#not to mention her dating a thirteen year old when she was nearly eighteen

[starchants]

MEET YOU AT THE GRAVEYARD

billy butcherson x female!reader

WRITING WARNINGS: reader is ageless but obviously eighteen or older as depicted as a young woman BUT that term can relate to any age (bc age is a mindset once you hit eighteen in my experience- meaning getting older than eighteen is a mindset) and there is a moment of fluff bc i love this man tbh.

XOXO, CHESHIRE — nobody ever writes for him &. it’s so super sad :(( so be blessed my lil crows <3! tempted to make this a series but idunno if anyone would be up for that!

y/n had heard of the town’s beloved favorite legend her entire childhood, as she had been living in salem since she was a young toddler. she knew all about the sanderson sisters but most importantly, she knew about the lover of two of the sanderson sisters. you see, she had felt undeniably close to billy butcherson ever since she had heard his name mentioned by one of her teachers during the first grade.

it was a complete utter mystery to the young woman as to why she felt drawn to him, especially during the night of samhain and why she would wake up hours later with no recollection of the night prior. this has occurred nearly every samhain since she had turned the age of thirteen. a number that many consider to be unlucky but y/n and the crow that followed her around for years that she nicknamed as mama happened to love that number. even more importantly, the young (h/c) haired woman considered that to be the day where her entire universe and timeline had shifted around.

yet again the date was marked as october thirty first and y/n y/l/n found herself following mama towards the old graveyard once again. her (e/c) irises looked around as she gently stumbled throughout the cemetery, after she gave a gift to the long deceased soul at the gate who kept watch over the cemetery, as she whispered apologizes to the dead for making her way through their ghostly homes. she hoped that none of them were too mad as she finally made her way to where billy butcherson had been buried all those years ago.

“oh billy.” she softly called towards the grave as she sat down, criss cross, in front of it and gave it a small sad smile as she watched mama sit upon the headstone. “you know what day it is, don’t you?” she remarked as she began tracing random designs into the dirt above his grave, not realizing that she had been drawing a mixture of sigils and runes, which would eventually lead towards him crawling out of his own grave. as she sat there mindlessly drawing those designs in the grave dirt she began wondering to herself — how would he react to the truth and what if she told him the truth after all these years? what then?

you see, y/n y/l/n never had any recollection of any samhain from the age of thirteen to where she is now as a young adult but she would occasionally be gifted dreams that featured that crow she nicknamed mama and flickers of her running through the town of salem with billy butcherson by her side. she knew through those occasional dreams that she had fallen in love with him over the years and she thought herself silly to even think about how he could possibly react to her falling for him after all these years. especially considering he had been dead and gone for a long while. but then again fate always found a way especially when it came to cosmic lovers.

a loud creak could be heard echoing underneath grave dirt causing y/n to jump up from her sitting position upon the ground to stare at the ground with wide eyes and a racing heart. she was beginning to believe that perhaps she was possibly starting to lose her mind due to being tired from her lack of sleep the previous night, only to be proven wrong, when she heard scoopfuls of dirt being moved away followed by loud grunts of annoyance.

“billy?” the young woman called out with a combination of fear and confusion melding into her tone before jumping back as the top layer of dirt was moved away and a head popped up from the grave clawing at their own mouth to try and remove the black stitches placed over them. “oh you poor dear.” y/n had remarked before glancing around upon the ground for an item to help the man and luckily heard a soft caw from the top of the gravestone, causing her to look up and notice a small bladed knife sitting near mama’s feet. she was quick to gently grab it from above billy’s head as he watched her with anxious eyes before she squatted down next to him and stared down at him from outside the grave.

“let me help you with that.” she softly remarked as she gently moved to use the blade against the black stitches and carefully cut them away from his lips. she didn’t believe it was fair for her to just sit here and watch him struggle to remove what was bounded to him that he clearly didn’t like, especially with how she loved him. it was undeniable as her (e/c) irises scanned his face and took in his ruggish and haggard appearance as he did the same with her. a loud clearing of a throat was heard before a raspy voice spoke, “you have a staring problem there ma’am?”

“you know for a man who has been dead for at least a couple centuries, you sure do have a lot of sass in your form of respecting someone.” y/n quipped back to the man who rolled his eyes at her playfully as a grin found its way upon her face. “and maybe i’m over being dead.” the brunet quipped back as he moved as gently as he could to get himself out of his own grave, groaning to himself as he moved considering his bones haven’t been moved in a good long while.

the (h/c) haired woman shook her head at his words as she moved to ensure that the man had enough room to comfortably get out of his grave as she shamelessly watched him move around and she had checked out his clothing that he had been buried in, taking notice of the purple bow tied around his long hair. “you say that like you had the plague.” she remarked back to the man who shook himself like a dog to get another thick layer of grave dirt off of his clothing. he was quick to whip his body fully around to stare at her in order to reply in such a sarcastic manner, “a plague of witches who don’t know how to keep to themselves.

“you see now i know why they decided to kill and bury you.” y/n softly called as she moved to start walking towards the gates of the cemetery. she heard heavy footfalls behind her and grinned as she knew he would be following her as he seemed to want to keep up the banter. “where are we going?” billy had been quick to question as he stood a respectful four feet away from the young woman as they made their way towards the gates. “you mean where am i going and you following me like a six foot something bloodhound?”

“it’s not like anyone else is here and like you said, i’m a few centuries old, who wouldn’t want me to follow them home?” the brunet had chuckled at his own joke and y/n shook her head as she playfully rolled her (e/c) eyes as they approached the gate and she whispered a thank you towards the spirit that watched over the cemetery. “alright come on now, pup.” she spoke in a fit of giggles at the very end and it extended into a full laugh as she heard the now undead man behind her making a sound that was very reminiscent of a fellow dog.

[pricryo]

tw: abuse shit, manipulation shit, transphobia ment, death ment, christianity ment, probably more. hi i’m tim wright and today i remembered one of my abusers so naturally, while instilled with fiery rage, i thought i should make a post abt it here for reference as to why i have “don’t follow if you kin ticci-toby (creepypasta) or yato (noragami)” as one of my don’t follow criteria. there will probably be another post on this in the future because there’s really a lot to unravel about her abuse and how it’s affected myself and my friends. this is just one of the main and most notable incidents, roughly around the time our friendship truly started its decline.

putting this shit under a cut so it doesn’t clutter things up on anyone’s dash

her name is grace. i initially met her in the fourth grade (when i was around nine or ten), but i wasn’t really close friends with her until late middle school to early high school. she was always sort of uncomfortable to be around, but she was one of the few people who would talk to me, so i considered her a friend. when i was a freshman in high school, i had just been introduced to the otherkin and fictionkin communities by a friend (named cas) at the time, along with grace and another friend (her name was destiny). 

i kinfirmed being wolfkin first and foremost (i know, i know, how generic) after a lot of reflection and questioning on the subject, and cas, who was also wolfkin, suggested we make a wolfkin pack (a.k.a, mistake number one) under the presumption that all four of us were wolfkin. (hint: only half of us were)

grace agreed, claiming she was also wolfkin, and a pack was formed. now, this wasn’t the healthiest pack, realistically. we were young and honestly? a little dumb. we had this big ~pack mentality~ that was horrid and cringy to look back on, and i’m very ashamed of myself. we were overly protective of each other, saw cas as our boss, and overall were just... toxic in mindset, if i remember correctly. unfortunately, this made us super easy to manipulate.

it started in either january or february (i can’t remember which anymore), when grace told us that her long-time boyfriend (joe) had broken up with her during our high school’s winter formal dance. supposedly, it was during their first slow dance, to be specific. she claimed that he’d been abusive to her before, including hitting her, insulting her, etc., and destiny even backed this claim up by saying she’d seen it. (note: joe was openly known to be autistic in our school, keep this in mind.) we, of course, didn’t take this well. after confronting joe on the matter, he seemed confused and had genuinely no idea what was happening, even saying he hadn’t broken up with her at all.

we further confront him (this time on deviantArt) and he continues to say he has no idea, and he’s very confused over who we are. we... honestly treated him like trash. not because he was autistic, but because he was supposedly abusive. it was terrible. and while we’re doing this, grace is just feeding us more and more lies about the guy. she went as far as to make fake texts between himself and her, where he was saying shit like how we were demons, and that we needed to go to church and we needed jesus, calling grace fat and ugly, saying that he’d won her and she was just his trophy, and even being openly transphobic regarding leelah alcorn’s death, among other things. we would be like “give us his number/account, let us talk to him” and she’d always tell us “oh he deleted it right after” or some similar shit. that was red flag number one, but i trusted her (mistake number two) because she was my friend.

by this time, we're literally enraged. we told the dean of our school about it and everything. we were shit talking joe all over deviantArt and threatening him (which was so immature, and looking back on it, i hate how i handled that situation at 14) and everything. i deadass made what was supposed to be his in minecraft just to pour lava over it and burn it down. terrible shit. but the bottom line: we were very angry.

around this time, i start noticing that the way he types on deviantArt and the way he types in the “texts” don’t match up. it’s super suspicious. red flag number two. he types perfectly on deviantArt, but types exactly how grace types in the texts. i bring it up subtly and i’m all like “haha that’s pretty weird, why does he do that?” grace agrees that it’s weird and then starts saying that she recreated some of them because they were deleted too fast. the typing difference happened on all of them. again, that’s super suspicious, but i really trusted her as my friend.

things escalated. i can’t really remember most of it, but here’s some details i do remember:

there’s a fake instagram made (something along the lines of ‘weirdguy101′ or some similar shit) where art that cas and destiny had made was uploaded, supposedly owned by joe, who was claiming to have drawn it himself. none of my art was stolen. grace was the only person to have taken pictures of that art. red flag number three.

an “undercover” deviantArt account made by grace where she pretended to be a different person to interact with joe as if she was on our side.

a lot of skype calls on the subject - during one, grace calls joe on her home phone and cas and destiny make weird noises in an effort to freak him out - which was succesful.

we make both a deviantArt group and instagram to combat the fake instagram and make vague, threatening posts to him (which i’m very certain is deleted by this point).

the dean told us he spoke with joe, and that joe had zero idea what was happening at all.

we were going to go to the principal over the matter because we thought the dean didn’t take us seriously. i was absent that day because i was sick if i remember correctly, and cas and destiny didn’t go talk to the her because grace didn’t show up, either. red flag number four.

grace would intentionally rile us up if we weren’t having a conversation specifically about the conflict. like, this happened for weeks, and when we tried to have other, normal conversations, she’d butt in baout how much she hated joe and about how we should all burn down his house and shit. i’m fairly certain that some of the fake texts were just to draw our attention back on that topic. red flag number five.

and honestly? a hell of a lot more that i don’t really remember.

cas mentions that he thinks things are getting a little fishy after a while, and i tell him about what i’ve been thinking. we end up calling her on skype and he calls her out because he’s 100% certain that she had been playing us. she’s dead silent for most of the time and doesn’t even defend herself or say he’s wrong. he hangs up on her and i’m there listening to her crying alone (and it’s such an ugly noise, mind you) and i’m filled with disgust and anger and hurt. i’m there for two to three minutes listening before i hang up, too.

even after that, we’re all like, “we forgive you. just don’t do this shit again,” because we still saw her as a friend despite her 100% being trash to us, and we were still willing to move past that. and grace has the audacity to ask if we’ll go to the dean with her in the morning and explain the situation.  like.... she manipulates us into harassing and threatening a kid, pretends to be him and insults us + is transphobic as all hell, literally steals art from cas and destiny under the guise that it’s him, plays us like a game of chess for her own sick amusement.... and then expects us to help her explain to the dean that she was lying the entire time and nothing was wrong. ofc, we said no. things simmer down.

for like a day or two.

and then we’re in a group chat with a classmate named britney who says we need to stop bullying her friend. get this - grace has been showing off the screenshots of what we’ve said to her (which was in no way bullying, btw) and claiming we were bullying her. greaaaattt. grace didn’t bother to tell her the full story (a common theme with her) and now britney has taken it upon herself ot be a good samaritan. she yells at us, removes cas from the chat after one of his alters front, i add him back, and britney refuses to tell us who it was. (spoiler alert: we already know). i agree that we’ll stop “bullying” grace so she’ll leave us alone and the conversation is done.

so naturally we’re all like, “what the fuck dude, it was over? and we didn’t do anything to you? you were just bad to us?” and ofc this sets her off to continually tell us ”it’s in the past, i made mistakes, you should forgive me” even though all the shit she did was entirely intentional. initially i don’t want the reason why she did it, but i get progressively more frustrated and then start demanding to know why. she legitimately didn’t say anything other than “...” on the subject. considering how i was young and had a short fuse, i kinda go off on her abt it. because that’s such a fucking dick move. and she says “well idk what to say except sorry” as if she isn’t aware she can tell us why she did it.

i end up having a breakdown because i realize that i’m a total fucking monster who harrassed a kid and was manipulated into doing s and i don’t even get to know why. cas removes her from the group and we’re left to pick up the pieces.

i end up giving a handwritten note containing a formal apology to destiny and she agreed to give it to joe for me. all was well for a while with grace out of my life.

unfortunately, this was not the last incident i had with grace. i’ll post more on it some other time but like... dm me for her tumblr if you want to block her or some shit. she’s still out there and active on tumblr as far as i know.

bonus: a screenshot where i totally should’ve realized she was playing us, ft. me talking to joe

[mistydear]

soften me now, let me take as is given (vii)

billie dean howard x reader

summary: You meet Billie in mourning. She’s too professional, and you’re too angry, and it takes too long to see her again. And again. And again as your lives tumble together.

w/c: 3.4k

notes: small amount of smut in this chapter!

chapter one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen

taglist: @thedeconstructionist @cordeliass

You and Norah are on a lunch break when Jenny walks past your office door and catches wind of Norah’s disastrous date the previous night with some guy you can’t even remember the name of. Like a moth to a flame, Jenny slides in offering to look over Norah’s dating profile. You glance at each other—trying to remember how old Jenny is—before Norah gives in and hands her phone over. She’s sitting on your desk, ankles crossed, and you lean back in your rolling chair, chewing your salad slowly and watching as Jenny swipes through Norah’s profile.

“This makes you sound old,” Jenny says, pointing to a line in Norah’s bio. Furrowing her brow tightly, Norah snatches the phone away, holding it protectively to her chest.

“Good. I’m not trying to attract children,” she says defensively, taking a bite of her sandwich. Jenny raises her brow skeptically, folding her arms across her chest as she leans against the doorway. You’ve all developed a sort of teasing, mentor type rapport with Jenny. She gets easily annoyed by it, but you suspect that deep down she enjoys the support system here.

“What about you?” she asks, turning her attention away from Norah. You nearly choke, swallowing thickly, and Norah jokingly raps you on the back.

“Me?” you ask hoarsely, pointing the fork at your chest. Norah is extremely amused by the prospect of you on Tinder. You can tell by the way she bites her lip and grins at you. Jenny started working here several months after Kate died, and considering how touchy the subject was, your marital status was never mentioned to her.

“Yeah. I haven’t heard you talk about dating, like, once,” she shrugs, brushing long brown hair behind her ear. The thought of explaining to your younger employee at 2pm on a Wednesday that you’re a widow doesn’t exactly appeal to you, so you take a breath.

“I’ve taken a vow of chastity,” you say with an air of solemn fortitude. Norah gives you a curious look, and you can tell she’s half wondering if you’re serious. You haven’t talked about dating with Norah before. Mostly because you haven’t even thought about it. Not once since Kate died.

“Yeah right,” Jenny scoffs, laughing. “What was it? Bad break up?”

“Something like that,” you offer as Jenny pushes herself off the doorframe and holds out her hand, beckoning for your phone.

“You know what the cure to heartbreak is? A lot of sex. Like a ridiculous amount of sex,” she says, apparently serious, and Norah reacts immediately. She sticks her fingers in her ears and starts La La La-ing as loud and panicked as possible while you grimace and set your salad aside. “What?” she asks, offended.

“You’re in high school!” you protest.

“I’m eighteen,” Jenny shoots back.

“Who are you having ridiculous amounts of sex with in high school?” Norah asks, bewildered, her fingers still in her ears. “The only attention I was getting in high school was from the kids who bullied me.” Jenny blushes and gets shy, something she’s prone to do when confronted.

“I know people,” she says, unconvincingly firm. Relieved, Norah takes her fingers out of her ears and sighs heavily. Even you find yourself relaxing a little. Jenny’s too old to be your daughter, but sometimes it sure feels like you could be her aunt. And with that comes the horror of baby’s first sweetheart. “Whatever. You guys suck. Just let me make you a Tinder profile.”

To soothe Jenny’s embarrassment, you hand her your phone. Though you’re both humiliated and humbled to be shown how to use Tinder by your eighteen year old employee.

Jenny and Norah squabble over what pictures to put on your profile and what your bio should say, and by the time they’ve swiped right on your first person for you, your lunch break is over. You herd Jenny back onto the floor as Norah presses her hands to her hips.

“I can’t believe Jenny was the one to induct you to Tinder,” she says, both proud and offended. “That was supposed to be me.” You laugh, tossing out the remnants of your salad and Norah’s sandwich. It’s quiet for a moment behind you, and you turn to find Norah looking at you with gentle concern and a twinge of guilt. “Are you okay?” she ventures cautiously. You shrug.

“Well, I haven’t even seen my own profile yet. So…I don’t know.”

Norah hums and meanders out of your office, and you swallow, shoving your phone in a drawer and trying not to think about it. You were dating Kate before the Tinder craze swept the country, and you’d never really used dating apps before that, so you were entirely clueless. It all felt a little dehumanizing and scary, and how are you even supposed to be interested in someone from a few pictures and a couple lines of text? You groan, pressing your palms to your eyes and wondering what the hell you’re even talking about.

A week before you and Kate got married, you were laying in bed one lazy morning when she kissed you softly on the lips and intertwined your fingers.

“I need you to promise me something.” You run your fingers gently through her soft brown hair and look at her like she’s hung the very stars for you.

“Anything.”

“If we ever break up—”

“Baby,” you sigh, rolling closer to her with a soft groan.

“Listen to me,” she insists, cradling your face in her palm, squeezing your hand with the other. You chew your lip, watching her crystal blue eyes search yours. “If we ever break up, I want you to die unhappy and alone.” She says it so gently you’re stunned to silence for a moment. She kisses you then, soft and careful. “And if you ever fuck someone else, I want to be the only one you think about when you cum. The only name on your lips,” she whispers against your mouth. Your breathing catches, and your eyes flutter closed as you try to kiss her again, heat washing over you. She pulls back, her thumb running along the back of your hand. “After we’re married, I own all your orgasms, sunshine.”

You laugh, breathy, into her mouth, unsure of how this all turned so warm and sweaty and…is this turning you on? Kate burrows down to kiss your neck, sliding her hand out of yours and down your stomach.

“Are you getting them in the divorce too?” you ask with a smile. Kate hums, nipping at your throat. Your stomach muscles twitch, and you let your head fall back against the pillow as Kate slips her hand beneath the waistband of your sweatpants.

“Now you’re getting it,” she mumbles, amused. Her fingers slide across you, and you gasp, finding her lips to latch onto.

“Is that a threat?” you ask, her fingers circling so slowly. You roll your hips, and she hums.

“It’s a promise,” she corrects, kissing you deeply. You moan, quiet and needy, and when she slides a finger inside you, you both sigh, her lips following yours. “Forever and always.”

. . .

“You know, I kinda think Jenny might be right,” Norah says, scooping ice cream into her mouth. You’re mid swallow when you stop and look up at her. You’ve both just gotten off work, but Norah was craving ice cream, and Insomnia is on the way to your apartment, so you decided to stop.

“You’re kidding.” Norah sets her spoon down and shrugs, licking her lips.

“Maybe not the ridiculous amount of sex part, but just, like, going on dates,” she offers. “You’ve been in this bubble since Kate died. Maybe it’s time to break out of it.” You know what she means. You’ve been isolated, drowning quietly in your bed and lashing out like a wounded animal. After she died, it was like your entire world flipped upside down, and it’s only recently you’ve learned how to look around without getting dizzy. There’s still a hollowness rooted in your chest—an aching meaninglessness you can’t shake—but you’re trying to ignore that. You hum noncommittally, taking another spoonful of ice cream into your mouth.

The bell above the door chimes, and you glance over to see Billie Dean Howard walking in. She peels off her sunglasses and strides halfway to the register before she sees you and stops. An awkward oh hangs between you, and you feel your face heating up. Norah glances behind her, curious, and when she sees Billie she looks immediately back at you for instruction.

“Hi,” you say, lifting your spoon half heartedly.

“Hello,” she replies, her lips parting and then pressing together, unsure of how to proceed. As usual, she’s spruced and clean and wearing heels you can’t imagine walking in.

“The amount of times you two run into each other here is unnatural,” Norah tries to joke, her arm draped across the back of the chair. But all it does is reveal to Billie that you’ve been talking about her, that Norah knows everything. This somehow makes things more awkward, and you aren’t sure if you’re imagining it or if Billie’s feeling the same.

“I read your interview,” you say, and Billie’s composure never breaks, her eyes steady and even. You have no idea what’s going through her head.

“What did you think?” she asks, never taking a step toward you. The distance between her and your table is like a cavern, and for a moment you wish you could see something, anything behind that mask she wears.

“I liked the part where she said you’re the voice of the shadow world and then went all Uncle Ben on you with the great power comes great responsibility thing,” you muse, hoping to pull a smile from her—if only to ease the tension.

“Voice of the shadow world was a bit dramatic, but…” she raises her brow and gives a gentle tilt of her head, granting herself the rest of it.

The part of the article that stuck with you the longest, however, was when the interviewer said that Billie could potentially revolutionize the way that we think about death. The thought sent shivers all the way down your spine and kept you from sleeping that night. It scares you too much to think about and confuses you enough to prevent you from dwelling. And still…

Anyway, you’re not sure where you and Billie stand anymore. You’re not sure where you stood in the first place, but last month feels like some kind of turning point you don’t fully know how to articulate or navigate. So, you say the only thing that makes sense and that, really, you think you might be okay with.

“Do you, um, wanna join us?” you ask, swallowing. Billie’s mask breaks for a moment, and she looks startled at the suggestion. You shrink in your seat, knowing instantly that you said the wrong thing.

“I’m just picking up. I…” she falters, and you save her the awkwardness by shaking your head.

“Yeah. No, no worries. I get it.” She presses her lips together sympathetically and then looks back at the register once more. The girl with the tattoos is there again, and you briefly wonder if she ever sleeps or goes home. She’s holding Billie’s order for pickup, and Billie sighs and looks back at you once more before striding to the counter to grab it from the girl. You should probably learn her name at this point, honestly.

“It was nice seeing you again, Norah. Y/N,” she says, her eyes piercing the both of you so keenly before she leaves. You’ve noticed that about Billie, the piercing singularity of her gaze, like she can’t see anything else.

When the bell above the door chimes to signal Billie’s retreat, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, and Norah’s eyes bug out of her head as she leans forward on the table.

“What the fuck was that?” she breathes, a wild expression on her face. You cover your face with your hands and groan, shaking your head. “Was that the first time you’ve seen her since the incident?”

“God, please don’t call it the incident,” you whine, blushing hard. But it’s true. That was the first time in almost a month. “It’s not like we hang out,” you protest.

“Are you sure?” Norah asks, and you peek at her through your fingers. “I mean are you actually sure because she slept over at your apartment when you blacked out. I’m not sure if that's friendship, but it’s something.”

“She said she just nodded off,” you protest, dropping your hands, and Norah gives you a look, something so aggressively skeptical it stops you.

“Billie Dean Howard has seen several of your bad moments. More than the average person.”

“So?” you ask, gripping the back of your arm, shoulders tense. Norah shrugs.

“I don’t know, just...it’s something to think about.”

. . .

When Billie kicks off her heels in the entryway of her apartment, she sighs, pressing her palm into the wall to steady herself. The sun has just set below the horizon, and the last rays of daylight are streaming in from the windows in her living room that overlook West Hollywood. She’s always loved this time of day, the warmth that bleeds to a cozy dark. Though it’s rare she’s in her apartment to see it these days. Filming usually takes her well into the night, and if she’s not filming, she’s taking clients in the Hills, and if she’s not taking clients she’s at a client’s party. Ever since that article came out in People, she’s been everyone’s topic of conversation. She’s even taking on celebrity clients now. And it’s not that she’s intimidated by them. People don’t intimidate her. It’s just a new circle to assimilate to. It takes time.

Tonight, in an unusual twist, she has nothing to do. It’s just her and some Insomnia ice cream and maybe a movie. She sets the pint on her kitchen counter and pulls out a spoon, taking a small bite of cookies and cream. She lets the spoon linger between her lips, wondering briefly if she should have sat down with you and Norah.

Though if there’s one thing that does make Billie squirm it’s vulnerability. She’s very much used to keeping the people she surrounds herself with at arm's length. Ever since she was little, it’s always just been easier to let everyone roll off of her like water than to run the risk of them hurting her. You and Norah seem to have a solid, healthy friendship, and maybe Billie envies that a little bit. She envies your ability to love that deeply after such a profound wound. Billie has too much trouble trusting, let alone loving. And now that she’s in the public eye, she’s been holding herself even tighter—aloof and removed and somehow more charismatic than before. It’s a good disguise, making small talk and giving out her attention like candy and pretending to be open.

