#looking forward to scouring every line for traces of him

[myteastainedpages]

the inherent intimacy of reading someone’s favourite book and finding them in its pages

[jolalibrary]

a debt to pay

frankie morales x f!reader | masterlist

summary: you surprise frankie by coming home earlier than planned, answering the door a-la-fake-porn like, making him drag you to your bedroom.

warnings: smut. established relationship. praise kink. minor (and I mean brief) hand necklace. dirty talk. okay, frankie likes to talk kink. cowgirl riding for iwd. and the pizza goes cold (felt it needed a warning) wordcount: 4.8k an: to the wonderful, amazing @morallyinept - happy international women's day! i hope frankie treating you right is what you had on your bucket list for the day. but if not, just know you inspire me, and i'm grateful for your friendship every day. and ily.

Nothing should surprise him.

He’s seen a lot. A thing some could argue is far too much. In some ways, they’re right.

Frankie isn’t sure people who weren’t doctors should know the exact hue of red that blood is—shouldn’t know the pain from a bullet grazing his shoulder, catching flesh and ruining cloth.

Still, he found himself continually surprised—especially the night he met you.

Falling into him, into his life. Disrupting his days from bleeding into the next, knocking things off their axis. Change should be scary, but it was all welcomed, just not in a way he’d ever thought he’d earned.

Somehow, amidst the chaos you brought with you, you also handed him harmony. You made the corners of his world slot together. Slowly, he even found himself anchoring down to brick and mortar, and calling it ‘home’ for the first time since he’d originally left his for battles and fighting.

In time, even as months became a year, your things found their way to be with his, Frankie had assumed he’d seen everything. Happy to accept it, the routine, the complacency. He looked forward to lazy Sunday mornings with his fingers inside yours, toes curling; Thursday nights in a bar, watching a line appear on your brow as you scoured your brain for an answer to the trivia question.

He liked it, adored it.

And then you opened the front door for him.

Flooding him in golden light that makes him squint, before he finds himself reminded, quickly, he hasn’t seen it all. Not even by a margin.

Because you're not supposed to be here, due back tomorrow.

Your voice on the phone earlier muted, low, "I miss you, Morales," as he stares at your untouched, clean mug on the kitchen counter.

Yet, here you stand. All veiled in barely anything except bits of lace and sheer, a sight his eyes aren't able to tear away from even if he tries. Not even the dryness in his throat or the warmth emanating from the pizza box he's holding (attempting to sear his skin to his palm) is bothering him.

"Bab—"

His words are cut short, ended.

"Oh," you gasp. “Let me take that; and how much do I owe you?”

On registering your words, his eyes narrow, staring.

Doing so from one eye to the next. It taking a while, brain firing, ticking over, taking precious seconds as he remains out in the cold and you stand in the warmth in barely fucking anything, before it dawns on him. Crawls up over him as realises what it is you’re pretending to do, what you're reenacting.

Lips lifting, curling into one of his cheeks he steps in through the doorway. Almost over the threshold, easily able to take another step and close the door behind him.

But he waits.

Fingers twitch at his side, Frankie swallows, eyes dropping, tracing up the bare backs of your thighs as you bend over. Because fuck, you're something beautiful. A thing he always thinks, but finds himself reminded in waves as they crash into him.

Raising his hand, he itches across his chin, scratching along the wiry hair there as his gaze drops to the thin fabric protecting the last bit of your modesty as you and the bits of lace spread across your ass—

“I only have card—unless, I can pay you in another way?”

This shouldn’t be real.

You, like this. Him, standing like this. Not even as he steps inside, eyes trained on you—forgetting what words even mean—as you bend over.

A low exhale escapes, lips remaining parted as he fights to place his palm on the back of your thigh—stops himself from hooking a finger in the band of your underwear and dragging it down your thighs, bending you over the sofa, and burying his—

“I would really like to pay you in some way.”

Your words are almost lost due to the way his pulse has quickened in his ears, thundering, pounding. Feeling nothing but discomfort as his cock hardens against the zip of his pants as you bite down on your lip.

Brain quiet, no thoughts, all rendered silent by your appearance. Only able to shift enough to discard his cap, his jacket—folding it over the back of the sofa, eyes drawing out over you as he takes a step closer. Fingers finding his wrist, pinching, making sure this isn't some dream he hasn't woken up from.

But he can smell the present. The glorious cheese and several toppings, even if devouring the pizza are long forgotten. Because his eyes are raking over you, because how could he not—especially now as you straighten up, softly wiggling your hips.

"Is that so?” his voice rough, words catching. Letters clagging at the back of his teeth as though they attempted to glue to his mouth.

He's aware the three words are stained with want—a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips as you turn to face him, knowing it too.

But then, you always do know. Having long figured him out.

Like always, your eyes meet his in a way he can never explain, no words to articulate, to explain—just shared understanding dancing between the two of you.

“It’s only right,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, your fingers reaching out to trace his wire-stubbled jawline. “It’s bad of me to order food and not have the money to pay.”

He catches your wrist, gently but firmly. Pulling you close, steadying you with the other at your waist. Hearing it, the gasp, the briefest of indications you'd been caught by surprise, as he brushes his fingers against the fabric, all unable to stop themself. Half-needing to know what it feels like, as his thumb smooths out, taking his time—forcing the tension to buzz in the air as he leans closer. The distance you small, minimal—almost non-existent—as his breath hitches in his throat.

“You know what you’re getting into?” his voice a low growl, strained.

His gaze locked on you, watching you bite on your lower lip. “I really don’t like being in debt.”

It’s low, the way he replies. Short, two words: okay baby, before he’s leading, guiding, pecking kisses on your lips that likely leave you disorientated. It thrumming in his veins, the fact he gets to undo you, peel off the thin fabric you’ve likely had stuffed at the back of the closet—or even purchased with him in mind on your trip, thighs pressed together, wondering, finger and thumb stroking it as you imagine if he'd rip it off or slowly slide it from you.

He's not sure himself.

A part of him wishes to snap it from your frame in front of open blinds and undrawn curtains. To place his palm on your ass and taste your gasp on his tongue.

But another, the part which has missed you, wishes to wait. Make you wait. Wants to drag it out as long as humanly possible, have you soaked, wet, needy and desperate.

Because Frankie wonders if you've imagined this. Or, if you plotted it or it came to you randomly.

He gets an answer to it when the two of you are behind another door—one more private, intimate.

And it feels different in the bedroom than it did out in the living room.

The lighting being one of the reasons.

In here, you had opted for a darker shade when you’d both redecorated. Told him you preferred it, and had given him a shrug and a smile as you did. It had been a while later when he’d learned it was for him. For his eyes, for the sleep he struggled to grasp. It’ll help, I think? Saying it to him as though it wasn’t the kindest fucking thing someone had done for him.

But then, you are a waking dream.

A thing which has shaped itself and made itself real right before his eyes. Sculpted yourself from wishes and wants, shaping until you’re nothing but tangible and real.

He’s not afraid to tell you that either. Spends hours whispering it into your skin, pressing it close to your ear, repeating it over and over what perfection you are as you look at him with lust-blown eyes and lips parted around his name.

Frankie doubts it’s enough.

Least of all now, when you’re painted in soft white light, all gentle in how it rolls over you, as it becomes clear you’ve been home for a while.

You've drawn the blackout curtains—keeping out the evening—and you'd flicked the little bedside lamp on, doing its best to illuminate the room.

Swallowing, he traces his teeth over his tongue, wondering if you watched him reverse off the drive as you waited to make your move. Wondering if you're snuck in, trying not to disturb—dress yourself up, even if you never need to.

Because you’re a vision always.

The most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Even angry because he's left his tools out or with disappointment etched into your eyes because he’s forgotten something, you’re radiant, a goddess on earth.

A thing he finds himself reminded of as he steps closer to you. Fingers fiddling at his side as begins to close the small gap.

If not for the way he’s looking at you, he might have missed the shiver running through you from anticipation—and he knows it because of his action, due to the hungry look he's sure he's sporting as he raises his hands to remove his outer shirt. Balling it up, throwing it, a thing already unremembered before it even leaves his fingers.

"Frankie..."

"I know, just keep your eyes on me."

And you do, ever obedient. A thing no one would believe him off outside of these four walls. Not when you hold yourself strong and are quick to bite back, all wit and quick-thinking in addition to your brains and beauty.

He hooks a finger under the edge of his t-shirt, dragging it up over his head as he hears it—that little hiss, that slight gasp you do as though you’ve not seen him topless a thousand times.

It feels good. Makes heat rise up his neck and flood his ears. For a moment, he forgets he’s not all that. Because he’s soft, a little thicker around the middle, it feels like a lifetime ago he was trained in combat. But the way you look at him makes him feel like that is the furthest thing from the truth.

Fuck, you make him hard. Make him want. Have done since the moment you’d given him half a chance.

It’s why he's quick to pull you close, desperate to slant his mouth over yours. All fiery, hungry. Aiming to claim and write out all the ways he’s thought of you in the days since you’d been away. How the hours of you being gone and the amount he’s missed you have all balled up into a thing that is now fuelling him—sketching his wishes and desires across your lips, against your tongue, burying them past your teeth so they sit in your throat.

He grasps. Likely leaves marks of it on the perfect skin that covers your waist—because his palm is calloused and worn. Reminders of holding things not half as soft as you. A flicker of guilt almost bubbles in his, as he moves to rest it on your cheek, cradling your jaw and ear in one hand, as he slides the other up your back.

You whimper against his teeth before fingers find the clasp—finger and thumb, pinging it open before he feels fabric scrape against him—then you moan.

His chest being greeted with nothing but warm, smooth bare skin—nipples pebbling in the cooler air before being pressed against him, before he cups the swell of one, thumb stroking, playing a pattern.

“Do this for all the deliveries you get?”

You snort, it blowing out in a breath. “Only the ones with packages I like.”

In the time you’ve been together, you’ve said worse, but this time makes cock harden more than it already is. It's almost uncomfortable, in how it presses against his zipper, wishing to be released, as his index and thumb stroke over your skin. Taking it on how warm you are, how impossibly soft—distantly feeling the tremors from your heart hammering into your ribs.

"Too good for me, you are." You hum, as he seals his mouth back over yours. “But, I don’t take card.”

Purposefully, he drops his hand, fingers dipping, tracing across the lace that covers your slit—finding damp fabric as his ears take in the note of a quiet escape leaving your lips. It trying to bury itself between your two mouths open, breathing it in.

“Guess you’ll have to swipe something else.”

He snorts, and buries it into your neck, teeth grazing your skin—nose catching the scent of your perfume. And the scent almost makes him dizzy from how his blood rushes south. How the moment he’d dropped you off for your flight, it had lingered in the cabin of his truck. Remaining there for the first few days you were gone, before slowly fading. Leaving.

Just there on the coat you'd hung near the door and the pillows he slept beside.

The ones he rested his head against when he’d heard your voice down the phone, tell me to touch myself, Frankie, I need you. His own hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it as you moaned his name, all those miles away, dripping instructions into your ear.

“You're such a dirty girl.”

You grin in response, fingers tugging at his curls—urging his mouth back to yours.

But, he instead traces his tongue over your pulse, circling it, all defiant in bowing to you as his teeth trace over his path. Instead, his finger dips, traces the crease of your thigh with his gaze never leaving yours.

“Missed you,” you whisper.

His hand slides between your thighs, cupping you—feeling the discernible wetness soaked through.

“Can feel it.”

You scoff, but he kisses it away.

Doing so in a similar way to how he makes you forget, how he pulls you from your mind and brings you to the present. It’s also swallowed by another gasp, one made because of his fingers finding the edge of the lace, hooking a finger underneath, sliding the pad of his thumb against your swollen nerves and slick entrance.

"So wet for me," he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the whine you emit. “Feelin’ needy, querida?”

And he can’t take his eyes off you.

Practically locked in, watching as your lips part, and your hips try to shift for more friction. He’s too fearful he’ll miss it, all of it—a slight curve of a brow or a shimmer on your eyes. All things he thinks over when he dreams, when he wishes for replays of moments until the next day when he makes another that easily replaces a good one.

He likes how you say his name when he slips another finger inside you—how it falls all soft, breathless. So much intention in such a low sound. Even as you squirm, mouth pausing over his; little mewls and moans falling as he drags them in and out, all languorous, teasing.

“Want you.”

His thumb brushes over your swollen clit, a hiss escaping. “I know.”

You gasp his name, stifle a moan, teeth biting down on the underside of your lower lip as your lashes flutter. It’s your nails digging into his scalp that keeps him rooted, that keeps him focused—precise touches and strokes that have you rocking against him and keep him tuned in to you.

“Missed how you sound, baby. You're doing so well.”

You’re close. His words make your perfect pussy clench around him. A chorus of moans escaping as he curls them inside of you, finds that spot, the one which makes you babble and turns your muscles into liquid.

He likes that he can do this.

That he can read you and undo you. That it’s a thing he’s mastered when he’d thought he was far from learning. But then, he’d taken great pride in spending hours studying—in alternating between being on his back and on his knees.

And because of that, he knows when he halt you over the edge. Let you linger, not tipping.

Normally, he’d never tease, never make you want—but, today is a different kind of day as he stops. As he retracts his fingers and allows the fabric to lightly snap back into place.

It’s a different whine that cuts into the room then. It pours out from your lips as your eyes dig daggers into him—but, he knows you.

Knows it’s momentary and nothing he can’t fix. Able to hold his ground against it, digging heels into the floor—all refusing to be swayed by the storm rising inside of you, creeping across the formerly tranquil sea. Instead, his hands move to his belt—undoing it, metal clanging and zip sliding down as your eyes break from glaring to stare hungrily at the outline of his cock.

Watching as you walk backwards, the back of your knees hitting the bed before you’re perching—eyes holding his, tip of your tongue sweeping, tracing, as you move further up the bed. The one you’d picked—chosen.

He’s in a trance.

Under a spell when you hook a thumb on either side of your underwear.

It’s not smooth, it doesn’t glide or remove with ease—there’s even a slight kick out of your legs before it flings from your ankle. But, it makes him tighten the hold on his cock. Because it may not be a thing people ever see on TV or in movies, but then they never feel like this.

They don’t feel real, no rawness, no tangling of his trousers he has to step out of as he strokes himself, eyes flicking down to where you’re bare—where you’re glistening—

“Wanna ride you, Frank.”

He sucks in a shuddering breath, hands gripping the base of his cock.

It’s slow, the way he grazes his teeth over his lower lip. “S’that how you wanna pay me, yeah?”

“All I’ve thought about,” you reply, a soft smile greeting him. “Lemme ride you—wanna look at you, wanna watch you come, baby.”

Fuck. He doesn’t fight it.

Instead, letting you guide him, allowing you to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw when he kneels on the bed and groans—because it’s been a long day, querida; he’s not as young as he once was.

“Still know how to be good, though. Don’t you?” you smirk, open mouth leaving a trail down his neck, eyes flicking up when you leave one in the space above his heart.

Hands behind his head, admiring, doing nothing but watching you place your thighs on either side of his as your fingers wrap around his wrists. You pin him, pressing down—aching cock ignored, left to leak against his hip as your lips press to his, over and over, and over until he’s chasing for the feel of them when you pull back.

You only offer a gentle, "I missed you," against the air before you're lining him up, bearing down, sinking, taking him in as he paints a groan against your collarbone.

There’s a beat, maybe two.

Stillness, enveloped entirely by your walls as his mouth wraps itself around your breast, leaving it wet, coated in spit as he groans when you begin to move. Setting a rhythm, slow.

“Not rushing this, Frankie.”

He never wishes you to.

His hands gripping your hips, guiding you. Head falling back onto the sheets as his breath hitches, the sight of you atop him, breasts bouncing—owning him—is a sight he could never grow tired of. One he also never feels worthy of—but he won’t squander, won’t ruin.

Because you’re perfect, head to toe—pussy made for him as it strokes up and down and breaths leave your mouth in short pants.

“Y’so good to me, Frankie. So handsome.”

And he wants to tell you that it's you who is so good—who is nothing but colour in an otherwise grey world. That you’re sunshine and stars, moon and so much more goodness than he can list buried inside of you.

“Go on, querida,” he grunts through clenched teeth, hands squeezing your hips a little tighter as you move a little faster.

As you take a little more. It makes your eyes flutter, parts your lips—watching in nothing short of awe as you use him, as you lose yourself in the moment.

"That's it, just let go. Make yourself feel good.”

It’s something majestic when he sees you nearing release—when he feels you clench and flutter.

“Feels good, y’feel good inside me baby.”

“You need more?”

And you nod.

The green light—the sign—and he doesn’t wait a moment.

Just canting his hips up, making a rush of pleasure spread up his spine. He’s lightheaded, hot—practically dizzy with how good you feel enveloped around him.

The noises filling the air, your slick walls taking him and the sound of skin slapping against skin. It’s drowned by the noises he pulls from you, making a mess of you as your lust-blown eyes land on him.

It almost steals his breath. Thieves it.

Because you’re so pretty, wild—a fucking dream on top of him. All soft and shimmering with perspiration from how good you ride him as he’s bathed in whines, moans and cries of his name.

“You're perfect,” he says, hand clamping on your hip as he shifts, and angles himself before thrusting up into you—watching your eyes squeeze shut. “From your smile to your tight pussy. You know that?”

Studying you as you try to keep the same rhythm. But, you’re nearing your climax—nails digging into his shoulder and neck, half-moons etched there, and he hopes they take hours to disappear.

“Thought about you all week—”

You moan, eyes meeting his. “Thought about you too—missed you. Missed how good you make me feel.”

“Fucked my fist to the thought of you like this. Never thought—fuck—I’d come home to this, baby. Y’fuckin’ perfect.”

Your chin lifts, neck elongating as he spreads his palm across your side, fingers pressing, grasping.

“Love hearing how much you missed me,” he smirks, watching you—thinking nothing but revolving thoughts as to how pretty you look, what a picture you are on top of him—

Then he hears a slam. Heavy boots. A voice he'd rather not hear at all:

“Fish? You home?”

He stops, realisation slamming into him.

A hand drops to the bedsheets, grasping them so hard his knuckles pale, and throb—the bones in his hand aching as he fights shouting and blowing his load right there and then.

The plans he’d made—the ones he’d put into place because you weren’t supposed to be home—all coming back to bite him. How he hadn’t wanted to spend another night alone, another evening in front of the television until you could call and tell him about your day—when he should have. He really fucking should have.

And you’re frozen, hips halted in place—his other hand remaining on your waist, fingers digging in as you both tense, keeping movements paused.

He considers it, the two choices he has and decides.

Leaning more against you—half-grinning, whispering shh as you look at him full of alarm—suddenly aware of the impending actuality that you could be caught like this.

And, then you clench around him. He feels it. Head tilting and eyes narrowing as he takes you in.

"Dirty girl," he mouths, and you look bashful, shy—a look he rarely sees when you’re split open on his cock and the base of him is covered in your slick.

“Fish, where the fuck are you?”

“Getting changed Ben, be a min.”

Your pussy flutters around him at your shout, as he moves to not shout the words towards your ear—feeling you clamp down, muffling a whimper. Another falls as he lifts up further onto his palm, dragging his nose down the valley between your breasts.

He knows you’re close—teetering, a few more thrusts and you’d have unravelled.

Dropping his voice, low—barely above a whisper, “Shh, baby. Or, I won’t let you finish.”

“Fuck,” you hiss. “Can‘t, Frankie—I can’t.”

