#no screaming while falling down a cliff does not count as a voice line

[secretly-a-trekkie]

yknow... I was wondering why I liked tech's armor so much.... and then

pov you said something factually inaccurate

[contemplativepancakes]

five times geralt saw jaskier naked on accident + one time it was entirely on purpose. ~6k. Read on AO3 here!

i.

“Get back here, you mangy knob!” echoes down the hallway, and Geralt pauses on the way to his room. 

It’s been a long night, and Geralt would like nothing better than to collapse into bed, but trouble has a habit of following Jaskier like flies to shit. He’s the whole reason Geralt even has a bed for the night, so Geralt sighs and follows the shouting. 

He wishes he could say he’s surprised when he rounds a corner and Jaskier runs head first into him, but honestly, it’s nothing short of expected. What does throw Geralt for a loop, though, is the fact that Jaskier is completely naked, expanses of smooth skin exposed as he sprawls back on the ground in a very undignified manner, clutching his nose. 

“Fuck, Geralt!” he cries, but it comes out garbled. “You broke my nose!”

The man who was chasing after Jaskier comes to a sudden halt, panting in front of them. “He slept with my wife!”

Geralt frowns. “Are you sure it was him?”

The man gapes and gestures at Jaskier’s nakedness. Geralt curses Jaskier for being so obvious; it makes his job much more complicated. 

“Maybe he can give you some tips on how to satisfy her so she doesn’t feel the need to look elsewhere next time,” Geralt suggests, one hand coming up to casually rest on the hilt of his dagger strapped to his belt. 

“It’s all about the tongue,” Jaskier pipes up in a nasally tone, and Geralt rolls his eyes. 

The man’s eyes dart from Geralt to Jaskier, and back to Geralt before a look of realization crosses his face and it drains of color. “You’re… the butcher of Blaviken?”

“That’s him! So you’d best get back to your chambers if you want to keep all your limbs!” Jaskier crows, but only half of it is intelligible through the hand he’s holding to his nose. 

The man looks like there’s something else he wants to say, but he bites his lip and retreats, after one last withering glance at Jaskier. 

Geralt turns to Jaskier, suddenly very aware of his lack of clothing. “Will you ever learn?” he asks in exasperation. “I’m not always going to be around to clean up your messes, you know.”

“I’m fairly certain you have a much longer life expectancy than me,” Jaskier lisps, looking up at Geralt with doe eyes. 

Geralt sighs and sticks out a hand to help Jaskier up. 

Jaskier takes it, his fingertips lingering on the soft flesh of Geralt’s forearm, and heaves himself up. His hand stays on Geralt’s arm, and Geralt drags him back to their room. 

“Sit,” he says gruffly, rustling around in his pack for a clean rag. 

He steps over to the wash basin and dips it in before walking back to over Jaskier. He wipes the blood away from Jaskier’s nose gently, but an observer wouldn’t think so from the way Jaskier winces and groans.  

Geralt sighs. “Serves you right.”

“That’s just cruel, Geralt.” Jaskier squirms on the bed, pulling a corner of the blanket over his lap. 

Geralt resolutely focuses on his face. He squints at Jaskier’s nose, which is just the slightest bit crooked. “This is going to hurt,” Geralt warns. “One, two.”

Jaskier yelps as Geralt sets his nose back into its proper place, finishing up dabbing the blood away before he packs Jaskier’s nose full of gauze. “There,” he says. “Good as new.”

There are tears welling in Jaskier’s eyes from the pain. “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” he says weakly. 

“Maybe you’ll be able to go more than a week without cuckolding another husband this time.”

Jaskier lets out an indignant snort. “Hey, sometimes I just sleep with the husbands themselves. Then I have to watch what I eat, though,” he blathers on, and Geralt is honestly impressed with the lengths of his chatter even when Geralt imagines it must be painful to speak. “Have sex with one wrong person, and all of a sudden everyone and their mother is trying to poison you.”

Geralt’s not sure how to respond. 

Jaskier sighs and turns over in the bed. “Good night, Geralt.”

“Try not to drown in your own blood.”

“Always nice to know you care.”

And then, almost too softly for Jaskier to hear, “Good night, Jask.”

ii.

Geralt jerks awake and sits up in his bed roll. The fire is crackling happily, a far cry from the smoldering logs Geralt would have expected. He looks around, and Jaskier is gone. Normally, this would worry him, but if Jaskier took the time to stoke their fire, that probably means he hasn’t been eaten. Most likely. 

The slight chance that something untoward has happened propels Geralt out of the warmth of his blankets. He tugs on his boots and follows the faint scent of Jaskier, a warm mix of wood smoke and contentedness, these days. 

His nose leads him to the river bank, and he hovers right on the edge of the tree line, scouting for any possible dangers. He doesn’t see any, but as he does his sweep, his gaze catches on Jaskier’s bare back and lingers there. There’s a smattering of freckles that Geralt can just barely make out, until they disappear when Jaskier dunks his hair under the water. 

Geralt knows that he should stop just standing here, should either reveal himself or just slink back to their camp and start packing things up, but he finds himself rooted in place as Jaskier rubs a rag over his shoulder blades. 

Geralt is half tempted to offer his help in reaching Jaskier’s back, but he knows how that would probably be received. 

Geralt is transfixed as Jaskier begins to sing, and he sinks down to sit with his back to a tree to listen. Jaskier is always wanting his opinion on his songs, so surely he’d be fine with this, right?

It's not fair, oh, it's not fair how much I love you

It's not fair, 'cause you make me ache, you bastard

And he'll say

Oh, how, oh, how unreasonable

How unreasonably in love I am with everything you do

I'll spend my days so close to you

'Cause if I'm stood here, then I'm stood here

And I'll stand—

Geralt’s jerked out of his trance of listening to Jaskier sing in his honeyed tones by a disturbance in the water, and Geralt focuses in on the ripples that are starting to froth before a drowner emerges, its scaly skin glistening in the morning light. Jaskier screams, and Geralt leaps from his hiding spot, unsheathing his sword. 

Jaskier turns to look at the new disturbance with wide eyes, minutely relaxing when he sees it’s Geralt. Geralt jumps into the water, landing on the drowner’s back. It jerks and bucks, deceptively strong as it tries to toss Geralt off. Geralt hooks his hands around its neck, his sword gripped precariously. 

The drowner gives one last shake, and Geralt goes flying, his sword falling with a splash. There’s a clawed, webbed hand on Geralt’s head, forcing him under the water. He thrashes, trying to get free, but to no avail. Geralt keeps his mouth tightly shut, and his lungs start to burn as he continues to fight. 

Bright spots start to dance at the edge of his vision, getting darker and fuzzier now, and Geralt knows he’s right on the verge of losing consciousness. He’s unable to stop his gasp for air, but only water finds his lungs. He’s resigned himself to this being the way it ends when suddenly the grip goes lax and he’s able to propel himself to the water’s surface, gasping for breath. 

“Geralt? Geralt?” comes a worried voice, floaty and distant sounding. “Geralt, are you okay?”

There’s a pounding on his back, and water dribbles from his lips. A litany of curses follow and sharp tugs on his arm that lead him back to the bank. 

Geralt coughs and splutters, more water escaping him as he finally registers Jaskier pacing around anxiously... completely naked. Geralt chokes, and Jaskier is there in an instant, a warm hand on his back, rubbing in soothing circles. 

“You’re okay,” he croons with a gentle pat. 

Geralt doesn’t feel okay. He feels like he about died and is seconds away from doing it again via spontaneous combustion at the sight of all Jaskier’s skin on display. Geralt picks a spot on the distance and fixes his gaze on it. 

“Good thing you were around,” Jaskier says finally, and Geralt burns in shame at the thought of why exactly he was there. 

He’s lucky Jaskier isn’t running away in repulsion, like he would be if he knew the truth. 

Jaskier asks him if he’s okay yet again, and Geralt grunts. 

“Oh, goody, you’re well enough for monosyllabic conversation. Back to normal, then.”

Geralt grunts again, and Jaskier laughs, a delightful trilling thing. 

“Oh, here you go,” Jaskier says, handing Geralt back his sword that’s covered in monster guts and ichor. 

Geralt’s eyes do not bug out as the realization hits him. “You… you?”

“Well, it was drowning you! I couldn’t just stand around, now could I?”

“I...suppose not,” Geralt mutters, but in actuality, he can count on one hand the number of times someone’s actually come to his aid while he was fighting a monster. The most he can wish for is someone who won’t recoil as they patch up his wounds later. 

“Are you sure you’re alright? You’re acting a bit,” Jaskier pauses, “distracted.”

“I’m fine,” he says gruffly. 

“Well, I guess it’s not every day you have a near death experience,” Jaskier muses, “Oh, wait.”

“Maybe if I didn’t have to save your sorry ass so often.” Geralt shoves at him and instantly flushes red as his hand touches Jaskier’s bare skin and he registers again that he’s naked. 

“Put on some clothes,” Geralt mumbles, averting his eyes. 

There’s a heavy silence as Geralt waits for Jaskier to say something in response, some sort of rib, but nothing comes, just the soft swish of fabric as he gets dressed. 

Geralt grits his teeth. 

iii.

Geralt trudges down the rocky path, Roach just behind him. The trail from Kaer Morhen is downright treacherous at the best of times and fatal at worst, so Geralt would rather walk than risk Roach making a wrong step and sending them both pitching off a cliff. 

Not that that would be entirely unwelcome, after the winter Geralt has just endured. Eskel and Lambert took great pride in elbowing Geralt and making him the butt of their every joke, saying in glee that they could smell the longing drifting off of him. 

“Is Geralt in loooove?” Lambert had sang, until Geralt shoved him off his chair to shut him up. 

Lambert tumbled to the floor with a clatter of his armor, but he still wore his unbearably smug expression. Eskel had looked at him with soft eyes. “You could have brought them here, you know. I want to know whoever can make you happy.”

“Yeah, we all know how impossible that is for Mr. Melancholy,” Lambert said. 

Geralt shakes his head and puts his focus back on putting one foot in front of the other. The other witchers had endlessly pestered him about his plans for the spring, but Geralt hadn’t wanted to tell them. He likes Jaskier being just for him, and he had waited impatiently for the snow to melt in the pass. He was the first to set out, and he valiantly tried to ignore Lambert’s snickers as he left. 

Geralt is headed to Oxenfurt. He and Jaskier hadn’t made set plans to meet up, because it normally doesn’t take too long for them to accidentally on purpose run into each other, but this year, Geralt doesn’t want to wait. The winter had stretched out into much longer than normal, with biting cold and piles of snow, so Geralt is more than ready to be warm again. 

When the path finally stops twisting and turning, Geralt mounts Roach and picks up their pace a bit. It’s certainly only because he’s eager to sleep in a bed, never mind that he’s been sleeping in one all winter. 

Geralt pulls his hood up against the early spring chill and soldiers on. 

-

When Geralt finally arrives, several days and sleepless nights later, it’s just before dawn. Jaskier has always had a proclivity towards nocturnal behavior, with only Geralt’s need to be up and moving at first light tempering it, so Geralt doesn’t think Jaskier will mind the intrusion. 

Geralt ties Roach to a hitching post, promising to come back and find her a stable once the sun breaks over the horizon, and then he wanders until streets start to look familiar, and Jaskier’s cozy house comes into view. 

Geralt steps up to the door and knocks, and he definitely does not try to tame his hair into some semblance of kempt or get an anxious churning in his stomach at the prospect of seeing Jaskier again. There’s no answer to his knock, so he tries again, but Jaskier still doesn’t materialize. Geralt tries the knob, and to his alarm, it’s unlocked. 

His first thought is one of panic—what if something’s wrong? Jaskier wouldn’t just leave his door unlocked; someone could walk right in and steal his lute. Geralt opens the door quietly and creeps through the dark house. There are no immediate signs that there’s anything amiss. There are only three rooms, and Geralt eases the bedroom door open to peek inside. He’s immediately arrested by Jaskier sprawled out naked on his bed. 

Geralt takes a hurried step back, but not before his eyes dart all over Jaskier’s body. He’s just taking stock of any new injuries Jaskier might have incurred while Geralt wasn’t around to protect him from the wrath of cuckolded husbands, that’s all. Jaskier looks paler and more gaunt than he was when Geralt left him, but Geralt supposes that’s just a side effect of winter. 

Geralt retreats slowly, locking the door behind him and resolving to come back when the sun is high in the sky. 

Geralt stumbles onto the street, the early morning light making everything washed out as he scuffs his boots along the ground. He meanders back the way he came, deciding he’ll stable Roach and then see about something for breakfast. He hadn’t felt hungry in his haste to get to Jaskier, but now that his enthusiasm has been tempered, he’s starving. He tries to remember the last time he stopped to eat something more substantial than whatever he could pull out of his pack. Two, three, days ago, maybe? 

Roach comes into view, pawing her hoof against the dirt impatiently. Geratlt huffs a laugh as he walks closer, untying her reins from the hitch and clicking his tongue as he leads her in a direction that he’s getting a big whiff of horse from. 

Geralt leaves Roach at the stables, with his usual stern frown at the stable boy and a chastisement to Roach to be good as she nips at his shirt. 

Roach taken care of, he sets off to look for something to eat, wondering if it’s too soon for Jaskier to be up yet. His eyes flicker shut for a moment as he thinks of the Jaskier’s robe, and how if he goes right now and knocks on his door, he might answer wearing that and nothing else. 

Although, if he does that, even Jaskier might be able to smell the lust rolling off of him. 

Geralt sighs and continues his trudge, until he stops in his tracks and redirects his path. He looks up at the sun’s position in the sky. It’s been long enough. Surely Jaskier is wearing actual clothes by now?

Geralt walks back to Jaskier’s home, the path turning from dirt to cobblestone as he gets closer. There’s a patch of grass peeking between the stones with three orange wildflowers growing in it. Geralt stoops down and picks them without thinking too much about it. 

Geralt carries the flowers loosely in one hand down at his side. When he reaches the steps leading up to Jaskier’s door, he pauses to steel himself, to try to prepare himself for if Jaskier’s whole chest is on display in his robe, but he’s interrupted by an obnoxious throat clearing. 

Geralt whirls around to glare at the person, but he’s arrested by the sight of a man scowling right back at him. “Hope you’re not planning to bother some nice girl, Witcher. Like anyone would ever want you.”

Geralt glances down at the flowers in his hand, and then back to the man, mouth flapping uselessly. He has a point. 

“She’s probably just too scared to tell you to fuck off,” the man sneers, and Geralt’s fingers itch to pull his dagger from his belt, but he restrains himself. 

He surreptitiously looks around for a place to drop the flowers. The man is right; this is a terrible idea. What is he hoping to accomplish with this? Just to make Jaskier smile? He’s an idiot. 

A door slams open, and then, “Well, I have no such qualms. Fuck off.”

Geralt turns around to see Jaskier—and thank fuck he’s wearing clothes this time, but he’s wearing that ridiculous lavender robe, with his leg jutting out right below where it’s knotted together. Geralt desperately averts his eyes, turning back around to frown at the man, but he’s disappeared. 

He looks at Jaskier, then, drinking him in after a winter apart. Jaskier makes a pleased hum in the back of his throat. “For me?” he asks, holding out his hands for the flowers. 

Geralt hands them over without comment, but he can’t hide the smallest of smiles as he follows Jaskier into the house, Jaskier chattering away about everything Geralt missed. 

And, gods, did he miss a lot. 

iv.

When Geralt bolts awake this time, Jaskier is gone again. Geralt would be concerned that just anyone could sneak up on him while he’s sleeping, but he knows his body has started to become in tune with the sound of Jaskier and it no longer deems it necessary to rip him from his sleep for just Jaskier padding around. 

Still, Geralt wipes the sleep from his eyes and slowly gets up to start disassembling their camp. Jaskier will be back soon, and then they can be on their way. Geralt casts his eyes to the horizon, noting the first rays of morning peeking over it. 

 Geralt ambles over to where he had tethered Roach to a tree and scratches his fingertips over her neck. She headbutts his other hand, impatiently waiting for her breakfast. Geralt huffs a laugh. 

Geralt has everything packed up and he’s been leaning against a tree impatiently for three minutes when he starts to get worried. Who knows what could be in these woods? There could be any number of things looking to make a meal out of Jaskier. 

Geralt paces in a circle around their doused fire. On one hand, Jaskier could be doing something like taking a shit somewhere, but on the other hand, he might be hurt. 

Geralt freezes when he hears a faint strangled cry, and his feet are moving even though his mind has barely registered the sound. Geralt crashes through the underbrush, uncaring about how much noise he makes or the thorns that tear against his skin, until he skids to a stop in front of Jaskier. In front of Jaskier, who locks eyes with him while his cock is in his hand and comes with an aborted gasp. 

Heat burns up Geralt’s face. “Sorry, I—” he cuts himself off and flees back the way he came. 

He berates himself as he walks back to their camp. They haven’t been in a town in over three weeks, why was that not what he expected? In all honesty, that’s why he hadn’t gone after Jaskier immediately, but after he heard him shout all of the thoughts of restraint flew out of his brain. The only thing he could focus on was Jaskier needing help. 

Geralt tries not to dwell on the thought of how Jaskier’s cock had looked, flushed and jutting out proudly. Geralt pulls Roach’s brush out of the saddle bag and works her over carefully, making sure every hair is going the same way and helping her shed her thick winter coat. 

By the time Jaskier stumbles back, Geralt had thought he had managed to put the incident out of his mind, but the sight of Jaskier proves him wrong. “Ready to go?” Geralt grunts. 

Jaskier opens his mouth and shuts it with a click of his teeth. “What are we waiting for?”

Geralt swings himself up onto Roach, and doesn’t let himself look back to make sure Jaskier follows. 

v.

Geralt’s eyes crack open as the door to the inn room squeaks. He grunts in displeasure at being disturbed, and then remembers Jaskier is supposed to be with the barmaid and bolts upright. The door is just out of view from the bed, so Geralt eases himself out of bed and picks up the dagger. He creeps to where the wall juts out and then jumps out on the other side, revealing himself. 

“Is that a knife or are you just happy to see me?” Jaskier laughs nervously, and Geralt sheepishly drops the dagger onto the chair as his eyes widen. 

“What is with you and always being naked?” Geralt growls in frustration, trying not to look at the creamy expanse of Jaskier’s skin, marred with freckles instead of scars like Geralt’s. 

Jaskier’s brows pull together in confusion. “What?”

“Nevermind. Just—what is going on?”

“Ah. Right. That. I got…kicked out.”

“Did she have a husband?”

“Um, yes, yes, that’s exactly right. He did not appreciate the soiling of their marital bed.”

Geralt rolls his eyes fondly even as a pang of longing lodges itself right between his ribs. He doesn’t stop to examine it for too long. 

Geralt turns his back and slips back over to the bed. The one bed, because he had thought he would be alone tonight. Geralt sighs. 

There’s a quiet swish of fabric as Jaskier pulls on some clothes. “That was one of my favorite shirts, and now it’ll probably end up burnt or some other ridiculous thing.”

The doublet in question was a gaudy scarlet thing with obnoxious gold threading and beading sewn into it. The light always caught on it just wrong to shine into Geralt’s eyes and give him a headache. “What a pity.”

Jaskier shoves at his shoulder as he clambers into the bed without a second thought. Geralt swallows hard at the dip of the lumpy mattress, at the body what so close to his all of a sudden. Jaskier’s heartbeat thuds, and a peculiar smell drifts off of him that Geralt can’t quite place. 

Geralt turns over so that he’s facing Jaskier. “What’s wrong?”

Jaskier buries his face into the pillow. The one pillow, that he tugs away from Geralt. “Nothing,” he says, heaving a dramatic sigh. 

“Hmm. Well.” Geralt pauses and tries to think of a way to respond that won’t have Jaskier calling him an emotionless boulder later. “If you want to talk about it, I can listen.”

Jaskier lifts his head up from the pillow to meet Geralt’s eyes. “Wow, I didn’t know that I was speaking to anything other than the wall when I talk to you.”

Geralt yanks the pillow out from under Jaskier and hits him with it. “Shut up.”

+ i.

Jaskier sighs as he unfurls his bedroll. He’s been unleashing heavy sighs about once an hour for the past week, and it’s driving Geralt up the wall. He’s asked Jaskier if everything was all right four separate times now, and Jaskier has brushed him off each time. 

“Jaskier, just tell me what’s the matter,” he begs after Jaskier sighs as he returns with water from the stream. 

Jaskier plops the bucket down right next to the fire, and some splashes out and douses the small smolder Geralt had got started. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls before Jaskier can even react. 

“Fine! You want to know what’s so wrong? It’s you!”

Geralt rears back, blinking rapidly. He wants to make a beeline for Roach and try to get the feeling of Jaskier’s eyes boring into his out of his mind as soon as possible, but he can’t just leave Jaskier high and dry out here all alone. Geralt shakes his head and turns away. 

“Wait,” Jaskier’s hand comes around to clamp onto Geralt’s wrist. Geralt nearly shakes him off, but then Jaskier is saying again, “Wait. That’s not what I meant.”

Geralt meets Jaskier’s eyes cautiously and arches an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation. 

Jaskier rubs the back of his neck. “You know I got kicked out of that room the other night.”

Geralt grunts. “For cuckolding the husband?”

“Well, yes, but not exactly. I lied. There was no husband. Turns out some people aren’t all that impressed when you say the wrong name in the heat of things.”

“Jaskier, what does that have to do with—” 

“It’s you, Geralt,” he whispers. 

“Oh.”

Geralt is taken aback. He’s never had this happen with a human before. It’s… hard to imagine that a human could see him as anything other than repulsive, something to be tolerated just to part him from his coin. 

“And now I see that I’ve made a complete and total mess of things. I’m sorry, I’ll just—”

As Jaskier’s grip on his wrist loosens, Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand instead. “You haven’t made a mess of anything.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen before he reaches the hand Geralt isn’t holding up to cup Geralt’s face. Geralt turns his head to nuzzle into Jaskier’s hand, and Jaskier leans forward to press his lips to Geralt. Their fingers become untangled as they move on, Jaskier’s coming up to twist in Geralt’s hair, and Geralt’s stroking across Jaskier’s cheek bone. 

When they pull away, Jaskier lets out a disbelieving chuckle. “Wow. It seems like I could have saved my hand some work while we were on the road.”

Geralt rolls his eyes at Jaskier’s crudeness. 

“Come on, you know that was funny,” Jaskier wheedles into his ear. 

Geralt pushes him aside and crouches down to rebuild their fire. “You’re rarely funny.”

Jaskier claps a hand over his chest and splutters. “Okay, still incredibly rude. Nice to know some things never change, I suppose.”

Jaskier huffs and walks away, going over to feed Roach while Geralt attempts to find some kindling that isn’t damp. 

A smile tugs at Geralt’s lips. 

When the fire is roaring once again, Geralt wanders over to where Jaskier is now sitting against a tree. 

Geralt sits down beside him. “I do think you’re funny sometimes,” he admits. 

“You’ve already wounded my pride, Geralt; it’s too late.”

“And so if I offered you a… hand, you’d turn me down?”

Jaskier jerks his head up and turns to Geralt. “That is not what I said in any way, shape, or form.”

“Hmm.”

In the end, it doesn’t happen that night, or the day after that. It’s when they’re finally at an inn that Jaskier pounces on him. Geralt has barely shut the door to their room when Jaskier is on him. “I’ve been so patient,” he whines. 

Geralt raises his eyebrows, unconvinced. “All you had to do was ask.”

“Geralt, you’re impossible,” Jaskier huffs in exasperation. “Well, I’m asking now.”

Geralt kisses him, slow and sweet, and Jaskier groans his eagerness into his mouth. 

Jaskier’s fingers fumble with the clasps of his armor, until Geralt laughs and takes it off himself. When he turns back around after carefully setting all the pieces on a chair, Jaskier is already naked, and finally, Geralt allows himself to look. He drinks it in, notices the tiny scar Jaskier has on his thigh, rakes his eyes over Jaskier’s chest. He moves closer so he can comb his fingers down the hair between Jaskier’s pecs, and he preens at the attention. 

Jaskier reaches down to undo his trousers, and Geralt steps out of them. He takes off his shirt, and sheds his smallclothes, looking back up to see Jaskier staring at him. His soft expression turns into a self satisfied grin as he hums to himself. 

“What?” Geralt asks, already sure he doesn’t want to know the answer. 

“Nothing. Okay, fine, just—the carpet matches the drapes, is all.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “It’s a mutation. Do you think I would choose for it to be white? What were you expecting?”

“You’re no fun,” Jaskier pauses. “What color did your hair used to be?”

Geralt stops and thinks. “Brown, probably? I don’t remember.”

Jaskier whistles. “That’s terribly sad. Do you think your childhood would make a good ballad? I bet it would.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt grits out. 

“Okay, okay. Insensitive, I apologize.”

Geralt pulls back, but Jaskier winds his arms around his shoulders and keeps him in place. “I’m sorry,” he says again, rubbing his nose against the delicate skin of Geralt’s neck. 

Geralt shudders and lets Jaskier distract him. It’s not like his childhood is something he particularly likes to dwell on, especially when there’s something much better for him to focus on in the form of Jaskier’s swelling cock judging against his hip. 

Jaskier presses up close against him, bracketing Geralt against the door and putting his palm flat over Geralt’s heart before he kisses him again. 

Geralt lets the sensation wash over him, the pleasant feelings and the vibration that sends a thrumming through his bones. He walks Jaskier back to the bed and lays him out, crawling on top and straddling him. 

Jaskier sucks in a breath. “Gods, Geralt. You’re beautiful.”

A hot blush rises to Geralt’s face and he turns away, but Jaskier takes his wrist. 

“Don’t mock me,” Geralt mumbles. 

“Darling,” Jaskier says, sitting up and taking both of Geralt’s hands in his. “I’m not.”

Geralt doesn’t know how to respond. He looks down at his body, littered with scars, some pink and small and some, long healed, white and wicked looking. “Hmm.”

Jaskier sighs and tugs Geralt in for another kiss, before he maneuvers Geralt so he’s the one laying down. Jaskier works his way down Geralt’s body, lingering on each scar until Geralt squirms uncomfortably beneath him. 

Jaskier huffs a soft laugh as he makes it to the soft inside of Geralt’s thighs, and Geralt starts squirming for a different reason. A whine comes from the back of Geralt’s throat as Jaskier continues to ignore his cock, throbbing and painful at this point. 

Jaskier finally has pity on him and takes him in hand, making Geralt sigh and his eyes flutter shut. Jaskier jacks him quickly, bringing Geralt to the edge faster than he would like to admit before he backs off and moves his hand. He goes back to tracing Geralt’s scars, his fingertips finding the one that cut through the muscle of his leg and healed jagged and rough. 

He hovers over a different one, looking up at Geralt with a question in his eyes. Jaskier’s wheedled most of the stories of his scars out of him, but this one—Geralt huffs. “I tripped over a rock and fell right onto a very pointy root,” he admits. 

Jaskier’s lips quirk up into a grin, and Geralt is about to chastise him for laughing when Jaskier directs his attention back to Geralt’s cock. 

Geralt gasps as warm heat envelops him, and his hand comes down to tangle in Jaskier’s soft hair. Jaskier’s other hand comes up to stroke the part of Geralt’s shaft not in his mouth and scoots further back to trail his fingertips over Geralt’s balls and ghost over his perineum to his hole. 

Geralt shudders at the feeling, and Jaskier pops off of him with a wet sound. “Can I—?”

“Yes, yes, please,” Geralt babbles. 

Jaskier disappears for a moment to rummage through his pack, and Geralt tries to slow his pulse. His heart is practically trying to thud out of his chest compared to its normal steady pace, so he sucks in a deep breath through his nose. 

Jaskier returns and settles himself between Geralt’s legs. Geralt lets Jaskier position him until his knees are bent and his feet are planted on the bed on either side of Jaskier. Geralt swallows past the lump forming in his throat as a wave of vulnerability crashes down on him. 

Jaskier must be able to sense his skittishness, because he takes Geralt’s hand in his and rubs soothing circles into it with his thumb. With his other hand, he rests the pad of his pointer finger against Geralt’s hole until he slips it in, a second finger quickly joining it. 

Geralt can feel himself tensing up, but he tries to relax, tries to let himself give in and just be boneless. 

Jaskier stretches him out until Geralt whines in anticipation. Jaskier chuckles and pats his clean hand on Geralt’s thigh. “I seem to recall you saying I was the impatient one?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls. 

Jaskier laughs again. “Fine, fine. I truly don’t understand why people think you’re so frightening.”

Geralt could list a few reasons, but he doesn’t want to kill the mood. He just grunts at Jaskier until he finally shuffles closer to Geralt and presses inside of him. 

Geralt’s head thumps back against the mattress as he squeezes his eyes shut, adjusting to the overwhelming fullness and the way the feeling radiates through his stomach. 

Are you good?” Jaskier whispers. 

Geralt nods, one of his hands finding Jaskier’s and tangling their fingers together, while the other grips the sheets as Jaskier begins to thrust.

He starts out slow, almost too slow for Geralt to bear, each slide dragging inside of him and creating delicious friction while the head of Jaskier’s cock nudges his prostate.

Geralt hums. 

“Let me hear you,” Jaskier says into his ear. 

Geralt looks off to the side, but Jaskier puts a finger on his chin and tilts his head back. “You’ve never been shy; don’t start now.”

Geralt stays sullenly even quieter than before, deliberately slowing his breathing. 

Jaskier laughs at his obstinance. “No performance review for me?”

“Just shut up and fuck me,” Geralt says breathlessly. 

“Who am I to say no to that?” Jaskier asks, and then there’s no more talking for a while, just gasps and moans as Jaskier slams into Geralt at a pace that leaves them both panting. 

Finally, Jaskier shudders to his climax and wraps a hand around Geralt’s weeping cock to bring him over the edge with him. 

Jaskier slips out of him and collapses onto the bed beside him, draping his leg over Geralt’s thigh, his fingers meandering their way again to the forest of scars that live on Geralt’s skin. 

“You’re lovely. Do you believe me yet?”

Geralt gives an unimpressed hum. 

“Well, lucky for you, I have the whole rest of my life to make you see reason.”

Geralt likes the sound of that.

[insomniamamma]

Rain: Ezra X F!Reader w/Cee

A/N: Prickle ‘verse. Takes place after Prickle but before Clean Dirt. Can be read as a one shot. Reader is established crew with Ezra and Cee. This was written for @autumnleaves1991-blog​ ‘s Writer Wednesday. I am woefully behind. I legit don’t understand how some of you write fics so fast!

Warnings: Mentions of war, a little bit of angst, but mostly gentle fluff. Feelings.

