eyes went wide. This couldn't possibly be...

Oh no.

He began to recall a rather... saucy encounter he had a few months prior, he had almost completely forgotten about it. The realization felt like a truck had just hit him.

The security guard leaned sideways to look at their boss' face, which they swore looked more pale than usual.

"Sir, are you alright?"

"Y-Yes everything is fine!" Asmodeus hastily picked up the box with both hands as he stood, feeling the being inside shift slightly. He replaced the blanket over the box and went back inside, shuffling through the crowd whose eyes were now trained on him. He stopped past the group and looked over his shoulder to address them.

"All of you get back to your duties, this isn't Mammon's circus."

Asmodeus then looked directly at one of the maids. They were a taller imp woman with horns that split on the ends, making it appear as if she had four instead of the usual two.

"Priscilla, with me please."

"Of course, sir." The woman did a quick bow before going to her boss' side. The two proceeded to his office, Priscilla turning to close the door behind them once they were both in.

He gently placed the box on top of his desk, while Priscilla grabbed a stepping stool from the corner and placed it down so she could stand tall enough to reach. She pulled the blanket back to look at the child under it, who was astonishingly still asleep. Immediately she noted their distinct pink and black facial markings matched those of her boss.

“Oh Ozzie, what have you gotten yourself into?”

He had no response for her, as he was too busy scouring every corner of his mind trying to remember who it was exactly he had slept with months prior. The memory of the act itself was there, but not the woman's name or even what she looked like. He concluded that he must have been extremely intoxicated at the time, despite him being very careful regarding things like that as to avoid any situations he would be otherwise unprepared for. After all, there was the smart way to being the sin of lust and then there was the stupid way.

Unfortunately he had gone the stupid way for just one night and now there was a baby in front of him.

He was pulled back to reality as he noticed the child began to wiggle around a bit. They yawned with a little squeak before opening their eyes, two golden pupils now staring up at him in fascination. The child giggled and held up their hands, their extremely tiny fingers making grabbing motions.

In what was almost an automatic response, he slowly reached out one of his large hands in front of the small demon, his index finger immediately being tugged on. He let his hand be pulled over to the side of their round face as they hugged it, making a sound that could only be described as a happy murmur.

Priscilla watched the scene in silent awe, slightly turning her head up and to the side to glance at her boss. Asmodeus had a mixed expression on his face that she had never seen before in all of her time working for him, but she could tell it was a look of contemplation, confusion... and fear.

“Sir, just what are you going to do about... this?”

“I...” Asmodeus continued to stare at the child clinging to his hand. At first the obvious solution of giving them away came to mind, but... now that very thought brought on a sinking feeling in his chest, his heart aching at the consideration as he weighed his other options.

He finally settled on one.

“I am keeping them.”

Asmodeus lowered his head a bit, almost ashamed at what he was about to ask of his employee.

“Priscilla, would you help me?”

The imp looked nothing less than surprised, though her expression was also a happy one.

“Of course, Ozzie! You don’t even need to ask! But...” She cupped her chin with her hand as she looked with concern at the tiny demon.

“We don’t have anything close to baby supplies in the mansion, and who knows when this little one was fed last...” She then suddenly had an idea.

“I could take them to my house for the night to get things started off and then bring everything we need in the morning. With your permission of course.”

“That does sound like our only plan right now.” Asmodeus gently freed himself from the child’s grasp, which caused them to start crying as they waggled their arms in his direction again.

Priscilla took the initiative and picked the child out of the box, gingerly holding them against her chest.

“Shh, it’s okay! You’ll see daddy tomorrow!”

Priscilla looked out of the corner of her eye at Asmodeus and had to use every ounce of her strength to hold back laughing as the greater demon’s face turned beet red.

“You can count on me, Ozzie. Now for the love of Lucifer, go get some sleep.”

Asmodeus only nodded as he watched Priscilla leave his office with the child. He sat down in his chair and leaned an elbow on his desk, still trying to process what the fuck just happened tonight. With a sigh, he took his cell phone from his pocket and began to scroll through it.

Might as well make things more interesting. He tapped Mammon’s name from the contact list and started typing a text.

‘Apparently I’m a father now.’

Sent. He waited a few moments when he saw the tiny dots flashing on the screen to indicate that he was about to get a response.

‘Ha ha nice joke, don’t quit your job though.’

Asmodeus squinted his eyes in annoyance as he was about to type back when the little dots appeared again before another text came in.

‘Wait are you fucking serious?’

He quickly typed back, 'Yes.'

'WHAT! WHO DID YOU KNOCK UP???'

'I don't know.'

Asmodeus covered his face with both hands and groaned. It was going to be a long night.

#helluva boss #helluva boss asmodeus #helluva boss oc #alternate universe #my writing

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omgkalyppso · 3 years

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for fae and the rest of the poly - 💕💖💍

(ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ Thank you for the ask! May your favorite kind of weather surround you soon!

💕 Describe an ideal date form them!

Claude is quick on his feet and can adapt, but he doesn't like doing anything he hasn't planned five exits to and at least two alternatives for. Hilda doesn't enjoy exerting herself, but she's still extroverted enough to want to be admired Doing Something (if only by her partners) and can easily be goaded if she's comfortable. Lorenz likes the arts, or to bear witness to any skill performed well. Fae likes trying new skills and group activities. An ideal date is one that's planned and includes some measure of exterior activity performed together: like watching theater or seeing an art exhibit or learning to surf or trying wall-climbing.

💖 What are some little subtle ways they show that they love each other?

Modern:

Claude changes his (and consequently everyone's) diet to suit Hilda's dietary restrictions. Fae makes ice; they've never thought about making ice, but they've seen the others drinking beverages with ice, so they start making ice to have ready. Realizing that her "turn" for most major cleaning duties never really seems to come up, Hilda tentatively starts light cleaning and organizing, fearful of the mockery of her childhood home, until she's able to ask for help with bigger tasks. Lorenz picks up texting patterns and music preferences based on influences of his partners.

Post canon / any setting:

Lorenz leave notes everywhere, little poems and soft words — but what is really important is when he is willing to write in the company of his partners, unafraid of people hovering over his shoulder because he trusts them not to. Claude being able / willing to "needlessly" share a bed for the purpose of sleep with his partners. Hilda sees three of the most touch-starved people / ex (?) fighters she's ever met in her life and decides she'll learn something about massages. Abuses Divine Pulse less and less, or abuses Divine Pulse the least, when with their partners, feeling very rarely that they've flubbed something unforgivable and that whatever they've said or done or experienced is fine as it is (in settings other than post canon just translate this to: feels less anxious after interactions that include their partners than otherwise. lol. I've like never written Fae outside of the company of their partners except some of Expanded Epilogue but even then they were only interacting with like Seteth and Alois who are also Family so.).

💍 Which one of them would propose? How would it happen? (or write if you feel like it!)

I love different versions of this. Unfortunately for everyone I am sharing a lot of my thoughts.

In my post-canon I don't have them all marry. I could change it, but I think they're fine as they are, dedicated and happy and more subtle. I count Claude's Goddess Tower proposal, and am excited to Eventually write Lorenz proposing to Hilda in my Hilorenz fic. It will happen.

In Fae-as-a-student au, I've been undecided about whether Fae or Hilda or BOTH leave with Claude to Almyra for a time post-canon, leaving Lorenz behind in Gloucester, BUT I absolutely imagine the four of them together, discussing the departure, and giving Lorenz the proposal, initially a soft, blurted, "Marry me." So that the others ask him if the proposal is reserved for Claude (whom he's looking at because at least Claude is absolutely leaving), and he can clarify that he doesn't just mean Claude and that they don't have to make a public ceremony or announcement until their / his return, but that he would like to make a promise, with those who would have him, before they leave, to keep them from forgetting him when they're far and away.

In A Comedy of Errors modern au, it's less a proposal than a conversation for Lorenz and Hilda to marry. Wait. I have a (bad) text conversation that I thought I might write a fic around once:

Hilda: we should get married

Claude: this is hands down, the worst proposal

Hilda: i'm not proposing!

Hilda: i just want to talk about it

Fae: is that about your insurance?

Hilda: no! .... not entirely

Hilda: what if Claude died in Almyra

Claude: thanks

Hilda: at least one of us would be able to find out about it from the authorities directly

Lorenz: now i want someone to divorce me. please take half my assets

Claude: i'll divorce you baby

Fae: grounds for divorce, right there in one pet name

Hilda: i'm not feeling heard here

Fae: i'm sorry hilda

Lorenz: sorry hilda

Claude: i would marry any of you, or all of you. is there a way you'd be picturing this?

Hilda: well, i figure it would be easier on Lorenz if he married me

Lorenz: marginally true

Claude: /:

Lorenz: you know i love you Claude but ......... my father's still alive and if we're relying on "at least he'll be dead soon" then i don't need to be written out of a will

Lorenz: and i might literally explode if i had to sit through him misgendering Fae for his last few years

Fae: <3

Lorenz: :kiss emoji:

Claude: was this your very roundabout way about asking if it was okay to marry Lorenz?

Hilda: no. i'm willing to hear other suggestions

Fae: i just don't want to sleep alone anymore

Lorenz: </3

Claude: awww

Hilda: ):

Lorenz: are you home now? i could visit for ... 45 minutes maybe?

Claude: just enough time (;

Fae: i am home

Lorenz: Give me ... half an hour

Lorenz: but first. we can do legal weddings whenever we want. i think we should get married.

Claude returns from Almyra a week or so before the wedding, by which time Fae has moved in with Lorenz and Hilda. Claude is earlier than he was expected, as his surprise to them, and they cherish the time. Four days or so after the wedding the four of them go on a date to an observatory where Fae proposes to Claude under the stars. (:

In my soulmate au, there is a proposal incoming by the end of the fic. Claude is going to ask Fae if they'd be comfortable with him proposing to Lorenz, or else offer to put it off, saying he's more confident with how Hilda will react because of their history. I'm still undecided if Claude should prepare something that amounts to a favorite meal for Lorenz in their apartment with the four of them or take them out to a park or beach or mountain or something, where he and Lorenz could have a moment alone. I'm also undecided how many hits Claude should drop in advance (his ... canon self is Not Subtle) but I hadn't planned on dropping them prior to the new year chapter which has finally happened. I think it would be another year or three before Fae and Hilda considered marrying and haven't given it too much thought aside from that. Fae would propose.

Hm, I can have more.

In Just Go With It modern au, Claude remembers the date of their first 'date,' and calls it an anniversary and only he is prepared for the first one, which he expects and is very smug about. It's not a milestone number, but for their fourth anniversary Hilda spends time (like a full year) talking herself into and out of and back again — the act of making rings for her partners, and whether or not they'll be a proposal or just a gift.

In my mermaid au they never have a formal proposal or ceremony.

In my fantasy au, Fae was 70 years a vampire when they met Claude, and they were together for 40 years before Claude proposed, and then they had their children and played at being family and "mundane" for some hundreds of years. They do something like this again when they marry Hilda and Lorenz a year or two after meeting them, again at Claude's proposal.

In my coffeeshop au, Hilda realizes she's pregnant with (Halvard) Lorenz's child and she "proposes" to Claude to start the legal tangle of custody so that they can each have some attachment to their son.

#faedolyn #claude. hilda. mc. lorenz #long post #did this between calls at work. did not read over it #i'm sorry to anyone sick of them / me

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sohin-ace · 4 years

Text

Bucciarati - Drunk

This is cross-posted from Wattpad and available on AO3.

Enjoy~

Gender Neutral reader peeps

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You barged into the hideout, slamming the door behind you as you could barely stand on your two feet.

You leaned over the wall, one hand searching anything to grab on and the other craddling your face as a sharp migraine hit you.

"U-uughh... Hmngh..." You groaned and panted, which grabbed the attention of the two males who were present and talking before you came in.

"Y/N, are you okay?!" Mista gasped as he noticed you stumbling clumsily into the living room. You didn't look good at all.

"What on Earth happened to you?" Bucciarati came in worriedly, opening his arms wide to catch you as you struggled to walk to him.

You eventually toppled over into his arms and gripped his shirt for support as you tried to stand up properly.

"B-bruno..." You mumbled and he stared at you in shock as the strong stench of alcohol hit his nose.

"Y/N, are you drunk?"

"A wittl-little bit..." You slurred, burying your face in his chest as your legs wanted to give up right under you.

"Why? I sent you undercover, why did you drink? Did you even get the information I asked?"

He had his hands secured on your arms, keeping you upstanding as he got a bit frustrated by the current state you were in. You were usually so efficient on missions and so serious about work, you better had a good excuse for this.

"Iss... The shtand uge-user...."

You patted and fondled messily with your pants pockets until you finally took out a folded piece of paper. You lifted your hand up, almost shoving the paper in your superior's face to offer it to him.

He squinted his eyes and took the paper, carefully reading the content. His expression relaxed as he sighed in relief upon seeing what you had written. All the confidential informations he needed was scribbled down by you prior to losing your mind. Mission was completed. Thank God.

At that very moment, you lost balance and collapsed on him, your legs giving up under you as you slid down his stiff body slowly.

"Yo Y/N's waaaasteed..." Mista gasped before he snorted, throwing his soda can in the trash without a care in the world. "I'm going to sleep, have fun, capo."

The gunman, although yearning to see you all drunken and weird and maybe get some good juicy embarassing stories to bring up and mess you with later, still fled the scene with a snicker, leaving the elder have that pleasure for himself.

Bucciarati on the other hand, felt utterly betrayed as he was left to deal with you all alone. Oh Mista would pay for this. But that's a story for another time. Right now, Bucciarati had other things to attend to.

You couldn't even keep your head up as you blindly gripped at Bucciarati's legs and hips, trying to climb him back up like a tree.

He tensed up and flinched when you leaned your face against his crotch for desperate support, trying to get on your now wobbly knees.

Quickly, and in a moment of brilliant improvisation, he opened a portal with Sticky Fingers right underneath you, which lead right through another one above him, making you fall down directly into his arms. A smooth move, truly. Expected from the one and only Bruno Bucciarati.

He couldn't help but sigh. Seems like he'd have to take care of you for the night, clearly you were in no state to even do the very basics of self-care. Not that he wasn't used to being caretaker anyways.

Bucciarati took a moment to look at you as he held you, his hands secured protectively around you.

Your face was unnaturally flushed red and your eyes were half-lidded, threatening to flutter close on your behalf. Your mouth was slightly agape as you breathed steadily through quiet snores, almost like you were already sleeping.

He couldn't deny that it was extremely cute in his eyes, this uncharacteristic sight of you. He smiled down with a quiet chuckle.

"You'll have to tell me what happened in the morning..." He muttered softly to you, craddling your body preciously against him.

"I like your face~" You brought your fingertips to his face and carefully touched him, flinching slightly at the airy contact, like a curious cat discovering a human for the very first time.

He huffed and you leaned your head up to rest your chin on his shoulder, throwing one arm lazily around his neck and the other on his cheek.

"Oh yeah you're almost as cute as Bruno Bu-hic!" You hiccuped and he bit back a laugh. "Bucci... Buccillati... Buttiarrati... Buchittity..." You mumbled messily against his shoulder, struggling to pronounce his name as he walked you both towards the stairs.

Oh he would definitely make fun of you for that as soon as you're sober. You better not try to mess with him in the future, he just has quite enough material to blackmail you now.

As his mindset was still waving on the thoughts of all the ways he could tease you, if you asked for it, he was certainly not, and could never be ready for your upcoming drunken shenanigans.

"Aahh~ I want to have rough sex with Bruno..." You moaned quietly and he stopped dead in his tracks, tensing up, a light gasp escaping his lips.

His heart jumped in his chest at your words and he gulped slightly, trying to look down at your hidden face.

Were you serious? No, surely it was the alcohol, toxin or whatever Stand user you went against had done to you... right?

"Ah! Don't tell Capo I said that!" You perked up very suddenly, realizing you just blurted your deepest secret out to what you currently thought was a perfect stranger.

But you relaxed back against him as fast as your panick fit came. He squeezed gently on your thighs and torso, right where he was holding you as if to give you validation, and regained his composure.

"I won't..." Bucciarrati reassured you softly as he arrived to your assigned room in the hideout.

He pushed open the, thankfully unlocked, door and gently placed you on the bed as you whined like a small child. He cared to take the time to remove your shoes, jacket, belt and any constraining piece of clothing and accessories off of you.

"Nooo don't do this! Where's Capoo I want capooo!" You complained and squirmed, your voice cracking slightly.

"I'm right here Y/N, it's me. Calm down." He sat down at the edge of the bed, sensing your sudden distress.

"Where is capo? Where is Bruno when I need him..." His expression fell when he noticed tears streaming down your face. "I don't want to die like you fratellino..."

His heart shattered. He couldn't help his widening eyes boring through yours. Were you seeing your brother through him right now? Did you really have to hallucinate in such an insufferable way?

He knew of your past and how your little brother had gruesomely died in front of your very eyes, you helpless to his cries for help and mercy. Bucciarati knew it was hard to live on with this memory, but he didn't know that it still haunted you so strongly to this day. And he sure would have loved to prevent said memory to resurface.

"Don't be scared, Y/N. I won't let you die..."

"Capo..." You whimpered quietly as you finally recognized his kind voice and he shushed you, brushing the back of his hand on your wet cheek.

"Go to sleep, I'm right next to you." And just like that, with the small confirmation that you were safe with him, you calmed down and closed your eyes, drifting off to sleep.

He sighed heavily, not moving for a moment as he watched your peaceful expression.

You always were so strong and unfaltered, as if nothing could ever break you. You were such a piece of sunshine in Passione in his eyes, making sure everybody was always fine, that he was fine. So seeing you so weak and vulnerable in front of him really tore his heart.

He got up from his seat and went to grab a clean towel and some warm water. He cleaned you off of the blood, sweat, tears and alcohol, careful to not wake you up.

When he finished, he gently tucked you in the covers, brushing some hairs out of your face, taking the liberty to touch you. Surely you wouldn't have minded the gesture, he thought.

The next morning came and you walked groggily in to the living room, the cold shower you just took having no effect on waking you up.

"Hi Y/N!" Narancia muffled at your sight, a croissant halfway shoved into his mouth.

"You don't look so good." Giorno noticed as you took a seat at the table, joining the men who took notice of your, quite awful-looking, presence.

"Yeah..." You breathed, obviously tired. "I have the worst headache possible, yesterday's mission was just terrible..."

You craddled your painful head with one hand and served yourself some coffee with the other, in desperate need of some caffeine to relieve the pounding in your brain.

"Oh yeah! You came back home all wasted and messed up last night, what happened?" Mista shot up as he was feeding some biscuits to the Sex Pistols.

"The mission started off great, just some basic undercover at some grand ceremony, but right around the end of the party, that one Stand user spotted me and long story short, I had to down up the entire punch bowl all by myself to drown the Stand's effect and prevent the guy from jumping me. It was wild..."

You sighed and chugged your black coffee raw, no sugar, no creamer, no nothing, bland. Fugo made a face at you and Abbachio feigned concern.