A wave of loneliness overwhelms her, and she sets her spoon down, padding to her room to change. She doesn’t feel lonely very often. Frankly, she’s too busy. But the fact that you can pull it out of the depths of her chest makes her uneasy.

As she settles into her couch with her ice cream and some movie she doesn’t care that much about, she scrolls through the contacts on her phone. With her legs tucked under her and a cold pint on her knee, she realizes that she doesn’t actually have your phone number. She only ever gave you her business card that one afternoon on the front porch of your house. That seems a little ridiculous considering the amount of time you’ve spent together since then. Chewing her lip, Billie hums, wishing that maybe there was a way to meet you at Insomnia a little less randomly.

. . .

Jenny pokes her head around the door of your office the next morning, wide eyed and grinning.

“You won’t believe who’s in the store right now,” she says, breathy and excited, holding back a giddy laugh. You smile at her energy, rolling away from your computer.

“Who?”

“Guess,” she insists, taking a step in. You hum, playing along.

“TV or movie?” you ask, figuring—of course—that it’s some kind of celebrity.

“TV.” You start listing off all the famous people you can think of before Jenny cuts you off. “Wrong. Billie Dean Howard,” she hisses, nearly a whisper. Your smile falls, and heat flashes through you.

“What? Where?”

“Ah! I’ll show you. Didn’t you talk to her once at the Signs Unseen reading?” she asks breathlessly as you follow her down the hall to the second floor stacks.

“Don’t remind me,” you groan. It wasn’t your finest moment. Then something hits you. “Do you watch Medium?”

“Everyone watches Medium, Y/N,” she replies like it’s obvious. And, hey, maybe it is. Jenny did just refer to Billie as a celebrity. She’s peeking out from behind a stack like a fan when you see Billie parsing through your fiction section. She’s wearing a black and white boucle skirt and jacket today with a purse on her elbow and pearls on her neck.

“Thanks, Jenny,” you murmur before stepping forward. “Billie.” She turns at the sound of her name, and her features soften.

“Y/N,” she breathes, taking a step toward you, contrary to the previous night when she kept her distance.

“What are you doing here?” you ask curiously because it’s obvious she came here for you.

You hadn’t expected to see her again after last night, accepting her awkwardness as an indication of her intentions. Frankly, after you got drunk and lost it on her, you wouldn’t blame her. Still, when you got home last night and were alone in your apartment, you were just sad. It was a strange realization and a frighteningly familiar feeling. Was this really the end? After pushing down thoughts of Kate, you let yourself accept that maybe you didn’t want Billie out of your life. The memory of talking until sunrise with her at Insomnia flooded your mind. The laughs you pulled from her. Her warm, dark eyes as she listened to you so intently. The way you cooked breakfast together and ate the way you’d eat with Norah, comfortable and quiet. You wanted more of that.

Billie hesitates—bordering on shy. It’s almost endearing.

“I don’t have your phone number,” she admits with half a shrug.

“So you decided to stalk me?” you joke, and Billie’s features loosen.

“Please don’t make me ask for it,” she says, a slight flush rising to her cheeks. You really, really want to tease her a little more, to tell her that if you wanted her to have your number, you would have called. But it just seems cruel in light of Billie’s vulnerability, something you’re gathering is unusual for her. So, you take pity on her.

“Do you have a pen?”

When she pulls one out of her purse and hands it to you along with a crumpled piece of paper, you press it against the stacks and scribble your number on the bottom of Billie’s grocery list. Below it, you smirk as you scribble a second number. Billie glances at it when you hand it back.

“You can reach me at both numbers.” Billie presses her lips together and holds the paper up as a thank you. “I have to, um, get back to work. And I guess you have to go shopping.” It’s awkward. It’s so awkward. Still, you smile easily.

“Goodbye, Y/N,” she says, a smile of her own flickering briefly on her lips before she tucks the note into her purse and walks away. As soon as Billie disappears down the stairs, Jenny is next to you.

“Did you just give Billie Dean Howard your phone number?”

“Mind your own business, Jen,” you tell her, playfully shoving her shoulder. You’re so glad Norah wasn’t here to see that. “Get back to work.”

. . .

It isn’t until late that night when Billie’s sitting on her couch with a glass of wine that she decides to text you. Her grocery list is all scribbled out above the phone numbers, and she wonders which one to use. You hadn’t given her any direction. She makes a guess and drafts a pathetically short text.

Y/N, it’s Billie Dean.

She sends it without thinking twice and immediately gets a response.

We’re sorry. The number you are trying to reach does not accept text messages. Msg & data rates may still apply.

Billie frowns, but her curiosity gets the best of her, and she calls the number. Whose phone doesn’t accept texts? It rings three times before the line connects.

“Thank you for calling Insomnia Cafe, my name’s Vivian, how can I help you today?”

[rax-writes]

Family Man

Fandom:  MCU Pairing:  Baron Helmut Zemo x OC  [basically a reader insert, because the OC’s physical description isn’t addressed or anything, she just has a name] Warnings:  None Notes:  A Sokovian woman named Irina Molnár was born with the ability to teleport, and in time, she encounters the only man to gain her trust enough to show him. It just so happens that the man in question is the criminal mastermind Helmut Zemo. // So, as I said, it’s an OC but still basically a reader insert; don’t let the OC part deter you if you prefer x reader fics. It just worked better for me on the writing end to use a name, and I have an aversion to using “Y/N,” so I just threw in a pretty name. // TL;DR: Zemo as a dad just kills me & I wanted him to get a second chance at a family.

“I will assist you to the utmost of my ability, on one condition.”

“You’re in no position to be making demands, Zemo.”

“This is both for my own benefit, and yours, I assure you.”

If someone had asked Irina ten years ago where she thought she’d be at this point in life, her answer would have been incredibly far from accurate, for nothing could have predicted the path her life took.

Not that her life had been normal to begin with, being that she was born with the ability to teleport. Sokovia was not exactly a progressive country in the late 1980’s, so her parents had endlessly instructed her to conceal her ability, warning her of the countless dangers of her power being known to others. Her parents were so protective of her that when she teleported as a reflex at age thirteen, after walking along the sidewalk of main street in Novi Grad and a driver fell asleep at the wheel and headed straight for her, they packed up and moved to Russia in the middle of the night. Yet again, the same thing happened at age eighteen, when she was caught up in a hostage situation in a bank and the perpetrator caught her calling the police. Just as he aimed his gun at her and pulled the trigger, she disappeared. Irina and her parents fled to Germany in the dead of night less than twenty-four hours later, and she knew then that she needed to suppress her powers no matter what, being that her father was elderly, and her mother was too ill for them to ever travel again.

So, Irina settled into a normal life in Munich. She worked various odd jobs over the years to support her parents, made and lost a few friends, dated here and there. Her father passed when she was twenty-two, and two years later, her mother joined him. When living in the house where both her parents passed in their sleep became too unbearable, she packed up and moved to Berlin, getting a job at a high-security prison there. Less than a year after she began working there, a newcomer arrived: an inmate by the name of Helmut Zemo.

Being that he knew so much about HYDRA, from his extensive research on them, the American organization SHIELD wished to know more about them. A few psychiatrists and some professional interrogators tried for the first couple months, but they got nothing – quite literally, as he refused to utter a single word to any of them. Irina’s boss knew that she was Sokovian just like Zemo, so she was asked to extract any and all valuable information she could from the new prisoner.

Zemo was an intimidating man; calm, cool, and collected at all times, with eyes like a hawk that bore into Irina’s very soul each time he looked at her. She spent two months talking with him every other day, trying anything and everything she could to get him to talk, but he remained silent. At first, she tried asking him questions outright, but he wouldn’t ever say a word – just stare at her with those cold, calculating eyes. So, Irina changed her approach; they would chat idly in Sokovian to build rapport via their shared mother tongue, or she would ramble about her day, what book she was currently reading, her favorite movies, dates she went on. Those topics got him talking, chatting with her about the miscellaneous subjects she brought up, and both she and her supervisors took it as a good sign. She found that they shared similarities in terms of the loss of their families, and how the destruction of Sokovia hurt them both. Despite how frequently they spoke, he still never revealed anything of importance. After two months, her boss had a few interrogation experts give her some training, so she tried their tactics for another month, but she still got nowhere with him.

Three months after Irina began trying to get intel from Zemo, she sat down in the chair outside his cell, and huffed out a sigh.

“I’m afraid this will be my last visit, Zemo.”

“Why?” His voice held surprise, and a tinge of sadness.

“As you know, they assigned me to visit you for the sake of getting information from you. I’ve been consistently empty-handed over the past four months, so they’re giving up, assigning me back to regular patrol duty.”

“Will I still see you?”

“No. They’re moving me to the women’s side of the prison next week.”

Zemo simply stared at the ground in silence, hands clasped in his lap. Irina allowed the silence to linger for several minutes, then pulled something from her bag, unlocked the small opening on the side of his cell where guards gave him meals, slid the item through, and locked it shut again. He eyed it for a moment before standing and retrieving it, sitting back down on the bed as he looked at it.

“It’s that book I told you about last month, the one you said sounded interesting. Consider it a parting gift.”

He still said nothing, gaze locked on the book cover. Irina cleared her throat and stood, putting her bag on her shoulder as she looked to Zemo one last time.

“It has been nice getting to know you, Zemo. Take care of yourself.”

As Irina pulled open the door to leave, Zemo’s voice called out, “Wait!” She turned to face him and found that he was standing, clenching and unclenching his jaw as if he were thinking, before stating, “Tell your superiors that I will give them one piece of information on HYDRA every two months if you will have lunch with me twice each week.”

Irina’s brows raised in surprise, but she nodded in understanding. “I’ll pass the message along, Zemo.”

“Please… call me Helmut.”

The higher-ups were more than happy to agree to his terms, as long as Irina was okay with them as well, since it involved her. But she wasn't stupid. She told them that it felt like quite an undertaking to agree to such a thing, she had been considering looking for another job in the near future, etcetera. Naturally, they offered to double her pay to persuade her to commit to the arrangement, and it was then that she agreed. In truth, it was no skin off Irina’s nose to do it in the first place. As deranged as it was, Zemo had become her friend, her only friend, and she quite enjoyed talking with him. And even more deranged – bordering psychotic, really – she had developed a bit of a crush on him, finding him to be dangerously handsome and intelligent, so she certainly had no quarrels with agreeing to spend time with him.

Time seemed to fly when Irina began her twice weekly visits to Zemo. She found herself eagerly awaiting their lunches, and she always stayed longer than necessary. She would have rather eaten glass than admit it, but she frequently put a bit more effort into her hair and makeup on the days she would be seeing him.

God, I’m fucking pathetic, Irina thought to herself at least once a week, and yet it never stopped her.

It was another few months later when he said something that made her stomach drop to the pits of hell, and a cold sweat to break out on her skin.

“I know who you are, you know. I have since you first introduced yourself. Irina Molnár, the disappearing girl – at least, that’s what the headlines called you. I remember reading about it when I was a teenager, but the story was forgotten within a week.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Irina replied, but Zemo could hear the quiver in her voice.

“My apologies, I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. I have no intention of mentioning it to anyone besides you. I have simply been wondering… were the rumors true? Can you really just disappear into thin air?”

When Irina hesitated, he added, “Irina, no one would believe me if I told them, and even if they did, they would have no way to prove it. Besides, we have been acquainted for nearly a year now. You are my only solace in this living hell. I would have gone mad had you not came into my life. I would never do anything to risk you harm.”

She exhaled slowly, and looked at the ground when she said, “It’s not ‘disappearing.’ It’s teleporting.”

Zemo leaned forward in his seat, visibly invested in her confession.

“I’ve been able to do it since I was four. Scared my parents half to death when I suddenly appeared before their eyes, having been across the house mere seconds before. I learned to control it pretty quickly, but that day in Sokovia… I was only ten years old, and a car was coming right at me, full speed, so I panicked. I teleported home right before it crushed me, and it would have been a non-issue if my classmate hadn’t been a few feet away and saw the whole thing. He ran his mouth to the press about my identity, so we had to leave.”

“That was why you moved to Russia, not because your father got a job there,” Zemo realized, remembering when you initially told him about your move and falsified the reasoning.

“Yes. It happened again there, when someone shot at me. No one who was around at the time knew my name, so it never made it to the press, but my parents were overly cautious, so we fled to Germany. I’ve not done it since, besides in the comfort of my own home.”

“Show me.”

“You say stupid things for such a brilliant man, Helmut,” Irina said, nodding toward the camera in the corner of the room.

“After you get home tonight, teleport into my cell.”

“Did you miss what I said about the camera, or…?”

“The camera does not have a view of my bed. It only reaches the middle of my cell, not the very back of it where the bed is,” Zemo pointed out, and Irina realized that he was right. She had been in the camera room several times; the camera there did indeed only show the room and half of his cell, never the bed.

“I’ll think about it.”

Zemo smiled brightly, looking excited, like a little kid about to see a magic trick. That alone was enough to motivate Irina to do it, just for the opportunity to see that smile again. So, when she got home that night, she changed into a flowy, deep green sundress, touched up her makeup and hair, strapped on a nice pair of sandals, and then stood in her living room, hyping herself up to take such a risk.

There was a chance that she would get caught. Teleporting in front of anyone was always a risk, no matter what, her parents had always told her. But then that damned, dashing smile crossed Irina's mind, and before she had time to second-guess herself, she was standing at the foot of Zemo’s bed.

The book he’d been reading flew out of his hands as he practically jumped out of his skin, falling to the ground with a loud whack, and he pressed a palm to his chest as he tried to calm his erratic breathing.

“We really should have scheduled a specific time for your arrival,” he muttered, and Irina laughed softly. Thankfully, the cameras had no sound, but if a guard were passing by outside, they may have heard her. When he caught his breath a moment later, Zemo sat up in the bed, letting his legs hang off the edge as he patted the spot beside him. Irina took a seat, crossing her legs and leaning back on her hands.

“So, you were telling the truth. You can actually teleport,” Zemo observed, eyeing her with amusement and interest before he bombarded her with questions. “Can you teleport anywhere in the world? Are there parameters for your distance or location? How long does it take you to travel from one place to another? What does it feel like?”

“I can teleport anywhere I’ve been to or seen photographs of. I cannot do it blindly. The distance nor location does not matter, as long as I have seen my destination before. And it feels like… a slight tingling sensation, all over my body, but it only lasts until I arrive, which takes about a half second.”

“Fascinating,” Zemo whispered. He licked his lips before asking, “Are you capable of teleporting another individual along with you?”

Irina frowned at him. “I’m not breaking you out of prison, Helmut.”

“I didn’t ask that.”

“No, but you were alluding to it,” she countered, and he shrugged. “I can teleport another individual, but only over small distances. Each time I’ve tried, the most distance I’ve gotten with another person has been about ten yards.”

“Perhaps with practice, you could go further.”

“I practiced for years, and ten yards seems to be the true limit. Besides, the only others who have ever known about my ability were my parents, and since they’re gone, I have no test subjects.”

Zemo nodded solemnly, then asked, “What about teleporting repeatedly, in ten yard increments?”

“Tried that. Can only do it about three times before I’m too drained to do it again. Teleporting back-to-back with another person takes a lot of energy,” Irina answered, then added, “And again, even if I could, I am not breaking you out.”

“I am merely interested in your mutation, that is all,” Zemo retorted. Irina shot him a look that said ‘Really?’ so he relented with, “Perhaps also because I wanted to know if you could break me out, but that’s neither here nor there.”

"That's what I thought."

It was another month before either party made a move. They were sitting on Zemo’s bed, side by side, as Irina told him about her day at work, and the man who'd tried hitting on her in the grocery store earlier that evening.

"He thought he was very Rico Suave, but his execution was a nightmare."

"How so?"

"Well, for starters, he followed me around for nearly ten minutes while he worked up the courage to say something. He waited until I walked past him and greeted me with 'Hey, sexy lady.'"

"Oh no," Zemo said, grinning as he looked genuinely amused at this man's poor tactics, although his amusement was contingent upon whether or not Irina was actually interested in him. The way she poked fun at the man indicated a lack of interest, therefore, he was enjoying her tale.

"Oh yes. He then asked if it hurt when I fell from heaven, which is the most overused line in the book, yet he said it with such confidence. And then – get this – he leaned onto what he thought was a shelf, but it was actually a stacked display of cans, which toppled over and sent a hundred soup cans flying down the aisle."

Zemo chuckled, prompting Irina to continue.

"He played it off by saying that my beauty is just so distracting that he didn't even realize what he was doing, and then asked for my phone number."

"Did you give it to him?"

"Absolutely not," Irina said, laughing softly and shaking her head. Zemo was momentarily entranced by the way her beautiful hair fell around her face, and the sound of her laugh.

"Why not?"

"Not my type."

"What is your ‘type’?"

Irina leaned back on the wall behind her, looking up at the ceiling as she thought carefully. "Confidence, but not cockiness. Intelligence. Wit. Sarcastic senses of humor. Men with a sense of passion to them; some kind of fire and gusto about something, whether it be their work, art, music." She looked over at Zemo then, and allowed her gaze to travel slowly up and down his form. "Currently, my type seems to be men I can't have."

Zemo eyed her carefully, allowing himself to absorb her words fully for several moments. She was describing him – he just knew it. Or, he was too blinded by hopefulness and desire to realize that she wasn’t, but he figured there was only one way to find out. So, he leaned forward, closing the gap between them, and pressed his lips to hers.

Irina hesitated for half a second, surprised by his actions, but she recovered quickly and kissed him back. It was gentle, sweet, and explorative, both parties simply enjoying it while it lasts. Neither had any idea how long it lasted, as time stood still. Zemo was the first to pull away, eyes scanning Irina’s face as he looked at her with sheer adoration, as well as a touch of nervousness.

"I understand if you wish for me to never do that again, and I understand if you'd prefer to never see me again. But please know that I did not do that out of blind lust, or anything other fleeting emotion. I did it because my heart has yearned for you every day since first meeting you, and finally having you here next to me, where I can touch you… it was genuinely unbearable to hold myself back from kissing you. I have not felt anything like this since losing my wife, and I did not think my heart was capable of ever feeling it again. But you proved me wrong. I know I am risking an end to the only true human contact I have while trapped inside this cell, which truly frightens me, but the unyielding desire to tell you that I love you overpowers that fear."

Irina stared at him in shock for a few moments, before leaning her head back against the wall and closing her eyes. She exhaled slowly as she collected her thoughts before speaking. "Helmut… I love you, too, but I don't know how this would even work. You're never getting out of here. How can we have any kind of relationship when you're locked in a cell for the rest of your days?"

"We will make it work, my darling," Zemo said, sitting up straighter and turning to face her. "I will ensure that we mimic a true relationship as much as possible. I cannot wine and dine you as I would like to do, but I can easily bribe the guards to have lavish meals brought here for us to share on evenings such as these. I cannot take you out for birthdays or anniversaries, but I will ensure that you are showered with gifts on those days. My angel, I cannot give you a normal life, but I can promise to endlessly strive to make you happy."

Irina stared deeply into his eyes for what felt like an eternity, and she saw nothing but genuity, longing, and adoration there. She could feel the sincerity in his words, feel how desperately he wished for her to agree to his proposal. She was no fool; she knew that their relationship would be a struggle, and she knew that it would never be any resemblance of normal. But she also knew that he made her heart soar in a way no other man ever had, and that she would die feeling like she missed out on something incredible if she walked away from Zemo now.

“Okay,” Irina whispered, mostly to herself, before repeating it in a stronger, more self-assured voice. “Okay.”

For a man who always knew what to say, Zemo was at a loss for words, overcome with joy. He simply cupped her cheek and kissed her, far more passionately than before, allowing his triumphant and ecstatic feeling to flow through the kiss. Irina gripped the front of his sweatshirt in her fists, melting into him, before wrapping her arms around his neck as his free hand moved to rest on the curve of her waist.

Ages had passed by the time they broke apart, foreheads resting against each other as they fought to catch their breaths. Irina was the first to break the comfortable silence they created, laughing quietly in disbelief at the events that had just transpired. Zemo followed suit, a deep, velvety chuckle bubbling up from his chest. He pressed another kiss to her lips before leaning back and looking at her. They gazed at each other in sheer contented bliss for a few moments more, before Irina became the first to speak.

“I love you, Helmut.”

“And I love you, darling.”

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

The sound of the front door opening caused Irina to immediately look up from the book she'd been reading. She frowned, then stood and headed for the door as quickly as possible, calling out, "Nikolai! You know better than to open that door, young man!" When she reached the entryway, she stopped dead in her tracks.

There stood Helmut, wearing the softest, sweetest smile she'd ever seen as he opened his arms to her. She hesitated a moment, unsure whether or not it was real, before he murmured, "Hello, my love." His voice – that alluring raspy undertone, and the gentleness it took on as he spoke to her – broke Irina from her trance, and she ran to him and into his arms, careful of her rounded belly.

Zemo stroked her hair and held her, and her arms around his neck gripped him like a vice, to the point that it hurt a little, but he'd never tell her that. A small sob fell from Irina's lips before she even realized she'd started crying, and he whispered sweet nothings in her ear in Sokovian to soothe her, about how much he loved her and how happy he was to see her. When her crying quieted down a bit, he pulled away to kiss her, a kiss full of love and longing. When he broke the kiss a few moments later, she stroked his cheek lovingly, and he wiped the stray tears from her eyes.

"How are you here? What happened?" Irina asked, and only then did she notice the two men standing awkwardly by the doorway, their faces a mixture of suspicion and surprise. "Who are they?"

"They are the men who helped me escape. James was previously known as the Winter Soldier, and Sam is currently known as the Falcon, an Avenger."

Irina raised an eyebrow at him. "But… you… the Avengers… the Winter Soldier…."

"I know, I know. I am just as surprised as you are, but they need me for something, something very important."

"The Flag Smashers? I saw them on the news. They have Super Soldiers somehow."

"Yes, darling, exactly right. We'll find them, defeat them, and I'll be back before you know it."

Irina understood the implication of his words. He'd be back, but whether that would be in her home or in his cell was yet to be determined. But she knew him. She knew that he would not take his newfound freedom as a one-time opportunity. A storm of thoughts about what that would mean for them flashed through her mind, but Zemo’s hands on her stomach snapped her out of it.

"How is our daughter?" he asked, gently rubbing Irina’s baby bump, a bright smile blooming when the child inside kicked at his hands, as she always did. She had only been in existence for seven months, and she wasn't even born yet, but she already favored him over her mother.

"She's good, she's been moving around a lot today, as if she knew her Daddy was coming," Irina replied, earning a grin from Zemo. "The doctors told me this morning that her heartbeat is strong and she appears to be the picture of health."

"Good, good. And what about –"

"DADDY!" a tiny voice bellowed from down the hall, and they turned to see a small boy running full speed toward Zemo. Irina stepped back to allow him a clear passageway, smiling as Helmut crouched down to meet him, enveloping the boy in an embrace as he collided with his father's chest.

"Nikolai, I've missed you," Zemo stated, rubbing the boy's back as he stood, still holding his son. Irina caught the way her husband's voice wavered when he said that, and she laid a comforting hand on his back.

"I've missed you too, Daddy. Are you living with me and Mommy now?" Nikolai asked, leaning back in his father's arms to gaze at him with excitement plain on his face. Zemo gave him a smile, but Irina could see the sadness in it, knowing the future was uncertain.

"Not quite, buddy. Just here for a visit," Zemo replied, and Irina rubbed his back comfortingly before pressing a kiss to their son's temple.

Their family time was interrupted by Sam clearing his throat loudly, and when Zemo turned to face him, his smile faded.

"Sorry to interrupt, but Zemo, you've got some explaining to do, and not much time to do it. Don't forget we're on borrowed time here."

"Right," Zemo confirmed, then exhaled slowly. "James, Sam, this is my wife Irina and our son Nikolai…. He is five, and Irina is seven months along."

Confusion washed over both men's faces, and they exchanged a glance before the other, James, was the first to speak.

"But… you've been in prison for eight years. Have you been escaping every few years and no one's noticed?"

"I have not left my cell in eight years, consecutively. But my wife is capable of getting into my cell as often as we wish."

"So, what? You've just been having conjugal visits all the damn time? And the prison staff green-lit that?" Sam asked.

"No, not exactly," Zemo answered, then glanced at Irina. They shared a look before she explained further.

"I can teleport. I met Helmut when I was tasked with extrapolating information about HYDRA from him, and he refused to share anything unless the prison staff agreed to let him meet with me twice a week, just to chat, in which case he'd give them tidbits of information bi-monthly. They agreed, and before long, I revealed my ability to him. I'd visit him in his cell occasionally, because the cameras only show half of it. Over time, well… we fell in love. Nikolai came a few years later, and now…" Irina trailed off, then rubbed a hand over her pregnant belly.

"Why didn't you ever bust him out?" James asked.

"I can only teleport small distances with another person, and I can only do it twice at the most, so we'd have never made it off the grounds."