            "Hey, Ez," Ezra is engrossed in grading the latest haul, testing for clarity and hardness.  The surface of CJ's World is cut through with oxbow rivers, fantastic hoodoos of striated sandstone slashed with valleys deeper than any found in Sol system. You're digging for fossils. These rusty carved out plateaus were once the bed of an ancient ocean. Through some trickery of mineralization and chemistry the fossils of CJ's world shine like the fire opals of Old Terra. Big or small, they all have value.           "Ezra," says Cee, "She's doing it again."           "Doing what, birdie?" Ezra takes off the loupe and rubs at his eyes. Rain pelts on the tent, even sheltered the humidity soaks through.           "Look." Ezra draws open the tent flap and sees you, standing in the rain, your head tilted up, no gentle shower this, rain that pelts down hard, turns the view across the sharp-cut canyons to silver curtains. Your clothes are plastered to you like a second skin. The rain actually aids your cause, washing away loose sediment, making the fossils easier to get to. You bow your head and let the stinging rain hit the back of your neck, let it fall on your closed eyes, your outspread arms. You laugh at the sky.

           "What do you know about Falnost?" Cee's eyes go distant for a beat. She has a memory to rival Central computers.

           "Hmmm..about two thirds standard grav, class C5, would've rated lower if not for it's primary. Dustball."             "Mmm-hmm."             "She's not used to real weather," says Cee.             "Observant as ever," says Ezra. The rain is not gentle. It is chilly and hits your skin like handfuls of flung sand, but is so different from anything you've known, so new that you can't help but stand there with a huge, dumb grin plastered on your face, even as your teeth chatter with the cold. Ezra comes and gets you.             "C'mon, Artichoke, while the rain does feel slinky and delicious it is not worth hypothermia."             "Sorry, Ez," you say and allow him to take your hand and lead you back to shelter. This has become something of a habit. Many worlds in the fringe are dustballs like the one you fled, algae and fungus growing on every bit of pipe that condensation beads on. On Falnost they had a deal with the ice-miners, discounted accommodations on world or on station in exchange for chunks of ice from your primary's lush rings de-orbited, burning and evaporating as they fell. The idea was that, eventually, there would be moisture enough in the atmosphere to trigger rains. Someday Falnost will have an ocean, but you won't be there for it, half your life spent harvesting rills of water from sail-traps, careful irrigation channels covered over with plastic sheeting, calorie vs water consumption ratios discussed every planting season. How many credits do we net vs wha† we have to spend? You got fucking sick of dreaming of an ocean your great grandchildren might paddle in. You skimmed enough to buy your way off world and since then you have seen things that you never would have believed as a child.            The first time you heard thunder was on a world called Ingwy. Your first  thought was artillery. Ingwy was a contested world, Karoclan and Lussia Collective skirmishing over land rights, while small stakes droppers like you and Ez and Cee swooped in to reap the spoils while the big corps and clans fought each other.  It was the middle of the night and you were on your feet instantly, railgun in hand, screaming that there was incoming, to take cover. Someone had flicked on a utility light hanging from a cord that swung, illuminating the inside of the tent in sickening arcs, and there's another explosion, this one so loud you feel the pressure change in your ears, hear your own voice crying out in tandem, white hot light even through the thick weave of the tent.           "It's just thunder," Ezra yells over the sound of rain slamming against the tent.           "That was an explosion!" He presses gently on your arm until you lower the rails.           "It's just loud," says Ezra, "It can't hurt us. We're safe here. Put the gun down." You set on the edge of your cot and put your face in your hands.           "Kevva. You must think I'm the dumbest dirt-farmer this side of the Great Arm." The cot dips as Ezra sits beside you.           "Not at all," he says, squeezes your shoulder, "I come from a backwater as well. First time I ever saw a proper ocean I nearly lost my breakfast right there on the beach."  Thunder peals again and you flinch, shrink against him slightly.            "Static electricity," says Ezra, "That's all it is. Builds up in the clouds and discharges into the ground." He keeps his hand on you as he speaks, fingers gently squeezing the juncture of your neck and shoulder, "The sound you hear is the air in the path of the lightning instantly heating and expanding. It makes a sonic shock wave, like any explosion."            "Like the boom when ships lift," you say.            "Just like that, Artichoke," he says, "Storm's already moving off, see?" The rain pelting the tent has settled into a steady drone. Thunder grumbles, a low, almost soft sound, not the air-rending explosion that shocked you out of sleep.            "We should try to rest," says Ezra, gives your shoulder one more firm squeeze and a little shake, and when you look up, he's smiling, dimple just beginning to sink into his cheek.             "Yeah," you say, "Okay." He kills the utility light and settles into his cot. You can hear the music from Cee's headphones, the tinny, fast pop she favors, threaded through the white noise of the falling rain. She slept through the whole thing.

            The ancient life of CJ's world favored heptagonal symmetry, long-dead mollusks like seven-sided shields shine out of the rusty ground, the smallest the size of a fingernail, the largest the size of dinner plates. This is a good deposit. The small ones are fashioned into jewelry and buttons.            "They take these great big ones and slice them micron thin," says Ezra, "Use them for window-glass in the temples of the Ephrate. They say it is like standing inside Kevva's very beating heart."           "I can see why," says Cee, and so do you. The minerals that limn the shells shine translucent red with brilliant streaks of orange, yellow and even thin threads of green and blue.           "They say that Kevva's first heart-beat ignited the explosion that became the universe," says Ezra.           "You really believe that?" Asks Cee.           "I don't know if believe is the right word," says Ezra, "We all grew up with these stories, why my grandmother..." You smile and tune him out. The back and forth banter between Cee and Ezra is a pulse that underlies every harvest. Cee has grown more talkative with each drop. Their relationship has a growing ease to it. You don't know exactly what happened between them before you joined up, but Cee's initial skittishness and Ezra's new healed scars tell a story you can guess the shape of. You let their conversation fade into the background, focus on the work of your hands, the meticulous scrape of soft sediment away from the hard glitter of the fossil, working around the seven sided edge, loosen enough up to get your fingers under the shell and you can pry it out, focus on the sounds of the world around you, no birds on CJ's world, but there is a range of bug-music, hidden in crevasses in the midday heat, all metallic clicks and creaks. Your rail-gun rests within easy reach, as always. You worm your fingers under the edge of the shell, wiggling it like a loose tooth, pops out of the sediment suddenly and you plop on your ass in the sandy dirt.           "You all right there, Artichoke?" Ezra grins at you.           "I'll recover." You dust yourself off and take your prize over to the tub that sits in the shadow of the pod. Further cleaning and grading can be done after dark. Nights  are long at this latitude. You stretch in the sunlight. This job is a milk-run compared to other drops, but hunkering in the dirt still hurts your knees and you feel every bit of it when you stand. There's a familiar sound, like a rumbling stomach, thunder, you think and glance up.          "Ezra!" Your voice is urgent and sharp and he's scrabbling up in a heartbeat, hand on the thrower at his hip, but when he stands there is only you pointing out across the vast expanse of sharp-carved valleys and hoodoos, lined in sharply delineated shadows and rusted cliffs where the light catches. The rainbow swoops skyward into grey cloud-bellies, a luminous curtain against the grey clouds, distant rain falling across the canyons.

        "Ezra, look!" Ezra exhales, tension leaching out of his shoulders. His hand drops away from the thrower.          "Oh, hey, a rainbow," says Cee. You lower your arm and just stare, transfixed at the glowing phantasm, brightening and dimming with the movement of clouds between it and the sun.           "It's beautiful," says Ezra. But he's not looking at the rainbow. He's looking at you. Your eyes are wide, lit up with wonder, an unconscious smile creeping across your face, crinkling the corners of your eyes. The stiff professionalism that you wear as close as your body armor momentarily set down, forgotten. Ezra's heart squeezes. There you are, he thinks. He can count on his one hand the number of times he's seen you smile like this, open and carefree, rare and precious as the gems the three of you pull from the ground. Part of him wants to kiss you, but he suspects he would end up on his back in the dust with the barrel of your railgun jammed beneath his sternum, so instead he brushes his hand against yours and your fingers find his and squeeze hard.            "I've never seen one before," you say, barely aware of Ezra's hand linked with yours, "I mean, I know what a rainbow is, but I've never seen one. Not in the real, just in vids."            "They don't have rainbows on Falnost?" Says Cee.            "They don't have rain on Falnost," you say, "Get's a little hazy sometimes after the ice-haulers make a drop, but that's about it." You shake your head as if just waking, the rainbow still shimmers, a bit duller now, and you are suddenly aware of Ezra's hand clasped with yours, the gentle pressure of his grasp.             "Sorry," you drop your eyes, "I got distracted. We got work to do." Ezra gives your hand a squeeze and then lets you go.             "Not to worry, Artichoke, rainbows are fleeting things. You look your fill while you can." And so you do. So does he.

[mylifeisactuallyamess]

Epilogue

General Hux x Female Reader/Kylo Ren x Female Reader

A/N: This is it. The last time I will post about this story (unless I visit them in a one shot.) I am so sad but so grateful at the same time, this fic got a lovely following and I appreacite anyone who took the time to comment/like/reblog any or all chapters. This fic spawned from a Writer Wednesday prompt months ago, so thank you @autumnleaves1991-blog for posting that picture of the brick arch and pond all those weeks ago! Here we go!

Warnings: PTSD mentions, war mentions, none of them are ok.

Word Count: 2284

Read the Epilogue here on AO3

Masterlist

The air was crisp, carrying the tang of the salty sea and wrapping it around you, ruffling your dress. You shielded your eyes against the dipping sun, seeing the light refract off the water as it heaved below you, the sounds of the waves crashing into the cliffs boomed up to you creating a sound like thunder. The tide was high and that meant they’d be back any moment. You looked back at the cottage behind you, the white walls and the pretty flowers were picture perfect, it was everything you’d ever dreamed, the makeshift hangar sat to the side and it housed the X-Wing you had from your time with the Resistance. Next to it was another larger more recognisable ship, you had some visitors and you needed to prepare Armitage before he saw them.

A giggle carried on the breeze that swirled around you and your face softened into a smile, first you could only see your daughter's head on the path as they came up the steep hill, her long bright red hair caught in the wind, the long tresses flowing around her and glowing with the bright light of the sun. She was giggling, looking down as she plastered her hands all over your poor husband's face. You stifled a laugh as he pretended to stumble, or maybe he really did because she kept shoving her fingers in his eyes.

“Phasma! I can’t see!” You heard him cry followed by more peals of laughter as she continued her assault. “Oh look! It’s Mummy. Hold on!” She squealed as he began to run, holding her legs in place on his shoulders, so she bounced happily full of laughter and smiles until he came to a stop before you. His chest heaved and he let out a loud huff. “You’re getting a bit heavy, little one!”

“Shush Daddy, I am not.” You cocked an eyebrow making a mental note of how much she sounded like her father. Armitage leaned in and gave you a kiss on the lips.

“Who’s here?” He asked quietly.

“Well, it’s Poe, Finn, Rose, Mitaka and….” You paused, not sure if he wanted to hear his name or not.

“And?” He pressed.

“And Ben.” You saw the blank expression fall over his face and you inwardly sighed. “Look they’re not here to cause trouble, the war is over, it has been for a few years now.” You ran a hand through your daughter's hair as she clutched your leg. “We barely see anyone. It's nice for them to drop by.” He moved away, putting a hand in his pocket while using the other to run through his hair. Even after all this time he kept it in the same style, just a habit you guessed or maybe he’d just never experienced another style.

“There’s a reason we don’t see anyone,” he said stiffly. You dragged Phasma with you, coming to stand next to him.

“Armitage, do you forget how I was the one who discovered Finn and Rose. I brought them to you.”

“And I ordered them to be executed and Finn…” he glanced down at his daughter. His hand resting on top of yours in her hair as she gazed at him with big green eyes. You knew he wanted to say Finn killed Phasma, but you felt like pointing out the war was responsible for everything that had happened. All these people had been puppets for someone else, made to believe in something that ultimately influenced their actions and choices.

“It’s over now.” You needed him to acknowledge that, the war was over. You supposed it would have been harder for him than the rest, being brought up and beaten into a person who should always strive for glory and control. Finn managed to break free, even Ben but then he had a loving family for the first few years of his life. He had a taste of normality, as did Poe, Rose had her sister until the evacuation of D’Qar. But Hux had no one, except Phasma and Mitaka and even then he was their General, their leader. He was alone for so long you didn’t know how to get him to see they were all just people now. What they had all been through was horrific, you just knew for Armitage, it was harder to adjust. He didn’t say anything else and you crouched down to Phasma’s level.

“There are some very special people in our house to meet you including Uncle Mitaka.”

“Me kaka?” She screamed in glee, fisting her hands under her chin in joy before tearing off to the house. Hux watched her go, a strange expression on his face. You stood, taking his hand and holding it tight. You made him look at you, feeling the stubble on his cheeks which he let grow now. The red dusting covered his chin and cheeks making him look rugged and even more handsome.

“They wouldn’t have come if they were going to be rude or start a fight or accuse you of things that happened years ago. They are here to see us, as a family. If they can forgive Ben they can forgive you.”

“But Ben is clearly a new man now…” he started and you cut him off by putting a hand over his mouth.

“And look at you. No uniform, no hat, you have a daughter, Armitage, you live in a bloody cottage.” He sighed against your hand and you knew you had won this round.

You stepped away from the cliff edge tugging on his hand and he reluctantly came with you, dragging his feet slightly. You went through the back door Phasma had left open and shut out the dusk that was settling on the cliffs around the cottage. Voices plus your daughter's laughter came from the main living area and you squeezed Hux’s hand reassuringly before walking in. A chorus of greetings met you both and even though you’d said hello before you went round and hugged them all again, pleased to see Hux shaking hands with Poe and Finn. You held your breath when it came to Ben who was sitting in your biggest armchair with Phasma perched on his lap.

“Armitage,” Ben said and held out his hand. The moment stretched for longer than you liked but eventually your husband reached out and shook it. Everybody sighed with relief and you asked if anyone wanted a drink, taking Hux with you into the kitchen. He helped you prepare some drinks in silence, listening to laughter and banter from the others mingled with your daughter's cries of joy as someone was clearly tickling her. Hux carried the drinks and you handed them out, a pleased feeling began to fill your chest as Poe engaged him in conversation. Mitaka stoked the fire and a flare of heat blazed into the room making it more cosy.

“How has he been?” Dopheld asked you quietly.

“The nightmares seem to have eased, it helps that he has Phasma with him nearly all of the time,” you looked over seeing Armitage still in conversation with Poe, your daughter now nestled in his arms sucking her thumb as she gazed at the curly haired pilot. “She seems to know what he needs when he needs it.” You felt a hand on your shoulder and threw a smile at Finn. “Hey you, how’s the Trooper Rehoming going?” He shrugged.

“There were a few we managed to trace back to their families but the majority have made their own settlement out on Yavin 4. You should come visit sometime.” He offered.

“I’d like that but…” your gaze flickered to Armitage. “Maybe it will be just me and Phasma….” You trailed off making a face. “Maybe not,” you chuckled.

“You would all be welcome,” he reassured you before heading over to sit with Rose. Your gaze drifted to Ben who seemed captivated by the fire, but you recognised the signs. The clenching of his fists, the tightness in his jaw, the vase on your mantelpiece fell and shattered drawing everyone’s attention. The fire flared behind you and you looked up to see Hux clutching Phasma to him and backing away slowly. Poe went to approach Ben as the very walls of your house began to shake matching the quivering of your insides but you threw out a silent hand to stop the pilot. You didn’t say Ben’s name, not wanting to startle him instead you crouched before him, placing a calming hand over his forearm and his hazel gaze swung to you.

“Come on, I need you to look at my X-Wing. I think it has a faulty fuel line, Armitage says the circuit breakers are burnt out but we aren’t mechanics.” You could hear the house settling as you pulled his attention away from his thoughts. You didn’t wait for an answer, taking Ben’s hand and shooting a look at Hux. He wasn’t happy, you could see it in his face and the set of his shoulders but you’d rather Ben put his mind to good use than accidentally destroying your house. He had to duck slightly through the low doorways as he followed you outside. Your feet didn’t falter, you’d travelled this path so many times in the dark when you couldn’t sleep. Every time you’d calmed Armitage from a nightmare you had come in here, just to tinker to take your mind off everything. Sometimes it worked, other times you came in here and cried, releasing your pent up emotion alone.

“Here,” you gestured to the hangar and stepped aside. “Wreck it, tinker with it, just don’t ruin the inside of my house, please.” He nodded, moving to touch your tools on the bench gently with his finger tips.

“You come in here often.” It wasn’t a question.

“It is my place to spend time on my own and process everything that happened,” you confessed knowing you couldn’t hide anything from him. “I am coping better than Armitage.”

“Are you though?” He asked bluntly and you blinked. You thought you were, dealing with Phasma kept you occupied during the day, you stayed up late most nights keeping an eye on Armitage so you didn’t have much thought space until you knew he was ok.

“Yes, I am keeping myself busy.” Ben smirked at your reply.

“Looking after two other people does not mean you are coping.”

“Yeah well, someone’s got to do it.” You turned and walked back to the cottage. The conversation was still flowing in the living area but you walked past to go to the kitchen and maybe prepare some food. Armitage appeared within moments, he tried to hide his displeasure but you could read him like a book.

“How’s Phasma?” You asked.

“Asleep on Mitaka.” He replied and you nodded, opening the cupboards trying to find your guests something to eat but you didn’t realise your hands were shaking until Hux gently slid his over yours. “It’s ok,” he whispered, coming up behind you. “He will be gone soon.”

“I really wanted to be ok with him, I just want to be ok.” You looked up as Mitaka appeared at the kitchen door and you smiled at the way Phasma’s arms hung over his shoulder, her little face buried in his neck and he pointed to the stairs. “Just take her straight up, she’ll stay asleep when you lay her down.” He nodded and slowly made his way up the wooden steps. You quickly wiped your damp cheek but Poe then appeared and you felt Hux’s increasing frustration that he couldn’t comfort you in private.

“We’re going to head off in a bit, we need to drop Finn off at the settlement. Do you guys need anything? I need to swing this way on the back so I can grab some supplies?” You nodded enthusiastically, already rattling off a list, since the X-Wing refused to start, you were stuck with what you could find here and in the small local market.

“Ok wow, maybe I’ll get you some spare parts for that ship of yours, if you want I can bring BB8 next time?”

“No need.” Rumbled Ben as he stood in the doorway. “I fixed it, loose connection so it couldn’t connect to the engines.”

“Thank you Ben. Alright out go, too many massive men near my tiny kitchen,” you ushered them out, including Mitaka when he chose that moment to come down the stairs. Finn and Rose were already outside looking up at the stars as everyone filed out and the goodbyes started. Ben was last, enveloping you in a big hug with a quick knowing squeeze before he headed to the Falcon. Poe clapped Armitage on the shoulder promising he’d visit more often, Mitaka echoing his sentiment.

“Just be careful, all of you,” you called. They all waved as they disappeared up the ramp and you felt Armitage put his arm around your shoulders.

“As much as I disliked them all at one time, I’m glad they visited,” he said in a soft tone.

“I’m sorry, but seeing Ben slip like that….” You put a hand to your throat feeling the familiar constriction in your chest. “Just brought back memories,” you whispered.

“We’re all broken, one way or another.” You looked up at your husband. “But I wouldn’t want to try and repair myself with anyone else.”

“I love you Armitage.”

“And I love you and our quiet life and our daughter.” You leaned into him accepting the kiss before letting him lead you back inside the warmth of your cottage.

After all, war does not determine who is right. Only who is left.

[mytwilightimagines13]

Memories from the past (Part Seven)(Caius Volturi)

Masterlist

First part Previous part Next part

Word count: 1134 Trigger warning: talk about suicide and death.

A knock could be heard on the door to Caius’ quarters. “Come in.” Caius said as he looked at himself in the mirror. Athenodora impatiently waiting in the chair beside it, watching him mess around with his hair and clothes. Felix walked into the room and gave a quick bow of the head as a way of showing respect. “Master, Mistress. She is here.” Felix said simply, yet a smile spread over Athenodora’s features. “Thank you Felix, we will be down shortly.” Was all she said before she gracefully stood up, straightening her dress. Felix bowed one last time and left the room, on his way to fetch Marcus and Sulpicia. Athenodora jumped into Caius’ arms and kissed him passionately, and Caius happily returned the kiss with his own passion and happiness. He slowly pulled away and put his wife down. “Let’s meet our little mate, shall we?” he asked as he gently placed her hand in his. Athenodora’s smile only grew wider. “I can’t wait any longer. How long as it been since we have waited for her?” “Nearly 2000 years since we knew there was one more person for us to love.” Caius answered as he started to walk out of the room, guiding his wife by the hand.

Caius and Athenodora followed Marcus and Sulpicia into the feeding room. It was almost the same room as the throne room apart from one small detail, the drain in the middle of the room. The humans who served them as food would end up in that pit after they died and with the help of acid the bodies would be completely dissolved, no trace of them to ever be found again. The couple’s eyes quickly fell on the only human girl in the room and a small pull could be felt in their chests, almost as if their hearts had started to beat again after centuries of silence. To not lose appearance they quickly made their way towards Caius’ throne and set down, Athenodora snuggly on her husband’s lap. They could care less about Aro and Sulpicia’s little affectionated show, used to the couples way of sharing love by now, and only focussed on the girl. Finally she looked up at the couple, her bambi eyes innocent and confused. Both Caius and Athenodora felt their bond finally fall into place and their glares softened on their faces. Caius was about to stand up but Athenodora gently pushed him back down, breaking free of the mesmerizing spell their mate seemed to put on them. “Not yet, amore mio. Let us wait until at least those Cullens have left. We wouldn’t want to frighten our little mate just yet.” She whispered in his ear. “Fine.” Caius growled softly while leaning his back against the back of his throne again, a pained expression on his face. He wanted his little mate to be near him, away from the two Cullen vampires he now saw as a threat. “But if any of them makes a move out of line I will grab her. I don’t like her standing so close to them.” “Agreed, darling.” Was all Athenodora said before her undivided attention was back on her little mate.

I felt frozen. My heartbeat increased and seemed to pull me forward, towards the two blonde angels. I wanted-, no needed to be near them. I wanted to feel their touch, their kiss, their passion and their love. “Well, it does seem you were right after all, my dear Alice.” Aro said breaking me free from my gaze. “Pardon me.” I said, finally finding my voice again. “But I would like some answers now. What is going on? Who are you? And what happened between you and my mother?” I looked at Edward and Alice, one of my eyebrows raised. Edward sighed. “Your mother and I used to have relationship back when she was in high school. She, figured out what I was and we fell in love.” He said. “I’m sorry, what you are? What are you then? Apart from something that is going against the normal laws of nature.” “We are vampires, my dear Xandria.” Aro said as he saw the questioning look in Edwards eyes. I couldn’t help it but I laughed. “Of course. As if this week couldn’t get any stranger. Very well, please continue your story Edward. I am sure there is something more than just a simple ‘we used to date’.” “You’re right,-“ Edward continued “- there was an accident that made me decide to leave, for her own safety. I only came back once, but she was happy and in a relationship with some other man… and pregnant.” His facial expression was one of a kicked puppy. I snorted. “Happy? I have never seen my mother happy. You know, anytime your name dropped her entire face would drop. She had nightmares every night, screaming your bloody name.” I fiercely said. Edwards gaze fell to the floor, ashamed of himself. It was a silent for a moment or two before he looked up again, tears pooling in his eyes. “Where is she? Please, I have to know.” Suddenly I felt cold inside. “She killed herself. She jumped off a cliff. At first I had no idea why, the only thing we found was a small note that said ‘I cannot live without him anymore. I have tried, but after 20 years I am tired and done.’ I took a step forward, my anger blazing back inside of me. “I thought it was my father at first, but he died three years ago, not 20.” He fell down on his knees, clutching his hair. “No, you don’t get to feel self-pity. You left her! You made her depressed! You made her bloody kill herself and leave me behind!” “I am so sorry, Xandria! I thought I was protecting her!” Edward cried out in pain. “Aro, please. End my suffering.” “The hell you will. If I have to live with this pain, so do you! Why would you get the easy way out, huh?! YOU DON’T DESERVE IT!” I felt the tears streaming down my face and before I knew it a pair of strong, hard arms were wrapped around my waist and I was pulled into a chest. “Please brother, sister. Take her to your chambers.” Aro said, I looked up and saw the two blond angels, well vampires I guess, standing next to me, the man holding me tight. They both nodded their heads before he gently picked me up. I closed my eyes, not knowing what to do and feeling completely drained. Soon I was placed on a bed and I curled up in a ball, hugging myself and finally letting myself cry it all out now that I had my answers.

[krnsluvvie]

look my way!

summary: you’re in love with one of your best friends, great. the fear of rejection and despair bring you to the very edge of cowardice and before you know it, you’ve lost him to someone who was a bit braver. 

pairing(s): iwaizumi hajime x reader, platonic matsukawa x reader, platonic oikawa x reader, platonic hanamaki x reader; Seijoh 3rd years besties w reader (basically a friendship fic with angst in the background lol)

genre: angst, fluff, crackheadassery

word count: 8.7k

warnings: unspoken feelings, reader is a coward, gratuitous amount of hugging for no apparent reason

a/n: GRRRRR i hope you’ll enjoy reading! 

( *L/N = last name, F/N = first name)

masterlist

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The grand doors to the Aoba Johsai High School barely scrape your elbow as you run through the gap straight to your class, running late and soaked in the rain. 

Morning was pretty eventful to say the least - not only had you wrongly set the alarm (somehow changing AM to PM) and completely forgotten to do some revising, but you also had not checked the forecast beforehand to prepare yourself for the brutal attack of raindrops that came your way. Bothered? Perhaps, but you couldn’t afford a walk back home for the umbrella, for you’d be more late than you already are. 

As you set foot into your classroom, everyone turns their head towards you, all kinds of expressions visible on their faces — from astonishment to disgust - all of it and all in-between. 

You simply ignore their gazes as you take a seat behind the only person you’re relatively close to — Iwaizumi. You both share a friend circle: there’s Oikawa, Iwaizumi’s childhood friend whose annoyance pushes all of you onto the edge of a cliff, Matsukawa and Hanamaki whose jokes and presence make your life a little bit brighter. As much as you love all of them equally, there’s a different feeling when it comes to Iwaizumi. It was felt back then and it is felt now. And frankly said, you don’t really know where that leads you. 

You and Iwaizumi talk sometimes - although it revolves mostly around schoolwork (as you both have the exact same classes). But it’s enough for you. It always is. Your friends pointed that years ago - how you seem to ‘favor’ him. You smacked the back of their heads. 

“L/N,” Iwaizumi turns around to greet you, only to be met with a frown and wrinkles across your forehead… oh, yes, and the badly camouflaged dark circles that lay beneath your tired eyes. You’re standing there, messenger bag draped across your body, your hair wet and the droplets dripping all over the uniform jacket.  

Before neither you nor Iwaizumi could say anything, the teacher enters the classroom. You raise your hand almost immediately and excuse yourself to the restroom. He quirks up an eyebrow at you and upon noticing your horrendous state, he curtly nods. You were quite lucky to have him arrive a tad later than usual. 

Now that you’re standing in front of the mirror, you notice just how horrible and indecent you look. You subtly shake your head and wash your face under the running tap water, not caring if it would wash off the half-assed attempt at masking fatigue. It was snippets like this when you realized how grateful you are for the times your mom still had the urge to wake you up at exact hours repeatedly, every day; it became your habit. So, it was the hunch, the inkling that something wasn’t right when your alarm didn’t go off like it normally would. You jerked up so fast it could’ve given you whiplash. 

The universe seemed to hate you and you knew it. But somehow still, your luck has pushed forward and through, and instead of being soaked wet from top to bottom, you ended up with only the upper part of your body. The weather must’ve had mercy on you as well, as it started raining half-way on your way to school. 

You splash your face with water. Over and over, and over again. It won’t alleviate the heat when you think back to your luck. You might be lucky… but not in the ways you want to.

---

“I heard your morning was rough,” is the first thing Oikawa says to you as you enter the gym. Why you thought becoming a manager was a good idea is beyond you. You thought of quitting numerous of times but then there was this small voice in the back of your mind telling you to just ‘suck it up and enjoy it while you can’ (with the addition of ‘it’s the last year with your friends before you part ways’ that has been bothering you for some months now). You were holding on because you didn’t want to let go of them completely, not yet. It might’ve been only 3 years since you’ve gotten to know them, but the way they’ve grown on you is just baffling. Baffling, yet plausible. 

You set your mouth in a straight line and nod regardless. 

Oikawa’s teasing smile disappears from his face, “Did I say—”

You sharply inhale and shake your head. “It’s all good. If you need anything, just call me or something.” Oikawa catches your wrist before you can go any further and looks you deadly in the eyes. You hate this look so much because it’s a way of getting information out of you (in your case, it’s your love life that they love to interfere in for no apparent reason). “Is this about Iwa-chan again?” 

As if on cue, Matsukawa and Hanamaki appear by each of Oikawa’s side and look at you expectantly. Cool, what are you supposed to do now? Lie? “Of course not. I just really had a shitty morning. You even said it first.”

“Okay,” Oikawa hums. You notice how both Matsukawa and Hanamaki are staying eerily quiet. “And you were avoiding him for what reason, then?”

Of course you weren’t going to lie?! Because they would have called your bullshit out anyway. “I wasn’t avoiding him…” Oikawa sends you a glare and you subconsciously wince. 

“I just needed some time figuring stuff out, I think.”

Matsukawa puts a hand on your shoulder, “L/N, how long have you liked this guy?”

“Imagine liking Iwaizumi,” Hanamaki butts in. Oikawa fist bumps him and you can’t help but roll your eyes. Are those really the ones you’ll be spilling your guts to regarding your love life? Crazy shit. 

“Uh, um, since first year, I believe?” You might’ve told them that you had a crush on Iwaizumi but you never specified since when and how big of a crush it was. 

When those words rolled off your tongue, you knew that it barely was a crush anymore.

And it seems like the guys knew it, too - you could tell especially by their widened eyes. You check the time on your left wrist and leave no room for any of them to comment anything by yelling, “Practice starts in 10!” And so, you shake off the grasp Oikawa had on your wrist and get into the ‘indifferent L/N’ mode. 

You notice Iwaizumi making his way into the gym, changed into his sports clothes and you can’t help but feel the fluttering slowly increase in your stomach. Why is it so intense today? You accidentally lock eyes with him and you turn your gaze away so fast you would have snapped your neck.

---

Practice felt insufferably long. You noticed the team’s improvement as a whole, except —as much as you don’t like to admit it— Iwaizumi who seemed a little bit more aloof than usual. His spikes, though, were as powerful as ever, you noted. As you shouldered all the necessary bags and helped the team with cleaning the equipment, Iwaizumi tapped on your shoulder, sweat trickling down his temples. His cheeks were reddened from all the jumps and spikes. “Can we talk later? I’ll… wait for you.” You widened your eyes. Your mind was screaming at you to say No, or even some type of excuse - as long as you didn’t have to face him. Much to your dismay, “Yes,” was what you let out while walking forward to the exit to the secretary. You couldn’t afford looking at him directly, who knows what would happen then, had you had stolen a glance.

