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hertzwritings · 3 years ago

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Through fire

A/N: another day, another request! I’m unfortunately in a writer’s rut, so to speak, so I’m going to finish my requests before I get back to my WIPS, hoping these will spark some new found inspiration for the WIPS!

Request: I just wanna sit on Henry’s lap and feel comfort from him 🥺 maybe after a long day and he’s in his office or maybe sitting around your backyard fire pit after a long week of press stuff and work? I don’t even now.

And thank you to the ever amazing @one-sweet-gubler for sending these wonderfully fluffy requests – I need them to clean my mind out of either angst or the gutter! I hope I do you proud, my darling.

Remember, feedback feeds the soul and requests are always open, there’s nothing I won’t write!

MASTERLIST

HENRY CAVILL MASTERLIST

ASK ME ANYTHING/REQUESTS

Pairing: Henry Cavill x reader

Warnings: language

Wordcount: 1.813

Through fire

You groaned and toed your shoes off, rubbing your neck. It had been the longest day you’d ever had – every single person you’d come across today had been fully ready to either start a fight, complain, or yell at you, and it was awful. You had ended up staying late at work, the HR-department overrun by problems, and it was dark out when you stepped inside of the house. You sighed deeply, allowing the stress of the day to roll off your shoulders. Thank God, it was Friday. You shrugged your jacket off and yelled out to the silent house that you were home, before practically running to your bedroom to get the comfiest outfit you owned on your body. Joggers on, a loose sweatshirt and fuzzy socks finally on, you breathed a sigh of relief, walking downstairs slowly, the day weighing heavy on you. Sometimes you hated working in HR, especially because the hard cases got sent straight to you, so you had to deal with way more complaints than would be healthy for a normal human being’s mental state.

“Hen?” you yelled out and searched the empty rooms, hoping your boyfriend was around to give you one of those hugs, that squeezed the air out of you; you needed it more than you could say. No response came until you walked into the living room, where you yelled out for him again. His voice flowed from the darkened yard.

“No, not yet!” “Not yet what?” You yelled back with a grin. “Don’t come out here yet, just… Two minutes!” You chuckled lightly and sat down on the couch, pulling your phone out; you groaned as you saw ten newemails. You were supposed to be off work, not taking it home. You sent out an email to the most pressing ones to say you’d be back Monday and would look at it there, and turned the phone off, throwing it on the plush couch.

“Okay, now!” His voice was a little closer now, and you looked to the patio-door, where Henry stood with a wide smile, open arms, and a soft sweater on. You jumped to your feet and almost ran to his open arms, hugging him tightly. “Hi, love.” He whispered, lips against your hair as he hugged you back, his arms bringing a comfort and warmth to you. “Hi.” You mumbled against his chest. “Long day?” He asked gently, his thumb rubbing circles on your back. You nodded against his sweater. “I have something for you.” He said softly, slowly pulling out of the hug with a smile. He grabbed your hand and led you from the patio to a lit fire in the firepit, blankets and fairy-lights in the trees at the end of your yard. “Oh, honey…” You gasped at the sight, overwhelmed by the simple gesture. “When you texted me earlier, I kind of figured it was a hard day, so I thought you’d appreciate this.” You nodded happily as he poured a glass of rose and handed it to you, sitting down and patting the ground between his legs. You sat down happily, leaning against his broad chest, both of you facing the flames.

“Want to talk about it?” He asked before kissing your cheek gently. You sighed and took a sip of the wine. His arms wrapped around your waist. “I don’t know. It’s just… I just get tired of the amount of complaints and issues. There’s always something and it all comes back to me.” You said quietly. “Some days I just want to quit on the spot.” He chuckled. “No, you don’t. normally you like your job, love.” “Not today.” You grumbled. “I had to deal with so many people who had issues with the new manager at HQ, which isn’t even my department… Ugh.” You sipped your wine. You let your hand rest on his that was still wrapped around your waist. “I just… I hate being yelled at. I almost cried when one of the CEO’S came down and yelled at me for not working fast enough, but I literally couldn’t work faster, 20 files had flopped on my desk two minutes before he stepped in. This merger is going to fucking kill me.” “I’m sorry, love.” He kissed your hair gently. “Is there anything I can do to help?” You shook your head. “I don’t think so. Unless you want to show up at work in full Geralt to scare people away.” He laughed lightly and you sighed. “No, it’s just such a male dominated field, and I feel like I��m treading water with all these assholes.” “Honey, if you want to quiet, I get it. I know you love your job, but you love the work you do, not the people you do it for. I’d be more than happy to help you find something else, where you’ll actually be valued for your work.” He said in a firm voice. “I don’t know, I just… Uh, I wish I could start my own firm, you know? Be my own boss and only do this type of work as a consultant. It’s literally wearing me out with the suits and the glowering, and the sweetheart could you make coffee, every time I step inside of the office. It sucks.” “Why haven’t you told me about this before?” He was so steady behind you, your solid rock in a stormy sea. You shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to bore you, I guess.” “You’d never bore me, my love.” “Let’s talk about something else, I’m not in the mood to be annoyed any more than I already am.” You leaned your head back to his chest and sipped your wine.

“How was your day?” You asked. He breathed deeply. “Boring. Long.” You hummed. “Press is killing me these days.” He finally said, intertwining your fingers. “I know it’s a normal part of life as an actor, but… I don’t think I’ve noticed how much people flirt before I found you. Now, I just get wildly annoyed.” You chuckled a little at that. “Well, we did choose to keep this relationship quiet, so we’re, you know… Kind of at fault?” He kissed your neck and sent goosebumps down your spine. “True. Maybe we should revisit that.” You sighed happily as his lips danced along your skin along your jawline. “Yeah?” You asked in a hushed whisper. “Yeah.” You sat quietly for a while, your fingers intertwined with his, his lips on your skin and the fire burning in front of you.

Life was good like this.

“I mean, if you want to.” He finally said in a low voice. “Oh, you were serious?” Your heart sped up. “Of course, darling. I love you, and I know we wanted to keep it from the public eye because of our privacy, but…” He kissed you again for good measure. “It’s incredibly hard for me to keep quiet about you. I want to show you to the world and make sure everyone knows you’re mine.” His thumb stroked the ring, that glistened in the orange glow, that rested perfectly on your ring finger. You smiled. “Well… I wouldn’t be opposed to it. As long as you wouldn’t share everything all the time.” “Don’t worry about that. I like to keep certain aspects private.” He said with a barely there-grin. “I just want to show you off a little.” “Ha, a little? I know you, Henry, and you don’t do little.” He laughed, the deep rumble vibrating in your body. The innuendo wasn’t lost on him. “That may be true.” He chuckled a little. “I think mostly I’d like to have the world know you’re mine. That if I know what love is, it’s because of you. Maybe get you all dressed up and on the carpet with me once in a while.” “I wouldn’t be opposed to that idea.” You said with a slight smile and heated cheeks. You had loved having him to yourself, but the idea that he wanted to share you and your love for each other with the world, made your stomach do somersaults. “Really?” He asked, clearly happy with your answer. “Not at all, actually. We just have to figure out how to do it best, so we aren’t flooded.” He nodded against you. “Of course, love.” You turned your head slightly and angled up to meet his lips in a soft, loving kiss. “But only because I love you.” You said with a grin. He chuckled and kissed you again, seemingly never getting enough of the feeling of you on his lips; he was a very affectionate man, and his love language was definitely physical touch, because as soon as you were within reach, his hands or lips would always find you. “By the way, my mum called earlier, wanted to know if you two were still on for brunch Sunday.” He said after a while. “I didn’t know you had plans without me.” He sounded so happy with the prospect of you and his mom spending time together, it made you feel giddy. “That’s the third time we’ve gone for brunch, Henry.” “Wait, what?” You shrugged. “I like her and we like eating breakfast foods. And drink mimosas.” You said with a grin. “It’s quite fun, she always tells all these stories…” He groaned and let his forehead fall to your shoulder. “I knew she’d rope you into some of my childhood memories.” “Well… I think I should start calling you Ruggy.” He groaned again. “God, she told you about that?” “How could she not? You sleeping with a stuffed animal for yearsis important knowledge!” You exclaimed and began giggling, as he tickled your side slightly. “You’re lucky I love you.” He murmured. “I suppose so.” You answered with a grin.

The orange glow of the fire colored the trees in the yard, and you felt warm and safe in his arms as you talked back and forth about your days, gossip (who knew Henry Cavill was a gossiper?) and let the stretches of silence fill with content hums and kisses.

As the fire slowly died out to glowing embers, and the warmth from the firepit slowly got lessened, Henry stretched and kissed your cheek again. “We should head inside.” He mumbled against your shirt but made no effort to move. You sighed happily. “We should.” You answered, wrapping your arm tighter around his. He chuckled lowly. “You seem pretty content with staying right here.” His voice was golden honey, and it made your soul feel like it was being bathed in sunlight. “I’m always content with you, my love.” You simply said.

“Good, because I’m far too selfish to let you go.” He murmured against your ear. “Good thing you aren’t going to have to do that, then.”

“Indeed, my love.”

TAGLIST:

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@thelastpyle @yourlocalhoney @wheretheriversrunintothesea

#henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill x y/n #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x female reader #henry cavill x ofc #henry cavill x you fic #henry cavill x yn #henry cavill x y/n fanfic

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the-broken-truth · 4 years ago

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The Dollmaker's Healer - Yandere Donna Benevieto x Reader (Part 1)

Memory is both a blessing & a curse - both helpful and hindering - both a miracle and a burden. You remembered how you come to be in the village - One of your late relatives passed away and bequeathed to you their Romanian Estate; you didn't even know that you were of Romanian Descent. Well - you knew your surname had a Romanian meaning but you didn't take much thought into it. Along with the estate - there were a few vaults and chests your late relative hoarded; making one of the richest residents in the village.

After meeting with the lawyer and getting your plane ticket - you traveled to Romanian's Village and was taken to your estate by a horse-pulled carriage.

The Estate was massive - tucked away in the Misty Valley with trees surrounding you; located on the edge of the cliff where the waterfall roared. The estate was about 3 stories - complete with an attic and a basement that was converted into a training room/herbal lab; that was your favorite part of the house. During your time in O/S (Orginal State), you spent a lot of your time hunting with your uncles or making salves and elixirs with your aunts from various plants; documenting the effects to know which were needed at which times.

To your uncles - you were the Bearer of the Eagle's Eye: You saw the furthest and could nail prey from as small as rabbits to as big as elk with a single arrow.

To your aunts - you were the Mistress/Master of the Gardens: Able to identify any kind of plant without fail. You got the best of both worlds and it came in handy considering that you were more attached to the wilds than civilian life.

With that memory of how you come to be here first in your mind, another come - the first time you saw the veiled woman and her puppet. You were standing on the back patio that overlooked the forest below the cliff your home sat - the fog was light this morning and you were just basking in the beauty when you looked to the side and saw another estate on the other side of the opening, sitting on the other waterfall's cliff. - it was grand but not as grand as yours. On the other estate's patio - you could see a figure, dawned in a black dress with a veil covering their face and - was that a doll upon their lap? You watched them for a while before the doll - it moved on its own, getting out the other person's lap and the two of them looked in your direction before disappearing into the estate. You thought about what the carriage driver told you - The L/N Estate was close to the House Beneviento - the current and only head of that family was Donna Beneviento, also known as the Dollmaker. You didn't think anything of it and went back inside your home to make some new healing salves you came up with.

A few months had passed since you first come to the village - you knew nothing here was normal: Lycans attacking at times, mutated wolves coming up out of nowhere, and then...there were the Daughters of the Castle - you encountered them a few times but you were able to defend yourself; sometimes leaving with a bite or a few scratches but it was never too bad.

One morning - you noticed that you were out of meat and grabbed one of the purses of Lei from the chest and put on your cloak before heading out the door. At this time - you developed of a bit of a reputation: You've used your salves for the people of the village and the sick got better, the hurt was relieved of their pain, and the restless was sleeping soundly; you made it into a bit of a business and it was very profitable. Everything was going great...until...the moment you met them.

"Excuse me. Are you Y/N L/N of L/N Estate?" A low voice called out behind you as you paid for your meat from the butcher. It was her - the veiled woman and beside her - clenching onto her dress - was the small doll you saw with her that day.

"Yes. I'm Y/N. May I ask who you are and what business you have with me?" You asked her.

"My name is Donna Beneviento - Head of House Beneviento. I came to find you because...I was hoping you could help me with my problem." Donna spoke in a low voice.

"What kind of problem?" You ask.

"It's her scar." The raspy voice of the doll called out - causing you to look at her. "She has a scar upon her face that she would love to be rid of but nothing she tried in the past seemed to have worked." The doll spoke.

"I'm guessing you're her companion? What's your name?" You asked the doll. The Doll and the Dollmaker were surprised - you weren't frightened by a talking doll?

"Angie. My name is Angie." The doll spoke. "You do no fear me?"

"At this point, I've seen a lot of things, Angie. Nothing really surprises me anymore here. So - what can you tell me about the scar?" You asked.

"It's...more of an infection caused than a common mortal wound." Donna's soft voice spoke as you stood back at your height to speak to her.

"An infection. Wait - was it caused by a Cadou?" You asked with a raised eyebrow - making both the doll and the dollmaker gasp.

"You know about the Cadou?" Angie exclaimed.

"Yes, I've dealt with a few cases of Cadou Scarring during my time here in the village. I made an elixir - while it can't get rid of the Cadou itself, it can make it so small that it gets rid of the scarring it leaves behind." You said with a smile.

"You...You can get rid of the scarring without getting rid of the Cadou? I...This is what I need - when can you do it?" Donna's voice was a bit louder - laced with hope that she could be free of the horrible scar without getting rid of the gift her mother gave to her.

"I have some vials of Cadou Represser at home; I don't feel quite comfortable allowing unknown people coming to my home but I can to yours - if you're comfortable with that. It will take 3 does - each a week apart." You explain.

"Yes - I can accept that. When can you come to House Beneviento to give me the first dosage?" Donna asked, her hands trembling with excitement.

"Once I'm done here - I dropped the food off at home, grab the vial and a fresh syringe, then meet you both at House Beneviento. Is that alright?" You ask with a tilt of your head.

"I...Yes. Please do come." Donna said as she gave a slight bow and turned on her heel before walking away with Angie at her heels. You smiled at the thought of aiding someone else with your knowledge and continued shopping - completely unaware of the smile and blush the veiled woman hid.

[A While Later]

After returning home and placing the food in the proper places - you made your way down to the Elixir Lab - that's what you liked to call it - and opened the cabinet to get a fresh bottle of Cadou Represser along with a fresh syringe - the cap securely over the needle to make more it was not contaminated by anything. You placed the two in your baggy jacket pocket before leaving your home once again. You began your journey to House Beneviento - crossing the wooden bridge that looked like it could collapse at any moment to the misty forest full of hanging dolls; you just looked at them and continued on your way until you came to a large grave surrounded by at least 20 smaller ones - looking at the gravestone of the large grave, you noticed that half of it was gone but the surname remained.

'Beneviento.' Sadness grasped your heart as you realized what you were looking at. 'Her family's massive gravesite. She really has no one besides Angie and her adoptive mother; that poor soul.'

You closed your eyes and brought your hands together in front of your chest in a praying manner - praying for the departed Beneviento Family & Donna's Happiness; no one should be as alone as she was. You finished your prayer and continued on your way - completely unaware of the porcelain eyes watching your move since you walked in the forest.

Upon arriving at the Beneviento Manor - you wanted up the wooden stairs to the door and knocked.

"Who is it?" The voice of Donna called out from behind the wood.

"It's Y/N. I'm here to do the treatment." You responded.

"Oh, please come in; the door is unlocked." Donna called out again.

You opened the door and saw Donna sitting in her wooden rocking chair near her round table; a cup of tea cooling by her side.

"Hello, Ms. Beneviento." You greeted as you made your way over to the veiled woman.

"Hello." It was simple and soft but you couldn't say anything about it.

With her permission - you lifted her veil to reveal her face and the Cadou that covered the right side of her face. Donna waited for you to utter about how horrifying she was but when she looked at your face, she saw the light blush creeping across your face. She asked if you were alright but all you said was: beautiful.

It was her turn to blush now.

No one ever called her beautiful - especially after seeing her scar. Donna felt a fluttering feeling in her stomach and warmth in her chest but she said nothing. You apologized for staring but she said it was alright; you thanked her before you gathered the supplies you brought with you and began your work. Filling the syringe with the liquid, you informed her that it would be a small stick and maybe some discomfort but it would pass in a few moments - she understood and you injected the Cadou Scar with the tip of the syringe and slowly injected the liquid until it was empty. You gathered your stuff but looked into the eye of the woman with a smile.

"I understand your reason but you really shouldn't cover your face, Lady Beneviento; you're very beautiful." You said with a smile.

"You... Do you really think I am beautiful?: Donna asked as you lightly dabbed the injection spot with an alcoholic wipe to make sure the injection site wasn't infected.

"Of course you are. You're a little different but that just adds to your beauty." You replied as your rose to your feet, gave her a polite bow before turning to leave but was stopped by her voice.

"Wait... Do you have anything else you need to be doing at this moment?" Donna asked.

"Not today. Why?" You asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Then...would you like to stay for tea?" Donna asked as she gestured her hand to the teacup.

"I would love to." You answered.

That's how it began - ever since the treatments started: you would go over to Donna's house just to see her and Angie, the two of them seemed to lighten up whenever you came around. During the second treatment, Donna asked you about her personal life - mainly: If you had a lover at home? This made you blush and Donna looked at but annoyed but when you said you didn't have a lover, she seemed to relax. After the second treatment - the Cadou was more than half as small as it was when the treatments started. Donna would ask you to stay more and more often, even when you had other clients to tend to - she was always upset when you had work but she didn't let her emotions get too involved...until that day.

It was a few days before her last treatment - the Cadou was so small that it only covered her right eye - the two of you were sitting and drinking tea and eating lemon cake squares; you made some and thought Donna would like one so you brought some over. Donna was talking about a new doll she was working on but when you didn't engage in conversation, she looked at you and saw you were zoned off somewhere. She gained attention once again and asked you what was on your mind - you informed her you met someone in the village.

This made her drop the cup in her hand, making it crash against the teacup platter resting on the table, shattering both.

"What do you mean - you met someone?" Donna asked with a low voice.

"Well - her father was one of my clients and she was thankful for my help. I ran into her in the village a few times running errands and she and I have been hanging out." You said with a blush on your face - this angered Donna more.

"But...Why would you need to hang out with her when you have Angie and me? Are we not enough for you?" Donna almost hissed at you.

"Well, she seems nice and we have a lot in common. She wanted to take me out to dinner tomorrow - it will be like our first date." That made something in Donna snap.

"A Date? With her?" She was silent for a moment before she spoke again. "No."

"What do you mean 'no'?" You asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Just what I said - you will not date this woman. You will not see her again." Donna said.

"And just who are you to tell me who I can or cannot see? My Mother? Donna, I'm a grown (Man/Woman), I can see who I want." You protested.

"I said you're not allowed to see her again; just listen to me and leave that woman alone. All you need are Angie and I." Donna said as she rose to her feet and made her way over to the stairs but stopped when you spoke again.

"Donna, you can't tell me who to see. You don't own me." You said.

"You need to listen to me - you are not allowed to see her again; just let it go." Donna gripped the rail of the stairway.

"You know what? I think I've been here for far too long to the point you think you can tell me what to do like you own me. I think I should leave." You walked to the door and reached out for the handle when the air suddenly got heavier.

"No. Don't...Don't leave me... You can't leave me, Y/N. Please." Donna called out as she began walking over to you but you kept your distance.