James and Sam were silent for a moment, absorbing the information they'd been given. Sam was the first to break the silence.

"Zemo, you said this little pitstop would benefit me and Bucky. But it's not like she can go with us," he said, sounding a bit irritated as he gestured towards Irina’s stomach. "So what the hell was the point?"

"It does benefit you. You now possess the knowledge that a teleporter exists. Congratulations," Zemo said dryly, then looked at his wife and son for a moment, before returning his attention to the men. "Sam, the point was that I lost my family when Sokovia was destroyed, and the family I have now has only ever seen me inside a prison cell. I wanted my son to have at least one memory of his father in his home with him."

James – no, Bucky, apparently – and Sam exchanged a look, before Bucky sighed and looked to Zemo.

"You have one hour. Sam and I will be guarding the exits, so don't try to escape. If you do…." He trailed off after glancing at Nikolai. "Let's just say it won't be pretty."

True to their word, Sam and Bucky remained stationed outside the home, one out front and one out back. Zemo milked that hour as much as possible, spending most of it in his son’s room with him and Irina, listening intently to Nikolai tell him all about what’s been going on at school, his favorite shows, the trip he took to the zoo the day before with Irina, etc.. He even told Zemo about each and every one of his toys, simply enjoying talking to his dad, and although Zemo was the one to send almost every one to him, therefore he already knew about them, he didn’t mention that. He simply listened intently as his son spoke, enjoying the quality time with him, exchanging smiles and occasional kisses with Irina. She showed him the nursery she’d been working on for their daughter, and he finished putting together the crib she’d started, Nikolai happily handing him parts and screws as needed. Zemo also moved the dresser and changing table to where she’d wanted them but couldn’t move them herself, then they settled into the living room shortly before the hour was up.

Sam and Bucky reentered the house to find the family sitting around the coffee table, playing a game of Jenga. They stood silently in the doorway to the living room, watching as Nikolai carefully drew a block from the tower before placing it back on the top with a triumphant look on his little face. Zemo commended his concentration, then drew a block himself, although he intentionally wiggled it a little so that the tower came toppling down.

“I won! Daddy, I won!”

“Yes, you did, my son. Excellent job,” Zemo said warmly, then glanced at Sam and Bucky before scooping the boy up into a tight hug. “Daddy has to go now, but I will see you again soon.”

“Do you have to go?”

“I’m afraid so. But I need you to promise me something before I leave. Take care of your mom for me, will you?”

“I will, I promise.”

“Good boy,” Zemo said with a smile, then kissed Nikolai’s forehead and set him down. Zemo stood and helped Irina stand up, hugging her tightly as he buried his face into her neck. Quietly, so that no one but her could hear, he said, “I will not be going back to prison unless there is no other way, but know that yours and our children’s safety is my utmost concern.”

“I know, Helmut,” Irina whispered back, and he pressed a long, lingering kiss to her lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, my angel,” Zemo murmured against her lips, then stooped down to hug his son again. “And I love you, Nikolai.”

“I love you, too, Daddy,” the boy responded, and the way his voice quivered as he choked back tears broke his parents’ hearts into a million pieces. Reluctantly, Zemo let him go and he wrapped his arms around his mother’s leg, resting his head against her as he sniffled and she rubbed his back.

“Be safe, sweetheart,” Irina commanded.

Zemo nodded to her before walking over to join Sam and Bucky. With one last heartbroken look at his family, he left, closing the door behind him as he let out a shaky breath. He didn’t meet the other men’s eyes as he walked over to the car, and after they all piled in, they drove in silence to the airport, off to their next stop in Madripoor.

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

@henrysmorgan​ @clints-lucky-arrow​ @therenlover​

[angelictaehyun]

Growing Pains

⤷ In kindergarten, he accidentally punched your nose. Thankfully, from that, a loving, caring friendship blossomed. Since then, you both had been attached at the hip, until suddenly... you’re halfway across the globe, a couple thousand miles apart.

PAIRING; yeonjun/reader

WORD COUNT; 3.2k

GENRE; singer!yeonjun, coming of age au, angst, slight fluff

WARNING; mild swearing, heartbreak, abandonment, angst

.

Honestly, five-year-old Yeonjun was nothing short of a nightmare. Though, he was seen this way only by you. 

On a sunny day, sometime in kindergarten, he sat crouched on the playground’s field, searching for a ladybug. As for you, you believed if you found a ladybug, it could grant you a wish, thus you joined the young boy in his quest. You sat next to him, mindlessly searching the grass, and when he looked up to see you... he panicked. Other children, as he was told, are unclean and gross, and that’s exactly the sentiment he told himself as he pushed you onto the grass, causing you to scrape your elbow and bleed. You couldn’t stop sniffling as a big, crocodile tear trickled down your face; he felt terrible. In the palm of his clammy hand, he held a tiny, red ladybug, and seeing you cry, pushed him to give it to you. 

"Please, just take it,” he quivered nervously. He thrust his hand in your face to present the small creature, but he ended up punching your nose. Unsurprisingly, you began full-on bawling. 

He ended up in the principal’s office, and despite his feeble attempt to explain the true incident, his nap and playground time was taken away as punishment. Shortly after, he sulked back to class, passing the nurse’s office. Through the tinted, glass window, he saw you laying on an uncomfortable cot with an ice pack held over your nose and gauze over your injured elbow. 

He was miserable. 

He decided to genuinely apologize. He despised the idea of you being upset with him, even though he didn’t know you. After a stolen pint of ice cream from the school’s cafeteria, a pleading fest, a horrendous papier-mâché, and a heartfelt apology, you decided he wasn’t the worst. As for Yeonjun, he decided he liked you and suddenly, in the blink of an eye, he was glued to your side. 

But you didn’t mind. It was hard to resist his smile. 

· ──────────────────── ·

The day you decided Jung Mina was your absolute, garbage, worst enemy, you were nine. 

On your first day back at school, you had gone to the restroom for a quick minute, and when you returned, you found she had stolen your diary to read in front of the class. Though she was quite the golden child, pissing you off to no end. Fortunately, your school’s field day neared the horizon and you decided to show her up. You wanted everyone, specifically Choi Yeonjun, to see your pure, unadulterated talent. You decided to absolutely destroy her in each event. 

You were quite the vengeful nine-year-old. 

Yeonjun, on the other hand, felt hesitant to follow through with your field-day-domination plan. Mina was just too pretty. Her hair smelled like sage and he had the biggest crush on her, unbeknownst to you. He was scared to mention his deep, dark secret, especially after you vocalized your complicated plan. You received virtually no help from him on field day. Despite that, you had won nearly every event. Unfortunately, somehow, you remained tied for champion with Mina, but the tiebreaker seemed quite simple. All you had to do was win a human-wheelbarrow race with Yeonjun, it was almost too easy. 

And in all honesty, you would’ve won had Yeonjun not dropped you in the middle of the field and trip over your body, easily distracted by an air kiss from Mina, herself. He’d been lovestruck, but he didn’t have much time to dwell, especially not when you were squashed under him. He scrambled to help you back up, hoping he didn’t completely ruin your chance but it was too late, you had long lost the race. He turned to you, meeting your unkempt ponytail, narrowed, piercing gaze, sweat, and pursed lips. He was terrified, rightfully so. You told him off in the middle of the field, him withering in shame as he took in your colorful wording. 

You chose to ignore him for a week, leaving him pouty. He decided to relive the past and create another papier-mâché, steal ice cream, and beg for forgiveness at your front door. He stood in the doorway, glancing at you with big, apologetic doe eyes, as an onset of a tear formed. Your resolve crumbled as you pulled him into a forgiving hug. As you pulled away, you admired his puffy lips which tilted into a small smile, and for the first time in your life, you felt your heart flutter. 

He never did tell you about his crush on Mina. In the end, it didn’t quite matter. 

· ──────────────────── ·

Year thirteen, you experimented with makeup. A lot of it. You tried different brands, colors, and styles. Yeonjun would be lying if he said you didn’t resemble a clown, but he kept his mouth shut and let you figure yourself out. Unfortunately, people were mean. When boys laughed at you behind your back, he made sure to drag them outside and put them in their place. When girls acted catty, he held you when you cried. When your family fell apart, he sat and devoured ice cream until your stomach ached. When you decided to join the dance team, he cheered you on at the audition. 

He was always protecting and supporting you, even when you weren’t aware. 

Lastly, when Homecoming approached, he was by your side as your unofficial date.

You both sat on the gym bleacher, overlooking your classmates who were either awkwardly swaying to the music, stuffing their faces at the snack station, or making out with each other. You regretted attending the dance, considering your boredom. though, when your watchful gaze traveled back to the couple kissing, a brilliant idea came forth.

“Junie, you know, neither of us has had our first kiss,” you observed, leaning slightly to see his reaction. He simply hummed in response, not fully listening. You continued, “... and I want to have my first kiss. I think we should have our first kiss with... each other.”

He stayed still, showing no indication of acknowledging your statement. You didn’t blame him, the music was quite loud anyway, you could barely hear yourself. You pretended you didn’t say anything and for an awfully long moment, you both stayed silent. Though that silence mixed in with a hint of embarrassment got too overwhelming, you had to excuse yourself to the restroom. As you left, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He definitely heard you, but he didn’t know how to process your ask let alone go through with it. He spent so much time, deep in thought, that he failed to realize your absence. When he snapped out his pensive state, he searched the massive gym for you and found you almost immediately, but you weren’t alone. You were pressed up against a dirty, filthy wall, experiencing your first kiss with someone that most certainly wasn’t Yeonjun.

He stood frozen, feeling a bit creepish, yet he couldn’t move if he wanted to, he couldn’t even breathe. Unfortunately, you didn’t stop until a while later, forcing Yeonjun to watch every second in complete agony. Your hair was messy and you were out of breath— that sight broke Yeonjun’s heart. The other boy dragged you onto the dance floor and when you spotted Yeonjun, standing absolutely dumbfounded, you sent a big smile and cheeky wink his way.

You seemed too cheery, and though he was your best friend that should’ve reveled in your happiness, all he saw was red. He felt pure, unadulterated rage, and jealousy. He was supposed to make your first kiss unforgettable, not the other boy.

It was supposed to be him.

· ──────────────────── ·

At fourteen, you decided you didn’t necessarily like your boyfriend all too much, especially since someone else already held your heart. Sure, you felt the loss of your first relationship, but the realization that you’d loved Yeonjun for longer than you cared to admit, hurt more. Though, what hurt the most, was the conclusion that your love was likely unrequited. That night, you sobbed into the phone, and the second he heard your cracked voice, he hopped on his bike and headed in your direction.

It didn’t matter the time, he needed to make sure you’d be okay.

Naturally, he believed you were heartbroken from your breakup, so he attempted to soothe you with ice cream and cuddling. He pulled you against his chest and softly caressed your hair as you watched Titanic; it was supposed to make you feel better, but it made you feel significantly worse. He belted out the movie’s famous ballad in a feeble attempt to lift your spirit and for the first time that night, you smiled. It was a fake smile, of course, but he wasn’t privy to that. Nonetheless, he thought you looked breathtaking.

You complimented his soothing, silvery, beautiful voice — it made his heart swoon.

He was fourteen when he decided to become a singer. It was also at fourteen, he realized he was hopelessly in love with you.

· ──────────────────── ·

At fifteen, you rode the dinky, old subway with Yeonjun to a company audition — one he eventually passed and became a trainee for.

You were there the day he stepped foot into the building for his first training session. You were there when he felt like a loner amongst the other trainee, and you were there when he decided to become the absolute best, letting nothing get in the way of his dream. He set his sight high, and with that determination running through his bloodstream, he decided to express his undying love for you. So when you kissed him back, on the roof of his house, under the moonlight, after eating a gallon of ice cream, he felt like he had everything in his grasp.

After that night, you never let each other go. You stayed by each other’s side and fell more in love as the days passed by, remaining blissfully unaware of the pain the future had to offer. At least you were happy, even if that happiness was on a ticking clock.

· ──────────────────── ·

You were eighteen when you packed a bag and said goodbye to Yeonjun.

A month before high school graduation, you irrationally decided to study abroad in America. You weren’t stupid, you knew about the promise he made to himself when he was younger, his whole schtick of letting nothing stop him from his dream. You knew you were a hindrance, and it was only a matter of time before he realized that as well. You loved him with your entire heart, that much was obvious, but you didn’t want to be the thing to hold him back. He begged you to stay, he said he could have you and success, something you both knew was a plain lie. He couldn’t have you and be an idol, it was one or the other, but he was too stubborn to admit that to himself.

He drove you to the airport in a painfully silent car ride. He was angry, hurt, devastated by your decision to leave him, but you, on the other hand, felt complete and utter relief. He was so close to reaching his dream and all you truly wanted was his happiness, unfortunately, leaving was the only way you knew how to ensure it.

You cried as you said your farewell to him, but his blank face gave no indicator as to how he truly felt; he had barely spoken a word to you the entire week leading up to your departure. He stood motionless as you kissed his cheek, completely devoid of emotion — it hurt you. When you walked away, you felt heartbroken but much lighter. He watched your figure travel through security, unable to bring himself to leave. When you turned for a final glance, you noticed how broken he seemed, but you knew he’d piece himself back together — it would just be without you.

When you turned the corner, leaving his sight, he let every emotion flood his body. That night, he sobbed into his pillow, crying harder than he ever had before.

He’d lost you.

· ──────────────────── ·

You truly discover yourself at twenty. You graduated university earlier than everyone else, got your first and only tattoo, decided America wasn’t great, and moved back to Seoul. Hell, you even found your signature scent.

As much as the country itself sucked, your time in America served you well. You got your first job, experienced university life, made a friend or two, dated a lot, but most importantly, you got the degree you diligently worked for. Of course, it was hard to be away from him. You spent months holed up in your room, refusing to leave the apartment. It hurt the most when you watched his debut, seeing his face rushed every memory back to you. However, over a long period, you slowly pieced yourself back together and moved on. Eventually, you were able to think of him without feeling a sharp pang in your heart.

When you moved back, you weren’t surprised to see his handsome face plastered along the subway or on large billboards. It brought up old scars, habits, memories, but it reminded you that he was able to achieve everything he sought out to do. You, of course, knew he would, he was too stubborn and hardworking to fail; he was meant to succeed.

You just hoped he was happy.

While you were self-discovering in America, Yeonjun nearly gave up everything. He wasn’t proud to admit it, but countless times he almost bought a one-way ticket to you. However, a newfound brother held him back and kept encouraging him to move on. Not long after, he thanked Soobin for his support, had it not been for him, Yeonjun would’ve given up everything. He understood why you left and it was that knowledge that pushed him to work harder, he just wanted to make you proud, even if you were out of his life. He worked tirelessly to debut and once he did, he realized that despite everything, it was worth it.

If it was meant to be, he’d find you again.

He let his mind stray to you from time to time. He couldn’t help it, you were the love of his life. He truly hoped that wherever you were, you were happy.

· ──────────────────── ·

At age twenty-one, on a warm summer’s night, you left your apartment to head to a convenience store, searching for a pint of ice cream and an iced coffee, and maybe an energy drink if you were feeling desperate. Not a month into moving home, you had decided to pursue a master’s degree, but on a night such as this, where you frantically searched for any source of caffination just so you could complete your dissertation, you sorely regretted it.

You were met with harsh, fluorescent lighting as you entered the store but it was a welcomed relief, especially after staring wide-eyed at a computer screen for the past week. You browsed then snack aisle, too preoccupied to notice the soft jingle of the opening door. a tall, lean figure strut past your aisle, standing in front of the drink section for a bit, clearly having trouble deciding on a beverage. You made your way to the front, feeling content with your pint of ice cream, iced americano, and a bonus bag of pretzels. On your way, you stumbled into the hoodied boy and you cursed yourself because only you would run smack into the only other customer in the shop. You scrambled to pick up your scattered belonging, “Oh my God! I’m so sorry, I didn’t see where I was going, I’m such a klutz. Next time, I’ll pay more attenti—”

“Y/N, it’s you...” the soft, hushed voice cut off.

You stared at the young boy’s feet, slowly lifting your gaze to scan the rest of him, stopping at his broad chest, too afraid to look into his fox-like eyes. You knew it was him, of course, you did. It was the same deep, soothing, honeyed voice you spent your childhood falling in love with. Your breath caught in your throat as you dared steal a glance at his face. When you finally met his piercing gaze, he thought he saw the universe in your eyes. He opened his mouth in silent awe as a stray tear cascaded down his cheek. He moved toward you as if you were a flighty deer, and hovered his face closely. You thought he was going to kiss you, and surprisingly, you were quite eager despite the time apart. He pulled you into a loving embrace, so tight, you believed he’d never let go — not that you wanted him to.

That night, he accompanied you home.

Your heartfelt reunion was more than you could’ve asked for. He spent the night with you, doing nothing but catching up, laughing at past memories, eating ice cream, and slowly falling back in love. When he pressed you against your sink, he kissed you with everything he had. At that moment, you understood that despite the painful heartache, everything worked for the best.

You were truly meant to be, you found your way back to him.

Everything was complicated, unsurprising for an idol, but he saw the way you looked at him; it was a look that said you’d move every mountain and all the bright stars in the sky, just to make him happy. It was the same way he looked at you.

He told himself once, when he was a young five-year-old, that he wanted to stay by your side. He left it once, but he’d be damned if he ever left it again.

[ilguna]

Redamancy - Chapter One (f.o)

summary: it’s time to forgive and repair.

warnings; swearing, mention of trauma

wc; 8.4k

NOTES; I give reader a last name to fit the world.

–

Well, it’s been five years since you won the Hunger Games. 

What an anniversary.

It honestly feels like you won them yesterday. You can recall all your memories as if it hasn’t been years since you stepped foot inside of the arena. Which is no doubt a bad thing. Before you’d ended your therapy a while ago, the therapist told you that you’re holding onto trauma. It’s not going to go away overnight. In fact, they wouldn’t be surprised if it doesn’t go away at all.

Which Reed didn’t like to hear at all, of course. The whole reason he’d gotten you into therapy was to work at you getting better. Unfortunately, neither of you would be reaching that goal. Not with how demanding the boarding school would get as the years would come on.

At first, you thought that everything you’d written down at the very beginning would be enough to suffice. However, the more you think about everything that you’d been through, the more that the details become clearer. Suddenly you’re remembering things that hadn’t existed in the first place.

Reed and Mox hate this habit of yours. They thought you would have buried and left it behind by now. But it’s impossible to do. You’re responsible for hundreds of kids and teenagers. The more you remember at this point, the more they’re able to learn from your mistakes and fix it themselves.

With every passing year, and bringing home a new pair of coffins, you can’t focus on yourself anymore. You think that every year is going to be different and new, that the tributes going in that year are a pair of winners for sure. But then you’re stunned right back into embarrassed silence.

District Four is being forgotten. Once again, you’re questioning why it was ever considered a career in the first place. You can’t produce victors, no matter how hard you try.

It’s frustrating, and almost not worth your time anymore.

Anchor thinks that he’s fixed the problem, though. The both of you know better than anyone that the training centers in the career districts typically train their tributes for years. There’s a reason why their volunteers are seventeen and eighteen, rarely ever sixteen. It’s because they’ve spent years training to be where they are, and they’re sure that they’ll win.

So, you switched up the rules this year. No one under the age of seventeen that goes to the boarding school is allowed to volunteer to go into the Hunger Games. If you’re chosen by chance and want to go in, that’s their deal. The only instance where it’ll be ruined is if someone else volunteers over them. If anyone over seventeen wants to go in, that’s their choice to make. Not the boarding school.

Of course, there’s no guarantee what will happen because of this. You’ve been getting at least one volunteer a year since the boarding school opened. But they’ve always been on the younger side, and have only been in the program for a year or so. They could win, but they’re not nearly as knowledgeable as the teens that have been in the program for years.

They’ve been able to watch and observe the mistakes of others. You think that if one of the seventeen or eighteen year olds that signed up when they were twelve or thirteen were to volunteer, they’d blow the competition out of the water. Show the Capitol and the career districts that you’re coming back for a round two. Bigger and better than ever.

Then again, the seventeen and eighteen year olds never express interest in volunteering because they’re nearly out. One or two years and they’re finally free of the reapings. No one would willingly throw themselves into an arena when they’re on the brink of being away from it. The chances of accidentally getting yourself killed in the arena is always an outcome, prepared or not. 

Either way, you hope this year is different and you’re able to break the four-year streak of double coffins.

You head downstairs, fingers still securing the pin in a reliable spot in your hair. When it doesn’t budge no matter how you move your head, you call it good. 

Downstairs is already awake. Reed is cooking breakfast, Mox is probably sitting at the table. You can faintly hear the sound of Alyssum talking. It’s only as you reach the bottom creaking steps, does she realize that you’re awake.

“(Y/n)!” She shouts, abandoning what she was saying before.

You find yourself crouching to look into the tiny mirror in an alcove. The pin doesn’t look out of place, in fact you can’t really see it at first glance. Only when you go to touch it, do you find where it is.

Alyssum comes around the corner, a wide smile on her face. It’s clear she hasn’t done her hair yet, waiting on you.

“Where’s your stuff?” You ask.

“Bathroom.” She says.

“Okay, let’s get it done real quick.” You push her towards the bathroom, “We’ll be in there in a minute!”

“No rush.”

You carefully comb through Alyssum’s hair, being gentle when you find snarls. Even if she were in pain, you know that she wouldn’t voice it unless it really hurt. Doesn’t mean that you purposely go ripping the brush through her hair like Reed used to do. You tie her long hair to the back of her neck, and then you loosen it up to make it look better.

“Can you tie this over the rubber band? I’m trying to match with Laleh.” 

Alyssum holds up a silk white ribbon. If she had asked you to do this last year, you would have had to tell her no. Naida had to teach you how to do a variety of hairstyles for the boarding school. Sometimes the younger girls aren’t able to tie their hair back, and sometimes they don’t want it to be a ponytail.

Needless to say, you’re starting to feel like a mother. Once the bow is tight over the band, you hold her in front of the mirror, staring into her eyes, “If the bow comes undone, go to Naida or Calandra, stay far away from Reed and Mox, okay?”

She nods once, you let her free so that she can join your brothers at the dining table while you clean up the bathroom counter. It’s a quiet morning, no one really speaks at the table, which isn’t unusual for reaping mornings. Alyssum tends to get upset because you won’t be at the house for several weeks, and you’re already stressing out about what the arena will be like this year.

You know that things would be so much easier in the Capitol if you just had a partner that worked with you. Finnick does absolutely nothing, you’re not even sure if he stays in the apartment half of the time. You never see him, rarely in the morning, you think you hear him leave at night.

He won’t help, he won’t trade with Anchor. You’ve asked him, Anchor has asked him, even Mags has asked him. If he would just give up his mentoring spot to Anchor, you’re sure that you’d come out with a few victors. When you’re doing all the work by yourself, it’s chaotic.

It’s hard to hold a schedule. You’re running between the stylists and prep teams, constantly taking advice from Elysia. When you’re not keeping an eye on the tributes, you’re watching their odds on the scoreboard go up and down depending on how much the sponsors like them. And then when they’re actually inside of the arena, you’re staying up all hours of the night to not miss a single thing. Just in case you miraculously come across a sponsor that sees potential in one of the tributes.

Not to mention the whole boarding school, which is a whole new ordeal. He comes up with the idea, promises to be there to help train no matter what. But after he broke up with you that year, he gradually stopped showing up. So now, the future tributes of District Four are not only out of a valuable side of a story, but they’re also dealing with two overworked victors who just want one break.

It’s bouncing between you and Anchor, sometimes even Mags will have to take over for a day. Which isn’t much help, considering the stroke she had last year. She tried speech therapy, but figured out that it wasn’t working as well as it should early on. Mags gave up on it, the only way she communicates anymore is through notes.

How is that going to work? You’ve got hundreds of teens and preteens relying on an old woman that can’t even speak. Her techniques are out of date, as well as Luther and Scotch. The kids have better chances with you, Finnick and Anchor. Anchor hasn’t been inside of the arena for ten years, and the kids have heard your two strategies a hundred times by now.

If Finnick were to just help. Just a little bit, you’re sure that it would make a difference. But he has such a vendetta against you or the tributes because he won’t budge. You’re fucked, he’s backed you into this impossible corner. Every year since you two won, you’ve brought home double coffins. It’s fucking embarassing. You don’t know how District Four was ever considered a career.

It’s childish, he’s so childish. He hasn’t kept his promise and he’s weaseled his way out of it every single time. And you keep letting him get away with it.

It clicks.

You keep letting him get away with it, you’re not holding him accountable. He doesn’t fall through on his promises because you don’t push them onto him. And when he tells you no, you back off because you think that there’s no point in trying. He hasn’t made an effort in the past, why would he make one when you ask.

You press your lips together, smiling. This year is already supposed to be an experiment to see what happens with the tributes. If everything goes well with this year’s tributes, you think that you’ll try something new yourself. 

“We have to stop by Naida’s place before heading over to the stage.” Reed says, standing from the table, taking his plate with him, “We can take Alyssum with us.”