On your way back to the gym to retrieve your belongings, you met Oikawa, Matsukawa and Hanamaki by the exit. You sent them a glare and went past them. “You shouldn’t waste your time. Do it while you still can.” Oikawa said as he left. Matsukawa and Hanamaki sent you a sympathetic smile before following right after him. “You’re not waiting for Iwaizumi?”

“He said he was gonna talk to you!” The thought of strangling Oikawa felt just right at the moment.

So, this is it. 

Iwaizumi is looking anywhere but at you. Honestly said, if you hadn’t known better, you would’ve deemed him as the silent and shy type of guy who would shut his mouth rather than voice his own opinions. But, you do know him better and you know that’s exactly what he’s not and, you can’t help but feel envious at the thought - he was never the type to not call out any of you guys’ bullshit. 

So, it doesn’t surprise you when you hear him say, “L/N,” you sharply inhale. “Is there something wrong? Or, like, did I do something wrong?”

You draw your bottom lip between your teeth. You want to blame all the feelings on him; it’s his fault for being the way he is, his fault for acting the way he does, his fault for making you fall head over heels for him - a fact you never dared voicing out until recently. Ultimately, you shake your head and say, “What makes you say that?” 

Mental facepalm.

Iwaizumi laughs, you can’t really tell if he meant it or if it was done out of a sarcastic manner, “Hm, aside from avoiding me all the classes and glaring at the back of my head all day, I don’t think anything in particular happened.”

You let a small smile overtake your features. “Oh, well, I did have a shitty morning. But at the same time I don’t want to blame it all on it and I’m sorry it came out the way you perceived it, and-”

Iwaizumi catches you by your shoulders and looks you so tenderly in the eyes you feel like melting from it. You look away as he says, “L/N, you’re ranting.”

You steal a glance at him and notice how his hair is messy from practice and how his cheeks are still pink-dusted. You slowly feel the redness wash over your own cheeks and you ignore the warmth that leaves you when you push Iwaizumi away. “You dumbass, you didn’t do anything wrong, so it’s all good.”

Iwaizumi tilts his head to the side. You sure? You nod and make your way towards the school gates. “Iwaizumi,” you call out, “I glare at you every single day. I’m baffled you realized now!” He catches up to you and ruffles your hair.

“Oh, you’ll be regretting those words.” He slings an arm over your shoulder as you two walk the same path home. Your heart beats a little louder and you internally berate yourself for that. You keep reminding yourself that the boundary between you two must be visible. And even if you crossed a millimeter, you’d be sure to compensate for it - whether that took lunch break spent under the bleachers, or missed practice because you ‘felt sick’ that day.

You were a coward. You were such a coward.

---

Three months later, you’re found in the library with Matsukawa. He needed help with explaining some school stuff you understood and thus, how your study date was born. You prop your chin in the palm of your left hand, the other hand twirling with a pen you found in your pencil case. You look into the distance and your gaze lands on the huge bookshelves, and you wonder if you could find an interesting book to read.

“- do I use a comma here or not?” Matsukawa asks. You hurriedly turn to him, your face softening as you ask him to reiterate the question. You knew it was probably a bad idea to stay after school and help your friend - since you’ve been unfocused and grumpy the whole school day; this session would only add more fuel to the fire. But, then you thought back to all the times when he helped you and you felt bad for not doing anything in return. 

“Uh, let me see,” you say as you grab his textbook to go over the sentence he was struggling with. Matsukawa immediately retrieves the textbook from your hands and, with a puff, closes it. Not so softly.

“L/N,” Matsukawa sighs, you notice how his hands are folded atop the textbook. “Just why are you doing this to yourself?” His voice is soft despite what he’s said. “Mattsun, we’re not here for—”

Under the intense stare he gives you, you recoil and say, “I mean, he’s going out with someone already, no? Why would I ruin that now?”

Matsukawa massages his temples and looks you dead in the eyes, his hands clasping over yours. “L/N, you’re being ridiculous now. Just look at how miserable you are!” He fixes his gaze elsewhere, the grip he has on your hands tighten a bit and you sigh in relief. He’s telling you he’s here for you. “It hurts seeing you like this, you know? The guys might not show it but, they’re hurting as much as you are. But you know it’s not our thing to say nor even our business to interfere in.”

You grin, “Fancy of you saying this while interfering in my nonexistent love life.”

Matsukawa snickers and lets go of your hand. “It’s not that nonexistent.”

You’ve always known that out of all the guys, you were a tad closer to Matsukawa. How it came to that point, you don’t really know but even without having to say it out loud, you both knew you could trust each other. You give him a smile and a reassuring nod. You’re here for him, too.

Later that night, you receive a message from Iwaizumi. The temptation to ignore it was so strong yet, somehow, you find yourself clicking on his contact and read over the message. 

From: Iwa-shit (do not interact)

> L/N! emergency! what do I wear on a formal date, the first or the second one? respond asap pls

You regret… You regret clicking on the message because it hurts - knowing there’s someone who can potentially make him happy, someone that Iwaizumi will come home to, someone that can be his forever. Above all, though, what hurts the most is that you brought all this pain upon yourself.

You look at the attached pictures: in the first one, Iwaizumi’s wearing a basic black suit, with a white dress shirt underneath the blazer and dark pants that reach above his ankles. The second is more ‘daring’ - he’s sporting a blue jean jacket with a hoodie beneath it and black jeans. You snicker at it, is this really what he considers wearing to the aforementioned formal date?

To: Iwa-shit (do not interact)

< iwaaaaa ur not serious about the second one r u?

From: Iwa-shit (do not interact)

> Lmao who do you take me for? Ofc not!

 To: Iwa-shit (do not interact)

<  what was the reason then ?!?!!

 From: Iwa-shit (do not interact)

> Bored and wanted to talk to you.

Before you could respond, though, another notification pops up on your phone, signaling someone’s messaged you, or more like, the group chat.

From: Oikawa [Seijoh’s mightiest third years]

> lmaoooo yall heard? iwa-channn is going to a wedding. now place ur bets on how long it will take him to fuck sumn up

 From: Makki [Seijoh’s mightiest third years]

> five dollars for less than an hour

 From: Mattsun [Seijoh’s mightiest third years]

> Stfu (read: 5 bucks for less than two hours we gotta have faith in him cmon)

 From: Iwaizumi [Seijoh’s mightiest third years]

> Just why.

Oh, this is the formal date? They must’ve gotten real close if Iwaizumi will be his date’s date.

You click on the chat with Iwaizumi.

From: Iwa-shit (do not interact)

> And the guys, I guess.

Another message incoming.

From: Iwa-shit (do not interact)

> Lol, don’t you just love jinxing yourself?

You send him laughing emojis. You two end up texting for some more minutes before that turns into a call and just hearing him talk about something that makes him happy is enough for you. You notice that whenever it comes to Iwaizumi, everything suddenly seems sufficient. 

You both end up talking about miscellaneous things - one of them being his date. He tells you about how he met her (through Oikawa as the date attends the same class) and what exactly led to the point where they were now. You knew he was seeing someone but hearing it directly from him made you want to rip your hair off and yell slurs at yourself, and cry into your duvets and —

And what? You need to face the reality - you’re too late now.

“L/N?” Iwaizumi asks through the phone, his voice sounding weary and tinny. You rub your eyes and yawn. “Iwaizumi, we should go to sleep. I wouldn’t want to run late to tomorrow’s date!” You try to sound as cheerful as possible. Your voice cracked at the last bit but it seems that Iwaizumi brushed it off as drowsiness. “Right. Well, thanks for talking to me, dumbass.”

“Who are you calling a dumbass? Look at you, thanking your friend for talking to you. That’s ridiculous.” 

“Look at the ungodly time, dumbass.” You do, the clock reads 2:32AM. 

“Shut up, just sleep.” And you hang up. 

You notice another message.

From: Iwa-shit (do not interact)

> I meant it, L/N. Thanks

You smirk.

To: [Seijoh’s mightiest third years]

<  five dollars it will take less than thirty minutes

 From: Oikawa [Seijoh’s mightiest third years]

> GASP game on b

A day after the date, you all gather at your and Iwaizumi’s joined desks. “So,” Oikawa starts, scrolling on his phone through the numerous posts. “Little birdie posted something and tagged Iwa-chan in it! Let’s see!”

Oikawa places the phone in the middle for everyone to see and clicks on her latest post.

The caption reads: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it took him 28 minutes to bang his head into the stand!’  Oikawa scrolls through the pictures where the said stand was not as straight as it should be. More pictures show him standing next to his date, his smile vibrant and eyes twinkling with happiness. You notice how Iwaizumi’s smile grows bigger each time Oikawa swipes to the left. It is a sequence where he and his date look at each other with so much adoration you have to bite the inside of your cheek to not break down right then and there.

“I can’t believe you dragged my girlfriend into this.” Oikawa visibly gasps, quickly stealing a glance at you and you dare say you caught the slight look of pity in the pools of his eyes. You look away. Even Hanamaki —who enjoys teasing the hell out of you— sends you a look of indescribable mix of emotions and you just brush it off by rolling your eyes at him. You can’t lie that the tears pricking your eyes aren’t present because oh, well, they are. 

“Congratulations!” You find yourself saying a tad louder than you intended to. The three of them look at you with widened eyes, quizzical looks on their faces. You lock eyes with Matsukawa and you nod, silently telling him that you know, you know, you know. 

The ambience in the classroom gets a little bit more suffocating. “If you’ll excuse me,” you say as you make your way towards the restrooms. Why can’t you just be happy for him? Why do you hold on to something so… trivial? Do you want to lose what you already have? You repeatedly splash water over your face. 

I’m a mess, you whisper to yourself as you notice the puffy red eyes and run your hands along your cheekbones. You’re ready to curse the universe for treating you like shit because as much as you are aware of the situation, you don’t deserve to feel this way.

However, despite all of this, you know that in the end, you have no one but yourself to blame.

---

Seconds, hours, days, weeks go by and graduation seems closer than ever. Naturally, all of you have become more busy with preparing for the exams. As much as you hate to admit it, you miss them. 

It felt good the first few days; you had them off your back and you didn’t have to deal with their bullshit you’ve grown accustomed to (for some reason, and very much to your dismay). But recently, you’ve been feeling empty and you haven’t been talking that much - though, not that you minded. Typically, you four would spend the sunny afternoons in your backyard, black-tinted sunglasses protecting your eyes from the scorching hot sun. You would stuff yourselves with too much ice cream, jelly sticks of all flavors and too many yogurt drinks that had no right tasting so good. 

Once inside the house, Oikawa would lie on the table, fanning himself with the poor excuse of a textbook, Hanamaki and Matsukawa would solve like one and a half math problems and then rest on the table, too, cheeks pressed against the cold surface. Iwaizumi would prepare snacks and you’d help him with that. 

You’d notice the way he talks so mindlessly when it came to the things he liked: it being volleyball or Agedashi Tofu. You’d play some music in the background as the two of you would work on preparing the snacks. You’d feel just how dangerously close you two are when he leans over your body to retrieve a cup from the shelf. You’d be hyper aware of everything and that was one of the things you loved and hated simultaneously.

So it was quite a surprise to get a call in the middle of your study session. 

You slide to the right with your thumb, accepting the call. “L/N! My favourite person!”

“Cut the bullshit, Oinks. You need something?” You press the phone between your ear and your shoulder as you decide to cut up some fruit. “Actually, I don’t need anything.” You frown, then why did he call you? To waste your precious time? “I just wanted to let you know that the guys will be picking you up in,” a momentary pause, “like five minutes because we’ve missed you and you deserve a break from studying.”

You nearly yell at him but instead, you say, “I hate you.”

“Aw, I can feel the love!” You roll your eyes. Then comes silence. The sweet, bitter, hung-up-in-the-air silence that circles around you in vexing motions, driving you crazy.

“Look, about Iwaizumi’s relationship-”

You gasp, “Iwaizumi.” You mockingly repeat. Oikawa sighs on the other line. Right, no time for jokes. “L/N, his girlfriend makes him really happy. I honestly don’t know why I’m telling you this,” you don’t know either, “but I know you’re a good person and you wouldn’t want to ruin that. And, I know you hate people who pity you but I still feel the need to apologize-”

“You’re so embarrassing, I can’t believe you. Why should you apologize for something that was not even your fault?”

“Hm, kinda like a best friend’s duty, I dare say.” You laugh - this one’s legitimately genuine. “You can be, uh, bearable sometimes.” Oikawa guffaws so loudly you have to put your phone away from you to not get an ear-rape. “I’ll use that against you, ugly.”

“Just say you love me and go,” You jokingly say, not expecting the latter to say the words. 

“Now, say it back,” he whines. All you let out, though, is an incomprehensible screech and a ‘See you there!’, and end the call. 

Subconsciously, you might just have said them.

The doorbell resounds throughout the whole house and you run to the front door, peeping through the hole to see who decided to pay you a visit. You see Hanamaki and Matsukawa waving at you.  

You open the door, the wind sending a refreshing swoosh to your hair and you smile upon seeing the two boys before you. “You look kinda scary when you smile,” Matsukawa says as you threaten to hit him with your palm outstretched. Hanamaki doesn’t seem unfazed by your antics as he asks,“Oikawa probably called you, no?”  

You nod and get out of the doorway so that they can enter the house. “As usual, make yourself at home and you can steal some cut fruit in the kitchen.” 

Five minutes later, you descend the stairs in your jogging pants and short-sleeved shirt. They didn’t tell you where you were going so you went with something casual yet comfortable.

Putting on your shoes, you lock the front door and catch up to the two that went ahead. You notice how both of them are wearing casual clothes as well - but unlike someone, they had the formality to at least wear jeans. You’re walking by Hanamaki’s left side, flanking him with Matsukawa on the other. “So, where are you two dragging me?”

Hanamaki turns to you and with a saccharinely sweet smile and elbows you lightly in the ribs. “It’s a secret~” You return the gesture with a little more strength than you wanted - hence, Hanamaki unintentionally pushing into Matsukawa’s side, nearly flying him into the fence of someone’s house if he hadn’t braced himself for the impact. 

“Wow, L/N, if you’re mad, just tell us, damn,” Hanamaki rubs his ribs, dramatically hissing in pain. You roll your eyes but apologize regardless. “You good, Mattsun?” He nods at your question and you send him a contrite look of sorts. 

“Is it just me or have you gotten a bit more aggressive?” Hanamaki nudges into your shoulder and you send him a questioning look - brows furrowed and a bottom lip tucked between your teeth. “Huh?”

Hanamaki sighs, “I don’t know, ever since Iwaizumi announced his relationship or whatever, you’ve been tense around him… avoiding him, too.Us, too… kinda.”

You look into the distance, noticing a building that you know all too well, “You know, Makki, you seem to notice a lot of things despite your unattentive nature.”

“I am,” Hanamaki inhales theatrically, “offended.”

 “As you should be, honestly.” Matsukawa elbows him in the ribs. Hanamaki turns to him, “Just because L/N hurt my ribs from the left side doesn’t mean the right side needs to be damaged, too!”

“You spend too much time with Oikawa,” You tsk, letting out an airy laugh. 

“Don’t tell me we’re gonna have to sit through Oikawa’s karaoke session again,” You slap your forehead. You knew that the two boys you are currently with didn’t propose this idea - if anything, they must’ve been forced into this… as would be you and Iwaizumi. Of course. It’s a tradition after all.

“Yep,” Matsukawa shrugs. “But look on the bright side, you can yell whatever to appease your anger you’ve been bottling up.” You glare at him and he raises both of his hands up in mock-surrender.

Hanamaki catches your wrist and motions Matsukawa to enter the building first. He complies. “Listen, we just want the squad back on its good terms, so we’ll hope you’ll talk it out today.” You slowly nod, ready to take off to the building behind Matsukawa. “One more thing,” Hanamaki loosens the grip on your wrist. “Remember that Iwaizumi was a friend first before he was your first love.”

You stiffen. Were those the words you’d always needed to hear but they’d never occurred to you? Iwaizumi was a friend first before he was your first love. 

Something clicks. 

How could you have been so selfish; wallow in your self-pity, run in circles because all you could do was to remind yourself that this was your fault, your reality now? How could you have been so reckless, risking years of friendship on the line?

“You coming?” Hanamaki yells, palms cupped around his mouth. You nod, slowly reaching the building. 

---

Five karaoke sessions (and a very enthusiastic Oikawa-singing) later, you plump down on the couch, wiping the perspiration off your forehead. It’s tiring - watching Oikawa giving his all to convey the right feelings into the song. You must admit, he sure is passionate; it’s almost as if you were watching him play volleyball - except with a mic in his hand instead that he wouldn’t throw around… hopefully. 

As the song nears its end, you all let out a breath of relief, a mix of annoyance, boredom, and tiredness hanging in the stuffy air. You let yourself sink further into the sofa, hoping it could swallow you whole and erase your existence. 

Okay, maybe you should tone down being so pessimistic.

“How was I?” Oikawa asks, eyes sparkling. His hair is unkempt from all the unnecessary movements he made during the climax of the song and his cheeks are painted a rosy hue - you note even with the flashing lights casting every color across his face. 

You smirk, “Not bad.” 

Oikawa frowns at your response, tightening his grip on the mic. “What do you mean ‘not bad’? After everything I’ve done for you? I see how it is, you’re gonna hear me sing again—”

You steal a glance at Iwaizumi. You notice how he’s staring at the door, probably wishing he were anywhere else but here. Hanamaki comes into your line of sight and you motion him to do anything to catch Iwaizumi’s attention, thus Hanamaki getting buried alive as he slaps the back of Iwaizumi’s head. He glowers at Hanamaki, already rolling up his sleeves.

Hanamaki points in your direction and you catch Iwaizumi’s green eyes that glisten a little bit brighter in the excessively flashing-lit room. With your thumb, you point to the exit and he nods, a look of relief washes over his features.

Once outside the suffocating room, you inhale the fresh air. Summer is just around the corner and even though it was your favourite season, you can’t help but indulge yourself in the chilliness before it changes its course for the next three months.

“Uh, good day, yeah?” Iwaizumi shoves his hands into his jeans’ front pockets, admiring the gravelly ground. He’s put some distance between you two.

“Sure, if being forced into this activity with Oikawa is a good thing.” 

Iwaizumi chuckles, “It’s our thing, L/N, and you know it.” You nod and purse your lips in a straight line because well, he made it awkward for no reason. Or was it you for saying something so obvious?

“How are the exam preparations coming along? Dream college or something like that?” You fiddle with the hem of your shirt, looking past Iwaizumi’s shoulder at passersby.

“Could be better but so far no mental breakdowns.” You can hear the sarcasm laced in his voice as he speaks. “Was thinking about sports science ‘cause you know, it hurts me to watch athletes injure themselves.”

“Hajime, you’re a good person.” The words tumble out of your lips before you can stop yourself; it felt too unnatural to not say it. Iwaizumi barks a laugh. “You, too, F/N.”

You grin, “Obviously.” If you truly meant it or not, you didn’t know.

Comfortable ambience surrounds you both as you let the wind carry out the unsaid words. 

You were never a person of many words - you’ve alway been a little too blunt, a little too hotheaded, a little too selfish. Although in most of the cases you were not aware, it was about damn time you got your head out of your ass and looked around yourself.

“I’m sorry.” You mutter, hoping it would cover all the damage you caused (and fully knowing that would not be the case).

Iwaizumi looks up, eyes searching yours. He quirks his eyebrow in a silent question. 

You reconsider your words. “I’m sorry for not spending that much time with you. I know we’re not bound to each other or anything but I just felt like… maybe it was better for the both of us? I mean, we’re graduating in less than two months and … yeah.”

“Oh, so that’s why. I thought you were avoiding me,” he scratches the back of his neck, tilting his head. “You also haven’t been showing up to practice anymore so I thought…”

Right. Of course.

“Well, I managed to lure this first year into taking over my duties for the time being that I figure my shit out, you know?” 

Iwaizumi mock-gasps you. “You’re so irresponsible.” You roll your eyes as some sort of retort.

“Come here.”

You look up in horror; his arms are outstretched and there’s an evil smile strewn across his face. “What do you want to do, Iwaizumi.”

“Dumbass, just give me a hug,” he says as he steps forward and catches you off-guard by encircling his muscular arms around your shoulders, squashing your face in the crook of his neck. He pats your back in a steady rhythm, your arms unmoving by your sides. “Come to practice and let that first-year breathe, will you?”

You let a small smile snake its way onto your face. “After all, this is what you say?”

“Priorities,” he hums, holding you still in his embrace. You groan in pseudo-annoyance as you lightly punch his stomach to get him away from you, only to no avail. “Cute of you to even try, now hug your friend back or I’m not letting you go.”

You sigh, “Everyone sounds like Oikawa, just how much extra time have you all been spending together?”

“Maybe if you had tagged along, you would have sounded just like us, too.”

“Is that really a win?” You say as your arms weakly encircle his waist, ghosting over it. “Now, let me go, you sap.” 

Iwaizumi infinitesimally tightens his grip around your shoulders. “I would never.”

You flutter your eyes close against his shirt, your forehead pressed against his shoulder. You notice it was quite similar to something you had with Matsukawa - some kind of reassurance that they were here for you no matter what. Whether Iwaizumi meant it in that sense or not, you let yourself drop your build-up guard as you snuggle deeper into the comfort of his embrace and mutter a ‘thank you’ you hope he caught.

---

“Hajime!” You look up, your hand with the pen halting on the clipboard sitting on your forearm. 

The person in question runs up to the girl and hooks her hands around his neck as he twirls her around in front of his teammates that look surprisingly apathetic.

“She keeps coming to his practice, why does he act like it’s always the first time?” You hear Kunimi mutter by your right and you send him an eyebrow raise to which he responds with a scowl. You wince. Kids these days.

Kindaichi bows and apologizes on Kunimi’s behalf. You wave him off with a half-smile and ruffle his hair, saying how great his blocks were. 

“I will do my best!” He says as he dashes off onto the court, meeting up with the rest of the teammates. You catch Oikawa’s concentrated face as he gives the second years some advice on spiking. You smile fondly to yourself; there truly was not a better captain; leader. 

“L/N-san,” the first-year tugs at your jacket, you nod in acknowledgment, prodding her on. “I’ll have to go now, so if you'll excuse me.”

“Of course! Thank you so much for helping me! Have a great day!” The first-year bows and leaves the gym with a wave. You reciprocate it with an added smile.

The girl from earlier approaches you in light-weight steps, her uniform neatly ironed, you noted. She has her hair in a high ponytail and you notice how stunning she is. “These guys can be really mean on the court, no?”

It takes you embarrassingly long enough to understand that she’s talking to you. “Oh… uh, yeah. They can get aggressive.”

“How long have you been a manager?” She suddenly asks, eyes sparkling with interest.

“Ever since I became a first-year, so three years now.” You answer, noticing how she’s clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I can’t even imagine how bad must it be for your mental health to deal with these brats.”

Oh. “Hm, if you’re used to hearing their bullshit everyday, I’m sure you’d be just fine.” She laughs genuinely. You subconsciously tighten your hold on the clipboard. 

“Maybe,” she mutters, her gaze landing on Iwaizumi who spikes the ball set to him specifically by Oikawa onto the opponent’s court, adding a point to his team. 

“Honestly I admire you for that.” You stay still because… what else is there to do? “As much as I’ve always wanted to be one, I don’t think I’d be good at it, and it’s too late for me, anyway.” She dry-laughs, the sadness clearly woven into her voice. 

“I can show you some things if you want. It’s mostly paperwork but there’s also—” (the habit of talking before thinking was getting out of hands now)

She eagerly nods as you hand her your clipboard you’ve been writing into the whole time. The coach sends you a questioning look but you wave him off, mouthing ‘okay’, ‘no problem’ and everything in between.

As you two work in silence - you showing her the basics and the fundamentals, and her nodding everything off and asking questions (which reminds you of the first-year that you were lucky to find because, let’s be real, who would be so excited over taking the responsibilities?), you both don’t notice Iwaizumi watching you two interact, thinking how two of his favorite people are conversing.

And that’s how he gets zonked. In the head. By Oikawa. 

Before you could run off to check up on Iwaizumi, she catches your wrist. “He’ll be okay in no time.”

You let your jaw drop. “W-what…”

“Just look at him, this happens all the time, don’t worry.”

“But it’s my responsibility—”

“Look out, L/N!!!” You turn towards the voice, for the first time in your life catching the ball... with your face. And as you hit the ground, blackness is the only thing that surrounds you.

Your head is spinning, the pain pounding against your skull. You’re lying on a bed, the headrest slightly raised. You bring a hand up to your face, feeling just how much it is swollen beneath your fingertips. “You’ll be okay,” the nurse says, cleaning up the supplies. “It’ll take some time healing; you got a pretty severe hit.”

“Yeah,” you let out, defeated. “What about Iwaizumi?” 

“Ah, yeah, he’s just left. He’s okay, if that’s what you’re wondering.” You let out a sigh of relief. Just what the hell happened? You throw a forearm over your forehead and flutter your eyes close, indulging in the way the mattress beneath your body feels nice. Before you know it, you slip into the dreamland.

;

The practices have been less and less rigorous, considering the fact that the third years prioritized their decent marks rather than ‘some hobby’ (“L/N! How could you say that!” Oikawa whined on one fine day, tugging at your sleeve. Iwaizumi sent you a glare that day.). After all, they could’ve retired after losing to Karasuno but Oikawa was rigid, and someone had to lead the team for the little time that they had left.

You also have been seeing Iwaizumi’s girlfriend come to his practices, cheering him on or completely shattering his ego. They fit one another really well; she was there to ground him if he got too aggressive. Their natures seemed to clash in the right way. You swallow the bile rising up your throat.

No.

“L/N!” You turn to the voice, noticing it was her. You wave at her. This has become some kind of routine you both fell into, with the rest of the team as well. “How’s school?” She asks out of the blue and you weigh out the options: to answer or to digress. Why would she start a small talk, considering you two aren’t relatively that close yet? 

You ignore the nonsensical thoughts your mind loves conjuring up.

“Good.”

She nods, averting her gaze as she bits on her bottom lip. You two watch the game before you.

(Eventually, these little small talks turn into full-on hangouts on Fridays with the guys tagging along. And maybe, maybe your assumptions were wrong, after all.)

━━━━━━━━━━━━

“I can’t believe we’ve made it.” You sniffle into your sleeve as you hold tightly onto the tube with the graduation certificate in it. The school gymnasium is teeming with sweaty bodies of graduates, holding onto their own tubes. Everyone’s chattering so loud it makes your head turn. 

Oikawa nudges your shoulder and with a blinding smile says, “We really did, L/N-san.”

You grin and turn your body to him, catching him off-guard as you hug his middle, fake-sniffling into his uniform. “Don’t pry my hands off, this is my love language.” Oikawa gasps but you can feel him lean into the embrace, resting his chin on your shoulder. 

“Hey,” you lift your shoulder he’s resting his chin on. He hums in acknowledgement. “You did really well, Oikawa-san. I respect you so much, Oikawa-san. You have worked very hard-”

Oikawa jerks away from your warmth, holding you by your shoulders at an arm’s length. “You mean this, L/N-san?” He challenges you.

You flick his forehead. “Obviously not. Except the last part.”

Oikawa gets into a ranting mode as you look around the gymnasium, spotting numerous familiar faces. You send them a smile and a wave. On the other side of the gym, you spot Iwaizumi with his girlfriend by his side. Their arms are locked as they converse with Matsukawa and Hanamaki. 

You notice the way Iwaizumi snakes an arm around her waist, probably trying to keep her as close as possible. Ah yeah, of course. Iwaizumi has always been a little too overprotective when it came to the people he cared for. You smile upon the fact; he was a bit too good for this world, although it might not seem so to strangers. But that was the beauty of it all, how only you — among the others he cared for—  could see his true colors.

“L/N?” You look up. “Are you sure you’re fine? I mean it makes me really sad just seeing you so… sullen.” The tears are pricking your eyes. Why is Oikawa being like this?

“Tooru, I hate you so much.” You grab onto his jacket as he instinctually grabs a hold of your shoulders, slamming you against his chest. “Why are you like this.”

He tsks, “No, why are you like this?”

You let yourself indulge in the warmth and comfort of his embrace, tuning the world out for a second. “Thank you for the years. I mean it.” 

“Now, now, why are you such a sap? Look,” he points behind you, “Mattsun and Makki are here!”

You scramble away from his hold, patting at your uniform as you pretend everything prior to this was just a hallucination, an illusion. “You two, can you believe this? L/N is so emotional it makes me cry, too.”

You grumble in embarrassment. “Let me be. I do have the right to be emotional. How are you not crying? You won’t get to see me anymore.”

Hanamaki joins the conversation. “I think that’s why none of us are crying.” Oikawa barks a laugh as he steadies himself on Hanamaki’s shoulder. You turn to Matsukawa, expecting some sort of back-up. “I mean, he didn’t lie…”

You pout. “Betrayal.”

“I knew you always had a favorite!” Hanamaki exclaims with his arms crossed over his chest. Oikawa stops laughing, already rolling his sleeves up, albeit unsuccessfully. “Unbelievable. I thought we didn’t play favorites?”

“We don’t!” You exclaim with as much rage. 

Matsukawa steps into your personal space as he engulfs you in a bear hug, carding his fingers through your hair. “What are you doing?”

“You don’t have to lie to them,” Matsukawa says as he too-sweetly smiles at the remaining boys. 

“Scandalous,” Oikawa says, hands already clenched in fists by his side. Hanamaki catches him by his middle. “Losers.” 

You snake your hands into the inside of Matsukawa’s jacket and tickle him. “Ow,” He jerks away from you and sends you a glare. You only smile in return. 

“You know,” Hanamaki starts, “you have never given me a hug.”

You widen your eyes because first of all, he’s absolutely right and second of all, why did he have the need to say it out loud and so… straightforwardly? Does he have no shame? You also hate the fact that your brain tends to short-circuit every time someone’s being too explicit and your body reacts a tad faster before you can realize it - naturally, your cheeks redden and you bring the tube to your cheeks to soothe the redness that is not going away. “Takahiro, shut!”

He shrugs. “For real, Oikawa hugs you like, all the time. Matsukawa does, too, which is surprising,” Matsukawa yells ‘Hey, I can be nice!’ , “and god, don’t get me started on Iwaizumi.

It’s as if Oikawa was made for this. His ears perk up at the mention of his childhood friend as he wiggles his eyebrows at you. “What?” You roll your eyes, wishing for some silence, freedom, ‘get me out of here’s.