"No, I need to leave. I'll see you in a few days to finish the treatment but after that - we are no longer friends, Donna." Those words made Donna's blood freeze.

"No... No. Don't say that!" Donna's face raised as she lunged forward and grasped Y/N's hand. "Please, don't leave; I need you, Y/N. You can't just leave me." Donna begged.

"Watch me." You removed her hand walked out the door, slamming it behind you.

Donna fell to her knees and hugged herself, sobbing and begging for you to come back, to hold her and tell her you wouldn't leave her.

"Don't you understand, Mommy?" Angie's voice called out. "It's that other woman, she's making them think they don't want to be with you. If she wasn't in the way - you and Y/N would be together."

"Yes... I know it's her fault." Donna clenched her head and started laughing to herself. "She wants to take them from me. My Healer, my light, my love. But I won't let her. Don't worry, Y/N; once that weed in our garden is ripped out...it will just be us....Forever."

#resident evil 8 #donna beneviento #donna beneviento x reader

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salemwritesxx · 4 years ago

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lycoris radiata

↳ pro-hero bakugou x pro-hero reader

summary: The myth around red spider lilies, lycoris radiata, is that, when you see someone you may never meet again, these flowers will bloom along the path. Thus, when Y/n and Katsuki depart on the morning of their 6th wedding anniversary to walk to their respective agencies and spider lilies bloom along the path Bakugou is walking on, Y/n gets an uneasy feeling, unaware that the legend surrounding these flowers may have a germ of truth to them after all.

w.count: 2k

content warning: angst, major character death, which leads to reader committing suicide, afterlife happy ending

“Okay, hey-“, you grinned and pulled him back one last time to peck his lips, “-don’t forget our rendezvous tonight, yeah?”, to which Bakugou only rolled his eyes – in a playful way though as he immediately pressed a soft kiss onto your mouth once more, not caring that you two stood in the middle of the streets.

“Don’t worry, I won’t forget.”, and with that, you finally let your husband go, though as he walked away from you, you couldn’t help but witness red spider lilies blooming along the pathway, hence you yelled after him, “Babe? Be careful, okay?”

“Ha?”, when he turned around and you pointed to the flowers, Katsuki only laughed and gestured a ‘whatever’ and saying a “Don’t be so superstitious, Y/n. It’s just a myth!”

Even though you both chuckled as he turned around and walked away for real this time, you still felt a slight uneasy feeling in your stomach, though you simply thought it was because you were excited to celebrate your 6th wedding anniversary with your husband.

“KATSUKI!”

You screamed as if you were the one being impaled, your knees were shaking, feeling like the ground was opening up underneath your feet and you fell into a dark, black hole any second.

Coughing up blood, he was hanging on the villain’s arm which was weirdly transformed to look like a lance – Bakugou hadn’t seen it coming, if he would have, he…

“Pathetic.”, the villain almost spit into his face before dropping him onto the pavement like some sort of trash, only to jump back immediately when other heroes already attacked him again.

You were rushing to your husband’s side who was coughing up more and more blood while squirming in pain, his “Y- Y/- Y/n…” being interrupted by his coughs, though you were already dropping to your knees to hold him.

“It’s okay, Baby, I’m here. Everything’s gonna be okay! Don’t worry, everything will be okay!”, you cried and sobbed, tears already streaming down your face while pressing him against your side and one hand against his wound where the villain impaled him.

Bakugou knew though. It’s why he was clawing at your hand so much, both of them soaked with his blood that just wouldn’t stop – he knew he wasn’t going to be okay. As he almost couldn’t speak anymore, because his lungs filled with more and more blood, he still grasped your hands as tightly as he could, smearing his own blood all over your arm in an attempt to stay.

“Y/n-“, gasping for breath, he was almost completely over the bridge as his tight grip slowly softened.

“I love you, Baby. I love you so much! Katsuki please, don’t go!”, not being able to suppress your desperate sobs, you barely choked out a “Please.” again as his grip loosened more and more around your own hand.

“I … love… y..o…u…”, were his last words, a single tear trickling down his cheek as his ruby eyes lost that sparkle you fell in love with the very first time you looked into them.

“Katsu… No….Kat… Nononono please! PLEASE!”, literally begging him to not go, you hugged his bloody, heavy body so close against your chest while you cried, not caring about the explosions from further back into the streets as other heroes still fought against the villains, while rescue heroes only gradually managed to get through the wrecked buildings.

You shouldn’t even be here. Bakugou and you had been in two different agencies, it only should have been a calm day at your respective work places, wanting to be done quickly so you could enjoy your wedding anniversary tonight, but then, all available heroes were called up when the villain went on a rampage.

How…? How did it turn out like that? A harmless villain turned out to be so strong? How… could have anyone guess that? How could have anyone seen that coming?

So, it was true. Walking along a path where red spider lilies bloomed meant you wouldn’t see each other again…

Rescue heroes tried to calm you down and get you to let go of Katsuki’s lifeless body, but you just yelled at them, your voice high-pitched and so full of pain, and cried and held him tighter, not caring that you were full of his blood as you still couldn’t process that this wasn’t a dream, but it was reality… Harsh reality.

Your husband was dead.

And with that, your soul and heart shattered into million little pieces, unable to be whole ever again.

-------6 weeks later--------

You sat in front of Katsuki’s grave.

It was a cold spring night, though to be honest, you hadn’t been warm in the last weeks ever since that accident – the coldness you felt was never going to leave ever again.

Your fingers were softly playing your guitar. Making music had always brought peace to your husband’s mind, whenever he felt angry, frustrated, anxious or any other negative feeling, he would flop beside you and make you play the guitar for him. It calmed him and sometimes, you would both sing crookedly to get him back into a better mood – very fond memories indeed.

Tears were blurring your vision, even though you shouldn’t have been able to cry anymore with how many tears you had shed in the last weeks, but it still felt surreal. Knowing he was never going to come back again – never.

Slowly, your fingers stopped as you stared onto his gravestone. There were red spider lilies planted around – how ironic. Though they weren’t blooming as it was now spring.

Was is really just superstition? Or should you have been warned that day? That uneasy feeling you had felt - it wasn’t excitement, it was a sense of foreboding, and you had ignored it…

Putting your guitar, that had stickers with his hero name and your own, as well as stupid little things like a dick doodle on it, to the side, you sighed and rubbed your red, swollen eyes. You did have this guitar since your middle school days after all. And you remembered when all these things happened oh so vividly. Still hearing the giggle and laughter of your, back then in high school, boyfriend, while you yelled at him for being an idiot. Being angry over a dick doodle seemed so petty now.

Taking your permanent marker, you opened the cap with your teeth, before leaning in and doodling a broken heart onto the surface with the date of your husband’s dying day on it. Spitting out the lid of the marker, you put the pen onto your guitar, before staring back at Bakugou’s grave.

“Please tell me.. Who should be my soulmate now? Who will hold my hand while I drive? Who will hold me when I can’t sleep at night? There is nobody like you out there, Baby…. so please tell me…”, you were crying again as you sobbed and rubbed over your face, “Tell me, who could possibly take your place? My first and last love. I won’t be able to do anything without you…”

Your heart was hurting so much, you couldn’t take it. You knew he was irreplaceable, there was no one out there that could ever give you what he gave you all those past years.

Bakugou was sitting beside you, though you didn’t know – of course you didn’t, was he a mere spirit now, never leaving your side as his translucent hand touched your own.

“Please, you need to go on. Don’t do it…”, tears were in the corner of his eyes, wishing he could talk to you, wishing you could hear his desperate attempts to keep you from committing suicide. Katsuki loved you, he wanted to be with you, but he couldn’t be selfish anymore – you couldn’t throw everything away just because of him.

Though, as he was a mere ghost sitting beside you, he couldn’t do anything but watch.

With a shaking hand you then reached for the gun you had purchased today on the black market – to think, at last, you were doing illegal stuff even though you were a hero – before coming here and sitting in front of his grave for hours. You couldn’t possibly be alive without him beside you. It just hurt too much. You didn’t care about anything, you had no one besides him. Katsuki was your everything and all you wanted to do was finally meet him again.

Sobbing quietly, you then held the end of the gun against your temple, your e/c still staring at his gravestone, before you whispered one last time, “I want to meet you again. Please. I miss you so much.”

“I promise, I’ll be there.”, Katsuki whispered.

For the first time in weeks, there was warmth surrounding your heart and with a smile you barely mumbled “I know you’re waiting for me.”

And then, a loud bang echoed through the silent night and the cemetery, cherry blossom petals, that were in full bloom now, swaying in the wind and slowly falling down and onto your lifeless body.

“Y/n…Y/n…”, the familiar voice made you gradually open your eyes – above you, it was an ocean of pink and white cherry blossoms. But then, as you looked further back, you saw directly into Katsuki’s face, his smile making you feel so warm and fuzzy instantly. It was in that moment you realized your head was resting in his lap.

“Katsu…”

“You should have lived a long, happy life…”, his voice was so soothing and calm as he combed through your hair, though you just shook your head, tears already welling up in your eyes.

“I was already dead inside the moment you were gone.”, and then, you finally sat back up to connect your lips, Bakugou immediately slinging his arms around your neck and pulling you in closer as you both fell back into a pile of cherry blossoms.

“I love you. I love you so much. And now we’re together again.”, you whispered against his lips, lacing your fingers together and Katsuki squeezing your hand tightly, the sparkle in his ruby eyes back as tears shimmered in them as well.

“And we will never be apart again.”, he barely mumbled back, before you hugged each other tightly as your lips melted together tenderly.

Katsuki and you were sitting on the gravestone together, it was the day your lifeless body joined Katsuki’s in the shared grave. Watching your family and Katsuki’s once more crying so much, it really did break your heart.

“I wish they wouldn’t have to go through that again.”, he said and sighed, though also squeezing your hand tightly.

“Mh… But it was inevitable… I know they know that, too…”, since you and Mitsuki were quite close, she, of course, knew how badly Katsuki’s death affected you, even though she tried to help, the moment you were alone, you knew you couldn’t take the loss of someone so precious to you.

“Y/n… I know your pain was immense… I just hope you are both happy now wherever you are…”, Mitsuki quietly cried as she stood in front of the grave with your coffin in it, joining Katsuki’s, Masaru holding her close by his side, both of them a red spider lily in their hands that weren’t blooming.

Looking at each other for a moment, you both stood up from the gravestone and walked towards his parents, softly touching the flower, making them bloom in their hands.

“Let’s go. We are free now. Let’s see the world - together.”, Bakugou smiled and you chuckled and nodded, “Yeah.”, only to pull him closer and softly kiss him and whisper, “Together forever.”, which earned you Katsuki’s soft giggle and him pulling you closer to connect your lips once more.

Mitsuki and Masaru were both completely astonished when the red spider lilies in their hands started blooming, as if it was your answer to their question if you were both happy now, making Katsuki’s Mom smile and cry a little harder.

Though, once she looked ahead, she thought it was probably because she was sleep-deprived and in so much emotional pain, but… she saw you and Katsuki holding onto and smiling at each other. His mind must be playing tricks on her and yet, it was bittersweet to witness you two like that…

“They are happy…”, she wiped away her tears and with a smile on her lips, Mitsuki threw the blooming spider lilies into the grave eventually, knowing that her son and son-in-law were now happily dancing in the cherry blossom trees.

@salemwritesxx || do not repost, edit, modify or translate my works

writer’s note: ya boy literally chickened out the last minute and made it a somewhat happy ending instead of leaving it sad… idk i kind of just want them to find their happiness again in their afterlives 💌 my first idea was to make Y/n sing his heart out on like a roof and then jump, then I wanted him to sing his heart out in front of katsu’s grave and in the end, we just have some soft guitar play and a gun… but while I listen to the song I had playing on repeat while writing this, I still imagine Y/n singing loudly for his Baby and grieving terribly 💔

#salemswriting.#bakugou katsuki #bakugou x male reader #bnha x male reader #bakugou x you #bakugou angst

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hanjizung · 4 years ago

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Sweet as honey.

Han Jisung x Reader.

Word count: 2.9K

♡ Warnings ��: loving Jisung too much, and also smut!!! soft smut, oral (f), fingering, creampie, aftercare, saying ‘i love you’ too much, praising.

Another request [93) “It’s okay, honey, you can pull my hair as hard as you want while I’m between your legs.”] from the 100 dialogue prompts. I loved writing this one im sorry if its too soft jankda i love jisung so much:(((

Everything you could feel was stress. Stress from having to deal with rude people, from having to re organize all the documents left on your desk without even being told what they were, stress from having to sacrifice your break time so you could get out of there earlier…

You could feel your headache getting worse as time passed, it definitely didn't help your bad mood, opting to stay quiet than answer rudely to your fellow co-workers who were almost as busy and stressed as you were.

There was nothing else you desired more than to get home, have a nice relaxed dinner and maybe take a bath with Jisung, your fiance.

Sighing, you took a moment to think of him. You loved him so much, loved how he always tried his best to cheer you up or tried to make you laugh if you were feeling down. He was the sun that always shone behind the gray clouds. You were so whipped for him, that even remembering his big smile and his beautiful face made you smile like a silly teenage girl in love. But you couldn't help it, he made you feel that way by the mere thought of him, his presence in your life lighted up your world. His existence was a blessing for you, you had nothing but love for Jisung.

Shaking your head, you came back to reality letting out a long, tired sigh. It was almost the time for you to go home, almost the time for you to finally be in Jisung's arms and kiss him for as long as you (needed) wanted.

Yeah, that was the moment you always looked for the most, when you came home and Jisung called your name as a greeting in a singing tone as soon as he heard the front door open, immediately leaving the studio to hug you properly and ask how your day went, then proceeding to stay with you for the rest of the night cuddling or watching movies, just doing whatever either of you wanted to do.

It was the same routine everyday, sometimes he surprised you and picked you up from work, driving you to a nice restaurant or to the movies for a surprise date every once and then to do something different so your days weren't monotonously boring.

That night when you opened the front door of your department a nice smell of food got your attention. You followed the trace of the mouth watering fragrance all the way to the kitchen where Jisung was taking something out of the oven. You stared at his back silently, he was singing a song and dancing slightly, making you smile with great fondness in your chest; he truly was such a pure soul. You adored him with your whole being.

"Hey, Sungie. Care to tell me what you're doing, handsome?" you said, walking towards him and hugging him from behind, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek as a greeting.

"Hi, baby! I was just baking this apple pie for you, I remember you said something about a pie not so long ago and I wanted to surprise you" he removed your hold on him to turn around and hug you back properly, embracing your form and squeezing you playfully, making you giggle more.

"Then I can't wait to try it! I'm sure it'll taste amazing, just like everything you make" you said, sighing in relief that you were finally home with the man you loved, but still feeling a little preoccupied that the next day you would have to deal with more things at the office.

Of course Jisung noticed, knowing you well enough to tell what that sight meant.

He pulled away from you, placing his hands on your shoulders and looking at you with a worried expression, brows furrowed and gentle eyes, "tough day, huh? Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked.

You pouted. You had something in your mind, but felt ashamed to say it out loud so you shook your head and stared at your hands, observing how you were playing with your hands, intertwining your fingers and tapping each other rhythmically.

"Sunshine, if you want anything just tell me, if I can give it to you I will" he hugged you, kissing your temples and resting his head on the crook of your neck.

You mumbled your wish, closing your eyes when you felt how hot your face had gotten.

"I need you to repeat yourself, love, what was that?"

"I want to spend the night in bed with you. Listen to what you did today… I just wanna be with you" you sighed again, hugging him tighter against you. Jisung understood not to ask again and fulfill your wish; you were his girl, the girl of his life. He'd do anything to make you happy, and luckily for you he knew a way to help you de-stress, something he loved doing, but that could wait after dinner.

"Let's eat first, baby. We don't want the food to get cold, do we?" he separated from you, his hands sliding down to hold your own smaller ones between his while offering you a kind, warm smile. A smile that always felt like home to you.

You nodded and let him guide you to the living room. You caught on that he was planning on eating there, while watching TV to help you distract your mind and stop thinking about how your day was before arriving home.

He put on the first movie, knowing that you wouldn't be putting much attention to it. He was paying more attention to you than to whatever it was that the movie was about, Jisung's only worry was you, you and only you.

He took your empty plate as soon as you finished eating, placing it on the sink along with his to wash later and when he came back to the couch he saw you coming back from your room, one of his shirts on and your bare legs exposed. He smiled, extending his arm to you and when you took it, Jisung pulled you to sit on his lap, kissing you so sweetly that you inevitably smiled in the middle of the kiss, pressing your forehead against his.

"I love you so much," he told you when he removed his lips from yours. His lips didn't rest after being apart from you, Jisung showered your face with kisses, making you smile while you placed your hands on his shoulders, shifting so your front could be against his chest and you could kiss him with a more passionate kiss, a kiss that could reflect how much you loved him with your whole being; a kiss that could show him how needy you were for his touch on you, to demonstrate him how much you had missed him.

Straddling his lap, you took his face and kissed him like you meant to. Jisung's hands traveled to your waist, resting there gently while you kissed him. He opened his mouth to let your tongue find his and let the passionate kiss become a messier one.

Until you couldn't breathe anymore, and pulled away from him with a heavy pant. His hands pulled you towards him, this time he held you against his chest so his lips could kiss the exposed skin of your neck and leave a few mark where he knew you liked, drawing a moan out of you that had your fingers digging on his shoulders, the filthy sound coming from you making him excited as well, the poking of his cock under you made you smile knowingly.

Your hands left him, traveling to tug the end of the oversized shirt –Jisung's property– you had put on previously, taking it off and throwing it somewhere on the floor, your boobs were presented for him to play with, right in front of his face. But he didn't pay much attention to them.

Contrary to what you thought he would do to you due to the position that you were in, he hugged you and gently handled you so you were laying on your back, him on top of you but still being careful enough to not let his weight fall on you completely.

He trapped you under him, reaching to kiss your lips messily again before he started going down on your body, licking and biting here and there, squeezing and caressing your breasts until he got to your tummy.

You grabbed a pillow and placed it under your head so you could keep watching him with your lips parted. He stopped almost completely when his face was in your stomach, his eyes looked up at you and smiled sweetly, kissing the soft skin of your tummy when one of your hands went to caress his hair. You let your fingers get tangled with his locks, your other hand was above your head tugging the pillow.

He got to your last piece of clothing, one of your favorite underwear. His teeth played with the hem of it but not for long before his hands were finally removing the item from you, he moved away to do it slowly, glancing at your sex with lust filled eyes.

"Look at how wet you are, baby, fuck…" he whispered, acomodating himself in front of you, his face in front of your pussy and his hands placed firmly in your thighs.

He licked his lips, eyes connected with your before he kissed the inside of your thigh, one, two, three times, slowly going closer to where you wanted him the most.

"Jisung, please…" you whispered, looking at him with hooded eyes. He looked at you after he was done biting the sensitive skin there. He knew how much you liked to see the marks he gave you when he went down on you, but this time you were incredibly needy for him, not caring much if he marked you or not.

Licking his way to your aching clit, his dominant hand spread your wet folds for him to lick you deliciously.

You saw him bite his lip, eyes focused on you as he had a first taste as you, making you shiver from the teasing try of his tongue on you.

"Oh baby, you're as sweet as honey" he murmured, directing his eyes to yours as he said that, managing to make you blush and bite your own lip while he smiled before turning his attention to your needy pussy once again.

A choked moan came out of you when his experienced tongue came in contact with you the second time, your hand rested on his head and pushed him towards you as much as you could, your eyes were closed as you allowed yourself to enjoy this moment of sweet euphoria he was provoking you.

His other hand made contact with your entrance, the tip of his fingers teasing you briefly before he inserted one of his digits inside you.