"Poor child."

"You remember what happened when you got home?" Mista smirked, a deliciously evil idea suddenly running through his otherwise empty head.

"No... It's all blurry, I woke up in my bed, that's it..." You rubbed your eyes, not even slightly ready for what you were about to hear.

" 'Cause you and Bucciarati were loooouuud yesterday night!" Mista teased, pointing accusatingly at you and you stared at him in disbelief.

Giorno squinted suspiciously at his friend and Abbachio clicked his tongue with sheer annoyance. There we go again. Narancia could only lean over the table in anticipation, things getting just about the right amount of juicy.

"What?? What do you mean loud?!"

"Like..." Mista choked in an arrogant snicker. "You fell in his arms, and I went to my room, so far so good, but then I heard the noises."

"You're lying!" You tried to sound confident, but you were very much believing his words and getting more and more scared. "Wh-what kind of noises?"

Mista slowly slurped his tea while glancing at you sideways. "...well I shouldn't elaborate, there are children in this room."

"W-where is he now?!! Bucciarati!!" You turned fully to the gunslinger, your hands shaking, burning with the need to grab him and shake his brains out. No way he was truthing right now, he must be messing with you, you thought.

"He's probably still sleeping, you must have left him... Heh... restless." He snorted by the end of his sentence and Narancia roared at the sinful assumption.

"OOOOOOOHHHH!!!"

You gasped and grabbed his collar. "Dude I swear you're lying right now, you're lying! Bucciarati will lick your face that's how bad you're lying!!!"

"Can we not talk about this again, please?" Speak of the devil, Bucciarati came in and you all stared at him.

You checked him up and down anxiously for any signs of dishevelement that could have resulted from a potential 'wild' night Mista seemed to hint at.

But he looked perfectly fine, as he always was. Nothing strange or out of place to note. You bolted up so fast, you almost knocked your chair off.

"C-capo!!! I have a question!" You choked on your own spit from speaking too fast and the man chuckled, putting his hands on your tense shoulders.

"That can wait, Y/N. Go sit down and finish your breakfast. You have the day off, take it easy."

He then sat down next to Abbachio and started eating and you defeatedly got back to your seat. Mista, as well as the others pretended the conversation never even happened and rathered none of you ever bringing anything up.

And so you were left there, confused out of your mind, wondering if anything was even real and what was your life anymore.

You glanced over at the smiling gunman joking with Fugo.

Thanks a lot Mista.

Bonus:

"Hey Bucciarati?"

"Hm?"

"Did you... Like... Do the do with Y/N last night?"

The leader deadpanned at Mista while putting his newspaper down. What the hell was he babbling on again?

"...Really now?"

"I'm just asking! 'Cause you know, yesterday, you two were all alone and..." He trailed off, hinting at the obvious, at least for a dirty minded person. "Y/N was kinda like... Not even standing straight and shit..."

Bucciarati sighed heavily, already tired on his only peaceful day and got back to reading his newspaper.

"I'm not taking advantage of a drunken, non-consenting person, Guido, if that's what you were assuming."

"O-okay..." The gunman paused and looked forward for a moment. Not done with the conversation, he broke the silence again.

"But would you be mad if everyone thought you did it?" Bucciarati glared at Mista, wondering if he was serious. "...including Y/N?"

"...You're a dead man."

#jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo #writing #x reader #reader insert #jjba #jojo no kimyou na bouken #golden wind #vento aureo #jojo part 5 #part 5 #bruno buccellati x reader #bruno x reader #bruno bucciarati x reader #bruno bucciarati #bruno buccellati #gender neutral reader

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sepublic · 4 years

Text

King’s Progress

In all honesty, I feel like King is amongst Luz and Amity as having the most clear-cut, sense of progression and development amongst the cast in Season 1?

Thinking back on Really Small Problems, I really love its portrayal of King here… And, well, ALL of the episodes centering on King, really! Some might say that it’s repetitive to keep having episodes where he makes a mistake and apologizes, and while I can see that… Personally, I’m not too bothered because said episodes are always entertaining, I always love King content, but also…

There’s a very clear sense of progression amongst King’s mistakes, as the season goes along? If RSP were Episode 11, King would’ve likely chosen to spray Willow and Gus with ‘Obivioso’s potion and then reaped what he sowed afterwards. But he doesn’t, and King genuinely surprised me with how mature he was in that episode… He was still immature ultimately, but you could tell he was still approaching things in a much more mature fashion than in prior episodes. King actively chooses not to make Willow and Gus disappear, but he DOES still hold onto the potion… And while it was an accident for them to ‘disappear’, King nevertheless takes advantage of the situation now that it’s happened. It’s not entirely his fault, but he still could’ve made amends any time and fixed what happened- Again, even if it wasn’t totally his fault here.

I guess you could say it’s a lesson on how even if one doesn’t necessarily cause an unfortunate situation… It’s still one’s responsibility to help someone out of it, and/or fix that situation- Even if you benefit from it! Because again, even if you weren’t exactly responsible for what happened, it’s still a little unethical to choose to keep benefitting from that incident. I suppose it hearkens back to that ‘With great power comes great responsibility’ quote from Spiderman… How in some versions of the story, Peter chose to look the other way because the robber offered him something for his silence. Peter wasn’t the one who robbed anyone, he’s just a bystander- But he still chooses to passively benefit from the incident instead of doing the right thing, and calling the cops. And as we infamously know, Peter suffers the consequences when the problem directly affects him, too, and kills Uncle Ben.

King’s dilemma in Really Small Problems is a similar situation. He didn’t make the potion, he didn’t take it from Obvioso, and he didn’t willingly use it- But there was still something he could’ve easily done about the situation, but he chose not to because he benefitted otherwise. And as a result, King still shoulders blame and accountability… Which again, ties back into how circumstances may encourage people to do bad decisions (like Obivioso handing over the potion), but it’s still up to an individual to act on those choices in the end… And King acknowledges this, in another surprising act of genuine maturity!

And, I like that- As I said, it’s a sense of progression. A few episodes earlier, and King would’ve willingly caused the mess, instead of just knowingly benefitting from it, when otherwise he could end the whole thing right then and there (or at least THOUGHT he could). This gets me onto Sense and Insensitivity, and it’s an interesting parallel to The Intruder… Both are King-centric episodes, that focus and expand upon the seemingly inconsequential B-plot of the previous episode! In Episode 3, King competes with Eda on who’s the better teacher… And then in the next episode, we see that he’s actually serious about wanting to mentor Luz, or at least feel listened by someone! His motives are given more depth!

Similarly, Escape of the Palisman has King take advantage of Eda’s mental state for his own gain, only to get her into trouble… Then we have Sense and Insensitivity, which focuses on a similar mistake. However, it’s different… Because in the previous episode, King still put Eda into physical danger by taking her outside. Whereas in SaI… Again, what King does IS cold and harsh towards Luz. But in the end, it’s only emotional damage- He’s not jeopardizing Luz herself by getting her into potential trouble with the authorities or anything. I mean, Luz DOES end up getting kidnapped by Piniet and thrown into his Writer’s Block, but that was never part of the agreement King made with Piniet… At least not knowingly. The possibility for this could’ve been in fine print, but in this scenario I feel it’s less the result of King apathetically disregarding others, and more him just being a general dum-dum, so I’m willing to overlook it.

What’s interesting is that King is upfront about how he hurt Luz, to her face. In the previous episode, he took advantage of Eda’s physical prowess. Here, he takes advantage of Luz’s creative prowess… In the previous episode, King learns not to make others do things for him, nor violate their personal autonomy. In SaI, King then builds upon this lesson, by recognizing that even if he isn’t going to make Luz write for him or anything… He’s still being cold and insensitive and hurting her emotionally. Each time King makes a mistake, it’s still a new lesson in its own way, built upon past lessons… Each mistake of his is less and less egregious, and more understandable and mature. He’s a repeatedly-flawed character and certainly not perfect… But what’s interesting about seeing him continue to make mistakes, is that you can still clearly see how King is at least managing to do better than last time! His mistakes become more and more understandable, with each one he makes.

Progress isn’t always smooth. It can be messy, and fraught with constant mistakes. But it’s worth noting that while King doesn’t retain the ENTIRE lesson with each mistake… He still clearly learns something in the end, and applies it. King doesn’t perfectly apply what he’s learned and not to its fullest extent, but you get the sense that he’s trying, and that each lesson teaches him that while he technically didn’t make the same mistake as LAST time, King himself is still liable to certain other mistakes. He’s learning, more and more, how to be more responsible and less selfish. Going from outright using someone physically, to using their ideas… To not knowingly causing a mess, but still choosing to benefit from it when King thinks he has the power to end it otherwise.

Like Lilith, King isn’t perfect. He tries to learn the lesson in a way that’s most convenient to him- Like that time he took advantage of Eda’s cursed state, and when Eda asks him what happened, King denies his guilt! Like Lilith he definitely learned his lesson somewhat and won’t make the same mistake, but he’s going to otherwise pretend he’s innocent to others. King willingly ignores that it’s not just enough that he learned not to cause a mess, but that he needs to also actively improve upon things when he has the power to do so- Ironic, given King’s frustrations with a lack of agency! He tries to retain the lesson in a way where he minimizes the amount of mistakes he made… But even so, King still manages to learn something. He still recognizes that he had to have made a mistake, and so there had to have been something that was learned… And while King can make it easier for himself by trying to minimize the extent of his lesson (and thus the realization of how far his mistakes went), it still says a lot that he keeps on trying and improving, each time.

Speaking of which, I have to wonder if part of the reason why people don’t really notice King’s development is… Well, aside from OTHER things distracting from his progress (like Eda and Lilith’s relationship or the entirety of Understanding Willow, understandably), in hilariously meta sense? King is lowkey dismissed in real life as just being the fluffy, animal sidekick trope… A lot of people don’t stop to consider that hey, he does have legitimate flaws that he does work upon, that King has a clear sense of progression throughout the season, and in many ways he parallels Lilith, of all people! It’s just like how in-universe, King is overlooked and dismissed as JUST a cute and fluffy pet… In real life, a lot of people do the same and don’t bother considering his potential depth!

It’s kind of the reverse of Infinity Train’s Book 2… How a lot of people noted at the beginning that Lake was clearly a narrative reflection of Jesse. But then near the end, one of our main antagonists ends up acknowledging this fact, in-universe, in the worst way possible- By noting how the Infinity Train possibly set Lake up to function as a ‘reflection’ of Jesse in the metaphorical sense, there by transplanting what was acknowledged in real life, and bringing it up in-universe! In this scenario, King brings up how he’s often overlooked and dismissed as just the fluffy, cute sidekick… And lo in behold in real life, a lot of people overlook King and see him as JUST that trope, instead of at least that trope and more!

(Not to cast stones at anyone or imply that someone is less of a fan, or meaner, for not considering King’s potential depth as a character. There’s a LOT this show has to offer, so it’s understandable that some things are missed out upon, because one’s mind can only take in and process so much. I just think it’s an amusing coincidence is all, and I don’t think anyone is actively to blame, or at least not malicious nor terrible for it!)

#the owl house #owl house #the owl house king #the owl house luz #luz noceda #the owl house eda #edalyn clawthorne #the owl house lilith #lilith clawthorne #character analysis #meta

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pikapeppa · 4 years

Text

Cullen solo smut: Personal Correspondence

In which Cullen has some private commander time when he receives a rather PERSONAL letter from Piper. 😏 Also, some conversations just because they’re fun.

~5200 words; read here on AO3 instead.

Beautiful sexy art by @schoute!!

Cullen was bored.

That wasn’t to say that this meeting with Josephine and Leliana was boring. The issue they were discussing was quite important, in fact: an odd flurry of activity among some minor Orlesian noble houses that seemed related to red lyrium. Despite the importance of the issue, however, the unfortunate truth was this: any discussion involving Orlesian nobility inevitably drove Cullen’s otherwise-disciplined attention toward… well, anything else.

He forced himself to listen as Josephine tapped her quill thoughtfully on her tablet. “We must be cautious if we approach the de Mouriers,” she was saying. “But I do believe we will get an answer more quickly from them than from Marquise Courtmance.”

“Quicker may not be better, Josie,” Leliana said. “If my spies slip into the Courtmance compound under the guise of servants, they can get a clearer and less roundabout answer.”

Josephine twisted her lips. “I’m not so sure. I have heard that the Marquise’s butler is particularly stringent about monitoring the comings and goings within her estate.”

Leliana smiled faintly. “Yes, he certainly is.”

Josephine blinked. “Ah. I see. Who told you of their… liaison?”

“Nobody needed to,” Leliana replied. “It was evident at the Winter Palace, no?”

Josephine opened her mouth to reply, but Cullen had had enough. He planted his palms on the table. “Shall we make a decision, then?” he said. “The Inquisitor left the choice in our hands. We should settle on a course of action and move on.”

“We can’t rush this, Cullen,” Josephine said earnestly. “Every move we make will have a ripple effect across all of Orlesian society, like— “

“—like stones thrown into a pond, yes, I know,” he said impatiently. He folded his arms. “I for one would be thrilled to simply throw stones at the lot of them, but what do I know?”

Leliana smiled serenely. “Now now, Cullen,” she said. “Just because every Orlesian family is trying to marry their daughters to you, it’s no reason to pout.”

Josephine giggled, and Cullen scowled at them both. “I’m not pouting,” he said. “And even if I were, I think it’s a perfectly good reason to pout. Why are they hassling me?” He shot Josephine a resentful look. “Why aren’t they hassling you? You’re just as marriageable.”

Leliana’s smile widened. “Josephine isn’t as pretty as you,” she said slyly.

“It’s true,” Josephine said happily. “I have yet to hear anyone composing any songs about my hair.”

Cullen double-taked at her. “Composing–! Where – who is composing songs about my hair?” he demanded. “We need to stop this at once.”

Josephine delicately patted her mouth, and Cullen scowled again; she was clearly trying not to laugh. “Unfortunately, we cannot afford to invest the resources into stopping these dastardly songwriters just now,” she said.

Cullen gave her a reproachful look. “You said just this morning that you convinced the Merchant Princes to invest a large sum to our coffers.”

Josephine let out a tiny cough, and Leliana spoke in her stead. “Well, I’ve heard that the ballads about your hair are boosting morale among the soldiers. Especially out at Griffon’s Keep.”

Griffon’s Keep? Cullen thought in annoyance. Was Rylen encouraging the men to engage in these sorts of foolish hijinks? Cullen ought to speak to him about it.

Then again, if making up songs about his hair was boosting morale among the men…

He sighed. “Fine. Let them sing about my blasted hair if it amuses them. Are we finished here?”

“Nearly finished,” Josephine said soothingly. “Just as soon as we decide on a course of action.”

Cullen sighed again, then waited with increasing restlessness as Josephine and Leliana discussed the pros and cons of addressing each noble house. When it was finally decided that they would send Leliana’s spies to the Courtmance mansion, Cullen exhaled in relief.

“Are we done here?” he asked. “I have a dozen reports waiting for me.”

Josephine smiled and gave him a small bow. “Yes, Commander. Thank you for your patience.” She drifted toward the war room doors, and Cullen began to follow her, but Leliana held up a hand to stop him.

“There is one more thing,” she said. “A letter for you.” She pulled a letter out of her pocket.

It was a rather grubby letter that was sealed with a crude wax seal of a ‘P’. Cullen raised his eyebrows as he took it. “This is from Pipe— from the Inquisitor,” he said.

“Yes,” Leliana said. “I see no harm in you receiving her… personal correspondence directly.” Her lips curled in the tiniest hint of a smile. “In any case, nobody else can read her handwriting. It’s quite atrocious.”

“It… yes, it is,” Cullen said. In fact, Piper’s handwriting was so dreadful that her official reports were dictated to Varric or occasionally Dorian when she was in the field, or even Solas on the odd occasion.

Cullen fondly studied the filthy letter for a moment, then frowned at Leliana. “Receiving these directly, you said. You no longer feel the need to screen these?”

She shook her head. “If there is anything of relevance to our cause, you can pass it on to me.”

Cullen peered suspiciously at the unopened letter, then at Leliana. “Why do I get the feeling you already know the contents of this letter?”

“I don’t,” Leliana assured him. “But it doesn’t take spies to know what is happening around the castle. I suspect that I don’t need to know what that letter says.”

Her tone was rather bland now, but her expression held a trace of humour. Cullen’s ears began to warm, but he straightened and nodded politely. “All right. Thank you,” he said. “I’ll, er… thank you.” He awkwardly patted the letter, then nodded to Leliana once more and left the war room.

He tucked the letter carefully into the inner pocket of his mantle, then strode purposefully back to his office. Once he was alone in his office, he eagerly broke the wax seal and opened the letter.

A dried flower fell out and crumbled into pieces on his desk.

Cullen’s eyebrows shot up in dismay. “Blast it,” he muttered. He put the letter down and tried to reassemble the flower, but it was no use; the poor dried plant was so crumbled that some parts of the leaves were little more than flakes of greenish-grey.

He gazed guiltily at the dead flower, then sighed and picked up the letter, and his eyebrows rose again: Piper’s handwriting was even more scrawly than usual. Had she been drunk while writing this?

Dearest Commander Golden Boy,

Greetings and evenings from the Exalted Plains! There are a lot of fucking statues here. So many fucking statues. And I mean a LOT of them. The humans reallllllly wanted to mark their territory here. It’s pretty gross.

Cullen smiled to himself. She’d most certainly had something to drink prior to the writing of this letter.

My official fancypants report will have all the important shit in it, so I saved the good shit for you. For example, Dorian nearly stepped in some actual ram shit today. He practically jumped into Varric’s arms when he realized there was shit on the ground and it was so fucking funny.

What’s some other good shit? This flower I sent you is called Andraste’s grace. Not crystal grace, ANDRASTE’S GRACE. GET IT STRAIGHT. Though if you really want to get it straight, it’s felan’asahngar in Elvhen. It means ‘lucky plant. It’s good luck, see? My kind of plant. I’m sending you one for luck. Dorian says I’m too drunk to be sending anything anywhere aside from sending my ass to bed, which makes noooo sense because there are no beds in the Exalted Plains, DORIAN.

Anyway, this plant is for you. It’s for luck. I’ll bring you another one just in case this one gets all roughed up, though. But DON’T TELL DORIAN I LISTENED TO HIM.

What’s some other good shit? I miss you.

Cullen’s belly did a pleasant little jolt. Piper had only told him once before that she missed him while she was away on her forays. She brought little souvenirs for him and spent as much time with him as she could whenever she returned to Skyhold, but she rarely said that she missed him.

A warm feeling was swelling in his chest. He slowly sat down in his chair and continued to read.

I miss you. I miss your face. Did you know I like looking at your face? Because I do. Everyone likes looking at your face because it’s a really handsome one but I like your face more than anyyyy other face. I like looking at your lips when you smile and I like your scar. I want to lick it.

Cullen’s heart leapt into his throat. He instinctively covered the letter with his hand even though he was alone, and for a moment he sat in his chair trying to breathe normally.