“You were saying, huh?” Oikawa leans into Hanamaki, their shoulders bumping. “Get off me, you creep.” 

Oikawa has this whole ‘lost-puppy-in-the-streets’ look going on and you almost give in to the temptation to comfort him. But bruh, nah, he’s a big boy. “Anyway back to our Iwaizumi!

“We all know he’s not affectionate, right, he’d punch us in the guts and say something like, I don’t hate y’all. But!” You flinch upon the raised voice. “When it comes to our not-that best and not-that impressive and stupid and dumb—” 

“We get it!” You say, looking awfully bothered by it (not that it actually bothered you, haha, nope).

“He’s kinda soft. It’s totally different with his girlfriend but yeah.” 

The rest of you eye each other. This was so not happening. “Did you just analyze this whole meaningless shit,” Matsukawa deadpans. 

“Had to justify my lack of L/N Hugs.”

You slap your forehead. “Hanamaki, what the fuck even--” In that exact moment, you’re thrown in Hanamaki’s way, his arms instinctually wrapping themselves around your shoulders as you try stopping the momentum that could possibly make you both fall onto the hard, stepped-on by not-clean shoes and totally not-dusty ground. 

“Is this a new way of hugging or something?” A voice asks from behind you and Hanamaki in each other’s awkward embrace. There stands Iwaizumi with his girlfriend by his side, an  ever-so-wide smile strewn across their faces. “At least I got my hug.” Hanamaki unwraps his arms around you, completely disregarding you as he drops you to the ground. 

“I feel so used.” You wipe at your metaphorical tear in the corner of your eye. As you’re about to hoist yourself up, a hand appears before you. 

Without any second thoughts, you take it and with the person’s help, you lift yourself up from the ground. “Thanks, ‘Zumi.”

“Hm, you never gave me a nickname.” It sounds like he’s pondering over the words except he just accidentally said them out loud. You notice your friend group a feet away, chattering animatedly with other classmates, Iwaizumi’s girlfriend somewhere in the far corner chatting with her girl friends. Great, you two, just what you wanted. 

You swear to god that you caught the three close friends of yours sending you unsubtle glances, making gestures, clowning, whatever. You shake your head.

“Something on your mind, L/N?” You divert your gaze to the ground. After all this time, why does your heart skip a beat faster whenever you’re the only ones around? 

“I,” you start, fiddling with your fingers, the tube safely tucked under your arm. “I never got the chance to properly thank you for the years.”

Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow. A second, two, three pass by. He’s waiting. “Uh,” you straighten your back and hold the tube with both of your hands to stop them from shaking so damn much. At this point they could become engines with which you could drive around the neighborhood. “I told the guys already,” you point at them with your thumb, “so don’t feel special or anything.”

He smiles and that encourages you to keep going. “Well, I don’t think you know but I’m like, the biggest fan of you.” He sends you a knowing look. Oh, so you’re a fan of him?

“Of you all. And I might not have shown it as much but it’s the truth. I can’t even imagine how hard you all must’ve worked to get where you are. Your strategies, your excellent thinking, your intelligence, your view on things - it’s all so impressive to me and I wanna let you know that whatever you’ll choose in the end, just know this high school time was crucial to your growth.” 

Silence. Did you say something wrong? Maybe it’s taking him some time to absorb, digest the whole word vomit you just let out. What’s filtering anyway.

“L/N, you know,” Iwaizumi averts his eyes to the high ceiling, the sunlight smiling down on you two. “I don’t think you should be saying this to me.”

You shake your head. “I promise I’ve already told him and I’ll let him know later again, but now, this,” you gesture to the air between the two of you, “is about you so stop selling yourself short. I thought you were over this.”

Iwaizumi quirks his lips up in a half-smile, eyes sparkling with an emotion you could actually tell - gratefulness. “See, I didn’t lie when I said you were a good person.” 

You shoot him one of your best smiles, “Could say the same about you, sir.”

“Hey, you two! You going?” Oikawa yells from the other side of the room, pointing at both of you. He’s nearing the exit with the rest of the third years, still facing you. You give him a thumbs up and the last thing you see is the undoubted significant smile that had no ulterior motives. “So, we going?” Iwaizumi points to the exit, the hall slowly but surely emptying each passing minute. 

“You go ahead, I still have something left to do.” Iwaizumi looks suspicious but after relentless bickering, he gave up and said he’d be waiting outside, somewhere near the school, you’ll find him eventually.

As you’re left alone in the emptied gym, you cannot help but think of the times when you first got to know the guys that you now call your best friends. 

Awkward, embarrassed, clueless.

You were reluctant to join, for: firstly, what did you know about volleyball? Secondly, you were really not looking for any friends, so how come it ended up the way you didn’t plan to, yet you were never more grateful? What would’ve happened had you not decided to join the volley club as a manager?

You’d like to believe you were in-one-way-or-another lucky. You never questioned your luck, never questioned your fate. You believed in the universe - although you knew it had a very obvious, blatant dislike to you. Ignoring all of that, you went with the flow.

People come and go. Friends come and go. You are aware.

These lingering feelings? It hurts.

It hurts but that’s only because you were never brave enough to let them out. This was a choice you could’ve chosen. You didn’t have to wait for a miracle to appear in front of you and make you say all the words you’d always felt too scared to say.

Hadn’t it been for Oikawa, Matsukawa and Hanamaki, would you have been able to even fall in love with Iwaizumi in the first place?

Right, you did attend the same class but would the bond have been as strong as it is now?

No matter what, Iwaizumi was a friend first and although it hurts, you need to move on. One way or another.

“C’mon, L/N! We won’t get to any food if we dilly-dally any longer!” Iwaizumi shouts to you from the other side and you bite your lip to prevent the megawatt smile from spreading across your face.

It hurts.

It hurts so much, but the least you can do is to cherish him in the ways you can.

Cherish him as a friend.

[yaomomvs]

ten duel commandments

pairing: shoto todoroki x reader

a/n: listening to 10 duel commandments of hamilton gives me strong angst vibes so yeah. and idk is this is angst or just drama but it’s kinda inspired in the actual manga arc of this huge battle bc i’m in pain. reader’s quirk is basically earth bending like atla jajajaja. also might do a part two. idk

there are ten things you need to know.

number one.

the challenge, demand satisfaction. but not for you clearly, the temperature dropped. the alert rang in al school, another villain attack. this time it was real, this time you know there’s no thing such as flukes or surrender.

hands are shaking, barely managing to put your hero costume in the right way. the clock is ticking, you feel your classmates heavy breath. momo, mina, kota, ojiro.

him.

you make your way back to shoto. his shoulders relax at the sight of you. he holds your hands, the shiver stops. he attracts them to his chest. a kiss is stolen. you’ll make it, you are heroes. well somehow you are.

number two.

“we don’t have time to think!” kaminari snaps, he is not wrong. your professors are fighting, the plan was simple, but still the league was strong. only a fool would never admit that.

“we can’t go out there and just fight like pro heroes” momo talks back, her voice is cracked and the fear tears threaten to sneak out.

“let’s split in groups” you suggest. hope, that’s what you all need. you came to fight for a better world. for peace. “we can beat them, some of us should remain here to figure something out, while others... we’ll try to gain you guys some time”

you search for your boyfriend’s eyes. todoroki can’t stop looking at you. no, not you.

“(y/n) don’t even...”

“midoriya, you and some others are perceptive and logical, if we don’t do this we don’t have a chance”

“she’s right, and we have to do it now!” bakugou agrees, not quite liking the idea of splitting but it was the best option.

he knows they are right. but he didn’t want to let go your hand yet. you are very capable of protecting yourself, but still if something happened to you..

jirou places a hand on your shoulder and smiles to todoroki.

“we will have each other’s back” she assures your boyfriend, quite knowing how he feels. in fact no one wanted their friends and classmates to risk his life if they were not able to be there and help.

number three.

his heart doesn’t stop beating. each beat feels harder and quicker than before.

your eyes, those (y/e/c) dazzling eyes.

a hug, a passionate kiss, the clock stopping for a moment.

“please, just... stay together”

number four.

he lets your hand go, the explosions and screams, you hear them closer. the wind is cold, but blood is warm.

take a deep breath. take a huge step.

and so, you and your friends start running to the battle. there’s no way back.

but there is someone waiting for you at the end of the line.

just breathe.

have your seconds, meet face to face.

five.

his pulse increases. he searches for your hand. you are not there.

“midoriya are you sure that’s the only way?” yaoyorozu asked midoriya while quick standing up, they have no time to go through the plan all over again, but todoroki knows that she is just asking because the plan meant a huge risk for everyone.

she cared, and so did everyone.

“as the nerd said, the only thing those bastards have is time!” bakugou says while he starts running. “they know being surrounded by pros is going to be hard so they’ll try to be quick, so we’ll be faster”

“and so, that’s why we have to do it, if everything goes well, they’ll be gone in a moment” todoroki assures.

or at least he tries to trust.

because this needed to work, they currently can’t have the luxury of second chances.

and so they hurry.

number six.

he lefts a sigh of relief out when he divides you in the second line of cavalry.

blood and dirt on your face, your hands were moving as well as every inch of your body. your tired groans, your death glares to the villains. your ethereal posture.

angelic, he thinks while running to your group, he needed to explain the plan to as many people as he could.

you take a glance towards him, a sentiment of family runs through his head. a sentiment of comfort.

no, majestic. he corrects himself catching your glance.

a huge wall of ice is made between you and the horrific villain who tried to kills you, he takes care of him too, freezing his whole body.

a wall of opportunity was made.

he holds you like he’s never done before. that movement gave you a few seconds to breathe again. as well as to jirou, tsuyu and shoji. also the pros that were in charge of you.

your head on his shoulder, his heart on your palm.

a whisper, and a chance.

“i love you too”

seven!

“everyone got it?” todorki asks to the crowd. a few people reunited there.

four hero groups. a villain army. a cliff and one single opportunity.

they all nod, and so the time out is gone. momo creating cannons in the west along with heroes like gang orca and cementos. midoriya and eraser head in the north, with bunch of people two. bakugou at the south, flying with explosion with present mic and so many others behind him. and todoroki sliding with ice and you by his side. with so others at his side.

just hold a few more minutes, all you had to do is push and drop.

the crash happens, the heroes and the villains meet once again. you just have to keep pushing them back. you had to direct them to the corner of the cliff.

then you along with every other emitting quirk holder will just blast your full potential to break the cliff and let the villains fall for their destiny.

you can do it.

and you have to do it.

number eight.

confess your sins. the moment of truth, villains are despicable, ruin, and sometimes psychotic. but also, clever.

you take a step back, dabi is in front of you. you vaguely reincorporated when a huge wall of flames split you apart from todoroki.

“let’s dance, darling” he says, chaotically calm.

“believe me” your feet stuck to the ground, you clean the blood from your mouth with your sleeve “there is no better dancer than me”

you lift a earth barrier, he blows it away with fire. a big foot step and the ground shakes, causing him to unbalance. you push him a few meters away.

you wait.

you search.

you made it.

once you realize that you had push the villains to the place you exactly wanted them to be, you don’t wait. when present mic’s voice was heard all over the battlefield.

todoroki steps back leaving you and all the other heroes to do your thing.

but he doesn’t rest.

his on guard ready to react to anything that might put anyone in danger. that might put you in danger.

he concentrates himself, he is not going to lose.

he doesn’t see the huge villain going to his back, while transforming his hand to a gun.

you do.

you were holding the ground, a terrified look comes across your eyes.

and the time stops again, or at least it slows down.

a look to the cliff you were holding.

a gaze to your boyfriend. and the villain who is ready to kill him.

you can do it.

10 seconds, maybe.

you keep one hand in the ground holding it until the final sign shows up. the sign that meant “let the villains fall now”

and the other one, you quickly raise it to shouto’s direction.

your body hurts.

the villain with the gun is thrown away by a massive piece of soil that you created.

todoroki turns around. he freezes the villain.

you hold, just a little bit longer.

the cue is shouted.

and you feel how something pierces your stomach.

nine.

a heartrending scream.

todoroki’s throat hurts, everyone heard his scream.

a heart breaks.

and you still feel a cold metallic knife in you.

the energy you had starts fading away, you look around and see toga with a huge smile in her face.

the time still is slowed down.

you feel your feet part from the ground. you were now floating, small pieces of soil surrounded you.

you see todoroki, he is slowly getting far from you.

it’s breaks your heart now, his eyes, those beautiful heterochromatic eyes are desperate.

at least he is safe now.

you can go now.

an arm suddenly surrounds your waist, it hurts even more than before. you don’t know why, maybe they wanted to take you away so that your classmates suffer your loss.

dying is one thing.

but dying and being lost is something completely different.

and with the few energy that your body has, you search for your aggressor.

dabi smirks, evil. he is also holding toga with his free arm. your body enrages knowing they will escape.

villains are smart, but those two were brilliant.

you look around and see hundreds of other villains falling from the cliff.

your heartbeats slow down too.

just one more time.

you still divise him, now some feet away and higher from you.

black, everything is turning black.

‘shouto todoroki, my love’ you think ‘thank you’

‘thank you for letting me see you one last time’

and number ten.

he starts counting, everyone does.

he doesn’t care, he’ll jump.

he sees your figure, falling down from the cliff.

you body, having a knife through it.

your arm, stretched out trying to reach his. your arms calling out for someone to go your way and hold it.

you eyes, widened, terrified.

4 seconds.

his feet don’t stop, he has to reach you. his breathless, but he has to become your hero now. you were waiting for him.

he is tired, his body doesn’t seem to respond. he no longer has ice, or fire. he tries, but nothing happens.

in the limit of the cliff he still tries to jump.

someone grabs him by the collar of his suit.

11 seconds.

he watches you, being held by him. and her laughing at what she’s done to you.

todoroki’s body is shaking.

todoroki’s body is clueless.

he sees your eyes, one last time before all the dust covers you and your kidnappers.

his head hurts.

and all of that because he sees your eyes, fighting.

his soul leaves his body.

14 seconds.

because the last thing he sees of you is your eyes closing.

his heart stops.

and he knows he is not there to see them opening again.

“please... just”

hand to his chest, holding back the tears.

“STAY ALIVE” he shouts into the void of the cliff bottom.

one phrase.

one scream.

one echoed broken voice.

one tired hero army.

only 21 seconds.

and one heartbroken teenager was all the battle left.

[sanaxking]

When Night Comes - Prologue

arrangement by @kaexloey • credit to all OPs, do not repost.

Genre: Vampire!AU

Rated: M, 18+

Word count: ~1.7k

TW: mild sexual themes, language, violence/gore, blood, mentions of alcohol & intoxication

As Sana opens the door to the dive bar, she is immediately hit with the smell of cheap alcohol and cigarettes. Taking a look around the bar, everything perfectly matches the smell. There are plenty of gross looking men (and women, for that matter) all over and in various states of intoxication.

“Ugh, I hate these fucking bars. Why did he have to be at a shitty place like this,” Sana mutters to herself as she takes her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans.

Unlocking the phone, she opens her photos app to a specific picture of a tall, fair skinned man with blonde hair and green eyes. He's smiling directly into the picture without a hint of anything he does in his free time. Looking up from the phone with her temper already boiling, she begins to scan the room in search of the man in the photo.

It doesn't take too long as her eyes settle on the handsome man deep into conversation with the unsuspecting bartender. "Got you, motherfucker," Sana says to herself with a villainous smile as she makes her way over towards the bar.

As she walks towards the bar, a pair of eyes watches her closely from the other side of the room. The unseen person slowly takes a sip of her drink as she watches Sana approach the bar next to the blonde-haired man.

"So that's when I said, 'I'll have whatever he's having!’" Sana rolls her eyes as she hears the punchline of what was no doubt a terrible joke from the man she was searching for, feeling bad for the bartender that has to act like she likes this in order to boost her tips.

"I'll have a Jack & Coke on the rocks," Sana says to the bartender, giving her a look to know she'll be taking this idiot off her hands for the rest of the night. The bartender looks incredibly grateful for the gesture, mouthing "thank you" before turning to make the drink.

Within seconds of settling onto the barstool, Sana can feel the man already burning the side of her face with his intense gaze. "Just push through, Sana. You need this," she quickly says in her head as a way to work up the courage to continue on.

“I haven’t seen you in here before, blondie. You must be new in town. I would have for sure remembered a face like that,” he says to Sana, raising his voice to get above the chatter of the crowd inside the bar. Her skin crawls slightly at his cheesy pickup line as she gathers herself to respond.

“Somewhat. I’ve been here a few months, but just thought I would try somewhere new. Can’t find many men as hot as you at my usual spots,” she responds, hoping that she didn’t lay it on too thick with the comment. Thankfully, this guy is as dense as he seems, not noticing at all that she’s obviously just leading him on.

“Well, you’re not wrong there. How about we get another round on me?”

Sana really would rather not spend more time talking with him than she absolutely has to, but in order for this to work, she knows she needs him to drink a bit more. She begrudgingly obliges as the drinks flow for three more rounds. By this point, the man is pretty drunk. Not drunk enough to blackout, but certainly too drunk to drive. Which is all Sana needs.

“Alright, alright,” Sana says into the man’s ear after he tries to push the date to a fourth round. “As much as I would love another drink, how about we call it a night and get out of here? I know a perfect place.”

“Shit, you don’t have to tell me twice. Let’s go,” he responds, while fishing his car keys out of his jeans.

“Not a chance in hell. No way are you driving us anywhere like this,” Sana says as she snatches the keys from his hands.

“Hey, you had just as much as I di-,” he begins to say in protest as you put a finger up to his lips to silence him. “I’ll be just fine, trust me,” Sane replies, hoping that he buys it without further explanation.

Once again, the guy is too dense to notice much of anything as he simply shrugs and grabs her hand as the pair head out of the bar into the misty night air.

Getting him to the car wasn’t much of a struggle, as he was perfectly content to lean as close as possible into Sana’s body to steady his stumbling feet. As she slammed his door shut and made her way around to the driver’s side, Sana took a quick look around, making sure no one saw her getting into the man’s car. Not a single soul was spotted on the empty street, giving her enough peace of mind to see this through.

As she got into the car and started the engine, a pair of eyes once again was keenly watching her every move. A few seconds after Sana pulls the Audi out into traffic and down the street, a black BMW slowly falls into place half a dozen car lengths behind.

After a painfully long 30-minute drive filled with plenty of handsy advances from her passenger, Sana pulls the car up to the seaside cliff she had previously scoped out. She puts the car in park and shuts off the engine before turning in her seat to face her passenger.

“How did you find out about this place? Seems kind of random. Hey, were your eyes always that red?” he asks her as he undoes his own seatbelt with an inquisitive look on his face.

“Don’t worry about it. All you should care about is making this a night neither of us will wanna forget,” Sana responds, internally cringing at the ridiculousness of her words. She always hates this part of these encounters. As she utters her response, the man seems to catch a glimpse of something flashing in her red eyes before his expression seems to go slack.

Sana then crawls over the center console and into the backseat, making sure to jut out her ass to give him an enticing view. When he seems to hesitate for a few moments, she quickly takes off her shirt and tosses it into his face in the front seat.

This seems to be all the encouragement he needs as he quickly snaps out of his trancelike state and climbs into the backseat with far too much eagerness for her taste. Swallowing her own hesitation, she then crushes her lips into his, allowing herself to get lost in the moment. He may be an asshole, but she was going to let herself enjoy this, even if briefly.

Sana feels his hands slide up her waist towards her semi-exposed breasts, completely bringing her out of the moment as she remembers who he is and what he did. She then feels something take over her senses as she pulls back from the kiss to get a better look at his neck. Her vision begins to pulse and it’s as if she can see his blood pumping through his veins.

A slow, sinister smile begins to spread across her moonlit face.

“How about we take this a bit furth-,” he begins before his sentence is cut off by a searing pain in his neck.

As he was beginning to mutter his advance, Sana was seeing red and finally exposes her fangs. She slowly ran her tongue along them, taking one last whiff of the intoxicating smell before swiftly latching onto his neck.

The man’s guttural scream is cut short as her fangs sink deeper and deeper into his neck, Sana attempting to suck out as much blood as she can in her first few swallows. It takes less than a minute before he loses consciousness, his body going into shock. By the time 20 minutes has passed, any traces of life have completely left his body. She continues to drain his body until she’s finally had her fill.

Feeling satisfied, Sana sits up and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. As she leans into the front seat to grab her shirt, she looks down and catches a glimpse of her bra, noticing the blood that’s smeared all over it.

“Fuck. I just bought this last night!” she curses out loud, annoyed at the carelessness of wearing brand new clothes out tonight. Before she has too much time to berate herself, a pair of headlights illuminate the interior of the car. She quickly grabs her things and hops back out into the cool air.

Just as she slams the door shut, she hears the tires of the black BMW screech to a halt along the dirt road.

"It's about fucking time, Sana! The sun is up in a couple hours and the crew still needs time to clean up your mess. You always cut this shit so close."

"Calm down, Momo. We have plenty of time to get back before dawn. You worry too much."

"Maybe if you actually followed the rules for once in your life, I wouldn’t have to worry so much," Momo responds with an annoyed look on her face.

Sana rolls her eyes at the insinuation. “Whatever. I follow the stupid rules just fine. Let's just get the fuck out of here, okay?"

As Sana gets into the passenger seat, Momo doesn’t even wait for Sana to get her seatbelt on before she throws the car into gear and speeds off down the road.

It was at about this point that Sana used to feel guilt for taking the life of a stranger. Looking into the mirror in front of her, she sees that her eyes have gone back to their normal, warm brown tint.

“Eh, he was a piece of shit anyways,” she thinks to herself with a sly smile as the car lurches forward towards their estate.

[philliamwrites]

compromissum

Fandom: Genshin Impact

Pairing: Xiao/Aether

Tags: #blood, #angst, #hurt and comfort

Words: 2.5k

Summary: [lat. compromissum: “mutual promise”] In which Xiao has made his very own contract with Aether, and in Liyue, the Land of Contracts, one who breaks their contract shall suffer the Wrath of the Rock.

Commissioner: CrystalNines

Notes: I swear, one day I'll learn how to write happy endings.

compromissum

     All is quiet. The shack hiding in the shadow of a cliff is abandoned and left to rot, its wood mouldy and old. No one has been here for a quite a long while and no one desires to visit this forsaken place tugged away in a corner of Qingxu Pool. Then, a figure breaks through the roof, destroying half of its construction.

    All air is knocked out of Xiao’s lungs as he slams onto the ground, but there is no time to catch his breath. He rolls to the side not a moment too late before a Geovishap drops through the opening in the roof and smashes into the ground right where he was laying seconds ago. It snarls, showing a row of razor sharp, enormous teeth the size of Xiao’s lower arm. The corner of Xiao’s mouth twitches as if to reply by bearing his own teeth.

    Blood, warm and wet, runs down his arm, making his grip around his polearm slippery and he shakes his head to clear the dizziness from the Geovishap’s blow earlier. There’s shouting from somewhere above his head, voices echoing over the valley with fear and worry palpable Xiao tries to ignore. He doesn’t need anyone to look after him. So many years have passed where he was out on the hunt by himself without anyone watching his back.

    But there’s one voice he’s learnt to pick out from a crowd, one that no matter when and where lures Xiao in even at a time like this when he’s facing a thirty-thousand-pound monster that can easily break his spine.

    The Geovishap charges. Xiao uses the end of his polearm to gain additional height and jump over it, its amber horn almost grazing the tip of his foot. Before the monster can turn, Xiao lunges forward, his polearm raised to strike and unbalance it, so he’d get access to the soft skin of its belly. But the Geovishap is surprisingly fast for something this big and sturdy, and it whirls around, smashing a giant fist, hard as rock, into Xiao’s side and he cries out, feeling his ribs break. Pain like someone split his side open bare-handed sears through him as he’s thrown against a wall and crumbles to the ground. Black dots dance across his blurred vision and the taste of iron fills his mouth. He spits out blood, his arms trembling from the effort to get back up.

    A shooting star crashes into the Geovishap—no, not a star. Aether. He plunges through the broken roof, fire blazing in his golden eyes as he brings his sword down on the reptilian creature in a single, deadly strike. The Geovishap roars a last time, then falls into himself and remains lifeless n the dirty shack’s ground.

    In his long life, Xiao has gotten used to seeing creatures lose their lives, often by his own hand, but it never ceased to make him wonder how something this big and wild a second ago becomes an empty shell, void of life—how easy and fast, seamless, the transition from alive to dead is. How nothing in this world cares about technicalities like good or evil for all is equal in death.

    In front of him is Aether, beautiful Aether with his sword still raised, its tip glinting in the setting sun like freshly tempered iron in heavenly fire. The sight reminds Xiao of this creature he’s read about a long time ago: Angels, they are called, that descend upon the mortal ground to bring justice in the name of something holier than them. Looking at Aether now, Xiao doesn’t struggle to imagine such a creature—the warm, red horizon illuminates his golden hair. A halo.

    Someone places a small hand tentatively on Xiao’s wounded shoulder and he recoils, finally tearing his gaze away from too beautiful Aether.

    “This looks bad,” Barbara says. For someone looking this frail, her grip is firm, and she doesn’t allow Xiao to wiggle out. “Let me take a closer look.”

    Xiao hisses, “No need.” It takes effort to get back on his feet, his muscles scream in protest but everything in him refuses to appear weak. “We still have one bounty left.”

    “Forget the bounty,” Aether cuts in, sharper than his sword’s edge. He closes the distance in a few strides and ignoring Xiao’s protests, Aether slides one arm around his waist and ducks under Xiao’s arm to steady him. “We’re going back to camp,” he declares and looks around, at Barbara and at Amber whose eyes are big and round with worry. No one objects.

    Except Xiao.

    “I’m fine.”

    “I don’t know what ‘fine’ meant for you back in your time but nowadays it doesn’t mean what you are right now.”

    “I am well aware of its meaning—” Xiao hisses when Aether leans a little too much into his hurt side.

    “Yeah,” Aether deadpans. “This sure looks fine.”

    Xiao can’t remember a time Aether has ever talked to him like that: Cold, dismissive, sneering almost. Not soft, kind Aether who starts to cry whenever one of Amber’s stray arrows accidentally hits a squirrel and they spend the afternoon burying it under a pine tree. This Aether doesn’t spare him another glance. He helps Xiao all the way to their campsite hidden inside a little cavern with a grim expression, his mouth pressed together into a thin line.

    When they finally reach their camp, Xiao disentangles from Aether and retreats to a corner further inside the cavern where a boar’s hide is laid out on the ground as a makeshift bed. It was easier to ignore his wounds with adrenaline pumping through his body but as it always does, the pain catches up to him in the end and leaves him paralysed with agony. When he lays down, slowly and carefully, gritting his teeth against any pained noise, he hears hushed whispers, his company’s mumbled conversation about him and what they’re going to do with him. Xiao doesn’t care. But this scene is familiar, and when he closes his eyes, his mind transports him to the past, to a time when the ground grew ill from soaking up too much blood and he’d lied on hard, unyielding stone that leaked grime and misery, falling into a dreamless slumber to four familiar voices.

    Xiao startles out of sleep, jolts right into awareness and almost smacks Aether across the face who dodges just in time as Xiao’s fist whirls past his jaw. They stare each other down for a long moment like two cats assessing each other to decide if they could trust each other. Eventually, Aether crouches down next to Xiao. He holds a little bamboo box in his hand and Xiao can smell the distinctive bitter note of the du huang mixture Granny Ruoxin gave them as thanks for driving off Hilichurls camping in the bamboo forest at the foot of the mountain that gently cradles Qingce Village.

    “Your wound. Show me,” Aether says quietly, even though there is no need to whisper. Looking over his shoulder, Xiao doesn’t see Barbara or Amber. They’ve left camp, probably to collect some berries or fetch water from the nearby river, which means he and Aether are alone and that’s something he’s tried to avoid lately. But that isn’t right either because it feels like the absence of a magnetic centre, and without it nothing makes sense at all.

    Xiao tries to sit up, but his limbs are still sore, and he feels like someone wrung him completely dry. The pain in his shoulder is a dull throb and he feels a rib poke somewhere it shouldn’t. His breathing is shallow, but he is breathing after everything and that is enough.

    “I can take care of it myself,” he says, his voice lowered as well as if they were talking about a small animal that might flee any second. He holds his hand out to Aether who stares at it as if Xiao has grown an additional sixth finger.

    “You’ve been with us for months now,” Aether says. “Why can’t you trust us? Why can’t you trust me?”

    Xiao’s hand drops back in his lap. In his whole life the amount of people he’s trusted can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Two had slaughtered each other, one had grown mad from the burden she couldn’t carry, one had abandoned him and the last had died by the hands of those who walked on the soil he prepared for them. Trust is a fragile thing, kept locked and hidden away and not even too beautiful Aether with his eyes and hair of golden sunshine and mind of gilded kindness could bring him to trust again.

    His silence appears to be answer enough. Aether’s eyes drop to the ground, disappearing behind a thick curtain of bright lashes like the sun setting behind the distant horizon to unimaginable places. Something inside Xiao uncoils at that sight. But then Aether does what he always does, something he’s unnervingly good at: He doubles back to strike when one least expects it. His eyes rise to meet Xiao’s and with a conviction that leaves no place for doubt or objection he says, “I don’t mind waiting however long it takes. You said to speak your name and you will appear to vanquish my demons and foes. But know that when you speak my name, I will come and carry your burden.”

    “Why?” Xiao demands.

    “Why not?” Aether asks with an intensity that Xiao isn’t equipped to handle.

    He huffs a little breath of annoyance. “I am not your problem.”

    “You’re not a problem,” Aether almost snaps at him, mirroring his annoyance like a shot deflected and cast back. Something in Xiao stutters like a flame struggling against the wind that tries to extinguish it. He remembers words Rex Lapis had told him many, many years ago after he’d saved him from the hands of an evil god that had marked him with ink that would never let him forget who he once belonged to: Even after all that darkness he should never stop looking for the light in everything and everyone.

    “Because people will come, and they will teach you about love and forgiveness. But you have to let them in, Xiao. First you have to accept this slight moment of vulnerability, and then you will be rewarded with goodness. Never lock away your heart, Xiao. It pains me to think you might be all alone forever.”

    Xiao closes his eyes, conjuring Rex Lapis’ face in his mind. What he would give if only he could see him one last time.

    Aether stirs, ready to return to his side of the camp but Xiao catches his wrist. At some point during the evening, Aether has taken off his gloves and now Xiao can see a line where they would end. The skin below is slightly paler, and his fingers are long and slender, beautiful. Hands made to be captured in coal paintings, so history won’t forget them. One part of him wants to put them to his lips and worship every single digit to engrave Aether’s taste onto his tongue, the other imagines cutting them off one by one and wearing a bloody necklace of Aether’s fingers, his own good luck charm for eternity.