He nods, finger and thumb holding your chin because he knows you can. Seen you do so much, and been witness to what you’re capable of—before his hand guides your hips to begin moving, thumb drawing soothing circles on your hips.

“Touch yourself for me, querida. Be good for me.”

And you whimper, something akin to his name.

But he’s guiding his mouth away, shouting, “Beers in the fridge, Ben.”

His mouth presses to your chest, hearing the shout from his friend back, but it’s the sound of your fingers on your slick and swollen clit that he tunes into. That he wants to flood his ears. Watching you shiver, shake, tremble from it as you tighten around him, choking his cock as he begins to thrust in and out.

He could keep you here. Should do too.

One week has already been too long. A need to make up for it—to have you pay for all the times you ask him those questions you wait until the lights are usually out for and he’s about to tip over to sleep; have you press yourself against him, nudging your ass into him as you cuddle, but really you want his mouth between your thighs. He should edge you, hang you over the edge of pleasure and watch your eyes dig into him until your lips whisper the word beginning with P.

But he won’t.

Couldn’t.

He likes knowing he pleases you too much.

Your moan bringing him back to it. Seeing how your eyes are clenched shut, trying to keep it behind your teeth. Failing, expletives dropping in breaths before he raises his hand, pressing it to your mouth, muffling it, the moans you have to release before you shake your head and fold into him.

Suddenly, he wants to move the dresser and lock the two of you in here. Wants to let them watch whatever fucking sports they want out there, and him just watch you in here.

You’re his favourite sight, after all. Especially like this. Free, not overthinking or worrying, just present, feeling as good as you should—as good as he always wants you to feel.

And you deserve this.

Hearing the low please fall before he plants his feet down, angling his cock up into you as you let out a muffled gasp. His palm flat to your shoulder, steadying you, as he feels your fingers slide it to your collarbone, resting it, fingers an inch away from the base of your neck.

You flick your eyes open—smothering him in permission, in radiant sunshine and lust, before the softest fucking smirk graces your lips—as his own mouth chokes out your name.

“Not tonight.”

It’s less words, and more a noise.

Because he’s close too—it having risen close to the top. Toes clenched around the sheets, digging in.

But he wants to feel you come first. And it’s there—that familiar sign. Lashes fluttering, gorgeous mouth going tight, slack as you tighten around him, locking up, clamping down as your hips move sloppily and out of rhythm.

You’re so fucking close.

“Shh, be good for me.”

Fingers, trembling and weak, slide around the base of his neck, tugging on his curls that are likely slick with sweat.

“N‘gonna last—let go for me baby.”

“Please.”

“Come for me.”

Spearing up into you with more vigour as you rasp, groan, and hiss—spit coating his fingers as he slides them out, dropping his hand from you as his knuckles press to the mattress as he fucks up into you.

Your body bucks, a cry you bury into his neck—a drag of nails against his scalp—as you come undone around him. Convulsing. Muffled cries vibrating against his pulse.

Frankie is barely able to contain the low growl as his hips stutter—heat raging through him, joined by rabid electricity. It sparking, ripping through, making him both ache and feel alive.

The sight of you and the feel of you drives him to the edge—and then over. A grip on your hip all tight as he thrusts into you one final time, unable to contain the growl. His chest heaves as he spills inside of you, and you tremble against him—panting, all messy and boneless as he pulls you with him as he rolls onto his back.

"You're incredible," he breathes into your ear, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your neck.

You let out a small laugh, a soft, content sigh escaping your lips. "So are you."

He smiles against your skin, his heart swelling with affection. He may have assumed he'd seen everything, but you—you continue to surprise him, to captivate him in ways he never thought possible. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

Pulling his mouth from yours, feeling you ease him out of you, his hand lightly slaps you on the back of your bare ass.

"I missed you, querida," he murmurs, heart still racing in his chest.

Meeting his gaze, your lips purse. "I know," you whisper, leaning in to capture his lips in a tender kiss. "I'm here now."

“Shame you’ll have to sneak out the back and come in through the front door. Otherwise, you’ll be in here all night—”

His words trail off, a sly grin tugging at his lips as it dawns, rises up over your face and makes your mouth fall open. “Francisco….”

“Shoulda' told me you were coming home. It's boys night.”

Narrowing your eyes, you tick your jaw—spine straightening. “Well, I could stay in here—like this…”

Smirking, he kisses your nose. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, baby.”

Your mouth opens, a smirk gracing his lips in response as he raises a finger to his mouth, moving and pressing a kiss to your knee. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

[sxcretricciardo]

here for you

The sun was setting over the picturesque beaches of Oahu, casting a warm glow over the island. Steve McGarrett, head of the Five-0 Task Force, had just wrapped up a long day. He was looking forward to a quiet evening with Y/N, his girlfriend. She worked for a secret government agency, and their relationship was often punctuated by periods of absence and secrecy, but they made it work.

As Steve poured himself a drink, his phone buzzed. It was Y/N. Smiling, he answered, "Hey, you. How's it going?"

There was a pause, and then he heard her voice, tense and hurried. "Steve, I don't have much time. I've been compromised. I have to go under. I just wanted to tell you that I love you."

His heart skipped a beat. "What? Y/N, what are you talking about? Where are you?"

"I can't say. It's too dangerous. Just... trust me. I’ll contact you when it’s safe."

"Y/N, wait!" But the line went dead.

Steve stood frozen for a moment, the gravity of the situation sinking in. Y/N was in danger, and he needed to find her. Without wasting a second, he called his team.

Within minutes, Danny Williams, Chin Ho Kelly, Kono Kalakaua, and Jerry Ortega assembled at headquarters. Steve briefed them on the situation.

"Y/N's been compromised and has gone under. We need to find her. Start pulling every contact, every lead. We don’t have much time."

The team sprang into action. Danny reached out to his contacts within law enforcement, while Chin and Kono scoured surveillance footage from various parts of the island. Jerry used his tech expertise to trace Y/N's last known locations and digital footprints.

Hours turned into a day, and the team worked tirelessly, driven by Steve's determination. They finally caught a break when Jerry intercepted a communication indicating that Y/N might be held in a storage unit on the outskirts of Honolulu.

Steve led the charge, with Danny, Chin, and Kono flanking him. They arrived at the storage facility, the place eerily quiet. Moving cautiously, they approached the designated unit. Steve's heart pounded in his chest as he forced the lock open.

Inside, they found Y/N, bound and bruised, but alive. Relief washed over Steve as he rushed to her side, carefully untying her restraints.

Just as Steve was about to lift her to her feet, a shadow moved in the corner of the unit. Steve barely had time to react before a burly man lunged at him. The kidnapper had been waiting, anticipating a rescue attempt.

Steve managed to sidestep the initial attack, but the kidnapper was strong and determined. They grappled, fists flying and grunts filling the air. Steve landed a solid punch to the man's jaw, but the kidnapper countered with a blow to Steve's midsection that knocked the wind out of him.

Y/N, though weak and still recovering from her ordeal, wasn't about to let Steve fight alone. She grabbed a metal rod from the floor and, summoning her remaining strength, swung it at the kidnapper's legs. The man stumbled, giving Steve the opening he needed.

With a swift and powerful move, Steve disarmed the kidnapper and subdued him, pinning him to the ground. Breathing heavily, he looked over at Y/N, who was leaning against the wall, exhausted but determined.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

She nodded, managing a weak smile. "I am now."

Back at the Five-0 headquarters, Y/N received medical attention. Steve never left her side, his worry gradually easing now that she was safe. The team debriefed, planning their next moves to neutralize the threat that had endangered Y/N.

Later, as the night settled in, Steve and Y/N sat on the balcony of his house, overlooking the ocean. The ordeal had taken its toll, but they were together.

"Y/N," Steve began, breaking the comfortable silence. "I want you to join Five-0. I can't go through something like this again, not knowing where you are or if you're safe. I want you closer to me, where I can protect you."

She looked at him, seeing the earnestness in his eyes. "Steve, I don't know..."

"You'd be an incredible asset to the team. We could use someone with your skills. And more importantly, I need you here, with me."

Y/N smiled, a mix of exhaustion and affection in her eyes. "Alright, Steve. I'll join Five-0."

He pulled her into a tight embrace, the fear and worry of the past days melting away. They had faced danger and uncertainty, but in the end, their bond had only grown stronger. Together, they were ready to take on whatever challenges lay ahead.

[fluffydavey]

Roommate prompt: “so, uh… how’d your date go?”

roommates to lovers || prompt

Jack's laying down on the sofa, one arm hanging low whilst the other holds a book he's trying to read. He's itching to paint, an idea that won't leave him that he knows he definitely can't start with a paper due.

He's not able to concentrate on a single thing that he's reading, his mind wandering every second word to where his roommate is. Or better yet, who he's with.

Davey had hurried out of his room dressed in his figure-hugging jeans that sends Jack wild every time Davey wears them, and a pink shirt. Jack almost missed it, too focused on how fucking good Davey looked, when Davey slipped out that he was going on a date, with some guy in his journalism class called Darcy.

Jack admittedly doesn't know much about the other guy, but he knows that he hates him. He's just finished FaceTiming with Race, who's been helping him find any trace of Darcy in Davey's social media, feeling like he was going mad in their apartment alone.

It's nearing midnight when Davey returns. Jack looks up surprised, expecting to hear Davey coming home much later. He drops his book, already giving up on the prospect of being productive, and trying his absolute hardest to pretend he hasn't spent the better half of an hour of his life tonight scouring through Darcy's Instagram and Twitter with Race. "So, uh...how'd your date go?"

Davey shrugs his jacket off, taking his time hanging it up. "It didn't."

Jack knew Darcy didn't look like someone who could be Davey's type. He tries to hide his relief, as he sits up to take a proper look at Davey. He's putting on a stoic face, but Jack knows Davey too well to know it's a front. "Sorry, what did you say?

Davey makes his way towards Jack, pointing at Jack's shoes which are now on the sofa. "Feet," he chastises, and Jack sheepishly takes his shoes off. Still, he takes the seat beside Jack, facing the wall. "He never showed up, so there was no date. Go on, make fun of my tragic love life."

"Hey, I wouldn't do that," he says, kicking Davey gently to get his attention. Davey finally looks at his with an exasperated look in his eyes, but Jack sees the smile that's threatening to show. "Look at it this way, you're better off without that asshole. He's an idiot."

"Oh shut up, you just have to say that," Davey says with a roll of his eyes, and he throws his own legs up on the sofa, finally facing Jack now.

"I don't," he begins, watching Davey intently. He knows his friend too well to know that Davey's probably been beating himself up on his way home. "He wasn't right for you, he was an idiot."

"You don't even know the guy, what makes you think that?" Davey asks.

"Because he wouldn't have bailed on a date with you if he had any working brains," he answers, moving closer to Davey. He watches as the other boy swallows thickly, not breaking eye contact. "Anyone would be lucky to be going out with you Davey, you're a real catch."

He knows he's stepping over the careful line they've established, one they've nearly stepped over far too many times, into new territories. Only this time, he's entirely sober and he'll be damned if he has to wait any longer. He's tired of denying himself what he wants the most.

"I didn't want you to go on that date. I don't want you to go on any more dates, not unless they're with me," Jack tells him, watching as Davey's cheeks turn a delightful shade darker. Davey leans forward above Jack, and Jack doesn’t think he’s able to breathe. Davey kisses him, and it’s like the whole world stops.

He wraps his arms around Davey to pull him closer, and Davey's hands are everywhere, poised on his waist, tangled fiercely in his hair and tugging and pulling and Jack is gasping for air, fuck, pressing his mouth as hard as he possibly can to Davey's without losing the ability to breathe entirely, until they finally separate their mouths to let out a choked breath.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to confess," Davey grins, flushed and glorious and breathtakingly happy, as he cups Jack's face.

And this, this is where their friendship has been leading the whole time, Jack thinks. He kisses him again, and again, taking all the time in the world to explore Davey, the way Jack's dreamed of for so long.

[meatriarchived]

sometimes i think about how things were in the weeks that maria first went missing, but back home - not her while she's under johnny's thumb but rather how her mother and ana and other family took her going missing.

the dread that settles in when you get a knock on the door and its a pair of detectives / officers who've come to tell you that they've found your childs' car abandoned off in the middle of nowhere, with most of her things still inside but zero trace of her. how it looks like its been sitting out there, seemingly for just shy of how long it had been since they last got a call from her letting them know where she was, that she was alright. how the worry over the weeks from not hearing from her turns into horror and fear and panic and grief at all those what happened scenarios flooding the mind - of peoples speculations being voiced crassly in front of them.

how desperate ana must have been for literally any trace to come forward about maria, that she took it upon herself to track down where her friends from uni were probably in hopes initially that maybe they'd heard from or seen her at all. and then to let them know that the searches aren't going well, that theyve heard whispers that they're planning to simply stop them altogether. the anger she must feel that her sister isnt being cared for as a person, just another file some badged man can toss into a file cabinet and forget about.

and then i think about the broadcasts. of the pleads from maria's family to continue looking for her, to come forward with literally anything at that point. how their mother probably could barely sputter out any words, but ana takes over and so clearly begs and demands that her sister not be forgotten, that they keep the searches for her going, that she isn't just a number or a piece of paper she's a living breathing person who deserves so much more than to be shelved and scoffed at. how ana probably said things along the lines of "we aren't giving up on you, we will find you - we are going to keep looking for you we are never going to stop, even if it takes months, even if it takes years, we will find and bring you home".

how hard of a hit on their mothers' health all the stress probably took, ana having to juggle trying so desperately to find maria while also trying to be reassuring and positive with their mother to keep her hopeful, keep her healthy.

how their father showed up after word of her going missing reached him, guilt-ridden and angry but just wanting to help in any way he could.

how danny grabbed all his things and returned to town the moment he was updated from being down by the coastlines for his trade school. how he left within the hour and drove cross-state to get there and help however he could. his anger and frustration so evident on him, fighting with it to try and stay a pillar for ana and mrs flores given his long-term friendship with maria and her family.

just. all of the absolute chaos of those weeks, the floating in nothingness, waiting by phones for it to ring with really any news at all. the friends getting together to scour over all the recent places they all knew or could speculate she may have gone to and traveling so aimlessly to every single one of them - looking for literally any kind of scraps they could possibly find.

the hopeless feeling after so many of them turned up with nothing.

and then tie all of this up with the idea that local sheriffs / police depts are covering things up - hiding or destroying evidence, silencing any potential witness, doing everything in their power to not let anything get out because they already know whose involved, and theyre already bent at the knee in submission to these people out in the middle of nowhere with scrawling acres upon acres of property.

its just all heartbreaking to me.

[pvrkacciosan]

The Heart of the Lioness: ☽⋆22⋆☾

Bridges Must Burn

The Heart of the Lioness Masterlist

Previous Part

It felt thrilling to fulfill Aelin's requests, working through each one with silent efficiency as they sailed along Eyllwe's burning coastline. The sight had been a struck up side the head of sorts, but there was planning to be done, a very little time to do it.

They had already left the ship, and Brielle managed to send her final letter before they departed, now three days in and Brielle was overheating to no end.

After being attacked by marsh creatures and sweating to the point of discomfort, she was ready to backtrack to the ship, but the promise of securing this lock for Aelin kept her moving forward. Legs burning from the strain, she often trailed further ahead, scouting out. Vera and Alexi were panned out about a hundred metres on either side of her. Alexi had dipped behind a small hill to her right, but she could still track Vera's movement as she trudged over the uneven ground.

They were quiet and fast moving, the first line of defence, Brielle could sense Rowan trailing in front of the group; inline behind, tracking her signals. No dismissal to Rowan's experience, but scouting like this is what she had trained her Pride to do on a daily basis, so the male hadn't argued when she offered her spies as scouts.

When she could see the emergence of a ruined structure, the crumbling pillars and withering ground spanning across the horizon, Brielle slowed, fanning her magic out to reach her spies. Slowing them to fall back to her position. They arrived about the same time, as the rest of the group caught up.

Rowan in bird form, shifted as he made contact with solid ground, stepping to Aelin's side.

"This whole place is too quiet," Rowan turned and watched when Brielle shot her magic out to scour for any living bodies, besides the few marsh creatures her senses were blind.

"I probed the area but... nothing" Rowan confirmed.

Brielle caught the movement when her nephew drew the sword off his back . "We'll circle the perimeter, making smaller passes until we get up to the building itself. No surprises."

Lysandra moved back from the group, to give herself some space to shift safely "I'll take the water-if you hear two roars, get to higher ground. One quick roar, and it's all clear"

Her body quickly, was exchanged from scales and claws, and she slid silently into the water, Rowan looked at Fenrys and Gavriel, who both shifted quickly, Going to follow suit, Brielle turned to where Alexi and Vera stood near the others.

"Scour out, I want distance." they both nodded and moved off, their footfall near impossible to trace.

Quickly shifting, Brielle prowled past the four royals, feeling each of their gazes trail her. She caught Gavriel as he followed his son, the familiar White wolf moving off in the other direction; she followed.

A few paced behind, until Fenrys noticed her approach and slowed, taking a second to examine their surroundings. When she came to the sides of him, he allowed her to pass a little in the front, protecting her blind side. Despite her being more than capable of defending herself, she felt the bloom in her chest, mind reeling from his closeness.

She had to focus, pushing the certainly intriguing thoughts away, Brielle focused on smelling, seeing and hearing anything around them. Checking every small crook and broken wall which could hide the linger presence which could threaten their approach towards the centre of the complex.

When she slowed to trail a scent lingering, Brielle felt Fenrys stop beside her, so close the fur of his coat brushed into hers, he scanned around them whilst she was distracted, the scent faded until it was too faint to detect, even with the heightened senses.

As they continued on, side by side they both froze when they felt it, the dark accumulation of power that surged towards them in waves, the energy was sharp and alarming. A warning.

One they all knew too well, Brielle's heart leapt into her throat, at his approach. beneath the lining of her golden fur, she could feel the itch forcing its way back to the surface.

Fenrys emitted a low mewl to attract her attention, she turned her head to him, solidifying what they both already knew. Lorcan was here, somewhere in the marshes, coming at them fast.

They needed to find the others, quickening into a pace they both stopped once more when they rounded a corner to take in the aerial legion approaching like a dark glooming cloud of shadows and death personified.

Wordlessly they ventured closer to the centre of the complex, where they could sense the others gathering, panic beat in Brielle's throat, she couldn't pick up on her spies, and the fast approaching presence of Lorcan was weighting heavier on her with each second,

Fenrys was tense beside her as they both shifted into their Fae bodies, he clasped her hand, pulling her to him in one swift movement, until their shoulders brushed.

He and Gavriel would both be feeling the presence of Maeve's kill order which was like a price over Lorcan's head. The itch began to burn the skin beneath her sleeve, ignoring it was easier than expected as the group corralled into the complex.

Looking skyward, the looming darkness of Ilken flapped towards them, their leathery wings beating in tandem. Brielle tightened her grip, Fenrys reciprocated it.

"We'll use the ruin to our advantage. Force them to bottleneck in key areas."

Brielle heard Rowan's words, but couldn't look away from the legion, not as they only seemed to speed up as time slowed down. The palm of her hand grew cold, as Fenrys pulled from her grip, to tie back the growing lengths of his hair. Brielle watched him, as she so often did.

"We divide it up, take them out. Before they can get close enough. While they're still in the air." he began to fidget beside his mate, rolling out his muscles and tapping his foot.