This letter really ought to wait until he wasn’t working. Leliana was right; it was very personal, which meant he should really be saving it until later.��

The letter was like a beacon beneath his palm, drawing his attention despite his faint feeling of guilt. After a few tense seconds, he picked it up and continued reading.

You know what I really want, Golden Boy? I want to put a big huge kiss on those nice scarred lips of yours. You have lip scars and I have lips scars so we should definitely kiss more. We should kiss all the time. Kissing allllll the time. I wish we could kiss right now. I wish I could have my tongue in your

Someone knocked sharply on the door, and Cullen jumped. He slapped a hand over the letter on his desk. “Wh-who is it?” he called.

“It’s Cassandra,” she said. “I wish to discuss something with you.”

“Just — just a moment,” he called out. Flustered and embarrassed, he hid the letter under some other papers on his desk and stood up from his chair.

Then he realized that he couldn’t stand right now. Not unless he wanted to draw attention to what Piper’s personal correspondence was doing to him.

He immediately sat back down while silently cursing his own body, then arranged his face into a neutral expression. “Come in,” he called.

Cassandra briskly entered his office and launched straight into business. “We should discuss Emprise du Lion. You have seen the preliminary reports from Sahrnia?”

“Yes,” Cullen said in the most professional tone he could muster. “They’re troubling.”

“They are disastrous,” Cassandra said brusquely. “Townspeople disappearing, unaccounted for? The Inquisitor has agreed that we will go there immediately upon her return from the Exalted Plains, but it was my hope that…” She frowned suddenly. “Are you all right?”

He blinked. “Pardon? Yes. I – why do you ask?”

“You are flushed,” Cassandra said. “Do you feel unwell?”

Damned blasted cheeks, he thought furiously. “I — no. I’m not unwell,” he stammered.

Cassandra’s frown deepened with concern, and Cullen realized what she was thinking about: his lyrium withdrawal. He relaxed slightly; at the very least, he could reassure her on that front.

“Cassandra, I swear to you, I’m well,” he said. “My… symptoms are controlled. The aches and pains are largely gone.” The nightmares were another matter, but they weren’t disrupting his daily activities, so it didn’t bear mentioning to her again.

She took a step closer to his desk. “If you require a break, you have only to ask. We can–”

“I don’t need a break,” Cullen insisted. “I am able to do my duties for the Inquisitor.” The Inquisitor, who was also the woman he loved. The Inquisitor, who was braving the dregs of the civil war in the Exalted Plains. The Inquisitor, who wanted to lick the scar on his lip and place her perfect tongue somewhere...

His manhood pulsed again, and he forced his face not to react. Unfortunately, Cassandra noticed his discomfiture nonetheless. “Are you certain you don’t have a fever?” she asked. “We can summon a healer–”

“No!” Cullen blurted. “No. I don’t require a healer, I’m… nothing is wrong. I am…” He trailed off uncomfortably. Why in the Maker’s name did his reading of Piper’s naughty letter have to be interrupted by a Seeker of Truth, of all people?

Cassandra was still staring at him with a combination of sharpness and worry, so he was forced to give her a hint of the truth. “It’s personal,” he muttered shamefacedly.

“Personal?” she said. “What does that mean?” Then her eyes dropped to his desk and to the crumbled flower that was sprinkled there – a sign of Piper’s well-known hobby.

Cullen couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or horrified when Cassandra’s face went blank with recognition. “Ah,” she said. “Oh. I – I see.” Her cheeks went bright red, and she immediately changed the subject. “Alban Poulin is managing the villagers who remain in Sahrnia, but they continue to disappear. Do you think it might be worthwhile sending some troops…”

Cullen forced himself to listen to Cassandra, and eventually his shameful excitement waned as he returned to the usual activities of work. By the time Cassandra left, with Cullen’s promise to look over the map of Emprise du Lion for places to fortify with troops, he was almost feeling like his usual focused self.

He regretfully swept the dried flower off of his desk and into the wastebin, then pulled Piper’s grubby letter out from under the other papers on his desk. I will save it for later, he told himself. If the remaining contents of this letter were as… titillating as the parts he’d read thus far, it would be truly inappropriate to keep reading it now during his working hours.

He tenderly smoothed out the edges of the letter and folded it up again. He opened the drawer of his desk and lowered the letter into the drawer.

Then he hesitated. How much harm would it be to just finish reading that last sentence? The sentence that he’d had to stop reading when Cassandra knocked on the door?

He sat there thinking for a few seconds longer. Then he unfolded the letter and continued to read.

I wish I could have my tongue in your mouth. But not just your mouth! I want my tongue on your neck and your chest and your scars do you have scars on that big handsome body of yours? I bet you do. If you have scars on your face then you definly definitely have scars on your body and I want to lick all of them. I wonder if you have any scars on your abs? Are there any scars on your thighs? Because Cullen, I would lick every last

Someone knocked on the door, and Cullen flinched. “What?” he barked.

A timid voice called through the door. “It’s, er. It’s Scout Jim, Commander.”

Cullen growled in frustration. His cheeks and groin were tingling in a terribly pleasant way, and it was completely and utterly inappropriate.

He took a few deep breaths to calm himself. Then Jim knocked on the door again. “Commander? Are you–”

“Enter,” Cullen snapped.

Jim slowly pushed open the door. “C-Commander, ser? Krem was wondering – I mean, Kremisius Aclassi, he and Bull’s other men – a-and women, my apologies–”

“Spit it out, will you?” Cullen snarled. “I haven’t got all day.”

Jim’s face blanched, and Cullen immediately felt guilty. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then gave Jim a frank look. “I apologize. Please, give me your report.”

Jim swallowed hard and bowed. “Serrah Aclassi said you offered to train with him and the other Chargers today in the lower courtyard. They’re waiting for you.”

His gut twisted in dismay. He had completely forgotten about this appointment, thanks to his… distraction. “Thank you,” he said to Jim. “Let Krem know I’ll join them shortly.”

Jim saluted and left his office, and Cullen roughly scraped a hand through his hair. He stared longingly at Piper’s half-read letter, then refolded the letter and carefully locked it in the top drawer of his desk before going to train with Krem and the Chargers.

After two hours of hard training with the Iron Bull’s people, Cullen felt much more fortified to tackle the rest of his day. For the remainder of the day, he was focused and determined and attentive: he caught up on reading all of the less urgent reports from the last few days and composed his replies, and he developed a plan to heighten the defenses of Emprise du Lion until Piper and her party could venture there. He worked with Bonny Sims to start figuring out a more efficient way to get supplies out to the Storm Coast, and he ate supper in the barracks with his men. And all day long, he very deliberately did not touch his desk drawer with its dangerous and tempting contents.

It wasn’t until later that night, when Cullen had finished all of his tasks for the day and even some of the tasks he’d planned to do tomorrow, that he finally opened his desk drawer and pulled out Piper’s letter.

He nervously licked his lips as he unfolded the letter. But before he could fully open the letter, he paused.

He rubbed the paper nervously between his fingers. Then he placed the letter on his desk and started preparing for bed. It wasn’t very late, only about two hours past dusk, but Cullen was rather tired from the long and hard-working day he’d had. It only made sense for him to take his armour off now and have an early night.

He locked all the doors that led from the battlements into his office, then stripped off his armour and hung it carefully on its stand. He put on his loose cotton sleeping trousers and washed his face and brushed his teeth.

Then, with Piper’s dirty letter in hand, he climbed into bed. And finally, at long last, he continued to read.

I wonder if you have any scars on your abs? Are there any scars on your thighs? Because Cullen, I would lick every last one of them. And you could lick my scars too if you want. I have a lot of scars so you’d be hard at work for quite a while, Golden Boy.

He took a slow breath. Licking Piper’s scars? Licking any part of Piper’s lithe body? He… Maker, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it. In truth, his thoughts of Piper were becoming more and more heated as time went on. With every week that passed, with every pressed flower she sent from the wilds and every enthusiastic kiss she gave him upon her return to Skyhold, Cullen felt closer and more comfortable with her. And with that closeness and comfort came an undeniable urge to be… very close and comfortable with her.

He kept on reading.

I wonder what you’re doing right now? Are you standing in your office looking all studious and sexy? Maybe you’re sitting in your chair being all busnessy businesslike. If I was there in your office I’ve be sitting in your chair with you and you can bet we wouldn’t be doing business because I’d be kissing you. I really like kissing you. You give really good kisses, nice kisses with nice scarred lips and it’s like your usi you’re using your entire big hard body to kiss me when you bend me back against the desk like a big handsome warrior. You can bend me back over that desk anytime, Commander.

He paused and took another shaky breath. Piper’s words were like hot coffee, pouring through his throat and down to his belly and below with a thrumming sort of heat that was bringing his manhood to attention.

Bending her back against the desk… Now that she’d mentioned it, he couldn’t stop imagining it and remembering how good it felt to do just that. To have Piper pressed back against his desk while he kissed her, his hands on her waist and her thigh sliding up along his hip as he carefully pressed himself against her front…

His manhood was straightening in his loose trousers, but he didn’t mind, not now that he was alone in his bed at night with no one to bother him. He avidly continued reading the letter.

Now I’m just going on and on and Varric should probably have taken this quill and parchment away from me but I’ve never liked kissing anyone as much as I like kissing you. Kissing you is better than sex with anyone else I really like kissing you a lot. A lot a lotttttt. Kissing Cullen. I hope you like kissing me a lot too because I’m going to kiss you so hard when I get back to Skyhold and that’s a promise and Piper Lavellan always keeps her promises unless the promise is to pay my tab to Cabot ALWAYS.

Cullen gazed at the letter, excited by her words in more ways than one. Did Piper really feel that kissing him was better than sex with her other lovers in the past? If that was so, then… then Cullen was thrilled, because he felt the same. He had never felt the same connection to anyone else that he had with Piper. He had always hoped to find this sort of comfort in another person, this feeling that he could finally truly relax and be himself, but he had never managed to find it. Eventually he had begun to wonder if perhaps that sort of connection would never happen for him. After what had happened at Kinloch Hold, followed by everything he’d seen in Kirkwall, Cullen had started to wonder if… well, perhaps he was too guarded to permit the kind of connection that he sought. Perhaps he was too… damaged. Too scarred by mistrust and anger and regret to believe he could trust anyone else to see beyond the damage.

In her letter, Piper had mentioned scars. But the scars that Cullen harboured weren’t the sort that could be soothed with a stroke of the hand or the sweep of a tongue.

But maybe... maybe they could be soothed, if the hands doing the soothing were Piper’s.

He swallowed hard, then looked at the letter once more.

Now I’m in my tent. Dorian tried to take my quill away because he think I’ll regret writing this in the morning but he’s wrong. This is the best fucking letter I ever wrote. Someone should frame this fucking letter it’s so good. And now that I’m in my tent, you can think of me crawling into my bedroll to sleeeep. And you remember how I told you I like to sleep, don’t you?

He certainly did remember. As though he could ever forget Piper telling him that she slept naked.

His manhood pulsed at the tempting thought of Piper’s naked body, and he finally gave in: he slipped his hand into his trousers and wrapped his fist around his length.

He stroked himself, and a rush of pleasure rippled through his abdomen. He shifted his hips restlessly, then settled back against his pillows and continued to read the letter.

Okayfineiconfess I don’t sleep naked in the field because the boys are around and NICE TRY BOYS, THIS ELFY ASS IS FOR CULLEN’S EYES ONLY. Even though you haven’t seen me naked yet but you can if you want to. You know you only have to ask, right? You say the word, and I’ll get naked for you. Naked for Cullen. Nakednakednaked on your bed or your chair or even on your desk with all your papers all over it.

Cullen dragged in a breath and stroked himself firmly. Piper naked on his desk? Piper sitting on his desk while he was trying to work, naked as the day she was born? Naked aside from the intricate tattoo on her lower sternum that peeked teasingly through her billowing shirts, that is. That tattoo that clearly extended beneath her breasts, though Cullen didn’t yet know just how far it extended…

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Now all he could imagine was seeing the full span of Piper’s tattoos. Imagine if she was sitting on his desk and leaning back on her hands so he could stare at her – so he could take in the full extent of the pale ink that crossed her bronze skin, and the full extent of the scars that she’d bragged about in this letter, and the precise shade of pink that her nipples would be…

He sighed longingly and squeezed his shaft. Would Piper’s nipples be a deep dusky pink, or would they be more of a warm peach? If he was to run his tongue over them, what kind of sound would she make: would she cry his name, or would she gasp? Or maybe she would growl like the fierce little thing that she was?

Piper. He groaned softly and ran his palm along his rigid length. He desired her terribly, and he was getting increasingly frustrated with himself for not taking their relationship in the direction that they both so obviously wanted. Piper was clearly willing, and Cullen was willing too – Maker’s breath, was he ever willing. ‘Willing’ was an understatement, in fact; Cullen wanted Piper more desperately with every kiss they shared in his office and every heated look that passed between them over the table in the war room, and… and he didn’t want to disappoint her.

Piper had more experience than he; she was well-travelled, and Cullen knew she’d had her fair share of lovers during her travels. And then there was Cullen, with his paltry handful of partners many years ago, and… Maker, he didn’t want to disappoint her. She was special, more special and more important than anyone he’d ever known, and he couldn’t bear the idea of disappointing her. Nor could he bear the thought of their first time being a rushed and frenzied moment between the endless meetings that they both were constantly being pulled into. Piper was special, and Cullen wanted their first time to be special and for her to enjoy herself, and…

And the more he ruminated about this, the more anxious he was going to get. Perhaps there was something to be said about a more Piper-like impulsive approach.

Perhaps having Piper naked on his desk wasn’t the most terrible idea.

His manhood pulsed against his palm, and he stroked himself more quickly. Perhaps having Piper spread naked on his desk was a good idea, actually. If she was sitting on his desk and he was sitting in his chair, he could push her legs apart and really make sure she enjoyed herself. She’d written that she wanted him to lick her? Well, that was precisely what Cullen would do if she was spread wide on his desk.

He imagined Piper lifting her hips to request the touch of his tongue, and his manhood throbbed eagerly against his stroking hand. He inhaled sharply and pumped his hips toward his hand, and he imagined what it would be like to feel her soft and tender folds against his lips while he kissed her so thoroughly that she was gasping.

Piper’s naked body on his desk, her naked thighs spread beneath his hands, her dewy taste on his tongue… Cullen groaned and squeezed his shaft harder, stroking himself with rising speed and ardour as he imagined her. Imagine her hands clutching his hair as he lapped at the glory between her legs. Imagine her hands smoothing over the broad scar that ran from his left collarbone to his right pec, then her tongue sliding hotly over that same scar as she slid off of his desk and down to her knees…

His pleasure ratcheted higher, and he gasped and bucked his hips. Imagine if Piper was kneeling between his legs while he sat in his chair. Imagine if she was pushing her gorgeous mass of hair back and bowing her head over his lap and her perfect scarred lips were parting to take him deep…

“Please,” he gasped. Imaginary-Piper smiled at him, that cheeky heated smile that he loved so much, and then his manhood was sliding through her lips and down to the heat of her throat.

He stroked himself more desperately, and with every stroke he imagined Piper’s exquisite mouth moving up and down his shaft. A blissful and torturous minute later, his climax burst with a blissful rush that fanned through his thighs and up to his throat.

His pleasure spattered over his belly, and he gritted his teeth silence himself. When the heady rush faded away, Cullen let out a long and satisfied sigh, then lifted the letter once more.

To his amusement, the final paragraph was written in a slightly neater – and clearly sober – hand.

Well shit, I clearly fell asleep before finishing this letter last night. I’m of half a mind to not let this fucking thing see the light of day but now Bull is daring me to send it and I never say no to a dare. I hope you enjoy Drunk and Rowdy Piper Lavellan!

Also… eh, might as well go full sappy for once. I miss you. A lot. And this letter might just brighten your day, so why the fuck not.

Don’t work too hard, Golden Boy. ❤️

- Piper xxxxx

He chuckled softly. Piper truly was a creature of chaos. He gently placed the letter on his bedside table, then glanced ruefully at the evidence of his own pleasure that was still spattered on his belly.

He’d expected to feel somewhat guilty about this, but to his own surprise, he simply felt sated. Or as sated as he could be when he was in his bed alone, at least. Now imagine if he wasn’t alone – if Piper was here instead, sprawled beside him and obscured only by her mass of silvery hair…

Cullen sighed again, more wistfully this time, then gingerly rose from his bed to clean himself up. Once he was tidied up, he climbed back into his bed and blew out the candle, then gazed up at the stars through the hole in his ceiling.

For now, he was in his bed alone. But as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, he was comforted by the idea of Piper being in bed beside him.

Someday soon, that thought would become a reality. Someday, when Cullen mustered his courage, he would have his heart’s desire, and Piper would be in his arms and in his bed.

Until then, he would be satisfied with the messy scrawl of Piper’s personal correspondence.

#please Maker let the formatting on this have worked #IT WAS HELL TO DO #cullen rutherford #cullen smut #cullen fic #cullen/lavellan #cullen x lavellan #cullavellan #piperford #pikapeppa writes #schoute draws

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milknette · 4 years

Text

day 11 - star-crossed lovers

if my love was just a curse, then i have only tears to shed.

tumblr month: @auyeahaugust

links: ao3 | ff.net

"PLEASE, dearest, tell me the truth."

Marinette doesn't even look up as he speaks, his voice echoing from the otherwise empty dungeon.

"For what reason?" She asks, instead. "It seems you've chosen your side." Marinette spares him a passing glance, and it's so cold he almost takes a step back. "Who to believe."

"I was given no other choice!" He argues, holding almost desperately onto the bars that prevented him from holding her directly. "Lila is trusted by the people— trusted by my father, even! She's—"

"The divine messenger," Marinette finishes for him, though her tone drips of venom and nothing of the kindness he had known from her prior. Had he truly been fooled? "The woman who claims to speak directly to God." She laughs to herself; bitterly, almost angrily. "And yet it is I who is considered the heretic."

At that point, Marinette keeps eye contact.

Her stare is sharp and icy; the warm ocean blue he had familiarized himself with nowhere to be seen.

"How foolish."

Adrien grips the bars tighter. "Then tell me she's wrong," he pleads. "Tell me that you hadn't… that you're not…"

"Not what?" Marinette asks, voice almost terrifyingly devoid of emotion. "Tell me, dearest, what crime you've accused me of." She rages with quiet ferocity. "Tell me what I've done that justifies being treated like a monster." Her tone borders on cruel. "Say it."

They stare at each other, neither willing to back down. Accusing her outright, he knows, means that there's no turning back. There's a finality that comes with speaking it aloud— a finality that quite clearly meant that whatever they had with each other (if anything) is over.

So, Adrien ends it.

"That you've enchanted me to fall in love with you."

The words hang in the air, becoming much heavier when said aloud. He continues, quiet. "That I've been cursed to give my heart to a witch."

Marinette's strangely silent.

Then, almost vulnerable, she asks it:

"Was the possibility of you loving me so outlandish that only a curse could make it so?"