    Without a word, he turns around and offers Aether his wounded shoulder. Behind him, Aether is very still first. Xiao can only imagine what horrid wound Aether’s eyes lay upon: The skin parted by jagged claws, left unattended while the blood has dried on his skin. Yaksha heal faster than mortals, but they are not invulnerable or immortal. Any other person, this blow would have killed for sure.

    Then Xiao feels a cool mixture carefully applied to his wound by warm, warm hands which doesn’t surprise him. Everything about Aether is warm.

    They sit in comfortable silence, the soft crackling of the fire in the background the only sound that fills the dimly lit cavern. Shadows dance on the wall and Xiao observes them for a moment, recognising this daemon and that impure ghost from his past until they all merge into an undistinguishable shape and he closes his eyes to block them out and simply feel Aether’s careful motions, the balm slowly warming upon his skin, the pain fading until, like everything else, it becomes a memory.

    When Aether is done, his hand lingers on Xiao’s back, his fingertips slightly grazing another scar that dips just below his ribcage. Xiao’s body tells his history in scars and he can still recount which daemon left which. Mortals tell you time heals it all and soon you forget, but Xiao doesn’t, he remembers everything. Xiao remembers everything.

    He turns slowly, and finds Aether still kneeling in front of him. Trying to meet his eyes, they are so close Xiao could count every eyelash framing Aether’s round, kind eyes. He takes Aether’s hand, a small hand, studies it and intertwines their fingers as if he already misses Aether’s small hand in his palm.“

    You know I would give my life for you,” Xiao says, for his contract to protect Liyue has been terminated with Rex Lapis’ death, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t set his own rules, live by his own contract.

    Something in Aether’s expression changes; an almost forlorn look but whatever he tries to find in Xiao’s face, Xiao can’t give it.

    “Xiao, we can still—” he starts, but Xiao silences him by lifting his other hand and grazing Aether’s cheek with his fingertips.

    “We already talked about this,” he says in a voice as if he’s trying to explain something to a child. “I serve, but I do not love. I cannot love for my first master has taken that ability and it was lost with his death.”

    His feelings for Aether could be love in a different world, a different time. But right here, right now, they are what is left of it; a shadow, only a memory. Desire maybe, worship, yes. But love wouldn’t leave this bitter taste in his mouth whenever he thinks of Aether. It wouldn’t.

    Aether looks gutted. His mouth twists, as if he’s trying to hold in tears; Xiao knows the feeling and he hates seeing it on Aether’s face, hates being the reason why Aether looks heartbroken, why he is heartbroken. In a different world, Xiao could be kinder to Aether and give him what he deserves. But in this, with marks upon him that will never disappear and the taste of dreams still fresh on his tongue as if he has never stopped devouring them, he is not what Aether needs.

    But he will make up for that. He will serve Aether until his dying breath and either fall in battle for him or remain by his side even as old age claims Aether, should he age like mortals do. It would be an honour to die for Aether and until that day comes, Xiao will stay by his side and only after that, he will allow himself to rest and let the kind, soft tunes of a flute carry his soul to the next world, hoping even one as tainted as his is allowed peace and respite. That is the compromise he has constructed, the contract he has agreed upon with Aether, and in Liyue, the Land of Contracts, one who breaks their contract shall suffer the Wrath of the Rock.

[littlemisslipbalm]

“You Get Me” Pt. 3 (famous!y/n x harry)

Aka “Kissy” 🥺

honestly its really just domestic harry bahaha and I added that they have a slight age gap ?but seriously I hope y’all enjoy the third and final installment of my first ever writings -  a little miniseries if you will. I loved writing this part sm, probably my favorite part yet. I linked a spotify playlist that was some inspo (I literally listened to your summer dream on repeat for one part that I wrote, that song is so beautiful) anyways - not really proofread and I tried to break it up more so it was less big chunks to read formatting wise

here’s part 3! read: part 1 | part 2

word count: 4.0k  | warnings: makeout sesh, shirtless harry!, nothing graphic tho (I think!)

tag list : @marauderswhisperer, @morgannope, @daddystevee, @kthemarsian, @bi-andready-tocry

playlist for the inspo✨

-

One Week Later

“Hey, Har...change of plans!” you exclaimed as you peaked through a door in Harry’s house.

You’d hung out together at your apartment once since your phone retrieval visit and the two of you had been texting constantly. You loved Harry’s company and Harry couldn’t get enough of you. Harry had called you late last night, ‘Want t’take you out tomorrow, love.’ his voice was groggy as if he was about to fall asleep. You’d instantly agreed and drove over to his house the next day. He was leaving back to London on Saturday, so it was your last day to see him for awhile.

Inside the door you had just opened, a beautiful vintage convertible sat. You had found the garage. “You are so driving this,” you turned to see the man who held your entire heart in his hands walking up beside you. Harry reluctantly agreed and leaned down to kiss your cheek.

“Ready?” he questioned, holding up the soft blanket he had retrieved for your coastal picnic. You nodded, proudly displaying the little picnic basket you had packed full with food. Simultaneously the two of you reach for each other’s free hands, clasping them together and walking out to the car.

“I’m on aux, you can focus on the road,” you told Harry when both of you went for the cassette device that functioned to allow you to play music from your phone despite the age of the car. Harry loved how assertive you were even if it meant he didn’t always get his way. That was one of the reasons he liked you so much, your strength, your ability to hold your own in any situation, even with him, opposite of how a lot of people treated him in the industry in bids to get in his good graces. You were his match, so similar, yet so unique.  

The pair of you started out on the road. Harry wore a white t-shirt with a blue bee slogan,  purple trousers, and some clean white vans. His rings and pearl necklace wrapped up the look. His tattooed arms starkly contrasting the crisp white of his shirt. His eyes on the road were covered by large sunglasses, but his hair flew out behind him as the wind rushed over the car. You had chosen high waisted mom jean style denim shorts and a lavender femme top with a mesh white floral overlay, it had ties on the shoulders and it complimented your skin color perfect, tanned in from your life in the golden state. You too had your rings on and a silver necklace with your first initial hidden in the pendant. Even your clothes complemented each other.  

The first song to play through the speakers was Joni Mitchell’s “California.” You looked over to see Harry smile and you two began to sing along. You didn’t talk much on the ride, staying silent other than singing along when you pleased, but you always made sure not to overpower the actual song, you didn’t like to do that if the music was there for ambiance. Harry would speak up a little when passing various things, just simply pointing them out. Then, after the first notes of “California Dreamin’” came on Harry couldn’t help buy say, “Y/N, seriously?  S’not like I don’t love these songs, but please tell me you didn’t just search up ‘California’ and are playing tha’?” All you did was shush him and tell him this was one of your favorite songs before singing along.

Then, as the Mamas and the Papas voices began to fade out, Harry started again, “This next song’s title better not be fuckin’ California or somethin’ with-” but he stopped as the light quick notes of “Golden” came through the speakers, followed by his own voice. You grinned and gave his shoulder a little push. You had just gotten on the PCH and you remembered his mention of it being the quintessential coastal drive song a couple years ago so you had queued just in time.

A grin spreads onto his features that had been in slight exasperation at your antics previously and shakes his head at you, does a little finger shake vaguely in your direction, “Y/N, Y/N, Y/N.”

You both burst out in song, practically yelling the first chorus, Harry taking little harmony parts that most wouldn’t even notice, but he notices them, he made them. You dance in your seat to the song, taking control of the background ‘da da da’s. Harry is in awe of how well your voice sounds with the track, when you sing along to the second verse, much more seriously than the first one you had screamed together. He glanced over at your moving figure that began to sway at the slowing of the song. You weren’t wearing sun glasses and you had your eyes closed, basking in the shining sun. You looked at peace, yet completely fulfilled and overjoyed. In that moment, Harry knew he wanted to keep making you feel the way you did right now every time you were together. The song ended and your playlist continued, random songs regarding California and the feeling you get with someone you care about - makes you feel sunkissed.

-

“You’re literally so corny,” Harry laughs to you when ‘California Girls’ by the Beach Boys came on. You throw side eyes at him, “What can I say, Brian Wilson knew, California girls are where it’s at,” you roll your lips into your mouth and then bite your bottom lip.

-

The drive continued with you giving a rousing rendition of ‘California Gurls’ with Harry as Katy Perry and you as Snoop Dogg as you had insisted. Harry even busted out some minimal dance moves while driving the car, honking the horn at the appropriate moment. You made Harry feel like he was 19 again.

Then, straight into ‘Canyon Moon,’ Harry really was in disbelief of the woman next to him. You got so into the “I’m goin’ home” part of the song. Harry said, “Really like tha’ one, I gather,” after it finished. It was your turn to look at him in disbelief, “It’s my favorite, Har, I remember listening to Fine Line the first time and loving it immediately. Still loved it even after everyone else barely talked about it. Deserved so much more, s’amazing.” You finished with a half smile slipping onto your face. Harry gave a quiet ‘thanks’ and returned the smile.

-

Harry was finally satisfied with where you had landed along the coast. There had been no set destination, just a plan to drive to a lookout for the picnic. Finding a small parking area, you two gathered your items and set out for the perfect spot. The California coast really is beautiful. You’d lived there your whole life, just further up north, moving down to Los Angeles when you started your music career. You ran ahead of Harry to seek out a little bluff you’d seen in the distance. “Oi!” Harry called, but didn’t run to catch up, he had taken the picnic basket and it had drinks that wouldn’t be great if they were all shaken up.

You were right, it was the perfect spot, a little ways up from the set path there was a flat surface on the edge of a cliff, it was safe, with wildflowers and tall grass around a more bare area. You layed out the large blanket, then stood and watched as Harry made his way to you. His hair was every which way due to the wind whipping through it during the car ride, you subconsciously ran your hands through your hair for that reason. He looks gorgeous, you thought.

When he arrived at your little patch, he sat down the basket and you threw your arms around his neck. You pulled yourself into him and basked in his glow, his warmth and scent. He held you and ran a hand through your hair. The pair of you could have silly fun, but you could also be extremely intimate. In these quiet moments you wished you could stop time and live here forever. To live in his arms would be a wonderful thing. “So happy right now, darling,” Harry whispered, the soft swish of grass and the distant crash of waves the only sounds he had to speak above. You said nothing, but pushed yourself even further into his body, a response in and of itself. In this moment, there was no one else, just you, Harry, and the beautiful nature you stood in. This moment was everything. And you didn’t want to set it free.

Eventually, the two of you parted and relaxed into the blanket. For once, neither of you played music, you talked and ate and listened to the ambient sounds of nature. The melodic waves carried the conversation, when neither of you felt the need to say words. After eating, you let Harry pop the bottle of champagne he had brought along, unbeknownst to you, nevertheless when you saw it you wanted to be the one to uncork it. Still, your protests fell on deaf ears. “Y’seem to be getting very used to getting everythin’ you want, huh? Already a spoiled princess after a couple months of fame,” Harry teased as he worked to open the bottle. You huffed at his teasing and your failed attempt to get the bottle from him, which had caused him to move off the blanket and have his shirt be stretched from you grabbing at the bottle and only getting fabric.

“Whatever, don’t act like you’re not a total diva sometimes, Styles.” You couldn’t deny that him calling you a ‘spoiled princess’ made you feel things, unholy things. Of course you found Harry unbelievably attractive, but this was your fourth time being with Harry and the two of you hadn’t done anything besides heavy makeout sessions. You loved the way he said your name, but you also loved his nicknames for you, but this was a new one that seemed to hold some meaning within it.

Harry liked to see you all worked up, but knew he could get the exact same way, upset when things don’t turn out the way you want them. Frustrating. Finally, he popped the cork and you both cheered for the golden bubbly liquid. You had spent almost about an hour on the road and an hour or two already on the cliff, so the sun was starting to make its farewells to this side of the earth. The sky was beginning to light up with pinks, oranges, and lavenders. You both sat back down on the blanket, this time with you sat up inside of Harry’s spread legs, reclining back onto his chest.

You continued to talk, about the view before you for a little, but then each other. Whenever you were together, the two of you gravitated to the topic of enjoying the other so much. Today was apparently Harry’s turn to share. “When we were in tha car, earlier,” he started as you twiddled your fingers on his thigh, drawing shapes. You looked up into his eyes to encourage him to continue. “Haven’t had tha’ much fun in awhile. You…” he hesitated again and averted his eyes from your stare. You whispered a little ‘yeah’. You really cared about Harry feeling comfortable with you and making him happy, so you knew encouragement was helpful when he was trying to gather his thoughts. “Y’make me feel young...tha’ sounds so dumb, but y’really do,” he finally got out as put his hand over your moving one on his thigh. The two of you didn’t talk about the fact that Harry was a bit older than you. He was famous when you were a puberty-stricken teenager. The age gap wasn’t really an issue, you were both adults, but his statement reminded you that he would be 30 soon and you were still in your early 20s.

You twisted around to sit on your knees and face Harry. You placed both of your hands on his face, cradling his jaw and cheeks on each side of his face. This forced him to look you right in the eyes. You appreciated the beauty of his piercing green eyes for a moment and then went to kiss his crows feet on the sides of his eyes, his forehead lines, his hairline, his five o’clock shadow, and his smile lines, that had cropped up as he giggled at you. You were making exaggerated kiss noises as you loved on his face. “First of all, you are young,” you finally said in audible words. You waited a beat, then you kissed his soft lips that were smiling up at you. He was still smiling when you kissed him so your lips hit a bit of a tooth and you both giggled. But, you stood strong, not pulling away to laugh. Harry kissed you back. He shifted and brought his hands up from the ground where they had been holding him up to cradle your body instead. The kiss stayed chaste, despite Harry’s protests when you pulled back.

“And second, you make me feel alive.” “Alive…” Harry echoed you slowly, “Tha’s a better way to put it. I am young,” He smirked and then winked at you. You moved your hands to sit on his upper chest and could feel his heart beating soft, but strong beneath his skin. You grabbed his arm and moved it from around you. Harry quirked a brow at you. Then you placed his hand above your left breast and below your collarbone. Now he could feel your heartbeat, too. Yours, you thought, was beating a bit faster than his, but you didn’t care. Touching like this, made you feel close to him. Like you could see inside each other.  

-

You finished off the bottle of champagne because Harry had to stop drinking to be able to drive the two of you home safely. You felt very warm from it, despite the sun setting a while ago and your bare arms and legs. Luckily, besides the slight buzz you had, it was summer in California, and the nights stayed relatively warm. You skipped to the car and bent over the convertible to put the picnic basket in the backseat. Harry was right behind you and gave your bum a light pat, you pulled yourself up and flipped around, giggling. You tugged Harry in by his shirt and demanded, “Kissy.” Harry snorted and obliged, but with an open mouthed kiss where his tongue basically slobbered over your lips, mouth, and a bit of your nose. You whined, “You’re fucking disgusting, Har.” “Ya’ love it,” he responded with a faux posh voice before giving you a quick peck to your lips and rounded the car, telling you to get in and buckle up.

The whole ride home, Harry had his hand on your thigh. With it there, you occupied yourself with twisting his rings and and dancing your hand around his fingertips. The champagne had made you quiet, but smiley. The music you played was softer on the ride back home, you knew Harry needed to focus with the dark road and you didn’t want the music to distract him.

One song that was of note was “Lavendar (Take 4)” by the Beach Boys. The recording is somewhat unpleasant, but the song is beautiful. It had reminded you of the clothes you and Harry had worn on your date, the wildflowers that had just surrounded you, and the color of the sky when the sun had set on the scene of you and Harry tenderly kissing each other. The Beach Boys are known for their California, Surf pop sounds, but this sound is soft and filled with lushious harmonies, an ode to lavender, maybe a girl named lavender, but nonetheless it was for lavender. Harry harmonized along with their voices, returning to his original state. It ended and went straight into Simon & Garfunkel’s “America.” Paul Simon’s voice passed through the speakers and whispered to us sweetly. Harry again hummed in appreciation for the song choice.

-

When you arrived at the house, you helped Harry clean up the dishes and trash in the picnic basket. Then you sat on the couch, it was around ten o’clock and Harry had offered to make a pot of tea. You looked over the back of the couch as he moved around his kitchen. He padded around, putting the kettle on, opening cupboards for mugs and tea choices. When the water was ready, he got the tea ready, choosing a loose-leaf blend he’d found at a fancy restaurant in Amsterdam. “No cream tonight,” you called, still watching him work his way around his home.

Admiration shown in your eyes as he nodded and finished up the tea, bringing it over to you at the couch. He chose your mug tonight. Different from the previous two, his and yours were a matching set with dark blue interiors with tiny cartoon sailboats. You loved his collection of fun mugs, it fit him so well. After handing it to you, he snuggled in beside you and you took a sip, then rested your head on top of his strong shoulder. You turned your head to give a light kiss to his shoulder, and then moved back to staring ahead of you.  

“Wanna stay?” Harry asked, his arm around your body, holding you close to him. “Can just drive ‘ome in the mornin’,” he continued. “That’d be really nice,” you sighed. This was so comfortable, how was in possible to be like this with someone you’d known for a little over a week? It didn’t matter to either of you how quick it had happened. But it happened, and it felt right, so you went with it. This, what you and Harry had, made you happy so there couldn’t really be anything wrong with that.

-

You two chatted a bit more - about your week of tour preparations, Harry’s flight time tomorrow, various random thoughts, - and you drank your tea. At about midnight, Harry suggested that you and he get ready for bed and then watch something on his laptop. You agreed and ventured into an unknown part of his home. You’d started to snoop earlier today when you had found the garage, but had only gotten that far because you got distracted by Harry’s car.

His house was beautiful and perfectly him. It was big, but his decor and things made it specifically Harry, even if he didn’t live here full time anymore. You reached the master bedroom, located in the back of his house, with french doors, identical to those in the sitting room, opening out to the grass in his backyard. His bed. His bed. It was a California King with tasteful bedding and a beautiful wooden headboard and frame.

You ran and jumped onto it, the bed sinking beneath you and the bedding fluffing around you. You snuggled and rolled around in the sheets, “This is so much nicer than my bed in the apartment, it’s only a full…” you trailed off. Harry leaned against the doorway of the room, smiling to himself as he watched you make yourself at home among this life. “You’ll be gettin’ a new place, soon, I reckon?” Harry asked and went to grab you both some clothes to sleep in from his closet. “Yeah, maybe!” you called out to him in the little room connected to the master that housed his clothes.

When Harry returned, he was only in boxers, but was holding two large t-shirts, a pair of sweatpants, and another pair of boxers. “D’ya mind if I sleep like this? I can put more clothes on if that makes you more comfortable?”

You couldn’t keep your jaw from dropping. You’d seen Harry shirtless before, everyone had, but to see him right in front of you, that was something else.

He noticed you staring at his body and smirked, but then threw a shirt and the pair of boxers your way, “Stop bein’ such a perv, love,” he teased. “Rude,” you muttered, “Was simply admiring...but if you don’t want me to look, you can sleep fully clothed,” you scratched your nose and then shrugged your shoulders.

As you worked to slide off the big bed, Harry crossed the room and trapped you on the edge, leaning over you with both his hands landing on either side of you on the bed. You scrunch your eyes and nose up as he tries to make eye contact with you. He goes to kiss you, but you turn your head and your cheek receives a kiss. He stays against your cheek, drags out your name and groans, “s’teasin’ you.” “I know, baby,” you respond and kiss his cheek now. You duck under his arm and run into his en suite bathroom, shutting the door to change. When you re-emerge, Harry’s in the bed, with the sheets pulled back, and his computer in his lap.

Harry calls out to you without looking up from his screen, “S’was thinkin’, y’know, since you’re always saying your apartment is tiny, y’could house sit ‘ere while I’m away?” You tilt you head as you approach the bed as you ponder the idea. “I mean, I guess ‘why not’? It would be a longer commute into the studio, but this place is gorgeous, and I’m gonna start traveling a lot anyway so I won’t need my apartment for much longer…” You continue to think on it as you climb back onto Harry’s bed and snuggle yourself into his body. Harry looks slightly down at you by his side, he’s put on his glasses, “Think you should, I’d also like knowin’ someone was ‘ere, keepin’ things running while I’m away.”

You nodded and move slightly to rest your head on Harry’s naked chest. His sunkissed tattooed body is mesmerizing, you reach your hand up and start tracing the various designs and running your hand along his collarbones and veins as well. Then you flattened a palm and smoothed it over his right pectoral. Harry hummed and pushed himself further down the bed. “Can we not watch anything actually, m’kinda tired,” you whisper up to Harry, your voice the only sound in the house besides the light clicking of a clock in a different room. Harry responds by closing the laptop and readjusting your position in the bed. You and Harry are a tangle of legs and bodies pressed against one another. Everything is calm and Harry says one word, “Kissy.” And you smile and let yourself pull slightly away from Harry to lean up and kiss him one more time before the two of you fall asleep in each other’s arms. It’s soft and chaste, completely closed mouths, but you linger in the kiss, feeling his warm nose brushing besides yours. A hand moves up to his hair and gives it one good run through and then you pull away, “Kissy,” you finalize. The two of you giggle and snuggle even further together.

Your bodies fit so well together and again you were struck with the feeling that you never wanted this to end, even if tomorrow he was flying away, to somewhere halfway across the world. The distance didn’t matter. You knew the two of you had what it took to be there for each other, even if you couldn’t touch or feel the other. Even if laughter over the phone had to suffice for awhile. What the two of you had was greater than all of those obstacles of space and proximity. It was powerful because you were both powerful. Powerful in the way you loved, in the way you worked, in the way you simply were. You fell asleep in Harry’s arms that night filled with contentment. Harry fell asleep with you in his arms that night filled with joy that he’d found someone to share everything with. Someone who was willing to give him all of themselves. Someone who was finally able to get all of him.

-

love y’all sm 🤍🤍 hope you enjoyed and have a nice day

[shreddedparchment]

Absence Makes the Heart

04/17/2020

Pairing: Superman x Reader          Word Count: 5,431

Warnings: language, lots of language, violence, blood, wounds, injuries, plenty of angst

DCEU Canon

A/N: I’ve been meaning to write this one down for a while. It’s based on a dream I had but I just went and added details and a little bit of backstory. Nothing too crazy. This will probably just be a one shot. The top half is heavily edited while the second half I just spat out because I was inspired and I went with it. Hopefully it’s good. This is my first foray into something other than Marvel, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Edit: I forgot to thank @babiiface95​ @evansweaters​ and @sherrybaby14​ for giving me some feedback on this! It helped tons!! xoxo

It hurts.

Everything hurts.

In this moment, all you can feel is the pain in your side.

You stumble forward, hitting the chestnut wood of your door hard. With nothing to brace yourself on, you slide along the length of it until you’re sitting, shoulder pressed against it.

“Ugh…” You groan, letting your hand trace the smooth grain until it can latch onto the handle. “Fuck this shit. I quit.”

You tell no one.

There hasn’t been anyone for months.

The door gives as you twist the knob sending you falling onto the small foyer of your apartment. You’re on the top floor, beside the penthouse. Your own place is small. Compact. Just three rooms, four if you count your bathroom.

You pull yourself along the dated ceramic tile and watch as you leave a smear of red behind you.

“Honey…” You begin, kicking the door shut while you stay flattered against the floor. “…I’m home.”

No one responds.

You exhale through your nose as annoyance rips through your chest.

“Fucker.” You say at no one, but obviously someone.

It takes every ounce of strength you have left to haul yourself into your bathroom. You peel off your suit, letting it drop to the floor in a whip of heavy fabric, space quality tech that was not fashioned on Earth but created for you.

To protect you.

Because he said he cared.

“Fucking…fucker.” You huff, yanking the first aid kit from the open shelf beneath your sink.

Your sports bra is drenched in sweat and blood, sticky against your skin as you plop yourself at the small kitchen table. You pull open the kit and reach for needle and thread.

It’s a messy stitch, clumsy and crooked from the angle you’re forced to work in. However sloppy, you do seal the wound to your ribs and the bleeding finally stops.

In your blood-soaked underwear, you make yourself a sandwich and stand at your counter, staring at the primary blue coffee cup sitting beside your own in teal.

You chew loudly, smacking your mouth as the bread sticks to the roof of your mouth. Eyes glaring at the cup, you bite down more fiercely. Tearing the food apart angrily.

“You’re a stupid bitch, Y/N. Get over it.” You sigh, then retreat to your bathroom to tidy up.

~~~~~~~~~~

Exhaustion is not your friend. It makes you cranky and irritable and sad because you can’t stand the silence in your home.

You groan, pressing your hand against your side gently, then reach for the remote and turn on the TV to war the silence.

It’s a cacophony of sound and for a moment, it grates your nerves. Some cartoon, loud and full of slapstick.

Next channel has people screaming at each other from opposite sides of a stage. Chairs begin to get thrown. A guy with a mullet takes off his shoe and chucks it at a man with one ear.

Next channel has an old black and white movie. The pretty woman with dark curls and a heart shaped face leans across a table, chin in her hand as she moons over the composed man who is smirking at her casually.

Nope. You think. No romance.

Next channel is the news.

“-sure what to make of what we’re seeing. It’s like nothing we have witnessed before. Veronica, can you tell us what’s happening?” The news anchor presses his hand to his ear, eyes squinted as he stares ahead.

The screen shifts and Veronica—a pretty woman with flowing red hair and deep blue eyes fills your screen.

“Miguel, it looks as if all of the ocean’s water is being pulled away from our coastline and out towards the ocean. Where the water is going, we aren’t sure. There is no way to know what this means or what can be causing it. And although we’ve seen this phenomenon happen in films, doomsday blockbusters where a tidal wave the height of a skyscraper builds up before the subsequent flood, experts are sure this is not at all what’s going on.

There are dozens of meteorologists, marine biologists, oceanographers, and astronomers still searching for the cause. The only thing that they all can agree on for certain is that the oceans are not withdrawing, but rather, they are draining, leaving sea life, coral reefs, and the ocean floor exposed.

“Something is pulling this water away. Whatever is causing this, is not natural.”

Sitting up, you place your elbows on your knees as the video changes to that of a helicopter shot as it circles the ever-decreasing ocean line. A humpback whale and her calf attempt to outswim the retreat, but they fail and as the water falls away, the creatures are beached between two sheer ocean cliffs.

“What the hell…” Reaching up, you cover your mouth, watching as the video moves back to Veronica.

“If we can’t figure out why the ocean is draining, we will have hundreds if not thousands of species left without chance of survival. This is not only a loss of a life for many endangered species, but also leaves us to face the consequences within our fishing industries and the millions of people it not only feeds but employs as well. If we cannot stop-”

Veronica suddenly stops speaking, holding her hand to her ear as she listens for a moment.

“Sorry, Miguel, it looks as if Doctor Rashda has found a source point for the draining. Doctor Rashda can you hear me?” Veronica asks, waiting for a moment before the video splits vertically.

The second frame of video sits empty, a sloping sandbank visible in the distance. It curves around in a semi-circle at the center of which is a growing swirl of dark blue water.

“Doctor Rashda?” Veronica asks again, her eyes frantic as they search a monitor out of view.

“Surrender.” A voice says, high pitched. Female. “Surrender and you will not suffer. Surrender your planet, and I shall make your end quick.”

Veronica is silent as the column of swirling water parts a little, just enough so that a pale face is visible.

“Surrender.” The voice says again, the pale face’s lips moving as it speaks. “And you will die quickly.”

Frowning, you move to the edge of your seat, your anger doubling.

“M-Miguel are you seeing this?” Veronica asks, voice small with fear.

Miguel doesn’t answer.

The figure in the water holds out its hand and from the swirl comes a smaller sphere. In this sphere something moves. As the camera zooms in, you can make out the distinct shape of a body, thrashing within its bubble.

Veronica screams just as you and everyone else that must be watching realizes that within the bubble is Doctor Rashda, struggling and gasping for breath.

You’re up on your feet, racing to pull your suit back on when a commotion pulls your eyes back to the TV, legs already in but with one shoulder exposed as you freeze mid-dress.

“He’s back!” Veronica is shouting gleefully. Relief and reverence painting her voice. “Superman is back!”

You move two steps closer to the TV, not intending to take the word of a panicked reporter. Until you can lay your own eyes on him then it isn’t real.

A few seconds pass. Then, a blur of blue and red streaks through the center of the bubble and when the water stops rippling, Doctor Rashda isn’t there.

“Motherfucker.”

You pull your suit on roughly, ignoring the way the movement tugs at your side as you zip up and launch out your open window.

You fall fast, plummeting towards the ground in a streak of teal and gray. When you’re only three feet away, you feel a surge of power as your arms, and legs burn with white hot energy.

It pushes you upwards and propels you higher and higher until you’re soaring across the sky at incredible speeds, leaving a silver trail of light behind you.

It only takes you minutes to reach the coast but sometime between you jumping out of your living room window and arriving here by the Golden Gate, the fight has moved cityside.

You hear a deafening crunch as blue and red goes slamming into black, gray, and brown ocean floor, disappearing into the subsequent rubble.

Heart pounding, you propel yourself towards a thin figure, long stringy black hair, sallow skin, arm still stretched out from her hit. She turns to look at you just as you reach her, but you throw your own fist out in a powerful uppercut. It throws the strange woman high into the air.

You follow for a few feet, hovering in there as you watch her skyrocket out of sight into dark clouds overhead.

Behind you the heap of ocean floor rubble begins to shift.

Coming to rest on the cliffside above, six feet below he breaks through the rock and it falls around him, a flurry of fine sediment saturating the air.

Chest heaving, side burning, heart clenched so tight you think it might truly be shredding, you watch as the fucker stands up and does a quick scan of the area looking just as perfect as he did when he left.

His eyes are focused, searching the sky for sight of his attacker but instead he finds you.

His eyes soften and you’re still so angry you glare. You turn on your heel and walk away, staring up at the sky as you wait for the woman to fall.

“Y/N…” You hear him say, but you don’t turn to look at him.

You can feel the swirling of wind as he flies up to you, the soft pats as his feet hit the ground. He circles around your right, leaning forward to get a better look at your face.

In your peripherals you can see the gentle curl of his dark hair, falling along his forehead and a hundred memories of your hand gently sweeping it aside make your body tremble.

The pleasure that the memory brings makes your blood boil and you roll your eyes, ignoring the puppy eyes he gives you.

“Let’s just get this over and done with. I’m tired.” You assert and watch as the strange woman careens towards the two of you, an inhuman screech growing louder as she falls.

Moving forward a few steps you aim yourself, bend your knees and launch yourself up towards her. As you collide, she grabs hold of your shoulders, and the two of you twist and spin in the air, struggling to get the upper hand.

Shifting quickly, you pull her over you, grab hold of her shirt front and with all the force in your body, you spin and chuck her down as Clark flies towards you to finish the job.

~~~~~~~~~~

A tattered white dress is all that remains of the ocean thief.