Everything felt so good, you were squirming and rocking your hips up to his mouth to feel how he continued lapping where he was, your hand pressing him still against you and tugging his hair roughly.

"A-ah, Jisung! Yes!" you cried out, head thrown back on the pillow "you feel so a-ah! So amazing… Fuck…" you babbled, too immersed on the pleasure he was providing you to pay attention to your cries of extasis.

You felt your climax approaching, tugging his hair with your fingers more desperately as your body shook and moved, your thighs closing around his neck, your wetness getting to your thighs as a result from how Jisung was fingering you agonizingly slowly.

You whined a little at the loss of his talented tongue against your clit, but his fingers increased their speed to make it up for it while Jisung took a breath and muttered with his sexy, raspy voice:

“It’s okay, honey, you can pull my hair as hard as you want while I’m between your legs" he returned to making you feel good, his dirty words and permission making you lose it and you came without any warming, your loving fiance continuing his attack on you, your moans and cries becoming music to his ears while you were recovering from the strong impact of your orgasm, your whole sensitive body relaxing finally when he slowed down and looking at you with dark eyes from the position between your legs.

He separated from you with a final lick through your slit, collecting your juices in his tongue and moving to a sitting position to let you recover better, your breathing making your chest go up and down rapidly from the intensity of your sweet release.

Jisung sat down, a little away from you and he asked "how do you feel, baby?" with that gentle tone he used when he tried to calm you down.

"I need you" you replied, moving slowly to straddle his lap again and grind your wet pussy against the hard cock hidden behind his pants. You wrapped your arms around him, pressing your lips together in a messy, needy kiss. You could taste your essence on his tongue, that made you grind against him again until he placed his hands behind your knees and stood up, carrying you. He had to break the kiss to pay attention to where he was taking you, and minutes later you landed on your shared bed.

"I love you so much" you muttered, looking at him through your lashes, your hands playing with your boobs while he undressed himself before crawling to the bed with you, trapping you under him again.

With one hand, he pressed the angry looking tip of his member against your still sensitive clit, a surprised squeal coming from you when he rubbed it and teased your entrance before stretching you out completely when he pushed inside you, both of you groaning once you and him were connected.

His hand helped him stabilize himself above you, hips starting to move against you in a slow pace and his lips looking for yours to join you in a sweet kiss before he had to moan when you squeezed him with your velvety walls.

"God… you're so tight, my love" Jisung whispered to your face, getting closer to you "You're amazing" he pressed a kiss to your cheek "you're so great for me" a kiss in your forehead "I love you, baby" and a final peck to your lips that made you smile sweetly.

Slowly, the speed started to increase and your breathing started to get more and more erratic, your chest going up and down, your hands traveling Jisung's back under the shirt he didn't bother to take off and sweat forming in your forehead. Above you, Jisung was just the same as you; unsteady breathing, eyes half closed and his whole body moving from how he was thrusting into you.

"A-ah, Jisung!" you moaned his name, a particular moan he was very familiar with. He opened his eyes and smiled at you knowingly.

"Cum for me, baby" he said. Your body responded to his comment and you pulled him from the back of his neck to kiss you passionately as your walls clenched around him and you came once again, this time around his throbbing member inside you.

Your lips separated from his inevitably, but Jisung felt like he had just arrived in heaven when he heard you calling his name in a long, lustful moan that triggered Jisung's own climax, the warm fluid inside you felt so good to you, you couldn't help but push him deeper into you with your legs wrapped around his waist and he groaned, closing his eyes and letting his forehead rest on your shoulder.

You stayed in that position, him inside you and your legs around him while you two waited for your breaths to go back to normal again, none of you daring to say a word in fear of disturbing the comfy silence.

But you couldn't stay like that forever, and much to your agony, Jisung pulled out from you, laying next to you and wrapping his arm around you to pull you closer to him so he could kiss your forehead.

You smiled, hugging him back. His cum started to drip, but you couldn't care less about that. All that was in your mind was how much you loved Jisung and how lucky you were to have found him.

"I love you" you told him, pressing your body against his half clothed one.

"I love you more, baby. So much more" he said, squeezing you against him playfully before sitting in the bed, taking off his shirt and leaving it next to you just in case you wanted to put it on.

He made his way to the bathroom, turning on the water to fill the tub from what you could hear on your spot in the bed. You were falling asleep when moments later Jisung took your naked form in his strong arms, carrying you to the bathroom. You could hear relaxing music playing from somewhere in there, another detail you wouldn't let go unnoticed.

"Here baby, let's get you cleaned up, okay?" he lowered your legs and you stood there, staring at the tub and then at him.

"Aren't you going to bathe with me, Sungie?" you pouted, making him laugh, but he did what you wanted and sat in the warm water, extending his arms for you to take place in them. You did it happily, a smile on your face as you climbed there.

"You're the best, Jisung" you sighed happily.

"You deserve only the best in life, baby"

#stayverse #stray kids fanfic #skz fanfic #stray kids smut #skz smut #jisung smut #han jisung smut #han smut #han jisung x reader #han jisung x you #stray kids x you #skz x you #stray kids x reader #skz x reader

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exmortia · 4 years ago

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Shadowgast soulmate ficlet: Found Familiars

Essek/Caleb soulmate AU where a wizard’s familiar manifests from a fragment of their soul, but if they have a soulmate, the familiar comes from their soulmate’s soul instead. Regular D&D familiar mechanics don’t apply here except for pocket dimension poofing and un-poofing. Rated T for someone almost dying.

Like every student at the Soltryce Academy, the time finally comes when Bren learns how to summon a familiar.

It’s a week-long elective course he wasn’t planning on taking yet, preferring to focus his current semester on the fundamentals of magic, but Eadwulf is the first of their friend group to enroll, and he walks into the dorms next week with a raven perched on his shoulder. It becomes a nearly permanent addition to his friend, large and jet-black, with a deceptively strong beak and eyes filled with confidence and intelligence. Eadwulf spends the next few days answering the same standard question from their peers and teachers - “no, it’s mine.”

Astrid borrows Eadwulf’s notes on the spell and summons her own familiar not long after, a razor-eyed falcon that never stops scanning their surroundings and quietly observing anyone within range. Bren is only a little disappointed when she says “it’s mine, I can tell.” He knows, like everyone else, that soulmates are rare.

Soon it’s his turn, and his friends are making good-natured jokes about what form his familiar will take. They’re hoping for another bird just for the irony of it. “Maybe an owl,” Astrid says with a smile. They make bets. Eadwulf puts ten silver on a songbird, and Astrid puts twenty on a bird of prey.

Bren performs the ritual that night in the privacy of his room. As the incense drifts into the air, he secretly hopes for a feline companion, like the one he knew in childhood. Something soft and warm, curled up in his lap and welcoming him back to his room after a long day of classes. He keeps his eyes closed until the spell completes.

When he looks down, there’s an unexpected shape on his desk, like a scarf dropped lengthwise into a pile. Then it begins to move, glinting with iridescent color in the candlelight as its body slides and shifts on itself, and then he recognizes the creature when a rounded head emerges, tongue flicking out to taste the air in his direction.

“A snake?” he whispers to himself, confused and disappointed. Where he’d hoped for fur (or even feathers in retrospect), he sees shiny black scales like an inkspill across his desk where the light doesn’t hit. There are no emotions in its tapered face and round, lidless eyes. When the initial shock wears off, he takes a moment to focus and reach for his connection with it, hoping that what he finds is a reflection of himself, just like what his friends have, but what greets him is a feeling so new and foreign that he can’t lie to himself anymore.

Bren dismisses the familiar in a moment of panicked shame. He spends the night agonizing over what he’ll say to his friends and what their reactions will be. “It’s not mine,” he whispers to himself, dreading the moment when he’ll say it to them in person tomorrow. “I don’t know whose it is, but it isn’t mine.”

“You have a soulmate,” Astrid will say with a small, tight smile, the words neutral on the surface, but there’s a guarded expression in her eyes. Bren can only nod in reply, feeling like he’s wronged her somehow, as Eadwulf inspects the coiled snake presented to them in Bren’s outstretched hands.

“I’m sure it will come in handy,” he declares, trying to soothe Bren’s worries the only way he knows how. Astrid agrees, and the tension passes as they walk to their first class of the day. Bren considers dismissing his familiar again, but then he looks longingly at the companions perched on his friends and carefully tucks the serpent into the neck of his shirt beneath his robe. Its cool weight settles across his shoulders, the movement a slow, shifting pressure that feels good in the summer heat and even better when he’s working through a difficult assignment later.

Bren doesn’t find out until a few weeks later that his familiar is dangerous. An altercation with another classmate leads to him being shoved against a wall, the other boy’s grip twisted into the front of his robe with one hand while the other pulls back for a swing at Bren’s face, and suddenly there’s a blur of motion and the boy is stumbling back with a pair of tiny red dots on his chin. He almost dies right there on the floor, lips blue and foaming at the mouth, before one of the professors is drawn to the shouting of gathered students. Bren is instructed, under threat of expulsion, to keep his familiar dismissed while in the presence of others.

Ten years ago and hundreds of miles away, Essek Thelyss stands in his laboratory, blinking incredulously at the small, furry creature that has manifested in front of him. The trouble with being a wizard of a long-lived race who can’t summon a familiar is that you don’t know whether your soulmate has already died or just hasn’t been born yet. Essek didn’t think he needed a familiar, particularly, but he’d gotten into the habit of trying the spell once every few years when he remembered, partly because it stung to be an accomplished wizard who couldn’t summon one, and also because he secretly hoped that his soulmate, the one chosen for him by The Weave itself, had not already departed this world.

He’d lost count of the attempts, but it was somewhere between twenty and twenty-three when the spell finally worked, much to his surprise. His new familiar, with its striped orange fur and long tail curled neatly around its legs, sat on his ritual table and looked back at him with eyes that glinted in the low, ambient light. ‘My soulmate is alive out there,’ Essek thought with a relief he would never admit to, reaching out to stroke the cat’s soft fur as it stretched and began exploring the table, then his workbench, and then anywhere it could possibly get into.

In his youth, Essek had hoped for a more suitable familiar - something that could blend in, yet contribute to his image as a formidable spellcaster, like a snake or a spider, but he’d grown accustomed to not having one. His new feline companion becomes a sort of household pet. It’s not physically affectionate beyond the occasional rub against his legs. Mostly, it prefers to sit elsewhere in the room and watch him work from a distance. When he trances, it patrolls the halls and kills any small, unfortunate animal that dares enter his home. He wonders about the sort of person his soulmate might be, to have their soul reflected in this mindful, intelligent, and often ruthless creature.

One night, a little over ten years after he first summoned his familiar, Essek returns from his work at the Lucid Bastion and begins going about his routine, only to find that his familiar is nowhere to be found. He wonders if something has happened to make it decorporealize, like accidentally toppling a heavy object onto itself (unlikely), or maybe it had gotten outside somehow and didn’t care to return yet (a common recurring event). His familiar had changed over the past few months, becoming even more standoffish and less receptive to physical touch than before, so Essek doesn’t worry about its absence until the following day, when his familiar is still nowhere to be found. Before using his components to repeat the summoning ritual, he decides to make a quick search of his tower, and there, crouched in the furthest corner beneath a display cabinet in an unused room, his familiar stares back at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

When Essek reaches for his companion, its sudden, piercing, feline scream sends him pitching backwards in shock, until he’s on the floor and his familiar has left behind a series of long scratch marks where it fled. Essek is shaken for the few moments he sits there, confused, and then later, deeply concerned for someone he’s never met before.

This state of mind becomes normal for Essek over the next eleven years. His familiar is a ghost, hiding and wedging itself under furniture and bursting from its hiding spot in a terrified, screaming bolt of fur and claws when Essek unknowingly gets too close. Sometimes he goes weeks without catching sight of it, but Essek finds himself too sentimental to dismiss his former companion. He fears for the source of his familiar’s soul fragment, whoever this person is, and whatever it was that must have happened to them to cause this.

Hundreds of miles away and a few months later, Bren, now Caleb, accepts a torn-off piece of stolen bread from his new goblin companion, and hundreds of miles away, Essek’s familiar creeps out from beneath the workbench in his lab and slinks out of the room, but not before making brief eye contact with Essek, who stares back in disbelief with a set of alchemical reagents forgotten in his hands.

A few weeks later, after being roughed up and chased out of town again, Caleb remembers his silent protector from his school days, and Nott watches with fascination as a black snake appears in Caleb’s hands with a snap of his fingers. Nott’s fascination turns to concern as he spends a long moment staring at it, drowning in the memory of those days at the academy before he and his friends caught Trent Ikithon’s eye. Later that evening, Nott asks to hold his familiar, and Caleb worries for a moment, but it allows itself to be handed over, and Nott must constantly adjust her grip as its body moves and slips between her fingers.

“I think he prefers his master,” she says kindly, and although Caleb hadn’t cared to gender his familiar, the pronoun rings true somehow. Caleb accepts the snake from her and tucks it back into the neck of his coat where its cool, comforting weight helps quiet his intrusive thoughts.

It takes a few more months before Essek can run his fingers through his familiar’s striped fur again. Progress has been slow, but steady, and Essek is relieved not just for his familiar, but for the unnamed soul attached to it.

Things eventually return to the way they were before, and then continue to change. His familiar becomes his shadow, dutifully following him into every room of his tower. Where before it would perch out of arm’s reach to watch him work, now it walks across the paperwork on his desk and jumps into his lap and demands attention, before it’ll curl up and allow him to keep working. It’s an adjustment compared to what he’s used to, but there’s a weight lifted from his shoulders when he thinks about his soulmate now. At least, most of the time. His familiar refuses to leave his home and still vanishes for hours when he gets visitors, even when they remain on his doorstep and converse with him briefly through the open door.

The day comes when a group of strangers walk into the Lucid Bastion. Even among the chaos that follows, Essek’s attention is drawn, inexplicably, to one of their group - a surprisingly well-spoken human with copper-colored hair and pink, freckled skin, covered in mud and Luxon knows what else.

Caleb, dressed in nothing but leather straps, had dismissed his snake familiar out of necessity back in Asarius. When the situation in the Bright Queen’s throne room eventually dies down, his attention is drawn to a figure sitting near the dias, imposing in equal measure to the other high-ranking drow around them, but something about this individual catches his attention and keeps it indefinitely.

Later, when he and the Nein are free to wander Rosohna, Caleb decides not to risk going about with his venomous, spring-coiled companion for now, just in case there’s a misunderstanding with the locals or the guards.

Essek has his work cut out for him, and these new people don’t stay strangers for long. Despite his frustration at their behavior (often disrespectful and almost always culturally inappropriate), he finds himself responding eagerly to their requests for help when needed. When he sees them, his attention is always drawn first to their wizard, Caleb Widogast, and when he teaches Caleb that first dunamantic spell, it’s a challenge to monitor Caleb’s attention to the correct page of Essek’s spellbook, rather than Caleb himself. Everything about this human man, from the way he murmurs to himself while he works, to how he wrings his hands together during tense conversations, to the purely unexpected talent and raw power in the spells he demonstrates, has captivated Essek over the time he’s spent with these newcomers.

Caleb quietly scolds himself whenever the Shadowhand catches him staring. He’s not accustomed to being around dark elves, and even after the novelty wears off, something about their assigned handler, his new and unexpectedly generous teacher in the dunamantic arts, is drawing his attention and thoughts like an arcane compulsion. Caleb carefully keeps this to himself, not wanting to jeopardize their tenuous position in Roshona or the Shadowhand’s willingness to share his knowledge.

Eventually, as the weeks pass and their relationship with Essek grows out of familiarity and Jester’s brute force method of making friends, the Nein are invited to the Shadowhand’s tower for breakfast and the promise of some collaborative spellwork.

Caleb is regrettably late to the event as he makes a detour to find spell supplies, not wanting to impose on their host any more than necessary. When he arrives, there’s an awkward, semi-private moment where Essek answers the door and greets him. Then he’s led further inside where the others are gathered around a large table, and there’s a weird sort of prickling in the back of his mind as he enters the room. Fjord and Beau are talking and leaning against the table while the others are seated in a small group on the opposite side, except for Jester who is kneeling on the floor and talking to someone or something in a high-pitched voice.

A moment later, Jester makes a sad sound and watches Essek’s familiar slip out from under her hands to go trotting across the floor towards its master, or so she thinks. The cat’s gait breaks into a run, and she gasps as Caleb suddenly falls to his knees, his expression that of a mother who’s been searching all day for their missing child as the cat jumps into his arms. Essek’s familiar must be super friendly with other wizards, she thinks, until she sees the startled look on their host’s face. ‘This is the first time in many years that my familiar has not hidden itself from visitors,’ she remembers him saying as they arrived at the tower, and then he coaxed the cat towards them after she asked if she could pet it, which it accepted with mild, friendly interest. Now Caleb is clutching at its orange striped fur as it rubs against his face over and over again, purring loud enough for everyone to hear, and she’s not sure, but it looks like he might be crying a little.

Caleb carefully stands with the cat cradled in one arm, its outstretched paws making biscuits in the air. He reaches out towards Essek, and there’s a small flash of arcane magic before Caleb’s serpentine familiar appears there, balanced in a tight knot of coils in his upturned hand. Essek stares at it, motionless, until the snake begins to move, its body quickly sliding away from its master and into the space between Essek and Caleb, apparently not caring if it falls before it’s caught.

Essek reaches out with both hands to meet the snake’s trajectory, and soon the familiar is wrapped around Essek’s forearm, coiled tightly in place like a permanent fixture. Essek lifts his arm and stares into its eyes, carefully running his fingers across the black, iridescent scales with a gentle reverence.

“He’s yours,” Caleb chokes out in joyful tears, knowing but not caring that his friends are watching with a combination of amusement and concerned looks. “I always wondered, but I never dared hope . . .” Caleb clears his throat as Essek stares at him, the drow’s expression hard to read. “He, uh, likes to be up high, around your neck, where he can, um . . . he’s v-venomous by the way. I had to learn that. From experience. But he is a good snake, a very good snake,” Caleb insists as more tears threaten to wet his face. In Caleb’s arms, his new familiar trills and then purrs louder, satisfied, when he bends down to nuzzle his face into its wonderful, beautiful orange fur.

Essek makes a quick decision not to ask about what happened to his feline familiar over that eleven-year period. Maybe later when they’re comfortable and alone. For now, he admires his snake companion, the subtle magical thread of connection between master and familiar already transitioned, painlessly, from old to new. He feels whole and complete, and not just from finding his true familiar. Essek’s affection is quiet and immeasurable as he meets Caleb’s overjoyed grin with his own soft smile.

“Thank you for this,” is all Essek can say without his voice breaking. Later, after Caleb’s friends have staged a friendly interrogation about what happened and what it means for two wizards to exchange familiars (and after he’s taken Caleb’s advice and tucked his new companion into the neck of his robe where it fits perfectly), he’ll take Caleb upstairs, his former familiar dutifully following its new master, and spend a few hours alone with his soulmate. At the end of trading stories about their lives and hardships and hopes for the future, he’ll hold the human’s face in his hands and take the first step towards sealing their bond with a kiss.

#shadowgast #caleb widogast #essek thelyss #critical role #critical role fanfiction #can't watch the new episode until later tonight so I wrote this instead #non-wizards could probably gain a familiar this way #I've got another ficlet idea too hmmm

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 4 years ago

Text

Blighted

For my precious Sunshine, @5-secondsofcolor's birthday!! Which is technically now, because it is 1 AM on the 20th of May and I am a mad woman. Love you and I hope you have an amazing day, when you see this of course.

Here is your fic, FBI/Behavior Analyst!Calum. Female OC.

Ivy says she's cursed after taking the same career path that took her father's life. Calum's new on the team, a liaison and media specialist, but he's looking to get his toes wet.