For a moment, he almost sees his Marinette; kind, loving, honest, and who he had loved so purely.

"Do you despise me?"

The 'no' escapes his mouth before he can even register it, shocking both of them.

Adrien knows he should hate her; loathe her for the sins she's committed to the kingdom— to him.

But he also knows confidently that his feelings are the complete opposite.

The only question that remains is whether that feeling of love to her is genuine.

He sighs, dropping down to his knees. He leans his head against the prison bars, exhausted. "I could never despise you," Adrien mutters, almost as if he were saying it to himself. "And that's the problem."

"Adrien, I—"

Then he faces forward, staring directly at her. "And you misunderstood," he starts. "I never believed the curse because I could never love you."

He smiles, though all he can really feel is the crushing sadness that threatens to bury himself whole.

"I believed the curse because I never knew I could love someone that much."

The silence is deafening.

Then, a single tear rolling down a cheek.

And in a moment, it becomes an overwhelming torrent of them.

Marinette finally breaks down, collapsing onto the floor as her body's wracked with sobs.

Adrien's never wished so terribly that he had some cataclysmic power to destroy the cell holding her hostage, and to hold her in his arms.

So instead he watches, almost helplessly, as she puts herself back together.

It only takes a moment.

(She never did make it his business to see her vulnerable; Marinette believed it to be the most intense form of intimacy, and she had always been too scared to take that step.

Now he knew her fears weren't unfounded at all.)

"I'm sorry," she finally says, after what seems like an eternity. "I had never meant… for any of this to happen."

He laughs lightly. "I don't think anyone could have expected this outcome," he says. "I'd have thought our story would finish with a completely different ending, really."

Marinette smiles, wiping her cheeks with a tattered cloak. "And what would that be?"

"The palace," Adrien hums. "I take over my father, and rule on my rightful place as king."

"How wonderful." She says, features softening. "Though I do recall you saying this was our story? How would I fit in?"

"Every king needs his queen."

"Perhaps Lila can fill that role."

They both share a laugh.

"No… only one person can fill that role, truly." Adrien stares at her, almost nervous, as he speaks up. "And that woman—"

"— is someone you'll find someday," Marinette interrupts, before standing back up. "Whoever she is, I hope she realizes how lucky she is to have someone so lovely by her side."

Marinette cups his cheeks, and the warmth that spreads throughout his body only yells his deepest desires:

How could this be evil?

She smiles, then presses a kiss to his forehead.

"I now release you from this curse, Prince Adrien of the Agreste Kingdom," Marinette begins. "Now live and love freely, without this monstrous witch to hold you back."

"Wait, Marinette—"

"There he is!"

Lila comes bursting through the entrance to the dungeon, a string of guards on her trail.

She immediately runs to him, almost yanking him away from her cell.

"My dearest prince," Lila cries, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I've been so worried! I've prayed and spoken with God, who by His gracious heart, has told me where you've been kept captive."

A snort.

The nun seethes at that sound, suddenly turning to face Marinette, eyes glassy with anger. "And you!" She growls, walking forward to roughly grab Marinette by her dress' collar; almost strangling the girl as she's held up. "Release Adrien from his curse, you damned witch—"

"Lila, stop!" Adrien pulls her away, allowing Marinette to be thrown back; coughing and breathing deeply as she falls to the floor. "There's no need to be cruel."

She glares at Marinette, before letting go.

"Fine." Lila says, though the lack of remorse on her expression is evident. She reaches upward and holds the cross on her necklace, rubbing it almost too intensely. "I'm confident that the Lord will pass upon her fair judgment."

At that she latches on to Adrien, then grins. "Now come with me, I have some great rituals to help remove the horrid stench of that witch from you."

He only nods, silent, as he's led upstairs.

He turns back.

"Goodbye, Marinette."

It physically hurts him to see her smile.

"Goodbye, Prince Adrien."

"Marinette, you are henceforth being trialled as a witch. What say you to this claim?"

"If it is a sin to love, then I will gladly admit I am guilty of it."

"Then we shall take that as your acceptance of the accusation. Prince Adrien, as the victim, what say you?"

"..."

"Prince Adrien?"

"..."

"See, he is clearly under the spell of this witch! We must kill her now to free him! Do it now!"

"Here, here!"

"No…"

"Kill the witch!"

"Wait…"

"Burn her at the stake!"

"... Don't!"

Screams, fire, a vision of black, then—

Nothing.

She's gone.

A dark red scarf flying in the wind.

A hand outstretched, grabbing it from the air.

A woman, running over.

A man, falling in love.

Between them, something is lit.

It begins the same way it ends.

In flames.

#auyeah2020 #mlauyeahaugust2020 #auyeahaugust #auyeah august #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #lila rossi #lila rossi salt #??#adrinette #but make it angsty #ml #miraculous ladybug #milk writes #ml fic #ml fanfic

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

Text

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || Also on AO3

Chapter 47: Jon Prime

Jon awoke abruptly from a sound sleep and sat up before he thought about it. Martin mumbled something and shifted against him, but didn’t otherwise stir. Jon bent over to kiss his temple in wordless apology, then carefully extricated himself from his fiancé’s arms, picked up the torch, and moved silently over to the door. Something had roused him, he didn’t know what, but he’d be damned if he let it get to Martin. Clicking the torch off so as not to alert whoever or whatever might be out there, he put a hand on the knob, counted silently to three, and yanked the door open.

The first thing he registered was the beam of light playing on the wall opposite. The second thing was the person holding it. “Melanie?”

Melanie swung around and accidentally—or at least Jon presumed it was an accident—shone the torch directly in Jon’s eyes. He yelped and tried to protect his eyes. “Oh, God, sorry, sorry!”

“Jon?” Martin’s voice from behind him was worried, even through the fuzzy half-awake

“It’s all right, Martin. It’s Melanie.” Jon barely managed to keep from saying it’s only Melanie, which would have been a sure way to infuriate her. “It’s safe. Go back to sleep.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” Melanie said. She actually sounded like she meant it. “I didn’t—know you were still out. It’s almost lunchtime.”

Jon stepped out of the little room and closed the door behind him, hoping Martin would be able to get back to sleep. They’d had a rough night, for reasons he really ought to tell Martin but hadn’t admitted yet, and he needed his rest. “We’re living underground, Melanie. And most of what we do aboveground we have to after hours, to keep hidden. We keep a bit of odd hours. It’s fine. Is something wrong?”

“No, not really. If I’d known you were still asleep, I’d probably have tried to wait.” Melanie waved what was in her off hand at him, and Jon’s eyes locked onto it. A statement, and from the sharp hunger that lanced through him, a real one. “It’s just—they’re all trying to restrict themselves to one statement a week, you know? Martin told me he and Tim talked to Jon last night, and he’s getting too dependent on the statements. Like, he went too long without one and got really sick.”

Jon sighed heavily. “I was afraid of that. I really thought they were monitoring things better…and I’m sure it wasn’t this bad this quickly for me.”

“Yeah, well, apparently Snoop God doesn’t think patience is a virtue. Anyway, he’s all right now, but nobody else wants to get that bad, so they’re trying to…”

“Restrict their caloric intake?”

“Basically, yeah.” Melanie smirked at him, but the smile faded almost instantly. “Sasha took a statement live last week before she went home for the week. Tim took one on Thursday. Martin took Georgie’s last week and recorded another real one yesterday. Then we found this one today.” She hesitated. “I was going to read it, but everyone’s…pretty unanimous that I shouldn’t.”

“They’re right. As soon as you start reading them aloud—I mean, just reading them to yourself, just working on them, is going to be bad enough, but reading them aloud will just tie you more and more to the Eye.” Jon cocked his head at Melanie. “So what are you doing down here? Trying to sneak past and read it with no one knowing?”

“No,” Melanie said indignantly. “I was bringing it to you. I mean, if Jon gets sick going too long without reading one, you must need them, too. And if we leave it lying around loose up there, someone who shouldn’t is going to not be able to resist temptation. So, two birds, one stone, all that. I just figured it would help.”

“Oh,” Jon said, a bit surprised. “Thank you. I—I have been a bit…I do need one. Thank you.”

“Do you need a recorder or anything?” Melanie asked, handing over the statement. “Or do you just…speak into the void?”

Jon couldn’t help but laugh. “Sometimes, yes, I do. I’ll be fine. If whatever is behind the recorders feels it’s important, one will…appear. Otherwise I’ll consume the statement and hand it back, and from what I understand, the next person to actually try and make a recording of it will be able to record it without issue.”

Melanie eyeballed him. “How many times has it happened that you got one and the recorder didn’t appear?”

“Hasn’t yet,” Jon admitted. “Thank you, Melanie.”

“Sure. See you next time you pop out. Tell your Martin I’m sorry I woke him.” Melanie gave him a sardonic salute and made her way back to the steps.

Jon watched her go, then turned to go back into the room he and Martin had claimed as their own and hesitated. Martin had always hated listening to him do the statements, and Jon frankly had always hated doing them in front of other people. Now that he knew that the presence of another person—especially someone Eye-aligned—meant the energy was shared out, it explained a lot more. Normally he waited until after hours, went up into the Archives, and did whatever statements they left for him in the Archivist’s office, but something under his skin itched and he didn’t want to wait.

He told himself he was just being courteous, that he was just letting Martin get his rest by going to another room to read this one out. He knew himself well enough, though, to know he was lying.

He slipped further down the tunnels, looking for another of the rooms his counterpart had marked as being an actual room. There were plenty, but he ignored most of them. The one he eventually chose was outwardly no different from any of the others, but it was closer to one of the other exits from the tunnels.

That, Jon had no idea why it was so important.

He slipped into the room, settled down on the floor, and set the torch next to him. With practice, he’d learned to balance it so that it formed a sort of lantern effect; it wasn’t optimal, but it was enough to let him read if he needed to. In its light, he set the folder down and began to open it.

The whirring caught his attention, and Jon looked around. A tape recorder sat just outside the circle of torchlight. Sighing, he grabbed it, checked that it was recording and not playing, and brought it to the familiar position.

“Statement of Anya Villette,” he began, “regarding a cleaning job on Hill Top Road.”

Jon had said once that, as a child, he had hated to read anything he felt he had read before. The first time the team had given him a statement to record—or more accurately to re-record—he had worried that he would feel similarly about the statements, that they wouldn’t satisfy him because he knew them already. He’d quickly learned that he needn’t have worried; while he remembered them, they were relatively new to the Eye, and he usually didn’t realize he remembered them until he was done recording. This time was no different. The name ticked at his mind when he first read it, but once he uttered those words—statement begins—he was lost to the real world. All that existed was him, the statement, and the Eye peering over his shoulder and drinking the fear through him like the lid of a toddler’s spillproof cup. The only difference was that, maybe because he was in the tunnels and the Eye had to strain, he was aware of something else paying attention to him. Likely whatever was behind the recorders.

“Statement ends,” he said finally, lowering the last page to his lap. For a moment, he stared blankly ahead of him at the wall opposite, the statement settling into the nooks and crannies of his mind.

Hill Top Road. He remembered this statement now, of course he did. Martin had been the one to find it for him prior to the Unknowing. He still remembered the apologetic look on his face as he told him I couldn’t find anything new on circuses, but I know the Hill Top Road stuff interests you too and I thought, well, it might be something. Jon had wanted to hug him for that something awful, but he’d restricted himself to a warm smile and a thank you, Martin that had made Martin’s ears go pink.

“Supplemental,” he said at last. “I…I still have no idea what to make of this one, to be honest. I know that if we do additional research, we will come up with nothing, even more than usual. Anya Villette does not exist. The cleaning agency she purports to work for does exist, but does not employ her and has not been contracted to clean the house at Hill Top Road. That house is certainly not student housing; it’s been abandoned for God knows how long. And”—he sighed heavily—“if I go there, I will only find a tape playing a statement recorded long ago and a new one on official Institute forms.”

Or would he?

Jon froze and turned the question over in his mind. He’d never been clear how the Web even knew he was going to go to Hill Top Road when he went. The sly wording of her statement indicated that it had likely been written while he was on his way there, so it wasn’t as though it had been sitting around for years waiting for him, and the point the tape had been at likely meant she’d set her trap just prior to their entrance. He had no idea how the Web had monitored him, if the Web had monitored him, but if it had been, it was probably monitoring Past Jon now. It likely didn’t know about him. Whatever was at Hill Top Road, whatever Annabelle Cane had warned him away from in his own time, she might not know to warn him now.

“Regardless,” he said slowly, “for the good of…everyone I care about, I think it is important that I do go to Hill Top Road. The sooner, the better.” He swallowed. “End recording.”

He turned off the tape recorder and got to his feet, recorder in one hand and statement in the other. The correct thing to do would be to take this back to his and Martin’s room, curl up with Martin for a bit longer, and then put the statement and tape on the Archivist’s desk. And God, he wanted to. If he was really going to Hill Top Road, going alone would probably be the stupidest thing he could do.

At the same time…

He’d felt very strongly at the time that he recorded this statement the first time that he ought to stay away from the house at Hill Top Road. He felt that way now. The only other time he’d felt this strongly that he needed to stay away from something, that there was something the Eye didn’t want him to know, it had been when he’d first listened to the tape of Gertrude Robinson’s talk with Eric Delano.

And if the Eye didn’t want him to know something, it was probably something that would be to its detriment. Which could only help their plan to stop Jonah Magnus and his damned…ritual.

He stared down at the objects in his hands, then set them neatly on the floor next to the door, picked up the torch, and headed for the exit from the tunnels.

Fortunately, there was no one about to see him emerge from the service entrance in the South Kensington station. Nor did anyone look twice at him as he paid his fare and got on the train. It was almost a two-hour journey from there to the house at Hill Top Road—two hours to worry about what he would find, two hours to fret about doing this alone, two hours to reproach himself for not waking Martin to tell him where he was going. Two hours to decide to turn back.

He didn’t.

Two hours later, he stood in front of the house at Hill Top Road and stared up at it. It was exactly as he remembered it: brand new, relatively modest, well-appointed, and totally abandoned. Nobody had lived in this house for years. Nobody would live in this house, ever, if Jon had to make a guess. It wasn’t even owned by anyone.

Breaking into it was a lot easier than it had been the first time. In the first place, he knew the house now, knew its weak points and easy access spots. In the second place, he was alone rather than being burdened with an angry ex-cop who thought every problem could be solved with a combination of obstinate logic and a certain amount of pressure, an even angrier ex-Internet celebrity who thought that both he and the entire idea of trying to hunt down Annabelle Cane was stupid, and a Hunter who knew that every step she took into the building, no matter how good her intentions, made it that much harder for her to stop listening to the blood. (He also didn’t have to contend with the other three all assuming he was too staid and weedy to know how to gain access to someplace he wasn’t wanted, like he’d never done a spot of breaking and entering in his life. Georgie had once accused him of being a cat with opposable thumbs and social anxiety.) In a way, he wished he had Daisy with him—she’d been something of a comfort at the time, which was a bit of a surprise—but at the same time, he had to acknowledge that the Daisy he missed was the one he’d rescued from the Buried, not the one who’d threatened his and Martin’s life seven months ago.

Jesus, had it only been seven months?

Shaking his head, Jon slid the bobby pin he’d found on the Tube out of his pocket, picked the lock on the back door in a matter of seconds (not his best time, but he was out of practice), and slipped inside. He took another deep breath, then coughed as that drew dust and…other things he’d prefer not to think about into his lungs. Once he had himself under control, he turned and swept the beam of his torchlight around the place.

The interior, like the exterior, was exactly like he remembered it. Cobwebs covered virtually every surface, far more than should have built up even in nine years of disuse, clinging to curtain rods and disused furniture and empty cabinets. Jon swallowed against the sudden rise of nausea at the reminder of the Web’s presence. He tried to remind himself of what Martin had told him once, when they’d first been at the safe house and he’d seen the cobwebs in the corner and almost gone feral—that cobwebs were old and abandoned webs full of dust, that the presence of them meant that the spiders themselves were long gone.

Somehow, though, he didn’t think they were. Not completely.

Careful not to breathe too deeply, Jon moved cautiously into the house. Obviously it wasn’t the same house Agnes Montague had grown up in, but he had a fairly good idea of the place from the statements. Anya Villette had described a cupboard under the stairs that led to an unmarked basement. Daisy had claimed not to have noticed one, but…

Something creaked overhead. Jon froze, hand on a door that seemed likely to lead downward. The house was empty, he was sure of that, there shouldn’t be—

The creak came again, like someone was moving around. There was definitely someone upstairs. Jon’s curiosity overcame his caution, what little of it he had left. It wasn’t compulsion from the Eye. The Eye very much wanted him to leave. Any desire to see what was upstairs was one hundred percent Jon, and it was that that drove him to investigate. It was nice to want to know something without needing to Know it. Gripping the torch like a weapon, he started up the stairs.

It was a spiral staircase, something he hadn’t noticed the first time he was there. Something ticked at the back of his brain, something about a parlor up a spiral stair, but he couldn’t quite remember. As he hit the top step, though, the knowledge slammed into his brain.

“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly, “’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy; The way into my parlour is up a winding stair, And I have many curious things to shew when you are there.”

“The Spider and the Fly,” by Mary Howitt. First published in 1829. Meant to be a moral lesson about the dangers of flattery and falling for seductive words and a silver tongue. It had been the second poem Martin ever memorized, after his Year Two teacher reduced him to tears by lecturing him in front of the entire class for “showing off” by learning—

Jon quickly shut the mental door against the flood of knowledge. Martin and Past Martin might be different people now, but they’d had the same experiences—up to a point—and he owed them both the courtesy of staying out of their heads. He had enough knowledge to be getting on with. He was about to walk into the Web’s cunningly-laid trap.

For just a second, he hesitated. There was still time to turn back…but he’d come this far. He couldn’t very well take a four-hour journey, undoubtedly worry Martin, and then go back and say it was pointless. He might as well learn something.

There was a door opposite him, slightly ajar. He took a slow, steadying breath, resolutely shored up his mind to keep out the Beholder, and opened it.

It was a bedroom, simply furnished, as if for a little girl. There was a four-poster bed with carved columns, a low dresser, and a vanity and mirror, all painted white. The seat of the chair in front of the vanity, the comforter and bedskirt, and the ruffled canopy on the bed were all a delicate shade of pink, or had been before the dust settled on them. And sitting on the top of the bed, leaning back against the headboard and playing with something in her hands, was a woman Jon knew far better than he wanted to.

“Hello, Jon,” she said pleasantly. “Do you mind if I call you Jon?”

Jon exhaled heavily. “Annabelle Cane. Why am I surprised?”

Annabelle sat up, cross-legged on the bed, a sly smile on her lips. “You’re looking well. I’m so glad you came to visit.”

“Really,” Jon said flatly. He almost called her out for not having wanted to see him before, but he held his tongue. She couldn’t know he was from the future. He still wasn’t sure what the Web wanted, or what Annabelle herself had wanted, but he wouldn’t risk the world by tipping his hand.