“Who was she?” Clark wonders, moving to stand beside you as you watch the stain of saltwater grow as her body dissolves to nothing.

“You don’t know?” You ask him, turning to look at him and hating how much it pleases you to finally see him again.

His broad body, thick with muscle and stupidly accentuated by his damn blue skintight suit, feels larger than before he left though you know that’s silly. He’s as God like as ever, though he’s only an alien. To the world, he’s a savior. Invincible.

Superman.

What really hurts to look at are his eyes.

It chokes you, those baby blues, full of unspoken questions and expectation. For you. For the future. For the present. He wants to know you again.

You tear your gaze back down to the woman as Clark shakes his head.

“No. I was flying home when I saw the ocean empty and followed the trail to the spout she was in.” Clark explains.

“Well, it’s too late to find out now.” You point out. “The water will come back soon. You’ll need to make sure people stay away from the coastline.”

Turning towards him, you wait, your rage evened out and layered with betrayal.

That painful gaze of his so piercing it nearly steals your breath away.

“Where were you, Clark?” You ask quietly, your anger outweighing the hurt.

The apologetic look he gives you, the tilt of his head, the step he takes towards you grates your nerves.

“Y/N-”

“It’s been months. Almost a year.” You sigh, unwilling to give in.

He takes your hand and the impulse to pull away nearly overwhelms you.

His hands are rough, only in that masculine way. His skin is unblemished. Perfect.

The strength of his movements are carefully calculated. A natural habit he’s developed after a lifetime of having to be gentle to keep from breaking those he touches. The heat from his hands is familiar and it envelops yours easily.

“I was coming home.” He tells you.

“Home? How do you know that it’s still your home? Maybe someone else has moved in.” You threaten and there’s a visible fall in his eyes.

It nearly breaks your icy exterior. But you have every right to be angry and hurt that he left you. Out of the blue, no word as to where he was going or when he’d come back.

“I have to go.” He’d said, and left you sitting on the couch, wondering when he’d come home.

He looks down at your hand in his, his thumb gently caressing the back of your hand.

“You went to see her first, didn’t you?” You accuse and he quickly meets your gaze.

“No.” He assures you passionately, moving a little closer. “No, I was going straight home.”

“She’s been looking for you.” You tell him, tempted to confess how useless you’d been in those first few weeks he was gone. “All of them have been. Where is Superman? Is the million-dollar question. And now here you are.”

He’s back just as randomly as he’d left. Just as sudden. Just as quiet.

“There he is!” A familiar voice shouts. On the bank across the large ravine you both stand in Veronica appears looking dazzled and excited, her camera man hoisting up his camera to begin what will be the first clear footage of Superman finally back. Earth’s hero returned.

Quickly you pull your hand from his and turn to walk away.

“Where are you going?” He asks, following for a few steps.

“Home. I’ve been in Australia for the last month dismantling a new crime syndicate with Bruce. He and I are both very tired. He stayed behind.”

“Oh.” Clark says.

“Superman!” Someone calls. “Superman is back!”

Civilians have begun to gather along the empty waterway, all of them eager for a glance at the Man of Steel.

You know how you made it sound and maybe it’s your annoyance making you push him away now that he’s home, but all you can think about is getting back home and being alone.

“The water will be back, Kal.” You shift to his birthname with so many ears nearby. “Get these people away.”