There was no hiding what was bothering him, the Blood Oath was a never ending tug that gnaws at your ever sense until there is nothing else but a taut line which could shatter at any second. Brielle worriedly shot a look over her shoulder to Gavriel, who despite his body being relaxed his eyes were squeezed shut in concentration. As though sensing his sisters stare at him, he opens an eye, catching her worry.

His chest heaved but he moved closer, until he was beside her, if simply to let her know that despite the effort of the Oath; he was not going anywhere yet.

Brielle tuned back into the surrounding conversation as Aelin's sharp stare leveled at her cousin.

"You blame me for this?" her voice was a hiss of hot air,

"We should have stayed in the North." Aedion's expression had darkened to glare at his Queen, seemingly forgetting she was just that.

"I had no choice, I'll have you remember"

Although not being there, Brielle knew of which meeting Aelin referred to,

"You did." Came Aedion's retort, "You've had a choice all along, and you opted to flash your magic around." his voice was venom in its own right, but something in Brielle couldn't help but grow in defence of the young Fae female.

Aelin's expression shifted to fire and rage as she stepped up to her cousin, "So I guess the 'You're perfect' stage is over, then."

Aedion's lip curled back in an expression that was once more so inheritably Gavriel that Brielle's breath staggered.

"This isn't a game. This is war , and you pushed and pushed Erawan to show his hand. You refused to run your schemes by us first, to let us weigh in, when we have fought wars-"

Those words were like alarm bells, bleating loudly in her head, over the centuries she had amounted to many mistakes whilst arguing, and none like this ever ended well. Shrugging off Fenrys's grip as she stalked closer to the Aelin and her nephew.

"Don't you dare pin this on me."

Brielle didn't stop her approach,

"This isn't the time" Gavriel voiced, eyes trailing his sister as she stalked closer to his son as though he was her next target, his voice his only advance to stop her from pouncing, Aedion whirled in his direction, throwing out a hand as an order for his father to shut his gods damned mouth, when he did, Aedion's expression faltered before it hardened once more, when he finally spotted his aunt coming closer.

Choosing to ignore her as he turned back to Aelin,

"Where are our allies, Aelin? Where are our armies? All we have to show for our efforts is a Pirate Lord who might very well change his mind if he heard about this from the wrong lips"

Aedion didn't get a second longer to look at his cousin, as Brielle stepped into his line of sight, Blocking Aelin entirely from view. Head tilted down to reduce her gaze to glaring through her lashes.

"Alright, That's enough." Aedion stepped closer, squaring out his shoulders as he glowered down at her. He may be Brielle's own flesh and blood, but unlike her brother she had no issue with putting him back in his place, boxing back in the chip on his shoulder.

Brielle need not use more words; not as every ounce of her power manifested around her, making it as though Aedion's vision blackened at the edges, robbing him of sight, There was a panicked gasp from him, and only when he backed up a step did Brielle lift her head and release him.

"I don't like repeating myself, Nephew."

There was a childish placement in his eyes, he may be close to Aelin, But he needed a reminder of just who his cousin kept for company, whose help she had enlisted when she needed it most.

Aelin was silent behind her, but Brielle didn't miss the hidden thanks and message in her stare. Brielle of all people knew what it was like to keep secret such as this, knew exactly how it would be eating Aelin live inside, to not even tell Rowan.

As though an unspoken reminder to herself, Brielle met Fenrys' line of sight,

"If we're going to stand a chance we need to get into position." Rowan, perhaps the most level-headed of them in that moment, nodded to Brielle and spoke softly,

Aelin, despite the embers dancing at her finger tips, dipped back into the killing calm, she always seemed to wrap around her senses, a deathly poise of action.

"We do this together." She ignored the stares they all shot her way, "Magic might not last against them. But steel will." she jerked her head to Rowan, and then after a second; Aedion. The simple command following a second later, "Plan it."

Brielle stopped next to Fenrys, Pushing her side into his, for warmth. Rowan moved to Aelin, now that Brielle cleared from her side, getting his hand to her lower back.

"How many arrows?"

Gavriel was flexing his straining fist, "Ten quivers, fully stocked."

When Lysandra emerged onto the bank, Aelin moved to her, and seemed to block out the males as the continued planning, Brielle offered small inputs, earning the attention of Aedion who watched when she spoke, he was more silent after their previous interaction, but something new flashed in his expression.

They were still planning when Brielle felt the body beside her lean closer still, felt the warmth of his breath behind her ear before he spoke. "I don't know what you did." His hand bunched into her waist, "But you being protective like that is hot." A tight smile graced her lips, her hand rising to rub at his which still gripped tightly to the bone of her hip, she rubbed a thumb over the ridges of his knuckle,

He sighed against her skin, before leaving a feather light kiss to the space behind her ear, inclining her head to give him perfect access.

"You three herd them- to us" when the coupe realised, Rowan was including them, they pulled from each other slightly. Not missing the way, Gavriel rolled his eyes their way,

"Care to listen, you know, So we don't die" he chimed lightly, Brielle flipped her brother off with a smirk.

"And you lot?" Aedion seemed content to ignore his blood relatives for the time being, focusing on sizing up the group as a whole with his stare.

"I get the first shot."

Rowan inclined his head to Aelin when she spoke, "My lady wants the first shot. She gets the first shot. And when they're scattering in a blind panic, we come in." Rowan's words were clear as starlight on an unclouded night.

"Don't miss this time" Aedion snarked to Aelin as everyone began gathering weapons for themselves in preparation,

"Asshole" came Aelin's reply, the group moved around,

Brielle casts her gaze to Rowan as he moves to Dorian's side, "Short bursts, Find your target- the centre of the group - and use only what magic is necessary, Don't waste it all at once. Aim for the heads, if you can."

Even as Rowan's words rung truth, Dorian shifted nervously, "What about once they start landing?" Rowan, as though sensing her stare, caught Brielle's eye, as he turned to respond to the young king.

"Shield yourself, attack when you can. Keep the wall at your back at all times" Dorian's reply was almost instantaneous.

"I won't be his prisoner again."

The air was ice cold with the possibility that any of them would suffer that of which the king had already endured. A movement atop the crumbling ruin wall, drifted their attention as Manon leaned to chime in,

"If it comes to that, Princeling, I'll kill you before they do."

Aelin spun, "You will do no such thing." the command had a glare shooting from the Witch. Brielle couldn't let this happen, not here, not now.

Ripping into each other was not the way to go, not if they needed each other to survive. Angling her head to Dorian, she traded her expression to one that forecasted nothing but her conviction, Sensing her impending speak, the three royals hushed,

"That won't be necessary," flicking her stare to Manon, the Witch tilted her head, Brielle blinked her stare back to the King, "Because I'm not going to let them reach the ground; not alive anyway."

Dorian held her stare for a few seconds longer, taking the moment to puzzle out exactly what the commander meant, from the stories he was told as a child, one could only imagine.

"Thank you." Dorian's words signals the group's movement, as everyone shifts to collect their weapons, mentally preparing themselves for the fight ahead.

Brielle watched as Aelin moved for the water's edge, Rowan following her pace. Turning around in her mate's arms, Brielle fumbles to secure her hold against him, but the shake in her hands withered her every attempt.

Fenrys released a sigh as he watched the others, over her shoulder, as they began to move into position.

"Fen. . ." It had been so long since they had fought side by side, they had been doing this for decades, and putting on a brave face was far easier than facing the reality that one of them might not walk away. It had become a habit to ignore what she did not have to face. But now, with him here...

He clasped the sides of her face, no words being passed, he simply inclined his head down to rest it against hers. When she closed her eyes, she missed as he continued to watch her, admiring everything he could before they pulled away,

"I reinstate my comment of hating couples." an approaching voice had them pulling away, despite the tugging in her gut to not let go,

Alexi's lanky figure moved closer still, "Where you want me, Commander?"

Narrowing her eyes, she smirked, plucking her own bow up from the ground, she held it out to her spy, Alexi frowned before taking it,

"Up you go." her words seemed to spark confusion within him, turning slightly, Brielle peered up towards where Manon stood tall, despite her gaze fixating on the oncoming legion, Brielle knew the female was listening in,

Alexi's eyes widened, "Brie- Commander," his eyes were pleading, but he still moved towards the wall, when she didn't respond, Alexi swung the bow onto his back, and began the short climb,

Brielle watched as he situated himself away from the Blackbeak-Crochan heir, body stiff as he began to toy with the feathered fletchings on the ends of the arrows. There wasn't any more time to find the amusement in Alexi's fear of the Ironteeth, or in-fact ponder on where exactly Vera had stalked off to, not as Aelin wandered closer to the field which would lay her exposed to the Ilken.

A kiss was pressed into her temple, as Fenrys also moved off quickly to take his place in the reeds.

Catching onto the young queen's movement out onto the plain, Brielle moved towards where Rowan stood.

"He's here" Rowan wasn't referring to the Ilken, but in-fact their old companion, Lorcan. His approach meant many things for the group, Brielle said nothing to her friend, not even when she could sense Rowan looking at her.

"Bri-"

"Don't say anything," Rowan's expression twitched when she turned her head to meet his stare, she couldn't cloud her judgement right now. Not when she needed to focus.

Stepping forward to following Aelin onto the plain, she was stopped when Rowan reached for her, "You shouldn't go out there,"

"You will thank me for this." he released his grip, Brielle turning back around, "Please remember your promise" she only allowed her mask to crack for a second, Rowan's chest rose as he inhaled, nodded he didn't attempt to stop her again when she turned back around.

Even at her approach, Brielle could sense Aelin's magic, the air around them warming in answer to her call. Even from this distance, Brielle could feel the eyes of her nephew, mate and brother tracking her from where they all hide in the reeds. Hidden from the view of the horde flying straight for the two Fae females.

Brielle stopped a few paces back from Aelin, and got to work. There was no hiding that Aelin had been conserving as much of her power as possible, and good thing she had. But that put her at risk of a burnout if she moved her magic too quickly.

Brielle began to concentrate, as the air grew hotter, she pushed her magic outwards, wrapping it around Aelin's body, around them Brielle could sense the faint noise as Lysandra riled up the nesting sites of the marshes creatures,

Paying little mind to it, Brielle focused on Aelin, on the Queen's internal inferno. The magic was battling with her, the pressure was rising within Aelin. If she was going to hold out long enough to defend them all, Brielle needed to make sure Aelin stood long enough to let out every last ember.

As the burnout was rising, the pressure pushing Aelin's body to breaking point, Brielle got to work, forcing the cells to repair themselves, using her own magic to keep Aelin steady enough to continue rolling out the inferno.

So when the rain of arrows came down from the male hiding in the reeds, Aelin was ready. They both were. Ready to make Morath scream.

☽⋆❈⋆☾

Merle was a few paced behind Lorcan and the young women, Elide. As they ventured up the incline, Both women being rushed on by the demi-fae male, who seemed to be on a death streak.

She felt the temperature shift in the air, as the metal mask covering half her face began to heat, Lorcan had stopped at the edge of the hill, looking upon the valley in the marshes.

Merle jogged the last few steps, jerking to a stop beside him.

The sky was darkening, descending upon a ruin, they had tracked the aerial legion for hours as they tried to warn the young fae queen of fire.

The female didn't seem to back down, not as Merle could just see her figure standing at the head of a group, another very familiar female behind her. The Lioness.

"Merle!" a feminine voice yelled, a body racing up the hill towards them, her expression frenzied.

"Get down!" she shot a panicked look back to where the heat was emanating,

Lorcan seemed to get the idea as he threw himself down on top of Elide his shield being spung up around them, Two second later Merle didn't even get a word in to Vera, as the half fae female tackled the fellow Pride member to the ground as the whole world erupted into fire.

☽⋆❈⋆☾

Brielle kept the grip of Aelin's body with her magic, keeping the burnout from completely consuming her friend, where the young queen's body lacked and fought to stay standing, Brielle fortified her strength by giving up her own.

The own thrum of her blood pounding in her head, there was nothing else as she split her magic into two. When Aelin's fire began to slow, Brielle could already sense the impending power of Dorian ad Rowan as they too prepared to rip the Ilken to pieces,

Stalking closer, Brielle waited for the Ilken to drop low enough, that's all she would need. She knew Rowan and Dorian could cover the sides, ash was bellowing down from the sky, Keeping a loose leash of her magic wrapped around Aelin to keep her standing, She focused the rest on the remaining Ilken.

The second one flew down from the rest of the pack, the few stragglers struggling to stay in the air, bracing her feet at a width apart, Brielle wasted not a second more, before blasting her magic straight for the lone Ilken.

The sheer force of the strike itself could have been enough to knock the beast straight from the sky, but she was not finished with it yet, and as a second one dropped, she shot out another string of power.

Once she got into its system to begin work, she could just disintegrate their insides until there was nothing left, but that wasn't deserving enough. It was like seeing a picture in her mind, felt around with her magic as she went straight to the muscles of their wings. Felt out the taught ligaments and tendons that held the appendage to their bodies.

Constricting the joint at where it connected to their backs, she could hear their inhuman growls of pain as she completely severed the connection. The leathery wings fell away as they tumbled downwards. Pouring every ounce she could, Brielle filled its body with so much of her magic until its body simply could not contend with the pressure that was rising inside it. It imploded mid air.

The wind and ice of Dorian and Rowan pulled back, leaving only her to contend with the few left in the air, repeating the action, of ripping the wings off their back then letting the pressure do the rest of the work. She imagined it might feel like their insides were swelling until they exploded. Their blood and misshapen insides joining the piles of ash their brethren left behind.

☽⋆❈⋆☾

Merle could sense the magic of Vera's power around them, the shield buzzing, like the sound of her lightening, being one of the Wandering Spy members of the Pride Vera had come to Merle more times than once, to seek information, protection, help.

Their network was endless, It was good to finally see one another again, the family slowly making their way back to one another, her chest constricted at the thought. Perhaps her mind running along the same line, Vera's arm tightening around her.

When the heat died down suddenly, and the sound of Lorcan rising up from Elide's form, Vera finally dropped her own shield. Looking upon the outcast commander of Maeve's Cadre.

"Who are you?" he jerked his chin at Vera, she smiled at him, propping herself up. She simply held up her left wrist, where the imprint of the Prides symbol lay tattooed against her skin. The Lionesses's Paw.

Lorcan's head lowered down, "So there's more of you."

"Well you are old enough to have heard our stories."

Lorcan's head snapped upwards at her words, glowering at her. Merle struggled to hide her smile, just as Vera shot a kiss to the male. Elide laughed under her breath as Lorcan rose, and offered a hand to her.

Vera and Merle got themselves up quickly, both turning to intake the carnage which is now laid across the marshes. There was light conversation passed between the others as the two spies followed them, going down the hillside towards the group, the Terrasen royal had assembled, amongst that group, their own Commander.

They trailed behind the two at a distance, watching them from afar. Until Elide stopped, Merle reached for the small blade at her hip, as Vera stopped tilting her head to listen.

There was something in the grass with them, stalking through the reeds, following.

That was when the beast burst from the reeds closer to Elide, A golden mountain Lion, at first Merle's wanted to leap in excitement, but this was not their commander. The build was too big, Unless she had grown her Lioness form since their last meeting. Merle doubted it of course,

Elide screamed for Lorcan as she ran for him, sensing the panic the two spies took off after the pair, they leveled pace with Elide as the Lion sprung at Lorcan, when the Lion made contact, it took them both to the ground. Lorcan's mighty frame went down like it was nothing.

The Male and Lion tumbled across the ground, Until Lorcan managed to throw the beast off, blood streaking from his limbs.

That was when Merle tracked the white flash, She knew that wolf. Vera was still beside her, as they raced after Elide who had now ducked down behind, well rather fell between two mounds of earth.

Even as they moved they both kept eyes on the fighting bodies, looking for weakness and preferred fighting stances, and the wolf continued to leap between spaces, only confirming Merle's suspicion of who exactly the wolf was.

Even with their trained reaction time, neither spy had time to stop Elide as she surged up over the hill, when the wolf circled around the back of Lorcan, the male too preoccupied with the Lion at his front to pay mind to the wolf that now launched for his exposed back,

The human girl hurled herself into his back just as the Wolf's row of white teeth clamped down on her arm. The two spies, rounded up, following Elide's track, she landed on top of Lorcan when the both fell, His shield flickering up around them.

He flipped the girl over, "ElideElideElide-" she was struggling for a breath, in panic or pain, it wasn't clear.

Lorcan was gripping her face in an frantic blindness that gave him all the composition of a flabberinf fish out of water. "Why did you do that? Why?"

Merle's breath lodged in her throat when she saw the extent of the damage done to her arm, Lorcan whipped his head up so violently it was an amazement that his head didn't snap clean off his neck.

"You're dead, you're both dead-"

There was a flash of light, and in an instant the white wolf shifted to the face every member of the Pride knew. Knew the face of the male who brought their commander the peace and love she so often deserved.

"Lorcan, we were ordered," the voice of the Lion filled the air around them, he made a quick note of the two spies now standing there, dipped his head to them.

"Damn your orders to hell, you stupid bastard-"

Fenrys response was sharp, "We can't fight against the command much longer, Lorcan-"

Gavriel inched closer carefully, "Put the shield down, I can heal the girl, let her get away" his tone was calm despite the situation.

Vera froze beside her, from the corner of her eye, Merle tracked as Vera signed to her. The small gestures made up with slight movements of her hands, so fine that any none pride member wouldn't have been able to detect them as something to note.

There were others approaching, Vera could sense them. Looking on at the makes, she doubted any of them would notice. Especially as Lorcan dropped his shield.

Gavriel hurried forward, grabbing for Elide he pulled her off Lorcan's lap, the other male rose.

Vera crept off towards where Merle presumed she could sense the others coming. Merle moved closer to Gavriel and Elide. Ready to grab the girl and remove her from harms way once her arm was healed enough to not kill her.

Lorcan has risen and when he finally faced Fenrys once more they leash finally snapped.

☽⋆❈⋆☾

Brielle rushed after Rowan, knowing full well where he was going.

However as Whitethorn got ahead, a body slunk out from seemingly nothing. Vera's hair stuck to her face but she seemed fine, especially being this far across the line of Aelin's fire. The relief ebbed through her.

"Merle's here"

Brielle smiled, but continued past, Vera spinning to follow,

"I know, I called upon her to track down Lorcan"

If Vera had the mind to say anything she kept her mouth shut, especially after they came into view of the others.

Lorcan and Fenrys both lay on the ground, both were quick to their feet. Rowan between them. Brielle spotted Gavriel on the floor with a young woman, her arm and his hands covered in blood. She should have smelt it before arriving, but that didn't matter.

Not as she felt magic, ancient magic snap around her body. It took everything within her to resist it's call.

A sob almost broke from her. It felt like every bone in her body was being grinded down into powder the longer she went.

All the males drew their attention to her when she leaned forwards, every nerve in her was on fire.

What had happened? Why hadn't they just killed Lorcan.

"Bri.."

Her mate never finished her name.

Not as everything in her resolve collapsed and she ripped the dagger at her rib free, swinging straight up for his exposed neck.

. . .

Taglist: @dreamiezpsycho@lunaralaraspace@mis-lil-red@mali22@the-fae-are-taking-over

Next Part

[pennzance]

Ghostbusters: Port Huron (Episode 16)

Episode 16: Scars and Sacrifices

September 18th, 1998

Research report by Bryan

His name was Amadeus Filch.

At least, as far as I can tell. At Eloise, he was Dr. Herbert Lyman. In Port Huron, he was Freddy Ashton. He had a dozen identities across even more counties and maybe even countries, but by birth, I believe his name was Amadeus Filch.