AKA your regular old jaded pessimist veteran and bright eyed rookie buddy cop story. Please enjoy!

CW: In depth descriptions of death/crime scenes. Depictions of violence, gore, and blood.

Enjoy my masterlist (on a haitus)

Search for more writing in the h writes tag

________________________

The whiteboard never leaves. It glows behind her closed eyelids. When staring down at the neck of a bottle, she sees it floating just as the bottom of her drink. She’s cursed. But she knew that the moment she tried out for the academy. The second the thought floated across her mind, she would be doomed just like her father. Ivy tried her best to reroute herself--she got into the arts, was first chair flute in her highschool’s orchestra. She was president of the Homecoming committees her junior and senior year, and worked during the summers at her church's camp.

And yet when she went into school for her degree, she gravitated towards psychology and criminal justice. She saw her mother’s fear. The closer it came to graduation and the more the two of them talked about what she would do after graduating, the more the thought lingered, I want to get into the Bureau like Dad. But she couldn’t utter that. She couldn’t say those words without tears welling up in her mother’s eyes.

Ivy suspected her mother always knew about the desires. Ivy didn’t remember all the nights clearly, but sometimes she’d peek out her bedroom door and see the glow of the light downstairs. Ivy followed it, side stepping the creaky fourth step from the top and from between the banister’s she’d find her dad sitting at the dining room table. The kitchen light glowed from behind him and his tie would barely hang on around his neck.

“Boo,” he’d say quietly, knowing the slight shuffle of Ivy’s feet.

“How’d you know I was there, Daddy?” she’d ask, carrying herself the rest of the way down the stairs and make her way through the living room to climb into his lap.

“I can hear your feet above me,” he’d respond, pointing above them.

And they’d spend an hour, sitting at the dining room table. Ivy asked about her dad’s latest trip. He only ever told her when she was young that they were helping save people, putting bad people away. Ivy wonders if this is where it started. If this was where her father casted the spell, leaving Ivy somehow starry eyed about what it really was he did. Ivy would always look at this job with a little bit of that hope that her younger self had, and she’d always be fucked to never be able to walk away from this line of work.

It would kill her--much like it had killed her dad. But unlike him, she’d see the bullet spiral out of the barrel. Her dad had her and her mother to get back too. It wasn’t a weakness. Ivy admired her father for sticking with his dreams and also making the hard calls to make sure his family knew he cared too. But the need to decide would always be a slight hindrance, would always be the key to living or dying in this line of work.

All that’s left of her father, besides the memories and a few of his old t-shirts that got remade into pillows, is the whiteboard she keeps at her desk. There’s a whiteboard for the entire team to use of course. But this whiteboard is the one that her father used in his office. The one where he made his notes, scribbles. The one she’d write notes to him in the bottom left corner that never disappeared until she wanted to replace the note with something new.

“Thomas, look alive, and enjoy.” The manilla folder hits her desk with a quiet thwack. Ivy blinks from the whiteboard up to her senior officer. Kennedy carries on, dropping folders on every desk and each one of them stands without needing any further prompting.

Kennedy’s been in the field for years. It was all over his face with the deep frown lines. His brow seemed permanently furrowed, as if he questioned every waking second. Ivy liked to tease he worried even about sleep. But no one could sink a decade and a half into this line of work and not come out on the other side with a healthy amount of suspicion.

“And where’s this new guy?” Kennedy asks, glancing over the office.

Ivy looks up from her copy of the file. She heard rumors of someone else coming by the office, assisting them occasionally on cases. But those rumors floated around weeks ago, long enough that she chalked it up to just that--rumors. It doesn’t shock her though. Things start at rumors often, and sometimes they come to fruition and sometimes they don’t. Ivy follows Kennedy’s eyeline and doesn’t spy any new faces.

“Want me to keep an eye out for any lost souls?” Ivy offers, glancing back up to Kennedy.

“Nah, I need your eyes on this one. Head up to the conference room and I’ll be there once he shows up.”

With a nod, Ivy closes the file. She swipes the whiteboard from her desk with a couple markers and heads up to the conference room. The rest of the team sat flipping through their files too, Jenkins sitting right near the front but moved down one seat. They’re not new, having been around for a couple years. But Ivy can tell their type--getting in chummy with the boss, trying too hard. They’re a good addition, but Ivy’s waiting for the day they take a hunch and it doesn’t lead to the results they want. A loss will show their true colors, how well they can handle being wrong sometimes. No one on the team is perfect, they’re all hedging bets. Ivy’s taken her lumps of hunches being made too late, or the wrong bets placed. They’re not often. No one likes them. But they happen.

Diaz, Russell, and Burke and scattered throughout the rest of the table. The three of them have been there longer than Ivy. But they all accepted her with open arms. Diaz and Burke were more muscular. They had the brains to match, but they came up the pipeline from their local PD departments and aren’t afraid to get into a tussle. More often than not, Ivy winds up pulling Burke from fights than she’d care to admit. Diaz’s much too big for Ivy to attempt physically restraining, so she referee’s those fights that he gets into.

Russell’s their man behind the screen. He was good at getting through the internet loops, figuring out how to sort databases for the information they need without so much red tape and delay. He preferred to stay behind the lines, but could handle a tussle. Ivy doesn’t count herself as the brains. But her gut had some sort of true north needle that, more often than not, was right. She could see patterns faster than most, could sniff the air after someone and assess how much she could and wanted to trust. Kennedy consulted her often. Whenever she felt like she had something, he’d hush the crowd for her to formulate the full thought. Kennedy didn’t always agree with her assessment, but had to listen to it. He needed to listen to it.

“Nope,” Russell huffs, shutting the folder. “Fucking hell. Kennedy told me it was rough, but I didn’t--I didn’t think it was this rough.”

Ivy settles in next to him sliding him a marker. She draws roughly a tic-tac-toe board. “It not getting easier for you is a good sign.”

Russell makes his first move, the marker squeaking just a little. Ivy follows up with hers. She knows if she makes it too obvious, too easy, Russell will forfeit the game. So she tries to play along, like she’s vying to win.

Russell places his second X though his hands shake just a hair. “Yeah, but compared to you guys, I feel like if someone took a gnarly enough shit it would make me queasy.”

“A bad enough shit could do that to anyone,” Diaz pipes in, his own folder still open but his forearms pressed down over the photographs. Russell’s been around the block, definitely seem some rough things, but has always had a softer view of the world. Still wants it to be good despite all the bad he’s seen.

Ivy places down her second O, noticing the pretty obvious wide open spot she left Russell but looks up to Diaz. “I think I heard through the grapevine you were on the losing end of one of those shits yesterday,” she teases.

Diaz reclines into his seat, his chest bouncing with his laughter. “All because of your cooking Thomas.”

“My cooking is not that bad,” she defends, the cap of her black marker pointing him out.

Burke snickers too with a shake of her head and opens her mouth to speak but the room fills with the voice of Kennedy. “Aren’t y’all old enough to be left alone not to talk about shit for five minutes?”

“Never too old to talk shit, sir,” Diaz returns, his smile lifting only half his face up. He’s a charmer, whenever they go out to bars out manage to get a moment’s peace not hounded by work, he never seems to be at a lack of folks coming up to him. He’s already got a girl, but with the hair that cascades always neatly placed and the dazzling bright grin, anyone could fall for it.

Kennedy huffs his laughter quickly and then shuffles deeper into the room. “We’ve got a new friend, so let’s play nice.” As Kennedy makes head way, Ivy notices the man behind him. He’s tall. The black dress pants and black dress shirt don’t hide everything beneath them, but Ivy’s not too shocked to see people who work in the field like that with some sort of muscular physique. There’s something about his face though--something about the way his brown eyes dart around the room and his smile never shows any teeth that something familiar tugs at her.

Kennedy goes around the table introducing Ivy first, then going to Russell, coming down to Jenkins, Diaz, and then Burke. Each one of them lifts a hand or nods at their name. “This here is Hood, Calum Hood. Joining us as a new liaison.”

Ivy’s no good with faces sometimes. But names she hardly ever forgets. Hood, she met him once a few years back at a lecture. Not that she did them often, but Kennedy got more face time. But he made sure to spread the love between the team. He asked her to tag along. Calum must’ve been in the crowd, had to be, and had to have asked a question because Kennedy told her to remember that name. And she had.

Kennedy continues on with something. Ivy suspects he’s warning Diaz to keep any hazy tactics to a minimum considering how much of a mess they’re walking into. Ivy nods once more at him, and then faces back to the whiteboard, the tap on her arm prompting her too. I’m a scaredy cat sure, but not dumb, it reads in Russell’s handwriting. She spies his X in the bottom corner, opposite of where he would’ve won.

“Pull up a seat, Hood. We’ll have more time for pleasantries once we’re up in the air. But I want everyone to at least be familiar with this case.”

“Yes, sir.” His voice is smooth, Ivy notes. A soft volume and accented but smoother than she would’ve pegged.

The team breaks down the file, recapping mostly what they’ve already read but Kennedy’s old fashioned this way, needing to make sure people have done their homework. It’s an extra step than completely necessary, but having the quick meetings has always made this team feel more like a second family. There’s always a common goal in mind for them and they’re always reminded of it. No matter what happens out in the field, they all want the same thing.

“We soar in forty-five minutes. So let’s hope wheels can turn in the air. Hood, I need you to keep in mind the local PD’s been taking a lot of heat for the last couple of months. So we don’t want to take too much star power, we’re only here to assist and whatever we can do to put the local’s good grace back onto that PD we need to.”

Not quite what she expected, though with his demeanor and looks, he’s sure to work a crowd or newsroom well. She’s sure he’ll be on the ground with them too.

“Understood,” he replies and with that, all of them push away from the table. “Agent Thomas,” Hood says, reaching out almost as if to touch her elbow but never actually do it. He continues to speak once she looks over to him. “I-I don’t know if you remember. But we met at a lecture a couple years back that you held with Agent Kennedy. And I just wanted to say that I’m excited to be here, working with you all.”

“Thomas, here, does not respond well to flattery. Trust, we’ve all tried,” Diaz laughs, clamping down on Hood’s shoulders.

“I appreciate it,” Ivy responds. “Glad to have a fresh mind on the team.” There’s no smile, at least, not one she’d give Russell, Burke, Diaz, or even Jenkins. But Calum watches her give another curt nod with a quick quirk of her lips, and then leave, stacking her file on top of the whiteboard.

“Don’t sweat it. She’s in work mode,” Diaz assures. “We get off the clock and she’s a hoot. But on the clock, it’s strictly business. I will warn you, Thomas will burn you.”

Calum’s left, watching Diaz, Burke, and Russell leave. Jenkins turned tail the second Kennedy got done. It’s not that he wants to mix business with pleasure. He’s just been studying Thomas, attending as many lectures that she gives as he can. She didn’t always go directly by the book, there was something about her method that used the evidence, used science, but also had some sort of intuition. Thomas just knew things and when attempting to quantify it, she didn’t always have the words for it. Calum just wants to see that in action, understand what it is about knowing that isn’t always present in the facts.

The plane ride is comfortable. Plenty of seats even though they squeak just a little. Calum watches Thomas sit and everyone seems to sit spread out from there, keeping her at some sort of center. “Mobile. They don’t mind the hustle,” Ivy starts.

“Crossing state lines is risky, especially after the escalation,” Burke interjects.

“But wouldn’t that be a reason for it? If all the crimes look different, enough crossing state lines might make the unsub feel confident, like they’re getting away with something.” The entire plane turns to look at him. Calum freezes for a moment. He knows better. He knows so much better than that. Fuck.

“Valid. But we shouldn’t settle. Travel might be part of their job. We’ve got a good cluster to possibly estimate a home base. Get comfortable, perfect the craft here and then spread out. But why come back? Local PD's hadn't quite connected anything, until the return. More families, found exactly the same. Even when they cross state lines, all points wind back to a specific geographical location,” Burke returns.

“Hood, you got the inside of the media. What does it look like?”

Thirty minutes of his forty five was making sure that he could at least nail down this run through. And it’s easy, even with the squeak of Ivy’s dry erase marker, to run down the media reports, what information has been released and what hasn’t been released. He makes note of what the team doesn’t want to get out and what they do want to keep available to the public.

All the while, Calum watches the way Ivy writes over her board, the squeak over and over on specific strokes. He wonders for a moment what she’s writing, what it is that she needs to keep written track of. But he doesn’t get a chance to fully flesh out that thought before he finishes his spill and Diaz cuts in. They’re fast, not quite settling on any one theory. More like compiling the possibilities, not wanting to eliminate things but ranking how plausible they all could be until the pieces click.

The first thing after the flight lands, they head for the precinct. The lead investigator greets them, and there’s no pause. They’re pulled into the frenzy, looking at boards. Calum tries to keep his head in the game, but he is watching Ivy. The way she settles in her chair, her marker always moving. He’s not even sure it’s words anymore, just a constant circular movement. Sure he’s here to help regulate media outlets, and he can do that in his sleep if local PD and media follow his instructions to a T.

But he needs an in, to show he’s more than just the new meat on the chopping block. He’s worth something. “Is the last crime scene still available?” Calum asks.

The room turns to him, well most of the room does. Ivy keeps circling, but she speaks. “The plan’s to go in ten minutes. Whatever’s got you preoccupied, leave it in your go bag.”

Kennedy chuckles, tapping at her foot. “Give the kid a break. He was buried in news coverage the second we got into the door. But Hood, shake the cobwebs. This isn’t your small town’s rodeo anymore. If you need to be caught up, ask. But if you’re going to be in the room, keep those ears open.”

A task easier said than done, but he nods, resting his elbows on his knees. God, they’re going to think I’m an idiot. The room goes back to its normal buzz, but Calum keeps his head buried in his hands.

“Talk to me. What are your theories?”

Calum lifts his head. Ivy’s closer now. He can see the black marks on her hand from where she’s held it up against the swirls and lettering. “Clearly I’m barely treading water here.”

“First day nerves, but you can shake it. You wanted to see the crime scene. Why?”

“Why there? We have indications that the unsub spent a lot of time there, even with the interruptions they've seemed to caused. They're still meticulous. I want to follow their steps. What did they do first? And why? What do they need from a crime scene before it’s done?”

“Good. But what else?”

“What-what do you mean what else?”

She smiles, much different than the first one. It shows her teeth, a bit of a twinkle in her eyes. “What else?”

He goes quiet, reclines back into the seat and closes his eyes for a second. What else? There’s a lot else. “I mean, the next obvious thing is why these victims? But besides that, how comfortable is this person? Do they feel a need to be rushed, fast, get-in-get-out or can they blend in? I have a hunch they can blend in. Maybe people even trust them. They are perfectly ordinary and in essence, they have to be in order for the fantasy to work. Detection means they have to get sloppy. Being sloppy’s not an option, so blending in it is.”

“Bring that to the crime scene.” Something taps his knee and Calum cracks open his eyes to see her, standing. Her whiteboard still gently rests against his knee. She’s not looking at him though. Her gaze is locked onto the board next to him, displaying the crime scene photos.

“What’s your secret?” Calum asks. He’s almost positive she didn’t hear him due to Ivy’s lack of prompt response. But then she turns to him.

“Secret?”

“Thomas, Hood, you comin’ or what?” Kennedy calls. “I can deal without Diaz, but I need you, Thomas.”

“I’ll remember that,” Diaz laughs as they walk through the glass doors of the precinct.

It’s not Calum’s first time at a crime scene. But the second Calum steps through the door a chill runs through him. The carpet and walls are still bloodstained. Everything about it the scene just feels wrong, makes Calum want to immediately step back out of the house.

“You feel that?” Burke asks. She continues on deeper into the house, slipping into her gloves.

“This is when Thomas says she’s too Black for all this and gets the hell out of dodge,” Diaz barks. He squats down to the blood on the carpet. Ivy’s already deep into the house, seemingly guided by a force unwillingly to let her go. She doesn’t respond verbally, just lifts her hand, the middle finger extended out in the general direction of Diaz.

And Calum is standing near the threshold of the door, trying to pinpoint why it feels so cold in a house in Texas in the middle of the summer. His hands feel sticky even inside the latex gloves. His first step is shaky but he stops next to Diaz. “There are drag marks from the blood,” Calum notes. “This isn’t where they were killed, just staged.”

“The unsub staged all the victims here in the living room. We know that. Pictures show the parents at the ends of the sofa, children in the middle, dog on the floor.”

“But there’s blood on the walls. We know the Dad’s 6’1,” Calum returns.

“And we don’t have forced entry. So, whoever is wreaking havoc isn’t threatening enough for someone not to answer the door.”

Calum turns to the sofa where the family was found. “It’s picturesque, poetic even. You’ve got a whole family right here, at your will. They knock on the door. It’s dusk, sun’s just starting to set.”

“They have a ruse that gets them inside. We already know they have to blend in with the community. So what can you use to get into a house? Who gets into a house without a problem?”

Diaz goes into the kitchen where in the case file it mentions when the family was finally discovered food was still out on the table. “The window doesn’t have to last long. But it has to be just right. All three families were either eating dinner, or just done with dinner. So why dinner time?” Diaz turns from the stove to face Calum.

“It’s when everyone is together. They’re not just going after a family, but very specific family dynamics. Which means both parents need to present, two kids seems to be a minimum.”

“What’s the average dinner time you’d say? With this job, I eat whenever I fucking can. But before this, excluding people like us, when is the average person sitting down to eat?”

“6, 6:30 I’d guess. That’s assuming the average person is working a job that calls it at 5PM. A town like this is either on the verge of collapsing or being bought out. So I assume a lot of people are traveling outside to the city for work, so the commute might be even later. But I wouldn’t hazard any guesses that our unsub’s just haphazardly picking houses.”

“No, no, you’re right, Hood,” Diaz states, walking over to the table. “I guess what I’m saying is the timing. No one hears anything. But our unsub’s using a gun. That’s not quiet. And there’s not a lot of city noise this far out. They’re spending hours in the house and somehow getting out undetected. But striking at dinner time, with the setting sun, means this person’s around outside the house. But no one’s noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

“Hunting seasons,” Calum returns. “No one really flinches at the sound of a gun shot because people are hunting year ‘round here.”

“And it seems like humans are on the menu.”

“An appetizing thought.”

******

Ivy’s not sure when the chill finally left over the course of the day but it returns when she walks into the precinct and sees the entire room in a frenzy. Kennedy spies her and it’s just a look. Not much different than his resting face, but somehow she knows with that slight arch in his eyebrow. Another family--while they were proding over photos the killer was already moving on, already in the midst of their attack.

And it shouldn’t shock her. Well, to be more accurate, it doesn’t shock her and maybe that’s the thing that scares her. “I’ve been doing this too damned long,” she mutters to herself. “Hood, you’re with me. Get the address and let’s see what that gut of yours cooks up.”

“How’d--Is Kennedy going to be okay with that? The call just came in a few minutes ago.”

“Get the address and tell me how you like your coffee,” Ivy says. Kennedy’s going to come to the scene anyway, but she doesn’t tell Calum that.

There’s not another word before Calum passes in front of her. “Cream and two sugars,” he answers as he goes.

“So Black, got it.”

Paused at the desk of a detective, he looks over his shoulder. “Cream and two sugars,” he re-emphasizes with a tiny smile and holding up two fingers. Police station coffee’s never the best, but it’s better than nothing. When on a case, time is also imperative and they take what they can. Ivy fixes Calum’s cup first, slipping a lid on and keeping the stirrer through the hole. She pours her cup with no additions.

“Not even creamer? Not one?” Calum questions.

“Takes too much time,” she returns. “Burke, you staying?”

“Yeah, Russell got those files over just before the call came in. Besides that crime scene’s bound to be crowded as all hell and I swear if I walk into another house and catch a chill after seven years of doing this job, I just might quit.”