“Okay.” you agree, standing up too. Mox cleans up the rest of the table, taking it into the kitchen to help Reed.

Alyssum comes over, throwing her arms around you tightly. You hug her back, being careful not to ruin her hair, “I’ll be back in a few weeks. Promise me that you’ll be good for Reed and Mox.”

“I promise.” her voice is muffled, face pressed to your stomach.

“I’ll be back before you know it.” you lean down to press a kiss to the top of her head, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

She lets go of you, a frown on her face. But it doesn’t look like she’s going to be crying this year, “I’m leaving!”

“See you later!” Reed shouts back.

You leave the house, shutting the door behind you. As you squint through the bright summer sun, you head down the stone steps and to the left, towards the opening of Victor's Village. This year it’s Anchor’s turn to walk Mags to the stage, since you did it last year. Since they’re relatively slow, though, you’re sure that you’ll be able to catch up in no time.

You’re right, you come across Anchor and Mags more than halfway to the stage. It seems like Mags is doing just fine walking on her own, and Anchor is talking to her. Anchor hears you approaching pretty far back and glances over his shoulder to see that it’s you. 

“Good morning!” you jog to catch up, “I see you got an early start today.”

“Haha, shut up.” Anchor says, but cracks up when you do.

Anchor goes back to what he was talking about, and you quickly find out that it’s about the boarding school. It’s an in-depth explanation about your plan this year. Mags knew the basics, but now it’s all about details. You’ll be lucky if you get two tributes that showed promise during training. Otherwise, you’re left with the gamble of the reaping bowls.

Luther and Scotch have already beaten you to the stage when you get there. No Finnick in sight, which you can’t say that you’re surprised about. The five of you get on the stage, leaving the far left seat for Finnick to take when he gets here. Mayor Burrula comes on stage, getting ready to take his spot in front of the podium.

The reaping area in front of you fills. There’s familiar faces in all the age categories, in your mind, you count all the seventeen and eighteen year olds that you know go to the boarding school. It’s a fair amount, most of them are really good at what they know, especially the ones that have been with you for a couple of years now. None of which have ever expressed an interest in volunteering, though. And if they did, it was never to you or Anchor.

Finnick finally shows up when it’s five minutes out from reaping time. The moment after he sits down in his chair, he scoots it two inches away from you. It’s his own personal yearly tradition… on top of all the other ones of neglecting his mentoring duties. 

After the anthem, Mayor Burrula kicks off the reaping with the annual Dark Days speech. It’s boring, you try to look awake. As a joke, you can hear Anchor mocking soft snores. You crack a smile, shaking your head when you elbow him to get him to shut up. Burrula wraps the speech up, introduces Elysia as if she hasn’t been District Four’s Capitol escort for the past couple of years, and then sits back down.

She smiles as she does every year, standing in front of the microphone, “Good afternoon, and Happy Hunger Games. Ladies first.”

You hold your breath, all previous emotion draining out of your body. She heads over to the bowl, her gloved hand dipping into the bowl. She hesitates over the paper, trying to find one that’ll hold the golden tribute. If you have a girl volunteer this year, it’s not going to matter. She could pick a twelve year-old and they could be replaced by a seventeen or eighteen year-old.

She picks one, carefully pulls her hand out of the bowl, and resumes her spot in front of the microphone. She takes her time peeling off the black tape, not wanting to rip the paper. She reads over the name, and with the distance between you and her, you’re not able to see the name.

Still, you mentally cross your fingers. It’s a new year, a new plan. Please, please, please.

“District Four’s girl tribute is Shilin Brisby.” Elysia pronounces the name carefully, and then looks up to the section of girls.

The name isn’t familiar, and there’s no movement in the girl section. You wait, leaning forward slightly to see if the crowd will out her. But before that can happen, the magic words are being shouted, “I volunteer!”

In the eighteen section, out comes a brown-haired girl with a confident smile on her face. The peacekeepers escort her from the way back to the very front. She takes the stone steps easily, tucking her hair behind her ear so that she can see where she’s stepping.

Her name comes across your lips quickly, “Annie Cresta.”

She’s been with the boarding school since she was thirteen, which is five whole years of experience. Five whole years of training, of watching her start out small and hardly able to defend herself, to career-worthy. She’s still not very strong, but she’s resourceful, and smart. 

She stops in front of the girl’s bowl, standing up tall. She let’s Elysia ask for her name, which she repeats for everyone in District Four and in the Capitol. You can’t help the grin that comes across your face. This is the year of change.

“And now for the boys.” Elysia says, moving over to the bowl on the right. She carefully pulls out this paper too, not as hesitant as before. She when stops in front of the microphone again, the tape comes off easier. She reads over it, and then speaks, “District Four’s boy tribute is Paslee Milillio.”

There’s no gap this time. You can see a hand shoot up in the seventeen section faster than the words leave his mouth, “I volunteer as tribute!”

You breathe out a laugh, covering your mouth. This one is an easy guess, Marsh Milillio never stops talking about how his younger brother, Paslee, is going to be the next victor prodigy. Paslee’s thirteen this year, he’s been with you guys for a year. And he does show promise, so Marsh isn’t lying.

Marsh gets brought up to the stage, stops in front of his bowl and says his name clear into the microphone. Two volunteers, two very good tributes. This year, the golden beam of light is on District Four. 

Elysia wraps it up, wishes for a Happy Hunger Games again, and then backs up to allow Annie and Marsh to shake hands. They do, and you can see that Annie has this smirk on her face, something mischievous. You can only imagine how Marsh is looking at the moment, especially since they’re friends.

Once they’re done, they have to face the district again as the anthem plays for the final time. When the anthem is over, they’re brought inside of the building to say goodbye to their families. You’re supposed to take a minute or two saying your own goodbyes, or head straight to the train to make sure that you leave on time.

You stand, a bright smile on your face, “Holy shit.”

“Don’t fuck this up.” Anchor says, he’s got a grin going, “Please.”

“Holy shit!” you repeat, laughing, “Annie and Marsh? Talk about striking gold!”

It’s going to be an easy year. They understand the rules, they know how to color inside of the lines. You’re not going to have to baby them at all. Not even Marsh, even though he’s seventeen. You’ll be able to focus on more important things.

You give Anchor a hug, and then Mags too. You tell Anchor that he should probably visit the families, and then hold a celebration at the boarding school the night of the interviews. You wave goodbye to your family, who are hanging out on the outskirts of the reaping pen, and then go to meet the car that’s waiting for you.

Finnick is already inside, looking out of the window. The car takes off towards the train as soon as the door is shut. On the way to the train, you work on how you’re going to uphold the deal you made with yourself when it comes to Finnick. You’re not going to let him wreck it. He’s going to help, or he’s going to regret it.

You and Finnick head right inside. As Finnick does every year, he heads straight towards his room. He only makes it one step before you’ve got an iron lock on his wrist, keeping him from going any further.

He turns, confused, eyes trained on your expressionless face.

They say that time heals all wounds. That the longer you put the problem off, you’ll eventually forget about it, and it’ll magically evaporate and disappear like it never existed in the first place. But they’re wrong. Time has let you grow bitter and angry and tired and cold. 

The last time you talked to Finnick was years ago, when he told you for the final time that he wouldn’t be participating anymore. To leave him alone and let him do his own thing inside of the Capitol. The mentoring responsibility is now yours, consider him a ghost.

He owes you.

“Work with me this year.” The words aren’t harsh, and they even leave a little room for discussion. A part of you wants to add the word ‘please’ to the end, but you won’t be begging.

“What?” His face twists, and you can see the annoyance before it’s even appeared, “I thought we went over this already. The answer is no.”

You’re not begging. You’re also not backing down. You’re holding him to his promise this year. And if that means getting aggressive and mean, he’s about to meet a new side of you.

You face drops, hand tightening around his wrist. You lift, and pull him closer to you. Finnick might have height, but you have strength through persistence, “Let me rephrase; you’re working with me this year. It’s not a question.”

“You say that now, but you can’t make me do anything.” He twists his wrist, trying to get it free, “Let go.”

You inhale through your nose, keeping your voice quiet and level so that the microphones outside won’t pick you up, “You will help me this year, or you will wish you died in that fucking arena. I’ll make an example out of you, Finnick. You think it’s bad now, wait until I make you the punchline of the fucking joke.”

You yank him closer, he stutters to catch himself so that he doesn’t smack into you, “Your free trial is over. I hope you enjoyed it while it lasted.” He’s glaring, pissed. You let go, pushing him back in the process, “You can hide and wallow in your room now, but when we get to the Capitol, shit changes. Whether you like it or not.

“You’re under me. And you’re working for me, on my terms this year. Don’t like it? Cry me a fucking river.”

You hear the car doors outside of the train, slam shut. The tributes are here, you don’t need to be here waiting when they come inside.

“Clocks ticking, Finnick. You’ve got less than twelve hours to do what you want before your free time is mine.”

“You’re so fucking cocky. Last time I checked, I’m my own person. You can’t tell me what to do.�� Finnick shakes his head, face scrunched, a slight shade of red, “Maybe this shit would have flown with Anchor, but I’m not your fucking boyfriend.”

“No, you’re not. And I’m ashamed you ever had that title in the first place. At least Anchor is fucking reliable.” You spit, and you physically see his face fall. Whatever he wanted to say next doesn’t appear on his lips, “I’ve grown up, Finnick. I’ve shouldered all of your bullshit for the past couple of years, and you’re telling me you can’t pull it together just once? It’s garbage.

“I’ve given you your space. Now it’s time to own up or get off of the fucking program. I’m not dealing with this for the next fifty years. I’d rather die before then.” You stop walking, “Once again, you’re helping me this year, or you’re going to regret it. You can think of it as an empty threat, but I’ve had years to get creative.”

He doesn’t say anything back, just leaves the train car. You let him get a headstart, not wanting to have to walk side by side with him to your rooms. By the time you start walking too, the tributes are just ending their time on the station. You leave before they see you, and take your time taking deep breaths to calm yourself down.

You don’t get angry often. It’s hard to be when you’re normally surrounded by people who take the circumstances you live in, seriously. Anchor helps and keeps you company, your family friends keep you grounded, your siblings are a reminder as to why you won in the first place. All of them are working for the better, the only one ruining the current is Finnick. Go fucking figure.

In your room, you lay down on the bed and close your eyes. Dinner will be ready in a couple of hours, and before midnight you should be inside of the Capitol. Tomorrow is the Tribute Parade, the starting point and the decider of how the rest of the trip will go. All you can do right now is hope.

You end up dozing off, only being woken when Elysia comes to the door to bring you to the table before the tributes. You get up, fixing your hair on the way to the dining room. You’re the only one at the table when you get there, and you don’t wait for everyone to show up. You’re no psychic, but you’re pretty sure that Finnick won’t be eating with you guys this evening.

Annie and Marsh take the only real seats that are offered to them. Annie to your right, Marsh to hers. The only chair that’s empty is the one across from you, where Finnick would normally sit. And of course, to your left is Elysia, always sitting at the head since she’s the escort.

Like how Elysia warned you during your train ride to the Capitol for the first time, she tells Annie and Marsh to ration out their hunger. The food will keep coming, and the portion sized will only get bigger as time goes on. You go ahead and tell them--like you tell the tributes every year--that the food is rich too, so they probably shouldn’t eat large portions anyway.

“Finnick didn’t look very happy.” Elysia says, she’s obviously talking to you.

“We spoke for a couple of minutes.” you dip your spoon into the bowl of soup, “If I were him, I’d be pretty pissed off too, but it’s just the way the cookie crumbles.”

Elysia nods, “Any big changes this year?”

You look at her, “I’m going to have an extra pair of hands, I don’t think that I’ll be running around this year.”

Elysia’s smart, she gets what you’re saying almost immediately. You watch the small smile spread over her face, but she doesn’t say anything more about the topic itself, “I suppose some attendants can run him some food.”

You finish up dinner, and then have a little bit of lava cave for dessert. Annie and Marsh are full, but not to the point where they’re going to be sick. So, you all pack it up and bring it to the next train car to watch the reaping recap. You let Annie and Marsh take the seats they want on the couch, but you stand behind it with Elysia.

You’ve grown to realize that sitting down during important events like this, makes you more nervous. It’s more or less the reason why you hate sitting during the reaping.

You watch and observe, listening to what Annie and Marsh have to say about their competitors. They don’t seem all that worried, honestly. They guess strengths and weaknesses, forming a plan of their own. A part of you wonders if they had the reaping planned out, if they made a deal to volunteer together. Like you said, they’re friends. It makes the most sense.

The obvious kids to keep an eye on, as per usual, is Districts One and Two. As the years go on, the more the tributes look vicious. Last year was a fucking nightmare when it came to watching them killing the other tributes around them. It’s no surprise they won, considering they were a fucking tornado in a playground.

“We’d like to be mentored together.” Annie says, looking over her shoulder at you.

Elysia left after the first time they played the recap, she saw all that she needed to. You vaguely remember her mentioning something about checking up on Finnick to make sure he’s eaten. It’s whatever, if he wants to start off on the wrong foot, it’s him that’s going to be regretting it, not you.

“Sounds good to me. Got a plan going on yet?” you cross your arms, eyes landing right back onto the screen in front of them.

“Marsh and I are allies, we think that’s going to work out the best.” she says, “Right?”

Marsh nods in agreement.

“This is your time to shine, not mine.” you raise your eyebrows, “We should arrive in the Capitol in the next few hours. We’ll start getting down to business tomorrow morning. Sounds good?”

“Yeah.” Marsh says.

“You should probably shower if you haven’t already, and get to bed. You’ll need all the sleep you can get, tomorrow’s going to be exhausting. You can find your rooms?” you get ready to go.

“Yes, thank you.” Annie says.

“Goodnight.” you start your way to the door, nearly leaving when Annie calls your name, “Hmm?”

She’s got a sheepish smile on her face, “Thank you for training us.”

“You’re going to be excellent inside of the arena, you two.” 

Back in your room, you lay out the clothes you’ll wear when you get to the Capitol. You take a shower, starting off standing and soaking in the warm water. Which you eventually turn hotter, and sit on the floor while it rains on you. For a while, you stare at the granite tile, but end up placing your head on your knees.

You can’t let these kids down. You’ve worked with them for four and five years, you’ve grown to know them. You watched them grow and become better at their chosen skills. You know their families, and you know that if you lose both of them this year, the whole boarding school is a joke. You’ve been working towards this idea for the past five years. You should’ve had it perfected years ago, yet here you are, still going through the trial and error process.

“Please, let one of them win this year.” you murmur, squeezing your eyes shut, “Just one of them, either of them. One of them has to come home. One beacon of hope to keep me going, please.”

You sit there for a while longer, until your fingers begin to prune. You dry your hair and gently tie it out of your face. After you’ve gotten dressed and brushed your teeth, you sit in the corner of the room, staring out of the window, watching as the sky darkens further. And then you see the lights of the city.

You gather your things out of the room, folding the outfit you wore, and then tucking it into a canvas bag. You make sure that the ring is on your finger before you leave the room behind. You’re the first to make it to the train car, arms crossed and still staring out of the window as you wait for the others.

Finnick shows up next, standing on the far side of the room, quiet as ever. Elysia brings Annie and Marsh around, just in time for the train to stop. The cheering of the Capitol citizens starts immediately, loud clapping and whistling and shouting their names.

Since there’s cameras, Annie and Marsh leave the train with Elysia first. You and Finnick follow, getting your own car. And even though the tributes left before you did, your car makes it to the Tribute Center first. Knowing that Elysia will make sure that they’re signed in properly, you and Finnick head straight to the apartment.

The elevator is quiet, tense, “Marsh is seventeen years old. He’s been in the boarding school since he was thirteen, just like Annie. They’ve decided to be allies, they know each other well. He’s good at fighting, I’ve seen him against the others, he’ll be able to measure up to the others in the gymnasium.”

You run your finger along the silver handle inside of the elevator, briefly wondering if people actually use it or not, “Annie is eighteen. She’s smart, quick on her feet. She’s reliable when it comes to recalling survival skills. She looks like she doesn’t have a lot when it comes to fighting, but that’s only the surface. Annie will never choose violence as her first choice, but as a last resort, she’s deadly.”

You look to Finnick to see that he’s already got his eyes on you, watching. You can’t tell what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s planning on telling you that he’s not going to follow your plans. He might as well save his breath, because he’s going to listen. He might think he has an option now, but you know how to work around problems.

The elevator reaches the Four floor, “Goodnight, I’ll see you at the table tomorrow.”

“Don’t count on it.” He says, following behind you loosely.

“You should be dressed and ready before noon. I trust you can find your way to the Tribute Parade by yourself.” You pause, and then look at him, “If not, I could walk you there.”

Finnick stops right next to you, angry and leaning over you like he’s trying to intimidate you. He opens his mouth to say something, but you slip out from underneath him. You hop up the last step, practically skipping as you round the corner to go to your room for the next.

You don’t scare easily.

You change into comfier clothes and then go straight to bed. With the blankets pulled to your chin, you’re out in no time. You wake up on your own time, since Elysia doesn’t really have to baby you anymore. After laying out your clothes, you take a shower and make sure to not touch your hair.

You’re the second person out in the dining room, with Elysia already at the table. She’s drinking her coffee quietly, eyes on the tv in the living room. It’s loud enough to hear from where you sit, and it’s just an overview of last year's tribute parade and costumes. The woman talking is definitely not Claudius or Caesar, so you know it’s going to be a good morning.

“Laurel sent word early this morning, said she’d like to see you as soon as possible before the Tribute Parade.” Elysia says, setting her mug on the table, “I’ll get the kids up.”

“Thank you.” you say to her, and then repeat it for the avoxes when they begin to bring out breakfast.

Annie comes out first, looking fairly put together. She gives you a polite smile and sits by you at the table, “Good morning.”

You nod, eyes on the tv, watching as the woman skips over the first two districts. Their outfits tend to be the same thing every year. It’s a comfort for District One to dress their tributes in expensive fabric and make them look as Capitol-ish as possible. As for District Two, it’s always a gladiator thing, it’s just a different variation this year.

And even with how boring it is, they still manage to come out as the favorite every single year. For a city that loves the adventure and the unpredictability of the Hunger Games, they’re pretty boring when it comes to allowing the careers to do the same thing every year. At least District Four has the brains to try something new, even if it doesn’t work all the time.

Elysia comes back out, taking a seat at the table, “Marsh will join us in a moment.”

If Laurel wants to talk to you, it’s probably about the costumes. She knows what she wants, but sometimes seeks out advice if she’s caught between two ideas. No matter what happens, Pleurisy will have to match her, and she won’t object to changes. Laurel is older than Pleurisy, which sort-of got her a certain amount of respect from Pleurisy.

It makes Laurel’s job a whole lot easier, you think. They have to match costumes at the Tribute Parade, and it’s better if you coordinate the formal outfits for the night of the interviews. Especially if the tributes are going to be working together inside of the arena. Laurel’s a sure person, if she wants it, she’s going to get it. She’s also a visionary, likes to see her works come to life. 

Right after breakfast, you should get down there quickly so she isn’t waiting for long. If you’re making a costume decision, then the prep teams are going to need to be able to shift to fit the new needs. As soon as Marsh is out here, you’ll say what you need to and then go. You can always eat later if you’re hungry.

Marsh comes out of the hallway, barely awake but he looks as put together as Annie does. You wipe your mouth with the cloth napkin, finish up your orange juice, and neatly stack up your plates for the avoxes to take. 

“Today is the Tribute Parade.” you start, catching their attention, “After breakfast, Elysia will take you down to the Remake Center. The prep teams will take care of you, no matter what happens, don’t resist or complain. Let them do their jobs, they have rules to follow.” you stand up from the table, “I’ll see you again before you get on the chariots.”

You’re about to tell them that if they have any questions, they should ask Elysia. But Finnick comes down the steps, heading straight for the dining table. It’s perfect timing on his part, you get ready to leave, “If you have any questions, Finnick will have the answers. I’ll see you later this afternoon.”

His eyes meet yours, already glaring. He doesn’t turn around and go back to his room like you halfway expected, but sits at the table and waits to be served. You think that he won’t let the tributes down, so you go ahead and leave. If Finnick doesn’t step up, Elysia will gladly do it.

Laurel and Pleurisy are standing in the hallway with the prep teams when you get there. They open up to make a space for you to stand, and you patiently wait as Laurel finishes telling Annie’s prep team what they’ll be doing with Annie. The basic stuff, some extra points if they have the time to later on. You know what the team will make room for the extra stuff either way.

Pleurisy is doing the same thing with Marsh’s team, but it’s not as heinous. They’ll find a way to draw out Marsh’s grooming so that Annie and him finish around the same time. Just so Marsh doesn’t sit around and wait for the Tribute Parade to come around.

Once they’re done, the magical opinion question is brought to the table. Laurel shows you the two options this year, and immediately you can see why she was caught between them. The first option is based off the coral reef, with bright colors and shelves that stick out in places that aren’t awkward. You know that this would be an eye-catcher, and there’s not a spot of blue to be found.

The second option is something less interesting; ropes. Brown nets that’ll be strategically placed around their bodies to make them seem dressed, but really they’ll practically be naked. The only reason this could ever appear to the Capitol citizens is because of a nearly revealed tribute. Which they’ve seen hundreds of times by now.

“Definitely the coral reef. The colors are bright and might even drown out everyone else a bit.” they back away from you, looking pleased, “It’s bold, though.”

“They’ll look amazing by the end of it. We’ve got big plans for them.” Laurel then turns to the prep teams, “Get ready to receive the tributes.” the teams scatter, leaving just you three in the hallway, “Elysia tells me you’ve got Finnick working this year.”

“Not just yet.” you admit, gently shaking your head, “He’s not very happy, I’m going to start slow but by the time the games roll around, he’ll be under my thumb. I can handle the week in the Capitol, but I start to spread myself thin when the tributes get in the arena.”

“Will he be at the parade?” Pleurisy asks.

“Should be. If not, it’s not that big of a deal.”

You spend the rest of the morning with the stylists, following them around, watching as they prepare the costumes. As it nears noon, you get word that the tributes are just about done, which means you three have to scatter. You bid them goodbye, and head back to the apartment to have lunch before meeting the tributes below the Remake Center.

The whole place feels empty, with no sign of Elysia anywhere in the common rooms, and lord knows where Finnick is. You turn the tv on again to hear what Caesar and Claudius have to say about last year’s costumes, and the predictions for this year. You sit at the table, and eat quietly, trying not to hate the Capitol anymore than you already do.

Even after you’re done eating, you sit at the table for a while. Which seems to pay off in the end, as the mystery of where Finnick’s been the entire time, is solved. Still leaves the question on where Elysia is. But if you were to take a guess now, when the Tribute Parade is less than thirty minutes off, she’s probably with the stylists so that she’s on time to the parade.

You lean your head against your hand and watch as Finnick takes his time making his way up the stairs. He’s obviously trying to avoid talking to you, because if he doesn’t look in your direction, you’re probably not going to bother him. At least, that’s what he thinks. Unfortunately, you know how to play mind games and have a fair amount of patience.

The constant silence seems to make him curious enough to look anyway. His eyes lock with yours, he stops moving up the steps. As the staring contest begins, you can see the guilt in his eyes. But as quick as it appeared, it’s suddenly gone. It doesn’t matter, because you’ve seen everything that you needed to already.

You give him a smile, “There’s fifteen minutes before the parade. Plenty of time to get cleaned up, and go, so you might as well.”

“You were waiting here for me?” he asks, face twisting.

“Don’t flatter yourself, I just ate lunch.” you roll your eyes, looking back at the tv.

He leaves, you watch as the stands fill with bright colors and animated Capitol people. To think that it feels like yesterday you were the one rolling through the street, dressed as a marble statue straight out of Atlantis. You can still remember the way your stomach twisted right as the chariots began to move.

As the years have come and gone, you’ve become more used to the cameras. Whether you like it or not, the Capitol will always be with you. They might not follow you around in District Four anymore, but they sure do keep tabs on you when the games roll around. What is (Y/n) doing this year? You’re sure they noticed your happy expressions during the reapings when Annie and Marsh volunteered. You wonder if they were suspicious that you weren’t really surprised.

You can’t say you’ll be as indifferent when the games roll around. It’s going to be harder to hold yourself together, as it is every year. And if Marsh or Annie win? It’s going to be a celebration, there’s not a single doubt about it. And depending on what happens in the arena exactly, especially with the other careers, you’ll be rubbing it in.

Finnick comes out when it hits ten minutes. He doesn’t look all that different, just less disheveled than he had started as. You and him take the elevator down below the Remake Center, and you’re able to see that there’s a handful of tributes here already, waiting by their chariots.

Annie and Marsh are dressed brilliantly. As always, Laurel knows what she’s doing, and she’s managed to make it look like they could easily blend into the reefs themselves, if they wanted to. Annie’s hair is done up in braids, with bright colors weaved in and out. As a headpiece, she’s got an orange reef hair comb tucked in neatly. 

The colors on their bodies are strategically placed to make them blend into each other. Annie’s got a dress that bells out at the bottom, with unique, hand-painted designs that must have taken hours. Even Marsh has brightly colored makeup around his eyes, smeared with colored glitter mixed in.