His biography, as I have been able to reconstruct it, is a tale of confidence games, crazed schemes and illicit gains through most of Canada, starting somewhere near Toronto back in the late 1930s. The authorities chased him all over the frozen north, and a Mounty named Robert Norris pursued him into the wilderness. Records are scant, but I have discovered an account from Norris’s superior. He reported finding Norris’s body, frozen to the core and forever locked in a look of terror.

Filch shows up next as an administrative doctor at Eloise, and I’ll admit I make the connection mostly off photographic evidence.  Filch’s final mugshot before his disappearance showcased a rather nasty gash on his left temple, a result of a minor amount of police brutality. It was stitched up, but by the time Dr. Herbert Lyman received his photo identification for access to Eloise, it had resolved into a distinctive scar. That, plus the shape of the nose, chin and eyes all line up eerily well.

As Dr. Lyman, he kept his nose clean through 1960 as he rose in the hierarchy of the administrative staff at Eloise. The short term grifter and crook had changed tactics and was playing the long game now. And he apparently no longer had an eye for money but was after something a lot grimmer. Whatever happened to him in the frozen north changed his outlook on the world from a panoply of suckers to con to a blight of fools to be scoured from the Earth.

Dr. Lyman was all over the Ledger. I’ve been comparing the entries by handwriting with a few notes written by Lyman/Filch’s own hand, and almost every nurse listed in the Ledger was put there by him. Every doctor in the Ledger was put there by him. Whatever he was up to, the patients of Elosie weren’t enough to accomplish it, and he started in on the staff. I’d place good money that some of the names on the Ledger met their end in the Chamber, only to be buried under a number in a field. What purpose did their ends serve?

More relevantly, why does Filch turn up again here in Port Huron under the name of Freddy Ashton? Again, identification is not the most concrete, but the only photo of Ashton that I’ve been able to dig up was a group photo from the office he worked: Port Huron Health and Safety. It’s the only full color picture of the guy I’ve seen, so I can’t confirm the hair color even if he was greying by this point, but the scar, the chin and eyes all match up. The nose looks like it suffered a break in between though, probably a souvenir from his time around Eloise’s more violent patients (or more resistant victims).

If Lyman was a hard one to track, Ashton is effectively a ghost. The signature on the few forms signed by him I’ve found match the handwriting of Lyman, reinforcing my thesis that this one Canadian con man is a running theme in our problems so far. The forms in question do as well, since he conducted inspections on a few locations we’ve become intimately familiar with, like the Ice Museum, the Edison Inn, and a safety inspection of the old railroad tunnel before it was closed.

Ashton, Lyman, Filch. Tracing this man’s history back shows a life led carefree until… something happened that instilled in him a dark drive and a hunger for something. Something I can’t define yet. As always, research is never done. But now I know what I’m looking for.

I’m going to add the team’s reports to my list of reading material. It’s possible my co-workers have seen or noticed something I’ve missed without understanding its significance. I’ll also have to make sure everyone knows to keep an eye out going forward. Even the interns.

ADDITIONAL: On the subject of interns, Mr. Kaye hired a pair of part timers, one named Jason and the other named Kelly. Jason is an intelligent person, somewhat skeptical like Eric but also open minded. Kelly is a vapid young girl with a higher interest in boys than in work. She’ll be trouble if we don’t keep an eye out. Eric is taking them out on their first job next week, and I look forward to getting a good laugh out of the resulting report. – Bryan.

[rubysunnday]

your song | c.b

Summary: Being in love with Colin Bridgerton is hard when the man keeps running off to different continents for months at a time. But the letters he writes and the songs he sends keep the romance alive.

It had been six, long months since Y/N had last seen Colin Bridgerton.

He had gone off travelling again, disappearing off one night with nothing more than a kiss on the cheek goodbye and a promise to write.

The romance between Y/N and Colin had struck out of nowhere. One night they'd been dancing as nothing more than friends and the next moment, there was something more. The way his hands tightened on her waist whenever Cressida said something mean felt different. The way he wrote her notes with every bunch of flowers he sent read differently.

The way he took her hand as she stepped out a carriage, his fingers gently entwining with hers, felt different.

Y/N had fallen head over heels for a man who hated staying in the same place for more than a week. And it was annoying.

He'd written to her more than he had his own family. He wrote to her everyday, judging from the dates on his letters and they arrived in bundles from the postman, all tied with a ribbon that somehow managed to match the dress she was wearing that day.

In the dozens of letters Colin had sent her, he wrote down every detail of the place he was in from the sunsets to the colour of the postboxes. The friends he was traveling with were both music students, desperate for either a career break or to find a new purpose in life.

One of them, Freddy, has been teaching me about the beauty of song writing and how all great pieces of music begin. I'm nowhere near the grandure of Mozart or the beauty of Beethoven or any musicale we've ever attended, but I'm enjoying it nonetheless.

I've found that in my writings there's always one thing I can never quite describe correctly. I search through books for the right words that could even begin to do you justice, my dear Y/N, but I find none. There's no word for describing the way you watch a musicale, or the way you talk about art and reading. There's no word on earth that could do you justice.

So, I hope this poor man's attempt at a song, written under strict guidance and a watchful eye, will begin to convey, just how much I love you.

Y/N had read the letter over and over, her eyes scouring each and every line, taking in the sloppy slant of Colin's handwriting and how he smudged the ink in his desperation to write and write and write.

She pulled out the final sheet of the letter and let out a small surprised gasp. It was a piece of music, the notes written precisely and intricately, the lyrics written messily and scrunched up underneath it. It was obvious which part Colin had been trusted with.

To Y/N

Your Song - by Colin Bridgerton

Y/N stood up from her desk and walked over to the pianoforte that sat in the corner of her room, covered in a thin layer of dust. Y/N wasn't an expert on the pianoforte, her and Colin had bonded over their failed attempts at playing. Colin could sing, though. And as Y/N read through the lyrics, tentatively playing a couple of notes on her dust keys, she could hear him singing it, his hand in her hair as they watched the sunset from the garden bench at Bridgerton House.

Their romance had been kept quiet. The ton was used to the two being openly affectionate with each other, constantly hugging or holding hands and none of them realised when it turned from friendship to romance.

Y/N and Colin had sat in the rose garden of Aubrey Hall one summer night, the sounds of the ball drifting over to them along the gentle breeze. Colin had quietly begun singing along to the song, his hands gently tracing a dance on Y/N's bare arm as she rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes shut.

Colin's singing voice was beautiful. And as Y/N played the song he'd written for her, she could imagine him sitting beside her and singing along, his hands over hers as she slowly played the notes.

Attending the opera without him felt bizarre. They'd begun a routine of sitting next to each other in the box, sharing the opera glasses and softly commenting on the music, the costumes, the lighting.

Y/N sat down in the box, scooting her chair close to the balcony. Her mother sat down next to her and sighed happily as she took in the view.

"Isn't this lovely?" She asked, picking up her opera glasses and looking through them at the stage. "I do love a concert."

Y/N said nothing, merely nodded. She kept thinking back to Colin's letter, of his promised return home in time for the concert. In time for him to sit down next to her, take her hand, and whisper about the music.

Y/N glanced up at the box the Bridgerton's sat in and tried not to let out a defeated sigh - still no Colin. Francesca caught her looking and gave her a sympathetic smile along with a shake of her head and Y/N turned back to the stage, trying not to let the disappointment sink in.

The orchestra began warming up, the music notes blending in with the quiet chatter of the audience. Y/N couldn't stop her eyes from constantly scanning the audience, the stage, the boxes, for any sign of Colin.

An excited whisper went over the audience as the lights were dimmed and the lights on the stage that illuminated the thick, red curtain were turned on.

For a minute there was silence. And then the orchestra began playing as the curtain flew up, revealing the actors on the stage.

My gift is my song, and this one's for you

And you can tell everybody

Y/N felt her heart do a bizarre skip. She recognised those words. She'd read them over and over again each night before she went to sleep. The piece of paper they had arrived on was now well worn and creased and she'd meticulously copied out the notes and the lyrics for fear of loosing them.

She scanned the audience again and felt her heart stop. The concert faded away as she focused on the man standing in the corner near the side door, a tiny smile on his face.

Colin Bridgerton stood with his hands behind his back, smiling up at her, his chin covered in the stubble of a beard. He was tanner then before and his hair had gotten lighter but it was still Colin.

Her Colin.

You see I've forgotten, if they're green or they're blue Anyway the thing is, what I really mean Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen

Y/N giggled and felt a smile appear on her face as she gave Colin the smallest wave possible, not wanting to attract attention. Colin waved back and nodded to the door that led to the auditorium. Y/N nodded in return and watched Colin disappear out the side door.

"Go on, then," Y/N's mother said, tapping her daughter's knee. "Go find him."

Y/N quietly slipped from her seat and pushed open the curtain, blinking at the bright lights in the corridor.

As she made her way down to the auditorium, she could hear angry voices that were trying not to yell. She rounded the corner and saw Anthony, Violet and Benedict Bridgerton all standing in front of a bemused looking Colin.

"You said you'd be back by the concert!" Anthony hissed, clearly irritated by Colin's lateness.

"It's hardly my fault the train got stuck by a tree, is it, Anthony?" Colin asked, sighing. "I'm here now, however, am I not? Stop fussing."

Anthony went off again, flailing his limbs around as he tried to knock some sense into Colin, his mother trying to be the peace maker between the two as Benedict tried, and failed, not to laugh.

"This isn't funny, Benedict!" Anthony snapped, turning to face his other brother as he snorted.

Benedict's smirk faded as he realised he was about to be on the end of Anthony's rant. He sighed and crossed his arms, physically bracing himself as Anthony went off again.

Colin, looking both bemused and annoyed at his family, turned and spotted Y/N, hovering at the stop of the stairs. His face fell from an annoyed smirk into a stunned smile as he stared up at her.

"They're actually both," Y/N said to Colin, her voice quiet enough that the three other Bridgerton's present had yet to realise she was there.

"What are?" Colin asked, walking up to meet her, taking each step slowly.

"My eyes," Y/N replied, smiling, dropping the skirt of her dress. "They're both colours."

Colin chuckled and looked like he was blushing. "I told you I wasn't good at song writing."

"Everyone else seemed to enjoy it," she replied as she heard the audience applaud loudly.

"Because Freddy worked on it for months until tonight," Colin replied. "Even then he wasn't sure about performing it. If he'd performed the version I'd written the ton would be complaining. I'm not very good at it."

"I think you're better at it than you believe, Mr Bridgerton," Y/N said as she continued walking down until they were both on the large step that broke up the stairs. "I'm not sure about the beard, however."

"Why?" Colin asked, a hand subconsciously flying to his chin and running across the stubble.

"Well, it just means that every time I go to kiss you, I will have to be tickled and scratched by it," she replied, her hand covering the one resting on his chin. She entwined her fingers with his. "But I can live with that."

Colin laughed and leant forward, kissing Y/N with the passion and desperation of not seeing her for six months. His hand rested on the back of her head, carefully minding her hair as his thumb stroked her skin.

"I think I'm going to stay here for now," Colin said softly, breaking apart from her, resting his forehead on hers. "Stay with you."

Y/N looked up at him, feeling his breath on her cheeks. "Colin Bridgerton, are you -"

"Yes," Colin said, cutting her off. "I am. Because it took being apart from you for six months to realise what I was missing. To realise that I travel the world searching for purpose and reason, when, in reality, my reason is you. The purpose of my entire being is you.

"Without you, I'm half a man. Without you, the travelling begins to feel like running away and I don't want to run from you. I want to take your hand and run with you. Forever if we wanted. I can run until you can't run anymore. And when you can't run anymore, I'll carry you."

Y/N smiled, pressing her lips together as she savoured the taste of his kiss. "Words are your forte, Mr Bridgerton," she said softly, stroking the side of his head, threading her fingers through his curls. "I'll run with you to the end of the world and back again. I'll take your hand in mine and I will never let you go. Not again."

Colin pressed his lips to her and Y/N smiled against his lips before returning the kiss. He smelt of his cologne, the sweet caramel biscuits he loved and, somehow, the floral, homely scent of Bridgerton House

He smelt of home. He was her home. Simply being in his arms was enough.

"I've just realised something," Colin whispered in her ear.

Y/N looked up at him, staring into his eyes. "What?"

"My family is watching us."

Y/N glanced behind him and saw the three Bridgerton's pretending to occupy themselves with anything else. Benedict was investigating a painting, Anthony was admiring the ceiling and Violet had been reading the program but glanced up at them with a smile.

And despite it all, Y/N let out a snort of laughter and dropped her head on to Colin's shoulder. "Of course they are."

Colin giggled, actually giggled, and rested his head on top of hers. "Better get used to it, love, I doubt they'll ever stop staring."

[ginwhitlock]

summary: human!JASPER/ human!BELLA. Bella is called to deliver day supplies to a very tired and mostly lost 1st Regiment Calvary, headed by no other than Major Jasper Whitlock. What will the two do once left alone to go over maps of the Tennessee hills?

fic type: oneshot, SMUT 18+

warnings: is set in the civil war, which means Jasper is a soldier in the confederacy literally only because he’s from Texas I promise, it would’ve been weird to make him union and apart of the Texas Calvary as that wasnt a union regiment, I do not support the confederacy or any of its beliefs, its just part of his backstory and this fic is centered directly in his human life (the confederacy itself is not mentioned in detail, it is just alluded to the fact). This is a smut fic but not hardcore in anyway so be warned. Oh also I made Bella and Emmett siblings. Of course. 

She almost broke his nose kissing him.

She almost shattered bone and cartilage clicking their teeth together, enamel scraping enamel.

She almost caved in the center of his face so she could lick the insides of his molars, separate his jaws to find the pit of his throat, dangle her self righteousness by his uvula.

And to think she almost didn’t go out that morning.

Isabella Marie was the kind of pretty you didn’t see right away. The layers of fine muscle and fragile skin hiding the richness of her blood-red cheeks, crisp even in the horrible heat of August. And with that heat came hot headed Calvary men with unlined coat pockets and a hunger for pretty little girls.

She met Major Whitlock three miles outside of town, the local preacher sending her out to their camp with as many baskets as her daddy’s two mules could hold on their hips. She was flushed, the slot of her breastbone slick with afternoon sweat— her riding boots did nothing but slosh around with her pale feet inside, leather no match for Tennessee mountain hidin weather.

Maybe she should’ve dropped ice down her shift. Maybe she should’ve played dead and waited for God to put her on her ass.

The thin brunette was graced with the presence of an even skinner red head the moment Stubborn Ass’s (as she affectionally called her steed in private) hooves entered the temporary camp. The mans hair fell limply in front of his eyes which were slightly sunken, the blue of his irises molting into a starved shade of dust. His lips were worse. Once pink and slightly plump, now skinny and cracked with the less than dusty air.

“Is this the 1st Regiment Calvary? From Texas?” Her voice was strained and feverish, salt dripping off her Cupid’s bow.

The man nodded and offered a hand, “Names Sargent Henry Arquette. Nice to see you Miss, the boys haven’t been able to get any supplies up here for days,” Bella grasped his hand tightly, afraid her unskilled balance would come into play, and forced her weight down to the ground ungracefully, “you’re the sheriffs daughter, right miss?” His smile seemed correct handing off his skinny face, his teeth crooked and off centered, but sweet. She quirked her lip in return.

“Yes Sargent, I seem to be your supply wagon today. There’s more back in town but I was told you wouldn’t be in for a day or so.” Flushed and overdressed, that’s how she felt. Every second.

Henry took in the view of the well fed half breeds and gestured off handedly, something she would come to learn was an action he didn’t even notice he performed. “Day. Days. Who knows until we ration it. These trails are less trails and more raccoon paths. I’m just waiting to see why the hell we’ve been sent so far east to begin with.” He had no recognition what was proper to say in front of the young lady at his side, the year had been sucked dry of any feminine… life, to say lightly. A piece of his brain nudged him for speaking so plainly, but Bella never once looked offended and twitched her head in both sympathy and understanding. She had been raised in these hills. She knew their damnation like the back of her hand. Maybe even the back of her skull.

“I’ve heard about raids up in McMinnville. Bases and such lining up and down the mountain. My brother’s part of the 16th Regiment Calvary up there actually, you know. Things are heating up in our little slice of the world.” The little thing spoke like a sparrow, her nose pointed and soft, the bottom of her front teeth pillowing into her bottom lip. At the age of seventeen she seemed somehow both grounded and unsure.

The south was ripping itself apart. And she— and the Sargent, knew it.

Bella could see the redhead start to comment on her brothers hand me down gossip when a giant of a man— boy? Man? Definitely man, by the looks of his muscled shoulders and high jaw, the darkened cast shifting just under the skin of his cheeks, the low dip of a scar just below his brow— a brow which furrowed, twisted, and arched back up into his tanned forehead when he noticed the mules waiting restlessly, tails swinging behind a girl in a kinder man's idea of a dress and interrupted the lower soldiers train of thought.

“You must be Miss Isabella McCarty. I spoke to your father when we arrived last night.” Clipped and forward were his words, his hand outstretched in front of him, decorated in mis-matched freckles and calluses she could feel pressing into the column of her throat as she placed her small palm in his. “Major Jasper Whitlock, at your assistance.”

No smile graced his face but by God she would witness his lips stretch over his teeth if it was the last thing she ever did.

Still with her hand in his she whispered “You can call me Bella. Or Bella Marie. Or Isabella Marie oh or my mother calls me Belle or sometimes when my father is upset with me he calls me Marie McCarty like my grandmother used to and um..” her tongue had to have swelled to the size of a watermelon in the three seconds it took to look him in the eyes— the swamp green eyes in fact. Eyes the color of duckweed and marigold stems and whatever leaves would stick to the blackberries in the spring.

He laughed. And it sounded like a white flag waving in her insides. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Maybe the preacher was a righteous man after all.

“I like Isabella Marie. Miss Isabella Marie.” Like rain drops on a tin ceiling.

The Arquette boy looked between the two before edging towards the black mules “Any orders where to put these, Major?” Skinny lips. Skinny spine.

Jasper had finally looked up from the strawberry cheeked girl in front of him, released their hands, and knocked his head backwards, towards the other soldiers checking tents and cleaning their own horses.

“Just take em back to the storage tent. Not like it’ll be competing for space.” The Major looked back at his men “Calhoun, Jennings, help Arquette move these rations will you? Make yourself useful for once.” His voice didn’t have to boom and condense like a rung out air horn, the cool of his vocal cords carried and personally plucked the not yet men from their activities and dragged them towards the group of three. Like some sort of magic act.

Bella was far from resigned. “So Major Whitlock, what would you like me to do?” Hopeful eyes, always searching to please. Or to piss off— as Emmett always scorned.

An upturn of lips flashed through Jaspers face and he looked to the sky for a mere moment “Mind helping me sort out some of my maps back in camp? My backwoods knowledge ain’t as sharp as my Houston kind and you seem like an expert in this area, getting yourself up to us all alone.” Bella’s feet started to move on instinct towards the felted wool tent covering a hundred or so feet behind the large man, but his hand stopped her at the shoulder, “And, if you don’t mind, would you be my guide back to town this evening? I’ve got to scout the path for the boys to pull through by the end of this week.”

She should’ve thought longer about it, linger over his words, the way his tongue flicked over his canines and brushed noticeably at the edge of his front teeth. But she didn’t. Not now. Not when the time it would’ve taken could pick at the carefully constructed wall built specifically for boys with serpent tongues. And lion hands. And bear teeth and… he still waiting for her response.