“But of course! The Mother of Puppets has watched you very closely.” Annabelle tugged her hands apart, and Jon realized what it was—a length of some kind of string, looped around her fingers and forming a sort of open shape reminiscent of a teacup. It didn’t take much of a stretch of the imagination to guess it was made of spiderweb.

“So what does the Web want with me?” Jon crossed his arms over his chest, which would have been a lot more effective if he hadn’t almost clobbered himself in the jaw with the torch.

“Oh, I can’t tell you that.” Annabelle passed a few loops from finger to finger, pinched in a couple of places, twisted, and spread her hands again; now instead of a cup and saucer, it looked a bit like a witch’s broom. “That’s not why you’re here, anyway.”

Jon stubbornly remained in the doorway. As long as he didn’t cross the threshold, he’d be fine. Probably. Maybe. “And why am I here?”

Seemingly uninterested, Annabelle brought her hands back together and began shifting the loops again. “Have you ever played this game before?”

“What game? The Web’s game?”

“No, silly.” Annabelle held up her hands, revealing a latticework like a suspension bridge. “It’s called Cat’s Cradle. More often played with two, of course, but you can play by yourself if you want. Did you never play it?”

“No,” Jon said, and it was only partially a lie. He’d never known there was a name for it, or a formal method of playing, but he’d once done something similar with a bit of yarn he’d found in his desk. It had distracted him enough that he’d failed to pay proper attention in class, and his teacher had first yelled at him for not answering her question and then for playing with the string, scolding him that he would cut his fingers off if he wasn’t careful. He hadn’t exactly believed her, but he’d also never tried again.

“Shame. It’s a pleasant way to pass the time.” Annabelle began working the loops again. “Why are you here? Because you’re curious. Because you want—no, because you need to know.” She looked up at him. “Because you need my help.”

“Your help?” Jon said incredulously. “Your help with what?”

“Your plan. Gertrude had one, too, you know. So many people have plans. And those plans depend on so many things, so many little strands woven together. It’s almost like—” Annabelle spread her hands apart again, fingers splayed wide. In the center of the span was a perfect eight-pointed shape. “—a spider’s web.”

Jon stood his ground, with difficulty. “So you know what my plan is.”

Annabelle’s eyes glittered. “I know what your goal is. Not how you plan to do it. Not necessarily. The Web isn’t like the Eye. It doesn’t Know. It just sees…patterns.” Another twist of her hands, another slip of a loop, and suddenly she was seeming to transform her hand into a marionette, or else creating the framework of a hut. “And I see the pattern of a goal, and the threads that could lead to it. Do you think you have the power to succeed?”

“Yes,” Jon replied immediately. “We do?”

“We?” Annabelle looked up at him with a smile.

Jon narrowed his eyes. “Not you.”

“Oh, no, of course not me. No, you’re talking about Martin, aren’t you?” Annabelle’s smile broadened. “Of course. You can’t hope to succeed without him.”

Jon froze. Fear lanced through him. She couldn’t know, she couldn’t possibly know…he’d been watching, he knew his counterpart and Martin’s weren’t together yet. Patterns or no patterns, she couldn’t know what he meant to him.

In a low, dangerous voice, he said, “Don’t you touch him. Don’t you dare touch him.”

“Perish the thought! I want you to succeed, Jon. I want to help you. I can help you.” Annabelle held out the string towards him. It just looked like a mess. “Take this.”

“So you can bind me in the Web? Not a chance.” Jon reached for the door handle. “I never should have come here.”

“It’s not a trap. Martin can’t give you help as it is.” Annabelle’s voice stopped Jon in his tracks. “Not if you can’t find him.”

Slowly, Jon drew himself up to his full height. “What. Do. You. Mean.”

Annabelle was still holding out the strings in his direction. “It’s not a threat, either. Patterns, Jon.” She drew her hands back, slipped one of the loops quickly off a finger, and stretched them wide, producing a tangled mess. “One slipped thread can throw them all off. And if it breaks…well.” Dropping all the loops from her fingers, she began quickly and deftly unpicking the knots, talking all the while. “You have a bond. It needs to be…stronger. Otherwise there’s a risk of neither of you surviving what you intend to do. It will protect you as well as him.”

Jon watched as she began looping the strings over her fingers again. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you refuse. You walk out of this house, we go our separate ways, and you hope your plan succeeds without that bond.” Annabelle shrugged. “It won’t hurt you. It won’t hurt Martin.”

“It hurt Gertrude.”

“Gertrude did it herself. And she also was bonding with the Desolation. How could that be anything but painful?” Annabelle pointed out. “But I know how to weave the threads. It’s a perfectly harmless bond. It will just give you both the strength and power you need to survive what’s coming.” She spread her hands again. Somehow, she managed to pinch and twist the strings just right so that there was a clear and obvious M in the middle of it. M for Martin. A few more flicks of the fingers, and then she was stretching her hands out to Jon again. “Do you trust me? Then take the strings.”

Jon hesitated. Did he trust Annabelle Cane? The simple answer was no; she was of the Web, the entity he’d feared the longest. He knew now that none of the entities had humanity’s best interests at heart, but some were worse than others. Was the Web better or worse than the Eye? Than the Hunt? Than the End? And for that matter…was this Annabelle acting on behalf of the Web, or acting on her own?

The other issue was this bond. Could Jon really make this decision for Martin, bind them together, without asking? Martin may have liked spiders once, but he trusted Annabelle Cane and the Web even less than Jon did. He genuinely worried about its manipulations, about the possibility of it controlling either of them. And Jon had no right to make decisions for him. They were a team, they had to decide together…

The problem was that, like attacking Jonah, this was a now or never situation. Jon had to make a decision, and he had to make it immediately. If he walked away, he would never get this offer again. He had to choose between accepting the bond and hoping Martin would forgive him for it, or rejecting it and hoping he survived for Martin to scold him. He had to decide whether he believed he was strong enough on his own to protect the ones he loved, or whether he would need Martin’s strength. He had to decide whether or not this would bind him to his Martin or to Past Martin, or if it would bind Past Jon and Past Martin together, or if he even believed Annabelle would actually do it.

But if it would protect the man he loved…

Jon came to a decision. He stepped all the way into the room, stretched his hands out, and let Annabelle transfer the strings onto his fingers.

“Good,” Annabelle said, sounding satisfied. “Quickly, there’s not much time.” Her hands were a blur as she moved loops and threads from finger to finger. The string bit into the scar on his hand, but Jon gritted his teeth and bore it up. Finally, she clapped her hands. “Now then…pull.”

Jon separated his hands to the furthest extent the string would let him, and the world seemed to explode in a swirl of static.

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #annabelle cane #canon-typical web content

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lemonietrinket · 4 years

Text

Flirt ||| Wonpil x Reader

summary: wonpil is acting strange. and you have a... small theory as to what he’s doing but that would mean accepting that your feelings are mutual. and can you believe that? no. not yet. but maybe someone will help you to.

genre: flirty... fluff? i guess some attempts of (niche) humour warning(s): occasional foul language (1x s**t) word count: 2038 song(s): baby - astro an: sorry it took a little while anon! i struggled to start this one for some reason? anyway i hope you enjoy it! it’s a lot longer than i intended. again. oops.

non-idol!au

~~~

you couldn’t tell what was up with wonpil. it wasn’t like he’d been acting this way for weeks or even days—in fact, this strange air that had overtaken him had only begun an hour ago, when you had arrived at their place with another of your friends—and yet he seemed such a different person to what you normally saw of him. sure he was affectionate, and cuddly, and could often say odd phrases that could be wildly construed as meaning things he most probably did not. but not to this level. because now, catching the abnormal glint in his eye, you could have sworn he did mean it. and you were torn between wanting to shy away to save your heart the pain of bursting, as well as never wanting him to stop.

because truth be told, these displays were the boldest indicators that he actually liked you back. he wasn’t just holding onto your arm because that’s what he did with people he was close with, he was holding onto your arm because he wanted to be close to you, and his hands only drifted away gradually as if he wanted to return. he wasn’t seemingly biting his lip out of deep thought anymore either—how could he be, when he seemed to make such strong yet brief eye contact with you while he did so? he didn’t clear the corner of your lip with a napkin like he usually did if there was a crumb there, he did it with the tip of his thumb instead, with a napkin right there—

and quite honestly, you didn’t know what to do about it all. it was as if your dreams were being presented to you on a platter, and all you had to do was be bold enough to take them but in the end you could never truly be sure enough to do so.

it had continued all throughout the evening. whenever you spoke to him even on the smallest and most insignificant of matters, those deep spools of onyx stared right into your soul, and seemed to settle there comfortably, while his usual bright smile was replaced by a dimmer one. you had worried if he was upset at first, until the possibility dawned on you that that was what a wonpil smirk looked like. it unnerved you that you’d never seen one before, and you quickly shrugged it off.

though your mind continued to question what the hell he was up to.

with cheeks flushed and eyes focused on your meal, you avoided your friends’ stares, until one finally gathered the confidence to ask.

“you alright, y/n?” it was younghyun. which meant you should really respond.

plastering the most convincing smile you could muster on your face—which surely couldn’t have been too unconvincing since you were slightly delirious with the possibility of your dreams coming true—and raised your head confidently to answer him. “yeah! i’m fine, just tired!”

“right, you look a bit hot,” sungjin continued, gesturing to his cheeks to represent yours.

feeling the eyes upon you, it took you a few seconds to work out what excuse to use. unfortunately, those moments were all that wonpil needed to strike again with his sudden flustering confidence. “too right they do,” he said simply.

jae broke into laughter as dowoon subtly choked on his ramen. your friend meanwhile, having been close colleague to you for a couple of solid months (which was not long enough to know anywhere near a hundred percent of what anyone was really like), giggled and teasingly piped up, “oooh, someone’s got a crush!”

you rolled your eyes at how cringey she sounded, as well as to cover for just how the mention of wonpil liking you in that way made your face no doubt heat up even more. sungjin though spoke up quickly to clarify, whilst the others just laughed, “no no, he means like they do look hot—not hot as in attractive, hot as in genuinely... high temperature.”

with the others distracted you felt your eyes drawn to the man sat directly opposite to you, and what you found there was truly heart-stopping.

he was smiling. which was bad enough for your stability, as whenever he beamed you felt your spirits lift and the world brighten, as if nothing bad could happen, and that you were truly cared for by somebody. but this time, once again, that smile had that bold undertone. that gleaming gaze. if you would ever a simp, it would be for this man and this man alone.

however, things didn’t end there.

“you should get some water,” jae suggested, chuckles dying down as he nodded in encouragement. “it’ll help, park’s word.”

“good idea, i’ll come w—”

younghyun had begun, but before he could even put his empty plate on the coffee table, he was forced to halt in his tracks.

“no, i’ll do it!” wonpil interjected, “i’ll help them.”

within moments he was up on his feet, food practically discarded, his bandmate left to lean back in his chair, wondering what had just happened. or at least that’s what you thought of the situation.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

absentmindedly, you had trundled after wonpil as soon as he’d offered to accompany you, simply because you couldn’t imagine not going with him. wherever this man went you would go. but no, you weren’t totally, utterly in love—pah, of course not.

reaching the kitchen, when you saw there was enough space, you scarpered around him and straight over to the cupboard to get yourself a glass. jae had been right, you really did need something to cool you down. the room remained silent as you heard the conversation in the living room pick up once again, muffled by your overwhelming heart beat. you avoiding his gaze by keeping your head towards your glass and your back turned. wonpil didn’t seem to make any attempt of moving across from the opposite stretch of counters like you expected he would. nor did he speak for the longest time, which worried you more than all of the ‘flirting’ (you weren’t sure if you should pin it as that just yet) combined.

eventually though, the quiet was broken.

“why were they all laughing?” he enquired, voice a dab closer to the usual soft pili you knew inside and out.

you figured that indicated the ‘flirting’ explanation was less probable. either way, you explained while pouring water into the glass. never did you think you would be staring at the quickly popping bubbles of a boring old drink over the most gorgeous man you ever met. “because it sounded like you were saying that i was attractive-hot, rather than hot-hot,” you chuckled half-heartedly, “don’t worry, it happens to the best of us, english sucks.”

there was another moment of peace and you figured he wouldn’t talk and expect you answer for a bit, so you took a sip of water. the ice met fire and you could feel your heartbeat begin to slow from its incessant march.

that was, before his voice returned, a lot more shy than just mere minutes prior. “but... that is how i meant it.”

you choked on your drink, and within a single second you were ready to implode all over again.

he rushed to your side and it was like your cheeks couldn’t get any redder. his hand tapped your back lightly as he repeated apology after apology. though through your coughs, you smiled—properly this time. because your normal wonpil was pretty much back. big eyes wide and shining, voice sweet rather than sultry, and at your side.

“it’s ok, i’m fine,” you urged, clearing your throat before taking another sip to help more effectively this round.

he waited for you to finish this time before speaking in a whisper, “i’m why you’re blushing, aren’t i.”

he looked so earnest, so sincere.

“n-no.” you cursed your cowardice. this would have been the moment to admit everything, to tell him of all the feelings you’d failed to confess for so long.

“its ok, i know, you’re the reason why i am too.”

not that it really mattered, as he already knew.

thoughts running along cogs in your head, it took you a few moments to gather what he was inferring.

but it was true. so focused inwardly, on keeping yourself together, you hadn’t even regarded the face of the man you liked so dearly. whipping your head across to him, you found his cheeks flushed rose just like yours, though admittedly less rampant.

“you... you know?” you stammered, forcing yourself to inhale. you needed to stay alive at least long enough to hear the rest of what he had to say, otherwise everything up to this point had been for nothing.

at this point however, he looked sheepish. guilty even, with his lips pressing firmly together as his eyes began to avoid yours, flitting around the kitchen haphazardly.

“yeah. i... kinda found out yesterday.”

“yesterday?!” you exclaimed. “how?” you didn’t let him reply as you immediately moved on. “wait, that’s what this was all about? all those lingering touches and gazes and the... the cleaning of my lips without a napkin?!”

he nodded.

“pil, you shit!” a laugh broke through your curse.

wonpil began to whine nonetheless. “look! you made me flustered this whole time! and i-i wanted to be confident to you! for once... like younghyun! he’s confident to people he likes—”

“you made me flustered too! this whole time! outside of like... whatever happened today,” you insisted. however, your voice lowered soon after as you turned away from the counter to face him fully. “wonpil, i only want you to be yourself though, ok? you don’t have to be like younghyun, i love you just the way you are.”

his head lifted to reveal that characteristic smile slowly growing upon his lips. “you love me?”

your eyes widened in horror at what you’d let slip. breath hitching in your throat and leaving you completely unable to explain what had just happened, you needn’t have worried so much. wonpil’s bright smile only continued to beam and soon, his arms were around you. you clutched to him out of reflex, inhaling deeply and letting his presence calm you at last. his hair was soft by your cheek, grip tight at your shirt as he nuzzled his nose into your neck.

“i love you too,” he murmured after relishing in the peace, and with your heart fluttering you embraced him tighter. it had been such a convoluted way to end up with your dreams right in your lap but you didn’t care. he was here now.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

“ha! i win, hand over suckers!”

several sighs and groans merged behind you, and you pulled away slightly to see what on earth was going on. there you found your friend, stood proudly at the front, with her open palms being filled with the eventual equivalent of a wad of cash. only sungjin didn’t seem to be taking part. when her hand was pushed towards him, he shook his head.

“no i didn’t take part.”

when she looked quizzically over at him, younghyun stated, “would have been his fourth time.”

unfortunately it didn’t add much clarity. “what?”

you heard wonpil whine, arms still loosely looped round the small of your back and you offered him an apologetic smile. taking a deep breath, you pressed a chaste kiss to the tip of his nose, and laughed at how his blush began to slowly return.

“you want to get out of this joint?”

he giggled. “yeah, it’s dull. ice creams?”

“perfect. move it losers, we’re coming through,” you chucked over your shoulder jokingly, and with an arm around him you lead the two of you out of the kitchen. the small crowd instantly parted for you to make your way through but not without a couple of cheers, mostly from jae.

although as you passed, you felt the overwhelming urging hand of curiosity push you to ask wonpil, “hey, how did you know?”

“w-well—”

“to be fair, everyone knew, so it only seemed fair,” interjected a deep voice from the sidelines.

“dowoon?!”

~~~

an: i’ve just realised that this may not work in korean? so... in this world they all magically speak fluent english too yay.

masterlist

#day6 #day6 wonpil #kim wonpil #wonpil day6 #wonpil x reader #wonpil fluff #wonpil x reader fluff #wonpil oneshot #wonpil imagines #wonpil imagines fluff #wonpil oneshot fluff #day6 fluff #day6 x reader #day6 x reader fluff #day6 imagines #day6 imagines fluff #day6 oneshot #day6 oneshot fluff

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wardencommanderrodimiss · 4 years

Text

Witches, Chapter 29: something of an overdue talk, in a long overdue chapter.

Hey everyone! We’re back at it, hopefully, with a few orders of business.

First things first: I’d like to issue a small warning for a short discussion of past suicidal ideation that pops up during this chapter. Since this series is a retelling, generally most of you do know what’s coming up next and what we’ll run into and to brace ourselves for that. You know about the characters’ past traumas and future choices and know where that pops up, or if it becomes unexpectedly relevant or makes a new parallel, you did at least know in advance that it happened. Phoenix’s occasional oblique allusion to Edgeworth’s “choosing death”, for instance.

As this is not something quite like that and comes up more out of nowhere than usual, I just wanted to make sure that no one is uncomfortably caught off-guard. It felt like something different to me personally as I was writing - whether it’s going to strike any of you as different than other heavier material we’ve had in the past, I can’t say, but I’m erring on the side of caution today. If you’ve got any questions or concerns or anything you want done for content warnings in the future, please do come talk to me and let me know!

On two lighter notes: thank you all for bearing with me through the “oops all Fire Emblem only Fire Emblem” hiatus. It’s been a weird year, obviously. I’m hoping that I can carry on with room in my brain for both.

And finally: Happy UR-1 day! Today is, yes indeed, the exact day that Simon Blackquill is arrested for murder, and in honor of that, have a chapter where I mention him one (1) entire time.

[Seelie of Kurain Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

[Witches of Los Angeles Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

----

Golden Saturday-morning sunlight streams in through the blinds, lighting up the dust particles swirling through the air. The office is colder than Apollo expects for the end of October - colder than it was last year this time - and Phoenix is even wearing a sweater, the shining locket that Apollo hasn’t seen in a while hanging around the outside of the tall collar. “Morning,” Phoenix says, without raising his eyes from what appears to be a manila folder full of newspaper clippings he is perusing. “What’s up?”

Straight to business, then. Apollo is fine with that. He grabs the chair from his desk and drags it around, not directly in front of Phoenix’s desk, but near enough that it will be harder for Phoenix to ignore him.

“Is there any way to break a curse?” he asks, shoving his hands deep in the pocket of his hoodie. If it were this cold in a regular office on a Saturday, that would make sense; save money on heating bills when no clients are coming in. This is just - fae bullshit. The beginning of their seasonal tantrums. Winter only properly begins on the solstice, and Apollo really wishes that the fae of Kurain would respect the astronomical seasons. Stave off the snow until the end of December and end it in March. Don’t allow it to span from October to April.