The two ladies laugh. Ivy recovering first to respond, “I need you to keep me sane even though you’re just as much trouble as Diaz.”

“Which is why I’m going to say here, work with Russell. We’re going to need Hood back before the 5’oclock news. Whatever you find at the scene will help solidify our profile and we need it soon. We need the hands on this clock, because it’s ticking ahead of us.”

Ivy nods. It’s no fun being behind. “Kennedy, we’re moving or we’re dying.”

“I trust you. There’s something off about that last one that I want to walk through again.”

“Let’s rock and roll,” she says to Calum, handing him his cup of coffee. “Mr. Cream-and-Two-Sugars.”

The drive is relatively short, all thanks to Ivy’s lead foot. But they need to get there fast, while things are still fresh.

“Did you always want to do this?” Calum asks in the silence of their drive. The radio doesn’t even play. Ivy knew he had questions. He wore them on his face, brows furrowing anytime he was the slightest bit hesitant about something.

“I don’t think I had a choice.”

“What do you mean you didn’t have a choice? We’ve all got choices.”

“My dad worked with the FBI until it killed him. And I think about how he used to tell me it was his job to help put bad people in jail. And I believed him.”

“The bug bit you before you even had a fighting chance.”

Ivy nods, taking a quick glance to Calum. “But if I had a prettier face, I’d stick with liaison too.”

Calum huffs out his laughter. “I went the journalism route first, sue me. Besides, that’s you admitting you think I have a pretty face.”

“I forget faces—so don’t think too highly of it. And I’m probably old enough to be your mother. You attended some lectures, I remembered your name. How’d you convert?”

It’s silent for a moment and Calum contemplates her statement, old enough to be his mother. “Given that my mother has shared her fountain of youth with my sister and I, you might be shocked to know I’m nearing 30. And I converted because of you and your work under Kennedy and his old superior Rogers.”

“All the greats,” Ivy teases, but she doesn't sound impressed. More like tired, used to it.

“But you’re different.”

“Yeah, because somehow the Bureau hasn’t realized their mistake.”

“Mistake?” Calum asks around his sip of coffee.

“Kennedy’s going to retire soon. He's done 15 with our unit. Another ten prior to that climbing through the ranks. Then they’re going to have to find a replacement.”

“You say that like it won’t be you.”

“Because it won’t.”

“You’ve been with Kennedy for so long. He’s obviously going to recommend you, Ivy.”

“He can recommend but people higher up get the final word.”

The truck stops just in front of the house, and Calum knows the most logical thing to do is just focus on the case, walk the scene. Do his job. But he reaches across the console and wraps his fingers around hers for a second with a squeeze. “You’ll get it. They’d be dumb not to bring you to the head of this team.”

“There’s an altar or a shrine. It’s small.”

Calum pauses with his hand on the door. Ivy continues beside him. “Go to the eldest child’s bedroom. In a corner you’ll see the small shrine. Our unsub left one at the last house. And the house before, I’d bet. And this house too. That’s what Kennedy missed. What other cops missed too. Make sure you get it photographed. Besides, I’ve been doing this job too long and don’t know if I’d even want the added responsibility if they promoted me.”

“How’d we miss that?”

“We didn’t miss shit. We saw it when we needed to see it. We see things when we need them.” It's the way she says it, like she has to believe that makes Calum believe too.

The sight rocks Calum--he knew it wouldn’t be easy. But he didn’t know it’d hit him like this. The room spins, just a little. And his heart racing. Mostly because he can’t stand the thought that this could be someone he knows. These people weren’t anticipating their would be like this. And what does that even mean for him? What does his end look like?

“Hey, whoa. Whoa.” An arm comes around his waist and he follows the lead of whomever’s grabbed him.

“I’m okay,” he breathes out. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah, I’m a fudge brownie. It’s okay to not be alright in there.”

Calum rests against the side of the house and squats down just a little. His elbows hit his knees. His breath is heavy, falls from his open mouth almost like he’s going to vomit. But his stomach’s not churning anymore. Not with the fresh morning air hitting his lungs. “Fuck,” he breathes out again, eyes blurring just a little.

“But you’re okay. Take a breather.” Ivy’s shoes turn up in the dirt. "Get him a water, will ya? Hood, take a minute. It's alright. I'll be inside when you're ready." Calum just watches her go. It takes a moment for him to lift his head. It has to get easier. Or least he hopes it does. It takes him a minute, inhaling deeply before he stands up straight.

The rest of them processing the scene goes by in relative silence. Occasionally, Calum pipes in with an addition to their theory. Ivy hums in agreement. And it’s not until they step out and slip out of their gloves that Ivy says anything. “This is why I drink my coffee black.”

“I’m sorry. I really--I don’t know why this one got me.”

“It’s the kids. Kids are the worst.”

Calum looks up to the sky. There’s a few clouds, but not many. “The photos are bad, but in person is way different.”

Ivy watches Calum, the way it takes him a second to come back to earth it seems. “Don’t ask yourself if it gets easier.” When his gaze lands hers, she can see the furrowed brow again. The question drips off his face. “You’ll only disappoint yourself. And this job’s not for the weak of heart. For the people that can’t take some losses with the wins.”

“You said it yourself. You wanted to put the bad people away.”

“Eight year old me wants to believe it’s as easy as putting the monsters away. Thirty-one year old me knows for a fact what the losses are, who gets caught in the cross-fire. It’s not easy, not in the slightest.”

“Innocent lives do add up.”

“Which is why I try not to do math on the job. They all slip up. They all reach a point where their methods don’t satiate the need. They all make a fatal flaw and counting the unfortunate lives on the way to that will have you walking from the Bureau faster than you can blink.”

“So what makes you stay? If it’s all so fucking bad, what keeps you going?”

Ivy nods to the car, pulling the keys from her pocket. “We need to solidify our profile and you need to run press ASAP. But to answer your question, the thing that keeps me going is that fact that they do get caught eventually.”

******

Eventually seems to come up faster than Calum anticipates. He was sure it would take weeks. After getting back to the precinct more information in Russell’s digging found a connection between all the families, a Venn diagram that overlapped to their X on the map. Another couple of days and it all unravelled. It’s a blur, when he tries to think back to it, on the plane. The only grounding thing is when one of the children, a little girl about 6, pointed out the tattoos on his hands. In all this time, he was sure the tattoos would be a barrier to entry--they’d somehow put him in a place that others would think he was nothing but trouble. But somehow, despite the terror she had done through, that little girl liked his tattoos, found some sort of comfort in them.

When he told her they were for his parents, she smiled at him. She said she wanted one for her parents too and then asked if he had anymore and how old he was when he got them. All of which Calum was more than happy to answer while the medic checked over her. Her older brother came soon after, asking a few questions, but overall he was much quieter than his sister. Understandable for what was endured. In the end, Calum’s just glad he didn’t see them staged on a couch, bleeding out onto the cushions.

There’s a small bit of turbulence and the shakes cause Calum to open his eyes for a moment. Ivy’s seated across from him, whiteboard on her lap, headphones in her ears. A tic-tac-toe grid drawn across it in the middle, but in the corners are some swirls, a crude drawing of the shrine from the case. Calum leans forward and tugs on the board just a little. She lets it go without a fight and hands over the marker.

Calum makes an ‘X’ in the top left. “You said this job doesn’t get easier.” He looks up to see if Ivy can hear him and is relieved when she pops out one her headphones. She raises her brows like she wants him to continue with the thought. And Calum’s not even sure he should. Instead, he hands over the board back to her. If seeing death doesn’t get easier, then maybe it just means he gets better at it. Maybe it means that not being okay with death is a good motivator to keep down this path.

“The job doesn’t get easier. You’re still human. You still want a spouse and a kid. You might want two dogs and a cat. You might want that white picket fence one day. You’ll want to close your eyes and not see death. You’ll want to walk down the street and see humans as humans again. You’ll have nightmares. Don’t hide from it. Nothing’s wrong with you for wanting that. But we’re in a world now where we see the horrors--what’s on the other side of everything you wanted. It’s a liminal space and it’s heavy to wade through.”

“I just want to not freak like I did the other day. It’s not easy. But sometimes I fear that maybe I bit off more than I could chew.”

Their game of tic-tac-toe has been forgotten, placed in the seat next to Ivy as she leans forward in her seat. “You said you were converted because of me. What exactly about me was it?”

“You just know things. When you walk onto a scene, you have an air of knowing. How can you just pick up on it in a snap?”

“Well,” Ivy laughs, “if that’s the only reason you want in, I warn you to get out.”

“I want to help. I want to save people,” Calum adds on. But then it hits him. Maybe this wasn’t the business of saving people as much as it was stopping people. Sure, they prevent future murders, but that didn’t always negate for all the lives lost. But they did save that family today. He saved that little girl that wants tattoos like his. “I want to save people and I want to stop people as well,” he finally adds on.

“There will always be monsters in this world,” Ivy warns.

“And there will always be heroes.”

“Make no mistake, Calum. We don’t have capes. We don’t swoop in all the time at just the right moment. Sometimes we are late. Sometimes we’re reacting more than we are being proactive. Sometimes we fuck up.”

His heart stops for just a moment at the mention of his first name. He’s always Hood, or at least has always been Hood. Just like she’s always Thomas to the team. But she said his first name. Unmistakably so. “Did-did you just use my first name?”

“You used my first name, first.”

When had he done that? He didn’t recall, but he couldn’t combat it either.

“Look,” Ivy continues, “the fact remains. We will fail. We will make the wrong call, or the right call just by the skin of our teeth. We will walk down the wrong direction only to figure out, we know it’s the wrong one. We get it right. A lot more often, we get it right and we minimize the death count. But we’re human--you don’t have to take it on if you don’t want. You don’t have to suffer.”

“If I don’t suffer and win, then that little girl suffers and loses. Then the next person loses. And the next. Their suffering or mine--the choice is clear.”

Ivy studies Calum for a moment. She sees the resolve on his face. Just how much sacrificing himself is a no brainer for him. It was a no brainer for her too. But admittedly, she was cursed. Maybe Calum wasn’t. Maybe she could save him, even if she couldn’t save herself. But she wasn’t in the business of saving people, only stopping them.

“I can’t stop you, can I?” she asks.

“Stop me from what?”

“Stop you from killing yourself with this job.”

“If it’s killing you, then why don’t you leave?” His head cocks to the side, now intrigued by her honesty.

“It’s like you said, I got bit before I could escape. I’m cursed. Are you?”

The little girl flashes through his vision again, and his chest tightens for a second before the relief kicks in. He could chase that feeling, the knowledge that he saved someone, one person. And that he helped put away one more person causing harm. “I am now. Ruined--because even though I can’t save them all. I can save some. I can help keep some people safe. I don’t think there’s a better reward than that.”

With a nod, Ivy looks back to their game on the whiteboard. They would’ve tied, she can see it after where she placed her ‘O’. But she hands it back over to Calum. “Kennedy’s going to shit himself when he realizes he’s got too hard heads on his team.”

“You’ll shit yourself when you realize you’re inheriting the second hard-head on the team after Kennedy leaves.”

Ivy scoffs. Of course, Calum still believes in the shiny idea that hard work yields rewards. “And this is where I can still tell you’re new to this--the dreams are still shiny and ideal.”

“All the work you’ve invested, they’d be--”

Ivy interrupts him. “I know, they’d be dumb not to.”

“Then why do you keep saying it won’t happen?”

“I’d call my pessimism a curse. But at this point, I think it’s a personality trait and the truth.”

“And let me guess, this is why you take your coffee black too.”

Ivy winks at him before her smile takes over her face. “You know it.”

#calum hood #calum hood fanfic #calum hood imagine #calum hood fic #calum hood 5sos #calum 5sos #5sos #5sos fanfic #5sos fic #5sos imaagine #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer fanfic #5 seconds of summer fic #fbi!calum #behavior analyst!calum #h writes #calum hood blurb #calum hood x oc

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littlefreya · 5 years ago

Text

Heart of Darkness

Synopsis: Slight sequel to Overprotected. Walter’s longing wife comes to visit him at his office.

Pairing: Detective Walter Marshall x OFC

Word count: 3.9K

Warnings: Explicit, graphic smutty sex, rough oral sex, choking, role play, pleasure denial, rough sex. MaleDom / FemSub. Slight fluff though.

A/N: A special thanks for @agniavateira or helping me proof my work. I don’t own Night Hunter / Nomins or Marshall!

Title: Heart of Darkness

The heating is broken at the station. It’s either that, or Walter came up with some new methods of torture to interrogate his suspects. I’ve never seen him in action, I’m not sure if it’s the shame of this very darkness that lives within him, or his desperate attempt to keep me safe from the horrors of the night. His colleagues filled me in a while ago, mentioning he tends to go rough, violent, even brutal at times.

They know very little for I bask in Walter’s darkness. I’m the first to witness the terror that consumes him and shadows his soul. I drink from his desire, joining him in this violent lovemaking. It’s the only thing that helps him cleanse his demons.

It brings us closer.

And yet, he doesn’t want me here. He fights to keep me secluded as if I was some porcelain doll.

As if I don’t see my share of blood and death every day.

I walk through the chilled halls of the station, wrapping my arms around myself to keep warm. Even though I’m wearing a large, thick winter coat, it feels like it’s four degrees here. I shouldn’t have worn a skirt beneath all this, but how could I have known? I left five text messages which remained unanswered. It’s not unusual. He is busy, and sometimes he forgets.

It doesn’t mean this doesn’t piss me off.

I find him in his office, with a phone pressed to his ear. His bulky body faces the window while he talks down some crime lab trainee for messing up the evidence. He turns to see who dares to barge his office uninvited, his blue eyes pale as glaciers. They immediately melt as he realizes it’s me.

“I don’t care how. Get a new sample or I’ll make sure you’ll never hear the end of this!” He ends the call without a goodbye and drops the device on his desk. His arms grab the edges of the chair tightly while he stares down, letting his soft dark curls fall on top of his forehead.

“What are you doing here, pet? You know I don’t like you coming here.”

I take off my long coat, hanging it next to the door. His office is only slightly warmer. It’s smaller, and Walter emits enough warmth on his own. Everyone is walking around in their coats and jackets but he's in a black wool sweater per usual, with the sleeves rolled up to expose his wide forearms.

“I missed you” I answer, pretending not to tremble but the fumes that come out of my mouth give me away.

I take a small, slow twirl in the secluded space, inspecting the room. There's so little light in here. On the shelf, he has some books about the history of crime and criminology, with his diploma and badges of honour laid next to it. Not out of pride, but out of compliance. Walter is not an arrogant man, he’s actually the opposite. He doesn’t have time for chasing glory, all he does is out of pure heroism, some would even say out of altruism.

The morbid photos next to his desk catch my eyes. Images of victims. They hang on a board latched to the wall, along with a map, and a thick, red string that trails the locations where the bodies were found. These are young women, mutilated, their lives were stolen from them by selfish monsters.

I get to see my share of blood every day, sometimes even death. But, this is not something anyone should see.

And this is what he sees all the time, probably also in his dreams. The ghosts of the girls he couldn’t save haunt him; it’s not his fault, but he’d never see it that way. For him, every girl who died on his watch is a girl he has failed.

My fingers press against the ring on my finger, twisting it anxiously. I can feel my heart shrinking to the size of a walnut. I wish I could suck the pain out of him as you do with poison.

“I told you…” he speaks with a deep frown on his face, as if he is angry with me for entering his cave of horrors. He was in a foul mood before I got here, and I defied his request. I am the one teasing the tinders with more wind and fuel.

All I wanted was to bring my light into his world, at least for a little while.

“You visit me at work all the time,” I answer, inching closer toward his desk. I try to ignore the sourness in my throat as the horrifying images on the wall stare right at us.

He gives me a small smile, almost invisible amongst the wrinkles of grumpiness on his forehead.

“It’s a part of my job to come to the hospital, and it’s the only one in the county.”

That’s how we met.

I was in my first year of residency. The tall, burly man with the most caring blue eyes appeared in the hospital. I have seen Walter once before that, spending an evening at the local Irish bar with his friends. The toughness on his face was the only thing I remembered then. I thought he was hot, obviously, though I didn’t bother approaching him.

I didn’t fall in love with him until I saw the ocean of benevolence he kept under that hard shell.

He came to visit a victim and stayed the night to make sure the aggressor won’t return, and that the girl is taken care of. I felt his eyes on me every now and then, silently observing me when I was checking up on other patients. He tried to strike a small conversation, about the girl first, and then about my job at the hospital. I believed the British giant was just being polite and passed the long, boring night by chit-chat. I should have known I was being interrogated to see if I’m single or not.

Suddenly, he appeared at the hospital every other day, to check up on “the girl”. The first night, he brought me some coffee because “I work crazy hours,” and he thought I’d like some to drink. Then, it was coffee and a sweet pastry to eat. For a week and a half, I had a constant visitor who took care of my caffeine and sugar intake. My colleagues teased me for suddenly wearing perfume to work, and how I’d blush whenever “Sir Big Dick” arrived.

On the last evening, he came to my department and found me signing some charts. I’ve told him the girl was released during the morning, but of course, he knew that. He smiled at me and offered me a single red rose instead, asking if I’d like to accompany him for a real dinner this time.

Four years since then, he comes to visit even when there are no victims. Sometimes, I’m worried he does that out of fear that something will happen to me, and not just out of a romantic gesture to see his wife.

“Is it part of your job to stalk your wife?”

He slouches on his chair heavily, making it squeak beneath his weight. His eyes rise to gaze at my face. There is a weariness in them, the kind that even sleep can’t cure anymore. I fear the day when my husband will stray too far from the light, when the heart of darkness will clutch its ugly thorns in his tender flesh.

“It is my job to make sure the citizens of this county are safe.”

I roll my eyes at him, walking to stand behind his chair. My hands reach to clutch his broad shoulders as I begin to knead the tense muscles with mild force. He stiffens for a moment and then emits a soft groan, flexing and trying to relax beneath my touch.

“Do you bring red roses to all the citizens in our county?” I speak with a sultry voice, moving my hands to his collarbone. Walter closes his eyes and throws his head back, a deep groan vibrates from the pit of his throat.

“Only the hot ones,” he answers as his hand finds my leg and snakes up my bare skin, running all the way up beneath my skirt to find the curve of my ass. “You’re shivering.”

“It’s freezing in here.” I answer, leaning into the warmth of his palm as he strokes up and down my thigh to keep me warm.

“Why are you dressed like that, then?” he guides me toward him to sit in his lap. His hands run up and down my legs, exposing more of my skin while a soft smile spreads across his rugged face. “If I wouldn’t know better, I’d say you came here to seduce a police detective.”

I bite my lower lip, wrapping my hands around his neck while my ass sinks against his groin. I feel so safe in his touch, with his coarse hands that burn hot on my flesh.

“Why? Is that a crime?”

“Actually, yes.”

I pull away from him, standing against the edge of the desk with a teasing smirk across my face. His hand reaches out to my knees, not wanting to break contact. He has been deprived of it all day long, abandoned in the cold.

Now here I am, the only warmth he knows.

“Show me then.”

He licks his lips, still smiling as he is caught up with my little flirtatious act. “Show you what, pet?”

“What interrogation methods would you use? How would you squeeze a dirty little secret out a seductress like me?” I place the heel of my boot between his straddled thighs, preventing him from moving and asserting my dominance to provoke him.

His eyes narrow at me while he considers the idea. I see how the ethical balance begins to tip, the ball falling from one scale to the other. His better judgment becomes lost in a thick cloud of lust.

“You keep secrets from me?” he asks as he plays along.

“Maybe…” I stretch the word, giving him a wicked flirtatious smile.

Somewhere deep inside this good man, there is a big black dog, hungry to rip this willing victim to shreds.