“Huh.” Finnick lets out, “You picked this?”

“This is not what was sketched out.” you look at him, raising your eyebrows, “But it’s pretty cool, huh?” 

You elbow him slightly, and then head over to Annie and Marsh, “You guys look amazing!” 

Annie turns, giving you a red-faced smile. Marsh on the other hand, rolls his eyes and picks at the coral band on his arm. Since they can’t do special effects on the tributes, as the chemicals might irritate his skin, the stylists have to get creative with how they get props to stick onto the tributes. It typically turns out to be tight bands like the ones Marsh is wearing. It doesn’t cut off circulation, but it isn’t exactly comfortable either.

With this, Pleurisy slaps Marsh’s hand to get him to stop fiddling with the band. If he messes it up now, it’ll have to come off completely. There’s absolutely no time to go back and fix anything that he might fuck up. Marsh seems to catch the clue though, because he laces his fingers together and tries not to touch anything else.

The opening music starts, notifying you that it’s time to get the tributes onto their chariots. Laurel and Pleurisy shift anything that needs to be moved, and then they’re making Marsh and Annie get onto the chariot. You watch as they shift around, finding the way they’ll be standing for the parade.

“Any tips?” Annie asks hopefully.

“Follow your gut.” you say, “If you feel like smiling or waving, do it. This is your time to set what you’ll be like for the rest of the Capitol trip. As soon as you’re in the arena, it can go away.”

They don’t ask any questions, and even if they had any, their time is up. The doors behind them have finished opening, District One’s chariot is starting to move. You and the others back off, wishing the tributes good luck. You’re all subjected to watching the chariots on the tv.

You cross your arms, yawning slightly. You’re ready for the day to be over, at least the next three days or so is going to be slow. All you really have to do is get up and make yourself presentable until they’re shipped to the Training Center. The only real working day is the one the day before the interviews. And that’s because you’re going to be figuring out how you can help them be ready for the interview.

Annie and Marsh seem to be in their element for the most part. Annie is obviously shy, Marsh doesn’t mind it at all. She waves and smiles and does just as much as Marsh does. They stop in the City Circle, the anthem plays, President Snow gives his speech, the chariots go around the circle one last time, and then come back.

“Not bad.” you say to yourself, “Not bad at all.”

You leave Finnick standing there, giving the tributes a wide grin. The prep teams are already singing praises, so there’s not much to say. Muchless room to say it. Elysia thinks that they’ve had an influence on the Capitol already, which is a relief. As long as they’re drawing in some attention, you’re good.

Back inside of the Four floor, your tributes head off to take their showers. Finnick meanders around the rooms, you settle onto the couch in the living room, watching the chariot rides again. As always, Claudius and Caesar have been captivated by District One and Two’s amazing stylists. They barely make a comment about District Four.

You end up with your head in your hands. You know that just because the moderators didn’t say anything, doesn’t mean that other people didn’t take a closer look. But their biased opinion tends to have an effect on people after a while. Continue to make dim comments about districts, and you’ll end up like District Twelve.

No one wants to be District Twelve.

Dinner with everyone--with the exception of the prep teams--is enough to keep you awake. You go ahead and indulge yourself in red wine, trying to seem like you’re enjoying yourself. As soon as the alcohol sets in, making your head spin a little, you go ahead and give it up. You’re not really a drinker, anyway.

As soon as the cake is served, you’re sure that dinner is pretty much over. You go and watch the replay of the parade again, Elysia goes ahead and tells you guys what the people she’d talk to said. It’s all very good things, and you begin to suspect that she’s just being nice for the tributes.

“Don’t give them false hope.” you say, cutting her off completely, “Claudius and Caesar did nothing for us. Annie and Marsh have to do good on their training scores, and even better during the interviews if they want to make a lasting impression.” you look at the tributes, “The pressure of performing well has only just begun.

“You guys should get to bed, we’ll see you at breakfast for instructions. Try to get a good night of sleep.”

Annie thanks Laurel on her way out, Marsh barely does the same. You absently watch the tv while you wait for them to be gone completely. Finnick’s already gathering his things, “I’ve got to go.”

“Be there at breakfast, I’ll fill you in the best I can.” you tell him.

“Sure.”

He leaves too, and you’re left there with Elysia, Laurel and Pleurisy.

“You know how to clear a room.” Laurel says, you crack a smile.

“Well you wanted to talk.” you look at them, “So let’s get to talking.”

--

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Like A Dream

Jaskier has had dreams for as long as he could remember- of monsters and magic and all the things that go bump in the night. He dreams of golden eyes and silver swords and honeyed ballads. 

AKA the modern immortal/reincarnation AU no one asked for but I’m writing

Read it on AO3 here!

There’s music around him. Coming from him, his throat warm and honeyed with the lyrics he sings. Not him- the bard, the unknown man who captures his mind at night when he closes his eyes. He- they- are playing for an audience. Jaskier is used to this, the wayward looks, captured attention, but it’s… new. There’s an instrument in his hand he’s never learned to play and lyrics on his lips he’s never written, clothes resplendent of another time, another world, and he drinks it in with abandon. Full, flowing skirts, jackets made of the richest silk brocade in all colors, though all are muted compared to the bright, rich amethyst ensemble he seems to have donned for the performance.

He’s deep into his set, if he should call it that, singing about a fishmongers daughter just to get a laugh out of the crowd when his eyes catch on a small, insignificant detail. Jaskier sings and sways among the royalty around him, but all he can see is gold with flecks of amber, curious cat eyes watching him from the shadows. He takes a step closer, then two, then three until he’s propelling through the crowd, and just as a jaw covered in a neat snow white beard is unearthed from the shadows, a blare sounds, and the image shatters.

He gasps awake, clutching at his chest and trying to quell the shaking of his hands. Sweat sticks his hair to the back of his neck and his forehead in small curls which Jaskier rakes a hand through. On the nightstand, next to the bed, his phone vibrates, clanking softly against the wood until Jaskier scoops it up and hits answer. There are only a handful of people who will actually ring through.

“What, Pris?”

“Ah, woke you up huh? Touchy touchy. You haven’t forgotten about our brunch date, have you?” The voice on the other end is perky, far too awake for Jaskier’s liking right now.

“No, no of course not. You aren’t here yet, are you?” He slips from bed, grimacing and rummaging through his closet for something to wear, phone pinched between his ear and his shoulder.

“Almost, a block away.”

“Shit, okay, let yourself in?” The woman on the other end hums, amused, and Jaskier hangs up. Leave it to him to fail to set an alarm for something like this. He drags his sorry carcass into the bathroom, intent on getting a shower. He feels cold and sticky for all the wrong reasons, and when he looks at himself in the mirror the blue in his eyes is offset by the purple bags underneath. It’s… not an attractive look for himself. The hot water pounds against his back when he hops under the spray and he groans, letting it wash over him. Praying it’ll wash away the dream that seems to cling to him, digging at his bones and refusing to leave.

He’d had the dreams for as long as he could remember- at first they were nothing more than terrors, dreams of hideous, foul smelling creatures with sharp claws. Claws that regularly tore into the soft flesh of his belly, or the tender meat of his thigh, leaving him to wake up screaming and thrashing in bed. His parents, bless them, had tried everything to help, from heavy medication to therapy to a stint in a mental facility, but nothing took the monsters away. Medication only trapped him within his dreams, unable to wake up until he was well and thoroughly taken apart, and therapists only insisted the monsters were representations of some trauma he’d sustained as a child. The stay at the mental facility, well, that was more a break for his parents than thirteen year old Jaskier.

He’d learned to hide them, since then, to hold people at arms length and keep them from seeing what he truly was. The monsters rarely followed him into real life, but on the occasion he saw mention of a kikimore on the news, or a striga cropped up in Germany somewhere, well, it was all too easy to flip the channel and pretend. Now though… it was becoming harder and harder to leave his dreams behind when the sun came up. The dreams had shifted when he was almost eighteen, from monsters hunting and maiming him to something else- instruments and performances and gaudy, awful clothing he had no name for. Days spent walking and walking and walking, sweating under the sun but grinning like it didn’t bother whoever was in his dreams. It was harder still, to pretend that the performer in his dreams didn’t have his hands, his wonderful, skillful fingers, or the voice he’d spent years fine tuning.

He’s knocked from his reverie by the sound of his front door opening and clicking shut and the smell of food drifting in. His stomach growls loudly, protesting it’s current situation, and Jaskier hurries to finish his shower and get dressed. He’s got a towel in hand, scrubbing at his hair when he pads out barefoot and spots the blonde currently tinkering with his tv remote. Her blue eyes are bright, friendly, and she motions to the spread of food currently piled on his coffee table.

“Got you coffee.”

“Thank Melitele.” He makes a beeline for it, not caring the way it burns his tongue as he gulps it down. That draws a laugh from his companion, and he throws himself onto the couch, settling his legs across her lap and tossing his towel onto the chair nearby. He’ll get it later. “You’re a godsend, you know that Priscilla?”

A small smile plays on the woman’s lips, colored by rouge lipstick, and she raises a brow. “I do, but it’s nice to hear. Did you not sleep at all last night, Jaskier?”

“Ah, I’m afraid my muse kept me up, as usual.” He grins at her, reaching out to snag a strawberry from her plate before bending to get at the french toast on the coffee table. It smells absolutely divine, and maybe some food will make him feel more like himself and less like a shell of someone else.

“You really need to learn how to prioritize sleep.” Priscilla says, shaking her head fondly and digging into her eggs. He hums, half paying attention to the news on the screen. It’s nothing new, stocks going up and down, the latest in sports, and something about him, actually. Talking about his newest single that’s put him up in the top ten- Her Sweet Kiss. Jaskier clicks away before they can play the music, drawing a laugh from Priscilla. “You know, you never told me where the song came from.”

“Didn’t I? A whirlwind affair in Europe, during my last tour. She was… incredible, shall I say? Truly someone never forgotten.” He’s bullshitting and Priscilla knows it. The song had come to him, as most do now, in his dreams. Ringing through his ears in a voice so close to his he can feel his throat burning when he wakes up. She doesn’t press though- she knows better than to push Jaskier too far. The glassy, far away look he got when thinking about whatever it was that inspired his songs was sad, old, and lingered on Jaskier’s face the rest of the day. Jaskier focuses on eating now, barely tasting bite after bite and only stopping when his stomach is full. Priscilla does much the same, but she chatters through the melancholy.

Jaskier stops himself on a random show, listening to Priscilla but staring at the screen. It’s something nonsense, talking about old instruments, but his hand stops mid bite, the french toast falling back onto his plate with a wet smack. He stares, wide eyed, at the wide, oval bowl of the instrument and the short, sturdy neck. The strings, there are more than a guitar but not nearly enough- no, his had more. Six pairs, one singular. His?

“-ier? Jaskier, what is it?”

“What is that?” His voice sounds strange, words twisted faintly by an accent he’s never had before, and he sets his plate down as Priscilla looks between him and the tv.

“An instrument? You put on the show.”

“But what kind?” At this Priscilla frowns. She doesn’t seem to know either, and she shrugs reluctantly.

“We could ask Essi, I’m sure she knows more. Why, do you recognize it?”

“No.” He says softly, switching the tv off. He ignores Priscilla’s worried look and goes instead to put on socks and shoes, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on. It’s big, engulfs his frame, but there’s something about it he couldn’t get out of his head when he’d seen it in a thrift shop off of 28th. It’s also entirely too hot outside to need it, but he feels naked without it, and the hood will give him a better chance at remaining hidden. Not that that happens much anymore. Priscilla has the food cleaned up when he steps out of his room, and she swings her keys around her finger, lingering near the door.

“Where are we going today, my famous friend?” Jaskier rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Anywhere but here. I think I’ll go mad if I hide in bed anymore.”

“That’s the spirit! There’s this new music store on Madison we could check out, and then that little bistro for a late lunch-” Her words fade from his ears as they merge into the crowd outside of his apartment building. He slips on sunglasses, nondescript ones he’d gotten from a random gas station, and prays that today he looks like anyone else. With Priscilla at his side, arm looped through his, no one pays much attention to the couple wandering down the street, chattering away. Jaskier feels a rush of gratitude for his friend, for the unwavering presence she is in his life. He’s not sure how he would have managed his budding fame without her, or handled being recognized everywhere once his face and name and music became more common knowledge.

“You’re the one who wrote the songs.” A rough voice reminds him, teasing.

“Yes, well, I didn’t expect them to break into my HOUSE for an autograph!”

“Get better doors. And a guard.” He drowns in those eyes, an endless pool of gold, and he reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair away, a smile stretching his lips wide.

“Why would I need anyone other than you?”

Jaskier stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk, pitching forward, and it’s only Priscilla next to him that keeps him standing. He rights himself, cheeks pink, and laughs despite his heart pounding in his chest.

“Ah, rather clumsy today. I probably should have had more coffee.”

“Or more sleep.” She counters, Jaskier laughing again and nodding in agreement. More sleep is definitely what he needs. A nice, dreamless sleep. Maybe if he gets that, he’ll be able to function like a human being again, instead of walking through the world with half a mind stuck firmly in fiction. The music shop is a quaint, cute little building tucked in a strip of other quaint buildings, and Jaskier ducks into the dim light of the shop. There are rows and rows of cds, vinyls, movies and more, and his eyes track along them all, taking in the sights and colors. There are plenty of instruments on the wall, guitars, basses, a couple of keyboards and a few sets of bongos even. There seems to be little rhyme or reason besides the alphabetical arrangement of the displays, and Jaskier spends his time wandering while Priscilla goes straight for the vinyls.

He’s near the back of the shop, by the counter when he spots an instrument on display behind the glass display. The sight is enough to make him freeze, and he stares at the smooth wood, the graceful curve of the instrument, finding that his fingers have begun to twitch. This can’t be a coincidence.

“Do you play?” A voice breaks through to him, and he has to blink a few times before he can focus on the man standing before him. His dark hair curls rather attractively, falling around his face and framing rather striking hazel eyes. Jaskier’s countenance sours immediately, and he squints suspiciously. It takes the man a moment, but he grins wide when he recognizes Jaskier. “Dandelion! A pleasure to have you here.”

“Valdo. This is your shop?”

“It is indeed, opened it up after my last album.” He’s proud, almost annoyingly so, but Jaskier begrudgingly has to admit the shop is rather nice. His eyes wander back to the instrument behind Valdo, and Valdo raises his brows. “You never said if you played. Would you like to hold it?”

“You’d let me?”

“I’ve seen how you care for your guitar. I’d warn you it’s expensive, but I know you’re good for any damages.” Jaskier snorts as the other man goes to grab the instrument, and his fingers drum against his thighs. “Do you even know what this is?”

“Not a clue.” Jaskier’s hands are reaching for it as soon as Valdo holds it out, and he tucks the strap around his body. The neck settles into his hands, fingers resting on the strings, and a line of tension holding his body razor tight snaps.

“It’s a-” The soft sound of Jaskier plucking out a melody stops Valdo short, and Jaskier closes his eyes to ward off the dizziness.

A fire crackles merrily in front of him as he plays, tinkering away at a tune with his notebook close by. He isn’t sure about the harmony of the piece, the way the notes blend together. There’s something missing, and he can’t figure out what it is. He stops with a heavy sigh, scrubbing at his face and wracking his brain.

“You’re missing the lowest note in the harmony.”

“Pardon?” He looks up, sees the sensual curve of a small smirk on a very ruggedly handsome face, and those eyes, always those eyes staring back. The man comes over, reeking of pine and metal and home, and reaches to softly pluck at one of the strings. The note rings out and Jaskier latches on.

“Try.” The man whispers, and Jaskier does, drawing the note into his harmony and grinning at the fully bodied life it brings.

Jaskier’s head is spinning when he finally opens his eyes again, Valdo staring at him with unabashed surprise. Priscilla is at his side, hand on his elbow to hold him steady, and he glances down at the familiar way in which his hands hold the lute. Because that’s what it is- his favorite instrument, the thing that made him coin and granted him fame and found him a-

Jaskier’s heart cracks in his chest, and his breath punches out of him in one big whoosh. He lifts the lute over his head, pressing it back into Valdo’s hands before turning to bolt out the front door of the shop. He doesn’t know where he’s going, merely that he has to get away, to find somewhere safe. He feels a thousand eyes on him, whispers following his frantic fleeing, and he ducks into an alleyway, hiding behind a trash can and pressing his back to the brick wall. There’s a stitch in his side from his frantic running and his hands won’t stop shaking as he rakes his fingers through his hair. The song rings through him, as fresh as the day it was written, and the lyrics come to him unbidden.

He’s crazy. He’s well and truly crazy, because there’s no way what he’s seeing can be real, but it’s so vividly him, buried so deep in his heart that there’s no way it could be fake either. His breath comes from him faster and faster, and tears blur his vision as he folds his knees up to his chest and rocks. Priscilla finds him that way, huddled in a ball amongst the trash, sobbing and muttering to himself, and she uses the large hood of his jacket to hide his face as she gets him home. Jaskier has calmed enough to get himself up the stairs when they manage to stumble their way back, and his chest aches from the pounding of his heart.

The tremor in his hands hasn’t abated yet, but the mug that’s pressed into his hands doesn’t shake, so he just enjoys the warmth that it brings him. Priscilla seems at a loss for words, but Jaskier knows what she wants to ask. “Just say it, Pris.”

“What happened? You haven’t been yourself all morning- first with the tv, and then the lute in the shop? Jaskier, I’ve never seen you like this.”

“I have dreams.” He says, voice so soft it’s almost lost in the sound of his heartbeat. “And lately, I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.”

Priscilla reaches out, touching his shoulder lightly, and her face is soft, sad. “They’re just dreams. What you do here, the music you make, that’s what’s real.”

Jaskier nods, but his heart is plummeting in his chest and he doesn’t know why. Priscilla’s words should be a comfort, someone rooted in his reality telling him that his dreams are just that- dreams. The result of an overactive imagination. That’s all they are, all they’ve ever been. Jaskier tries not to let the thought suck him down somewhere he doesn’t want to go, but it’s near impossible to fight the tide rising in him. “They’re just dreams.”

He takes a sip of his lukewarm drink to find that it’s tea- the stuff he usually drinks as a last resort before bed time. It’s never worked before, but Jaskier downs the rest of it and hopes that this time, it will. Priscilla waits until he’s finished to take the cup, and when she comes back she’s holding a very large, very lute shaped object in her hands. Jaskier frowns, confused, but takes it from her anyway, tracing fingers over the lacquered wood. It’s smooth and warm under his touch, and he finds himself picking at the strings just to hear the sound. “Valdo said that it was yours.”

“I didn’t pay him.”

“He knew you’d say that. He said, and I quote ‘I’ve only been holding it for him.’ Whatever that might mean.” Jaskier schools his features into careful indifference, trying not to let his discomfort show. What in the hell does he mean by that? He’s going to have to go back to the shop and talk to him to find out, but he’s not inclined to leave his apartment for the foreseeable future. Priscilla, sensing the mood has gone down, ruffles Jaskier’s hair and gives his shoulders a squeeze. “Take some time, Dandy, get some sleep, then come back.”

Jaskier makes a soft noise in his throat at the silly nickname, but it’s sweet and Jaskier has never told her to stop. He watches her duck out of the apartment with one last look his way, and once the door clicks shut, locking behind her, he grips the lute tighter. He hasn’t ever played formally- has never been trained, and while a guitar is similar, there’s more strings than ever and he expects to fumble.

He doesn’t.

His fingers know what to do even without his brain, and he hums along to the melody from before. Here, in the safety of his apartment, he plays and plays until the song is firmly committed to memory and he’s written down the lyrics to go along with it. A song about the monster of the wood, a cruel, hungry creature with the head of a deer, stalking him in the night.

“You need to listen to me-”

“I’m your barker, for better or worse. How can I bark if I never see anything?”

“You stay alive for a day longer.” His hands shake with anger, chest burning with it, and the man in front of him, golden eyes fierce and animal, glares back just as hotly. They’re nose to nose practically, and his head pounds in time with his heartbeat as his hands come up, shoving the man away and watching in shock as he goes.

“Go then. I’ll be here, tending your fire and watching your horse, as that is all I am good for.” He turns then, but a hand grabs at his arm, turning him around on his heel. He pulls against it, fights to be released, but Geralt’s hand bunches in his shirt above his heart and holds him. “Geralt-”

“For better or worse, Jaskier.” His eyes meet gold, molten and scalding, and he’s speechless at the sincere intensity in Geralt’s gaze. “I would rather it be better.”

“You don’t get to decide that-” Geralt cuts him off with a kiss, lips hard against his own. It’s awkward, a bit painful, but Jaskier tilts his head, pulls back a bit and Geralt responds in kind. He kisses, Jaskier decides, like a man who has been kissed not nearly enough, and he commits himself to fixing that immediately. Geralt’s grip loosens in Jaskier’s shirt, but Jaskier’s hand comes up to bury in snow white locks, keeping him close as his heart rockets into his throat.

The strings of the lute dig painfully into his fingers when he comes to, and he shakes himself, releasing his tight hold and groaning when blood rushes back into the pads of his fingers. He tucks the lute back away in its case, not wanting to look at the flowers painted onto the wood along its wide belly. He tells himself not to touch the lute, to leave it alone so that all this will go away, but the longer he sits on his couch, leg bouncing and tv on some awful movie the more his fingers itch to play.

Instead, he forces himself to get up, to pull out his vacuum and mop and cleaning supplies. He spends the afternoon scrubbing down every inch of the apartment, puts away his laundry, and even tidies up his desk, which is a rather artful disarray of papers. Some, like Priscilla, call it a mess, but Jaskier knows where each piece of paper goes, and he prefers it stays that way. Cleaning can only distract him for so long, and once the smell of lemon cleaner becomes too much he caves, grabbing the lute and ducking out onto his balcony.

The sun is beginning to descend on the city, and he allows it to warm his bones and loosen his muscles as he plays. Each song that comes from him is new and old and entirely his, each rich, resounding note a piece of him. The instrument is no more a stranger to him than his guitar, or his flute, or any of the other instruments he’s picked up and enjoyed along the way. Its weight, the feeling of the double strings pressing under his fingers is home to him, and he plays long after the sun is set. There’s a reckoning, a righteousness within this instrument that calls to the deepest parts of Jaskier’s soul, and he finds himself crying with no real reason as to why.

He cries silently, holding the lute close to him and staring out over the city. Cars rush past his building, far below, and somewhere nearby a dog barks. But it’s all background noise- it’s nothing compared to the harsh intake of his breath or the way that it shudders out of him. When he can’t stand it anymore he retreats back inside, leaving his lute on his dresser before stripping down and crawling into bed. There, buried under blankets and utterly, terribly alone, Jaskier closes his eyes and dreams.

“You’re alive.” A low, rough voice breathes behind him. He turns, but he already knows what will be waiting for him, and he can feel his face lighting up in a grin.

“Geralt! Of course I’m alive, how could the world bear to part with me just yet?” His heart jackrabbits in his chest at the sight of the man before him, clad as always, in dark armor and a stormy, conflicted expression. Well, the expression is new. The armor, not so much. He finds himself smiling for no real reason as to why, but Geralt’s face is open and honest and terrified, and he can’t keep from reaching out to gently touch his cheek.

“There were rumors- about a bard, having been murdered by a beast.”

“As if I could be harmed by a beast with you protecting me.”

“But I wasn’t.” Jaskier takes a step forward, cupping his witcher’s cheek and smiling when Geralt leans into the touch.

The dream dissolves as Jaskier shifts, drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness. The latter wins out, and his body drifts away while his mind slips again.

Blue eyes stare at him through the mirror. It isn’t a great mirror, small and cracked and woven with imperfections, but he won’t need it for long. He only needs to make sure his hair is presentable, his golden doublet unmarred by any stains, and that his smile, when shown just so, is as charming and delightful as always.

“You’re fussing.” Geralt says, and Jaskier knows, his heart knows that voice and the hand that slides over his hip better than anything. He finds himself leaning back against a strong chest, laughing and tipping his head back.

“Some of us care for our appearance before a performance.” An amused hum, and then lips on his neck, gentle and sweet, kissing a trail up toward Jaskier’s waiting lips. He sinks into the kiss, turning as Geralt’s arms come up and around him, careful not to crease Jaskier’s clothes.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Most of the night. You’re free to come, love. I’m sure they’d love to pester the White Wolf himself.”

“Mmm, pester is right.” The warmth in his chest is softer now, with no edges of anger, and he knows what this is. It’s love. Pure and unfettered by doubt.

That same warmth burns in his chest when he jerks up in bed, leaping from under the covers to run into his bathroom. The mirror he has now is perfect- gleaming with the fresh cleaning he’d done just today and showing his reflection without any defects. The same blue eyes stare back, sweeping over the same lips, the same cheekbones and nicely shaped jawbone. The same messy, tousled brown hair as the bard in the dream. As him . Whoever he was- is- is long gone- left behind in another life completely. That isn’t him anymore, it can’t be, but when he thinks, and thinks hard, they’re there. All the memories, the times in between his dreams. The first time he’d seen Geralt, sitting in the back of a tavern refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, to draw any unwanted attention to him. The feeling of his hair, so devoid of color, twisting around his fingers as he washed blood and viscera from them. His friends- Priscilla, in her blue and red ensemble with the poofy shorts, Essi, a near twin to Priscilla, only shorter and plumper. Valdo, his rival, the troubadour who writes songs without any meaning but somehow comes out on top.