A shake to her head “Of course Major. If you’ll help me bring the mules back home, you’d be more help to me than I think I’d ever be to you.”

He could taste her self doubt. And he didn’t like it.

A jut of his brow led them through the ragged campsite, broken down cinders coating the bottom of her unusually worn boots, the lace of her dress clashing horribly with the scent of charred flesh and resting wounds. If only she knew a doctor. If only the town still had one.

His tent was one of the stronger ones, every inch placated with the spine of a book or a map binder or a drape of letters. He needed a desk and a real bed and maybe someone to make sure he stayed warm during the mountain nights.

Jaspers hands found a tiny stack of drawn maps and laid them over his now folded lap on the ground. Bella swiftly found her place at his bended knee and ran a finger over the torn edge. “These look older than my father. It doesn’t even mark the trail you follow to town.” The squishy flesh of her thumb traced an invisible oil line through the mountain and deposited itself in a town with seemingly no name, according to the parchment. “That’s home. If you’re following these maps I don’t quite understand how you ever got here.” Her eyes were full, engorged on road markers and faded city names.

Jasper softly nodded, their heads just inches from each other as she leaned in to scour the map. He had barely gotten to the camp they were in, his right hand Henry doing nearly all of the sight work. He’d be a hell of a tracker if he was a bloodhound. The blond almost chucked at the thought of Henry with big floppy mutt ears, yelping at the pretty girl almost in Jasper’s lap.

Her hair was like a chocolate waterfall. The good chocolate that mama got sent to her from her sister up north, the kind that was broken off continuously, piece after piece fed to him and his sisters until nothing was left.

Part of him wanted to see if she tasted as sweet.

He’d blame it on how damn long it’s been since he’s smelled anything other than soured sores and gunpowder. Even if Miss Isabella Marie smelled good enough to eat. Good enough to take like a man starved. And God— Jasper hungered like no other.

“There’s a river through the valley here, if you can find yourself through the woods.” Bella had found a piece of graphite and drawn in the harsh line of a hidden waterway just a mile or so from camp. She looked up at him as she spoke, her eyes warmly whiskey colored through her lashes.

His mouth clenched. “How old are you Miss McCarty?”

She blinked rapidly, like coming out of a daze. “Seventeen.”

Her hand dropped the instrument to the paper and draw up to his knee, the covered bone sharp under her knuckles.

“Do you have a boy at home waiting for you, Miss McCarty?” Hot air blew from his mouth to hers like a heatwave. Like a curse.

Bella’s lips formed a small “No” as she slid her small hand up the Major’s thigh, her singular ring gliding like margarine inch my inch as the seconds ticked by, each breath marking the two closer.

“Do you have a wife, Major?” Only whisper escaped her rosebud mouth, his face turning downwards, noses only separated by spirit.

“I was too busy waiting for you, it seems, Miss Bella.”

Her heart thumped her chest hard enough to make her ears ring.

Bella’s fist jumped from Jasper’s thigh to his army issued button up and crushed his chest to her own, her lips finding purchase slotted against his, the force clinking their front teeth together without care. His hands were gripping the roots of her soft waves, their skulls as close as their skin would let them. She wanted more, more, the heat suffocating the tent from more than the August sun. Her thin fingers slipped easily through the button gaps as his tongue invaded the privacy of her mouth. A horrible demented part of her brain screamed ‘Take, Take, Take. Mark me down and climb into the spaces that were meant to fit just us.’ Her brother had always called her too much of a dreamer. Too much of a poet and a believer and an artist. But God. This man was in her hands and she felt like a masterpiece.

A man she hardly knew.

But somehow, the scrape of his knuckles against her soon to be bare thighs felt like they had known each other at birth. Like Texas and Tennessee were just minutes from each other. As if they were the only bodies in the whole entire war.

Jasper’s hands were of no gentleman’s when he unfastened the ribbons holding her skirt to her waist, the under coat used for riding coming off like silk in his calloused palms. She was moaning into his mouth, the world outside the tent becoming buttery soft and not to be worried about. All there was was Jasper and his fucking mouth moving to her neck and his teeth toying around her jaw.

“Jesus, Major” He chuckled at her swear and rid her completely of every layer but her shift and the wool of her stockings, the small corset she wore becoming just cannon fodder for the mouth and hands of the Cavalryman.

“I love when you call me that, darlin. Wanna hear you scream it.” She had barely gotten open a single button on his shirt before he brushed the maps out of the way and flipped her on her back underneath him, the sway of his curled mane teasing her, the golden wheat just barely out of the reach of her teeth or fingers.

She wanted to use it like reins.

She’d especially like calling him by his rank then.

“You know I—“ her breathing caught the better of her as he lifted her by her thighs and dragged her ass to his kneeled position, his fingers running up her stockings with particular care, each inch another layer to her growing wetness. She didn’t let go of her breath until he had reached the skirting of her underdress, the white cotton nearly see through with the sweat sticking to every inch of her skin. His watery eyes devoured the sight with an indescribable hunger. Like a wolf hanging over a bleeding lamb.

What a happy sacrifice she’d be.

“Are you a good little southern girl, Isabella?” His fingertips brushed just under the fabric, his intent not easily hidden behind his hardened brow.

She came out trembling, she couldn’t tell over excitement or fear. “Yes Sir. No ones ever…” even her mother would blush saying those words.

Jasper finally smiled, sharp and soul quenching, like a mist of rain before a hurricane.

“I’m going to ruin you.” He couldn’t tell her about the wedding playing out behind his eyes or the static electric resonance he felt thinking about how another man would never get to lay a hand on his pretty Isabella.

His fingers slipped over her cunt, the soft curling hair tickling his fingertips. The moist warmth wet his fingers before skirting over her lips. He almost groaned. She was soaked. He had to see what his little Belle looked like in the light.

Jasper’s eyes met Bella’s giant blown out doe ones, her elbows holding up her upper body, trying to anticipate his very next move.

If they were playing chess, he was going to win. And she had always been a sore loser.

The skirt of the shift creased with the heat of his palms against her stomach, the slightly cooler air blowing across her pussy, making Bella suck in a breath through her teeth, her bottom lip becoming stuck under them with practiced strength.

Her knees knocked against Jasper’s hips as he watched the pink of her pussy clench around nothing, her wet little hole puckering and buzzing with the want of something under his trousers. He licked his lips as he had a gathered two fingers at her slit and traced upwards, her breath coming out in pants as he reached her clit, the engorged nub nearly ringing in her ears. A small circle over it make her moan from her throat. Bella had never felt someone else’s touch, she had never realized how much she wanted for it. She never knew how much she wanted Jasper to touch her.

The solider took his time as he brought the pads of his fingers back down to her achingly small hole and gathered some of her slick, the smell of sweat and Bella nearly driving him half insane as he brought a finger to his mouth, his tongue licking her clean off.

If Bella could speak to God directly and have him reply, she’d thank him for the creation of Major Jasper Whitlock.

But all she could do was cry out for more. And more he silently promised to give.

Maybe too much.

He had to stretch her out, the head of his cock wouldn’t fit into her without an orgasm in her, not now at least. Jasper slowly brought his hand back a third time and entered a single finger, her hips nearly bucking against his wrist as he slowly sat himself. A bead of sweat ran off his brow. A second finger partnered with the first after a few pumps, in and out, in and out. The near wetness coated on those fingers alone could bring him to release in his cot. He couldn’t wait any longer.

“Isabella I have to—“ “Please Major I need—“

The two looked at each other, their mouths in sync as they sat, their souls intertwining and bundling up into a bramble of wonderful thorns, coy smiles gracing both their faces.

Bella sat up slowly and draped a hand over Jasper’s belt buckle. “May I, Major?” The shorty craftsmanship of the iron buckle became putty under her unskilled hands as he nodded, now without words for the angel in front of him. The belt was off before the two noticed and Jasper brought his issued pants down to his ankles and off with his shoes to rest with the scraps of her dress he had taken off so quickly.

“Do you… always go bare?” The squeak of Bella’s voice made Jasper snicker like the teenage boy he technically still was, the nineteen year old clicking his teeth together and grinning. “Miss McCarty, sometimes underpinnings only get in the way of an army man.” A deep blush settled into her cheeks as she slapped at his chest, his shirt hanging open just slightly as he pushed her back to the floor.

“Shush, Whitlock.”

His smile turned feral as the head of his cock graced the hood of her clit, bouncing just slightly with the breath of their bodies. Jasper marked in his head that this should be a sight to see on their wedding night, not their first night together, but by God was it a beautiful one.

He looked at her as he grasped one of her hips with his right hand and the base of his cock with his left. “Breathe, Belle. Breathe with me, alright?” She nodded her head slowly and brought her own hand to the tent floor, grasping tightly.

Jasper’s hand guided the head carefully over her lips and to her quivering entrance. One buck and he’d tear her to badly to bear. No matter how long it had been… he’d never rush with his Isabella. Not now.

He slowly pushed in, the stretch a burn like no other, Bella’s voice turning from a quick steal of breath to a long sigh, the air being pushed out as he took her in. Inch by inch she devoured him, the heat marking his cock in emotional third degree burns. The sky burned brighter, the colors in his eyes turned clearer. Her hips and her fragile skin and the slip of her cunt was the end of the world and the birth of something entirely new. She grasped his shoulders as he mumbled a slew of impressive praise as he allowed her to adjust and seated himself at the very base of her cervix. Her throat screamed out to him as her nails dug in his back.

A wonderful, wonderful burn.

Bella slipped a hand to Jasper’s hip to push him back, to set any and all pace so that the fire would keep burning. He quickly slotted his face in the clench of her neck and began to move his pale hips, beginning to push and pull within her very tight walls.

The tent was full of grunts and moans and breathy screams he was sure the entirely camp heard. But Jesus Christ he didn’t give a single damn at that very moment. His boys knew to stay out of his shit and they be proven that every second until his angel’s orgasm.

God he wanted to fill her up. Wanted to take all of his cum and bury it deep where the lord intended, leave her leaking and exhausted and full of everything he had. He’d empty his balls in her again and again if it meant the Tennessee flower in his arms would keep him forever.

He wanted her forever.

“Major, deeper, please God please yes YES.” Jasper’s hips were snapping at a rapid pace, his balls slapping against her ass as he drove her into the hard ground. He could feel her tighten up the way he felt the air change around him before a fight broke out, the way a horse steps on a snake without jumping. There was an electricity in the air and the moment Bella tore his head out from her and pulled him into a jaw crushing kiss, he was crumbling at her feet, her pussy clenching and spasming around his cock with enough force to take out a grizzly bear.

She locked her legs around his hips as he all but collapsed into her, his hair sweaty between her fingers as she combed through it as his dick twitched it’s last time inside her belly. Jasper’s own hands found repentance under her ass and stayed there, too tired to remove himself from her heat.

“That ride home is gonna be sweaty, isn’t it?” Her whisper made her snort and bite into the side of her neck as she giggled.

[flowesona]

Voluntary Victim - Yandere! Yoongi x reader

Warning: Sexual content

Finding a victim was like shooting fish in a barrel. Dozens of young men and women surrounded her, each adorned with accessories bought with daddy’s money and high to the heavens on whatever substance they could find.

The boy who had his arm around their waist at that moment seemed a bit more refined than the others - he was worth a million dollars, sure, but he at least seemed to be a bit more modest.

They stopped trying to spy the drunken boy they’d just seen sneak off into the restroom and turned to focus the gentleman by their side.

“Hi! My friends call me Angel.” They shouted over the thumping bass, watching in amusement as the young man’s eyebrows furrowed in trying to hear what they were saying.

“That name suits you. I’m Yoongi.” He replied simply. “Do you want a drink?”

“Of course.” (Y/N) gave him a cheeky smile and took his hand within their own to lead him towards the bar.

“What will you be having?” He called out over the music once they had arrived.

“Surprise me.” Was all they said. A simple tactic really - made them think they cared about his opinion, that they would do as they pleased.

He nodded and as soon as he made eye contact with one of the bar staff they abandoned the gaggle of people trying to flag them down and listened intently as he leaned over to talk into their ear.

That was how they knew they had struck gold. The bartender didn’t even hesitate in making their drinks right away, and the lack of payment screamed that he was on some kind of guest list.

Once he had passed one of the glasses over to (Y/N), the glint in his eye said that their night was going according to plan.

“Are you here often?” He raised his voice slightly, and (Y/N) shook their head in response.

“First time. Maybe you can show me around?”

“What?” He leaned in closer, his body pressing deliciously close to theirs. “I can’t hear you.”

“I’ve never been here before. Are you a regular?”

He shook his head, though they weren't sure if it was because of the question or because of their uncomfortable conditions.

“Should we find somewhere a bit quieter?” (Y/N) nodded, and with their cocktail in one hand and his warm hand clasping their other Yoongi led them through one of the staff only doors - receiving affirming nods from the staff along the way - and into a more secluded lounge.

There were LED lights lining the walls lighting the room up into a rich royal blue, and there were leather sofas and coffee tables dotted around.

“Normally this is where we hold member’s parties. But tonight, Father said I could have it to myself, and whichever guests I please.”

Yoongi hummed, leading them gently to one of the sofas and placing his drink down on the table so that both his hands were now free. (Y/N) took a sip for courage before following suit.

“What do you do for a living then?” They asked, her fingertips subtly rubbing circles into his thigh.

“I’m training to take over my father’s business.” He answered simply. “What about you, Angel?”

“I’m studying English.” (Y/N) purred, leaning in slightly. “But I don’t have any plans for the future, unlike you.”

“Pretty young things like you don’t need a plan when there’s men like me to take care of you.”

“Maybe so. Or maybe I could take care of you.” Yoongi smirked at their comment, leaning forward to grab his drink.

“I’m sure you can, baby.”

They continued to caress his thigh as he drank.

“You know, you seem so well spoken, Angel. There’s more to your pretty little head than most the vermin out there.” (Y/N) wanted to vomit, but they kept up their saccharine smile.

“Really?” It was time to make their move. “I know how else I can prove to you how much better I am than those other whores, you know.”

He raised his eyebrows, intrigued, as they pressed a sloppy kiss to his lips.

Their fingers found the buttons on his neatly pressed shirt and slowly started to pop them open.

“Can I ask you something…?” They whispered, their fingertips tracing over the smooth skin of his exposed chest and appreciating how he just barely shuddered under her touch.

Yoongi nodded, imploring them to go on.

“I’ve always wanted to be more… adventurous. But none of the guys I’ve fucked have ever wanted to try anything with me. But I know you’re far better than them, right?”

There was some unknown emotion glazing over Yoongi’s eyes - intrigue, maybe mixed with some jealousy?

“Will you let me…” They dug into their wallet, and pulled out a pair of steel handcuffs. “put these on you?”

He visibly gulped, but (Y/N) could tell by the flush covering his cheeks that they had him hook, line and sinker.

“Please, gorgeous. Make this night special for me?” They purred. Finally, he gave them an apprehensive nod and they sat up with a happy smirk.

Their fingers ran up and down the smooth pale skin of his arm, before they gently pulled on his shirt and pushed him to the ground, right next to the coffee table.

Yoongi’s eyes were shining as “Angel” sat on his lap, looking at them like they were a gift granted by heaven. His breathing only got heavier as they pressed their chest to his, taking his wrists and securing them behind the leg on the coffee table. When they were done, they pressed a kiss to Yoongi’s neck and he felt his face burn up as if he was eight years old.

However, rather than attempting to make any more advances as he was hoping, his companion’s focus changed entirely.

“Your watch is very nice.”Their fingers danced along his wrist, fiddling with the expensive leather. “How much did it cost you?”

“That doesn’t matter.” He huffed. “Chicken feed, darling. Please…?”

(Y/N) just continued to inspect it and ignore his subtle whines for attention.

“I could get a pretty penny for this, couldn’t I?” Yoongi felt his heart drop as he felt them unclasp it and hold it up to the light. “Cartier, one of a kind. Mind if I keep it?”

“Whatever, please just-”

“What else do you have on you?” Tucking the watch into their wallet, they finally made eye contact with him again.

Yoongi didn’t reply, a frustrated sigh leaving his lips.

“Did you bring your wallet?”

He shook his head, but they stuck their hand into his jacket pocket and found the thick wad of leather tucked away. With an impressed whistle they flicked through the cash whilst tipping his credit cards onto the floor.

“You… you can have it all. It doesn’t matter.” Yoongi rattled the chains again, desperately trying to get free.

“Thank you.” They smiled, shoving the wallet into their pocket. “Where’s your phone?”

“My back pocket.” The young man hissed. “Please, if you just want my money baby-”

“Shut it.” (Y/N) shot back as they retrieved his top model phone and chucked out the SIM card. “If you start making a fuss I’ll shut you up myself.”

He blushed. Clearly, he was some kind of fucked up to be aroused by this.

“I think I might- wait, what is this?” A smile settled on (Y/N)’s face as they unclasped the chain from his neck and admired how it shone in the LED lights.

“Anyway, as I was saying, I think it’s time I take my leave. The night’s still young.”

They pressed a kiss to his flushed cheek.

“Thank you for the great time.”

“No, don’t go. Please, you can have my shit, just come back here!” Yoongi whined as she walked away with a spring in their step, shutting the door behind them to cut off his cries from the outside world as they escaped the stuffy nightclub and out into the cool midnight air.

◦◦,`°.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.°`,◦◦

Most people who’d been seduced, tied up and robbed would be humiliated, but not Yoongi. Rather, the only thing he held against his angel was that they’d left him. His wallet could be easily refilled, his jewellery and phone could be replaced, but ‘Angel’ was one of a kind and he wanted to have them.

He’d eventually managed to escape his bondage, tipping over the coffee table and sliding his hands out. Although he had to find one of the employees to help him out of the handcuffs, the embarrassment didn’t set in. Instead, he sought out one of the bouncers and pulled them to the side to ask if they’d seen someone called Angel. After nearly ten minutes of describing their ethereal appearance the bouncer was able to recall their existence, but unable to give Yoongi any more information.

But from that day forward, they had a stranglehold on his mind. His thoughts were overridden with fantasies of what could have happened if ‘Angel’ had stayed - them gripping his throat with those silky fingers, marking his neck with their teeth, unbuttoning his pants and taking him into their mouth…

They were addictive. He found himself trying his hardest to seek them out again - he knew she wouldn’t return to his father’s nightclub, so he explored every other one in the city. He’d scoured the CCTV cameras in the club and managed to find a (somewhat blurry) still, which he’d enhanced and printed out. Not only did he keep a copy to himself -  tucked away in his work diary so that he could see them every day - but he circulated it to all of the clubs he could reach, asking them to call him if they ever saw his angel for a handsome reward.

But months passed with no news, and rather than recovering Yoongi’s obsession only got worse. He spent hours futilely searching for the name they’d given him on the internet with no reward, but he couldn’t stop.

“Can I pay with cash, please?” Yoongi had been half-asleep, the night before having sapped him of all energy that could only be perked up with coffee, when he heard that voice. That unforgettable voice. The one that haunted his dreams every night and the one he’d been craving to hear.

“Of course. Could I have a name for your order?”

“(Y/N).” Yoongi’s heart sunk. Had he gotten his hopes up over the wrong person? Had he been so deluded in his desire for his angel that he’d started to hallucinate about them?

But when (Y/N) stepped to the side to wait for their coffee, he finally saw their profile and he knew they were the one who had captured his heart. That was why it had been impossible to find them, because they’d given him a fake name!