He peers at my leg and then up into my eyes while his fingers reach to gently tickle beneath my knee. I hum in delight, throwing my head back, my leg losing its strength, my assertiveness leaning on the edge along with my ankle.

“I’d begin by putting you in a position where you don’t have any power whatsoever,” he speaks in a voice that’s gruff and low, his fingers now pressing hard and I’m forced to straighten my leg and lower it to the floor.

The smile on his face becomes cold and his eyes darken as he moves to stand in front of me. His leans against me, his torso pressed against my chest, his chin against my forehead as he lowers his head.

“Down on your knees.”

These words take my breath away, making my skin prickle with nervousness. I follow his orders with the obedience of a good wife. My knees lay pressed against the cold floor, I try not to tremble too much. I’m not sure if it’s just the temperature of the room, or the dark glare on Walter’s face.

His groin is at the level of my face, the outline of his cock showing through the fabric of his trousers as it begins to harden.

He reaches out his hands to cradle my face. Stroking my hair back, examining my face as if he is learning my features for the first time. The smile diminished from his face the moment I went down on my knees. Now he stares at me with the severity of his bad detective attitude.

“You’re very pretty,” he compliments me, but it sounds more of a fact than anything sweet. His fingers caress my cheeks and then at the corners of my lips, forcing me to part my lips. “Pretty little mouth too, does it talk?”

“I ain’t telling you nothing, Detective” I play along, if I’ve known we’re actually doing THAT, I would have prepared a script.

His hands run to stroke the hair away from my face, beginning in a tender affectionate touch, he collects every strand lovingly until my hair is bundled between his strong palms. I can feel the softness of his touch draining away.

“Undo my belt.” He commands.

“I don’t…”

“You don’t want me to ask again.”

My hands tremble with fear and excitement as my fingers fumble with the metal clasp of his belt. Walter’s eyes look at me carefully, completely devoted to this role. I wonder how much of his job is pretence and how much is actually him.

“What do you say if I’ll fuck your mouth until you cry?”

He asks while reaching one hand to unzip his trousers, freeing his beautiful large cock and stroking it in front of me for display. I can’t help but lick my lips, like a hungry kitten presented with creamy delight. The little drop of pre-cum that trickles down his shaft is too inviting.

“I’d say you still won’t hear a word from me,” I provoke.

Walter gives a short smile, tugging my hair back painfully until I’m forced to part my lips open into a breathless gasp of pain.

“Take me in your mouth.”

Usually, when I please him, I’d begin with a soft teasing, licking my way up and down his hardness until I finally take him in and begin working him sensually.

I am not granted any of that courtesy right now.

Walter forces himself into the wet heat of my mouth with the delicacy of a grunt. A deep, throaty groan echoes in the room as he is surrounded by my hot saliva and is pressed against the softness of my tongue.

I choke out a mewl as he completely fills my mouth, feeling the head of his cock nearing the back of my throat. My cheeks betray me, sucking by instinct to savour his girth. Every inch of my body knows Walter all too well, it succumbs to the man that owns it, physically and emotionally.

I look up to him with helpless glossy eyes. Victory showers his face, golden and bleak at the same time. He lets his callous long fingers clasp around the hollow of my cheeks to force me to keep my mouth open wide just to please him.

I gasp for air as he pulls back slowly. Just a cruel act to make me think we’re done, but we are far from that.

“Loosen your mouth pet, I am going deeper.”

He warns and shoves himself in again, this time deeper as promised, relishing on my muffled whimpers he puts one hand on the back of my head and begins to buck his hips. Fucking my mouth in the rhythm that fulfils his lust.

My heart pounds on my chest, my knees begin to hurt as I try to move with him. But I’m his good girl, breathing through my nose, letting my tongue lap around his lavished cock lovingly while he uses me as the wet hole he unloads into.

His eyes are glistening, ecstasy drawing near. I look up to stare at him, admiring how glorious he is. My large man, so confident and dominating. His beautiful dark curls frame his square face, bringing out his high cheekbones and bright blue eyes. And damn, that voice, those low melodic hums of pleasure making my entire body shake.

I choke onto his swollen cock. Tears stained dark grey thanks to my eyeliner and mascara, run down my cheeks.

“Don’t cry beautiful,” he speaks with cynical sweetness, his thumb wiping the tears away from one cheek as he carefully withdraws from my mouth, allowing me to breathe once again. “All you need to do is tell me what you’re hiding and this will end.”

I gasp for air, my chest slightly heaving while his fingers run under my eyes to clean the black mess that is smeared on my face. He remains silent, the wrinkles between his brows are deep and severe while he is still pulling his bad cop act. Yet the way his hands run over my face with care gives him away so easily.

“Is this the worst you can do? Some detective you are!”

I provoke him, laughing patronizingly with my voice still husky, the edge of my throat slightly sore from having to endure his size in its depth. Walter chuckles momentarily before grabbing my shoulders and pulling me up to sit on his desk.

“Spread ‘em” he nearly barks, but it’s not really an order since his hands press my knees apart widely, exposing the dampness on my underwear. He smoothes both hands up my thighs roughly, his thumbs reaching out until reaching to my core.

I let my head back, feeling how his thumb massages me, pressing against my covered clit and drawing circles against it.

“You like that, little slut?”

“Yes…” I throw my head back and moan, my hands holding hard at the edges of the desk while I spread myself to him as much as possible and grinding my hips to steal more friction.

“You want more?” he teases while his fingers slowly slip my underwear to one side, exposing me to the cold air in the room. I’m so drenched for him right now, held open, anticipating like sliced fruit. He reaches out for his cock and begins to stroke himself in front of me, a wicked grin adorning his face.

I’m very much aware he can finish himself just like this while leaving me here to beg out of thirst. Well, I can do that too. I lift my hand to touch myself, nearly losing balance but he shoves his thighs between my legs right away and holds my wrist away.

“Ah, ah” he forbids. “You’re not touching yourself, you’re still under investigation.”

“If you don’t finish me off…” I threaten him but my intimidation breaks into a pathetic cry as I feel the head of his cock rubbing against my clit.

“You’ll what?” he asks, running the tip between my throbbing lips and up to my clit. Back and forth he tortures me, increasing the pace and then slowing down. His groans convince me he may be enjoying this more than actually fucking me, seeing me so helpless and weak, willing to cry and beg for him to just put himself inside me. “I’m still waiting to hear what you’re hiding.”

I close my eyes, head thrown back in agony and pleasure at once, so close yet so far away as Walter pushes just an inch inside, and then pulls out and strokes me again.

I am still not willing to break completely, what’s the fun in that? I know my man, and I’m aware of his darkest desires and capabilities.

Let him unleash his worst.

“Not a word from me, Detective, you’ll just have to try harder.”

His nostrils flares.

“Fine, then I’ll just have to punish fuck you, drill you like a whore.” He pushes all the way in, making me whimper with bliss as I am finally whole again.

I’ve led him just to where I wanted. His body conquering mine, filling me with the pleasure that’s not just physical.

Somehow both his hands find their way to my neck, holding me constrained while he allows my body to stretch for him. He makes me stare directly into his eyes, holding my face close to him, his hot mouth hovers onto mine, our breath mingling.

I wrap myself completely around him, my boots pressing onto his ass to keep him buried deep inside. My hands hang onto his shoulders as if hanging to lift itself.

He begins to finally move, grunting against my ear, his beard tickling at my neck while he thrusts me fast and hard. I grind onto him, our bodies making the erotic sounds of wet bodies as they slam together.

This isn’t romantic lovemaking, he’s not tender and caring. His force is controlling, consumed by his demons once again. He fucks into me as if he wants to rip me apart, his hands depriving me of air, tight, perhaps too tight. Yet it’s still love, he would have not been able to have this with any other person and I would have not given it to him if I have not loved him as much.

The desk moves as he pounds me, he stretches his arms somewhat to lean me back, so he can look at me as I squirm beneath him, choked, fucked, and beautiful in his arms. We have both long forgotten our stupid game. We were too lost in the act of seeking out pleasure in one another’s bodies.

I look back at the man I love, feeling the tremor that dances between my legs. My entire body quivers. My muscles embrace him deep inside as I come hard around his cock, snapping my eyes open, gasping at his sight.

He has his fingers engulfed roughly around my throat, leaving blue bruises. If he’d want me to stop breathing at this moment, he could so easily just push slightly tighter. I’d die happy in his arms, but I know he’d kill himself before ever really hurt me. His hands finally snap from my throat and reach instead to hold my face, crashing his lips against mine into a deep hungry kiss before breaking away and letting out one final gasp as true bliss sweeps him away.

For more than a few moments, Walter is lost, buried deep inside me, surrounded by light.

That’s when I break, entangling my fingers in his big soft curls, I inch my lips toward his ear to whisper,

“I’m pregnant.”

Walter backs his face away to look at me, first with disbelief, his eyebrows rising, unable to even form a word. I’ve never seen so many emotions at once. Then a smile appears, so wide I think his cheeks may hurt. His beautiful teeth show and he lets out a chuckle of joy, sounding almost half-believing.

“Really?”

I melt as I see the twinkle in his eyes. The man who is always so grumpy and gruff looks now like the sweetest, most caring person in the world.

“Yes, we're going to have a baby.”

He kisses me lovingly, his arms wrapping around my back and holding me tightly.

“Detective Walter do you ha… SHIT!” A young cadet barges in, finding me with my legs spread around Walter while he is still panting heavily with his curls sticky at his forehead.

It’s as bad as it looks.

The frown immediately returns to Walter’s face. Looking at the cadet as if he is ready to murder him at the spot.

“GET OUT!” he yells, throwing whatever’s within his reach to force the cadet out faster.

I can’t help but chuckle, wrapping my arms around my mountain of a man, there is so much of him to hug, it always makes me feel so protected. He leans his cheek against my forehead and then lets out a deep sigh.

That’s when I know the darkness is returning, and now he has a brand new fear in him.

#Henry Cavill #Detective Walter Marshall #walter marshall #Walter Marshall Fic #Night Hunter #Nomis #HenryCavill

1K notes · View notes

agoodgoddamnshot · 4 years ago

Text

Navigating - Geralt/Jaskier [G]

Warnings: None (Geraskier Getting Together; Injured Roach)

Word Count: 6,837

Originally posted on my AO3

The Witcher is a cantankerous old bastard; not entirely fond of talking, which is fine for Jaskier (he talks enough for both of them), and with a deep scowl permanently etched into his face. It’s been a few weeks since Jaskier adhered himself to the Witcher’s side. The soles of his boots are beginning to wane and his joints protest every hour spent walking from town to town. Even when they come upon an inn, and Jaskier’s muscles graciously steep in a warm bath, the ache still lingers in his bones.

But the Witcher keeps going. Jaskier idly wonders how many circuits of the Continent he’s done. What villages and towns does he spend the most amount of time in? Which city is his favourite? But the Witcher stays quiet, perched up on his horse and leading them to the next town. It’s a small trading post, straddling a crossroads between some major mid-continent cities. Even though the town itself is small, it has enough taverns and inns in it to feed and house travellers. And the people don’t mind Witchers – something Jaskier has had to take into consideration when he asks for board.

Jaskier watches merchants and their aides pull the last of their wares into storage for the night. They’ll be gone by morning, on their way to whatever regent’s city who is demanding silks or spices or the most recent harvest.

Taverns and inns are filling up quickly. They manage to snag the last rooms available in a quaint enough inn with stables around the back. Jaskier slides the innkeep the necessary coins, as well as two pieces of silver for two portions of venison stew, a loaf of bread, and some mead. Jaskier’s stomach trembles with the promised of being warmed and filled.

Geralt’s horse is his own responsibility. In the weeks of following the Witcher around Jaskier’s hasn’t so much as touched the mare. Not that she would let him. Any time Jaskier so much as glances in her direction, her ears flatten and she gives him a glare that could rival her master’s.

So Jaskier nabs a small table within the inn for them as Geralt settles Roach down for the night. The smallest of chips cracks in the Witcher’s stern expression whenever his mare is concerned. He’s sure that he’s out there now, slipping off her tack for the night, making sure that stablehands don’t mess with her. A full feed bucket, a hay net, and a soft bed; that’s what Roach deserves with carrying Geralt around the Continent.

The Witcher steps into the inn just as their dinner arrives. Two bowls amply filled with stewed venison and root vegetables, a loaf of bread still warm from the oven, and tankards of ale that look newly brewed. Jaskier’s stomach almost seizes at the sight.

“Hope this will be enough,” he says as Geralt sits opposite him. Because he’s seen the Witcher go for days without eating a thing – giving Jaskier his portions of rations when they started to get low – and eat an entire store of food in one sitting. There is very rarely is anything in between.

Geralt grunts. As much of an answer as Jaskier is going to get out of him.

They eat mostly in silence; Jaskier offering short bursts of conversation when he can because sometimes the silence can be deafening, despite the inn humming with noise around them. His lute sits by his leg, propped up against him. If he can stave off sleep, he might perform a few songs – if the innkeep doesn’t mind, of course. But she looks like a kind-enough soul who would appreciate a ballad of adventure.

Geralt finishes his food first, all but inhaling it and his mead. Just as he wipes the last of his crusty bread through some remaining stew, Geralt lifts his chin. “We’ll have to stay here for a few days,” he says simply. “Roach won’t be able to travel.”

Golden eyes meet Jaskier’s. “If you want to leave, bard, and go somewhere else, I won’t stop you.”

Jaskier almost splutters around a mouthful of mead. “Why would I leave? You’re where the stories are – you’re doing great things for my career.” Or would-be career. He won’t rest until his songs have seeped into the soil of the Continent, stretched out from Pont Vanis to Beauclair, until every pauper and noble knows the opening plucked chords of each composition. Jaskier clears his throat. “Why, what’s wrong with your horse?”

Geralt’s eyes drop. His fingers rub together and pick at the splintering wood of the table. “One of her legs is lame,” he says. “Don’t know how I missed it.” And there’s a storm behind those eyes; looking down at his empty plate as he mulls over some thought. But Geralt grunts after a time. “Ask the innkeep if you can sing here to pay for rooms,” he says, getting up from the table and grabbing his cloak. “Our coin is running thin and I don’t want to be spending it on board.”

Jaskier nods. “Alright,” he says, quickly polishing off the last of his food and slinging his lute case over his shoulder.

And the innkeep is as kind as he expects her to be. Toss A Coin has spread throughout the countryside like a wildfire. She has him play it for the patrons already within the tavern, settled down for their suppers. And even road-weary and feeling sleep pull at him, Jaskier lures smiles and soft laughs out of people as he strings together all of the songs he can remember. A mixture of his own compositions and songs that he learned within the Academy or out on the road.

He rattles through a handful of polkas when he spots traders from the Skellige Isles; grinning broadly when they howl back raunchy lyrics and crow in laughter. This is what he wants, when his fingers are riddled with old aged pain and his voice starts to tremble and crack; memories of people singing and dancing and laughing, his songs spreading throughout the Continent for other future bards to play with.

Gods only know how much time slips past him. Some patrons leave, heading upstairs to sleep before their early morning departing. Others order more mead and ale, sitting back in their chairs as Jaskier’s voice begins to rasp and crackle with overuse. He doesn’t have Oxenfurt mentors to lecture him anymore – take breaks, take care of that voice, it’ll be your livelihood. The innkeep offers him a drink during the lull between songs, when he takes the time to retune his lute. To the edge of the tavern, collecting emptied tankards and plates, one of the tavern maids watches him out of the corner of her eye. She’s a beautiful girl, a round face with emerald eyes and full lips, an ample chest and hips. Jaskier swallows. He has had people watch him before, women and men lulled in by his voice and words.

The girl giggles as she catches his eye, turning to retreat to the back with her arms laden with dishes. Long golden hair tumbles down her back and flows behind her as she walks.

And before Jaskier can pull himself together for another chorus, finishing off the last of his drink, welcoming the hum of ale in his veins, his nose wrinkles at a light perfume lapping over him. “Are you the Witcher’s bard?” The woman, who must barely be as old as him, asks. Her voice is smooth, with a light regional accent lilting through it.

A small smile curls along Jaskier’s lips. “I am,” he says, bowing his head slightly. The girl laughs at it. “And who may you be, my lady?”

It might be the best night’s sleep he’s had in weeks, rivalling nights where he would soak a travel-weary body in a hot bath, scented with salts and oils. Jaskier blinks at the first streams of morning light stretching into the room. They’re crawling towards the foot of the bed, a mess of kicked-down sheets and furs. A light linen sheet hangs lowly over his hips, with most of the warmth lapping through him coming from the body plastered along his side.

Jaskier rubs a hand over his face. Looking down at the girl next to him – or rather, on top of him – he can’t stop a small content smile curling his lip. Her hair fans out over her shoulder and neck, still bare from the night before. The smell of sex still lingers in the air, and memories flashing in front of him like afterimages send a pleasurable thrum through him. The girl – and Jaskier really struggles to remember her name – shuffles against him, her arm strung over his abdomen and hugging him close.

She was sweet – blushing and giggling as they scampered upstairs and fell into bed. And her lips were soft and every touch she skimmed across him sent his skin alight.

He just hopes a father or brother doesn’t come barging through the door, wielding a knife, as they’re oft of doing.

He should go, slip out while she’s still content and asleep, and be on the road again. But the realisation settles over him that Roach is injured, and the Witcher went out to tend to her.

And...Jaskier blinks. And he can’t remember if he ever came back inside.

An arm tightens around him. The girl – Clara! – lifts her head from Jaskier’s shoulder, blinking against the brightness of the room. When her eyes settle on him, a smile curls along her plump lips.

“Good morning,” he offers her a smile. She has been curled around him all night. And the thought of stepping out into the fresh summer morning air, that still holds some of the night’s chill to it, isn’t the most pleasant of thoughts. Clara looks to the only window of the room. A heavy sigh escapes her. “I have to go,” she mourns. She scrubs a hand over her face. “Ellayne will kill me if I’m not downstairs to help with breakfast.”

Jaskier hums. He lets himself roll out and languish into a full-body stretch, wincing slightly at the groan of muscles and protesting joints cracking as he settles back into the mattress. He’s content to just lie here, catching up on much-needed rest. Bu the mention of breakfast has him perked.

Clara slips out of bed, quickly grabbing her clothes before early morning air can nip at her skin. She pulls the front ties of her dress together. “Will you be here for long?” she asks, mostly flattening the pleats of her skirt, but casting a quick glance to him out of the corner of her eye.

And that, he doesn’t know. “My companion’s mount is injured, I’m afraid. So until she is well enough to carry us to our next adventure, I guess I’ll be staying here.”

It earns a warm smile out of the woman. She bows her head slightly, tucking some golden hair behind her ear. “Would you...,” she nods to the door, “I can bring you up some food, if you’re hungry?”

And he tries to smother the sound of his stomach growling. But—

“Thank you, darling, that’s a lovely offer,” he replies, finally sitting up in the bed, “but I have to check in with my companion. We can have something later.”

Clara nods. She has one last check over herself before leaving, gently letting the door click shut behind her. Jaskier’s body protests getting out of bed. It’s soft and warm and his bones are tired and just screech at him to rest. But Geralt’s blasted well-being nibbles at the back of his mind. The Witcher keeps to himself, sure. And why would he knock on Jaskier’s door while the bard had a girl in his bed, just to bid him a goodnight?

Slipping on breeches, boots, and a cream-coloured, light shirt, Jaskier heads to the tables. Geralt’s room is beside his, and his door still hasn’t been closed. A quick glance inside the room shows the bed still neatly made; pillows fluffed and stacked to the headboard while thick furs line the foot of the bed.