Valdo.

Jaskier scrambles for his phone, dropping it twice before finally swiping open the screen. He has his number, more to make sure he never answers than anything, but now, now he needs it more than anything else. He hits dial without letting himself think, holding his phone to his ear and shifting nervously from foot to foot. The line rings and rings, and just as he thinks it'll go to voicemail he hears a soft click.

"Dandelion? It's nearly three in the morning, what could you-"

"I'm not crazy."

"Debatable." Valdo's voice is amused, but when Jaskier doesn't respond he quickly grows serious.

"You said you were keeping the lute for me." His words are rolling in his mouth, voice mangled by an accent that he can't seem to keep away or bring back. He hears a sharp intake of breath, and then a long, shuddering sigh.

"I was, Julian. For far, far too long. Meet me at the diner on Broadmoor." The line goes dead and Jaskier is left to get ready, a long, long dead name ringing in his ears.

                                                             -*-

There are three diners on Broadmoor. Jaskier curses his luck, but only one seems to have the lights on and so Jaskier heads that way first. He pulls on the door and is hit in the face by the smell of stale coffee and hash browns. He glances around, searching, and spots Valdo in a booth back in the corner. His face is drawn, hair a mess, but he has a cup of coffee waiting For Jaskier when he slides into the cheap plastic booth. Valdo slides the mug toward him and he clasps it in his hands, sniffing lightly. He debates putting sugar or cream in it, but he needs the caffeine too badly right now to care much about the bitter taste. Valdo watches his internal debate with a raised brow, leaning back in the booth and sighing.

“You remember.” Jaskier accuses, wincing at the way his tone sounds. Valdo takes it in stride, tilting his head in a small nod and sipping at his coffee.

“I always have. I didn’t know if you would this time around.”

“This time?” Valdo nods again, and Jaskier is quickly becoming frustrated by the non answers. “Valdo, what the fuck is going on?”

“Reincarnation. You’ve heard of it before, yes?” Jaskier nods, and Valdo continues on. “There are some of us who keep coming back. Not always with memories, not always whole. I seem to have no problem keeping them, but others like Priscilla, or Essi, or-”

“Are they really reincarnations?” Jaskier frowns- how much is it reincarnation if you’re just the same body without knowing if your consciousness is the same?

“I said that, didn’t I?” His glare is enough to set a house on fire, but Valdo doesn’t fold under the pressure, instead waving for menus to be brought over. “For decades I was unsure why. Why us? Nothing seemed to connect us together, just random strangers being brought through life. Until I found out you came along as well.”

“You’re saying that I’m the link?”

“You know us all, have some kind of connection. You are the one constant in each of our lives.”

“But the others, they don’t remember?”

“They never have.” Valdo orders something for the two of them, waving away Jaskier’s protest, and plows forward in his conversation. “You don’t always either. I’ve held that lute for the past two reincarnations, neither of which you retained memories for. But you remember now, or are beginning to.”

“Yes.” Jaskier’s voice is a whisper, and admitting it, saying that it’s real takes a weight off his shoulders he didn’t know he was carrying.

“Tell me how?” It’s phrased as a request, and Jaskier nods, staring at his coffee to try and ward off his tears.

“I was seventeen when my dreams started feeling real- performances or days on the road, nights spent stitching wounds or bandaging cuts. Lately they’ve-”

“Been bleeding into your waking hours. Like when you played in the shop.” Valdo’s interrupting makes irritation flare in the back of his mind, but he tamps it down. He’s only trying to help, and is filling in more details than Jaskier would have gotten on his own. Their food comes then, and Jaskier watches as some kind of breakfast scramble is placed in front of him. It’s heavy with hashbrowns, eggs, bacon and cheese. It looks awful. Jaskier digs in hungrily, groaning at the heavenly taste- shitty overnight diners always have the best food. They eat their food in relative silence, too hungry and tired to care much to continue with something else in front of them.

This all seems fake, too good to be real. Valdo’s instant reassurance of what he’s feeling, what he’s dreaming, it has to be some kind of con, some way to get dirt on him. He expects the other man to laugh any minute, to call him crazy and tell him he needs serious help. He’s waiting for a punchline that isn’t coming, and it makes him anstier and anstier by the second. It explains so much- the old, old memories he has of a time before electricity, or running water, of nobles and peasants and monsters. Of witchers and sorceresses and bards. There are newer memories too- of him in a diner much like this, sitting across from a man with white hair and shining golden eyes. Of dancing in a club to his own music, standing alongside all the others in a rally, holding a sign protesting the inequality that ruins his life while cameras show his face. Through it all, his companion is there- a silent, steady presence.

“There’s- a man. Who I am desperately in love with, no matter who I am.”

“Your witcher. White hair, cat eyes?” He doesn’t need to nod for Valdo to know the answer, and he grins. “His name is Geralt of Rivia, though Rivia is long gone now.”

“Is he…”

“Alive? Of course. They, unlike us, do not die.”

“They?” He doesn’t even get a chance to let Valdo talk, his vision going blurry and ears ringing.

“C’mere asshole!” Jaskier laughs, darting away from the witcher intent on catching him. It isn’t Geralt- his hair is dark and cropped short, voice smoother, less gravelly. He’s also much, much more expressive.

“Catch me if you can!” His lungs hurt from running and laughing so much, and he squeaks as hands grab the back of his doublet and yank him to a stop. Jaskier squirms as arms wrap around him, and he pouts, letting himself go deadweight. “You aren’t supposed to use your witchery powers, you know.”

“Oops.” He’s let go then, and Jaskier shoves the other man lightly, grinning.

“Ass. Maybe I’ll go find Eskel, at least he follows the rules of the game.”

“Rules are for peasants.”

“Then you should fit right in, Lambert.” He dodges a swat to the back of the head, laughing and disappearing further into the keep.

Valdo is staring at him expectantly when he blinks, the stone walls and cold breeze fading away from his mind. His food is lukewarm in front of him, and he takes a big bite just to avoid having to say anything yet. Valdo is too smug for his own good though, and he sits forward, grinning.

“Jogged your memory, eh?”

“Shut up.” His insufferable grin only grows bigger, and Jaskier wants to smack it off his face or strangle him. Either would work, honestly. “Is there some way to contact him, or any of them?”

“Not unless you’re a government official, or happen to know someone who had a pest problem. But, there is something that might work.”

“What?”

“Your songs. I'm sure you've already written new ones with the lute- release them in an album. If they’re listening, which is near impossible not to with your reputation, they’ll find you .”

“What if they don’t?”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to bed a government agent.” Jaskier scoffs, wrinkling his nose, but Valdo wags his eyebrows and he can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from his chest. He falls into silence then, staring down at the rest of his food, and his voice is soft when he finally finds the courage to speak.

“Thank you. For keeping it safe.” When he glances up, Valdo’s eyes are bright, shining with relief.

                                                             -*-

Jaskier does what he does best- he writes a few songs, then writes a few more, until he’s bursting with music and lyrics and ideas. He gets himself into his studio and doesn’t leave until he’s recorded an entire album, with his lute being the main focus. It brings with it a new, exciting kind of charm that his producers eat right up, a kind of mystical energy that isn’t present in any of Jaskier’s other songs.

It’s also a release- he lets go of the monsters that haunted him, bringing them roaring into his music instead and letting them run wild. His dreams are still plagued by memories, but the more he plays, the more he tries to remember, the easier it gets. Turns out when you stop fighting against a piece of yourself, letting it in is much, much easier. The music videos are his favorite part of the whole process- he crafts one specific to each song, embedding as much of a message as he can in the hopes that one of the witcher’s will see. Will see him and know him, and extend a hand.

He tries to look up the witchers, to see if there’s any kind of way to find them online, but Lambert is too common a name and he has no clue what last name he would use, if any. Eskel’s name yields less results, but still too many for him to narrow down, and he’s left back at square one for them. Geralt’s name? Now that pulls up results.

‘ The witcher, most formally known as Geralt of Rivia, is one of the world’s only practicing monster slayers, and a bit of a recluse. He was last spotted hunting some kind of sea serpent along the mediterranean, and then boarded a plane bound for America.’

‘Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf, was allegedly seen decapitating a local woman at a train station in France. When questioned by police, they were informed that the woman was a bruxa who had been preying on locals. Mr. Rivia was released without further incident.’

That article makes Jaskier laugh, and he prints it out to tack above his desk on his cork board. Leave it to Geralt to scare everyone around him while doing his job. Any article related to Geralt gets its spot on the board, actually and he’s fairly certain he looks like a stalker, but they’re his only glimpse into what Geralt has been up to. It makes the pain easier to handle, knowing he’s just been too busy to seek Jaskier out, and certainly not ignoring the neon signs that are his music. Half of them are Geralt’s exploits, after all, and if he doesn’t recognize them then Jaskier has failed to faithfully recreate them.

But the songs work- somewhat. In a small town somewhere in the midwest, a witcher hears Jaskier’s music, and begins to hunt for his white haired brother.

Jaskier, in the meantime goes about his life, bouncing from interview to interview, one of which he’s in now. The chair is somewhat uncomfortable and the lights are a little too bright, but the woman interviewing him is new, nervous, and he does his best to put her at ease.

“You’re doing great, love. What were you saying?”

The woman blushes, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear before asking again. “Your newest album, it pulls away from the bouncier, lighter tone of your second album. Why?”

“Good question. Writing fun music is wonderful, lovely, but I, and I’m sure you’ll be surprised, have my own fears. Monsters that haunt my dreams, who begged to be put into song.”

“So the songs are based on dreams?”

“Now you’re catching on.” Jaskier winks, drawing another giggle from her, and he leans back in his chair, tilting his head. “No one can tell me they don’t dream of dark and twisted things sometimes. Of wanting a knight in shining armor to come save them.”

“That’s an incredible way to put it. Are any of the monsters in your songs real?”

“Oh yes. The leshy, or leshen is a forest spirit that is said to roam the deepest parts of a forest. There are also ghouls, terrible hunchback creatures who stalk battlefields, and basilisks, large winged creatures with iridescent scales and scalding breath.”

He sees his interviewer shudder, and his gaze goes soft, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “Where did you hear about these monsters?”

“From a friend, years ago.”

"Do you still talk to them?"

Jaskier's eyes find the camera, and it's a terrible cliche to spike the lens, but he does it anyway. "We lost contact a while back. I'm hoping that… through my music, I can find him again."

"Well, I'm sure your fanbase can help!"

"That they can." Jaskier grins, glancing back at the interviewer, and he hears someone yell cut behind them. He stands, shaking her hand and giving her a quick hug. He murmurs a few words of encouragement, and when he ducks into the room they've designated for him he tells his producer to send her something. Flowers or a gift or anything. She handled him like a champ. It's thankfully his last interview of the day, and he grabs his lute, which he brought just in case before ducking out the door. He makes his escape from the building out onto the street with relative ease, slinging his lute across his back to navigate the crowds easier. The amount of times he’s had to refuse security before they learned was more than he could count. He's stopped a few times by fans, asking to take pictures, and he glances at them on his phone once his Twitter dings.

@dandelion stopped and took a picture! Best day ever!

The rest of the post is filled with heart eye emojis and hashtags, but Jaskier stares at the photo. The awful stripes and swirls on his button up are reminiscent of a bowling alley floor, but his jeans are cute and his boots top the whole outfit off. He thought it'd looked cute when he put it on, and is pleased to see that others agree. He looks better in general- the bags under his eyes are all but gone and there's a confidence in the set of his shoulders he hadn't noticed before. Like knowing who he is has completed a puzzle he didn't know he'd lost a piece to.

He tucks his phone back into his pocket as he skips down the steps to the subway, whistling merrily the whole time. The public transportation in the city had to be his favorite thing in the world, aside from jelly donuts and Geralt's eyes. It makes going from place to place a snap, and he doesn't have to constantly tell people he can't drive when they ask where his car is. The train is running a minute behind, as usual, but Jaskier books it down the rest of the stairs and through the turnstile, jogging up just as the doors slide open. People file on quickly, taking their seats, and Jaskier moves to step on when he spots snow white hair.

That in itself isn't unusual- plenty of old people ride the subway, but it's a man who looks no older than his mid thirties. He's dressed in all black, jeans and a heavy sweater, and strapped to his back are twin swords, their pommels shining dully in the fluorescent lights of the train. A duffle bag hangs from one shoulder, nondescript, but a pale, scarred hand hovers over it protectively. Jaskier is aware he's staring, holding up the train, but his feet are rooted firmly in place as his head begins to pound. The man- Geralt- irritated by the lack of movement turns to see what's going on, golden cat eyes cold and hard. The sight sends vertigo crashing through Jaskier so wildly that he feels his knees give out, and his vision blurs as he collapses onto the ground.

                                                      -*-

"No, no. He's fine. Don't hold the train for us." A voice, rough and low and heavenly drifts through his consciousness and he groans, burying his face in a warm, nicely toned chest. Strong arms wrap around him, holding him, and he sinks into the embrace without really thinking. When he moves the arms tighten around him, holding him closer, and he finally rouses.

He cracks an eye open to see an officer in front of them, debating with Geralt about getting him medical care, and he groans, sitting up and plastering his best smile on his face.

"Sorry love, my sugar dropped again. Was I out long?" The officer stops when he speaks, and Jaskier tilts his head curiously. "Tell me you didn't call them, you know I don't want the attention."

He looks up at Geralt, false frown on his face, and Geralt shakes his head. "Another passenger. I told them you were fine."

"That I am! I'm very sorry for the confusion, I just got off of a rather long interview and was a bit hungrier than I expected." The officer looks between them, brows furrowed, but tucks his notepad away and nods reluctantly.

"If you're sure you'll be alright."

"Feeling loads better already! Sorry again Officer!" Jaskier watches until the officer leaves the platform, and then shoves his way out of Geralt's arms. Geralt lets him go without a fight, sitting on the bench and watching as Jaskier paces the length of the platform, ranting. He's speaking in a language he knows but doesn't know, but it's better than letting everyone else hear him.

" I dreamt about you for years! Years, and the first thing I do is pass out when I see your goddamn face. Son of a bitch." Jaskier glares accusingly at him, but the corners of Geralt's mouth tug up in a smirk and Jaskier can feel his heart going a mile a minute. " I could have broken my lute, or-or been cut in half by the doors all because you were on the subway you big old insufferable-"

" You dreamt about me." Geralt's voice is soft, fond, and Jaskier loves and hates the way his voice curls around elder speech. " Jask, I didn't know you'd come back."

" Didn't- didn't KNOW? I am, and I am going to brag here, insanely famous, Geralt. Like on the news famous. How in the WORLD did you not know?"

" I don't watch the news."

"Of course you don't- of course I would get the one witcher in the whole wide world who doesn't watch the news ." He's cut back into English at some point, and he stops, fists clenched as Geralt stands up with his palms out. It's something he's seen Geralt do with Roach a thousand times when she's being antsy, and it drives him up the wall. "I am not a horse , Geralt, I am your fucking barker."

"You're acting more like my horse right now." Geralt is close enough now Jaskier can smell the soft cologne he's wearing, and his knees go weak again with the fact that he's actually here.

"You jackass -" Jaskier launches forward, throwing his arms around Geralt's neck and pulling him down to kiss him senseless. Geralt takes it in stride, scooping Jaskier off his feet and spinning with the momentum. He's careful of Jaskier's lute, but his hands are strong and firm as Jaskier is thoroughly crushed to his chest, held so tight that neither of them seem to be breathing. Jaskier doesn't care- his feet are off the ground completely, a fistful of white hair in his hands again and Geralt's lips on his. He has a beard, neat and taken care of, and Jaskier's other hand slips down to cup the side of Geralt's neck, thumb brushing through the coarse fibers.

Geralt is the first to pull away, Jaskier tipping forward blindly to kiss him again, huffing when Geralt smiles and bumps their noses together.

"Train is coming. As much as I've missed this, I'd rather not miss the next one."

"Tell me you aren't leaving me." Jaskier presses their foreheads together, eyes closed to keep any potential tears at bay. “Please.”

“I have to check into my hotel.”

“Geralt of Rivia, if you think for one minute you aren’t coming home to sleep in my bed you’re a fool. Fuck your hotel room.”

“It has a jacuzzi.” Geralt laughs when Jaskier pulls back to glare, and Geralt holds onto Jaskier’s  hand, guiding them through the throng of people and onto the train. Geralt motions towards a seat, but Jaskier stays plastered resolutely to his side and just rests his head against Geralt's shoulder. He sways with the movement of the train, but Geralt’s arm is around his hip, holding him steady as the train goes around a curve and slows a bit. He feels more at peace with Geralt next to him than he has in years, and he’s drifted off to sleep when Geralt moves just a bit, dipping down to whisper in his ear. Elder speech brushes against him, trailing down his spine, and his eyelids flutter as he leans in to hear him better.

“What stop do we get off at, Jaskier?”

And oh, if hearing his name from Geralt’s lips isn’t sublime. “Two more.”

“ You were asleep.” Jaskier chuckles softly, turning his head and kissing him lightly.

“ I’ve lived here for years. I know how long I have.”   His elder isn’t nearly as pretty or fluid as Geralt’s but he seems to enjoy it all the same, pupils widening at the sound, the sight of Jaskier’s lips moving. He feels like prey being hunted and he loves it. True to his words, two stops later Jaskier is the one to lead them off the train and up the many, many stairs to the street above. His hand never leaves Geralt’s, afraid that if he lets go the man will disappear into the crowd and leave him alone again. His apartment building isn’t far from the station, and he has to pass through three different checkpoints before he’s even flagged into the building. All of the security guards eye Geralt with barely hidden suspicion, but Jaskier is either oblivious or doesn’t care. The hot, possessive kiss that Jaskier pulls Geralt into while waiting for the elevator is answer enough.

Jaskier’s head is spinning again by the time they make it to his door, and he sags against it, panting lightly and trying to get his key in the lock. Geralt’s hand comes up, guiding the key in as he stands just close enough for Jaskier to be intimately aware of every inch of him. Jaskier gasps, shakes against the door and finally manages to shove it open. He hurries into the room, past the kitchen and into the living room. His lute is slung onto the cushions gently just as his knees give out again, and he catches himself on the arm of the couch, Geralt at his side a moment later.

He can’t feel his legs- he really, really can’t feel his legs, and he isn’t sure that it should seem like such a good thing. Geralt is a hard, hot presence between his thighs, and he arches up into Geralt’s touch, whimpering his name. He wants, he wants so desperately and he feels like he could fall apart at any moment, his breaths coming faster and faster as Geralt grins down, at him teeth sharp and glistening and begging to be buried in flesh. He reaches up, brings him down and kisses him, lapping into his mouth just to taste and let a fang scrape against his tongue.

His chest is heaving when he blinks from his memory, and oh, oh he’s embarrassingly, frustratingly hard. How in the hell does he explain something like this? His knees smart from where they’ve hit the floor and he pitches himself forward, out of Geralt’s surprised hands, his palms slapping against the wood of his floor as he pants. It’s better than letting Geralt see him, worked up over nothing. But he doesn’t get the chance to even think of a lie- he hears Geralt’s sharp intake of breath, the soft huff of a stunned laugh. Geralt is on his knees next to him before he can move, lips on his neck and teeth digging just so into the pale, unmarked flesh. Jaskier keens without meaning to, the noise spilling from his lips, and his cheeks flush when Geralt makes a triumphant noise, pulling back and using a hand on the small of Jaskier’s back make him sit back.

“If you say anything smart, Geralt, I will throw you off my balcony.”

“You don’t have to hide from me.” Is all he says instead, and he takes Jaskier’s hands, guiding him to sit on the couch while he takes care of Jaskier’s lute. Jaskier watches, knees pressed to his chest to hide his slowly dwindling erection as Geralt hunts around his apartment, breathing deep and seeming pleased at what he finds. He lingers briefly by the bedroom door, but seems to think better about exploring there just yet. Instead he reaches up, undoing the clasp across his chest and letting his swords slide from his back. He places them on the coffee table and pulls his sweater up and over his head. Jaskier watches it all, eyes wide, and he jumps as the sweater is tossed at him. He catches it with only a minor fumble, pressing it to his face and breathing deep.

He can almost feel the growl that rumbles through Geralt at the sight, and he grins, toothy and bright, sniffing again. It’s easy to lose his train of thought at the sight of Geralt- Modern clothes suit him well, from the cut of his jeans to the way his t-shirt shows off the rather lovely shoulder to hip ratio he has. Practically perfect. What really arouses him, and this shouldn’t ever be admitted out loud, is the amount of weapons Geralt has on him. There are two pistols tucked into sheathes under his arms against his sides, at least two knives tucked into each boot, not to mention the swords he’s already discarded.

“How do you draw the pistols with your sweater on?”

“I don’t.” Geralt’s voice is amused, and he reaches to unbuckle the leather harness, silver rings glittering along his fingers. There are no fingers that are bare of rings, whether they’re smooth, simple bands or ones studded in small spikes. It’s… ridiculously attractive and Jaskier fears for his heart at this rate. The holsters slip off of his shoulders and they too are left on the table with his swords, though he doesn’t go for the daggers in his boots at all. “You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed to.” He breathes out, reaching a hand out as Geralt pads over. His fingers splay against Geralt’s chest as the older man leans down, kissing him slowly, the warm metal of his rings sliding across Jaskier's cheek. Jaskier shivers at the sensation, making a soft noise as he stretches up further to try and get closer. Geralt pulls back too soon, always too soon, and Jaskier groans with disappointment.

“Tell me what happened when we came in.”

“Do we really have to talk about that now?” Geralt leans back, eyes searching his face, and Jaskier sighs dramatically, tugging Geralt to sit next to him on the couch so he can lean against his chest. "I wasn't born with my memories. I had- it feels stupid to repeat this all- I had night terrors as a child."

"Of monsters." Jaskier nods, pressing Geralt's sweater to his face and speaking through the fabric.

"Particularly of me being eaten by them. When I got older, graduated high school, they shifted focus. They showed me, or the bard I thought was haunting my dreams, following you, performing at a banquet, being chased by a farmer's husband. Within the past few months they got worse. They slipped into my daydreams, took them over, until I could hardly go outside without seeing something that would set them off."

"Is that what happened on the platform?" Jaskier shakes his head, sighing.

"I don't know what that was- a reaction to seeing you again, after only seeing you in dreams maybe? All I remember is getting hit by the worst vertigo I've ever felt, and then I was waking up in your arms. This last time- I'm not sure. I really don't want to keep collapsing though, my knees won't be able to take it."

His joke is weak but Geralt chuckles anyway, pressing his nose into Jaskier's hair. "I'll get you kneepads."

"My hero." He feels a rumble go through Geralt's chest and that brings a smile to his face. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Tell me about you, what you've been doing. I, for one, have been struggling with my memories and made it as a musician. But you, last of the witchers, are impossible to find info on."

"How do you know I'm the last?"

"Internet speculation. Don't worm your way out of this." Geralt sighs heavily, shaking his head and muttering to himself before Jaskier turns and plops himself into Geralt's lap so Geralt has to look at him.

"Eskel and Lambert retired a few years ago. Contracts are few and far between."

"What do you do then when you aren't fighting monsters?"

"I… Translate." Jaskier doesn't think he's heard right, and he tilts his head.

"Pardon? Was my very sexy boyfriend about to tell me something even sexier?" Geralt raises a brow at the word boyfriend, but Jaskier can see that he's pleased by the automatic assumption that they're together. Like they were never apart at all.

"I interpret. Mostly for doctors offices or business meetings. I'm occasionally called to the field when researchers need help."

"What languages?" Geralt doesn't say anything, cheeks flushing a faint pink instead. Jaskier grins then, pleased as all get out, and he leans forward, bumping their noses together and watching the way Geralt's pupils open wider at the contact. "What languages, Geralt?"

"There- aren't many I don't know."

"Someone's been busy."

"I had time. And language barriers make hunting harder." Jaskier laughs at the defensive tone to Geralt's voice, leaning their foreheads together and laughing until Geralt kisses him to shut him up. And even then he giggles against Geralt's lips, wiggling when Geralt tickles at his ribs.

"No wonder your elder is good." Geralt huffs out a laugh, shaking his head and leaning back so he can look at Jaskier, gaze sweeping over Jaskier's face slowly.

"My brothers and I are the only ones fluent."

"In the world?"

"There are small elven communities hidden around, but other than that, yes."

"Where are your brothers?"

"Somewhere in the midwest." Geralt says it with a shrug, as if it isn't a big deal. "They move frequently."

"Too used to being on the Path." Jaskier muses, though it's truer than he might realize. “What about you, where do you settle?”

“I don’t.” Jaskier tilts his head, thinking about that. He isn’t sure why Geralt would ever settle down, since he’s the last witcher active apparently. It would make sense for him not to have any place to call home, but the thought bothers him. A lot more than it should.