You leave him standing there, watching you fly away, with those baby blues full of quiet yearning.

~~~~~~~~~~

The apartment…your home…it’s a void.

You sit on the arm of your sofa still in full uniform, hand gently resting on your thigh—palm up. You’re a mess again. Dirty with blood and dirt and sweat.

Needing a shower doesn’t do much to deter your silly brooding. Silly because you did this to yourself. You made it seem like you had someone new waiting for you here when really the bleak emptiness is in need of a six-foot, three-inch tall Kryptonian.

His presence is here. Loud and white hot. His coffee cup burns you from across the kitchen—asking where its owner is. His drawer still full of clothes. Comfy sweatshirts and crisp white t-shirts. Blues and grays and reds too.

There’s one you’d set aside. The last he’d worn. Only once. It had sat on the end of your bed night after night until you’d caved and pulled it on. Now it probably smells more like you than him.

The place is silent. Only the drip, drip, drip of the bathroom sink breaks the quiet.

Your gaze wanders to his shoes by the door, shoelaces left undone, a small speck of mud on the side of the left heel.

Shutting them, your eyes water.

No. You shake your head. I won’t cry.

You take a shaky breath and release it slowly, sighing as your body slumps forward.

The movement reminds you of your earlier wound and you gasp in pain as you sit up straight again, leaning to the side to look at the spot growing increasingly wet on your side.

“Shit.” Stitches are probably torn open. “Fuck.”

Maybe it’s your frustration with this whole situation or maybe your wound really just hurts a lot, but as you reach over to feel the bloody spot, your voice finally breaks. Though there are no tears, they really want to fall.

“Fucking, stupid, fucking…” You sigh again, this time faster, angry.

“That’s a lot of French.” Clark says, his voice smooth and even and excruciatingly beautiful to your ears.

You stand up, startled, and spin to watch him pull his left leg in through your open window, following his torso.

He’s still in his suit, cape and all. Once again, the sight of him reminds you of his Godlike status. His perfection unreachable and yet, here he is. In your home. Where he’d given himself to you openly and without reservation.

He stands there, his hands clenched into nervous fists. Skin just as dirty as yours but not sweaty. Not bloody. His hair is a little disheveled. The tresses normally so carefully tempered are free to curl and wave.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, voice still weak from your raw emotional outburst.

“I went to see Bruce.” He explains, and you might just kick yourself for implying Bruce would be waiting for you. “Why-?”

“Because I wanted to hurt you.” You admit, cutting him off before he can word the question. “Because I wanted you to regret leaving me the way you did.”

“I do regret it.” He sighs. “I-I only left because I thought I heard…”

He hesitates and you’re tempted to kick him out. You turn away from him and move into the kitchen, trying to ignore the wound that needs tending.

With your own coffee cup in hand, you pop a k-cup in your Keurig and punch the power button, waiting for it to power on before you select the largest cup option and listen to the whirr of the motors instead of Clark’s silence.

“I went to Krypton, or what’s left of it.” Clark finally says, this time from the mouth of your kitchen archway, hands still clamped tight.

You shut your eyes tight, hands clinging to the edge of your counter. Squeezing ever tighter until they begin to ache, and you still only keep squeezing.

“I wish I could be as impressed by that answer as I was the first time you told me that.” You shake your head.

“It was different this time, Y/N.” He shakes his head, then takes a step closer.

The movement draws your eyes and you watch the intense focus on his face, the uncertainty to speak.

“What is it?” You ask, still a little bitter.

Even though he looks as if he means it and this trip to Krypton is more serious, he’s not speaking. He’s keeping this from you. Holding it back.

“Jesus fucking Christ Clark, I guess you don’t trust me.”

“No.” He insists, moving another step closer which still leaves him a ways away from you in the kitchen. “It’s not that. I do trust you. More than anyone. But…”

You want to scream at him. You want to tell him to go to hell and to stay away from you and to shove his excuses up his ass, but your curiosity is growing.

There’s a small panic in his baby blue eyes. A fear.

So, you wait. You hold your tongue. You’re patient for now. You give him a familiar silence that tells him you will wait until he’s ready.

He recognizes it and meets your quizzical gaze as your coffee finishes brewing.

You don’t even realize it’s done as you stare into Clark’s eyes and he stares into yours.

The moment he decides, his shoulders relax. His jaw drops a fraction of an inch as he stops clenching his teeth.

As the weight on his shoulders is visibly lifted, you feel yourself relax too. Nearly a year of being without him and you’re still so attuned to his moods.

“I found someone.” He tells you. “On another planet, in a Kryptonian ship that had been sent only days after my own.”

“Another Kryptonian?” You ask, curious but also fearful.

You remember very clearly the last Kyrptonian that had come to Earth. Zod and his minions had torn Metropolis to shreds. They’d killed so many people and Clark had made the hardest decision in his life.

Not that you’d been there. She’d been there. But Clark had let you in on the weight of that moment. The choice that he hated to make but would gladly do so again.

He must see the fear in your eyes because he shakes his head and takes yet another step towards you.

“No. Don’t be scared. Really. She’s-”

She?!

“-she’s harmless.” You frown at him because that’s the stupidest fucking thing he’s said since getting back. Maybe the stupidest thing ever.

“Okay,” He amends. “Maybe not harmless, exactly. She’s my cousin, Y/N. And she needed help.”

“Your cousin?” You ask, voice low and full of questions.

“From what I can tell, she was sent here after me, but when her ship was knocked off course, she was trapped in form of hypersleep for a long time. She was older than me, but now she’s a lot younger.” Clark continues to explain, speaking with some gusto now that you’ve allowed him to pick up some momentum.

“Where is she?” You wonder.

“I left her with a family that can take care of her. Someone that I trust. Far away from me. She’s still very young and I think it would be best if she remained hidden for a while. Just until she learns how to control her abilities here on Earth and to give the world time to get used to the idea of another Kryptonian.” He takes one more step.

“After Zod, I don’t know that there is any amount of time that would prepare the world for a Supergirl.” You frown.

With your defenses lowered, Clark takes the opportunity to step even closer, finally stopping beside you.

He hesitates again, this time as he reaches to take hold of your elbow. His fingers press against your arm gently like he’s stroking piano keys. Testing to see if you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

He lifts your arm a little and doesn’t break eye contact with you until your arm is lifted enough that he can get a clear look at the red on your side. Head tilted to the right as he assess the injury.

Straightening his head, he slides his hand down to your hand, taking it before gently pulling you away from the kitchen, through your bedroom, and into your bathroom, switching on lights as he goes.

Watching him be like this has always been your favorite. He moves with a purpose, eyes trained on what he’s looking for without a glance spared your way.

You stand beside him as he holds your hand, hunched over to look under the sink for your first aid kit.

After he retrieves it, he pulls you back out into the kitchen. There’s more room there for both your bodies, especially with his taking up so much space.

He places the kit on the floor before he pulls you in front of him. Both of his hands find your waist and he lifts you up onto the edge of the counter to sit.

Slightly surprised, you gasp and place your hands on his shoulders, tracing the muscle while you can do so discreetly until you must remove them and place them at your sides.

Clark steps towards you, his hard abdomen pressed up against your legs as he wraps both arms around you, hands searching for the zipper on your back. Leaning over your shoulder to get a look at it, he’s almost hugging you.

And you can’t stand the tease of it.

The movement is quick, and he leans back again once he’s got the suit undone.

“What happened?” He asks as he hooks his thumbs into the top of your suit and pulls it down over your shoulders, your biceps—then holds the arms still as he waits for you to pull them out—then bunches it down along your waist to expose your injured side. “Lift your arm.”

You do as he ass, wincing as it tugs on the reopened cut.

“This is deep.” He disapproves.

“Bruce and I really were in Australia. One of the guys caught me with a knife just as we were getting them rounded up.” You explain.

“This is gonna hurt.” He tells you as he pulls the kit onto the counter beside you and pulls out a pair of small scissors and tweezers.

It takes him almost no time at all to snip away the broken threads and clean the wound again.

He waits, thinking for a moment, then meeting your gaze.

“Do you want something for the pain?” He checks, eyebrows raised in worry.

“Just do it, Clark.” You sigh, frustrated because this is all too familiar. This proximity, the smells, the heat, the way his hands poke and prod at the edges of your cut.

His eyebrows gather together as his jaw flexes with a frown, staring at the cut as he threads the needle quickly.

A proper needle this time, sanitized and threaded properly.

Taking your lifted arm, he pulls it over his head onto the opposite shoulder and places your hand there where his cape meets his suit.

“It’s gonna hurt.” He says again, and you realize he’s giving you something to squeeze.

And he’s right. Without the adrenaline from before, you feel every stitch and you’d thin you would get used to this sensation. But it hurts like fuck all and you squeeze his cape tight until you can’t help but give a small yell in annoyance.

“Why is it always the little wounds that hurt the most?” You sigh as he sips the thread and moves to clean his work area.

“You should go shower.” Clark says as he sanitizes the counter. “Be careful with your stitches.”

You don’t fight him on this because you desperately need another shower. Maybe if you’d been fine, you would have argued, but you’re dirty and aching.

When you emerge from the bathroom, you find that the sky outside has darkened. You dress quickly, just a pair of black old cutoff sweats and one of Clark’s gray hoodies.

You’re absolutely swimming in it, but it’s so soft and comfortable. Loose so that it doesn’t add any pressure to your stitches.

The apartment is so quiet you stand there, pulling the sweatshirt down as you listen intently for any kind of movement.

“Clark?” You call, just a little insecure after months of his absence.

You move out into the living room. The floorboards creak and moan as they settle beneath your feet. The large carpet in your living room silences your steps but you also stop walking, staring at the empty kitchen, then the empty living room.

Had you dreamt him?

Maybe he really isn’t back?

What if you’ve finally gone crazy?

What if he’s never coming back and you’d passed out after you got back from Australia and everything with the ocean had been a dream?

Are you really going nuts?

There’s a soft thud from your bedroom and with eager footsteps you rush back in.

Sitting on his side of the bed with his bare feet planted on the ground, Clark is hunched over. Elbows on his knees. Hands resting relaxed at the wrist while he stares at the floorboard underneath your bedroom window.

“Clark…” You sigh, not realizing how relieved you sound.

He’s changed, wearing a pair of gray sweats and a plain white t-shirt.

He looks good. Showered. His curls just barely damp.

“Am I welcome here?” He asks, staring ahead.

You move to the bed and climb on, walking on your knees towards him until you stop just a foot away and sit back on your legs.

It’s a good question. One you think on for a moment.

“You didn’t come back for ten months, Clark.” You sigh, hating that fact. “I didn’t know if something had happened to you or maybe you’d decided to leave me and Earth behind altogether? Mostly I just thought you were dead. I spent most of my time convincing myself that you’re so close to invincible that killing you might be impossible but-”

“I’ve died before.” Clark says, hating the idea that people think him a God. He turns towards you and frowns.

His words, however true they may be, send painful clenches into your chest.

Your face does something that makes his demeanor shift. Suddenly he’s sitting beside you, arm wrapped around your waist as he reaches up to push your hair back and away from your face.

His fingers graze the skin of your neck and he hooks it there, squeezing gently.

“I’m not dead.” He says, maybe guessing your thoughts of madness? “I’m right here.”

“But you weren’t.” You shake your head. “And I was so angry at you. I hated you. I cursed your name. Fuck that guy. Stupid fucker. I hate him.”

Clark simply watches you, his eyes moving side to side as he looks at your face and every expression that crosses your features.

The one thing that you’ve always loved about Clark, is the way that you can tell he’s really listening. Not once have you felt as if you weren’t being heard. Even if he doesn’t agree with whatever you’re saying, he listens so intently, trying to understand your point of view before he poses his own.

And you love him for it.

Shit. You still love him. Of course, you do. Of course, he’s always been yours.

Even in his absence, you were his and he was yours.

“I said that almost every night, hoping that you would hear me and come back. But you didn’t.”

“But I did.” Clark says. “I’m here. And I’m sorry I left without explanation. I’m sorry that I put you through that. And I know that you can’t forgive me for it. That I’ll be trying to earn your trust again every day that we’re together. But, please can I stay?”

He rubs your lower back, his large hand sending heat into every inch of your heart. Restarting it after he killed it ten months ago.

“Please?” He begs. “All I’ve thought about is getting back here. To you. To our home and our life together.”

You shut your eyes, relishing in the way his arms feel around you, his hands large and hot. His breath is sweet and warm. His scent is clean and so him that it makes your stomach flutter.

You won’t need that shirt of his anymore. Now you have him back, here with you. Where you can touch and feel and love and laugh and just be with him.

“Or should I leave?” He asks.

Your eyes pop open, red fury raging through them. “You do and I’ll hunt you down, Kent.”

He smiles, softly at first. But when your hand begins to trace the taut sinew of his muscly forearm, his smile grows wider. It grows and grows until it’s blinding and beautiful.

You trace the curve of his shoulder, tickle his neck before reaching up to smooth the curls that fall against his forehead gently.

He shuts his eyes, enjoying the affection before you push yourself forward between his legs and settle on your side.

You cuddle into the center of his chest, tucking yourself between his arms, head on his chest, under his chin, arms grabbing tight to the soft cotton of his shirt.

“I missed you.” He whispers against your hair.

You smile, shutting your eyes as you let yourself finally be at ease. Clark is home.

[bitchin-beskar]

Hot Blooded

Rating: M

Warnings: Sex. Din wins a fight, and he’s really horny. That’s the plot. There’s not a lot of spoilers, but there’s a little bit. Be warned.

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: Oh look, it’s yet another fic inspired by Episode 9 of the Mandalorian. Who would have seen that coming? I’ve been ranting to @perropascal about this fic, so it’s dedicated to her! (thanks for always hyping me up, I love u ❤️)

Please consider reblogging and leaving a comment! I love feedback!

PLEASE BE WARNED. THIS STORY CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR EPISODE 9 OF THE MANDALORIAN. IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN 2x01 DO NOT READ (unless you’re into spoilers and stuff)

You heard the Crest’s door slide open, followed by the heavy thunk of your Mandalorian’s boots on the metal floor. You were in the middle of trying to fix one of the indicator panels, and didn’t bother turning around. This was just an intel-gathering stop, so you weren’t particularly worried about your partner.

As he moved around the cargo hold, you continued to try and fix the stupid panel. It had been giving off false readings for weeks, and every time you’d thought you’d fixed it, it miraculously broke again. 

“Where’s the kid?”

Din’s gruff voice was unfiltered, and you heard the clang as he set his helmet down on one of the crates in the hold. More clangs followed as he slowly stripped himself of his armour.

“He’s upstairs, napping. Damn little womp rat took forever to fall asleep, I swear he’s got an endless energy reserve.” You trailed off, muttering about small green alien children who never seemed to need sleep. “I didn’t think I was ever going to get him down for his nap.”

Sticking your tongue between your teeth, you reached into the panel, trying to find the missing wire that somehow kept getting disconnected. You’d just brushed your fingers against it when two hands landed on the bulkhead on either side of you, a warm, solid chest pressing against your back.

“Shit, Din, be careful!” You cursed, jumping. “I could’ve electrocuted myself, you idiot–” You were cut off as one of Din’s hands swiftly found the bottom of your shirt, yanking it up and snaking his hand up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple.

“What the hell–?”

Din’s other hand moved your hair to the side, his lips landing on your neck, placing searing kisses against the sensitive skin. You could feel how sweaty his skin was, pressed up against you as close as he could get. While a part of you wanted to just abandon this project and give in, you were so close to being done.

“Give me just a few minutes Din, I’ve almost finished here, and then I–”

A low groan left Din’s mouth, the vibrations hitting your skin and fanning the flames that had started simmering low in your belly. He stepped closer to you, pressing you up against the metal wall of the bulkhead, his hips rocking against your ass as you realized he was hard. 

Your eyes fluttered shut, and a soft moan left your lips. You could feel your body beginning to give in, but you tried to stay focused. “Din, I promise, I’m almost done–”

“Finish it later,” Din growled. “Need you now.”

You whimpered quietly. Din knew how much it turned you on when he got bossy, the bastard. Yet you were determined to not give in. 

You forced your eyes open, and reached into the panel again. “I swear, I need to get one thing done today, just let me–” 

Din didn’t even let you finish your sentence, bodily yanking you away from the bulkhead and spinning you around so that you were bent over one of the crates that lined the hull. He ground his clothed erection into your ass, pressing his entire body against you, his mouth hot against your neck. 

“The only thing you need to be doing, sweet girl,” he groaned. “Is letting me fuck this pretty cunt until I’m satisfied.”

Your fingers desperately grasped at the netting that secured the crate to the side of the hull as Din rolled his hips against yours, pressing you into the sharp corners and edges of the metal crate. 

“Wh–What’s gotten into you?” You gasp, moaning as Din cups your cunt through your pants. “You aren’t u–usually this n–needy!”

Din chuckled darkly, working your pants down just enough so that he can access your dripping cunt. “My contact betrayed me,” he grunted, circling your clit. “Had all these henchmen, tried to take me out.” 

You hear the rustling of fabric behind you before the blunt head of Din’s cock nudges at your fluttering entrance. You suck in a breath, purposefully relaxing your muscles as he starts to press forward.

“Wh–What were the–the odds?” 

Din gripped your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your back to arch as he slowly pressed further into you. “Nine or ten. I didn’t stop to count.” He whispers in your ear. “They didn’t put up much of a fight.”

You love that cocky tone of his, the absolute certainty in his voice that he wasn’t in any danger, even though you know that sometimes that cocky attitude gets him into trouble. 

“Do you know what they did do, sweet girl?” Din asks as he finally bottoms out, hips flush against yours. “They got me all excited. I was ready for a fight, and they were just disappointing.” 

He grinds his hips against yours, and you whimper at the sensation of being absolutely stuffed. “I’ve got all this pent up energy, sweetheart. I figure I should put that energy to good use.” He kisses the side of your neck. “What do you say?”

You know exactly what Din wants to hear. “Fuck me, Din. Please, fuck me–!” The air is punched out of your lungs as Din draws back and then slams forward, his hips slapping against your ass. His pace is fast and rough and perfect, and you can’t stop crying out. 

You fucking love it when he gets all needy like this. He gets so tactile and desperate, holding you tight against him as his cock makes you see stars. His mouth is running, muttering dirty little promises against your skin, telling you how good you feel, how tight you are around him, how you’re the only thing in the entire fucking galaxy that he needs, that he could die happy if the only thing he did for the rest of his days was bury his cock deep inside your twitching cunt. 

It’s filthy and rushed and in practically no time you’re coming, gasping and crying out as Din rails into you from behind. He groans as he feels your cunt clamp around him, whispering in your ear about how fucking wet you get when you come, about how good you are, letting him fuck you however he needs to. 

He doesn’t slow his thrusts at all during your release, and the fire in your belly barely has time to die out before the embers are relit and the flames are leaping higher than before.  

Whenever Din gets needy like this, he runs his mouth, his verbal filter vanishing. His whispered praises settle over your skin like the finest silk, his words making you feel more beautiful than the most expensive gowns ever could. 

Din abruptly pulls out, and you moan at the loss. He spins you around, pulling your pants all the way off as he does, and you see the look in his eye right before he kisses you breathless. 

“I know that look, Djarin,” You murmur against his lips. “What–mmh–What are you up to?”

Din takes a step back and slowly sinks to the ground, his back against the bulkhead, pulling you down to straddle his lap as he goes. He lines himself back up with your entrance and pushes into your soaking cunt with a moan. 

“I want you to ride, sweet girl. You’re so good at it.”

You throw your arms around Din’s neck, resting your forehead against his as you slowly start to swivel your hips. You work up a rhythm, rocking back and forth as you begin to pick up the pace. You close your eyes, biting your lip as you chase your release.

Din seems to have other ideas, however, as his hands come up to grip your hips, stalling your movements. You whine, opening your eyes to see his teasing smirk. He tugs at your shirt. “Take this off, sweetheart.” 

You comply, gripping the bottom of your shirt and pulling it up and over your head, baring your chest to Din. He requests that you don’t wear any kind of breast band on the ship, as he prefers the easy access to your chest. 

“You’re obsessed with my tits, Din,” you giggle, sighing as he reaches up to cup your breasts. He fondles you slowly, his cock throbbing inside you. 

“You have perfect breasts, sweet girl. Why wouldn’t I be obsessed?” 

Before you can retort, he leans over and takes your nipple in his mouth, sucking at the rapidly-hardening peak. 

You gasp, cupping the back of his head as your sensitive bud is toyed with. Your sudden movement causes his cock to shift inside you, and you suck in a breath. 

Din begins to manipulate your hips, moving you in tight circles while impaled on his cock, all while sucking at your breast. The sensations are overwhelming, a litany of moans and gasps falling from your lips as you try to stay coherent. 

You lose the battle as Din starts to lift you up and drop you down on his cock, reaching deeper inside of you than he was before. It sends shocks up your spine, and your fingers clench as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you. 

He releases your breast with a wet pop, moving to lavish the same attention on your other nipple. His hands are gripping so tightly you think you might end up with bruises. 

He lifts you off almost completely and holds you there, just the tip of him still nestled inside you. Immediately, your hips try to grind down, but he holds you steady. “What’s wrong, sweet girl?” He murmurs against the skin of your breast, faux innocence filling his voice.

“Mmm, need to come, please Din, fuck, please, let me come, Din!”

You scream his name as he abruptly yanks you downwards while thrusting up into you, the suddenness of the movement causing you to fall off the cliff you didn’t even know you were on. Your legs are shaking, and Din immediately sits up, moving forward and lowering you down until your back is resting on the floor of the cargo hold, and he’s cradled in the vee of your hips.

He begins thrusting again, fast-paced and frantic, and you’re so sensitive it almost hurts but you never want him to stop. His head is bowed and you’re clutching at his shoulders as he absolutely wrecks you, and when his hips start to stutter, you can tell he’s close. 

He suddenly reaches down with one hand and begins to circle your clit, and you reflexively try to stop him, your sensitivity almost too much to bear. But Din just sits back, grasping both your wrists in his other hand before pinning them to the floor above your head. You’re helpless in his grasp, and before you realize it, you’re coming for a third time, and this time, Din comes with you.

His moan as he comes inside you is one of the sexiest things you’ll ever hear, and when he collapses forward to rest on his forearms above you, you crane your neck to kiss him. 

He follows you down, letting you rest your head on the metal floor as he kisses you, his tongue mimicking the actions of his cock not even twenty seconds ago. He still has your hands pinned, and he takes control over every aspect of the kiss, stealing your breath and professing his love all at once.

When air becomes a necessity, he pulls away, releasing your wrists and sitting back, watching as his come drips out of your cunt and onto the floor. You almost roll your eyes at the look in his, but before you can, he reaches down and scoops up some of his spend, shoving it back inside you with two fingers.

You moan in surprise, your eyes fluttering shut at yet even more stimulation. Din slowly massages your clit as he keeps two fingers inside you, keeping you stuffed full of his come.

“Did I hurt you, sweetheart?”

You lazily open your eyes to look at Din, his concern clear on his face. Smiling softly, you reassure him.

“I’m fine, Din. Trust me.” He smiles back. “Now am I allowed to finish my work on that stupid indicator panel?”

Your Mandalorian only smirked at you. 

“What makes you think we’re done?”

Permanent Tags: @theocatkov, @cosmicbug379, @marydjarin, @perropascal, @mxndoscyarika, @hayley-the-comet, @phoenixhalliwell, @ahopelessromanticwritersworld

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[whump-town]

A Cumbersome And Heavy Body

Chapter Three: I'm Treading For My life, Believe Me

Summary: Stubborn until the very end, Aaron Hotchner isn’t going to go down without a fight. It’s just getting hard to tell the difference between fighting them and fighting the cancer.

Word count:  6103

Author’s Note: I did listen, on repeat, to the Anastasia soundtrack while writing this. Which, you would think, would make this a rather happy chapter and if you thought that... how silly you will feel in a few moments. You can find the first chapter here! 

Warning: the subject of this fic is cancer and it’s treatment, cursing, maybe out of character (idk, man. hotch is weird) bonus: I’m 19 and a humanities major so obviously I don’t know anything about medicine so I’m doing my best out here

Not knowing how to think I scream aloud, begin to sink My legs and arms are broken down With envy for the solid ground

There is not a sound. Not a shiver. The floorboards do not moan lowly. No hinge gives its creaking complaint. The disturbance is a felt one. Something she feels right where her fourth rib meets her sternum. It has no name. Calling it instinct is superstitious. Claiming it as training or intuition is childish.

It has everything to do with love and fear.  And love and fear alone.

“Aaron?” The comforter he seems to be forever tangled has been kicked away in his fitful sleep. In the low light of the room, the hallway light seeping in, she can see his heaving chest. As though he has run a great deal, not lying supine on his bed. “Aaron, can you hear me?” Despite the bitter scent of sweat, she can’t tell what it is that draws her deeper into the room.

Slowly, his dark eyes open, breathing rasping out as he opens his mouth to answer but no sound leaves his pale lips.

Looking over her shoulder, only after looking and listening for a sign they’ve awoken Jack, does she enter the room. Shutting the door behind her, she stifles the room to darkness. She can’t even see the hand extended in front of her. Not that she needs it. The path of his room is simple.

Two steps in there is an outfit shed by the dresser on her right side. The pant leg extends out and if she doesn’t lift her foot, she’ll trip. Three more steps in and she needs to extend her hand just a fraction to feel the cool wooden bed frame. There she can pivot herself with its aid. Step high over the sweatshirt on the floor and she’s good. Well, mostly.

She gets tangled in the comforter he kicked off.

“Em--” he coughs, letting out an achy moan. “Emily?”

She gets to his nightstand and leans heavily on the old wood, catching her breath. The damn blanket was like fighting an octopus. “Right here,” she promises, knocking all kinds of shit to the floor as she fights her way to the lamp. It comes on with a click and they both wince at its sharpness. She’s got her eyes closed, trying to allow her pupils some small reprieve, when his hand wraps around her forearm. Cold clammy fingers wrapped around her wrist. “Hotch?”

The soft hazel of his eyes is unfamiliar. “I want to go home,” he rasps softly. His chest shutters with the effort the simple request has taken. The tears in his eyes slide down his cheeks without the guilt. He strikes her. Not with his palm open and hands roughened by callouses. He does not hit her or cause her to draw back with his words. By the look in his eyes. The confusion. The pain.

“Aaron--” Once and only once does she consider trying to convince him that he is exactly where he craves to be. Mouth open, the words pushing at her tongue, she decides that will only hurt them both. Softening the look on her face, she crouches down by his side. Taking a seat on the edge of his bed.

The rash on his chest has depended its angry red, it taunts her now as the glisten of his sweat across his pale skin. Every visit to the doctor promises that it’s not as bad as it looks. It causes him mild discomfort and nothing can be done. It is a product of the radiation. To heal the wound is futile. Stepping off a cliff to avoid a hill.

“You’re feverish,” she notes, moving the back of her palm against his forehead. To her surprise, he doesn’t pull away from her touch. Not even as her fingers draw against the sharp peak of his cheek bones. He lays, compliant, eyes foggy but on her. With a fond sigh, she observes, “dehydrated. You didn’t drink the water I gave you.”

When he speaks, he sounds much more like himself. The tone costs him more than it's worth. “My throat hurts.” Which is an awful excuse but it’s the truth and she knows it’s just another part of normal life falling away from her grasp. Today it is just water but tomorrow it is the hospital. It’s the central line and the saline and the tube they’re going to place in his stomach because he’s reaching the point of inabilities.

And it is never as simple as a sore throat.

She’s tired of seeing his blood so casually wiped from his pale skin. The bags under his eyes deepened to caverns and the lakes of tears in his eyes. There is nothing she can do. The mass of cancer can be cut out of his flesh but the cells could still multiply. Quite simply, there is nothing she can do for him. Except--

“Stay.”

He mistakes her movement for the path to leave. She’s just aiming to pull the comforter back over him.

“I--” They look at each other. She sees so much burning vulnerability. “I’ll stay,” she caves and with that promise she can reach down and pull the comforter back over his body.

Already, his eyes are dropping shut. “You can--” he coughs, his whole body jarred by the movement. “You can sit, Emily. I can keep my hands to myself.”

She rolls her eyes but sits down on the corner of the bed. She takes his hand, rubbing at his knuckles when he turns his head to cough. “Shut up,” comes her hesitation reply. It feels wrong, misplaces. She wants to slip into their innocent, normal tit-for-tat banter but he’s not up for it. It’s not what he needs or is even capable of.

“Please don’t just sit there and stare at me,” he rasps.

Her face flushes. She had been doing exactly that. “If I lay down, you better not try to cuddle me.”

He huffs at that but whatever he might have said is overshadowed by his deep, nasty sounding coughs.

She reaches

“Aaron?”

“Hmm?”

She gently moves her hand across the bed sheet until she finds his. Interlacing her fingers with his she manages, thickly, “please don’t die.” His head turns on his pillow and she can feel him looking at her but she keeps her eyes on the ceiling. After a long pause, her heart beating frantically the whole way, he simply squeezes her hand. Not a promise… just comfort. Sniffling she sits up and grabs some of the blanket, pulling it over her own bare legs. “Stop hogging the covers. You’re not the only who might want some.”

As she settles down, turning her back to him, she closes her eyes. Feeling the hot stream of her tears falling over her face. The last thing she hears before she falls asleep is his hoarse voice, full of tears of his own. “I’m so sorry Emily.”

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

“How are you?”

Radiation was early this morning. He’d been lying if he didn’t admit that he gave Emily hell about it. Which he does feel fairly guilty about but she got what she wanted to he’s not that sorry. For the first time, he let her come in with him. Mostly because he didn’t have the strength to get himself out of the car but if he doesn’t dwell on that thought too much then it’s okay.

But he also knows that Emily told Garcia about this morning. Briefly, no doubt, about him being an absolute pain in the ass. Mostly how he’d let her tie his shoes. How he’d limped, leaning heavily against the wall to the bathroom and losing the meager bit of breakfast he had. Whatever she knows, she wears on her face. The worried crinkle between her brows. The downward quirk of her pink sparkling lips.

She shouldn’t be here.

Despite the ear protection Dave had spent so much time finding, his ears still ache from the rattling from the radiation machine. Every nerve in his body agitated by hot fire packers digging further and deeper into his brain. The dancers with their little tacs glued to their shoes traveling along his skin. To his legs and then up his arms. And, yet, he pushes on.

As confidently as he can manage, he forces himself to focus his eyes on Garcia. Smiling through the haggard, involuntary sway of his body. “I’m okay, Garcia. No need to worry.”

But she can see how pale his skin has gotten over the last month. How the shadow of a beard across his cheeks makes him look sicker, weaker. She knows that he won’t like her attention but she craves for Aaron Hotchner. So, she finds herself looking at him longer, trying harder to see within him. To find her boss and not the ghost he’s left behind. “We… I love you, sir. You know that, right?” She hesitantly touches his hand and as much as she thought it would hurt to feel him recoil it hurts even worse when he doesn’t.

But he’s here, isn’t he? Is it not just like her stupidly brave boss to keep trying, to keep pushing?

Hotch’s hand trembles where she’s captured it in her own and as self-conscious as that makes him feel… he can’t pull away. All these shields, blocades he’s built around himself have been his destruction. He’s pushed them away until they no longer let him near without armor of their own. Always prepared to enter the cave and find a beast. But Garcia, merciful Garcia, still just sees him. It terrifies him but he just wants someone to disregard his wishes. To throw caution to the wind and hug him. Touch him.

“I know,” he manages. He smiles, clenching his teeth to refrain from showing or saying how much better he feels with her around.

She stands, leaving his side. “Just making sure,” she confirms. She turns, her hand on his shoulder, as she takes in the state of his house. Empty. Emily has been diligent with cleaning up after them. Hotch, too, when he can manage to stand long enough to wash the dishes.

She remembers, like a blow to the heart, that Emily has fallen behind on laundry. That had been the one chore Hotch was solidly keeping up on. Emily had seemed so positive about that, only a few weeks ago. Smiling as she reassured he was very adamant to let her anywhere near the laundry (and as she suspected, his underwear) so as long as he was managing to be his usual stubborn self things would be fine. They had been. But after the nose bleeds he’s not as strong. His appetite is gone and every week when they draw his blood the odds are slowly shifting out of his favor.

He’s anemic and they gave him a blood transfusion at the hospital after the nose bleed but it hasn’t helped. Now he takes iron supplements and a pill that smells horrible and tastes even worse. He can get over the pills. It’s just two more in the sea of things he takes. It’s the fact that he can’t lift anything. Years of training and rigorous training down the drain but his knees are like jelly and his arms like boiled noodles.

On top of all that, this morning they talked about starting chemotherapy in addition to the radiation. His cells aren’t responding. So, Emily’s thoughts have been elsewhere. Not on the laundry steadily building unwashed.

“I’m going to make myself useful,” she says, getting in a quick kiss before he can put up too much of a fight. She’s not sure if his lack of response is good or not. Either way, she tucks a blanket up around him. Smiling when he just looks up at her-- there’s a flash of Hotch in his exhausted eyes. He starts to fuss with her-- she doesn’t need to clean, that’s not why she’s here (which they really don’t need to argue about unless she wants to hash out how she’s really here to babysit him).

But he just sinks into the pillow behind his head. No fight.

“Please tell me if you need help,” she says as she walks away. He hums something under his breath but she knows he won’t. She’ll just have to listen for him.

The laundry really isn’t that bad.

Emily’s room is a mess but Emily is a bit of a mess herself so it’s not that surprising. She picks up minimally. Moving anything around too much will just make Emily flustered to have been caught. So, she just picks up the towels she sees and a few pairs of shirts and pants she knows Emily likes the most and heads to the laundry room. The washing machine and dryer are down the hall, pushed aside in a closet like space.

Tossing in what she’s gathered she goes back to Emily’s room-- she’s just wasting time so she doesn’t have to go into Hotch’s room. Picking up a discarded glass of water and a few water bottles. She makes note that if Emily isn’t back in time to throw their sheets and bed sets in the washing machine. It’s always nice to have clean bedsheets.

Looking at Emily’s room she realizes she has to venture to Hotch’s room now.

She comes to linger in the living room. “You doing okay?” She doesn't get a response but she can’t really see him so she moves closer. One of his legs is drawn up, resting against the couch and the other stretched out and over the arm of the couch. When she’d left him he’d still been sitting up, fighting to stay alert through their short conversation. It’s… nice to see him comfortable.

Without thinking, she reaches down and moves her hand through his hair. Trying her best not to react to the amount of grey she sees. He moves, shifting his face further into the couch. She fears she’s woken him but his eyelashes flutter for only a moment before he sighs and stills once again.

Sighing, she leaves him once again. Blindly hoping he’ll sleep for a while if she doesn’t bother him.

His room is… exactly as she expects it to be and, yet, not.

His bedspread is a dark green color, nearly emerald and surely something Jessica or one of the other’s picked out. There are pieces of him thrown through-out the room with the finest touches of someone else left behind. For example, the books that litter every surface is him. From his nightstand, to his dresser, to a few stacked on the floor. The nightstands are old and she feels a little sore work itself into her throat at the possibility that they are a set and were probably bought for him and Haley.

And now there’s only him.

There is a stuffed elephant and blanket on the floor on the other side of the bed. She wonders how frequently Jack sleeps with him. Probably more than normal now.

His room is neat. She tucks his comforter back where it should be. Placing a piece of paper in the book he’d left face down. There’s a single sock with colorful, swirling patterns. A shirt that looks very well loved tucked inside of a sweater of equal wear and tear. Clothes and homely things. Hotch things.

From down the hall she hears his muffled coughs and something hard hitting the wall.

“Sir!” She hurries from his room, letting the clothes in her hand hit the floor. It’s not hard to find him. His house has a familiar, simple layout. “Are you okay?” He’s standing in the hall, facing her. Shoulder pulled in, left arm around his chest, and the right blindly leading him along.

He nods, muffling his bone rattling coughs into his elbow. “Just…” he shakes his head. “Going to the bathroom.”

She looks over her shoulder, his room and bathroom are only a few steps away but… He doesn’t look like he’s going to get there without a little help. “Could…” she chews her lips into her mouth. “Would it be okay I help-- If you just leaned on me, a little bit? For my sanity?”

He nods, simply going where she moves him. It’s not hard to slip under him. Without heels, his height advantage is much more apparent. She looks down at the floor as she works his arm over her shoulders, smiling at the sight of his socks. Her own don’t match-- a homage to Reid but also because she knows it, secretly, drives Hotch crazy. But he’s wearing a pair of polka dot socks. Each one an extreme loud variation of every color you can think of.

“Nice socks, sir!”

It distracts him for a moment from the humiliation of needing both her and the wall to walk down the hall. He looks down at his socks-- socks that he and Emily had fought long and hard about this morning. He didn’t want to wear them. He’d needed normalcy. Craved it. He wanted plain black socks that would go unnoticed. But she had won and everyone saw him in his boxers and stupidly bright socks. It had put smiles on their faces too. Even Emily’s, though, she had tried to hide it behind her book.

“Emily’s doing,” he reassures her.

They can’t fit shoulder-to-shoulder into the room so she lets him lean against the doorframe and manage it on his own. Following closely behind. “Oh, of course,” she says smiling now she’s behind him and he can't see. Though, as soon as she’s done it she wishes he would see. To see her smile and know it’s at his expense and give her one of those scowls that have always just made her love him a little more.

But instead she sits on the corner of his bed and closes her eyes. Wincing and flinching as he gets sick.

Emily had been so… afraid when she left. Garcia hadn’t understood why. Even when the information Emily was throwing at her-- hurling words, meaningless words. Now… Now Garcia is cursed with Emily's same burden of knowing.

It had all come so quickly-- that the nose bleed had been because he was anemic and that they can’t get his red blood cell count back up. “Not to fret”, Emily had said thickly with sarcasm, his white blood cells are through the rough and the product of much anxiety. That the awful cough he has is from Radiation Pneumonitis and “not to worry” he’s on steroids that make him incredibly nauseous and a complete ass. The best part? It can scar his lungs!

All this information had come so quickly that Garcia hadn’t processed any of it.

Dave had called Garcia early this morning and asked if she needed anything to do. Normally, when he asks that sort of thing, he’s asking her over to do the grunt work of cooking-- rolling breads or kneading dough-- but today when she’d happily agreed he’d had something else in mind.

So, today, while Emily goes with Dave for a long lunch she’s staying with Hotch.

The original plan was just to leave him by himself. Dave had assumed that would be alright. Afterall, two days ago when Dave had last seen him, Hotch was very himself. Stubborn and grouchy when they tried to help him do anything-- even the normal sorts of things you do for people: hold the door, pass them a plate, ask if they want anything when you go to get yourself something, etc.

Having to explain how she couldn’t simply leave Hotch had… broken Emily just a little more. Keeping herself calm, collected as she explained that she was going out with Dave for a while and she’d make sure to bring him something back. Coffee or soup (anything so long as he’d agree to eat). She had cried as soon as she stood to walk to her room, lower lip quivering at just how easily he’d caved. He’d protested everything she did all morning and now just… submits. She’d sobbed in the shower.

He annoys her to no end. Her closest friend, the man she’d left behind to search for something more in London, was a basket case. Do not mistake that. Aaron Hotchner has to do everything himself. Independence is very important to him and she’s being forced to watch him give in. Too tired to fight.

Garcia had arrived a little sooner than expected and Emily had opened the door in a towel, her mascara from that morning smudged under her eyes. Before she could get out an apology, Garcia had already assured her she had plenty of time and that Garcia would go back out and tell Dave to cut the car and come in for a moment.

And Hotch…

He’d been asleep on the couch. Sitting up, nestled into the corner where Emily had left him.

“Hey, Pen?”

Garcia hadn’t even realized she’d been staring.

“He’s got a heating pad tucked against his side, will you warm it up?”

And she’d learned Hotch is prone to chills. That along with nine awful scars, Foyet had damaged his body's ability to regulate temperature and that radiation is being a bitch. So to ease the ache in his side, where Foyet had nicked a rib that won’t ever really heal, Emily just keeps a heating pad around. It keeps him warm.

The beast of knowledge.

“Garcia?”

She hates him. For a moment. Anger and impatient it eats her alive and that’s such an awful thing to have to feel about someone you love. Why can’t he be stronger? It leaves her body in a choked sound. How could she even let herself feel such contempt for the very man who always prides her for her brightness? Loves her no matter how much trouble she drags up? Goes out of his way to remind her to always be her bright silly self?

She stands from his bed and opens the bathroom door.

He looks ashamed and she hates that.

“Have I ever told you about the time Reid and I broke a coffee pot and hid it from you for a month?” she asks before he can apologize.

His Adam's apple bobs as he looks up at her. He’s still curled into himself, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. He feels weak, useless. He couldn't even find the strength to stand and pee. Then, on top of it all, she’d been right there on the other side of the door as he vomited. By now, this is not the first apology he’s been beaten to. Emily has this infallible way of sensing them coming and quickly changes the subject to something else.

It’s… strange to see Garica practice it too.

“Please tell me that was far too long ago to be worth fussing with you over?” he asks, trembling as he accepts the hand she offers.

She smiles and tuckers herself back against him, wrapping her arm around his hips. “Oh it was a while ago,” she assures him. “Like… Gideon long ago. He was just a baby--” she keeps talking no matter what. When he whispers that he needs a break at the doorway, a whole two steps later. Tells him how terrified they’d all been of him at some point in time. How that’s all rather silly because Aaron Hotchner is nothing but a big softy. And, believe it or not, it has always been Derek Morgan breaking that secret to the rookies. That he’s not as big and tough as he looks. That a good, warm batch of snickerdoodles will melt his big icy heart so quickly--

“How many people did you tell that to?” he asks.

She shrugs, only the people that really needed it. “Do I have to give you a number if I make you some right now?”

He considers her offer. His stomach has settled a little and the smell alone would be divine. Plus, Emily had said he could pick dinner… what’s the possibility that she would cave to just letting him eat a cookie or two? He smiles, “I’d consider adequate reparation.”

“Wanna help?”

His smile falters just a bit. He can’t stand for that long and--

“We can make them at the table,” she adds, hastily.

And… he nods. Okay.

That’s how Dave and Emily find them an hour later.

Hotch is covered in flour and Garcia too. A good proper mess.

He’s wrapped in a blanket, the one from the couch, and leaning heavily on the arm propped up on the table. Smiling, content, as Garcia checks the cookies and reassures him that they need only a little bit longer. So that they come out right as the bottom is browning but not brown. ANd he nods his head like he understands when she says the point is to let them finish baking on the pan outside of the oven. That’s the secret to soft cookies.

Which, to him, just sounds like she’s saying she's going to feed slightly undercooked cookies but he’s eaten cookie dough raw for years. He’s never had salmonella but he did get cancer so obviously someone wasn’t warning him about the right things.

“What in the world did you two get into?”

“Cookies!” Garcia holds open the oven to show them. “If you wait just a moment they will be ready!” She places the dirty dishes into the sink. Throwing some water over them to make it easier to wash the dough off.

Emily raises an eyebrow at Hotch and he shrugs. She’s amused by the sight of him covered in flour and what more is to add but a submissive shrug. What can he say except he’s a softy who has always lacked the ability to tell them no?

“You didn’t let Hotch do the measuring did you?” Dave asks, stepping in and inspecting the damage done to the kitchen. Under his breath he continues, “you can tell he’s never been a math man. I’m convinced he doesn’t understand fractions.” Dave has cooked with him too many times. Hotch has never once successfully measured everything right in any dish. The amount of times one fourth has been mistaken as a half or an eighth of something rounded up to a third… it’s crazy.

Garcia glances at Hotch and he already knows exactly where she’d going-- “Well,” she admits, “I let him put the cinnamon in--”

Hotch groans from the table, a dramatic sigh as he closes his eyes and admits defeat.

“It wasn’t his fault!” It was. “There might just be a little bit too much cinnamon. It’s not a big deal!”

Aaron Hotchner brought to his knees by fractions.