Phoenix sweeps the scraps of paper all back within the folder and ducks down to set it inside a drawer. “If I knew a way,” he says, rising back up with the magatama in hand and setting it down on his desk with a hard clack, “do you think I would go around looking like I do? You don’t think I would’ve gotten this mess cleaned up a long time ago?”

He doesn’t offer Apollo the magatama for a refresher on what that mess looks like. Maybe he was just making a dramatic point with it. “Oh,” Apollo says, scratching the back of his head, faintly embarrassed by how obvious the answer is if he’d given it a modicum of thought from that perspective. “I guess not.”

“Right,” Phoenix says. “As my understanding goes, you can theoretically maybe mitigate a curse, if you layer another opposing blessing on. I am ‘lucky’” - he makes sarcastic quotation marks to ensure that the bitterness dripping from the word doesn’t go unnoticed, as if Apollo could possibly not notice - “to have known enough fae that I’m saddled with both Fortune and Misfortune, and Life and Death. But I’m also not certain that when you drop those on each other they don’t just each take their own separate niches. I’m not dead, but god knows when I try to go somewhere for a vacation or a day off, I still stumble across crime scenes like nothing else. Stunningly lucky in some aspects, and wildly unfortunate in others. You know me. I don’t need to elaborate too much, do I?”

Apollo nods.

“So that’s the theory, but I don’t think that helps anyway for your purposes, which - this is about Prosecutor Gavin?”

Apollo nods again. Phoenix sighs and rubs his eyes. “Shit,” he says, folding his hands together in front of his face and leaning his head against them. “I - believe me, Apollo, I wish I had some - I wish I had any way to help him.”

And Apollo does believe him. Apollo has to believe him, and believe that Phoenix means well, because he’d go crazier if he wasn’t reminding himself that Phoenix’s most frustrating decisions are born out of good intent. That Phoenix thinks he knows what’s best, but there’s still that old saying about good intentions.

“Why didn’t you tell him?” Apollo asks. “You knew before this. You knew before he asked you.”

Phoenix raises his head. “And what does telling him get him? Secure in the knowledge that his brother - who is already in jail by the way, don’t need any more proof of his crimes, he’s already never getting out to be able to hurt anyone ever again - hates him enough to have wished him dead?”

Basically the same reasoning that Klavier had, but Apollo has a counterargument now. “Gives him time to come to terms with it before someone dies!”

“You don’t!” Phoenix slams his palms on the desk. Apollo flinches. Of course everyone is volatile and heated over this topic, but that doesn’t make it easier in the moment that it first gets directed at him from people who are usually frustratingly calm and casual. But Phoenix winces, lifting one of his hands and dragging his fingers through his hair, and sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says, and repeats, much quieter, “You - you don’t. Or I never didn’t. I knew from right when it happened that I was cursed; I had three years between then and when Mia died - it - I could’ve had a decade, or two, and it - it wouldn’t have helped. I wouldn’t have felt any differently. Any more come to terms with it. With the thought that I - helped cause—”

His tongue heavy in his mouth, Apollo nods. “But - but wouldn’t it have been worse to find out right after she died?”

“Of course it would have,” Phoenix says blithely. “Of course that - this - is the worst possible alternative. Of course I would’ve said something if I’d known that this was what would happen instead.”

“But you have to have expected that someone would—”

“No, I didn’t,” Phoenix interrupts. “That’s not how this works. You know Klavier. You know how much he doesn’t say, don’t you? How much I don’t - you know what people like us are like. Who’s going to tell him? Sebastian forgets half the time that he even has the Sight. Kay only acts like she knows things. Prosecutor Blackquill spent until two days ago acting like magic isn’t real even when he knew we knew otherwise. Someone who means ill isn going to keep that information to use it, and not to just plainly say something.” He frowns. “Well, usually not. Unless they’re a clumsy interloper stumbling in somewhere they don’t belong and getting themselves fucked over for it too.”

“So other than Means just walking all over everything” - because he wasn’t immersed in this kind of fae etiquette, didn’t grow up in it, learned just enough to spot what he thought were opportunities and ruined himself by it - “you think every other random stranger is just going to respect all these - these weird little rules about what you don’t say?”

“Rules of engagement, basically,” Phoenix says. “Yeah, I do.”

“Prosecutor Gavin told me that you’re cursed,” Apollo says. “Don’t just tell me that’s - that’s the exception that proves the rule, or whatever.”

Phoenix’s expression, smug and trying to dampen that smugness back into something that respects the seriousness of the conversation, tells Apollo that yes, yes that is absolutely what his retort was going to be. Apollo considers screaming. “I’ve been tangled up in this for far too long,” Phoenix says. “I can promise you, I know the patterns. I know the way these things go.”

“And because you’re so much smarter than the rest of us, that makes it okay?” Apollo demands. “To take a gamble and just hope that it won’t go wildly wrong?”

And he wants to, really wants to add, I guess that’s what you do, just gamble with people’s fates, and he doesn’t, and Phoenix’s face still darkens like he knows, like he can read Apollo’s mind. Because every time Apollo ends up arguing with him, that’s always at the core. This playing card that haunts them both, burnt a bridge barely built, and they keep trying to balance on the ashen skeleton of it. “Just because Prosecutor Gavin is too fucked up about everything else to be mad at you for hiding this—”

“I did,” Phoenix says, voice low, eyes narrowed and dark as an evening’s storm clouds, “what I thought would be best, based on my prior experiences of both how curses don’t get talked about, and knowing exactly what it is like to personally live with knowing that I’m cursed. This is not something I want anyone to have to know how it feels.”

“So you think ignorance is bliss,” Apollo says. Klavier said that. Apollo wants to know how Phoenix takes that statement.

“I wouldn’t call it ignorance,” Phoenix says. “It’s not like he, or you, didn’t know what Kristoph was like until you found this out. You know the crime, the verdict, the sentencing - and everything else that Kristoph tried but failed to do. That Kristoph also wanted Klavier dead is only another small piece in the grand scheme of it all.”

Still the same argument that Klavier made; Apollo can’t imagine they discussed it. What brought them to the same conclusion? That they both have lived this strange specific kind of grief? This common ground that they share that is foreign to Apollo.

“Come to terms with - Klavier’s already got to come to terms with the rest of that,” Phoenix continues. “It was obvious during that trial how much Kristoph despised him. He knew that too. He knows that Kristoph ruined more lives than just the people he murdered - that he tried to kill more people than he actually succeeded at - cursed and tried to kill children because he couldn’t have - didn’t want anyone remaining who - who could - could… say…”

If Phoenix hadn’t faltered like that - fumbling and failing to continue, words petering out as he went back over what he just said, his eyes going wide and welling up with horror - then Apollo would have simply assumed that his thoughts were moving too fast for his mouth and he couldn’t keep them straight. It would have been easy to talk right through it, and Apollo wouldn’t think twice. If Phoenix hadn’t showed his own hand, gave the game away. Something too terrible for even seven years of professional poker to hide.

“Mr Wright?” Apollo asks, and Phoenix turns his head, glancing away away, no longer meeting his eyes when less than a minute ago he was staring him down with a cold confident glare. “What - what are you talking about? Vera, and - not someone else? Who else?”

Phoenix makes a tiny shake of his head, and even that little motion is a bright, distinct liar’s red. It lights up his eyes, too, when they dart down to the floor. “Mr Wright?” Apollo repeats. When would this have been? He casts his mind over everything he learned, just a little over a year ago, Phoenix sitting him down to explain seven years of information collected about Kristoph, what he’d done and how he’d tried to cover it up. He tried to kill Drew Misham to tie up that loose end; he cursed and poisoned Vera, two precautions because he wasn’t confident enough in the former, hoping that if she ever left the house she wouldn’t be able to speak to his identity and the forgery he requested. He killed Zak Gramarye seven years later to hide the same. He wanted to eliminate every link in the chain that connected the diary page to him. Its makers Vera and Drew, and Zak who knew he was the first attorney on the case, and then the page got to Phoenix via—

Via—

“Mr Wright,” Apollo says. His voice shakes. “He didn’t—”

“Promise me something, Apollo,” Phoenix says firmly. His mouth is drawn in a tight line but he doesn’t look stern. He looks more like he’s going to cry and is desperately trying to stop himself. “Promise me.”

“Wh - what? I can’t—”

“Promise me, Apollo.”

Not until you tell me what I’m promising, Apollo thinks, Apollo knows is what he should say. He’s been told this enough times; he’s aware of this on his own. Don’t agree to a deal before all the terms are set. Don’t sign the contract before it’s read thoroughly. Rules for lawyers and fae are the same. Just because Phoenix means well doesn’t mean that Apollo agrees with those decisions he makes; certainly not the one they have been discussing, and likely not whatever Phoenix is asking him to agree to.

“Please.”

The air in the office is so cold. Even the sunlight seems cold now. Apollo shivers, hunches himself up further. What does Mia think? Is this secret-keeping so natural to her, easy as breathing once was, because she’s fae and that’s what they are, liars by trick and by trade?

“Just promise me you won’t tell her until I do.”

His mouth dry, Apollo nods and croaks out, “All right. I won’t.”

He almost regrets pushing the issue,regrets ever asking Phoenix why he faltered. Phoenix sits slumped, his hands in his hair, and when he glances back up at Apollo, he looks so exhausted that it reminds him of Klavier last night. Burnt-out and broken, when it’s so rare for either of their masks to break. Rarer for Phoenix not to be positioning himself as the one with all the cards in hand; for him to fall apart, for Apollo to actually see him upset. “Yeah,” he whispers, soft enough that Apollo sits forward to make sure he can hear him. “Everyone involved in getting the diary page from him to me, Kristoph wanted dead, or to make sure he could silence them. Everyone who knew, even if she was - eleven years old, or eight. The girl who made it, and the girl who gave it to me. He fucking hated the Gramaryes. You think he didn’t jump at the opportunity to try and get rid of all of them that he could? That he wouldn’t cast a curse on each one who ever entered his sight?”

“And she” - Apollo’s voice cracks - “she doesn’t know? You didn’t tell her?”

“Shit, no,” Phoenix says. He sounds close to cracking, too, and when he drops his hands to his desk he starts shaking his head, his eyes scrunched closed. “Being a Gramarye has been goddamn enough of a curse for her. She lost all her family and then found out that her grandfather buried her mother’s soul in the woods because he was a monstrous son-of-a-bitch who deserved worse than getting to go out on his own terms by shooting himself in the fucking head—”

Apollo shudders. Phoenix had never before directly stated his opinion on Magnifi, but Apollo could definitely tell he held only disdain for the man. This, though, is more than disdain. This is positively venomous, and more than a bit frightening. Did he always feel like this, and hid it, or is this hatred something that has only come about since last year Trucy came back to the office with her mother’s soul in her hands?

“—so yeah, on top of that, I’m definitely going to tell her that the same man who killed her father cursed her just because of the accident of who her family is.”

“B-but—” Apollo doesn’t quite know what he’s arguing. He also doesn’t know where all of his prior conviction went. Of course Klavier should have been told - because he found out in the worst way possible - and Trucy - to take a gamble with her too - that’s got to be just as wrong— “Nine-Tails Vale,” he says suddenly. “We went there, and then there was a murder - that - that’s - is that like—”

“Like what happens to me?” Phoenix asks. “What happens with a curse? Yes. That’s how it goes.”

“And you - you’re not going to - to tell her? Ever? In case - in case something happens to her like with Klavier, or—” Too many thoughts are playing in his head, and the next one grabs hold of him and pivots him away from the point he was going to make about maybe why Trucy should know. “The concert,” he says. “When we went to the concert, Trucy and I, and Klavier was there too of course but that’s - Romaine LeTousse was murdered. They’re both cursed and they - wait, was Klavier cursed then? That was before…”

Did Klavier know when it happened? Did he tell Apollo? He’d said that Phoenix had seen him twice since the trial last October. Presume then that Kristoph cursed him then. The last time the brothers saw each other, and that doesn’t make one bit of sense.

“How could Kristoph have cursed him?” Apollo asks, and he doesn’t miss a momentary flash of panic that passes over Phoenix, his eyes popping wide for half a second and a loud, sharp intake of breath. “Klavier always has iron on him. He gave me—” He looks down at his hand, and then back up, to Phoenix’s lifted eyebrows. Apollo sticks his hand back in his pocket. “What’s the point in iron if it doesn’t actually save you from being cursed?”

Phoenix is obviously trying not to move. He knows Apollo is watching him, waiting for a twitch, anything to pounce on and draw an answer out of him. Staring steadily back at Apollo, he barely blinks; he rests his folded arms on his desk and his fingers curl just a little tighter into where he’s gripping his arm. Apollo is right to be asking these questions. He’s getting closer to something that Phoenix is hiding.

“Or it does,” Apollo says. The veins on the back of Phoenix’s hand flex from his grip. Apollo thinks about someone else with a tense hand and secrets. “And he couldn’t have been cursed then, at Vera’s trial, if it does. So then Mr Gavin hated him that much before then.” Phoenix blinks placidly, but he doesn’t adopt his lazy-eyed gaze. Too serious even for that. “And you lied,” Apollo adds. “You lied about when.”

Phoenix flinches. It’s just a tiny one, pulling his head back, the muscles in his jaw and neck tightening, but Apollo can’t miss the light show. Can’t miss that the lie is bleeding out of him.

He finds himself on his feet, not stepping any closer to Phoenix’s desk, just needing the height, just needing to move a little to stop the shaking in his hands and in his chest, a trembling that goes right down to his heart. “He knew already that he’s cursed! Why did you keep lying to him!”

“I didn’t lie to him,” Phoenix says evenly, but very quietly, and Apollo wants to go over and slam his fists on the desk and make him stop with these hollow justifications, make him face what he’s done couched in none of his winding words. “I just didn’t correct his assumption.”

“That’s lying!” Apollo shouts. “That’s still lying! That’s what happened in Mayor Tenma’s trial! Do you remember that? Do you care!”

“Don’t accuse me of not caring.” Phoenix’s voice is low, his eyes dark, staring up at Apollo. “I do care. I—”

“You don’t care about lying! But you do care about - what, about us? Doing this because you care, because you always know what’s best for everyone not to know!” Apollo throws his hands in the air. Phoenix’s brow furrows further, his jaw set tightly. “Never mind that Athena had a breakdown during the trial because Means hit her exactly where you were worried she would be! And you didn’t prepare her! Never mind that Klavier’s having a breakdown now because he found out at the worst possible time! When you could have told him! You know—”

“And if what he knows already hurt him this badly, then what do you think would be happening if he knew Kristoph cursed him years ago?” Phoenix slams his hands on his desk like he’s at the defense’s bench, pushing himself up out of the chair and onto his feet. “That his brother’s wanted him dead for that long? You think that’ll help anything, for him to find that out right now on top of all this? You want him to have that to come to terms with right now, too? I didn’t lie to him! He made an assumption that I didn’t correct because I’m not in the business of salting anyone’s wounds!”

He makes - a point. Apollo sees where he’s coming from. Why he’d do that. An additional piece of truth, yesterday the same as a salting of the wound. “But you don’t think he’s ever wondered if - if Mr Gavin resented him for that long? If he - if you would be setting something to rest, if you told him that. You can’t decide for someone else what they’re capable of handling.”

“Fair point,” Phoenix says. He sinks back down into his chair, and then motions to Apollo’s, suggesting he sit back down. “If he’d asked, I’d have told him. If he ever asks, I’ll tell him. I just wasn’t about to drop that on his head with him unprepared. Or if he asks you - I’m not asking you to swear silence to that. Shit, if you ever think that it’ll help him to know, then tell him - tell him you just found out from me, throw me under the bus and lie to make me look worse, that’s fine.”

Apollo returns to his chair, still not feeling any less like he wants to take a swing and see if he’s gotten any better at punching since last April. “You want me to lie now too?” he asks.

“I want you to use your best judgment about what he might want to know or be able to handle,” Phoenix says. “To not pile on more if he didn’t ask, if you don’t think he’s prepared. Like I said, when it comes to being cursed, I didn’t ever not know, and I know what the knowing is like. Yeah, I took a gamble that if I didn’t tell them then no one else ever would. That they’d never know, I hoped.”

He shakes his head and then leans it back against his chair, his eyes closing. “See, it’s not just grief, not at all. The woman who cursed me was someone I thought I knew. Though I’d known for a while. She had actually wanted me dead since we first met.” His eyes pop back open. “Eventually she tried to poison me, and when that didn’t work she tried to frame me for murder, and when that plan fell apart she just tried to kill me with a curse because she was pissed about it. She was a lot stronger than Kristoph, I’ll tell you that much. But Mia stepped in, and now I’m still alive and other people just drop dead all around me instead.”

He sounds almost like he is making a recitation, like he’s rehearsed it, scripted it. Apollo wonders if he’s ever told anyone else all these details, if anyone else lacking the Sight knows that Phoenix is cursed, and if he used this same script then too. He’s speaking about himself, something so personal, in a way so curt and crisp, so much more detached than he’s been speaking about Klavier, or Trucy.

Apollo nods numbly, unable to force his tongue to ask any of the questions he has.

“I could have come to grips with her hating me that long and that much - I could’ve come to terms with it and moved on. I was - well, I eventually became glad to know what she was. I could’ve been okay with all that. Eventually. If I hadn’t known about the curse. But I did and the - the knowing, the - Mia was murdered. Three years after she saved me. That long, thinking I could accept that I was cursed, and as soon as something really happened - I couldn’t.”

He presses his hands together and rests them against his chin. “And I couldn’t ever even just grieve her, because I had this guilt. That her death was my fault - I know, I know, some other man murdered her. He got to rot in jail for the rest of his life for his crimes, and he would’ve hated her whether or not I was cursed. For the things she did and because of what he was, and I had no part in any of that, but I was still - thinking, if maybe if she hadn’t ever taken me under her wing. If I hadn’t been around, maybe it would’ve been different somehow. Maybe she would have survived.”

The lights flicker gently and return dimmer and softer than they were before. Everything that gets talked about in this office, Mia hears; Apollo wonders if Phoenix doesn’t get sick of it sometimes, just want to say something without her offering input. Even if this is presumably well-meant, some attempt at comfort, the most a dead woman who can’t speak can give. Apollo exhales and can see his breath. He shivers again. “Why are you telling me this?” he finally asks.

“I want you to understand.” Phoenix rubs his hands together, a vacant look in his eyes, like he hasn’t quite realized why he’s so suddenly cold. “What it felt like, and what I’m worried about. If I’d told Klavier, or I tell Trucy - once I say something, I can’t take it back. That’s it, and they know, forever, just like I do. So I want to be sure that this won’t - I want—” He drops his hands and reaches over and picks up the magatama, idly spinning it around between his fingers. Apollo can’t remember ever seeing him this uneasy, this fidgety. “Klavier, especially, reminds me of myself when I was his age, and of a prosecutor I knew then, too. And that - recognition” - he gestures with the magatama clutched in his hand - “is not good, because we were not - okay.”