His heart was beating a thousand beats a second as he watched them take the coffee from the barista and flash the worker a smile whilst sliding them a tip. God, how he hoped he would soon be the recipient of one of those dazzling expressions.

All thoughts of caffeine were wiped out as he had now found his real drug, abandoning the queue to quietly follow them out of the cafe at a safe distance.

‘They haven’t changed at all. I guess you can’t improve on perfection.’

Yoongi admired them as she walked. They still had glowing skin, the most perfect body in his eyes, and an unmatched energy that drew him in.

It was tricky blended into the background, especially when the crowds thinned out and he was following them into a smaller neighbourhood. His heart was thudding, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be caught or not. He didn’t know what was driving him to follow them and why he hadn’t already spoken up.

(Y/N) wasn’t stupid. They stopped in place to get out their phone and observed how the hooded man also stopped a few metres away.

“Stop following me or I’ll call the police.” They called out.

Yoongi took a few steps forward.

“What will they do? Give me a slap on the wrist for being a naughty boy?”

Their brow furrowed. Did they recognise his voice? God, he hoped that was the case. He was ready to get down on his knees and beg for their love.

“Whatever. Just leave me alone, freak.” They hissed, unlocking their phone to call their friend, so he could get them the hell out of there.

Starting to panic, he rushed forward and wrenched their phone out of their hands, throwing it to the ground and digging his heel into the screen for good measure. For a second, there was silence only permeated by Yoongi’s heavy breathing.

“Someone-!”

Their plea for help was cut off by his hand pressed against their mouth.

“Can we continue this conversation elsewhere? My hotel room, perhaps?”

The blush on this psycho’s cheeks as his hands grasped theirs sickened (Y/N) to no end. Did he think this was a normal way to hit on someone, by breaking their phone and kidnapping them?

“I’m not going anywhere-”

“I’ll call the chauffeur. Don’t worry, he won’t be long.”

(Y/N) was still trying to pry his fingers from their own, but they were like iron.

“Who the fuck are you?” They hissed.

“You don’t remember me?” His eyes were filled with hurt, and the hand clutching his phone was trembling as he held it to his ear, clearly following through on his words.

“Yoongi. You introduced yourself to me as Angel, I bought you a drink and we went into the private lounge for a chat?”

‘Shit.’

It clicked, (Y/N) knew exactly who he was. They’d made so much selling his one-of-a-kind Cartier watch that they’d been able to move cities and settle into a new profession entirely.

Most rich kids were ashamed when (Y/N) got the best of them, and few chased after them for revenge. But Yoongi had a different kind of fire in his eyes.

“Look, you can have all the money I have leftover you want? I swear, we can replace everything I took-”

“Oh no, it’s all yours, baby. I want you to have that, and so much more too.” Yoongi was way too calm, his smile way too sincere. He was absolutely off his rocker. “Anything you need to take from me, it’s yours. But I want something in return, you understand?”

(Y/N) felt a shiver go down their spine when a sleek black car, with tinted windows, drew up.

“Come on. You still have a lot to prove to me, right?”

[detective-grey]

pumpkin patches and broken things

part 3 of "Wayhaven Frights - Connections" prompt "Harvest"

pairing: detective alexis "lex" crawford and adam du mortain

rating: t

summary: Lex has a thing for pumpkin patches and Adam has a thing for broken things.

read on ao3

The cool autumn wind brushed against her cheeks, lifting a few strands of mousy brown hair away from her face and dancing them through the breeze. The air smelled faintly of burnt wood and decay, that cold familiar scent that usually reminded one of late night bonfires, jewel colored leaves falling to the ground, hot ciders and mulled wines. A reminder of the end of a cycle, the buds of spring and the blooms of summer giving way to the harvests of fall and eventually the barren fields of winter.

The sky was that particular shade of icy blue that somehow only made an appearance in October and suddenly vanished once the grey tones of December spread through the atmosphere. Every now and then thin white clouds stretched their boney fingers across the sky, blocking out the false Sun that shone but offered no heat, and the shadows of late birds migrating south for the year dotted the ground.

Detective Alexis Crawford shoved her hands further into the pockets of her dark leather jacket and took a deep breath, enjoying the sting of the cool air in her throat. She closed her eyes and allowed herself this moment, this one singular moment of peace and quiet and-

“There you are!”

She flinched at the sudden noise, then kicked herself for her weakness.

She turned to find Unit Bravo walking towards her at varying strides. Farah led the pack in excitement, her golden eyes so at home in the late afternoon sun. She waved at Lex who made no effort to move in their direction but nodded at the motion. Nate trailed after Farah, his easy smile in place and his dark green jacket zipped up for the first time since Lex had known him. Morgan meandered behind everyone, somehow finding shadows to hide in even on the mostly vacant path, smoke from her lit cigarette twisting around her face.

Lex’s attention of course went straight to the actual leader of the group walking in the middle with an expression reminiscent of a frozen lake, calm ice on the surface with something deeper and more intense beneath. Adam had donned a black peacoat that accentuated his broad frame and squared shoulders, the dark fabric in stark contrast to his pale green eyes and blond hair. She told herself she noticed these things because it was her job to pay attention to details.

That she noticed the way his muscles rippled under the sleeves of his coat, however…

“See something ya like?”

Lex shifted her gaze to where Farah now stood next to her, watching with that annoyingly knowing smile. She rolled her eyes, causing Farah to burst into laughter as the others caught up.

“You guys are late,” she said, only somewhat trying to keep the annoyance she felt from lacing itself through her words. “How that’s possible given the fact that you literally have super speed, I’ll never know.”

“Blame that one,” Morgan accused, nodding her head in Farah’s direction.

“What? I just wanted to make sure I put on the proper clothes! I’ve never been to a pumpkin patch before, there were literally hundreds of options for me to sort through,” Farah explained, twirling around to show off her plaid skirt she had paired with wool leggings, boots, and a cardigan. She had a scarf wrapped around her neck as usual, though this one was a deep crimson red that matched the pattern of her skirt.

“It’s not really that big a deal, they’re just pumpkins,” Lex mumbled, turning to walk towards the entrance to the field where a few other Wayhaven residents stood waiting to gain access.

She hadn’t meant to mention her plan for the weekend to them, and she certainly hadn’t been prepared for everyone to come along. She didn’t consider herself to exactly be a “traditions” type of person, but for some damn reason she found herself back at this pumpkin patch at the beginning of October every year to find a stupidly large pumpkin to take home and carve. She made a whole day of it, usually spending an hour or two scouring the field for the perfect specimen before taking it home, cracking open a few beers (or whiskey, depending on the week), and taking a knife to the thing. She never claimed the title of “Artist” or “Supreme Pumpkin Carver”, indeed her designs and faces would never win any contests, but she found catharsis in the way she cleaned out the seeds, traced her patterns, cut into them with repetitive motions.

There was something to be said about the comfort she found in repeatedly stabbing something over and over, but she never lingered too longly on the thought.

Farah babbled excitedly as they walked towards the vendor. Lex fell into step beside Adam without even realizing it until his voice broke her concentration.

“Detective.”

She looked over at him, having to tilt her chin slightly up to meet his eyes.

“Agent,” she replied, matching his neutral tone.

After giving her a once over and seeming to be satisfied, Adam turned to face forward again and didn’t say another word. Lex knew better than to hold her breath expecting more from him, but for some reason the lack of so much as a “how are you?” stung. Annoyingly so.

She never quite knew where she stood with Adam. Most of the time she couldn’t stand the man, they fought each other tooth and nail on almost every single mission they went on, neither wanting to relinquish control over any situation. She loathed his arrogance, hated the way others automatically deferred to him for command like it was owed to him, meanwhile she’d had to fight her whole life for the scrap of command she held. Once, on a night that they’d spared one another more wounds to their respective prides, he had told her of his station in his previous life as the son of a noble. He had been born into power and he carried it well.

She envied and admired him for it. Both things she hated but couldn’t bury deep enough to forget.

There were other things, though. Things she genuinely appreciated about him. She understood his innate need to protect those he cared about, but the intensity with which he upheld that responsibility continued to surprise her. Never had she known someone with such ferocious loyalty paired with a cynical realism that rivaled her own. She even respected his physical prowess and intimidating presence, things that didn’t particularly phase her but that she could appreciate. Especially as she watched him move, a soldier groomed and transformed into the perfect predator. She should be afraid of him, terrified. And she was.

The feelings that had been stirring and building like kindling that would set fire and consume her terrified her more than anything she’d ever known.

“Detective Crawford! Always a pleasure to see you,” Terry, the owner of the pumpkin patch, called out as they made their way to the front of the line. He had to have been in his late sixties, and he’d been running this business every year for as long as Lex could remember. He’d always been kind to her, as a kid he’d let her get her pick of the field and never charged her anything.

“Hey,” Lex responded, nodding in his direction. She pulled her wallet out of her jacket pocket to pay the entrance fees for everyone as the owner continued.

“I see you brought them fancy agents with you this year, so glad to have you,” he continued, smiling genuinely at Unit Bravo, his eyes twinkling behind his large rimmed glasses. He caught sight of Lex pulling money out of her wallet and shook his head. “Absolutely not, Detective, I won’t see you pay another cent. Not after you’ve solved all those big cases recently.”

Had she more grace she might have blushed. Instead, she straightened her back and jutted her chin forward in what she could only hope would be seen as respectful defiance. “I can’t accept that, Terry. I will pay like everyone else, I’m no different nor more special than anyone.”

Morgan’s eye roll and Nate’s appreciative smile both irritated her, but she tried her best to ignore them. She laid a couple of bills on the table in front of Terry and thanked him before he could say anything else. He shook his head with an exasperated smile but waved them on through the entrance to the field.

Farah immediately began asking a million questions. “Which ones are the best ones?” “Do you think I should get a big one or a small one?” “What kind do you usually get?” “I didn’t know there were different colors, which ones carve better?”

Lex never counted patience as one of her greatest virtues and as much as she genuinely liked Farah and found at least some small appreciation for her...perkiness, she found herself just barely clinging on to whatever patience she actually did have.

Nate must have been a saint in another life because as if he could sense the calmness withering away in Lex, he pulled Farah down a far off lane in search of her very own pumpkin.

“Did you have any questions,” Lex asked Morgan probably more roughly than she should have, but Morgan could take it. She simply blew a puff of smoke towards Lex then turned and followed the other two.

Without bothering to look and see if he’d follow, Lex walked off in the opposite direction of the others and away from Adam.

“Are you angry at us for coming?”

He kept pace beside her as she carefully stepped over vines and divots in the hard dirt beneath their feet. There were a few other families out and about in the field, children running and laughing, parents bent over to pull pumpkins up, couples holding hands. She subconsciously looked over to watch Adam’s hands, casually swaying by his sides, before looking up to meet his eyes.

“Why do you ask?”

A somewhat bemused smile played at his lips. “Not that you ever give the warmest of greetings, but you haven’t exactly expressed much joy in seeing us today.”

“Oh.”

She tried to focus her attention on finding a goddamn pumpkin but how could she be expected to think about anything other than the fact that they were walking through a field on a nice day? Together? Or at least next to each other in a not-completely-hostile way?

“Detective, I-”

She rounded on him. “Look, far be it from me to prevent you all from picking a stupid pumpkin to take back to the warehouse and decorate or cook or what the fuck ever. I’m not mad that you guys came, in fact I think it’s smart for the people of Wayhaven to see you all out doing normal people things but please, just don’t bother me while I’m doing this.”

His eyes hardened. “If you didn’t want us here, you could have simply told us.”

She huffed and wanted to stomp her feet in frustration. Another thing she hated about him: he constantly made her feel everything so much more intensely.

“It’s not,” she took a breath and clenched her fingers into fists for a moment before breathing out and releasing some tension. “It’s not that I don’t want you here, I do. Want all of you, I mean. I mean I want you guys all here, with me.” Another breath. “Can we just find a pumpkin please?”

Lex turned away before he could reply and kept her eyes downcast. She could feel the moment he had caught up with her, matching her strides yet keeping enough distance to allow her the illusion of her own space. They continued on like that for several minutes, every now and then stopping to inspect one pumpkin or another.

“Rebecca and I used to come here every year.”

If she’d startled him with the willingness to give information, he hid it well. She for sure startled herself, even more so as she kept going.

“It’s no surprise she wasn’t exactly Mother of the Year, but one thing I could always rely on her for was taking me to pick a fucking pumpkin and then taking it home to carve. She stopped when I was about fourteen, too old for pumpkin picking I guess, but...I don’t know, I’d gotten so used to doing it every year that I just kept coming.”

Whether he felt her admission didn’t dignify a response or he just didn’t know what to say, Lex couldn’t be sure. All she knew was that he stayed silent for a while, maybe processing the information, maybe figuring out how best to respond. Maybe even just giving her the space to talk and say more if she so chose. She definitely wouldn’t, that she had already told him as much as she had mortified her. No, instead she again attempted to turn her attention to the field hoping to find anything at this point.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to keep traditions to yourself, especially ones as,” he paused, “intimate as this one.”

She scoffed. “Digging in the dirt is your idea of intimacy, Agent?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Hardly.”

They watched each other for a moment and then his eyes flicked up to the sky. “We might want to hurry this along.”

“Why,” she asked before following his gaze and finding massive dark grey clouds rolling in. They began swallowing the blue sky and in the distance she could hear the faint low rumble of thunder. “I don’t remember hearing anything about rain.”

“I doubt the weather would discuss its plans with you before changing, Detective.”

She rolled her eyes but followed him with renewed energy knowing that their time ran short now with the threat of a storm looming overhead. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Farah hoisting what must have been the largest pumpkin in the field into her arms and running back to the entrance with glee. Nate had found himself a medium-sized, perfectly round and spotless one that he kept in the crook of his elbow as he followed behind her. As far as Lex could tell, Morgan seemed content to simply smoke and make a snide remark here and there.

“What about this one?”

She swiveled back to him and when she saw his chosen specimen, she crossed her arms and looked at him incredulously.

"Seriously? There are literally hundreds of others in this field, why the fuck is that the one you pick," she asked dryly.

He shrugged. "I like this one."

Adam had pointed to a small, unassuming pumpkin that had almost been completely camouflaged by the leaves and vines of its neighbors. There wasn’t anything particularly special about it, in fact as far as Lex could tell it was one of the ugliest ones in the whole patch, discolored with spots of damage dotting its surface and roughing its edges.

But Adam had seen some sort of value in it, he had chosen it, so maybe it was worth something…

“Fine, sure, grab it so we can get out of here.”

She turned on her heels to leave, but felt a hand on her shoulder. She fought her initial instinct to break the hand and instead looked back at him. The look he gave her threatened to pull her in as the Moon pulled the tides.

“Alexis, I-”

He shook his head as if waking from a dream then removed his hand.

“I wanted to thank you for sharing this with us. I know the others have enjoyed the day so far and are looking forward to the other activities we have planned.”

She stared at him, taking in every detail, every line of his face and every stitch of his coat. For some reason she wanted to remember this moment, the moment where she realized that Adam had a thing for choosing broken things. After saving the mental picture and framing it in the back of her mind, she simply said, “just harvest the pumpkin, Adam.”

[sleep-i-ness]

Happier Without You (George Weasley x reader) (past!Blaise Zabini x reader)

For @angelinathebook‘s 300 challenge. So this was originally meant to be Blaise Zabini x reader but it kinda became a George Weasley x reader so enjoy.

Prompt: 15. “You’ve changed” “Yeah, I’m happier without you”

Content Warning: scars, mention of torture and war

Taglist: @missmulti @acciotwinz​ @1marvelavengers1​ @samnblack @neymarlionelmessi7 @okkulta​  @gredandforge​ @stellariddle @weasleyincorporated @holybatflapexpert​ @persephonehemingway​ @blisfvll​ @marsdior @bloodblossom73​ @ccosmic-illusion​ @20coldhearts​ @whointhehellisbucky​

You touch up your lipstick in the hall mirror, blotting it with your index finger as you purse your lips at your reflection. Your fingers worry at the hem of your dress as you give yourself the once-over again, critically eyeing every line and blemish. You hadn’t worn something this revealing in years, not since before the Battle. Before, when everything had been a lot simpler. And you were still nervous of the way scars poked out from beneath the neckline, tugging it higher as your reflection warped more and more. Tonight was the evening of a celebratory ball for the anniversary of the battle, a memorial for those who passed and a reminder of the bright future you all had to look forward to. But when you think about it, your stomach twists, a gut-wrenching nausea racing through you.

George had convinced you to come, pressing light kisses over every scar as he’d made sure to reiterate just how bloody beautiful he found you. You lightly trace the silvery lines crisscrossing over your collarbones, glistening under the warm hall light. A weariness settles deep into your bones as your eyes prickle. Footsteps dashing down the stairs broke you from your reverie and you roll your shoulders back, straightening your posture.

“You ready, darling?”

You hum in response, flashing George a tired smile as he joins you by the mirror. He presses a gentle kiss into the side of your head, straightening his bow tie in the mirror. Every time you see him, your heart skips a beat, reminding you how lucky you are that someone like him loves you. And how little you deserve his affection.

“We don’t have to stay any longer than you want to.”

The ball is in full swing as you arrive, clusters of people gathered round the edges of the hall. A soft glow is cast by the candles hanging just above head height, the polished floorboards glistening gold. Parvati and Lavender, who you hadn’t seen since their wedding, accost you almost immediately, dragging you away from George. You flash him a grimace, eyes crinkling as you let them tug you along.

“How are you?” Padma pulls you into a hug, squeezing you tight and suddenly you remember how much you missed everyone. You’d withdrawn after the Battle, unsure how to cope with the hollow emptiness sucking in any emotions. Then, like an angel sent from above, you bumped into George at the Third-Hand Book Emporium, in a quite literal sense. You’d been scouring the shelves for a limited First Folio edition of Shakespeare’s unperformed play when you’d collided and immediately started apologising. He’d dragged you from whatever hole you’d found yourself in and you couldn’t ever repay him.

“Good, good, and you?”

“All good, I have missed you so much, hun.”

Hermione is the next to greet you, hair pulled back in an elegant updo. You haven’t seen her since the Battle, feeling the flash of pain mirrored in her expression as you remember those you lost. There was something bittersweet in the air, the joyful atmosphere undercut by the sombre grief still so keenly felt. Her arm brushes Ron’s, who is looking dapper in a set of dark robes that are much more fetching than those he wore to the Yule Ball. You tell him as much, with a laugh, and he pulls a face. It’s almost like being back at school, just without the fear of seeing a teacher ready to tell you off for dawdling.

You glance across the room, making eye contact with George, who grins in reply. He’s deep in conversation with his housemates; his being a couple years above had meant that your relationship had only blossomed out of the confines of Hogwarts. He seems enthralled in the conversation, enthused in a way you only saw when he was talking about one of his many passions. You pull yourself away from your thoughts, turning back to the conversation around you.

Seamus and Dean stride over, the former looking smug, although slightly sooty, as Dean rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Sorry we’re late, this one decided that our basement needed to become a bombsite again.”

You lift a hand shyly, shifting from foot to foot. You feel sort of out of place here, amongst people who had clearly seen each other recently, whereas you’d dropped off the map as soon as you could. But before you could let your insecurities overwhelm you, Dean is already pulling you into a hug. Your nose is buried into his shoulder and you relish in the brotherly affection.

“I missed you, squirt.” He ruffles your hair with his knuckles, and you push him off, quickly trying to sort out your updo.

“’M sorry,” you murmur, and he just pulls you in tight again.