“You have a home here, if you want it.” He whispers, heart in his throat, and Geralt’s whole demeanor softens. His eyes look more amber in the setting sun coming through his balcony, and Jaskier leans forward, lips brushing Geralt’s at the same time his phone rings. He groans, intent to ignore it, but Geralt’s fingers dip into Jaskier’s back pocket to pull it out. He hits answer, holding the phone up to Jaskier’s ear as he glares.

“Jaskier, who the fuck are you kissing?”

“Hello Priscilla, nice to see you again, I’ve been just dandy since we last saw each other.” Jaskier takes the phone from Geralt, pressing it to his ear on his own.

“Jaskier, Twitter is in an uproar, there are pictures everywhere.”

“Naughty pictures?” Jaskier puts the phone on speaker while he moves over to Twitter, scrolling through the thousands of tags he’s gotten in the past two hours alone. They’re all the same picture, which Jaskier saves immediately, some better quality than others. There’s him in his bowling alley button up, held aloft in Geralt’s arms, kissing him senseless. It’s a rather artistic photo, the contrast between his bright colors and lute and Geralt’s stiff black clothing and threatening swords. “Ah.”

“That’s all you have to say? You haven’t seriously dated anyone since high school and that's what you say?” Priscilla is pissed, rightfully so, and Jaskier winces.

“Look it’s not that I didn’t want to tell you, I just-”

“I asked him not to.” Jaskier can hear the sharp intake of breath over the phone from Priscilla when Geralt talks, and she’s much more pleasant this time when she speaks. Traitor.

“Oh. And you are?”

“Geralt.”

“And where are you from, Geralt? How long have you been dating my best friend?” He sees Geralt’s lips quirk in a smile, and he rolls his eyes, letting Geralt do the talking. At least that way he isn’t getting yelled at.

“Rivia. We’ve been seeing each other for a few years now, I would say.” Jaskier snorts at the lie, except well- it isn’t really a lie. They’ve been together for years and years over entire lifetimes.

“Rivia?” A distant quality overtakes her voice, and Jaskier winces, clapping a hand over his ear as Priscilla squeals. “Jaskier, please tell me you aren’t dating Geralt of Rivia.”

“Uh.” Geralt’s lips twitch upward as he raises a brow at Jaskier’s hesitation, but Priscilla is laughing, wheezing out little breaths, and Jaskier waits for her to calm down before he answers. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, no it’s just unbelievable.”

“Hey!” There’s offense in Jaskier’s tone, and Geralt’s hand rests on his hip, squeezing lightly. Jaskier shudders at the touch, scowling, but his witcher is the picture of innocence. “I guess the cats out of the bag, eh love?”

“Mhm.” Gods Jaskier has missed those little sounds, the answers but not answers.

“You have to say something on Twitter before your fans break the site. And introduce us properly.”  

“Right, right. Dinner okay?”

“Only if I get to pick the place.”

“Deal. I’ll call you later, okay?” Priscilla gives an affirmative and hangs up, Jaskier tilting his head at Geralt with his brows raised. “So, Geralt of Rivia, ready to be official with a popstar?”

“Not really. But with you? I’ll manage.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, moving to tuck himself against Geralt’s side. Geralt’s arm snakes around him, hugging him a bit closer as Jaskier raises his phone.

“Say cheese!” He grins wide, waiting until Geralt isn’t glaring to snap the photo. It’s a good one, Geralt’s eyes liquid and warm, the corners of his mouth tilted up in the smallest of smiles. It’s definitely going to be his wallpaper. Jaskier posts it onto Twitter with a simple caption.

My knight in shining armor.

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Won’t You Stay (Part 9)

Summary: The reader and Ethan talk about their pasts where they learn they have more than a few things in common...

Masterlist

Pairing: Jensen x Director!reader

Word Count: 3,600ish

Warnings: language, depression, self-doubt, past domestic abuse, mention of death

A/N: Please enjoy!

_____

“Hey,” said your dad half an hour later, handing you some tissues as you sniffled and sucked down your milkshake at a park nearby.

“Thanks,” you hiccuped, getting an arm around your shoulders on the bench. 

“How bad was it?” he asked.

“What?” you said, wiping off your face.

“Y/N. There are things you don’t know about your mom, your birth mom, things I never wanted to tell you but you deserve the truth, not the story I made up,” he said. “I used to make up stories and lies too.”

“What are you saying?” you asked. He leaned back and stared out at the dim park, a few lights turning on.

“I didn’t love your mother. I feared her,” he said. You stared at him and he shifted around, pulling up his shirt and showing you his side. “You know that scar I got from skateboarding as a kid? She threw a glass at me.”

“She hurt you?” you asked.

“I moved to LA to run away from her,” he said, staring at the ground. “She was...awful. We were only teenagers and she was awful. I couldn’t imagine what it would have been like as adults.”

“Dad. Did she hurt you?” you asked. He sighed and closed his eyes. “You said she threw a glass. What else did she do?”

“What did Logan do?” he asked.

You sighed and sipped on your milkshake, your dad rubbing your back.

“Alright, I’ll go first. Your birth mother was controlling. She was mean. She got physical at times. And I was a kid that didn’t know what the hell to do,” he said. “Then she did something without me knowing and after I left, I found out what that was and then I heard nothing and then I got a call she was in an accident. That’s when I found out about you. Sweetie, I was never depressed because I loved her and lost her. It’s something that’s been a part of me since I was thirteen years old. I’ve always been a bit like this. The thought of you growing up with her though, alone, mortified me. I am happy that she is gone and that’s the honest truth.”

“What did she do to you?”

“...You were planned, by her,” he said. “She poked a hole in a condom.”

“Dad,” you said. “Dad...she-“

“I didn’t know. Not until it was too late,” he said. “I thought it tore. A few weeks later I was told by her that it was on purpose, right after I left. She said she got her period though and I believed her. I believed her. I never should have. Who knows what I was leaving you with? She knew exactly what she was doing though because by the time she would have had you and she came back to me, she knew I would do it, for you, and then she’d have the both of us.”

“Did you ever tell anyone?” 

“Mom knows. No one else,” he said. “I’m not proud of that time in my life.”

“You were eighteen and you left. You should be proud,” you said. He smiled and gave you a hug, releasing a shaky breath. 

“You left whatever was going on too. We must have done something right,” he said. You nodded and blew your nose, tossing your garbage in the nearby trash can. “Whatever happened with Logan, kiddo?”

“At home he got controlling,” you said with a swallow. “I didn’t even notice it at first. Then he started to pick out my clothes and what I could eat and he put me down and then he got rough in bed one night and I knew I had to leave before it got worse. So I broke up with him and two days later he was dating someone new already.”

“How rough?” he asked softly.

“It hurt. I kicked him and then punched him and then left,” you said. “I got a hotel room that night.”

“How do you feel now? You ever tell anyone?” 

“No. The book and movie made me happy for a while,” you said. “It didn’t work all the way but I am feeling a little better lately.”

“You really like Jensen, huh,” he said, giving you a smile.

“I had a mini freak session this morning and he was so nice about it. Logan would have put me down and belittled me. Jensen made me feel safe though.”

“He’s a good kid. He didn’t have to drive me home the other night and hang out and help keep mom and you calm. But he did. Be with a boy that does stuff like that, sweetie,” he said.

“He’s kinda like a big fan of the book,” you said. “Like big fan.”

“Does that bother you?” he asked.

“No. I just...I hope he likes me because of me, not because I wrote his favorite book,” you said.

“Didn’t he ask you out before he knew who you were though?” he chuckled. “I think you got him on the hook all on your own.”

“You’re not gonna like, go murder Logan, are you?” you asked.

“Do you want me to?” he asked. 

“No. I just want to forget about him,” you said.

“Then forget about him. Stop giving him control and move on with your life,” he said. “You were really good for me in that regard. Really good.”

“I’m sorry about what I said back at the house,” you said. “It wasn’t true. I wanted to be mean because I knew it’d get you to back off.”

“You were scared and trying to push. I knew that,” he said, fixing a piece of hair behind your ear.

“You didn’t see your face.”

“You didn’t see yours,” he said. You nodded and took a deep breath. “Can we talk again? Be thick as thieves like the old days?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” you said with a small smile, wiping off your face with the back of your hand.

“You want to come stay back home?”

“No,” you said with a smile. “I’m a big girl. I do like having my own space. But can we do a family dinner every week or something?”

“I think that’s a good idea for all of us,” he said. “Offer is always open though.”

“I know,” you said. “I’m still sorry about earlier.”

“Apology accepted. You want to get some sundaes to bring home?” he asked.

“Yeah. I feel like the other guys are gonna be pissed at me,” you said.

“You’re a good secret keeper. They should let you slide without an explanation,” he said. “I mean, no offense but does Anthony think we’re idiots? I knew years ago he liked guys.”

“Really? I was a little surprised when he told me,” you said. 

“Well, you can catch your son checking out men’s asses only so many times before you start to wonder,” he teased. You felt yourself giggle and got a boop on the nose. “That’s the sound I like to hear out of her.”

“What’d you think about Ella?”

“I think her big sister did a good job of making sure she gets treated right,” he said.

“Jensen kinda helped out during that talk,” you said.

“He’s just racking up all the brownie points, isn’t he?” he said. 

“You think he’s a good actor?” you asked.

“Yeah. He’s got the potential to go big. This movie will change his life,” he said. “He certainly knows Lyle inside and out.”

“What’s a good date idea?” you asked. “I kinda ditched on one with him tonight.”

“Oh, boy talk? I missed that for sure,” he teased. “I am sure you’ll come up with something good. Why don’t we head on home and maybe mom can help us come up with something.”

“Okay. Dad...I won’t tell anyone about what you said. Ever,” you said.

“I know. I will give you the same courtesy. Come on, sweetie. I’m starving.”

“Hello, Y/N,” said Jensen with a big grin when you let him into your apartment Sunday afternoon. “Your apartment building is very fancy.”

“A doorman and security were a requirement from my parents to living alone. I had to appease them somehow,” you said.

“It smells pretty in here,” he said as you locked up behind him. He pulled out a bundle of flowers from behind his back and handed them over. 

“Thank you,” you said. You set them in a glass of water, Jensen following you into your kitchen. 

“Nice. It’s very cute,” he said, leaning against your counter. “So. I heard someone was going to make me the best grilled cheese and tomato soup I’ve ever had before we watched some football.”

“Not to brag or anything but I am pretty spectacular at grilled cheese,” you said. 

“So humble you are,” he teased, taking a seat at the counter as you pulled out some ingredients. “How’s your dad doing?”

“Better. Everyone kind of aired their crap last night. It was good,” you said. 

“Good. You seem a little more relaxed than normal,” he said.

“Wait until I’m filming again in the morning,” you said as you whipped up a light dressing to put on the bread. “Your ribs feeling better?”

“Oh, I’m fine. They were only bruised. I should be ready to do scene 12 on Friday,” he said. “I hope. I’m kinda nervous about it actually.”

“Afraid of heights?” you asked.

“No. It’s just the big stunt for the first act,” he said. “I know it’s like an ‘oh fuck’ moment in the book. It’s important to get it right.”

“Don’t worry about it, Jensen. No one knows Lyle better beside me,” you said.

“Not to go full nerd on you again-”

“Ask away, fanboy,” you teased, Jensen giving you a smirk back.

“Cute,” he said.

“Does it bother you?”

“No. I like my little nickname,” he chuckled. “I’ll have to come up with something good for you.”

“In the meantime, ask away. I like talking about this stuff with you,” you said. He hummed and watched you work on the sandwiches for a moment before you switched over to the soup.

“So how did you come up with the story? It’s a bit dark sometimes. I like that but I was always curious. Scene 12 for example. Lyle’s going to get caught, interrogated by Hale, he’ll escape and then nearly get killed by Hale when he catches up to him.”

“I think there’s two ways of focusing on that chapter. One is Hale is hellbent on revenge for his son and lets that rage take over and he nearly kills an innocent man for it after terrorizing him. The other is the way I think you see it, the way I think I lot of people see it. A man who lost his son and another young man whose family hurt him. Hale hurts, Lyle hurts. Hale shows Lyle eventual kindness after he realizes his mistake and Lyle finds a father figure, he finds someone that will protect him, not hurt him. Two lost souls and all that,” you said.

“I totally get it. I just wonder how a Hollywood girl who grew up with Ethan Y/L/N as a father comes up with a story like that,” he said.

“I had a single dad for the first ten years of my life, Jensen. I love my mom, I do, but our whole family knows that me and dad, that’s something special. He was my father and my mother back then. He didn’t know what he was doing. We figured it out together,” you said. “Plus I like the flawed hero story. Everyone does.”

“True,” he said. “Those are always more interesting.”

“Is that the kind of role you like to play? If you had your choice I mean,” you said.

“Yeah. I’d play a good or bad guy. I don’t have a preference,” he said. “Happy to have a steady job right now mostly.”

“I know you guys get a pretty good paycheck,” you said, stirring the pot a few times.

“I heard a rumor that I wasn’t supposed to get as good a paycheck as I got. Apparently our director pushed for me,” he said. “I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

“I feel like you should be compensated for your work,” you said, shrugging as you covered the pot. “It’s a lot of pressure and this is going to be a multi movie thing someday.”

“My agent told me this movie will change my career. I’ll get to pick my next project instead of scraping for it,” he said.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” you asked.

“It is. It’s going to be hard to top working on The Dark Woods is all,” he said. 

“Oh yeah because this working experience is so awesome I bet,” you laughed.

“Actually, yeah, it is. I have never met a director like you. Even when shit goes wrong, I’ve never once seen you yell at someone, even when they probably deserve it. You’re kind and prioritize cast and crew over a schedule and money. People notice that, Y/N,” he said.

“It’s how people should act,” you said, shaking your head. “Alright. How do you like your grilled cheese? Barely crispy or extra crunchy?”

“Somewhere in the middle,” he said. “Need help with anything?”

“Nope. Just grab yourself something to drink from the fridge and this will be done in a jiffy,” you said. Jensen hummed and took a bottle of water out for you and himself, carrying them over to where you had set your table. 

Ten minutes later Jensen was moaning around the grilled cheese, giving you a thumbs up.

“Okay. You are allowed to brag about your grilled cheese skills anytime,” he said. “I haven’t had a home cooked meal in forever.”

“You don’t cook?” you asked. “I’m not great but slowly trying to learn. Instant pot is a girl’s best friend.”

“Well I mean, no one’s cooked for me besides my parents or your parents in like a year,” he said. “It’s kinda nice. I will be sure to return the favor soon.”

“Might have to wait until the weekend. It’s going to be crazy busy this week,” you said. 

“Eh, it’ll be fine,” he said, dipping his sandwich in his soup. “Mmm, so good.”

When you were finished eating, Jensen helped you clean up before you sent him into your family room to settle in for the game. He wandered over to your bookcases on either side, scanning the rows while you turned the TV on.

“I didn’t know you had other books,” he said, looking back with a smile. You quickly hopped up and saw him pull out one. “This is not a Lyle Sullivan book.”

“No, it isn’t. I’ve written a lot, since I was a teenager. I uh, only the one is published right now, the other two on the way,” you said. “This other stuff is crap. Only my parents and siblings have read it really. Also Logan but he said they were bad.”

“Logan is an idiot, full offense intended,” he said with a smirk, flipping through one. “I finished The Dark Night yesterday which holy crap by the way. It was amazing and I have so many questions.”

“You liked it?” you said, tucking your hair behind your ear. 

“It was so good. Lyle’s like a full on badass but he still fucks shit up and he and Molly are like living together and they’re so cute and she’s actually like learning from Hale how to be a badass too so she’s safe and Hale’s like his actual dad and Lyle called him dad and I was like fucking finally but-”

“Okay,” you laughed. “I see you liked it.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “I did. Since I’ve read the Lyle prequel before too would you mind if I read one of these? I get bored in my trailer sometimes.”

“Sure,” you said.

“Any you recommend?” he asked.

“Oh they’re all horrible,” you said, rubbing the back of your neck.

“I see. I guess I’ll just have to read all of them,” he said with a smile. “I’ll start with this one. Oak Street. I wonder what it’s about.”

“Jensen,” you said as he pulled out the first one. “I’m really not a good writer.”

“We have very different opinions on that,” he said. He hummed and he sat down on the couch and set the book on the end table to take home later. You rolled your eyes and sat down next to him, Jensen putting an arm around your shoulders. “This okay?”

“Mhm,” you said, leaning against his shoulder as you turned your attention to the TV. You shut your eyes, the game drowning out in the background.

“Y/N, wake up,” said Jensen. Your eyes flashed open and you shot up, both his hands on your arms. You looked around, still on the couch with the football game going on. “Hey. It’s alright. You were having a nightmare. You were taking a nap on me.”

“Sorry,” you said, rubbing your eyes. 

“S’okay. I’m pretty tired on the weekends. I can’t imagine how exhausted you must be,” he said, sliding a hand up to your cheek. “Bad dream?”

You nodded and looked away, Jensen turning your cheek back towards him.

“I get bad dreams too,” he said. He smiled and returned it, dropping his hand away.

“People aren’t sweet like you, you know.”

“They are. You just haven’t been around too many quality people lately it seems,” he said.

“I can’t really disagree with that,” you said.

“Your friends aren’t sweet?” he asked.

“Are yours?”

“I ditched the bad ones. The ones I got left, some are guy guys, they don’t talk about the serious stuff but they’re good. The other guys...yeah, we talk about feelings and shit. One of my best friends we talk everyday about that stuff,” he said. “We have a tag up. We just check in, make sure the other is okay.”

“Like I said. You’re sweet,” you said. 

“Like I said. You should hang around with some better people,” he said. You nodded and sat back, tucking into his side. “Not a lot of friends?”

“Never had a lot. But then when I broke up with my ex, all my friends stopped talking to me and kept hanging out with him,” you said. “Always was kind of hard, growing up the way I did, knowing if people liked me.”

“Well I know someone that likes you very much,” he said, smirking at you.

“I wonder who that is,” you said. 

“He’s quite adorable,” he said. “Very handsome.”

“Lucky me,” you laughed. “Sounds very humble.”

“For sure,” he said. You glanced up at him, Jensen rubbing your arm. “If you’re up for it, want to go do something fun?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Your hair is a hot mess,” teased Jensen three hours later. He tried to fix it back in place but you quickly felt his baseball cap on your head, ponytail pulled through the opening. “All better.”

“I cannot believe you took us to Disneyland,” you said, looking back at the rollercoaster you’d just gotten off of. “I haven’t been here in years!”

“Best part is we can totally drink now,” he said. “Want to hit a few more rides first before we get a snack?”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” you said. You got bumped as you walked, Jensen grabbing your hand and pulling you around to his other side. He didn’t let go once you’d made it past a crowd of people and you gave it a squeeze. “Hey, Ackles.”

“Y/L/N,” he said as you headed for another coaster.

“Thanks for saving my ass that night we met,” you said.

“I’m sure you would have handled it on your own,” he said. “I got your back from now on though if that’s cool.”

“I’m okay with that, Ackles,” you said.

“Good. You watch mine and maybe it’ll all work out,” he said. 

“Maybe it will,” you said. He hummed and leaned over to kiss you, smiling when you blushed. “Don’t say a word, fanboy.”

“Mhm,” he said, a smug little look on his face. “Alright, let’s try another one of these coasters out.”

_____

A/N: Read Part 10 here!

[shadowywerewolfqueen]

I Don’t Want a Soulmate

Dean Winchester stared at the clock with rapt attention. In exactly fifty-eight seconds he would be turning eighteen and somewhere on his body, his soulmate tattoo would appear. He glanced over at his younger brother who was fast asleep. Sam was in awe of the idea of having a mark on your body that was a perfect match to another person’s. Even though he was four years from getting his mark, for the past few months, it had been the only thing he wanted to talk about.

“Dean, what do you think yours will be?” “Do you think it will hurt when it appears?” “How long do you think it will take for you to find your soulmate?” “What if you don’t like your soulmate?”

Dean had finally shouted at his brother to quit asking about the stupid things. Unlike Sam, Dean hated the idea of the soulmate marks. He was furious that he didn’t get to choose the person he was going to spend his life with. He had learned all too well how fate could be a bitch. His parents were a perfect example.

Mary Campbell had been the sweetest, most outgoing person who saw the good in everything. Mary Winchester was a shell of the person she was before she met John Winchester. After enduring years of abuse from John, Mary took her own life when Dean was thirteen and Sam was nine. Dean had sworn to himself that if his soulmate were anything like John, he would never stay with them.

Dean watched anxiously as the seconds on the clock ticked down. As soon as the time changed to midnight, he felt a bright hot pain sear into his left shoulder. He gritted his teeth through the pain, not wanting to wake up his sleeping brother. Once the pain had faded, Dean walked into the bathroom to see what his mark looked like. He stood in front of the mirror and slowly pulled his shirt sleeve back.

Dean’s mark was a simple hourglass with equal amounts of green sand in the top bulb and blue sand in the bottom bulb. “Well, it’s not the worst mark I’ve ever seen,” Dean muttered into the quiet bathroom. He glared at the mark as he pulled his sleeve down to cover it. He was going to do his best to pretend like the thing didn’t even exist.

                                                           *****

Dean was standing at the bar drying shot glasses when the seat in front of hum was suddenly filled with six feet of aggravated Castiel Novak. Dean grabbed a bottle of whiskey and poured the tattoo artist a shot before sliding it over to him. Cas glanced up at him with a mumbled, “Thanks.”

Dean threw the towel over his shoulder and leaned forward on the counter, his elbows supporting most of his weight. “What’s got your panties in a knot?”

Cas slammed the empty shot glass down as he growled, “How many times do I have to tell you I don’t wear panties.” He smirked at his roommate as he said, “You on the other hand have quite an extensive collection.”

Dean grinned, completely unashamed. “Damn straight! I’m telling you buddy the material feels so good against your skin and they hug you in all the right places.”

“As I always say, I’ll take your word for it. Pour me another shot.” Cas slid the glass back over to Dean.

Dean poured more whiskey into the glass. Cas went to reach for it, but Dean shook his head. “Nah ah, not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Give me the damn glass, Dean,” Cas snarled.

Dean glared at his friend, refusing to follow his order. “No. Something happened and I want to know what.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m your roommate, but also because I’m your friend, Cas. I need to know if I have to go beat somebody up,” Dean answered.

“We’ve only been roommates for a few weeks Dean.”

“And?” Dean asked with a raised eyebrow.

Cas huffed but finally said, “Balth dumped me for some twink in tight little boy shorts. Like, if the dude is even eighteen, I’d be surprised. We’ve been together for two years and he cheated on me for a fucking twink! What the hell does he have that I don’t?”

Dean passed the shot glass over and Cas downed it in one go. He held the bottle out and said, “Here, you need this.” Cas took a long gulp from the bottle. “I’m sorry, Cas. I know you really liked him.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “Truthfully, I don’t know how much I liked him anymore. The past few months haven’t been all that great. I think I’m more pissed about the fact that he refused to break up with me to my face. Not to mention, he chose somebody that’s at least a decade younger than me. Great boost to my ego.”

Dean reached out to grip Cas’ shoulder in a comforting embrace. “Look, Balth was a douche and you deserve so much better. If he can’t see how great of a guy you are, then he doesn’t deserve you.”

Cas flashed a small grin at his friend. “Thanks Dean. You know, I still can’t fathom why you are single. I mean, it’s not like you give a shit about the whole soulmate mark so why not have a little fun?”

“Why even start something with somebody if they’re just gonna leave you in the end? I’m ok with being single for the rest of my life,” Dean replied with a shrug.

“So, why don’t you go look for your soulmate then? I know you’re afraid after what happened with your mom, but you’ve got to try, Dean,” Cas insisted.

“No,” Dean said sternly. “I’d rather be single than find out that my so-called perfect match is some douchebag.”

Cas frowned. “I wish you would let me see your mark. I’m sure it’s something awesome.”

“It’s nothing special. Besides, it’s not like you’ve ever let me see yours,” Dean shot back.

“I figured you wouldn’t want to since you’ve made it very clear how you feel about them. Hell, I learned about your panty collection on the second day of knowing you and you made less of a fuss about that. You nearly bit my head off when I asked about your mark.” Cas lifted the bottle to his lips and took another sip from it.

“Did you ever see Balth’s mark?” Dean asked softly.

Cas nodded as he answered, “Yeah, it was some weird cross thing. Not even close to matching mine.”

Dean sighed. He had only known Cas for a few weeks, but he was the best roommate Dean had ever had. The previous three had been nothing but trouble. One brought all their dates to the apartment and Dean had to listen to them going at it all night. Another smoked pot nonstop. Dean wasn’t a prude; he’d tried a lot of things in his twenty-five years of life but even he didn’t want his apartment smelling like a pot factory nonstop. The one before Cas had been ok except for the fact that they didn’t pay their part of the rent, so Dean kicked them out.

From the very first day, Cas had been an enigma. Cas was the only tattoo artist Dean knew who didn’t have a single tattoo of his own. When Dean had asked why, Cas said he didn’t want to have them, and his soulmate not like them. Dean had scoffed at they, saying it was Cas’ body and he should be able to do to it what he wanted.