The tavern downstairs is quiet. A few maids drift between tables, collecting emptied plates and topping up tankards. Breakfasts seem to be as generously portioned as dinners; fried eggs and crusty loaves of bread, still warm from the oven; grilled bacon and fried sausages, stewed beans and grilled mushrooms. It takes everything within Jaskier not to drift out to a table and stuff himself with food.

The morning isn’t as cold as he feared. Trudging further into the height of summer, the night’s chill doesn’t linger in the morning as the sun quickly started to warm the air. Labourers and stablehands in the yard are already beaded with sweat and shedding their tunics. Jaskier slips through them and heads for the stables. Most of the merchants and tradesmen have gone, taking their wares, carriages, and steeds with them. Jaskier passes mostly emptied stalls before coming upon one that has its door bolted shut.

And he blinks as he peers inside.

Geralt is there, with Roach, sitting with his back pressed up against the stable’s wall. The mare is lying down, her head snugly nestled on Geralt’s lap. The Witcher runs a hand up and down the mare’s stripe, occasionally scratching lightly at her soft muzzle. His other hands smooth along her neck, keeping her at ease and drifting further into sleep.

He doesn’t want to intrude. Looking at Geralt’s face, Jaskier’s throat almost bobs at the smoothed out expression. He looks...well, not pissed off. And in the weeks of trailing after the Witcher, he hasn’t seen Geralt not scowling.

But the Witcher has finely tuned senses – something Jaskier is still getting used to. Within a few seconds, just as Jaskier thinks of slipping away, Geralt turns and looks at him.

Jaskier’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth. “Morning,” he says, the word stumbling out of his mouth before he can think of anything better to say.

Golden eyes linger on him for a moment before Geralt hums. Morning. The unspoken reply.

Jaskier sets his arms on the stall’s door, peering further inside. Roach looks...well, Roach looks fine. She’s asleep, soft snores coaxed out of her by Geralt’s petting. But his eyes linger on a white cloth wrapped around one of her front fetlocks. “She’s lame?” he asks, keeping his voice low. It then occurs to him that he’s speaking quietly as to not to wake up a horse.

Geralt hums. “Strained, I think.” A long sigh escapes Roach, earning a small smile from the Witcher. It barely ghosts his lips, almost not there at all, but a stray beam of light streaming in through the stables catches it. “She’ll be fine.”

Jaskier nods. His fingers pick at the splintering wood of the stall door. Looking at the Witcher, he knows that he hasn’t slept. They can go for long stretches of time without sleeping, according to Geralt. But after travelling for days on end, with no breaking except to make camp, and countless completely bounties for the neighbouring towns and cities, the Witcher needs rest. Jaskier clears his throat. “Did you, uh,” he says, “did you get much sleep?”

That quirks Geralt’s eyebrow.

Jaskier splays his hands. “Just, I noticed that you didn’t sleep inside, and I thought that you might appreciate, um, a changing of the guard...in a way.”

Geralt watches him carefully. “Roach doesn’t like you,” he says simply. And I don’t trust you enough to touch my horse. The last part goes unsaid, but the words linger in the air between them.

Jaskier lifts a shoulder. “I know, but,” he rubs the back of his neck, “I thought that you might be tired. And breakfast is being served inside, if you’re hungry.”

Those golden eyes could bear right through him at the best of times; but Geralt regards the bard for a moment. He turns to Roach, still contently strung across his lap, snoring peacefully. He fidgets with some of her mane. “She has to keep lying down,” he says after a time. When he looks at Jaskier, his gaze hardens. “She can’t put any weight on her leg.”

Jaskier nods. “Understood.”

Roach wakes as Geralt carefully slips out from underneath her. She lets out a soft nicker before Geralt gentles her muzzle. The two of them seem to have an unspoken conversation, just looking at each other. Geralt stands, stretching out his back and legs. His armour sits in pieces stacked against the corner of the stall, with the Witcher only clad in a loose black tunic and breeches and worn boots.

He slips past Jaskier, nostrils flaring slightly. He stalls in his steps, turning to Jaskier; a question forming on the tip of his tongue, but ultimately gets swallowed once he turns and leaves the barn.

As soon as Geralt disappears behind the corner of the stables, Jaskier turns to the stall door. Roach is awake, watching him with stern eyes. Her ears flatten as Jaskier steps into the stable. He holds up his hands. “I’m just here to help,” he says, and it occurs to him that he could be mad, talking to and trying to reason with a horse.

The mare huffs, curling in on herself and slipping back to sleep.

Jaskier sits in the corner of the stall, content to just watch over the mare until Geralt returns; preferably with a full stomach and well-rested. He’s watched the Witcher meditate before, when Jaskier sits by the campfire and idly plucks at the strings of his lute. Geralt would sit nearby, eyes closed and hands settled on to his thighs. Even though it all had the air of sleeping, Geralt could snap back within seconds. And his swords always sat nearby.

Jaskier’s head thumps back against the stable’s wall. The mare slips back asleep, her injured leg stretched out away from her. Looking at it, even with the cloth draped over it, he can’t see anything particularly wrong with it. His mind is drawn back to the horses his father owned – and the stablehands that he employed. The boys the same age as the viscount’s son, and got along famously well. One of them in particular, Johannes, was good at fixing all of the viscount’s horses. Jaskier wishes that he were here – the boy, barely older than Jaskier, could look at a standing horse and point out everything wrong with it, and how to fix it.

So he shuffles over. The cloth draped over Roach’s leg is damp and slightly cool to the touch. Peeling it away from her leg, Jaskier’s brow knits into a frown. It’s swollen, ever so slightly, but just enough to be different from her other fetlock. He clicks his tongue. “Poor girl,” he mumbles, looking for her water bucket. He dips the cloth back into it. It won’t be as cold as he’d like it to be, but it’ll help.

Roach watches him, still sprawled out in her bed of hay and sawdust. She stays stock still as Jaskier lays the cloth back over her ankle, making sure that enough of it sits seeping into her skin.

He isn’t sure how long he spends in that stall. A few stablehands come and go, mucking out other stalls and leading new travellers’ horses into them. Jaskier’s ears prick at a few different accents rolling in through the yard. Merchants from all over the Continent stream through these roads. And if he were younger, he might want to hop on one of their carriages and go with them to wherever it is that they’re going. Maybe sticking with the Witcher might get him to see the entire Continent.

The day trudges by, and surprisingly enough, Geralt leaves him to watch over Roach for longer than he expected. The mare eventually blinks awake, stretching out languidly. As she makes to stand, Jaskier sits up, holding out his hands. “Now just you wait, madam,” he says, “you have to rest.” He wants to set his hand on her neck and scratch at her – like Geralt had been doing. But the mare’s ears flatten. Jaskier almost balks. “Listen. You’re injured. Gods alive, but you’re as stubborn as your master-”

A throat clears. Whipping his head around, Jaskier almost blanches at the sight of the Witcher standing at the stall door. He quirks an eyebrow. “Is she giving you trouble?” he rumbles, looking down at both Jaskier and the horse.

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “She’s just as stubborn as you, I swear.” And it would be sort of endearing; if said horse wasn’t flinching at his every touch and flattening her ears back when he comes too close.

Geralt grunts. “She’s injured,” he reasons, fooling his arms over his chest. “She’s allowed to be stubborn.”

Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. Stupid Witchers and their respect for their mounts. For the first time in a long time, quite possibly in his life, Jaskier swallows his words. So he grabs another piece of cloth and soaks it in water. Shuffling footsteps fall in front of him before he sees Geralt lowering himself into the far corner of the stall, letting Roach put her head back in his lap. Jaskier tries to keep his attention on the task at hand; but taking a quick glance up he’s almost floored by the sight of the Witcher letting the mare settle on him with a gentle huff. He cards his fingers through her mane, wrangling out the tangles and smoothing the hair against her neck.

It’s a while before either of them moves. Geralt’s head perks up at the sound of people talking. A farrier. He’s an older man, with thinning grey hair and a weathered face. But he’s able to nudge and move a draft horse around to look at the stead’s shoes. A merchant stands nearby, holding on to the horse’s headcollar. Geralt’s eyes narrow slightly. Something he does when he’s thinking.

“Do you want him to have a look at Roach?” Jaskier asks, his voice quiet. The mare’s eye opens slightly, regarding him for a moment, before she goes back to sleep.

Geralt hums. With the mare’s head settled comfortably in his lap, it’s Jaskier who offers to proposition the farrier. That, and people don’t tend to even glance in Geralt’s direction when he enters a room. The man is just about finished with the merchant’s steed, wiping his hands on a rag.

Geralt stands and stalks out of the stall. Jaskier keeps a firm pressure on Roach’s tendon, lightly massaging it, trying to get the blood to flow properly again. The mare huffs, but she doesn’t lurch up to bite him. And honestly, that’s all Jaskier can really hope for.

Geralt returns with the farrier, quietly telling him what happened and how he found it.

The man, older than Jaskier took him for, nods sagely. “If it’s just swellin’, then the lass will just need rest,” he says, stepping into the stall. Jaskier backs away, happy to let the expert at it.

Some deep noise rumbles out of Roach – not a particularly happy one at the sight of a stranger coming near her. Geralt clicks his tongue. A sharp sound that cracks through the air as harsh as a whip.

Jaskier settles his hand on to her hindquarters, fingers flush out into her fur. The beginning of a winter coat is starting to settle in, with her hair fluffier than usual.

It doesn’t take the farrier long to stand back up. “Aye, nothing too serious,” he says, slipping out of the stall again. Geralt eyes him cautiously. “Rest her as long as you’re able to. Will you be heading home, wolf?”

Jaskier blinks. He sits up that bit straighter. Home?

Geralt’s jaw tightens. “I was planning to,” he rumbles, letting his voice fall quiet. “But if she can’t walk, I’ll stay down here.”

The farrier shakes his head. “None of that,” he waves his hand, “you wolves need to go home and get your own rest. She should be right as rain within a few days.”

The farrier leaves them, not taking a hint of gold. When Geralt comes back inside, letting Roach nudge his hand when he leans down to scratch her forehead, Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. “Home?” he asks, never quite being able to snap his jaw shut or silence his own tongue.

Geralt doesn’t look at him. “Some Witchers return home for the winter,” he rumbles, sitting back down to let Roach stretch out her neck and settle her head in his lap. He cards his fingers through her mane and forelock. The mare huffs.

Jaskier hums, scratching any stretch of skin he can reach on the mare. It keeps his fidgeting hands busy, but his mind still churns. The Witcher is a grumpy old thing with a tight jaw and a silent tongue. Anything he’s managed to lure out of him in the past few weeks was solely by chance, or suggesting a rumour that he once heard and watching for a reaction, just to see if it’s true or not.

Geralt has never, ever said anything about a home. He doesn’t have much of an accent. Nothing as rasping, yet lulling, like the ones from the Skellige isles; and certainly not like the nasal of most of the wealthier capitols. Jaskier doesn’t even know where he’s from.

“Where’s home?” he finds himself asking. Because when the flood starts, he can rarely ever stop it. He’ll blame it on youth, but he knows that he just likes prodding and luring things out of the Witcher.

Geralt doesn’t say anything for a while, but Jaskier watches his response swirl around in his mind; some internal struggle churning around on whether or not to voice it. When something slips out of the Witcher’s lips, it’s quiet and Jaskier almost misses it. “Kaer Morhen. The Witcher school.”

School. He’s become adept at cementing everything Geralt says to memory. He can spin ballads and stories out of most things. But this seems like something different.

Geralt’s jaw flexes. “We go home every winter,” he rumbles, keeping his attention solely on the mare sprawled out on his lap. “Or when he can, at least.”

Something hangs in the air. It’s sour and Jaskier doesn’t like it at all.

I won’t be able to this year.

The bard clicks his tongue. “I’m sure Roach will be better by morning,” he says firmly, speaking it into existence. The mare snoozes contently between the two of them. Jaskier sits back, pressing his back flush against the wooden wall.

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“I’m staying here,” he replies, “for company.”

The Witcher’s eyes narrow. “Your girl might be put out at the fact you’re spending the night out here with us, rather than her.”

He remembers Geralt’s nostrils flaring.

Curse Witchers and their supernatural senses.

But he will lounge in the fact that this may be the longest time the two of them have been conversing together. It might just be the most amount of words he’s heard come out of the Witcher in one go.

As soon as he’s realised that, the Witcher falls back into silence.

A storm rolls in from neighbouring hills. Jaskier bristles as thunder rumbles overhead. Flashes of lightning have been creeping closer over the past hour, with the rain outside only growing heavier and heavier. The barn is well-kept, sheltering them from the worst of the rain. An occasional drip manages to sneak past, but he’s weathered out storms in worse places.

Roach doesn’t like storms. In the few months that he’s spent with the Witcher and his mount, he’s learned everything he can about the mare. She will begrudgingly take any apple slices or sugar cubes he can steal for her, and that she likes to puff out her belly when Geralt is trying to do up her saddle’s girth; just to annoy him.

But she hates storms.

He settles a steady hand on her flank, soothing words slipping out of him as her ears flick and her body tenses with every clap of thunder. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, mostly to the horse and a little bit to himself.

He isn’t overly fond of storms either. His childhood was spent in a kingdom with rare bad weather. Sure, it rained and winds tumbled down from far off mountains, and the blusters that swept in from the sea weren’t pleasant, but storms were rare. He remembers spending most noisy nights with his mother, enduring the scowling face of his father grunting that viscounts don’t hide behind their mother’s skirts at a bit of wind.

His mother never said anything like that to him. Warm arms bundled him against her chest and she carried him to her own chambers – why his parents had separate rooms, he never quite understood. He didn’t think it was strange until he went to college and met other students, all saying how much their parents loved each other.

Love withered away and died a long time before Jaskier was born.

A stray rumble of thunder catches him off guard. He tries to stop himself from jerking, but his breath catches in his throat.

The mare’s ears flatten for a moment. How is he meant to keep her calm and steady if he can’t do so himself?

Geralt looks up. He’s busied himself with plaiting a few braids into Roach’s mane, leaving them for a moment before untangling them with his fingers. He watches Jaskier curiously. “Alright?”

Jaskier blinks, realising a moment too long that the Witcher is talking to him. “Yeah,” he rasps, coughing to clear his throat. “Yes. I’m alright.” Though he looks to the barn’s ceiling, watching how light blinks and stretches across the sky for a brief moment, followed by a rumble of noise.

Geralt watches him for a moment. “You don’t like storms,” he says slowly, not really a question, but not quite a statement either.

Jaskier nods all the same. “Not the biggest fan of them, I’ll admit,” he laughs breathlessly. Because he can always poke some fun at himself. “A young strapping viscount like myself, afraid of a bit of noise. Funny, isn’t it?” For a moment, his tongue feels sour in his mouth at the thought of his father’s words tumbling out of his lips instead of his own.

Roach settles after a moment, fine with the fact that the storm doesn’t seem to be moving anywhere anytime soon.

“I don’t like them either.”

Jaskier looks up. The quiet words are almost lost to the next clap of thunder and the continuous pelting of rain on the roof above them. He blinks. “What?”

Geralt sighs. “I don’t like storms either,” he says, a bit firmer. “I’m better with them now, but...when I was younger, I tried to hide from them.”

Jaskier lifts his chin. A silent request to keep going, that the bard won’t interrupt.

Geralt draws in a small breath. “One of our teachers, Vesemir...he was a father figure to most of us. We were separated from our actual families. Not stolen or anything that humans seem to think. We were dumped at the bottom of the mountain. What else could the wolves do but bring in the pups.”

Jaskier stays silent. He lets himself slouch against the stable wall, getting as comfortable as he can among the wood and straw. The heat from the mare wards off the worst of the chill.

Geralt sighs. “He let us hide with him. The keep is up high, almost touching the clouds. And the higher up you are, the worst the winds get. And the winds during winter storms were strong. I thought that the walls would cave in one night, the weather was so bad. So...I hid. I went to Vesemir’s room, and he looked at me, nodded, and let me inside. There were others there too. My brothers.”

A father. Brothers. Jaskier’s mind swirls.

Geralt hums, idly fidgeting with some of Roach’s mane. “When you live as long as I have, you start to get used to the things that scare you.” Some sort of breathless laugh puffs out of him. “Still scared shitless of the Crones, though.”

Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. “I would hide with my mum,” he mumbles, barely able to get the words out at all. But it’s a tit-for-tat. If Geralt manages to share something, he will too. “She let me sleep in her room until morning. My father wasn’t...too happy, but he couldn’t stop her. Even when he tried to have a servant bar my door.”

At that, Geralt arches an eyebrow.

“My mum is the one with the title,” Jaskier explains. “She’s the viscountess. My father was a baron. He married up. When the servant went to get the beams, my mum stalks down from her study and demanded that nothing be done to my room. If I wanted to stay with her, I could. I think my father was actually afraid of her. With one word, he would be sent straight back down to be a lowly baron of some forgetful town on the outskirts of the province.” Jaskier lifts a shoulder. “He hated her, really. But I think it was more fear. Not of her, but what she could do to him.”

Geralt nods. He can’t pretend to know the in and outs of noble life, particularly the politics of marrying up or down your stature. It’s all a bit frivolous to him, really, especially when the Continent seems to have bigger problems on its hands. But he nods, humming. “She sounds like a good woman.”

Jaskier offers him a small smile. “And your father sounds like a good man.”

Geralt laughs. It’s small, and barely a huff of air, but the corners of his lips twitch upwards, and Jaskier will take it. He made the Witcher laugh.

He pads back to the stall with everything Geralt asked for. The storm raged through the night, and even though the innkeep sent people out to bring them inside – including Clara, which warmed Jaskier’s cheeks with a flush – but they stayed. Roach slept for most of the night, only trying to get up to get some water and hay. Geralt helped her. Jaskier sat by with a faint smile ghosting his lips at the sight of the Witcher reaching for the hay net and water bucket, bringing them down to the mare so that she can eat and drink.

Geralt waits for him by the stall door. The mare’s leg looks better already. Most of the swelling has gone down, but it’s still a stubborn tightness that remains. He hands over a small bowl of plants and rainwater he managed to find. A poultice will work the last of the strain away. He’s seen Geralt make them before, more often for himself to put on cuts and injuries gotten from rough hunts.

Jaskier sets his arms on the stall door, watching as Geralt sets the cool mixture on the mare’s leg. She goes to nose at it, but her ears flatten at a slight bat on her muzzle from Geralt. “Don’t eat it,” he says sternly, as if talking to a human child. The mare huffs, but turns away.

By the time Roach is healthy again and able to stand on her four legs without much hassle, it’s been another day. Jaskier stretches out his back and legs as he sets their bags down beside the barn. Geralt does up the last of Roach’s tack, making sure that everything is sitting comfortably on the mare. He won’t ride her. For the next few days, he’ll walk beside her and just let her carry the bags.

Jaskier can’t help but grin at the idea of the Witcher walking. Maybe his own feet will start aching now that he’s down on the ground himself.

The bard stuffs the last of the rations into their bags. A small loaf of bread, dried roasted beef, and a flagon of water. It should carry them until the next village, almost a day’s walk away. He got the package from Clara, the woman trying to lure him to stay, but adventure calls, and I cannot document it without being on the road, my dear.

Maybe he’ll come this way again, when the weather is kinder and he can stay for longer. But the thought of falling into the girl’s bed again doesn’t sit as well with him as it once did. Even as he left, she pecked a kiss to the arch of his cheekbone, and it churned his stomach. Not in the nice way he’s come to love. But in a way that made him feel like he was about to get sick.

He pats a hand on the mare’s neck. “Good to go?” he asks her, making peace with the fact that if Geralt won’t talk to him, he might as well try the horse.

Roach doesn’t lurch out to nip him. She doesn’t kick out a leg to bash in his shins, or try and flick her tail at him like a whip. Instead, her head falls into his arms as he scratches behind her ear. “Yeah,” he coos, “we’re friends now, aren’t we?”