As everyone relaxes into the ease of familiarity, the band begins to pick up. The crooning vocals of Myron Wagtail fill the room as couples start to break away from the edges and onto the dance floor. Flowing fabrics swish, their bright colours lifting the atmosphere of the room. You feel a hand clasp loosely onto your wrist and smile up at George, who presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“Mind if I steal her away?”

Lavender grins, shooing the two of you away. You start swaying in his arms, letting him lead you as couples twirl and pass you haphazardly. If there was anything that wizards were good at, it was chaos. As you sink into his arms, warmth kindling in your heart, your eyes catch on a familiar figure. Your feet stutter as his brown eyes snare yours.

What the hell was he doing here?

“You alright, darling?” George’s concerned face snaps you away from the confusion brewing within you.

“Yeah, just a bit spaced,” you paused. “I’m just going to pop to the bathroom.”

You break from him, smile dropping as you trudge out the room. You feel exhausted, limbs sagging as you clamber the stairs. Pausing in front of the gilded mirror, you sigh. You look tired, the light striking your features harshly, highlighting the dark bags and puffy skin. People pass you, faceless figures chatting, and you ignore them.

Blaise stares at you, paling as he takes you in. He nods at you, swallowing harshly and you force a smile to keep your face from twisting into a sour grimace.

“Hello Blaise.”

“Y/N.” He’s cautious in his actions, acting as if you were a cornered animal. Still trying to protect you. And the only thing you ever needed protecting from was him. “You’ve changed.”

“Yeah, I’m happier without you,” you bite back, relishing in the hurt flashing across his features. You smile, saccharine sweet. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to be getting back to my friends… You know, the kind of people who would defend me against torturers.”

You roll your shoulders back, pursing your lips and turning on your heel.

Blaise watches you stride off, a soft pang tugging at his chest. He winces. He couldn’t blame you, but it still hurt to see you happy without him. He had watched you spinning around the dance floor, in the arms of another man. The familiar giggle had caught his ear and the expression on your face had stopped his breath. He had never seen you look so in love, eyes alit, as you smiled up at someone who wasn’t him.

The stabbing pain had subsided by now to a dull ache, low in his stomach as it churns unhappily. You’re long gone from his vision. He is left staring into space, eyes vacant and misty as he thinks about what could have been. If only he hadn’t been such a coward.

[sonicthehedgehoglover2]

For the rottmnt fics request: some angsty apritello??? Your choice of angst

Donnie stumbled into his laboratory, his hip nearly avoiding bumping into his metallic doorframe. The bright, fluorescent lighting within his lab beamed down on his sore and battered body, and it burned his tired eyes. He scrubbed at them with one filthy, bandaged hand and slumped against the wall, relishing in the cooling sensation that is presented to his overheated body. An overwhelming weight pressed against his back and, for the first time since he’d created his invention, his battle shell felt like it was suffocating him. His bruised fingers brushed the surface of his battle shell, scouring for the latches to release it from his back. Donnie’s digits slipped over and over again on the smooth metal, his usually calm temper igniting to life with each failed attempt.

“Here,” he jumped at the abrupt, soft voice that spoke up from behind him. Donnie craned his neck around, and he took note of April standing in the doorway of his lab. She smiled, weakly, at him; an expression that somehow seemed soft and sad at the same time. April strolled into the lab, and she extended her hands out to him. “Let me help you.”

For some reason he couldn't quite grasp, something hot and heavy built within his chest, pressing down on his very lungs at April's offer. It molded into a large ball and spread across his torso, making his skin crawl at the prospect of April touching him - of helping him. Donnie immediately pulled away from her searching hands before they could touch his suddenly sensitive skin.

“It’s fine, April,” Donnie stated, firmly, coldly. “I can at least do one thing on my own.”

April pulled her hands back at Donnie’s tone, and she stepped back a couple of steps, her smile slipping away from her lips. Donnie never noticed the change in her demeanor and, instead, he chose to refocus his attention upon trying to unlock his invention from his back. His clumsy fingers continued to fumble on the lock mechanisms precisely ten more times - he knew because he counted every infuriating try within his mind. Eventually, his invention must’ve pitied him, and the latches popped open with a loud hiss. His battle shell slid down from his back, and it fell to the unforgiving ground with a clatter.

Any other time, Donnie would’ve been absolutely mortified at the literal idea of his precious invention even brushing against the ground. Now, however, he staggered away from his machine and left it in a pile of dejected metal on the floor, the state of his machine the last thing in his mind. Gracelessly, Donnie plopped himself before one of his many, many computer screens - yet, they all say the same thing over and over - and he wirelessly hooked his digital gauntlet up to the monitors. He forced his strained eyes to scan through all the rushing info on the screens before him, soaking in all that he possibly could as he’s been doing over the past couple of days.

While he drowned himself in his never-ending work, April found herself drifting over to Donnie’s forgotten battle shell, and she stooped down towards it. Gingerly, she gathered the shell-like machine into her hands with ease, the invention light with minimal weight to it, and her dark eyes scoured its surface. Her brown fingertips lightly traced along the newly formed scratches etched into the bright purple-and-black paint, feeling small scars that hadn’t been there before.

The corners of her lips were pulled downwards at the sight. The original Donnie that she knew would’ve never have let his favorite and most relied upon invention get in this bad of shape; it was a known fact that he’d always kept it in perfect condition.

A very loud frustrated shout suddenly drew April back to reality, and she looked up in time to witness the softshell tear his digital gauntlet from his heavily bandaged wrist. With a literal growl, the gauntlet bouncing twice with a tiny shattering noise. April pursed her lips in concern at the surprisingly emotional display from the usually calm softshell, and she gently placed the battle shell onto the scratched gray table beside her.

“What happened?” April asked, gently, her voice loud in the unnatural silence that had settled over her second home. She slowly approached the softshell, her previous failed attempt still fresh within her mind. “Did you find something?”

Donnie twisted his head around, and he fixed her with a hard red-tinged stare. What bothered April the most about the expression was that it wasn’t the usual look he’d throw one of his brothers when he thought they were being too rowdy; it was a borderline heated glare. And, it was directed at her of all people.

“Yes, April,” Donnie said, flatly. There was a line of something dangerous - angry - hidden within his tone. “I definitely found something important, and that is why I threw my device on the ground.”

April furrowed her brow at the sarcastic remark, a faint flicker of anger igniting within her chest. Before she could even think of voicing her thoughts, Donnie continued talking, oblivious. “Of course, there’s nothing here! All that time I spent trying to track down the Purple Dragons, and I’ve got nothing but this-!”

Donnie smacked his bandaged fist against the wall beside the computer monitors, ignoring the sharp burst of pain that accompanied the action. The corners of April’s lips turned downwards at what was displayed upon the multiple bright screens, dread trickling into the pit of her stomach. Nearly every screen showed chibi versions of the Purple Dragons grinning madly with their leader, Kendra, out front chanting the word, “loser,” over and over, her voice loud and piercing.

Donnie sighed, and he staggered away from the monitors, clenching his newly aggravated hand around the wrist. “I… don’t know what to do next.”

April eyed the small splotches of crimson blooming across Donnie’s hand. “It’ll be okay, Donnie.”

The soft encouragement didn’t have the desired effect that April thought it would. In fact, Donnie seemed to stiffen, his expression hardening into stone. “How, April? Tell me how. It’s been approximately-” he paused, crunching some sort of invisible numbers within his mind. “Forty-nine hours and twenty-one minutes, and I have absolutely nothing to show for it!”

“Then, we’ll figure something out,” April shoved a shaky smile upon her face. “We always do.”

Donnie laughed, weakly, bitterly. “We included my brothers, and we - I still don’t know where they are! They’re depending on me - their tech guy - to save them, and all I’ve done is waste time!” He stumbled over to his chair, and he practically fell into it, hiding his face into one of his hands. In a low voice, he murmured, “I’m supposed to be smarter than this.”

April’s brown eyes widened behind her signature red glasses, and she didn’t hesitate to make her way over to the sullen softshell. Carefully, she lowered herself before him, taking note of the way Donnie’s shoulders trembled, and she placed a delicate hand on his knee. Donnie shivered - whether from her touch or his own roiling emotions, April wasn’t sure - but he didn’t pull away.

“Donatello,” April started, her voice firm. “You are literally the smartest and techiest guy I’ve ever met. But that isn’t all you are. Any time I, or anyone else, has ever been in trouble, you’ve always known what to do. And, you always care even if you don’t show it all the time. Wherever your brothers are, they know you’re trying your hardest.” She brushed her fingers against Donnie’s closed bloody hand, coaxing him to unfurl it. “I know you’re trying your hardest. But, you have to realize that you’re not going through this on your own.”

April pulled Donnie’s hand from his face, the softshell permitting her, and held it. She smiled at his watery eyes and the wet patches around the eye-holes in his mask. “I’m still here,” she said.

Donnie froze and, for the first time, he found himself getting a good look at April. She seemed just as tired as him, small bags lining the skin under her eyes. Her pigtails were lopsided atop her head, and her glasses sported a crack along the outside of one of the lenses. A large bruise bloomed from underneath a bandaid on her left cheek; she got it after they fell into one of the Purple Dragon’s traps.

She was right.

Burning tears welled up in Donnie’s eyes, and they trailed their way down his face. To both of their surprises, Donnie nearly leaped forward, and he embraced her as tight as he could. He buried his face within the green fabric of her torn jacket, inhaling smoke and flowery laundry detergent. April paused, momentarily taken off-guard, and she wrapped her arms around his jerking shoulders.

“Thank you, April,” he sobbed.

“No problem,” she hummed. “That’s what family’s for.”

[thoughtfullyyoungduck]

Scars

Summary: could you do a losers club x reader where she has scars or maybe she’s having a panic attack and basically she just hides it and then the losers find out and comfort her and they find out it’s henry so they all go and confront him

Warning: mentions of scars and low self-esteem because of it

A/N: I hope you enjoy it! Let me know what you think

‘Hey guys, the clubhouse is the other way, or did you forget?’

‘Oh did we not tell you?’ Richie smirks, leaving you to instantly prepare for the worst. ‘Change of plans, we’re going to the quarry.’

For every time the losers go swimming, there’s an excuse to weasel out of it. The first few times the losers wanted to go to the quarry, you simply claimed you couldn’t swim, that the water terrified you with its unpredictable waves that could kill you at any moment if you weren’t considered enough. That excuse lasted for a while, until Richie scoured through your photo albums and found a photo of you as a little girl grinning from ear to ear in the sea near where your old home was. Then the losers started getting suspicious and called you out on it.

You were forced to admit, under rosy cheeks and a heart full of guilt, that you lied to them about not being able to swim, and you were just joking to see how long I would last before they caught on. The reasoning was flimsy at best, and Stan, never one to take bullshit from anyone, saw straight through you but remained silent.

The next time the quarry was brought up, you agreed to go, but canceled with the justification that you were sick. The time after that you were grounded, and after that you had more chores to do then you anticipated and couldn’t finish them in time to join.

You knew time was running out, and that sooner or later the losers would notice that you always and only didn’t show up whenever the activity was swimming. You didn’t back down for anything else, ranging from going to the movies or helping Eddie sneak out of his house at night, you’d be there and you’d do it. And in reality, swimming really didn’t faze you at all. Sure, it was unpredictable and could be potentially dangerous, but you thrived under that. You like the way danger adds a bit of spice to the boring and normal life you would otherwise be forced to live in a small town like Derry.

The water isn’t the problem for you, it doesn��t frighten you the way you claimed, what frightens you is the idea of your friends seeing the remnants of what Henry Bowers has done to you.

The day you moved to Derry, way before Beverly approached you and offered you a spot in the losers club, Henry cornered you outside of Keens pharmacy. You’d picked up some Tylenol to stash in your medicine cabinet at home when Henry, who you had no idea at was an actually psychopath at the time, asked you for your name.

His goons were hidden somewhere you couldn’t see, and fresh with the nervousness of being the new kid in a small town, you had been grateful someone was willing to be friendly and get acquainted with you. The sick grin playing on his features was a cruel taunt towards you having to much faith in your fellow peers. He surprised you with a knife gash to the arm, a probable single for the others to come help him by holding you back by the arms, while Henry quote; ‘Do to this bitch what I couldn’t do the fat boy.’

The name Henry now starkly proclaims what he perpetrated, and it’s the cutting is obvious every time you take your shirt off. It’s a disgusting claim Henry tried to force on you, and you won’t allow it to be seen by anyone, including your friends. And if that meant lying to them about a triviality, then so be it.

The sun glistens on the quarry water as the group arrives, and in a moment of undisclosed frustration, you glare at the water that has given you such a hard time over the past few months. In retaliation, the light reflection hits you straight in the eyes, effectively blinding you for a second.

‘Okay Y/N, time to make a decision, wanna jump from the cliff and get it over with or start slow by walking in? If it makes the choice easier, Eddie’s mom always rolls in.’ Richie says to you, grinning as a furious Eddie throws insults at him.

There’s not a lot of excuses that can be called up at the last moment, but you try to think of one anyway.

‘Actually I don’t feel so good, I think I’m going to sit this one out, but you guys go ahead and have fun.’

‘No, we’re going to help you overcome your fear of swimming today, no more putting it off.’

‘What?’

‘Your fear of swimming. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.’ Bev explains, already well on her way of throwing her clothes in a heap, leaving her in her swimwear. You gulp loudly and hope no one noticed it.  

‘Don’t be embarrassed. All of us are scared of something, but that’s what we’re here for, we help each other, so now we’re going to help you with this.’ Mike’s a sweetheart, all of your friends are, but this issue is for beyond what they think they know.

Richie and Eddie, ever the two amok makers, are in the water up to their waist shoving each other forward without waiting on the rest of the losers. It seems fun, and you really want to join in. You heard all about the water games they play when you’re too busy avoiding getting undressed and admittedly, it always stings. But it doesn’t sting enough for you to get over the weariness of showing the losers what Henry did to you.  

‘We can stay on the side if you prefer that? We won’t go any further than we can stand, I promise.’ The earnestly of the statement is what makes it so hard to decline.

‘Hey guys,’ Ben speaks up after regarding you with peeked curiosity. ‘What if we do something more fun today? We could swim with our clothes on.’

‘Ben I don’t think-‘

‘Actually, that’s a great idea. I’d really like that.’ Getting to keep your shirt on means that your scar won’t be visible, and because Ben suggested it, no one will be suspicious of you.

‘With clothes in the water? Are you crazy? Swimming with clothes increases the percentage of dying by, I don’t even know how much but like 90%.’ Eddie’s hurriedly rushing back to shore, trying to get on dry land as fast as possible. He doesn’t think twice about running over the tiny rocks that he usually carefully avoids, convinced that they carry some kind of decease with them, not when he has a whole lot of information to share. His frantic behavior causes you to chuckle.

‘Eddie-‘ Bev hisses in warning. With her eyes she tries to send a silent message, trying to get Eddie to stop talking.’

‘No it’s okay. Like Bill said, I’ll just stay on the side.’ You smile gratefully towards Ben, who reciprocates almost inconspicuously.

‘Well if your highnesses are finally done chattering our afternoon away, can we now please get on with it? I have an eight o’clock appointment with Eddie’s mom.’

‘Beep beep Richie’, the whole group chants.

As it turns out, you missed out on a lot more than just taking a dip. You forewent hours of playing chicken and sitting on the shoulders of your friends in a battle to push the losers on someone else shoulder off, and dunking Richie underwater once his bravery took over his mouth. You missed out on karaoke from the water, listening to a song on the radio that Mike brought with him from the farm house.

To protect yourself from disappointment, you’d imagined these trips to be the same boring routine all the time, but you had been proven wrong. Now you finally understood why the losers were always so eager to go to the quarry again. It’s probably even better without wet clothes sticking to your skin and the fear that in a play fight your shirt would crawl a little too high to reveal Henry’s signature, but the day you had was perfect none the less.

All the activity has worn you out, especially with the extra weight of wet clothes to drag you down, so you decide to rest up on land, sitting in the direction of your friends who are still going at it. Richie scoop his hands full of water and aims it at Eddie, who screeches and dips him under water for his efforts while the rest of the group shakes their head fondly. A typical day with the losers.

‘I don’t like taking off my shirt either.’ Ben says, spooking you with how close he’s standing suddenly. You hadn’t even heard him coming.

‘Oh, why?’ Ben having very little to no self-esteem isn’t a secret, and you’d overheard enough things at school to figure out why, but you didn’t think that was an issue with the losers, where everyone had their own little quirks and oddities and nobody was made fun of for it.

‘My weight for one,’ he laughs but it’s not bitter, it’s more a self-deprecating laugh, like the idea that he isn’t repulsive is too funny to consider. ‘And the Henry thing.’

‘What Henry thing?’

‘You didn’t know?’ He lifts up the edges of shirt, exhibiting the large letter H carved into the soft skin of his stomach. It’s nauseating, not because it’s ugly, but the fact that anyone, psychopath or not, could do something that cruel to sweet Ben. A realization dawns on you.

‘Henry didn’t like me very much, I think he was trying to do his full name and scare me off but he didn’t get the chance. Anyway it’s fine, I’ve got you guys to make me feel better. I just wanted to tell you so you’d know you aren’t alone.’ He stands up and prepares to dive back into the water, but his braveness has created a path for yours.

‘Ben wait’, you call out, dashing over to his side. ‘He did it to me too’, you say in one breath, afraid that if you think about it to much you’ll back down. ‘Look.’ Your fingers trace over the scare tissue as you raise your shirt just enough so the bottom of the lines are visible. ‘I guess he had more time with me then with you.’

‘Y/N’, Ben exhales shocked. His hand hovers over shirt, unsure if he’s allowed to touch. ‘I’m so sorry that happened to you.’

‘It’s fine, there’s nothing that can be done about it now anyway. I was just embarrassed about it I guess. But when you showed me yours, I finally understood there was nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘Hey shitheads, are you coming back in or what?’ Richie voice cuts through the atmosphere hanging around Ben and you. It breaks you out of your shared world of past grievances and hurt, and back into the new era full of love and a friendship that will never abandon either of you.

‘We’re coming’, you yell to Richie, then look back to Ben. Let’s take our shirts off’, you suggest, waiting on Ben’s conformation or denial. ‘There’s nothing for either of us to be ashamed of, so let’s just do it. Fuck Henry.’

Ben laughs, then nods determinately. ‘Yeah, fuck Henry indeed.’

The both of you run into the water wearing nothing but your swimsuits.

A few days later you walk past the school entrance with new found confidence. Of course the losers had question, but you answered them as best as you could, and it feels like a part of you, a part you didn’t want, has been left in the past while you’ve moved forward.

As you walk past the girls bathroom, you happen to pick up on two girls gossiping to the other, all hushed as if they’re sharing the biggest secret anyone could imagine.

‘Didn’t you hear? Apparently those kids that call themselves the losers club ambushed him last night. They say that Henry never stood a change and that he cried like a baby.’

‘Shoot, I would have payed money to see that.’                                                

You roll your eyes, already thinking of ways to simultaneously kill and thank your friends.

[nikkialena]

A Clone’s Desire

You were a rookie padawan who’d finally been selected after a long waiting period at the jedi temple; you were more than a bit excited to finally be out in the field, not like you didn’t enjoy master Yoda’s company and his wise teaching but you couldn’t help but tremble at the idea of being with your very own master and a trooper squadron. Which is why you were superstitiously checking your reflection in the mirror; you wanted everything to be perfect because apparently there were going to be a few 501st clones in you’re squadron, your heart raced a mile a minute as you began scouring your features in the mirror for any kind of flaws. 