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

When Hotch was in the second grade he got chickenpox from his next-door neighbor Michael. A very common thing given the time and the general mindset of “chickenpox parties”. It had been awful and itchy. His brain so ravished by the fever that he doesn’t remember a whole lot about the experience. Just that it had begun as a patch of dry skin under his right arm, perfectly wedged between two of his protruding ribs. That week of horrible fever and endless itching is the only time Hotch can ever recall his father being gentle.

He’d awoken once during that week, just after four and when his father typically arrived home, to the door shutting softly. His mother whispering to gather his father’s attention and diverge the man away from Hotch. Who, thanks to itching, had only just managed to fall asleep.

Halfway up the stairs, Hotch can remember waking up in his father’s arms. The man had shushed him softly, rocking him the way you might a child until Hotch had laid his head against his father’s chest and gone back to sleep. The gentleness of that action has haunted Hotch for years. Something he thinks about occasionally. Trying and failing to wrap his mind around something so out of character. So bizarre.

“Daddy,” Jack whines, he twists in his father’s lap. “You’re not watching, look!” His little finger demands Hotch’s attention, pointing to the TV. “Did you see it?” Jacks asks, sitting up to gauge Hotch’s reaction. “It was amazing, huh?”

Knowing his son, Hotch does try and get the boy out of the house as much as possible. Which means that lazy nights come far and rare in between. If he can, Hotch likes to take him to the park, museums, aquariums. Anything to keep his little mind crazed by the ideas of the world around him and actively engaged. Today… is not one of those days. There hasn’t been a lot of those days recently.

“The cancer is spreading--”

There’s a certain understandable science to the way that chickenpox works. They actually follow a pattern on the body when they spread. Hotch’s had curled from his left side to his right, working in the grooves of his ribs, and up his sternum.

A very similar pattern to the cancer spreading in his body.

Radiation is no longer enough.

He has two rounds of chemo and spends a lot of time thinking about what comes next. He’s going to get sicker. Weaker. Probably lose his hair. What will really be left of him when all is said and done?

Outside the rain comes down in buckets, thunder shaking the earth, but there’s nothing to the peace inside. Emily had gone around lighting candles, trying to soothe Jack in preparation for if the storm knocks out the electricity. Even if she’d managed to annoy him with her fluttering about, she’d been gentle and understanding. Making sure his shirt was buttoned to hide the deeply irritated skin on his chest.

She’s stronger than he is.

They are all.

“Asland,” Jack mumbles in amazement. He’s settled back down in Hotch’s lap, head on his thigh so Hotch can mindlessly play with his hair. Hotch can’t follow the plot of the simple movie but he’s seen it enough times to hum and mumble responses to Jack’s questions.

The Chronicles of Narnia. It’s Jack’s new favorite thing.

They’ve probably watched it now at least a dozen times.

Emily’s started having dreams about the movie.

No matter how many times he requests it though, she’ll still play it and Hotch will sit down and let Jack explain the plot again. Everytime, it ends with tears.

“I don’t understand why he has to leave,” Jack whimpers.

Hotch is struggling to fight with consciousness. Radiation leaves him haggard. Limbs seemingly attached by measly strings and joints that buckle with minimal weight. He’s got a rash up his chest that itches and burns a lot like that chickenpox rash. It’s normal, he’s assured, and they give him ointment to keep on it. Not to clear it up but rather to keep it from getting infected. Which… seems so practical if not normal. Mundane, really.

“Who?” Hotch rasps, forcing his eyes back open to squint at the TV.

Jack looks up at his father, tears streaming down his face. “Asland.” Over the course of the last few months, of course Jack can tell his father isn’t well. Everyone treats Jack like a thoughtless child, and he is child, but he’s not stupid. He knows why he has to sleep at Jessica’s and why, no matter how much Emily and Hotch make a point to only see him on Hotch’s “good” days, that his father is slowly withering away.

The thigh under Jack’s head used to be bigger. Tense with muscles not thin, almost to the bone. His father seemed to loom, towering over everything. Jack had thought him a king, a knight, a hero. Someone who, through the aches pains of it all rises triumphant and reigns on. Because his father has always been the best kind of person. Strong, vigilant, and forgiving. Surely… that would offer some forgiveness, no? An extra life in the bonus round or a break.

Hotch swallows thickly around the nausea knotting up in his throat. “Asland,” he repeats with a sigh. Right. Asland dies. They’re passed that point but he does die. For the greater good, a strategic move, but the sacrificial play none-the-less. “Sometimes,” Hotch lifts his head. “He was saving the other’s, Jack. He sacrificed himself.” He’s too tired to explain how the book was just a huge religious metaphor. “Sometimes people have to leave.”

Jack sniffles and wraps himself around Hotch’s stomach, burying his head closer. “Why?” he asks miserably.

Hotch doesn’t know. It’s never what you want but he doesn’t want to tell Jack about all of that. How at one point Jack and Haley had been the ones to leave Hotch reeling with that same question, despite logic dictating a clear answer. That Emily had done the same thing to him multiple times. Everyone on the team, really. He’s probably done it to them. If not already, then soon.

“I don’t know, buddy,” Hotch shakes his head. “I really don’t.” Jack nods his head, crying softly against Hotch. Hotch starts to rub Jack’s back, despite the ache in his limbs. “Listen…” Hotch clears his throat and Jack senses the turn in conversation. Jack sits up, looking, searching in Hotch’s eyes as he sniffles and wipes his face with the back of his hands. “I have to… We have to talk about something, buddy. About what’s been going on.”

Emily sits in the guest room and tries her best not to think about what’s going on in the living room. It was only a matter of time but… she couldn’t help but think maybe they could fix all this. It must be a matter of faulty testing. Surely, that must be the case. Hadn’t they already been through enough? Have they not lost enough?

Jessica sends her a text, Hotch isn’t answering his own phone.

Emily leaves her room, leaning out first just to see if they’re still talking. They’re not. The TV has been turned off, no sound.

Jack is curled into his father, clutching Hotch’s t-shirt in his little fist. Despite the dried tear tracks on his face, the boy looks at peace. His head tucked under Hotch’s chin and arms holding on tight, Hotch won’t be able to move without Jack noticing. Understandably, Jack has some apprehensions about his father leaving his sight.

“How’d he take the news,” Jessica asks. Her anger has melted, leaving her wilted in a puddle of emotions that she doesn’t even know where to begin to deal with. “I can’t--” she shakes her head. “I just can’t imagine it,” she whispers, glancing at Emily. “He’s so young,” she brushes her tears from her cheeks. “He can’t lose Aaron, too.”

She nods her head, she’s afraid to lose him as well. To be a child, though, living this as a reality that at any moment you might become an orphan… Jack’s only a child. He’s not even ten yet. What will he have to cling to? The cold nights come frequently and he’ll be alone. Surrounded by people but alone.

In London, there wasn’t a single moment she could step out and not get lost in crowds. It was the safest way to avoid detection. In those days, she’d clung to online Scrabble and read and rereading the letter Hotch had written her before she’d left. It was in the file with the other identities and money. While it had not been a technical element to the FBI’s idea of “everything” she might need it kept her alive.

On those cold night’s she’d curl into herself with her heating pad pressed against those old wounds and read his letter. Fingers ghosting over the ink and eyes taking in every detail. Where his hand wavered writing about Reid failing to cope. The stain of a tear beside Jack's name. Her favorite passage:

“I believe Ashley will try to leave the unit the next chance that she gets. You were her mentor and I’m afraid I have not offered her too much in claims to stake here. A part of me is partial to her staying. You were her mentor and she reflects that in the strangest moments. I hope she stays, I indulge myself in her rebellions against me. I think it reminds me of you.”

It never failed to make her smile. Take her back to the nights she’d drive home in a fit of rage or have arguments with her imaginations version of him in the shower. Cursing like a sailor but telling him how she really felt.

What will Jack cling to when Hotch is not here?

@laiba-the-person, @emily-hottie-prentiss, @unionjackpillow, @clockedstar, @baumarvel, @blakeprentiss, @qvid-pro-qvo, @aaron-hotchner187, @ssalavellan

[leftenantmackgordon]

Enemy - Pt. I

A “Joyeux Noël” Mackenzie Gordon x Karl Horstmayer Fic

Series Main List

Warnings: Explicit language, WWI trench medicine & descriptive wound care, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 2.4k

Horstmayer

“If you value your life, you’ll stay here and stay quiet.” Gordon’s words wash over him before the older man disappears out into the hazy morning light.

Horstmayer’s head swims, and dark spots eat at his vision despite the darkened dugout. His head throbs and sticky liquid coats his face - blood, he thinks. Sharp, screaming pain high on his left thigh accompanies the splitting ache in his skull, and he seethes as he slumps against the poor excuse for a bed.

He doesn’t need the Scotsman’s help. He didn’t need to be dragged behind enemy lines. And he certainly doesn’t need Lt. Gordon’s orders.

Yet despite the indignation simmering along his skin, it's disturbingly easy to heed the older man's words. The interior of the officer's dugout spins in his vision as he breathes against the aches and pains. Over the ringing of artillery shells in his ears, he can just hear voices outside. Gordon's softer, intriguingly light-pitched voice. And someone who barks with the full force of authority.

He recognizes the tone of a commanding officer when he hears it. It's a tone that he himself has learned to adopt as he rose in the ranks and commanded men older than himself. But somehow, he can't picture Gordon using that tone. In the haze of blurry thoughts, his mind conjures the firm yet velvety tone of the Scotsman's voice from passing moments on a peaceful day.

He shifts against the lumpy pillow, biting his lip to stifle a groan. Of course it smells of stale, unwashed male odor but also, there is pipe tobacco and something roasty sweet that he can't place. It's comforting. Safe, even.

Time escapes him. Minutes or hours may pass before sunlight stabs his eyes when the dugout's entrance canvas is pulled back. It does nothing for the aching roar in his skull as he startles back to alertness with a moan and tries to roll over.

“Take it easy.” A strong hand falls to his shoulder, steadying him as Gordon continues to speak. “You’re lucky the major is half-deaf from his own days of warfare.”

Horstmayer winces as he tries to shake his head. “Then why not just… just let them take me now?”

Gordon squeezes his shoulder supportively. “You’re in no state for extraction across the channel, let alone internment right now.” His other hand lands on Horstmayer’s hip, bodily rolling him onto his back with uncommon ease despite the protesting groans. “And to make sure that you do see those white cliffs, we need to tend to your injuries.”

Horstmayer grits his teeth, hissing as a lantern flares to life. The light does his splitting headache no favors as he blinks miserably, resisting the urge to just leave his eyes closed. But his need to watch Gordon’s movements outweighs the pain. It’s not that he doesn’t trust the older Scotsman… or does he?

The ceasefire had been a temporary stay order, and the war marches on. Gordon would be well within his rights to treat Horstmayer however he wanted, despite the provisions of the Hague Conventions of 1899 and 1907. Horstmayer knows the difference between regulations on paper and realities in the field, and he knows better than to let his guard down.

A dry, roughened hand takes his chin in a gentle hold. He recoils against the movement, resisting as Gordon turns his head to expose the blood-coated side of his face.

“Stop it. I’m not going to hurt you.” The Scotsman gently tuts, managing to hold the younger man still while inspecting the injury. “Doesn’t look too deep, fortunately. And you’re lucky with the hit to your leg. Missed a major artery.”

Horstmayer tenses against the hand that remains on his jaw as Gordon’s other hand comes into view with a dark cloth. “Don’t tell me that you’re part of the medical corps now?” He breaks off with a pained hiss as the cloth bears down on the swollen, tender skin.

“Mercifully not.” Gordon’s words come soft and soothing as he wipes at the crusted mud and blood. “But debriding wounds is much the same process for humans as it is for animals, and I doubt that you’ll see much mercy from the relief troops that now occupy my trench.”

The words swim in Horstmayer’s mind beneath the stabbing pain despite the other man’s careful touch. Gordon’s hand abandons his chin and cards through the unwashed hair on his forehead, pulling it back to better see the damaged skin. The pale blue color of the Scotsman’s eyes are unmistakable at this distance, and Horstmayer closes his eyes against the simmering frustration at being so helpless. He forces himself to speak. “You mentioned animals… is that what you did befor-nngh!” His words dissolve in a sharp groan as Gordon tugs his hair, and his skull splits open.

Pain lances through him and he jolts against the bed, biting off a cry as fresh, hot blood oozes down the side of his face. Gordon’s ready with a cloth to catch it, but it does nothing to ease the white-hot ache.

“If you didn’t like that,” Gordon’s relaxing voice sounds over the pounding blood in his ears as a small bottle comes into view. “Then, you’re not going to like this.”

Fresh pain erupts as fire ignites in the wound. Objectively, he knows its antiseptic solution, but he nearly bites a hole through his lip to stifle his whimpers. His breathing comes in short, hissing draws as the burn subsides, replaced with the dull throb of pressure as a compression bandage is secured in place.

“One down.” The Scotsman says easily, as if this is something he does every day. “One to go.”

Those pale blue eyes move from Horstmayer’s watery vision, and steady hands tug at his clothing and the flies of his trousers. A wave of shameful modesty overtakes him – despite his years in military boarding school – as the dirty, grey wool is worked down his hips to his knees. He fears his drawers are next, but mercifully, Gordon pushes the blood-stained cotton shorts up his thigh to expose the wound.

The older man huffs an incredulous breath. “The angels are indeed on your side, my friend.”

“A-and what….” Horstmayer pauses to swallow, hating the tremulous edge to his voice. “What does that mean?”

“Means you caught a piece of shrapnel, but it didn’t puncture you through - or catch you higher up - or, again, rupture a major artery.” The steady, warmly reassuring weight of Gordon’s hand falls to his thigh in a clear bid to hold him still as the wound is cleaned. “And, yes," Gordon says, "is the answer to your earlier question.”

He racks his aching brain for the question, remembering the comments about animals. “That seems surprising,” he hisses at the pressure against tender skin before clarifying. “That you’re here, then, and not….” He doesn’t know where exactly, but it seems a poor strategy to put a man with any sort of medical training to use commanding troops in a trench.

“The Veterinary Corps isn’t where they need the manpower.” Gordon rotates Horstmayer’s leg to flatten the splay of his thigh where the shard resides. His hand falls just above Horstmayer’s knee with an encouraging squeeze, and the younger man tenses for what comes next. “I’ll go as fast as I can," Gordon promises. "Deep breath, now.”

He does, and pain shoots through his leg as Gordon pulls the shrapnel free. A gasping cry escapes him and humiliating tears sting his eyes as the biting burn of antiseptic takes over. His body trembles with adrenaline and the instinctual need to escape the pain despite knowing that he needs to hold still.

A humming sound leaves Gordon before he straightens and glances over his shoulder in a moment of deliberation. “You could probably use some sutures….” He trails off as he sighs, turning back with a decision made. “But this will have to do instead.” He draws up a thick cloth and leans forward, pressing the full weight of his body against the wound with both hands.

Horstmayer bites off a cry, arching against the hard bed and trying to curl in towards the earthen wall away from the crushing pressure of Gordon’s touch. His thoughts reel as pain consumes him, ashamed of his undignified response.

“Come on, deep breaths, like I said.” The Scotsman speaks in a calm, soothing tone that pierces the rush of his thoughts. “After all this, you don’t get to choke up and die on me, now.”

Nothing about anything in the moment should make Horstmayer relax, but he finds that he does with discomforting ease. He focuses on drawing deep, steady breaths, and the pain starts to ebb, his heart starts to calm. It paves the way for his confusion and frustration to boil to the surface, instead.

“That’s it.” Gordon coaxes as his muted blue eyes and hint of encouraging smirk catch in the bottom of Horstmayer’s vision. “We’ll hold here for a bit in a bid to stop the bleeding, but that’s it – keep breathing.”

“Why are you saving my life?!” Horstmayer grits out the desperate question. “The truce is over, and you’re… you’re the enemy!”

Something sad flashes in Gordon’s eyes and disappears just as quickly. “That’s what my orders say, too. But then why did you offer us shelter in your trench on Christmas Day?” He sighs and turns his gaze to the ceiling of his dugout. “Leaving you to die in your trench would just have made me an enemy of humanity. So, instead, you’re my prisoner… for lack of a better term.”

“You don’t need to explain it to me.” Horstmayer huffs, trying to keep his breathing even. It strikes him that it’s reckless of Gordon to leave him unbound if he is indeed a prisoner, but it doesn’t surprise him. A dull, throbbing ache settles in his thigh to match the pounding in his skull, and – and, he’s so tired. His body starts to go lax against the bed as the fight seeps out of him.

“I would hardly hide you from my superior officer only to treat your wounds and hand you over to a firing squad.” The sincerity of Gordon’s words strike him to the bone. “You can rest easy.”

His lips curl with a tight snarl but he bites his tongue. Lashing out at Gordon again won’t help him. Certainly not while he lays half undressed with blood flowing from his head and leg. He closes his eyes against the mental image that he must make in the other man’s bed, suddenly desperate for a distraction.

“So, how about you?” Gordon asks quietly. “What did you do before all of this started?”

He draws a long inhale through his nose as exhaustion sinks in. “You could say that I was raised for war.”

“Ah.” Gordon works through it quickly. “A second son, then?”

“A noble tradition.” He corrects just as quickly. While true that his elder brother stood to gain the family inheritance, Horstmayer holds no grudge for establishing his legacy in military duty.

Gordon falls silent for a long moment, and Horstmayer can’t help but angle his head against the misshapen pillow to get a read on the man’s face. He looks torn in deep conflict as if carefully weighing the measure of his next words. A thick swallow works its way down Gordon’s throat before he speaks. “There’s very little that’s noble about warfare.”

“About this modern warfare,” Horstmayer corrects again. “But a life spent in service to one’s country is arguably the most honorable calling.”

The Scotsman hums with obvious skepticism. “So I’ve heard.” His hands adjust on the wound, but the heavy pressure remains. “And now, how many men will meet their untimely end in pursuit of such a noble charge?” He exhales a deep breath. “You got lucky this time, my friend.”

My friend.

Horstmayer grits his teeth and his eyes slip closed. “And if I meet my death in the service of my country, then I will die with honor.”

Silence greets his words. Does Gordon disagree? Or is the older man simply waiting for him to continue? He cracks an eye open only to meet the full force of Gordon’s concerned gaze.

In the steady glow of the lantern, Horstmayer could consider the older man handsome. The fine lines of his face speak to age and experience that he himself doesn’t yet possess, and the watercolor blue of Gordon's eyes are wells that he could drown in. Beneath his neatly trimmed mustache, the line of Gordon’s mouth is set in fierce disapproval as he speaks. “Then, I’m doubly glad that I had you removed from your trench. You may yet someday get to fulfill your so-called honorable death, but it won’t be in this war. And I can live with that much easier.”

He turns away before Horstmayer can understand anything in his sharp tone and looks back at the wound. The pressure of his hands finally relents as he inspects around the edge of the soiled cloth and sighs in satisfaction. “That worked better than I hoped. Despite your words, your body has a desire to live, with a good strength for healing.”

Horstmayer wants to retort but can’t find the words. His eyelids are heavy and sleep tugs at the corners of his mind. He winces as the cloth is gingerly peeled away, and Gordon does his best to push the edges of the wound together before securing a tight bandage.

“One last thing.” Gordon’s voice carries over the sound of a bottle cap unscrewing. “Not that you need much help falling asleep, but it’s the best I can do for the pain.” His hand falls to the back of Horstmayer’s head, gingerly tilting it to help him accept the bottle against his lips. A smoky, harsh alcohol burns his throat. He coughs involuntarily against the first taste and steadfastly refuses to look at Gordon as he takes another drink. This time, he catches the same roasty sweet flavor that inhabits Gordon’s pillow, like toasted caramel.

The alcoholic heat warms him to his stomach, and he settles back against the pillow, giving in to the heavy pull of his eyelids. Maybe when he wakes, this will all be a distant dream.

The solid, undeniably comforting weight of Gordon’s hand on his shoulder tells him differently.

Series Main List

[tailorvizsla]

[Disclaimer: I was absolutely fucking wasted when I wrote this. I’ve cleaned up all the typos I could find, but “Drunk Tailor’s Thots” and the meme stay. Enjoy.]

Title: cracks in his armor Pairing: Daddy x Reader, your tongue x his hammer (and other places), your back x his work table lmaoooo [Sadet (OC) x f!Reader] Word Count: too many (~3k ish?) Rating: absolute filth like NC-21 or something like I’d probably throw myself off a cliff if anyone saw this shit irl Warnings: no use of a condom because tailor is a hoe like that just pretend it’s okay, the ol’ in an out, you lick his hammer, stuff, plot what plot this is straight up porn, inappropriate use of a hammer, he is big meat mando we are hiding all 7+ inches of tiingilar-fed Mandalorian sausage in various holes, we’re climbing the Matterhorn and sliding all the way down to base camp coochie first, we are fucking Sadet like it’s the Dicklympics and we’re going for gold in every category Author’s Notes: just pure unadulterated thirst because who doesn’t want to get bent over and absolutely destroyed by a dude with nice shoulders and a huge dick also we’re licking his hammer BUT pretend it’s CLEAN I ain’t got time to write in him cleaning it off, it’s clean, I promise. 

[I feel like I need to apologize to @magsgotswags​ for what I’ve done to her boy, but...that would be a huge fucking lie and I am not a liar. That being said...I’ll hose him off, put his hammer through the autoclave, and make sure he eats a well-balanced meal before I send him back. 🤣]

📚 My Master List 📚

You’re not sure how this even started but here you are, bent forward over Sadet’s work table with your pants down around your thighs and his cock buried in you to the hilt. He’s got one hand wrapped around the back of your neck, pressing your cheek into the soft, buttery wood underneath you. The other hand holds your wrists behind your back as he fucks into you, his fingers like iron bands as they dig into the delicate bones in your wrists. 

Sadet isn’t big into emotions, but you know for a fact there are at least two things he loves in life – his craft and his big beautiful beskar hammer. Hazily, you wonder if it was the fact that you had cornered him to ask what his line of work entailed that caught his laser-like attention and got you into this situation. A sharp thrust forces a half-sob from your throat as his cock finds the end of you, as if he can sense your distraction from the lesson at hand. He has this thing where he likes to lecture you and test you on what you’ve retained later. It’s not fair – you both know it – but you’re whimpering so much right now you can’t even protest his treatment of you.

Even if you could, you wouldn’t. As emotionally constipated as he is, this is still the best cock you’ve had in your life and you’ve made some headway with getting him to open up a bit. You are not fucking this up. Licking your lips, you let your eyes drift shut as he continues his merciless pace, hips smacking wetly into your ass. You’re virtually helpless to do anything but take his cock. Just the way you like it.

“ – utilizes seven basic techniques [1],” he’s saying, and you feel him look down at you as he squeezes his fingers around your wrists. “Can you name four of them and tell me what each one accomplishes?”

You manage to uncross your eyes as you open them.

“D-drawing,” you gasp out. “Len-lengthens th-the metal.”

“You like length, don’t you,” he murmurs. “Continue.”

A whine pours out of your mouth as he changes his angle just a bit, pressing his cock right into that sweet spot, the one that has you squirming and throbbing.

“B…bending…”

“Mm-hmm,” he responds. “Bent, just like you right now, hmm?”

“…heat,” you manage to get out. “Allows it to b-bend. Ductile. Malleable.”

“Just like the heat of my hands makes your legs spread wide open,” he murmurs. “Bend apart like red hot steel. You feel like it on the inside, too.”

Squirming, you let out a pathetic little mewl as he slows his pace, letting you feel every inch as he draws out until his cock threatens to fall out of you entirely.

“Come on, two more,” he says. “You can do it, little one.”

You wrack your mind, trying to remember what he had been saying earlier. The wretched man stops moving entirely, letting you feel every little twitch of his cock inside you. At least now, the only thing distracting you is the heavy weight of his hands on your body.

“Welding,” you blurt out. “Welding.”

He resumes thrusting slowly, the pressure around your wrists lightening ever so slightly. You don’t need to be prompted to explain it to him.

“Welding…joins two metals,” you stutter. “The same, sometimes dif-different metals.”

“I like joining,” he says, punctuating his sentence with a thrust that forces a noise between a grunt and a scream from between your lips. “Look at us, two different types of metal here. I’d say you were copper. Soft…conductive. All it takes is one little spark and you glow for me. Takes a lot to shatter you…but I think I can make it happen.”

You bite down on your lower lip. He’s broken you before, brought you to the edge until you sobbed for him, begged him for release, promised him the world just to let you finish. He’s a generous lover but when he focuses on the task at hand – whether finishing beskar’gam at the Forge or while fucking you to the brink of tears – there’s very little that will redirect his attention from his work.

“One more,” he coaxes. “You can do it.”

Your brain sputters to a halt. No matter how hard you try, you can’t remember the rest of them.

“Can’t remember?” he asks softly, voice faintly mocking. “I’m disappointed you weren’t paying attention.”

He releases your wrists and pulls out, leaving you feeling empty. Effortlessly, he lifts you up, maneuvering you onto your back in the center of the table. Before you can react he grabs either side of the front of your pants and pulls, neatly ripping the fabric apart. Fuck, yet one more thing you’ll need to worry about later. Sadet lets out a dark noise of delight at the sight of your well-fucked cunt, glistening wet and swollen.

“Hands under you,” he orders, and you slide your hands under your lower back, pinning yourself into place. If you obey, there is a chance he will take mercy on you, let you come and forgive you for not paying attention to his lesson. As his fingers dig into your thighs, you know there isn’t a chance he is going to let you off that easy. It was futile to hope otherwise.

“Blacksmithing utilizes seven basic techniques,” he starts. “You got a few of them. Drawing, bending, welding. There’s punching, which is used to create a decorative pattern or to add a hole.”

His fingers trail up your thighs as he holds your legs wide apart.

“Speaking of adding holes…I haven’t fucked your ass yet, have I?” he murmurs. You’re not able to hide your grimace and Sadet laughs at you. “If you’re ever in the mood, I’ll happily wreck your ass the same way I wreck your cunt, little one…now where was I?”

He pauses deliberately, reaching up. The man yanks your shirt open, sending buttons flying in every direction. Your bra follows but you don’t dare protest – he’ll just offer to buy another one for you. There is something about literally ripping the kute off you that turns him into an animal.

“Ah, yes,” he says. “You weren’t paying attention during my lesson. How to punish you…”

You whine and squirm, knowing what’s coming next. With one hand, he places his hammer on the table, all smooth beskar from the head all the way down to the metal shaft. Sadet lifts it and aims the handle right into your cunt, sliding it in slowly. It’s thick and cold and he only uses it on you when you’ve really pissed him off. You deserve it though – he’s given this lecture at least a dozen times, you should know the seven steps. It’s your own fault at this point.

He keeps a tight grip around the shaft to keep it from sliding too far in and hurting you. He’s fond of making you cry but not that way – he doesn’t want to hurt you, he only wants you to cry from pleasure. When you finally relax down onto the surface of the table, he starts to rock it in and out slowly. When you reach up and squeeze his forearm with your fingers, he knows he can use a little more force, and you return your hand under your back.

“There’s upsetting, which thickens metal on one dimension through shortening on another,” he says. “Then there’s also upsetting, which is what your refusal to pay attention does to me.” He sighs exaggeratedly. “You’re a mess in armor, but...a tolerable mess.”

You whine, pussy clenching around the ice cold intrusion inside you, heart racing at the sight of the smooth dark visor floating out of reach above you.

“Can you remember the last one?” he asks, his voice almost taunting. “You can do it.”

“F…finish…finishing,” you pant out, and he tilts his helmet down at you in a Mandalorian smile.

“Good girl,” he rumbles at you. “I may let you finish, little one, if you keep being good for me.”

He turns his attention to his hammer, watching the beskar disappears inside you, only to reappear moments later, wet and drenched in your slick. He stays there until the metal is warm from your cunt before he pulls it out. Lifting the edge of his helmet up, he brings the metal to his lips and the tip of his tongue darts out, lapping up a bit of your mess. You shudder in response.

 “Warm, sweet. Soft. Tastes good,” he says. “Tastes like you.”

He gently places the hammer down onto your torso, the heavy head on your belly and the smooth metal shaft pointing toward your face. Without waiting you open your mouth and close your eyes, stretching your lips around the smooth metal handle. It’s a bit awkward like this, bobbing your head while you clean the long streaks of slick off the beskar, but he loves it in a way he can’t really explain. 

Once he’s satisfied, he pulls the shaft out of your mouth with a wet pop. Then he deftly turns it around, holding the head just above your lips. Locking eyes with the horizontal bar of his visor, you let your tongue dart out, tracing along the gleaming metal surface. His other hand tightens at your waist.

“I have something else for your mouth, if you’d like,” he murmurs.

You nod once at him, and he offers his hand, pulling you up into a sitting position. Sadet helps you down and you lower yourself onto your knees as you take in the sight of his marvelous cock: thick, long, uncut, and curving slightly up and to the left. Parting your lips, you bob your head, taking him a little further each time. He doesn’t move as you take him in until he brushes up against the back of your throat.

One hand rises to cup his balls – heavy and covered in a fine thatch of curling hair – while the other rests on his thigh to brace yourself. Peeking up at him from under your lashes, you let him sit in your mouth, tasting yourself and the faint bitterness of his cum. Sadet rolls his hips, giving you a few moments to settle in before setting a brisk pace. His fingers dig into your scalp as he tugs on your hair, guiding you on his length, not speaking a word as he simply watches his cock disappear into your mouth.

You sort of give up on controlling the pace then and go slack in his grip, yielding to him entirely. Your jaw starts to ache rapidly, but you keep your eyes on his visor, knowing that your glazed over eyes drive him wild. You can taste hints of bitterness as his precum spreads across your tongue, his pace growing faster and rougher as he chases completion inside your hot, wet mouth. His other hand curls around the back of your head and you know he is getting close to the edge.

“Wanna hear you gag,” he whispers, and you squeeze his thigh it’s okay you tell him with your hand.

Your jaw burns now but you don’t want to tap out, you don’t want to stop, not while he’s so close. Your cunt clenches around nothing, painfully empty after his cock and hammer, aching desperately for him to finish inside you and coat your insides with his seed. As he hits the back of your throat, you gag a bit, and he groans in response. Tears stream down your cheeks as he continues. You can hear the harsh pants from his modulator and thank the gods you think to yourself – you’re not sure how much more your mouth can take right now.

Sadet pulls his cock free and strokes himself to completion on your face. Thick ropey splatters of cum coat your skin and fill your mouth, spilling down onto your breasts as he groans, a growling noise from deep in his chest. He holds you there, his body hunched forward as he pulses the last few drops onto your chest.

With his index finger, he wipes up a bit of cum clinging to the head of his cock. He tilts your head back and wipes It onto your lower lip. You dart your tongue out to lick up the mess, listening as his breath hitches. When he lets go of your hair, you sink onto the ground, body aching and trembling from exhaustion. As goosebumps prickle across your arms, you realize you’re also trembling from how cool it is over here in this corner. He brushes his thumb against your cheek.

“Stay there,” he says quietly and you nod. 

You’re not sure you’d be able to move even if you wanted to right now. As Sadet goes to the hook on the wall, you use the remains of your shirt to wipe the mess of your face. He takes down his luxuriously soft fur cape. Instead of wrapping it around you, he spreads it onto the ground next to the Forge and returns to your side. As you get to your feet, he wraps a calloused hand around your elbow and helps you up, guiding you over to his cape. Along the way, you shed the remains of your top and bra.

Sadet joins you on the cape, taking his helmet off last, and setting it down on the floor next to you. Dry heat pours out of the exchange vents, sending another prickle across your skin as he settles between your thighs. His eyes drift shut and you know he’s stopping to enjoy the heat. During the summer, he always pauses when taking that first step outdoors, taking just a moment to tilt his face toward the sun to bask in the harsh light. He opens his eyes and you smile up at him, squeezing your knees around his hips as he settles across your body. 

He guides himself inside, pushing in with short, gentle thrusts, sliding in until your bodies meet. Meeting your eyes, he starts a slow, deep pace, hitting every single one of the needy spots inside you that scream for friction. As you trail your hands up his arms and shoulders, fingers cataloguing the knots in his muscles, you sigh with pleasure. You luxuriate in the deliciously soft fur underneath you and the sweat-slick glide of his body above yours, his weight heavy and comforting at the same time. He takes it slow, trying to be considerate of you, considering everything he’s done to you in the past half-hour. 

Digging your nails into his back, you feel the thick corded muscle jumping under your fingers, sighing with pleasure. You can’t hold back your inhalation when his lips – soft and slightly chapped – meet your collar bone as he kisses you for the first time. He starts to pull away but you wrap your arms around his neck, pleading with him silently to keep going. And he does, pressing one light kiss to your shoulder after another, trailing his way to your neck. When he bites down, you moan wantonly, cunt and legs tightening around him. Your reaction seems to encourage him and he keeps going, each kiss sending a dizzying arc of pure lightning shooting through your entire body.

By the time he makes it to your jaw, you’re shaking, on the verge of coming, your head swimming dizzyingly from the sheer pleasure of his lips against your skin. His next kiss lands right next to your lips and you desperately want to turn your head to meet his lips but you know it’s not his thing so you let him decide what happens next. He hovers for just a moment as you watch him with half-closed eyes, your pupils surely blown wide open from arousal, and he leans in, his breath fanning across your cheeks. 

That’s enough to send you right over the edge and as your back arches, Sadet kisses you on the lips, swallowing your cry of pleasure. He thrusts a few more times, tongue tracing the seam of your lips before you remember to kiss him back. Your hand curls around the back of his head and pulls him in close as you deepen it, mouths open and his tongue hesitant against yours. He thrusts shallowly a few times before drawing to a halt, his lips never leaving yours as he continues the kiss.

He draws back after several more toe-curling kisses and you unlace your legs from around his waist, dropping your feet onto his calves. When he hisses and jerks forward, thrusting his half-hard cock into you, you give him an apologetic grin and remove your feet to the cape underneath your entwined bodies. When the two of you have regained your faculties, he pulls out, and sits back on his heels as you rest your hands on your belly.

He tilts his head slightly as he offers his hand. Once again, he pulls you up. You take in your ruined garments with a wry look on your face.

“I’m going to have to go back to my room in your clothes again,” you quip at him.

“Who said anything about you leaving?” he asks.

Your mouth drops open in a little ‘o’ of surprise, your eyes jumping up to meet his. After all this how can he still want more? He laughs at you as he picks up his helmet and hammer.

“I haven’t gotten to test your knowledge of different fuel sources yet,” he explains. “We have all night, sweet girl. There’s plenty of time for me to breed you.”

With that he marches you toward his sumptuous bedroom.

__________________________________________________________

[1] Traditional blacksmithing has seven basic techniques used, but can be divided into four rough categories: forging, welding, heat-treating, and finishing.

__________________________________________________________

Data:

Tailor: would 100% let Sadet smash

Kalni:

Figure 1: Meme showing the subject’s thoughts on Sadet the Armorer from the Samaki Tribe. The strong language in this image – “In conclusion, I’m a slut for Sadet” –  indicates the subject is willing and able to permit Smashing to occur.

Maggie: Yes

Kata: Yes

Izzy: Yes

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Conclusions:

To come to an accurate conclusion, the experiment would need a bigger sample size. However, based on preliminary results, it can be concluded that Sadet is 100% Smashable.

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Bibliography:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blacksmith#Smithing_process

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The “You Enabled This” Tag List:

@hdlynn​ @magsgotswags​ @thecautiousengineer​ @maybege​ @nelba​

[riotwritesthings]

The Curious Witch and the Cursed Wolf

Chapter 2: A Meeting and A Revelation | AO3

Chapter 1 here!

art by the fantastical @gayspacesprinkles​

Haha I’m so happy I wrote all of this ahead of time this has been a MONTH so far

~

Title: The Curious Witch and the Cursed Wolf (Chapter 2) Collaborator(s): Riot @buckybarnesbingo​​ Square Filled: K3, Just do it Ship/Main Pairing: WinterIron Rating: T Major Tags/Warnings: fantasy AU, witch!Tony, wolf!Bucky, fairytale vibes, Non-graphic injury Summary: Once upon a time there was a man, and a wolf. They both went into the forest looking for different things, and instead they found each other. Word Count: 1,871

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Once upon a time there was a wolf, injured and alone, crawling his way towards the forest, looking for safety.

~

The wolf waits until all he can hear is the rush of the water, the rustle of the grass on the cliff above, until the hunters leave.

They must think he’s dead. He should be dead, still unsure how he managed to drag himself out of the cold water and onto the shore.

He still might die, bleeding heavily until the scent of it fills the air, drowns out everything else. He needs to move, he can’t risk that the hunters are just circling around to finish him off.

The forest still seems so far away.

The wolf forces himself to move, and slowly, so slowly, he begins dragging himself on three legs towards the tree line.

~

He wakes up to the snap of a branch and the wolf snarls weakly, sluggishly looking around for the source of the noise.

There’s a man, hidden behind a tree and given away by the loud, terrified pounding of his heart.

The wolf snarls again because it’s all he can do, too weak to move.

The man doesn’t smell like danger, he smells like rain and clean earth. When he pokes his head out around the tree his hair is a mess, leaves caught in the loose brown curls and dirt smeared across his face.

“Hi,” the man says softly, and then squeaks when the wolf growls low in his chest, big brown eyes going wide.

The wolf stops growling, feels a little bad about the scared-deer look in the man’s eye because no, that’s not what he wants. He doesn’t want to be a monster, what everyone accuses him of being.

So he whines instead, and the man steps out from behind the tree, moves carefully closer.

“Okay, okay hi,” the man says. “I want to help you, but um- fair warning I have very little medical expertise, unless you count bandaging myself up, but I do actually have a surprising amount of experience in that, so, oh—“

The man’s rambling cuts off with a soft sound as he gets closer, close enough to see the missing limb, the ground dark with blood beneath them.

“Okay,” the man says again, voice breaking, but he’s still stepping closer. “Wow, you- we gotta stop the bleeding, I-I’ll be right back.”

He wants to tell the man not to bother. The man’s clothes look torn and he looks tired, like he has enough to worry about. The wolf has been running for so long, it was bound to end eventually.

But the man is already turning, running off into the trees. The wolf lets his eyes fall closed again.

He's just so tired.

The man comes back with a couple uprooted plants clenched in one hand and halfway through stripping off his tattered shirt with the other, the scent of goldenrod and yarrow thick in the air.

He approaches slowly, warily, but he smells more like worry than fear. There’s a slight glow around him, spreading from a point in the center of his chest like trapped starlight.

"I'm going to try and stop the bleeding," the man says, voice shaking. "Please don't eat me, I'm going to go slow and tell you everything I'm doing, so- well, I guess that's assuming you even know what I'm saying, but I've seen a lot of crazy shit the past couple weeks—"

Just do it, the wolf thinks, and the man’s eyes widen a little.

He doesn't pause though, drops to his knees beside the wolf and gets to work.

His hands are calloused, but gentle, pressing crushed herbs against the wound, using his own shirt as a bandage, talking softly the entire time.

His name is Tony, and he came to the forest to learn, because he wants to know more, wants to learn how to make things better.

Alone? The wolf thinks, trying to distract himself from the agony of Tony tightening the makeshift bandage.

Tony gives a tiny shrug and his smile is even smaller.

"I'm always alone," he says.

The wolf whines softly, because he understands, but Tony apologizes in a broken voice, gentles his hands impossibly further.

He strokes along the wolf’s side, fingers gentle and so warm as they slide through his fur.

The wolf falls asleep to warm blue light growing brighter around him, the scent of sun-warmed stone and clear nights.

Tony’s hands are warm and the pain is slowly fading away.

~

The wolf wakes up feeling rested, feeling healed, still down a leg but the ache of it is completely gone.

Tony is still there, retreated across the small clearing to give the wolf some space.

“Hey,” he says, perking up when he sees the wolf watching him warily. “You’re awake, I wasn’t sure—“ he pauses, lets out a slow breath, and then smiles so wide that his eyes shine with it. “I’m glad.”

The wolf flicks his ears forward, thumps his tail once against the ground. When he works up the energy to shift his shoulders there’s no pain.

He’ll live for now.

Thank you, he thinks, and Tony smiles, and the wolf expects that to be the end of it.

Tony will leave, or demand a favor and wind up very disappointed when he learns he wasted his time saving something with very little power of its own. Then the wolf can get on with figuring out if he can actually survive.

But instead Tony just stays, brings him rabbits and tries to hide his wince when the wolf gobbles them up in one bite. He sleeps on the other side of the small clearing, dug in amongst the roots, shivering slightly.

He stays until the wolf can stand, until he can walk, only a little unsteady on his three legs.

“Lookin’ good!” Tony cheers, curled up against his tree with plants and rocks scattered around him, a tiny notebook spread across his lap.

The wolf knows that he should leave, before the hunters find him again, or someone else, before Tony realizes that he’s saved a monster.

Instead he steps carefully closer, head down, trying to look as harmless as possible, making himself smaller. A careful smile starts to grow on Tony’s face.

"Well," Tony says slowly, "I guess, you probably want to be on your way, unless—“

“There you are!” Comes a tiny voice from the bushes, startlingly close to where Tony is seated, soft and sweet if incredibly frustrated.

The wolf is across the clearing before he knows it, standing protectively between Tony and the noise and growling low in his chest, fur standing on end.

“Finally staying in one place, been following you since you activated the damn crystal," the voice continues, and whoever it is is talking more to herself than anything, leaves rustling around the source of the noise.

"Do you know how hard it is to keep up with you when you won’t stop exploring?!” the voice demands, raising again. “Damnit Tony, I am very small!”

Sure enough, the creature that emerges from the brush is quite small, barely bigger than a rabbit and the wolf can definitely eat it in one bite if he needs to.

Maybe he shouldn't though. The ball of light with fluttering wings glows a soft blue that matches the glow in Tony's chest, and maybe they're friends.

He probably shouldn't eat Tony's friends.

Except Tony's quick heartbeat still echoes in the wolf's ears, fuels the low growl still rumbling through his chest, and Tony's voice shakes a little as he asks “Um, do I know you?”

The wolf growls again, snaps his teeth, and the ball of light floats up a little higher.

“Call off the dogs,” she says, sounding more offended than anything, “I have something important to tell you.”

"Wait,” Tony says, crawling out of his nest in the tree roots. “Were you the one talking to me by that river a little while ago?"

"Yes!"

"Oh my god I thought that was a bird!” Tony groans, slapping his hands over his face and further smearing himself in dirt. "I gave it my last bit of bread!"

"I told you not to!" the ball of light cries, bobbing in the air in apparent distress.

"I thought it was a trick!" Tony whines, slumping back against the tree and kicking his bare feet a little.

The wolf isn’t sure what to think. He sits back on his haunches, tilts his head to the side. The ball of light doesn’t seem aggressive, at least, even if she does smell strangely of rain.

“Okay,” Tony says, pushing himself upright again, warm eyes shining in amusement. “Okay, you had something to tell me?”

“Yes,” the ball of light says, then makes a sound like a tiny throat clearing. “You’re a witch, Tony.”

Tony blinks slowly. Opens his mouth and then closes it again. The wolf whines.

“I’m a what,” Tony finally says.

“A witch,” she repeats and the wolf whines again, slinks backwards.

He knows that word. It’s what the hunters called themselves, makes him think of smoke and fire and screaming and changing.

But Tony isn’t like that. Tony smells like sunlight, like fresh air, like the forest around them and the dirt rubbed into his skin, like the leaves caught in his hair and the herbs he’s always collecting, like life.

Tony isn’t like that, he can’t be.

Even now, Tony is still blinking in confusion, face open and eyes so warm as he glances down at the glow in his chest and asks “Because of this?”

“No,” says the ball of light, then wavers in the air a little. “Well, kind of. It’s why the crystal called to you, although you weren’t supposed to just grab it.”

Tony grins sheepishly, and the wolf huffs softly.

“You seem to be alive though,” the light continues, tiny voice dry and still musical. “And if anything embedding that shard in your chest has just made you crazy powerful, so, congratulations I guess.”

“What do you—“ Tony starts to ask and then pauses, turns to look at the wolf with eyes widening in understanding.

And suddenly the wolf understands too. It’s why Tony was able to heal him, why there’s no pain, why he’s alive.

Witch or not, Tony isn’t much like the hunters at all.

A wide smile spreads across Tony’s face, eyes nearly glowing along with the stone in his chest, and the wolf completely forgets that he’s supposed to be leaving.

“What happened to your clothes?” The ball of light asks, floating a little closer as the wolf’s fur finally smoothes down, his ears flicking forwards.

Tony isn’t listening though, too busy pushing himself to his feet and excitedly asking ”Wait, can I fly?!”

“You know you can just make more clothes, right?!”

“Flying,” Tony insists, staring at the ball of light flatly.

The wolf lets his tongue loll out in a fond smile.

The light seems almost reluctant to answer, but finally says “Yeah, if that’s what you really want, but—“

Tony drowns out the rest of the sentence with high pitched excited noises, and the wolf whines again, ears ringing with it.