“It’s the apples and sugar you insist on feeding her.”

Jaskier looks over his shoulder. Geralt hauls the last of the bags on to the mare’s saddle, strapping them in for the walk ahead. The Witcher settles him with a stern look. “We’re tight on coin. Stop spending it on treats for her.”

Jaskier balks. “She’s just recovered from an injury – one probably got from carrying your arse around the whole Continent. She deserves every treat I can get her.”

“Then you’ll be getting them with your own money.”

“I have my own money, thank you very much.” Jaskier lifts his lute on to his shoulder. “The people of this fine town paid me enough gold to buy her a whole orchid.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow, but says nothing. He huffs, grabbing the mare’s reins, and starting to walk down the worn cobblestone path towards the next village.

Jaskier walks on Roach’s other side, keeping the mare between him and the Witcher. Even though Roach is fine with him now bumping against her, he can’t say the same thing about Geralt. They manage to get almost a mile before Jaskier pipes up, his fingers fidgeting by his side and his tongue ready to let words slip out. “So,” he says, almost mostly to the start of a canopy forming over their heads. A forest stretches out in front of them, damp yet vibrant green from the rain. “When will you be heading home?”

Geralt grunts. “Winter.”

“Good job on being specific. That’s a whole season, Geralt. When will you be going?”

“Not too sure yet,” the Witcher mutters. “When the winds change.”

“They seem pretty changed to me now.” Storms rolling in out of nowhere. Rain. Wind. The slight nipping chill in the air. It could very well be winter now.

Geralt sighs. “Afraid to walk the road without me, bard?”

“No.” Jaskier tries not to look as petulant as his reply sounded. “No. I just want to know. I might head to Oxenfurt.”

“A warm, safe place.” Geralt watches him out of the corner of his eye. Even with a horse between them, he still manages to find the bard. “Keep yourself there for as long as you can.”

“And miss the adventures you bring me on? Never.” “When will you come down from the mountain? Spring? Where will I meet you?”

Geralt tries to hide the small smile ghosting his lips by turning his head away. But a breathy laugh slips out of him all the same. “Who says that I’ll meet back up with you? I have contracts to collect, bard, and they’re far too dangerous for humans to go on.”

“I’ll keep myself safe,” Jaskier replies. “But I know you like the company, grump that you are and all that.”

Geralt hums.

Jaskier will find him again. The thought of leaving him one day and spending a whole season without the Witcher there doesn’t sit quite right in his stomach. It churns and chills his blood, and he wants to retch. But if the Witcher must return home, and he can’t come with him, then that’s fine. He’ll just pick up the scent after a season and continue on their trek through the Continent.

And Geralt will berate him for it; snapping that he’ll be a burden and that his presence isn’t wanted, but something has settled in those golden eyes that says please come back. Something soft and something that wasn’t there before.

So he’ll meet him again. Jaskier nods, mostly to himself. He promises.

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let-the-dream-begin · 4 years ago

Text

A Place to Belong Chapter 27: Perpetual Adoration

Chapter 26

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April 16th, 1749

Claire found herself lost in her reflection. Not in a vain way, not at all, rather in quiet contemplation, in subtle surprise. It had been a while since she’d sat in front of a mirror and really taken in what she saw.

It was strange.

The last time she’d done this, she could have been a skeleton. She remembered thinking to herself that she was rotting away like the bodies on the moor.

Now, it was different.

There was color in her cheeks -- cheeks that were not sunken in, there were no dark rings under her eyes -- eyes that were not bloodshot. The depths of her eyes held a sadness, of course (how could they not?). But she no longer felt like she was slipping away from herself, holding onto her own soul for dear life by tattered edges.

It was strange, especially today.

This was the first anniversary that she got out of bed for. The first one, she’d vomited into a bucket over the side of her bed all day, and Jenny had been in and out to tend to Brianna, to remind Claire that she needed feeding. The second one, there’d been no vomiting, but Claire remained in bed. Brianna was much more restless at this point, and Fergus had kept her busy and out of trouble while Claire stared numbly at the wall or the ceiling for hours on end.

Today, she’d gotten out of bed and put on a dress the color of the sky. Well, not the sky over Scotland, at least not typically. The sky when the sun was uncovered, when the clouds were white and puffy.

“It was as if I stepped outside on a cloudy day and suddenly the sun came out.”

That’s what she wanted him to see today. The color of sunshine.

There was a small knock on the bedroom door, and Claire beckoned him inside.

Fergus crept in slowly, noticing how Brianna still slept on the bed.

“You look beautiful, Maman.” He looked in her eyes through the reflection.

Claire allowed a tiny smile and turned away from the mirror. “You look dashing yourself.”

He was wearing his Sunday best, a pale green vest over his white shirt.

“He will be happy to see you, I think. Looking so bonny.”

Claire let her smile widen, and she nodded. “He’ll be happy to see his family.” She reached for Fergus’s hand, and he gave it to her. She gave a little squeeze before getting up to rouse Brianna. She was loath to cut short any time her rowdy girl spent sleeping, but she wanted to make sure they had ample time with him before the weather turned.

“Brianna,” Claire crooned, giving her tiny shoulder a shake before smoothing her hair out of her face. “Time to wake up, lovie.”

Her darling little face scrunched up comically, and Claire chuckled softly.

“Come on, baby. Today is a very special day. Remember?”

Her face changed immediately, little blue eyes popping open as she propelled herself to sit up.

“See Da? See Da?”

For a moment, Claire’s vision left her, and she had to fist the sheets tightly to regain her composure.

“That’s right, darling. We’re going to see Da today.”

Fergus helped Claire change her diaper and put her into one of her sweetest little frocks, with a lovely bonnet to match. To keep Brianna from squirming, Fergus went on and on about all the lovely things Mrs. Crook had prepared for their picnic breakfast.

Claire adjusted Brianna’s bonnet one more time before settling her on her hip. As they departed the bedroom, Brianna gave an indignant shout and reached back toward the room.

“What is it, lovie?”

“Da see Lamb! Da see Lamb!”

Claire’s composure faltered again.

“Here, ma petit.” Fergus retrieved the toy from their bed and placed it in Brianna’s eager hands. “You are right, indeed. Da will want to see Lamb.” He gave her nose a little poke, eliciting a giggle. She settled happily into Claire's shoulder, and Claire took this to mean they were now ready to go.

Claire and Fergus strolled arm and arm over the grounds toward the graveyard, watching with amusement as Brianna toddled ahead, chasing after butterflies or stopping to pick dandelions. Walking side-by-side with Fergus, Claire was vaguely aware that he was very nearly the same height as she was.

“When did you get so tall?” Claire said wistfully, looking over at him, feeling a pinch in her heart to think of perhaps having to look up at him someday.

“I could not say,” Fergus chuckled. “Auntie Jenny says I am like a weed.”

“A weed, indeed.” Claire leaned into him.

“Not an unwelcome weed, I hope.”

He was teasing, she knew, playing into their little joke, but Claire could never stop herself from assuring him that he belonged in this family, that he was as much her flesh and blood as Brianna.

“Never, darling.” She freed her arm to press his head into the crook of her neck and embraced him around the shoulders as they continued on.

When they were just over halfway there, Brianna was tired of butterflies and dandelions, and she began tugging on Claire’s skirts and whining: “Up, Mummy!”

They continued the rest of the way like this, Claire holding Brianna close, Fergus carrying the picnic basket and the blanket. When the graveyard was in sight, Claire’s steps faltered a bit.

“Maman, are you alright?”

Claire breathed shakily and wet her lips. She hadn’t been here since the funeral, since that sham of a burial, since she’d willed herself to believe there was a body under her feet as she said a final goodbye.

Three years ago.

The grave had since been desecrated and put together again, the ashes of the tartan in a location still unknown to Claire. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to come back here since that day. She hadn’t seen a point in visiting an empty grave, especially without the tartan.

This year was different.

Something had changed inside Claire when she’d heard the word “Da” come out of her daughter’s mouth. She wanted her to know him, of course, told him about her whenever she’d listen. But now she was desperate. If Jamie really was buried here, she’d take their daughter to see him all of the time. It seemed cruel to deny her that just because it was somewhat of a false grave.

That, and her reflection was so much different than it was three years ago.

She was so very weak three years ago, so sure she wouldn’t make it through the next day. Perhaps she still was weak; she surely felt that way sometimes. But to her daughter, to her son, she was strong. To her sister and brother, to their children, her adoring nieces and nephews, she was strong. According to her reflection, she’d gained strength, however superficial.

She wanted him to see. She wanted him to watch her get out of bed on this, the day she hadn’t walked on in three years, and see her smile with their children, dressed like sunshine.

She wanted him to be proud.

Claire steeled her nerves, swallowing back three years of guilt.

“I’m alright.”

They closed the distance to the graveyard, and she didn’t even think about where it was. She knew.

She put Brianna down to help Fergus spread out the blanket. Fergus set down the basket, and Claire sank slowly to her knees in front of the stone.

“Hello, love.” She extended a trembling hand to rest atop the stone, exhaling sharply as her skin came in contact with its coldness. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

Though this was not his resting place, Claire had to believe his soul was not confined to that bloody moor for all eternity. She had to believe that he’d want to wander the grounds of his beloved Lallybroch, convene with the spirits of the many loved ones buried around them. That belief was one of the only things that kept her sane.

Fergus held Brianna on his hip for several minutes, allowing Claire a moment to feel peace here.

“I have...so much to tell you,” she continued, and she felt a bit silly. Surely if her belief held up, Jamie already knew everything she wanted to tell him. He already knew their daughter’s first word, when and where she took her first steps, how much she looked like him, how many children Jenny and Ian had now, and how one of them was even named after her.

But she told him anyway, all of it.

Before long, Claire was holding Brianna in her lap, Fergus sitting beside them with his hand on her shoulder.

“And look at this,” she said, holding onto Brianna’s fist so she could hold up Lamb. “Look what your sister made for her. It’s from your tartan. And she knows it’s from you, too. Right darling? Where did Lamb’s bow come from?”

“Bow from Da!” Brianna said proudly.

“That’s right, lovie. See? She says ‘Da’, now.” Claire kissed Brianna’s head. “She’s such a gift, Jamie. I know you’d love her so much.”

Claire sighed tremulously and pressed her cheek into the crown of Brianna’s head.

Fergus gave her shoulder a squeeze and allowed a brief silence to pass over them.

“Shall I tell him about how I caught a deer in a rabbit trap?” Fergus said, recognizing that Claire was at a loss for words at the moment.

Fergus regaled the tale with much enthusiasm, and the many other animals he’d caught and provided for the family, how he was a great help to his Uncle Ian in the fields. Before long, Claire’s silence was broken, and they were both laughing.

They dug into the food then, all the while going back and forth, occasionally letting Jamie in on the joke.

“You really should have seen her face when I told her there were two,” Claire said in the direction of the stone, and Fergus laughed.

“We made a wee invention to hear the babies inside!” Fergus beamed.

“That’s right, Fergus helped me make a crude stethoscope. Something I used to tell you about from my time.”

Fergus didn’t say anything right away.

“Maman?”

“Yes darling?”

“You said it again.”

“What did I say?”

“‘My time.’ What does it mean?”

Claire momentarily blanched, mid-bite of a piece of bread. “Oh.”

“I hear you speak to Auntie and Uncle, you know,” he went on. “I hear you slip up. So I know you are some kind of fairy.”

Claire’s eyes widened before she burst into laughter, causing Brianna to look up at her strangely. “I’m not a fairy, Fergus. But I will tell you the truth.”

And so Claire went through the entire ordeal, as she’d done with Jamie, and as she’d done with Jenny. He listened with rapt attention, but instead of the disbelief she’d been met with during her previous confessions, it almost looked like he was concluding connections and realizations years in the making.

When she finished, he simply said.

“I see.”

“That’s all?”

He nodded, then shrugged. “It makes sense to me.”

Claire laughed boisterously and shook her head.

“Well, I thought you had everyone beat for how well you took it, Jamie, but it seems you’ve been outdone!”

They launched into more laughter, Claire recalling how things had gone over with Jenny when she’d confessed to being a time-traveler. The rest of the morning went by peacefully and contentedly. Once breakfast was done and Brianna was filled with food, she began to grow quite restless remaining on the blanket, not understanding why they couldn’t just let her roam around the graveyard like it was a playground.

Claire was reluctant to leave, but she supposed it had to be done eventually.

“I will take her, you can stay for a bit, alone,” Fergus said.

“Thank you, love. I’d appreciate that.”

“Ma petit,” Fergus crooned, stopping her from scrambling off the blanket yet again. “It is time to say goodbye to Da.”

He held Brianna around the middle so she was standing in front of the stone.

“Say goodbye, darling,” Claire said gently, stroking her pudgy cheek.

“Bye Da,” she said lightly.

“Good girl, Brianna.” Claire gave her a kiss, and then Brianna turned to plant a kiss on her mother’s cheek. This was new for Brianna, she’d only just started giving kisses over the past month or so. It was unlike anything Claire had ever experienced before, the feeling of her daughter’s clumsy lips, the loud, exaggerated smacking sound, and the warmth that spread from head to toe.

Brianna then pressed an equally loud and exaggerated kiss to the palm of her hand, and then threw her hand in the direction of the stone.

“Da kiss,” she said, her voice light and airy.

Claire had to cover her mouth to stifle the guttural sob that tore through her chest.

Fergus took Brianna’s hand, picked up the basket, and led her out of the graveyard so that she could play and get out all her energy.

Claire sighed and turned back to the stone. “She’s something, isn’t she?” Claire chuckled, smiling sadly. “Your daughter, through and through.” She swallowed thickly and shook her head. “I know this is silly. Coming here, talking to you here of all places. I may as well be talking to a tree in the woods, or to a mouse in the kitchen.” She rolled her eyes, then sniffled. “I know you’re always with me no matter where I am. I don’t have to be here. At first I wanted to have a place to take Brianna, to tell her that she could always find you here. Then I started to believe it myself.

“Strange, isn’t it? The way you believe the things you tell yourself...like that, for instance, or how I truly thought I wouldn’t be able to live without you...but I didn’t have a choice. I told myself I had to go on, and I did. I lied to myself enough times until it came true. Our baby deserves me to be fully present. Perhaps that’s why I decided to save my deluded talking to the spirits for the empty grave.” She paused to wipe her eyes. “I won’t let you see me cry, not today. I got out of bed, today of all days. For you, Jamie. To show you that I...that I can do this. Maybe to show myself, too.”

She smiled sheepishly at the stone, as if she could really see his eyes, giving her that knowing look, the look that says: I see right through ye, Sassenach.

“I love you, Jamie. I miss you so very much.” She placed her hand back on the stone, wrapping her fingers around the rosary that rested there perpetually. “You are my reason and my purpose. Even though you’re gone.” She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the stone. “Thank you.”

She gave the letters of his name one final, loving stroke with her fingertips before rising to her feet. She gathered the blanket, doing her best to fold it by herself.

“Oh!” she said suddenly. “I almost forgot.” She laughed to herself. “I think Jenny is pregnant again. She hasn’t said anything -- I don’t think she really wants to be -- but I can tell by now.” She folded the blanket over her forearm and let it rest there. “I always love helping bring new life into the world. It’s sad, too, of course; part of me will always wish that they could be ours. But I have Brianna. And being an Auntie is a joy in and of itself. I love Jenny’s children like they’re my own.”

Something hit her just then, crashed into her like a violent wave.

I didn’t mention her at all.

“Tell her...Mummy loves her, Jamie,” she whispered, barely audible. “Give her a kiss for me.”

——

Upon arriving back at the house, Claire found Jenny doing laundry, Kitty and Brianna running around like little heathens with the dogs. Maggie was dutifully helping her mother, occasionally scolding the toddlers.

As Claire approached, Jenny paused her work to pull Claire in for a tight embrace. They didn’t need to say anything.

A loud yelp interrupted them, a cry certainly not from any of the little girls in the vicinity. They looked up just in time to see Fergus and Rabbie roll across the archway, apparently wrestling each other, wee Jamie following behind and laughing his head off.

“Fer Christ’s sake…” Jenny muttered, striding over to them. “D’ye no’ have anything better to do?”

Claire heard Fergus attempt to apologize between bouts of laughter, and she couldn’t help but laugh herself.“Get up, both of ye. Dust yourselves off. I’ve half a mind to strip ye naked like bairns and make ye wash yer clothes right now.” Jenny scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Off wi’ ye now. Out of our hair.”

She shooed them away, and the pubescent hooting (and Jamie’s giggling) disappeared down the road and into the woods. Jenny returned to the washtub, where Claire had already started scrubbing.

“Beasts, the lot o’ them,” Jenny said, joining Claire in scrubbing again.

“He’s growing up,” Claire said wistfully, staring off in the direction that the boys had disappeared. “He’s almost as tall as me now.”

“Aye,” Jenny said. “Even wee Jamie is getting too big fer my liking.”

Claire allowed a small smile. “It isn’t even just his height. He’s different, too. Not in a bad way,” Claire said quickly. “He’s still my boy. But he’s with Rabbie more and more, and even wee Jamie, fooling around like…”

“Like lads ought to,” Jenny said pointedly. “It’s good fer him, ye ken.”

“I know, I know,” Claire said. “It’s just...it’s strange, because I see him every day...but I miss him.”

Jenny smiled. “Ye’re no’ used to no’ being coddled.”

“What?” Claire paused her scrubbing and looked up at Jenny. Jenny was giving her a look, and Claire softened. “You’re right, of course you are.” She sighed. “I’m used to him being attached to me at the hip.”

“He was afraid of ye disappearing. Being an orphan most o’ his life,'' Jenny said. “He kens now ye’re no’ going anywhere.”

Claire nodded in agreement. “It’s very comforting to see him at ease. To see him making friends apart from...well, me.” Claire squeezed out the wee frock she’d been scrubbing and handed it to Maggie to hang up from her little stool.

“I know I need to stop smothering him. I know he’s not a little boy anymore. He hardly was when I met him.” She picked up a shirt and dunked it in the water. “I just…”

“Ye miss him,” Jenny finished. “I ken. I feel the same way about wee Jamie. ’Course it’s different; I’m used to him being a clingy wee bairn, and seven years old is turning him into a lad. Fergus is just...different.”

“He’s a special boy.”

Jenny wiped her hand on her apron to put a hand on Claire’s shoulder. “Just because he’s growin’ up, doesna mean he doesna love ye wi’ all his heart.”

“I know.” Claire nodded, sniffling. She hadn’t expected to get so overcome. “It’s just...I’ve only just realized how much I rely on him. For...everything. I put a lot on his shoulders at such a young age. It isn’t fair of me to expect...to expect him to replace Jamie.”

Jenny sighed sadly. “He certainly tries his damndest. Fer you and Brianna both.”

“I know, God do I know.” She handed the shirt to Maggie. “He shouldn’t have to. Which is why I’m glad he’s acting his age for once.” Claire finally smiled again, absently brushing tears off her cheeks. “It does my heart good to see him roll around in the dirt like that.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it. Just know it doesna do my hands any good scrubbing the muck out o’ his clothing.” Jenny cocked her head and rolled her eyes.

Claire laughed out loud. “I’ll be sure to tell him that.”

They continued their washing, the occasional squeal from a little girl or bark from a dog filling their ears, Maggie tugging on Claire’s skirt and asking when they could garden.

“How many shirts left, Auntie? I need to check my flowers!”

“Patience, little faery,” Claire would say, patting her strawberry-blonde head.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt so at peace.

Of course, there was a constant, dull ache. A nagging fear, panic every time she couldn’t hear Brianna’s voice for the shortest moment. But for the first time in three years, Claire did not feel like she was teetering over the edge of the precipice of grief.

I’m doing it, Jamie.