A knock at the door made goosebumps spread across your skin; you were both nervous and afraid and about two seconds from puking but you pulled yourself together, swallowing the lump in your throat you reached for the bathroom handle with trembling fingertips.

 “Your a secret weapon, your going to help the jedi and end the war you are amazing” you muttered to to yourself trying to hype yourself up; you side eyed yourself in the mirror taking one last glance over you’re general appearance, you were dressed in a sleeveless black crop top with a little patch in the middle revealing a bit of cleavage.  

A leather utility belt sat lopsided on your waist right above a pair of baggy black camo pants with about fifteen pockets; you had a dozen different varieties of trinkets shoved in your many pockets, Yoda loathed when you did that, always saying how it would anker you down. But you always brushed him off mumbling something along the lines of I got this; taking a deep breath you tried to make yourself stand tall as you opened the door to your room, you glanced around your room making sure everything looked right. Sniffing the air you sighed thankful it smelt decent; another knock on the door made shivers dance down your spine but you slapped your cheeks and put on your tough face, “one minute” you called out as you stood in front of your bedroom mirror trying to decide if you looked presentable. You checked your dark skin in the reflection and tugged the scrunchy from your lucious {h/c} allowing your beautiful curls to spill down your back and along your shoulders, after tearing your eyes away from the mirror you briskly walked towards the door and ripped it open before you could second guess yourself for the fifth time. Standing in front of your door frame was an auburn  haired man with a small beard dressed in nearly all white robes; the only color on him being his reddish shoes and brownish undergarments and piercing blue eyes.  

“Ah I see you’ve finally decided to join us [Y/N]; well I hope you're ready for your first mission because we leave in fifteen minutes, but first I’d like you to rendezvou with the troopers and introduce yourself. We’ll be holding a mission debriefing in ten minutes in the cockpit; please do try and make sure every detail is crucial on the battlefield. Oh and uh welcome to the team padawan I look forward to working with you. Lets hope you turn out better than Anakin”, he muttered that last part more so to himself you weren’t exactly sure what to do so you bowed and mumbled a soft “yes sensei”.  

He gave you a cheeky smile before walking down the corridor and disappearing down a hall, casting one last glance to the mirror you sighed and forced yourself out the room, you weren’t exactly sure where the clones were. So you kinda wandered aimlessly until you bumped into one dressed in a bulky white suit with the occasional splashes of orange decorating his helmet and armor, at first he didn’t notice you no one ever did. When you were designed you were significantly shorter than most of the clones; standing at a measly five feet and four inches but what you lacked in height you made up for in curves.  Finally noticing you the trooper took off his helmet and saluted you giving you just enough time to scope him out; he had tanned skin rich brown eyes and a short raven colored buzz cut, a strange marking sat just above his right eye and you held back the urge to trace it with your fingers. “Hello, I’m Sergeant Cody but most people just call me CC-2224, you must be General Kenobi’s news padawan..um [Y/N] was it?” 

 As his eyes shifted to you, you felt yourself shrink under the intensity of his gaze. The way his chocolate eyes bore deep into your soul almost made you feel naked, “uh yea that’s me” you managed to squeak cursing yourself for sounding so cowardly. For a second his brows lowered as he looked and took in your features but it vanished as quick as it came, however you noticed this and grumbled softly you knew that look all too well. It was that aren’t you a bit young to be a padawan? Which you despised, “I’ll have you know Sergeant Cody I’m twenty” you spat venom creeping into your tone, the look of shock on his face was equally annoying but just like before it melted away so quickly if you hadn’t been paying attention you wouldn’t have noticed. Yet another gift from your makers; most people mistook you for a fifteen or sixteen year old and it was fun at first, but it quickly got annoying. You both just stood in awkward silence, you glaring at him while he avoided eye contact; it wasn’t until another person came up to you that you stopped your death stare and he seemed to sigh in relief. 

The approaching male was tall with cream colored skin, short brown wavy hair swept backwards and soft blue eyes, he had a tiny little scratch on his left eyebrow and a cocky looking smirk etched on his features. Unlike the other males you’ve seen he was almost completely dressed in black, or at least a very dark brown you weren’t exactly sure but you weren’t given much time to dwell on it due to him swinging one arm around your neck and pulling you in for a nuggie. 

“Hey, squirt look at you all grown up and ready to become a jedi it pleases me that you’re my replacement” he hummed while deliberately ruffling your hair, at first you were dumbfounded and very pissed off that this random douchebag not only forcibly hugged you but also messed up your hair you worked so hard to neaten. But your anger quickly fizzled out as realization settled in and your frowned only deepened, “oh Anakin it’s you how ya been?” You asked, trying to readjust your hair as he let you go and began walking making you and Cody follow, “well you know squirt the usual” he said motioning with a flick of wrist into the air.

 “So getting in trouble and causing problems for everyone else” you sang earning a snort from Cody quickly covered by a discrete series of coughs, Anakin’s cheeks turned a soft shade of red for a moment before he brushed your comment off “they call it trouble I call it creative thinking”. “No I can assure you there’s nothing creative about your fighting methods, it's just destructive” a familiar voice interjected into your conversation, you turned to be greeted by the same warm smile from your sensei as he waited leaned up against a wall surrounded by a couple of troopers.

 Anakin just scoffed and slapped you on the shoulder a bit roughly; “this guys a riot you're sure to have an amazing time under his watch” the sarcasm in his words was so thick you could almost feel it. Obi Wan just rolled his eyes at his former pupil and motioned for you to enter the cockpit, the meeting began and you just kinda sunk into the back as the generals and the troopers made plans. It’s not like you weren’t paying attention but you just felt so out of place here amongst all these skilled soldiers; sure you were well trained. 

I mean freaking Yoda supervised you in the temple, but you’d never been on the battlefield before and it was kinda frightening. “First time in the meeting room” a gentle voice voice whispered, snapping you out of your train of thought, shifting your gaze to your right you were met with a Togurta with bright crystal blue eyes, peachy orange skin and beautiful whit markings scattered across her face. 

“How can you tell” you mumbled while letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding; she smiled and pointed at your fingers drumming against your thighs, ‘oh that’ you thought to yourself of course your body betrayed you it always has. “Yea, I’m fresh out the temple” you whispered and she nodded slowly eyes flickering back to the talking men, “well you don’t have to be so nervous we’re not doing anything to dangerous just pushing back a couple of seppies out of a potential base area” that calms you down just a little bit.”Doesn’t sound to hard” you mused with a soft smile on your face “don’t jinx it” she hissed confusing you, “what?” 

 She looked at you with a quirked brow “haven't you ever seen a movie, whenever someone says oh that was too easy it gets significantly harder so don’t jinx it”, you nodded in understanding just as you both got called on the carpet, “I’m sorry are we boring you ladies or do you have something to add to the battle plans?” You heard the girl next to you swallow thickly as all eyes turned to both of you and you felt slightly responsible, so stepping up you tried your best not to try and sound like an idiot, “Um well actually we’re trying to push our way into separtiest base right?” A soldier dressed in white and blue gave an acute nod all the while glaring at you with his chilling golden eyes, “well I think it would be wise if I was on the frontlines while the troopers distract the seppies I could sneak in and create an opening for them” you added hopefully but were met with hard stares. 

“And just how would you go about that padawan?” The clone in blue growled through his helmet you didn’t need to see his eyes to see the look of doubt written across his face, this annoyed the crap out of you and you allowed a bit of spite to slip into your voice “oh well simple that’s a need to know bais trooper and woulda look at that your not on the list pity”. 

You poked out your bottom lip and faked a tear as everyone kind of stared at you in shock; you swear you saw Obi Wan’s eye twitch as he muttered something like oh great and Anakin just had the cheesiest smile on his face. He wrapped his arm around your neck again and pulled you in for a hug; “did I forget to mention we were best friends at the temple”, everyone in the room seemed to tense at that knowledge and General Kenobi sighed. “Lucky me then; that’s not how you speak to your superiors [Y/N] but we’ll talk about that later, just what do you have in mind miss [Y/N]?”  You smiled confidently and crossed your arms across your chest pushing up your breast a smidge, “well like I said I’m not supposed to go talking about it willy nilly sensei orders from the jedi council, but I can tell you and general skywalker but that’ll have to wait because we have a mission just trust me I got this.”

 The blue clone scoffed a bit watching how intensely General Kenobi was watching you, “you can’t be serious general you're going to leave this to a shiny padawan” he spat a little louder than intended sensei stroked his beard before sighing. “The jedi counsel sent her to aid us even though she’s fresh she must be capable of extraordinary things, I’m trusting you [Y/N] the whole republic is counting on this base can you really accomplish what you're saying?” You felt pride swell in your chest as saluted him “Just leave it to me sir they don’t call me blitz for nothing”, the ride down to the planet was filled with silence as you mentally prepped yourself for the upcoming battle “here goes nothing” you muttered softly as the doors to the dropship creaked open.

[maandags]

I don’t know if it was ever confirmed, but imagine being the one to find Sokka’s Meteor Sword (that he lost in the final battle) and returning it to him.

two more days.

two more days’ walking, and you’ll get to the Capital. two more days’ walking, and your weeks-long journey will finally come to an end.

you nibble on the piece of carefully wrapped bread that you purchased in the last village you passed through. it’s a sunny day, so you found a tree casting shade to sit and rest in. beside you sits your backpack, your bedroll, and tied to your pack the dark metal sword.

it was an insane idea, at first. after scouring the battlefield -- burned, then flooded -- for survivors, or corpses, or anything salvageable at all, you found the sword sticking up from ash-covered soil like it was a thing from legend. black blade against a blackened background, it gave you chills the first time you laid eyes upon it.

a rare sword, it is. not many weapons are that well-made, and made of this particular material. you took it home, cleaned it, polished it. never really knew what to do with it, to be honest -- you’re no swordsmaster. you’re a traveller. someone who knows people and places.

but you took it with you, wrapped in cloth and bound with twine. foolish, in hindsight; it could so easily have been stolen off of you. it still could be. but you did it anyway, not even knowing what to do with it, and by some sort of miracle you were still in possession of it when you ran into a few members of the White Lotus.

well-worn travellers like yourself know a lot of people in a lot of places. you’re no official member of the White Lotus -- though you’d say the relationship you have with them is one of understanding and respect. some well-known figures rank high amongst its members. you’ve had tea with General Iroh of the Fire Nation, as well as King Bumi of Omashu, and other such figures. 

but that’s none of your business, of course. you’re merely a traveller.

however, you had to admit that the small Fire Nation village of Bluevalley is not where you’d expected a White Lotus headquarters to be. 

“why, hello, Y/N. how nice that our paths cross again.” the General’s eyes twinkled. 

you tipped your hat in respect -- a bow without bowing -- and smile. “an honour, as always.”

“tea?”

“that only seems appropriate, doesn’t it?”

Iroh smiled. “indeed it does.”

it was a cozy yet functional headquarters, with a low table and no windows. you didn’t waste time looking around. that was not what you were there for. you were there to have tea; a traveller enjoying old friends’ hospitality.

none of the men asked you what you were doing here, and you did the same. you talked about small things; your recent discoveries regarding various flora and their applications, spiritual talk; vague enough for there to be no real substance to the conversation, yet enough to keep it going nonetheless.

but your attention was focused on Master Piandao. known master of swordfighting, teacher only to those he deems worthy. you thought he might be interested in the blade you carried. 

“master Piandao.”

he slowly took a sip of tea, then looked at you. “yes, Y/N?” 

“I have something I’d like you to take a look at.”

Piandao raised an eyebrow. “do you, now?”

you nodded, gingerly setting your teacup on the table and turning to retrieve your bag, which sat against the wall, next to the door. sticking out of the flap was the sword, wrapped in fabric to conceal and protect the blade. you heaved it out, walking back to the men and laying it out across the table, working to untie the knots. you watched Piandao’s face carefully as the fabric fell away, trying to gauge his reaction.

but he was not a high-ranking member of the White Lotus for nothing, and his expression revealed nothing – until his lips curled into a faint smile. “yes. I know this blade.”

it surprised you, because in reality you hadn’t expected him to know this particular sword out of every sword he must have encountered in his life. but he apparently did, and you leaned forward, interest increased tenfold. “you – you do?”

Piandao lifted it, inspected corners and balance, before gently setting it back on its fabric encasing. “yes. and I’m sure you have heard of him too.” he smiled at you, eyes twinkling. “he is part of the Avatar’s closest friends, after all.”

you stare at him blankly. “you’re not serious.”

“I can assure you I am very much serious.” he cast another look at the sword. 

on the other side of the table, Iroh nodded. “Sokka is very skilled with it. however, I was under the assumption he lost it during the Battle of Sozin’s Comet.”

you shrugged. “I think he did. I just found it, cleaned it. figured I’d try to find its owner.”

Piandao looked at you, estranged. “that is very noble of you, Y/N. not many people would have done the same thing.”

you winked at him. “I’m not like most people, Master Piandao.”

he laughed softly. “that, you aren’t.”

that had been weeks ago. you’d figured you’d just make for the Fire Nation Capital, since that’s where the Avatar and his posse reside at the moment. what to do when you get there – how to actually meet Sokka, actual war hero and probably bearer of a bunch of other titles by now – was a whole other problem, but you’d cross that bridge when you got to it.

two more days, and you’ll get to the wall.

you knock back the last of your water – you’ll have to find a pond or a spring soon to fill it – and stand, swinging your pack onto your back, heaving a sigh. two more days.

the walls of the Capital are even taller than you imagined them to be. inside, you can tell city life is buzzing, people bustling around, shouts and laughter drifting through the air; they’re celebrating still, despite the defeat of Ozai and the ascension of Fire Lord Zuko being a solid two months past already. you’ve heard that the Capital has never been this alive.

“halt.” four guards at the gates, stopping people, exchanging a few words with them, then sending them on their way. you tilt up your hat, putting on your least mysterious smile. 

“what is your business in the city?”

“I’m merely a traveller, sir. just passing through. my cousin has a tea shop here.” the lie flows from your lips with ease. 

the guard looks you up and down, not looking entirely convinced. “anything to declare?”

“no, sir.” you’d tried to conceal the sword as best you could. now, barely the tip of the blade was sticking out of your pack, and you’d managed to cover that up pretty well with your bedroll. they’d have to go rummaging through your stuff to find it.

the guard looks you over one more time, then shrugs and steps aside. “all right. enjoy your stay.”

you smile at him. “thank you. I will.”

it takes you another day to reach the inner Capital inside the Capital. hm. here was where you’d need to either be creative, or ask to meet Sokka. how successful of an endeavor that would be, you weren’t sure of. you’ll just have to… figure something out. 

okay. attempt one. you leave your pack at the cheap inn you stayed at the previous night – it stings a little, but also, there’s nothing in there you can’t get in the city. life as a traveller taught you to not get too attached to your pack or its contents. except, of course, for the sword, which you strap across your back. it’s wrapped in one more layer of dark green cloth, to better conceal its shape.

a walk around the wall tells you it is… very well guarded. there are two points of entry, both gates watched by four guards. the shift change is well coordinated, so sneaking in during it is not feasible either. and even if you did manage to slip past the guards, the gates themselves are bolted shut from the inside. 

there is simply no way for you to get in.

as you’re racking your brain, wondering if you’re really going to risk getting arrested for this sword and this man you don’t know and you’re being so dumb and such an idiot – the gates open, and there he is. just stepping out of the palace grounds, like it’s no big deal. like there aren’t countless youths stood outside the gates, just waiting for him to appear, maybe smile at them, give them even the tiniest bit of his attention. 

you stare at him, because the coincidence is just too hysterical. he’s giving the people around him awkward waves and even awkwarder grins, clearly having no clue what to do with himself around all this attention. he’s flanked by two guards – not surprising – and slowly makes his way across the square. you follow him with one eye, frantically scribbling a note at the same time.

you can’t just walk up to him. hi, hello, you don’t know me, but I have a sword to give you. the guards would be mad to let you approach at all; they’ve probably been trained to shield him from any human interaction that isn’t with his trusted friends – all of them just as unreachable for someone like you.

but a note… you can slip him a note. he doesn’t look like someone who would shy away from a cryptic message asking him to meet you in the park an hour after sundown. does he?

so you get up and hurry after him, eyes latched onto the blue of his clothes, tracing the lines of his body and observing the spring in his step with a crooked grin on your face. he doesn’t look like a war hero, that’s for sure. 

but you often found that looks can be deceiving, and that those who might not look like much have the most to offer.

you catch up with them in a busy street – even busier, after Sokka’s arrival – and manage to sidle up to them unnoticed. 

one of the guards looks around, disapproval clear in his expression. “I don’t understand why you wouldn’t just take the carrier. someone of your status –” 

“no, no, no. the carrier – are you serious? that’s, like, Zuko levels of pretentious. I already feel super awkward with all this – uh – attention –” you roll your eyes – “I mean, not that I don’t enjoy it, but, you know –” 

his voice gets drowned out by the noise of the crowd, and you shake your head, shuffling forward, waiting for an opening that’ll allow you to slip the note in his pocket. you don’t have to wait that long; it’s easy enough to pretend you trip and fall, having to grab onto Sokka’s arm to keep yourself from crashing down. the guards raise their hands, alarm sparking in their expression; but Sokka ignores them, helping you up. 

“you okay?”

you nod, tucking the folded piece of paper between the folds of his clothes. “yes, thank you. I’m sorry.”

“don’t worry about it,” he says airily, with a smile that makes you understand all of a sudden why so many people are fawning over him left and right.

he frowns, opens his mouth, and you duck your head down, grateful your hat conceals most of your face. someone calls Sokka’s name. he looks up, and you use the moment of confusion to slip away into the crowd.

you’re sat on wall surrounding the parks, watching the twinkling lights spreading far into the city, waiting for him. the sword is still strapped to your back. one knee is drawn up to your chest, and you keep an eye out on the park gates.

sure enough, after a while, a figure enters the park that can only be him. you grin, waiting until he’s passed by you before you drop to the ground and clearing your throat.

he whirls around, hands moving to grab the hilt at his side – a sword. you smile. “hello.” 

“do I know you?”

“no, I suppose you wouldn’t.” you tip your hat. “you don’t have to be so nervous. I’m not going to fight you.”

“I don’t know that.” 

“sure. I’ll be gone before you know it, anyway.”

Sokka scowls. “why did you ask me to meet you here?”

you reach behind your back, shooting him an irritated look when his grip on his sword tightens. “relax. I just have a present for you.”

“if you try anything –” 

“what, your friends will jump out from hidden corners and murder me where I stand? come on, man,” you scoff, holding the package out to him. 

Sokka looks at it suspiciously for a moment before he sheaths his sword, accepts the package, starts to unwrap it. when the cloth falls away and the sword is revealed, his eyes go wide as saucers, and his knuckles go white around the hilt of the blade. he looks at you, then at the sword, back at you, back at the sword.

“this is – this is my spa – I mean – my meteor sword,” he stammers. “I – I lost this. months ago.”

“and I found it. and got it back to you.” you shift your weight, cross your arms. “Master Piandao says hello, by the way.” 

Sokka is looking more and more confused. “you know Piandao?”

“something like that.”

he exhales shakily, holds the blade to his chest. “who are you?”

you smile, already planning to make your mysterious exit and never see him again – or something like that. maybe you’ll stay a bit. Sokka intrigues you. 

“a traveller.”