Apollo wishes he could remember with clarity all that Phoenix said to him about this time a year ago, about Klavier, about Phoenix being concerned for him. He does remember that Phoenix said something about some other prosecutor then, too, that Klavier reminded him of. Or that he was worried Klavier was going to end up like.

Phoenix inhales slowly, and says, “Six months after Mia was murdered - which was three, three and a half years after I was cursed, mind you - I lost someone else. I didn’t realize how badly he was doing - he did a good job at hiding it, and I didn’t know how to reach out. I was wrapped up in my own loneliness and depression, and then he was gone.”

He stops turning the magatama between his fingers, staring down at it for a few seconds, and then he resumes fidgeting with it. “I felt like I’d caused both of those. Couldn’t convince myself otherwise. Every other factor I knew there was, every single thing I couldn’t prevent or control, all these other things that other people did - I still thought that if I wasn’t cursed, then it could have been - just different enough that they would still be here.” He reaches up, brushing his fingertips across his temple. “Wouldn’t have been a fatal wound. Or wouldn’t have—”

He falters, staring past Apollo now, over at the window. This is the same thing he said about Mia earlier, about that sense of guilt, even knowing someone else murdered her. That he held some kind of responsibility, for a curse that seems to manifest itself as coincidence. Just coincidence, a little too often.

“They could’ve been okay, somehow, in the end, I thought,” he continues. “And instead, I was - I was there, I was still around, and they weren’t. And all I could think was that if I didn’t do something, then I would just lose the other few friends I still had - they would be around me, and they would die for it.”

“Didn’t you say that there’s no way you know to break a curse?” Apollo asks. From Phoenix’s solemn expression, he’s not going to suddenly say that there is a method, but Apollo has no idea what he is going to say. What that something he thought to do was.

“Right,” Phoenix says. “So I thought - only way to take the curse out of the equation is by taking myself out of the equation. I thought - as long as I’m not around - if I go and die, then anyone else who I love won’t. The curse will be gone, right, if death finally takes me. But the curse only seemed to hit other people, not me, so if dying was what I needed to do, then I…”

Klavier lying on the stage, wondering why it had to be Courte who died instead of himself. Phoenix’s dark, pained eyes, as he speaks again, finishes the thought in a voice barely above a murmur. “It made - made far too much sense to me, then. Was far too appealing a prospect.”

The question of what Phoenix won’t quite spell out catches sideways in Apollo’s throat, and when he tries to force it he just makes a soft croaking sound. Phoenix presses his lips together and glances away. “It’s a pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone,” he adds softly. “Klavier’s - he’s what, twenty-whatever? I was twenty-five when I—”

When Mia died, Apollo thinks, but that Phoenix doesn’t finish the thought, swallows hard and stares at his desk and says something else, makes Apollo think there was something even worse he could have said, with that implication he didn’t say. “And Trucy - she’s my daughter. I’m supposed to protect her. I took her in because I couldn’t live with the thought of anything else happening to her when I could bring her here, hope that Mia could somehow bless and protect her as much as she did me. But I can’t imagine just - I can’t let that happen to her. To suffer the way I did, to - to spend her life wondering if wherever she goes, someone’s going to die - the concert, Nine-Tails Vale, to ever - to think she can blame herself. Or that everyone she loves is better off without her. Or to—”

He blinks, fiercely, his eyes watering, and Apollo hopes he’ll never have to see Phoenix this close to tears again. Phoenix, cursed and trying - and in the case of Klavier, now failing - to shelter others from that same pain. Klavier, and Trucy, and—

“What about Vera?” he asks. “You explained to me, but did you ever tell her that she’s—” Phoenix stares at him, blinks slowly. Apollo squeezes his own eyes shut. “You didn’t tell her.” He’s unable to muster the same indignation he was before. He can’t really even bring himself to feel manipulated. Phoenix told him exactly that he was saying all this to make Apollo understand. Phoenix sought this reaction. But Phoenix’s chessmaster act has never superceded his desire to keep secrets before; there’s no way that Apollo can convince himself that this emotional vulnerability is all entirely a ploy to get Apollo to shut up. How many times has he refused to explain something and just left Apollo to stay angry about being in the dark? He has never been reluctant to do that. To just sit silent and lock Apollo out. To let Apollo hate him for his secrets.

He wanted Apollo to understand, intimately, whatever it took. So that Apollo would agree keep these secrets. So that Apollo would go along with him. And it might be concern that drives him - he cares, of course he does - but it’s still manifesting in the most infuriating ways possible. In well-meant silence.

“Would you want to know?” Phoenix asks, and that question at this time is an answer and confirmation in itself. “I know the truth is important to you, Apollo - I know it is to all of us.”

For once, Apollo believes he means it. He’d know it’s the truth because he can see when Phoenix is lying, but he’s actually convinced, this time.

“But,” Phoenix continues, “if you already know that the person who cast the curse hates you and is in jail for committing murder - already got to come to terms with that, or grieve that, or for someone else dead - you already know that truth. Would you really, honestly want to live with also knowing that you’re cursed?”

To possibly want to die because of it, like Phoenix did? Apollo opens his mouth. He wants to say yes, yes he would like to know, because that’s the truth of it and he wants to always know the truth, all of its facets no matter how ugly.

Doesn’t he?

He thinks about Nahyuta, about Dhurke, about trying to forget they ever were anyone, because that’s easier than facing the fact that Dhurke abandoned him, and they might both be dead by now. Easier than wondering whether they were human or fae or something else. He doesn’t want to know what they were. He wants to deny the dreams, to convince himself they’re nothing but the weird subconscious mash-up of memory and the fae horrors Clay has spent all these years warning him about. He doesn’t want the truth about his childhood. He doesn’t want to remember his childhood at all.

(Is it well-meant silence when he doesn’t tell Clay, or Trucy, or Klavier, about them? To not worry them about his life and his past? Or is it just cowardice on his part? Blissful ignorance.)

He closes his mouth. Thinks about the smile Trucy forced onto her face as she realized that Apollo was about to reveal to the court that her father Zak Gramarye was murdered six months before then. Thinks about how she couldn’t keep that smile forced when she found out that her dead grandfather took her mother’s soul for his own personal gain. Thinks about Klavier lying on the stage wishing that he had been the corpse there, not Courte. All the pains that truth has caused them. Is that better or worse than that alternative? Does it depend on what truth it is being hidden?

(He thinks about how long it’s been since he’s said Nahyuta’s name out loud. What color were his eyes in real life, and not Apollo’s haunted dreams? He doesn’t remember.)

“I - I don’t really know,” he admits.

The smug, victorious expression he expects never arrives on Phoenix’s face. There’s no satisfaction in winning this argument. “I’m sorry,” he says, closing his hand around the magatama. “I told you about Vera because it mattered directly for that case, but the rest of this - I wanted to shoulder it myself. So the rest of you don’t have to worry about it. I don’t want you to have to keep secrets from anyone. But I don’t know what else to do.” He forces a smile onto his face with visible effort that makes Apollo wince. Nothing masks the exhaustion written into the lines on his face. “Maybe we put our heads and together we figure out some better way to talk about it. If I ever figure that I should tell…”

He trails off, touching a finger to his locket. Tell Trucy. If he ever gains reason to think that he should tell Trucy. Would he actually run it by Apollo first, ask for his advice? The possibility of being in Phoenix’s confidence for something that isn’t a case doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.

“I still don’t think you should try and keep it secret forever,” Apollo says, “but I - I guess I see what you mean. And why you don’t just…”

Why he doesn’t just tell her. More reason that just because Phoenix doesn’t “just tell” anyone anything. For once, he’s not being a cryptic bastard.

“Believe me, Apollo,” Phoenix says darkly, “I’m always thinking ahead and trying to plan for the worst. I’m not naive enough to just hope that anything will stay one way ‘forever’. But I have to be sure I don’t make it worse, either.”

It isn’t the lack of a visual cue that makes Apollo believe him. It’s knowing him that makes Apollo believe him. Phoenix always has his eye on something down the line, playing out the plan a few steps ahead to find the complications. Even - especially - while he wasn’t a lawyer. A gambler’s steady hand holding the cards, chancing on an outcome, because the cost of doing nothing at all is even more unthinkable.

Apollo nods, more times than necessary, lacking anything else to say. Phoenix cocks his head. “Apollo, you all right?” he asks.

What the hell is he supposed to say - how the hell is he supposed to be? Fine? In what world is he possibly fine? At the end of this, he’s learned more than he ever dreamed he would from his sole initial question, but in it all, that first answer has never changed.

This is all there is. A rabbit hole of pain so unfathomably deep and winding, and in its darkest depths, the same as the answer given to him on the surface: there’s no way to break a curse. Their lives aren’t the kind of fairy tale where true love’s kiss can wake a sleeping beauty or transform a beast back to a prince - it’s grimmer than that, colder than that, crueler than that. Curses not so concretely visible but more like haunting coincidence, a ghost whispering at the shoulder with reminders of guilt. How could a man who wasn’t even there when the crime happened blame himself for his mentor’s murder? And yet, even after the killer’s confession, how could he not? How can even the curse’s caster be blamed when someone else wielded the murder weapon? And yet, how could they not share in it?

Apollo would rather someone have been turned into a frog, honestly. Wouldn’t that be easier to grapple with, a simple chain of cause and effect, and no ambiguity in who to blame.

“No,” Apollo finally says. “Not really, no.”

“I guess that was a bit of a stupid question, huh.”

Apollo nods. No kidding. What’s a better question at this point, anyway? Not what he says. “How - how can there really not be any way? For a curse to be broken, I mean.”

Phoenix spins his chair around, resting his head back against it, eyes turned up to the ceiling. Once he slows to a stop, facing the windows, he says, “I mean, maybe it’s possible there was, once, but it was forgotten. There’s a lot of magic that’s gone that way.”

He gives Apollo a moment to digest that, and then continues, “The Court’s heyday was thousands of years ago. They’re living ruins of what they used to be, and a fraction of what they used to know. Maya - you haven’t met her, she’s Pearl’s cousin - Maya’s helping me out with some matters by trying to dig up more about some kinds of magic they’ve forgotten the nuance of. But even that’s something we’ve got a hint that they knew, once. Not like—” He shrugs helplessly. “I’m sorry. Don’t hold your breath waiting for a way to break a curse.”

“Oh,” Apollo says, somewhat surprised, but pleasantly so, that Phoenix said that much. It would be typical of him just to reiterate that no, there just isn’t any way he knows, that’s all, and to skip the explanation for fear of giving Apollo false hope. But thinking about the prospect of false hope is still easier than really, truly considering the meaning of what Phoenix just said - that this, that everything they’ve ever had to deal with in regards to the fae, could have be so much worse. They could do so much worse than all this pain they’ve ever wrought - they were once so much more dangerous than this, and now their Court is only ruins. This is what they are when they are weak.

“If I do find anything out, I’ll—”

Phoenix breaks off, rising up slowly from his chair, staring at something past Apollo, over his shoulder. Apollo twists around to look, not sure what he expects to see, but it certainly isn’t Vongole standing in the doorway, her head held high, her body much more solid than it usually appears, and stiller. The wispy fur at the back of her legs and off of her tail does not stir as though she is made of mist and surrounded by a breeze that affects only her; she could almost, in this moment, be a normal dog, but for her glowing eyes and her ears so bright red as though they were dipped straight in paint.

All the color drains from Phoenix’s face. He snatches up the magatama and springs to his feet, hurrying past Vongole to peer into the other half of the office. Apollo rises to his feet; if Klavier was here - if he heard what Phoenix was hiding - how Apollo promised to keep it a secret—

Vongole stares at Apollo. She doesn’t move. Phoenix reappears in the doorway, curling a hand in his hair, but his face has fallen slack with obvious relief. The claws curled into Apollo’s heart unclenches. “So then what are you doing here?” Phoenix asks the hound, whose ears fold back flat against her head, though her snout does not turn to shift her attention to Phoenix. She stares Apollo down like she will pounce. “Does he send you places or did you just wander here yourself?”

“You don’t know?” Apollo asks.

“You think I’ve ever had the chance to ask either Kristoph or Klavier about the logistics of their spectral hellhound?” Phoenix asks. Apollo tries to remember when he first started seeing Vongole. Whose ownership she would have been under. How soon after Kristoph’s arrest did Klavier come back to Los Angeles?

Despite her weirdly lanky proportions, like a regular dog was put on a rack and stretched out, Vongole always moves with grace, a predator’s prowl and elegance. A monster, but a beautiful one. She circles Apollo like she intends to herd him somewhere, like she is a shark smelling blood waiting for the moment to strike. “What—” Apollo spins too, trying always to keep her in his sight. She moves just slowly enough that he can keep up, but just quickly enough that he becomes slightly dizzy in his efforts. “What do you want?”

She stops. Apollo steps forward, trying to escape her circle, but she swings suddenly to the side, throwing her body up against Apollo’s hip. He expects her to fade through him, as she does walls and doors, but when she hits him he staggers with the force of her weight. And the cold - her body is cold and it reaches straight through his clothes, cold enough to burn, ice on bare skin type of burning, and Apollo doesn’t understand. He’s touched Vongole before, without problem, hasn’t he? Surely he has. What’s wrong with her? Or is something wrong with Klavier?

She trots over to the door, standing on the threshold, staring back at Apollo with her head aloft. He can’t bring himself to move, can’t unfreeze his feet from where they are riveted into the ground. Vongole presses her ears back against her head, lowering it so that her neck is level with her shoulders, prowling again, and she makes another circle of Apollo before again stopping in the doorway.

“I think she wants you to go with her,” Phoenix says.

She wags her tail, much faster than the usual low, wide swishing path that it takes. Apollo wrenches his foot from the floor and takes one step forward. Vongole bounds through the front room of the office, weaving between magic props tossed carelessly on the floor as though she couldn’t pass through them. And she stops and waits at the door, glancing expectantly back at Apollo. He fumbles his phone free from his pocket, finding no messages waiting for him; why would Klavier do something as cryptic as sending his faery dog to collect Apollo, rather than just calling or texting him?

Unless it isn’t Klavier instructing Vongole. Unless she’s acting on her own. Or unless Klavier is in trouble.

“You’d better go,” Phoenix says. “I can lend you the—”

“It’s fine,” Apollo says. He’s pretty sure that Klavier hates the magatama, and he found him fine without it last night. And he didn’t have Vongole guiding him then.

“Let me know that everything’s all right,” Phoenix says quietly. Apollo opens his mouth to ask what Phoenix knows, why he’s so sure that this means something is wrong - remembers what Phoenix said about himself and how Klavier reminds him of himself, long ago. Closes his mouth. Knows why Phoenix worries.

Phoenix always worries. He means well. His road is paved in well-intended worry.

“Yeah,” Apollo says. “I’ll - I’ll let you know.”

Vongole waits for him only to reach the door, diving through it as his hand reaches for the doorknob. He next finds her waiting beside the bike rack, her smoky fur drifting independently of the chill breeze, and as soon as he mounts his bicycle she lopes off down the sidewalk. She never looks back at him but is obviously monitoring him in some way, her pace changing depending on obstacles and traffic so that she always remains in his sight. He follows her through the quieter (relatively, anyway) city of weekend mornings, through his usual stomping grounds, to end up on the stoop of an apartment building that is - quite frankly, not as grandiose as Apollo would expect. He presumes this is where Klavier lives.

(If it’s not, then he’s far too deep into something that it’s also far too late to back out of.)

Vongole noses one of the buttons on the buzzer at the entryway and disappears through the door. Only seconds later, too quickly for her to have physically covered the necessary amount of ground, the door clicks to unlock. Apollo enters the lobby and before he has time to take in his surroundings, she appears in front of him. Literally appears - not bounding up to him out of a wall, but materializing out of the air, white fog swirling in circles around her ankles. She directs him to the elevator, pressing her nose into the button for the fourth floor and then several times in quick succession slamming her nose into the close doors button. “So were you always like that, or did you pick up your impatience from him?” Apollo asks.

She sits down and fixes her eyes on him. He doesn’t know what that means. He’s not sure why he bothered talking to her. She can’t respond - can she understand? Does she have some way to communicate information she hears to Klavier? Surely not - hopefully not, depending how long she was in the office.

She does not move until the elevator halts at their destination, and she springs to her feet and slips through the doors before they have opened wide enough for a fully-corporeal dog of her size to pass through. But when he makes it through, she meets him right at the other side, her impatience not taking her any further down the hall until Apollo can follow right at her tail. The walls are not cracked and peeling as in Apollo’s building, but they are certainly plain - again, very much not the kind of place he would imagine Klavier to live.

Vongole throws herself through the door of Apartment 404, and Apollo waits in front of it. A moment passes, and then another. Right. Even a faery dog doesn’t have opposable thumbs to grip a doorknob. He fails to swallow his apprehension but knocks anyway. There has to be a reason Vongole brought him here. He can’t just run away from it.

The seconds crawl past. Apollo reaches up to knock again, but the door swings suddenly open, and he flinches back.

Klavier’s hair is barely held together in a ponytail, strands falling loose around his face, and he looks even more like he hasn’t slept, going by the shadows under his eyes. And Apollo never thought there would come the day that he sees Klavier in sweatpants, but - he’s still alive. He’s still intact in one mobile piece, and he’s lucid enough to look annoyed. Apollo fumbles for words, any at all, but none arrive on his tongue. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. He starts to raise his arm to point at Vongole, to blame her, and before he can, Klavier sighs, shaking his head, his apparent annoyance sliding into exhaustion, and he steps out of the doorway, pulling the door open wider, and gesturing for Apollo to come in.

[notes on the chapter]

#roddy fanfics #fic: the witches of los angeles

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stilessdylanobae-ddixonlove · 5 years

Text

Surviving The Walking Dead - Wanted (Chapter 17)

Author: @stilessdylanobae-ddixonlove

Characters: Daryl Dixon, Carol Peletier, Michonne, Lydia, Evan, Will Barbor, Magna, Aaron, Rosita, Eugene, Alden, Mary, Negan, Beta, Dog & Reader.

Summary: Y/n and Dog struggle with recent changes, Daryl meets with the council, Aaron learns where the horde is being kept and a group sets out to find you.

Note: I hope this chapter comes together okay. I wanted it to be a group decision to find you.

Also, consider the idea that certain people are so forgiving of you because you aren’t the only one who knows of this secret plan with Negan. (;

Warning: Cursing, graphic violence, death, painful losses/flashbacks, fluffffff.

Chapter Seventeen - Chapter Eighteen

You were in and out for a bit, slowly forced awake by Dog’s constant whining. When your eyes finally fluttered open, you reached an arm out beside you but felt nothing but a wad of blankets and empty bed. You sat up, noticing Daryl’s vest laid perfectly in his place.

He was gone.

You felt the devastation building, the pain in your chest and throat as you tried to hold back the tears. You succeeded in keeping all but one; a single tear fell in unbelievable despair, as you quietly wept over the thought of never seeing him again.

You were on your own now.

——————

Daryl was in a daze back at Alexandria. It’d been another three days and he’d spent most of it quiet and closed off. He sat inside Carol’s house that afternoon, incessantly tapping his leg while he waited for Lydia to get back from school. He thought long and hard about a way out of this mess. Michonne was on her way to Oceanside to help there for awhile, so he couldn’t talk to her yet.

Carol descended the staircase and noticed the back of his head resting against her couch. She paused.

“Aaron's going to talk to that Whisperer again tonight.” She said to him. He groaned. “Are you okay?” She asked.

Daryl turned and reached for his crossbow. “Mhm.” He mumbled. “Are you?”

He stared a moment, then stood and made his exit. Carol stepped out on the porch and watched him stop and chat with Lydia for a moment as she returned. He patted her shoulder and walked away.

“Where’s he going?” Carol greeted.

Lydia shrugged and sat down underneath the window. Her face was still covered in cuts and bruises. “I don’t know.” She stated, simply. Carol nodded and went to sit next to her with a long and drawn out sigh. “One of these days, he’s gonna leave and not come back here.” Lydia’s lips quivered.

“No.” Carol turned to her. “He’ll always come back. Is that what you’re worried about?” She asked.

“I’m worried that none of us will be the same without her.” Lydia swallowed harshly. “Negan did save my life and yet, she was the only one who could see any good in him.”

“You don’t understand the pain he’s inflicted.” Carol informed the teen.

“Maybe he’s changed. I did.” She said. Carol looked to her, reeling. She wondered if what she said had some truth to it as she looked to the young girls wounds. She thought about what they could have been and reached for her antibacterial cream in her pocket that Siddiq gave to her. She rubbed her thumb over the lid, lightly.

“Here. It’ll help with the bruises.” Carol ultimately handed her the container.

“I’ve had worse.” Lydia replied, taking it anyway.

“So have I.” Carol said with a harsh stare. “So what do you know about Mary?”

“Just that the one’s who watch the horde are loyal.” Lydia winced. “It’s like, I hate them but I still know them.” She rested her head back against the brick wall with a sigh.

Carol shook her head. “Yeah but Alpha drew a line and you have to choose a side.” She urged.

Lydia sniffled. “I wish I’d left when Henry asked me to. I wish we all did, like we talked about.”

“So do I.” Carol lamented. “I want you to come with me somewhere tonight, help me with something.” Lydia hesitantly agreed.

___________

That night, Aaron met with Mary again as planned. But she seemed off this time-more distant. And to his surprise, after he got close she grabbed him from behind and put a knife to his throat. She was feeling beyond overwhelmed, growing afraid and desperate to see her nephew.

“Don’t do this. It isn’t you.” Aaron told her as she pushed the blade a little harder into his neck.

“You have no idea who I am.” She spit in his ear. Carol , who was spying on them from afar, hoping to hear the location of the horde quickly appeared through the trees with her bow drawn.

“Let him go!” She yelled. Lydia, who came with her upon request showed her face next while Mary was suddenly blindsided with confusion and betrayal at the sight of her. She dropped the knife and ran. Carol couldn’t help but smile for a split second, wanting her to see Lydia all along. She wanted to send a message of uncertainty. She wanted to make the Skins question their loyalty to Alpha. Lydia quickly stepped in front of Carol, panic stricken. “Your mother told her people that she killed you.” Carol explained Mary’s behavior. Lydia’s heart dropped and a tear rolled down her cheek.

“You said you wanted my help!” Lydia hollered. “You used me to get to them.” She cried.

“I’m sorry.” Carol admitted. Lydia looked back and forth between Carol and Aaron, unsure what to do next. Her tears burned the cuts on her face but she was too angry to care.

“You said earlier you wanted me to choose a side.” She muttered. “Well fine, I choose mine!” She concluded, preparing to leave.

“You can’t go out there, it’s dangerous!” Carol tried to stop her. Lydia shook her head in disbelief. “Listen, I’m sorry about what just happened but it will help us. All of us! You, Daryl and Y/n too.” Lydia huffed and turned to walk away. “I want to go find Y/n and bring her home! I want to keep her safe too, can you help me do that?” Carol begged. “We can go to Hilltop, get Evan and Will. They will fight for her to stay.” Lydia’s breathing slowed as she finally began to calm down. “Okay?”

“Fine. I’ll go. Alone, I don’t want to be anywhere near you right now!” Lydia hissed before disappearing into the woods. Aaron looked to Carol questionably with disapproval.

_______________

Daryl stood in the middle of the latest council meeting, his arms tightly crossed against his chest and his head hung low. Michonne returned home only a few hours prior, bitter and frustrated over the details of Siddiq’s death. She sat impatiently listening to the other discuss Dante and all that they had trusted him with; how he helped treat the people here, many times. It was truly repulsing. Aaron leaned back in his seat and rubbed at his beard.

“Alright, enough.” He cringed, throwing a hand up to silence the noise. “Dante will pay for his actions, Michonne already said he will be put down. We are here to simply say that we need to take different precautions when it comes to allowing new people into the communities.”

“Clearly.” Rosita grumbled from her seat, looking directly up at Daryl who scowled uncontrollably.

The room was finally dead silent.

“If you got something to say, say it!” Daryl angrily threw his arms down as he skimmed the council members with his tired and heartbroken eyes.

Michonne took in a deep breath from her seat at head of the table. “Daryl, we’re all just trying to make sure everyone is safe. After Dante and after what Y/n did, it shouldn’t be a surprise that the people here are worried.” Daryl shook immensely and went to lean against the windowsill.

“No.” He spoke firmly. “Get it all out of your heads because Y/n ain’t like that. You’re all scared and I get it. But you are wrong about her!” His voice grew louder. Rosita shook with frustration as Eugene put his hand on top of hers. She grunted while Daryl glared her way for several quiet moments. “This is why she left!” He muttered.

“Maybe that means she had something to hide.” Alden spoke up, placing his hands together firmly on the table in front of him. “The guy never should have been allowed to live and that’s on Rick. But now, it’s on us.”

“You better stop talking, kid.” Daryl snapped. Alden sighed heavily in response.

Michonne made her way over to where Daryl stood, hunched over near the window. “Listen, you are the best damn judge of character I know.” She turned to the group but she only spoke to Daryl. “I trust you and as I mentioned before she let him out, Negan is not our biggest problem anymore. Now, Hilltop and Maggie...” She paused, looking back to him. “They might be a different story but for now I promise you that no one here is going to go after her.” Michonne reassured her friend. Aaron stood and left the room, forcefully slamming the door behind him while Michonne winced.

Daryl crossed his arms again. “Lydia is still out there too. We don’t know what that means yet.” He motioned to Carol who stood in the back of the room quietly.

“I know.” Michonne paused as Carol stepped out of the shadows.

“Mary came back, she told Aaron where the horde is.” Carol spoke about the only thing that interested her during today’s meeting.

“We’re gonna trust a Whisperer now?” Daryl questioned, looking to Michonne.

“You wanna do nothing?” Carol scowled.

“Alright, I have to go back to Oceanside for a bit.” Michonne said. “But I know I can’t stop you from checking on this. It’d be better if you got a group together.” She suggested. “Maybe you’ll see Lydia along the way.” Daryl ultimately nodded in agreement, knowing Carol would go alone otherwise.

_____________

You finally felt hungry. Finally felt good enough to get out of bed. You decided it was time to pull yourself together and go hunt. You slipped a sweater over your head, your body aching and your head still slightly spinning. You weren’t sure if you had came down with the flu or if your anxiety and stress was physically attacking you. Maybe it was both. Your long y/h/c hair was greasy and matted, therefore driving you crazy. So you threw it up into a messy bun and thought about heading for the edge of the border. If you remained patient and quiet, you could possibly check up on Negan and wash at the river without running into any Whisperers. You gathered some supplies while Dog sat down and stared up at you, his head cocked to the side.

“You gotta stay here. This could be dangerous and I have to be quiet. No running, no barking. I’ll come back for you, boy.” You spoke out loud for the first time in days, your voice harsh and raspy. You cleared your throat and made your way up the stepladder and out of the bunker. The outside world was bright and hurt your eyes at first. You stared into the empty field surrounding you, wondering what was in store for you next. Regardless, you had to see this plan with Negan through.

You made your way deeper into the forest, the ground getting softer and muddier under your boots as you got closer to water. All was quiet, except for the sound of the river. You could see it now, from behind a tree where you sat and watched for almost an hour to make sure it was safe.

No walkers. No Skins.

You opened your bag and pulled a large piece of bread from it, still savoring what you took from Alexandria, and you took a bite. Next you took a sip from your water bottle and then decided to attempt a bath. You pulled out a small bar of soap in plastic wrap you’d been saving for this moment, held it tight and stepped out into the open.

You found a spot where the river was shallow and well shielded by large bushes and proceeded to remove your shoes, jeans and sweater. You left your tank top and underwear on and slowly climbed into the freezing river. Though, it felt good and refreshing. You dipped your head back into the water and scrubbed your hair with the bar of soap generously. Then you rinsed. As you sat there for a minute soaking, you began to hear soft whispers. You slowly moved to the edge of the water and under a cliff of dirt and exposed roots. You could hear them above you, Beta and a few others.

You remained completely still.

“Hey, you see that?” You heard one Skin say from behind his mask. Beta looked over to see your backpack laying against a stump below them. They turned around to make their way down the hill and you quickly reached for your belongings, grabbing your knife and pistol first before running behind some thick bushes. You covered your mouth, your hair dripping wet down your shivering body.

“You, Jolly Green Giant! The Queen is asking for you.” You suddenly heard in the distance. It was Negan, you knew his voice. The men skimmed the area, then gave up and left. Beta grunted the whole way and once it was quiet again, you stood from the bushes, stealthily making your way farther out. You could see Negan now, he was wearing his infamous leather jacket, covered in dirt and blood and staring off in the distance. “You’ve got some serious lady balls.” He said a little louder. “Come on, I saw you.”

You stepped out in front of him in your underwear, soaking wet and he looked you up and down, smiling.

“You look like shit.” You greeted.

“I can’t say the same, Princess.” He laughed.

“So?” You harassed, pulling your wet hair back up into a bun with the hair tie on your wrist. Then you set your bag back down to slip your jeans on while Negan watched your every move.

“Well, seeing as I’m sure you can’t stay for dinner I’ll make it quick. These sickos have me digging holes to roast big ass pigs for them, they’ve sent walkers to kill me...oh, and let’s not forget Alpha's booty call yesterday.” He shrugged. “It’s been awesome.”

“You had sex with Alpha?” You frowned. He smiled.

“Jealous?” He teased.

“No, that’s just disgusting.” You shook.

He grinned uncontrollably. “Listen, you don’t have to worry about me. Everything is going according to plan.” You stared. He got closer, forcing you backwards until your back stopped against a tree. He grinned. “Now, get out of here before you get seen and I can’t help you.” He spoke quieter. You scowled, picked up your bag and turned to leave. Negan quickly began covering your footprints.

_____________________

The next day when the sun was at it’s highest point in the sky, Daryl watched fellow Alexandrian’s finish setting up for Siddiq’s service that would happen in the next few minutes. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and walked over to where their fallen friend was now buried in the dirt. But Daryl quickly fell distracted when he spotted Lydia re-enter Alexandria’s front gates accompanied by Will, Evan and Magna. He raised his right hand up to shield his eyes from the bright light, making sure he was seeing correctly.

Daryl then eagerly approached them. “Hey, what’s going on?” He yelled. “Did you go to Hilltop alone?”

Lydia guestered to those she brought with her. “They needed to know what happened with Y/n and that Negan wasn’t here anymore.” Lydia explained herself. “Carol thought-”

“Carol asked you to do this?” Daryl questioned and she nodded. “Why?” Lydia rubbed her hand, awkwardly as Magna stepped forward impatiently.

“We wanna help with the horde." She announced. Daryl stared for a moment. “We heard you needed people so here we are.”

“If you’ll have us.” Will added, remembering the circumstances of the last time they spoke.

“Alright.” Daryl hesitantly replied.

“So, where is Y/n?” Will then changed the subject, awkwardly.

Daryl painfully eyed the tall blonde. “She won’t want you out looking for her, trust me. But I promise she’s safe.”

Will gulped. “Does she know about all this though?” He wondered. Daryl nodded. “Look, not to step on any toes here but her and Negan’s relationship was always complicated, she saw things in him that no one else ever did. It was infuriating and the bastard wanted me dead but I have to believe that if she helped him, it was for a good reason. Y/n’s loyal but she’d never put me or anyone in danger.” Will defended you in front of everyone.

“I know that.” Daryl spoke firmly.

“So do we.” Carol suddenly appeared with Aaron.

Daryl looked to her best friend as she smiled up at him. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?” Daryl quickly asked her.

“We’re gonna go get Y/n.” Lydia finally announced. “On the way to find the horde.”

“What?” Daryl questioned. His eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open.

Magna huffed. “Yeah, I always liked her. And honestly now none of us have to see Negan’s creepy face again.”

Daryl turned to Aaron and simply raised an eyebrow. “I don’t like it, but she’s family. I don’t think she did it to hurt anyone.” Aaron struggled to admit.

“You said Y/n wanted to help and honestly we could use it.” Carol noted and all of Daryl’s confusion and stress left his face instantly. “She’s one of us.” She shrugged, then grinned at Lydia sincerely with her lips pursed as if to apologize once again.

“Does Michonne know about this?” Daryl wondered.

“Yes.” Aaron answered for her.

“And Maggie?” Daryl continued, looking to Evan and Will. He knew she would never agree to it, you were too close to Negan. “Eugene, Rosita, Ezekiel? You could piss a lot of people off here, maybe put her at risk.” Daryl voiced his concerns.

Evan furrowed his brow. “She wouldn’t want to sit on the side lines.” He quickly replied.

“She’d want to help keep you safe. And me,” Lydia stepped forward. “All of us.”

“Enough of us want her here, she’ll be okay.” Carol went on. “We can deal with Maggie and Hilltop later.” Daryl’s heart fluttered with relief and knew he couldn’t help but give in. “You don’t have to be alone, Daryl. Let’s bring her home.” She finished. Daryl nodded.

“So where’s this horde supposed to be at?” Evan asked, wanting to protect the place they happily called home just as much as everyone else.

“Sunken field on the edge of the national forest.” Aaron responded.

“We can leave right after the funeral.” Carol mentioned. “We good?” She asked before embracing Daryl in a big hug. He smiled gratefully.

____________

Daryl led the way back to the bunker-back to you. The anticipation was growing rapidly within him but he remained focused. Carol and Lydia followed closely behind while Magna, Aaron, Evan and Will stayed a little farther back to keep their eyes open for anything unfriendly.

Daryl pulled away some small weeds, revealing the large metal door below. “Y/n!” He called as he made his way inside.

Silence. Not even Dog was there to greet him. “Daryl?” Lydia questioned from the field above.

“She’s not here.” He hollered back, looking around the empty room. His vest was gone, along with Dog and your backpack. He rubbed his chin in thought before climbing back up the ladder.

The truth was you were running low on supplies and still needed to hunt. So after your run in with Negan, you went back for Dog and left for your old neighborhood. As you made your way through the deserted area, seeing a couple more walkers than the last time you were here, you decided to once again head for Will’s house. You hoped your remaining stored items would still be there. The houses continued to crumble and rot away around you more and more each time you came.

When you reached Will’s kitchen, you began opening and sifting through cupboards. Each one empty. Until the last one on the end. It had a jar of peanut butter, half empty with the marks of Daryl’s fingers still in it from last time. You scooped out a fair amount and let Dog lick it from your fingers. Then you stuffed the jar in your bag. The only other thing was a single can of peaches. You stuck your knife in the top and cut away at the lid as much as you could before drinking it’s contents. When you finished and set the can down, you noticed the fridge had been knocked over in front of the entrance to the living room. You stared out passed it, where the living rooms far wall and part of the roof had completely caved in and now littered the couches. You could see the outside world and how it had begun to take over. Weeds and other plants that were pushing through the broken wood floor and climbing the walls as well as a corpse, one of a man who couldn’t of died too long ago that laid under the rubble. You could just barely see his arms and the side of his head. People had been here since your last visit. Suddenly, Dog began growling as a walker spotted you and tried to enter the house. You stepped over the broken boards and to the opening where it was crying out for you. Then you jammed your hunters knife into it’s already cracked skull. You stared out into the world after it fell, waiting for the possibility of others. But none came.

Will’s house was no longer safe. Exposed and taken over, it belonged to the dead now. You lowered your head and closed your eyes, giving yourself a moment to grieve before climbing back over the fallen fridge. You opened the front door and suddenly found yourself staring at your house. You hadn’t been there since the start, unable to go inside.

Until now.

Your breathing increased, the thought of seeing your childhood home again frightening you way more than the dead. You and Dog crossed the street and stepped onto the porch. You looked to the familiar white door and thought about your sister. You could see the child version of herself running out of it to find you riding your bike on the sidewalk. Then they both disappeared as you came back to reality and Dog whined.

You peered inside the large window, passed the dirt. But all you could see was a tent, blue in color that was blocking the rest of the room. With your knife still firmly in your hand, you slowly turned the doorknob and went inside. You fiercely looked around, your good memories quickly being overtaken by the bad. You looked to the cream colored carpet that was now dark brown. Except in front of the sliding back door, where it was still red tinged. It took you back to when your neighbor came rushing in to warn your family before being eaten alive in front of you all. You remembered your father locking the rest of your family in the pantry while he successfully killed the dead and removed your neighbors body, even though you’d eventually all come to see much worse. You thought about how he then guided you to his truck, where you abandoned this place all together.

Only to end up back here, alone. The lone survivor of your family.

You suddenly heard a rustling at the door and crouched to hide behind the abandoned tent, clearly left here by a stranger sometime between then and now. Will and Evan barged in, almost frantically. You stood with shock, your weapon lowered. You let out a large breath of relief, instantly losing your stiff posture. They turned to you, Evan with a slow smile and Will with a serious and fixed gaze until he too lowered his weapon-a rusty lead pipe. You smiled as they ran to hug you. Then you looked up to see Daryl step inside with Lydia, Aaron, Carol and Magna. Your eyes focused on only his, the air being stolen from your lungs. You swore your heart stopped momentarily as Will and Evan stepped away and he got closer.

Your face hardened but a tear escaped your left eye. “How?”

“I’ll always find you. That’s what you said to me once.” Daryl replied, swinging his crossbow back onto his shoulder. You looked to Lydia with a smile and she ran to hug you next. You held onto her, resting your cheek against hers until your eyes moved to Daryl again, who pulled you in by your clothing-by his vest you were wearing. “It looks good on you.” He said, wrapping his muscular arm around you tightly. Your body fully relaxed against his. He kissed the top of your forehead and let his lips rest there for several minutes as you breathed in his familiar scent.

“Y/n, we want your help.” You heard Carol say as you let go of Daryl and looked to your friends, questionably awaiting their reason for being here.

____________

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