That wasn’t the only weird thing about Cas, though. His favorite piece of clothing was an old tan trench coat that was frayed at the seams and had a few odd stains on it. Cas said he’d had it since he was a teenager and couldn’t bear to part with it. Cas also had an unhealthy obsession with bees and botany. Dean had listened to dozens of lectures about how important bees were to the environment and which flowers attracted them the most. The weirdest thing about Cas was the way he always tilted his head and scrunched his eyes and nose when he was confused. Living with Dean meant he was confused most of the time.

Even though Cas was an odd guy and was taken, Dean had quickly fallen head over heels for him. Before Cas, he would have never spent hours watching nature documentaries or thought that anybody would look good in a baggy trench coat. Dean’s heart stuttered every time he caught Cas doing the adorable head tilt thing.

It was because he was so in love with Cas that Dean said, “If you show me your mark, I’ll show you mine.”

Dean nearly dropped the glass he was holding when Cas cocked his head and scrunched his eyes. “You’ve never wanted to see it before, why now?”

“MaybebecauseIlikeyou,” Dean said in one go.

“Uh, Dean. I didn’t understand a thing you just said.”

Dean sighed before slowly saying, “Maybe because I like you.” Dean felt bile rising as Cas continued to stare at him. “Oh shit, you don’t feel the same way. Fuck, you just broke up with your boyfriend and here I am admitting I have feelings for you.” Dean dropped his eyes and muttered, “Way to go Winchester.”

“Dean look at me,” Cas said gently. Dean slowly lifted his eyes to lock with Cas’ blue ones. “Maybe I like you too. It was just one more thing that was driving Balth and I apart.”

“Oh great, I’m the reason your boyfriend of two years cheated on you,” Dean cried as he threw his hands in the air.

“No, you weren’t,” Cas assured. “We’ve been falling apart for months, so please don’t blame yourself. If I truly loved him, there’s no way I would have fallen for you.” Cas grabbed Dean’s hand in his, giving it a light squeeze. “Dean, I don’t care if our marks don’t match. If we start something, I’m not going to leave you for some stranger who has the same mark as I do.” Before Dean could reply, Cas pulled his left shirt sleeve up and exposed his mark to the dim light.

Dean gasped as his eyes locked on the hourglass filled with green and blue sand. He shook his head, whispering, “It can’t be,” over and over. He tore his eyes away from the mark to stare at Cas wide eyed.

“Dean, is everything alright?” Cas asked with concern.

Dean’s hand shook as he grabbed his shirt sleeve and slid it up over his shoulder, allowing Cas to the see the mark etched into his skin. Cas’ jaw fell as he stared at the mark. Cas looked at Dean, his expression a mirror image. “Our marks… they match.”

“Yeah,” Dean said shakily.

“I can’t believe this. I’ve imagined meeting my soulmate hundreds of times, but I never imagined he’d end up being my roommate,” Cas said in awe.

Dean was hesitant as he replied, “I’ve always been so afraid of meeting mine. I hated that fate got to decide my perfect match instead of me.”

“And now?” Cas asked hopefully.

Dean’s lips spread into a bright smile. “Now, I guess I have to admit fate knew what it was doing when it picked my soulmate.” He grabbed a fistful of Cas’ shirt and pulled him across the counter. Their mouths met in the middle. Dean moved his lips against Cas’ and marveled at how soft they felt. Cas moaned and Dean took the opportunity to lick into his mouth. Their tongues danced with one another as the kiss deepened. As they broke apart, Dean whispered, “I think I might already be in love with you.”

Cas kissed Dean again before replying, “I know I’m already in love with you.”

Tagging: @lonewolf34500 @notwithd @multifandom-fanatic @flowersforcas @cockleslovesdestiel

[cerezsis]

The Missing Link

Chapter Four: Sura

Summary: The Earth Queen has fallen. Ba Sing Se is in chaos. How long before it spreads through the entire Earth Kingdom?

--

           A light breeze came through as Sura left the market. Her eyes naturally gravitated towards the statue of Avatar Kyoshi, still standing tall and proud after all this time. These days, small spirits often sat perched atop; sometimes even a fox spirit would rest below. The statue was a staple of the village, proudly honoring the Avatar who created the island.

           Pulling her gaze away, Sura continued her way home, carrying her basket of elephant koi fillets and various vegetables. Soon, her thoughts once again turned to the radio broadcast from that morning; “The Earth Queen's reign has come to an abrupt and violent end. Ba Sing Se has descended into chaos. Rioters and looters have overrun the palace.” She had been enjoying a lovely breakfast with her family when the radio switched from music to the grim news. Though she never met the queen, she remembered the way then-Princess Izumi spoke of her decades ago.

           “I don’t like speaking negatively of others, so instead I’ll opt to say nothing.”

           Sura thought it funny at the time, but as Queen Hou-Ting’s reign went on, she realized her friend’s quip was more of a warning. The queen was far from beloved, save for the older generations, but the way she met her end was truly disturbing. Suffocated, the air ripped from her lungs by a mad man; the same man Sura’s father helped to fight off thirteen years ago.

           What troubled her the most were the ongoing reports coming out of the capitol: riots, looting, fires, utter chaos. Part of her could understand the palace looters, as the queen was known to have been hoarding the nation’s wealth at the expense of her citizens, but the rest? It was madness.

           Finally, her home came into view. To her surprise, her son was sitting on the porch steps, twiddling his thumbs with his head down.

           “You’re home already?” Sura asked, stopping in front of him.

           The early thirty-something-year-old man lifted his head, his dark blue eyes meeting his mother’s gaze from below his auburn hair.

           “Slow day. Not much work to do.��� He stood up, extending his arms. “Let me take that.”

           Raising an eyebrow, Sura handed him the basket.

           “Where’s your dad?” she asked as they walked inside.

           “He’s doing the laundry. And Mu’s not home yet.”

           Sura nodded at the mention of her daughter-in-law. Without saying much else, the two of them began unpacking the groceries. As the seconds ticked on, Sura decided she couldn’t take the silence anymore.

           “Alright Kang, spit it out. What’s on your mind?” she asked, turning to him with her hand on her hip.

           Kang’s eyes fell to the floor. He was hesitant to speak.

           “Well… Mu and I were talking… we’ve decided…” He struggled to say the words. “We’re leaving Kyoshi.”

           Sura blinked. His words took a moment to sink in.

           “You’re… leaving?” she asked, her face falling.

           Kang nodded. “We’re immigrating to the United Republic. What’s happening in Ba Sing Se… it won’t stay contained to the capitol. The Earth Kingdom isn’t safe anymore. We need to get out while we can.”

           Sura was lost for words. She searched her mind, desperate for something to say. “You… Kyoshi’s very isolated. We don’t have much contact with the mainland. Even if what’s happening in Ba Sing Se spreads through the rest of the country, we’ll be safe here.”

           Kang finally looked up, though he just barely met his mother’s gaze.

           “You’re right. Kyoshi is isolated. Too isolated. This isn’t a spur of the moment decision, mom. Mu and I have been talking about this for a long time. We want to have children, start a family of our own. There’re more opportunities in Republic City, for us and our future children. Kyoshi Island… this is my home, but it’s not my future.”

           Sura just stood there, staring at him. Finally, with sadness still in her eyes, she managed to muster a smile.

           “I understand. You need to do what’s best for you and your family. I’m sure your aunties will help you get settled in the city. And if you need anything from dad and me, we’ll always be here for you.”

           Kang smiled back, a sense of relief washing over him.

           “Thanks, mom.”

--

           The sound of running water echoed in the small bathroom as Sura washed her face. She couldn’t stop thinking about Kang’s announcement. He was her son, her only child. And he was leaving…

           She reached for a towel and dried her face. Opening her eyes, she stared at herself in the mirror. Out of all the sisters, she looked the most like her mother, possessing her auburn hair, pale skin, and dark blue eyes. Her hair was cut shorter than her mom’s ever was – not even falling past her ears – but everything else was the same. She used to wish she looked more mixed, like her sisters, but since her mother’s passing, she was grateful for the strong resemblance.

           The thought of her mother brought the history of her home to the front of her mind. Several generations of her mother’s family lived here, perhaps as far back as before the Hundred Year War. Sura herself was born in this house, though it was only her home for a few months before her parents moved the then family of four to the United Republic. It wouldn’t be her home again until she was a teenager, when she moved back to the island to care for her aging grandparents. The move was supposed to be temporary – only to last until her grandparents passed – but then she met Shen. Then she was elected governor. She’d built a life, a home, a family in this house, on this island.

           Though, technically, she supposed her family truly began in the Fire Nation. She was still six weeks away from her due date when they traveled to attend Prince Iroh’s birthday celebration. There was supposed to be plenty of time, the key words being supposed to. She went into labor just a day after arriving at the palace.  

           It was terrifying, but Aunt Katara assured her it would be ok. Along with her aunt, her cousin, Kya, and sister, Jia, assisted her. “My two best students,” Katara had said. In the end, it was a blessing she went into labor early. Kang was fine, coming out screaming his little head off, but Sura… had she delivered on Kyoshi Island, she would’ve died.

           After Kang was born and given a clean bill of health, things went wrong fast. The placenta wouldn’t detach, and she ended up hemorrhaging. The only way to save her life was to undergo an emergency hysterectomy, something she wouldn’t have had access to on the island. Fire Lord Zuko himself called for the royal family’s personal medical staff, and the procedure was performed quickly. Even though she nearly lost her life, Sura remembered feeling guilty that Jia had to witness that. She was just barely eighteen, and she was forced to watch her older sister nearly bleed to death. Sura was certain she’d be traumatized, perhaps to the point of never having children of her own. Instead, just a month later, she stated her intentions to go to medical school.

           A sudden knock on the door made Sura jump, tearing her out of her thoughts.

           “Coming to bed, honey?” Shen’s voice asked.

           Sura relaxed and turned towards the door. “Just a moment.”  

           She put the towel back before opening the door. Shen smiled at her, before heading to the bedroom. Sura followed suit, getting into bed with him.

           “Something on your mind?” Shen asked, reading Sura’s far-off expression.

           The auburn-haired woman turned to him. “Just Kang,” she admitted, “I can’t believe he’s leaving.”

           Shen nodded, sadly. “I was half his age when I left for the shipyards. A seed can’t always take root where it first falls.”

           Sura suppressed a sigh. “Trust me, I know that. I have legal citizenship in three nations, after all.” A thought suddenly occurring to her, she glanced to the side. “You know… they’ll probably have an easier time gaining citizenship if there’s a citizen in their party.”

           Shen blinked. He stared at her for a while before speaking. “You want to leave the island?”

           “Not really, no. But I do want to be close to my son. The thought of him leaving… I’m already so far away from most of my family. I don’t want to be far from him too.”

           Shen didn’t respond right away. He stayed silent for several minutes, taking his time to think it over. “Well, we are about at retirement age. And it couldn’t hurt to have more family around.” He grinned. “And when Kang and Mu finally have kids, we should be close to them. They’ll need the support. I still remember our first few months as new parents. I don’t know what we would’ve done if your folks hadn’t come stay with us.”

           Sura met his eyes, grinning from ear to ear. She gave him a quick kiss.

           “I’ll write to my sisters in the morning. I’m sure one of them will be able to house us while we get ourselves sorted.”

           “They’re gonna be happy their big sister’s coming home.”

           Sura chuckled. “Now if we could just convince our biggest sister to join us.”

           “Good luck with that.” Shen said as he laid down and turned onto his side. “She doesn’t seem like the retirement type.”

           “Oh, definitely not. She’ll hold her title ‘til her dying breath, just like dad.” She laid down next to him. “Goodnight, dear.”

[bloodstvin]

golden child , 𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐘 ; tell me what it’s like to 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓇. fearless child , 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐘 ; tell me what it’s like to ( 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏 ). 𝚘𝚑 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚎𝚟𝚎�� 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕. 

triggers : murder , ptsd mentions , war mentions... there’s probably more tbh.

𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆.    𝒸𝒽𝒾𝓁𝒹𝒽𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔𝒹𝑜𝓂 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓃𝑜𝒷𝑜𝒹𝓎 𝒹𝒾𝑒𝓈.

nicholas was born in the very MIDDLE of a giant and extremely long lightning storm that eventually turned into a bigger storm. his parents are shelby forbes & andrew o’shea his mother says that once he was born the storm started to settle and the sun came out of the clouds. his parents were... normal. his mother was a teacher and his dad was a lawyer. nothing supernatural about them. his father was a serious man who didn’t talk much about his childhood his time in the military ( he served in the vietnam war ). 

nicholas was always a good kid. he didn’t necessarily belong to a particular clique in high school , he mainly just floated. he did sports because he was good at them and he was proficient in languages and other school subjects. he was good with his hands and when it came to hands on activities. but he was exceptionally good at art. he had a lot of imagination and creativity that you would be surprised by. he could have gone on to an arts school… but he didn’t.

when nicholas was sixteen he was out in the middle of a storm that nearly destroyed his childhood home. he was truly just making sure that all of their animals were safe and in the barn and weren’t still out running in the storm or injured somewhere. nicholas was struck by lightning in the storm. he nearly died but he DIDN’T. he was as close as you can get. his heart even STOPPED. when he breathed life and woke up – HIS FATHER was sitting at his side. that summer he really got to know his father for the first time in forever. 

nicholas had considered art school , it was a great passion of his and he was a damn good artist too. but things changed. when he got back to school after summer break school was the last thing on his mind. it was like his eyes had opened and could see for the first time in years. he did apply to art schools and got in to all of the ones that he applied to but his heart and mind were telling him to do something else.

𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒕𝒘𝒐.    𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝓌𝒶𝓇.

nicholas signed up for the army the day he turned eighteen. he met his future wife barely a week later. she was there when he left his small town for boot camp. they were very much a dear john love story. they sent letters back and forth when he was in boot camp and continued when he was sent around the world. he would come home for a week at a time. they eloped young and had one child not that much later. their love burned , though never got to burn out -- she died when their child was x years old ( will be decided when eldest child is taken ! ) nicholas was in afganistan at the time. 

two years later he married his current ex-wife. big wedding. they had two children together. 

he spent as much time at home when he could. he was not much of a presence in his child’s lives when they were young but he visited when he could and sent letters as often as he was able to. but letters only went so far. his wife just wanted help with their unruly children and his children just wanted a father. nicholas had an even bigger chance to leave after the incident that caused most of his team to die. ( he had signed up for x amount of years which has coincidentally came up after everything ) he wasn’t in the jeep when they went over the mine , but he was SUPPOSED to be and last minute he ended up staying behind with the others. he heard that explosion and his stomach dropped. some of those left alive after what happened left completely. nicholas didn’t. he did take a break after the incident. he went home , he attended his sisters funeral ( who died not that long before ) he grieved with his family as well as grieving for the army family he lost. but still , he continued on eventually and saw even more horrific things , saw his life flash before his eyes more times than he could count. sometimes he wondered why he kept on going and kept renewing his contract and then he remembered when he went back home and couldn’t deal with regular everyday life. 

niholas ended his contract with the army after a disaster with his then team. the person in charge had essentially put everyone in a horrible situation and surrounded by the enemy - a person that nicholas was supposed to trust with his LIFE. nicholas was left to get everyone out alive. and somehow , he did. he got everyone out alive with no fatalities and minimal injuries. nicholas was awarded a medal for his heroism , which he just called “ SHEER DUMB LUCK “ lmfao

𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒆.    𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒾𝓉 𝑒𝓃𝒹 ?

nicholas and his wife divorce when he’s thirty-two years old. their marriage had been strung along for TOO LONG and it was obvious to almost everyone that they hadn’t had a good marriage in years. but also , what they didn’t tell everyone at first is that they both came out as gay during this time. sure , their relationship wasn’t the best but the bottom line is that they were both unhappy and trying to force happiness in a marriage that should have ended a long time ago -- or not even started at all.

nicholas had never questioned his sexuality. he assumed he was straight. he never had internalized homophobia or anything. it just wasn’t something he thought about. he did was his parents did because that was what he knew. he never even realized that he could have been gay until his early thirties. his focus had always been on other things , too. 

the day the divorce was official lifted a huge weight off of his shoulders. he hadn’t realized how much he had been holding in until that moment. the divorce was the best thing the two of them ever could have done.

he also started med school , which he breezed through. idk when , tbh. but he’s a pediatric surgeon now and one of the best in his field in nyc ! 

anyways.

last summer , the whole gang went on a camping trip together ( nicholas , ex wife , 3 kids ) in upstate new york. it was a great bonding experience for them and brought them all really close. but... 

nicholas’ youngest child ( age thirteen ) was “ mauled by a bear “ when he wandered off in the middle of the night. nicholas was the one to find him a little while off. there wasn’t even a body to bury - it was that bad. 

but it wasn’t a bear. or a coyote. though , nicholas doesn’t know anything about that.

𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒓.    𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝑜𝓌.

it’s been a year since his youngest child died. they’d be fourteen now. a day doesn’t go by where nicholas doesn’t think about the gruesome scene he happened upon. it gave him nightmares for months and made his grief so much worse. 

he started going to grief counseling a few months ago... but that’s as close to therapy as he’ll get. he definitely struggles with ptsd a lot and probably will continue to for the rest of his life. he’s still never gotten help for it. 

𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚  &  𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒔.

he’s related to the forbes family & is quite close to kathy forbes ! she’s basically his kid. 

he does a lot of work with foster kids , which is how he ended up fostering / adopting a few. 

he also used to take in multiple foster kids at a time , though he hasn’t done that in a few years now.

u can find him on okcupid ( winks @ jasper )

despite what happened to his youngest kid ..... he doesn’t know about the supernatural. he truly thinks that his kid died from a bear attack because that’s what it looked like. he’s just a dumb human , bois. 

he has a very old cat named floof ( his kids named her ) , a corgi named bear & a golden retriever named lily. 

he regularly struggles with ptsd , it’s a big reason why his marriage wasn’t working out. he never wanted to get help.

he’s struggled with alcoholism , especially after coming home. 

when he was struck by lightning , it left quite the scar on his body. which doesn’t even compare to the other scars he has scattered on his skin. 

he had a younger sister named theresa o’shea. she died due to wrong place at the wrong time.

there’s been A LOT of supernatural - based things happening in his life. but he’s never noticed any of them nor has he connected the things to the supernatural. 

he coaches his niece’s softball team on the weekends. 

personality-wise... he’s JUST A GOOD DUDE. he loves his family and he loves his kids so much. he’d do anything for his kids , tbh. he MEANS WELL but it doesn’t always come off that way. in the military he was hard due to the circumstances he was in. the tragedies that he has seen made him a little cold in the army but outside of that he’s soft. he doesn’t keep up with pop culture and technology. nicholas has a strong set of morals that he abides to – he’s known for his heroism , even as a kid before he got into the military.

he was born in england and lived there till he was fifteen -- when him & his parents moved to nyc. 

𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅  𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔. 

EX WIFE / BEST FRIEND. despite everything... they’re best friends. she’s his foundation that keeps him from slipping. also strong ... wlw & mlm energies. human. 

ELDEST CHILD. they’ll be 21-23 years old. pref a poc. human.

SECOND ELDEST CHILD. from second marriage. age 17 - 19. human. 

ADOPTED / FOSTERED KIDS. two total. any age. taken in within the past 10 years. human.

ARMY SQUAD. army squad ! they’ve been able to stay in touch throughout the years and are basically as close as siblings.

OLDER SIBLING. they’re just ..... so close. he really leans on his older sibling a lot for help with his kids. nicholas might be the glue that holds his family together but their older sibling is like ,,,, the life jacket that keeps him afloat. 

GRIEF SUPPORT GROUP. he’s been going for a few months now and while he doesn’t talk a lot .... it helps.

DATES GONE WRONG .... HOOKUPS .... EXES. even dads need sum love ! 

FRIENDS. he’s a very likable dude ! lots of friends ! he’s very charismatic and everyone tends to like him. 

CO - WORKERS. make him the hot surgeon around the children’s hospital he works at. everyone has a crush on him bc he’s hot ! af ! 

INTERN. they’d be his intern and wanna be a doctor / surgeon / they just wanna work with kids in a hospital setting. 

LIKE A YOUNGER SIBLING / CHILD. they were in the military together and he basically looked out for them and now they’re both in nyc. he still sees them as a kid , despite them not being a child. at all. 

HUNTERS. hunters who looked into the case involving his child being killed by a bear. they know that it wasn’t a bear... maybe they tell him at some point ? idk.

MURDERER. the person who killed his thirteen year old kid. could be vampire , werewolf... could even be a bitch or some misc creature. 

ETC. he coaches a little league softball team ... works a lot with foster kids .... he’s also cousins to a founding family so. connections. 

𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒔.

stats - tba.

pinterest - tba.

playlist - tba.

[rhclland-blog]

━━━ is that RHYS HOLLAND ? i think i saw the TWENTY FOUR year old MALE WAITER in the town square earlier. the HERMAN TØMMERAAS lookalike, could be described as AMBITIOUS, but also be considered RESENTFUL. i heard someone in town say he was the town’s BLACK SHEEP, but only time can tell if that’s true or not !

!! abortion mention tw, cancer tw, death tw !!

background.

growing up, it was just him and his mum. scarlett carter had gotten pregnant with him at seventeen, and his father (or sperm donor, as rhys liked to refer to him) left her the moment she told him that she was having his child. in addition to being abandoned by the father of her child, scarlett’s parents kicked her out and disowned her as well, leaving her completely destitute.

scarlett had big dreams of moving to a big city and becoming a musician, but suddenly she was penniless and with child. her friends advised her to get an abortion, that she was too young to be saddled with a child, and even though scarlett considered it for a long time, in the end she decided to have the child.

on 2 april 1993, rhys holland (holland had been scarlett’s middle name) was born.

rhys had inherited his mother’s love for music, and their little house was always filled with music. his mother worked several jobs and they lived extremely modestly, but he had a happy childhood.

when he was ten, he told his mother that he was going to be a famous singer one day. scarlett had smoothed back his hair, pressed a kiss against his forehead, and told him that she believed in him. if her smile had been a little wistful, rhys hadn’t noticed.

he was thirteen when scarlett was diagnosed with leukaemia. it had been discovered fairly early, and doctors were optimistic that she would make a full recovery. rhys started working part-time jobs in order to help fund his mother’s treatment, and money was extra tight since he refused to let his mother work. but he managed. some days, he would go hungry, but as long as his mother was taken care of, rhys never complained.

two years on, the cancer recurred. this time, the treatments were no longer working. they exhausted all the options they could afford, and rhys was prepared to drop out of school to work full time in order to be able to pay for more expensive treatments, but scarlett refused to let him throw his life away for her.

rhys couldn’t do anything but watch as the disease slowly took his mother, and at the far too young age of thirty-three, scarlett holland carter passed away.

suddenly, rhys was alone. at sixteen, he was too young to live on his own, and he nearly ended up in the foster care system, but someone (CONNECTION NEEDED) took him in. he stayed with them for two years, and he would forever be grateful to them for giving him a home, but as soon as he turned eighteen, he found his own place and moved out. he’s been living on his own ever since, working long hours as the diner in order to make ends meet.

personality.

he’s always been a little rough around the edges, always been the type to mouth off, the type to use his fists to try and solve problems. but back before his mother got sick, he’d had a softer side as well. he had been a little more naive about the world, had smiled a little more. he’s a lot more closed off now.

he’s a bit of a smartass. sarcasm is his first line of defence, and he’s the type of person who would crack jokes about traumatic experiences (except his mother’s death–– he never talks about that. ever.) just because it’s easier than acknowledging just how deeply his adolescent years have affected him.

he’s an extremely hard worker though. he often takes back-to-back shifts at the diner, and despite the fact that he hates his job, he does it well –– mostly for the tips, to be honest. but still. and when he’s not working, he’s working on his music. he keeps busy, and part of it is because he was raised to try and make the most of his time, but also because if he keeps himself occupied he doesn’t have to deal with his thoughts.

he’s petty as fuck. it is literally impossible for him to walk away from anything, no matter how insignificant. if anyone ever does anything that he perceives as a slight, he’s a hundred percent going to retaliate, even if it’s by doing something as dumb as pouring salt into their coffee the next time they’re at the diner.

very resentful? not towards any particular person (although he does reserve extra resentment for his maternal grandparents and his father), but towards the town in general. his mother had wanted to leave town so badly, but she had stayed behind for him. spent her entire life in a town that turned its back on her, that left a young mother to fend for herself, that only mourned for her once she was gone. the doctors say it was the cancer that took her, but rhys wonders if it was broken dreams that did it.

because of that, he’s even more eager to leave the town. everyone else seems to love golden, and the dozens upon dozens of tourist they get seem to think of the town as something of a paradise, but rhys has only ever felt trapped. he’s not afraid to express how he feels about golden, to talk about how he’s going to leave ‘this shithole’ someday. he’s been saving up for years, and he’s decided that he’s going to leave town before he turns twenty six.

miscellaneous.

he doesn’t drive, since owning a car is a luxury he’s decided he cannot afford. he doesn’t even know how to drive, although he intends to learn someday. currently, he just walks everywhere. sometimes he’ll ride his bike if he wants to save time.

his mother had been something of a musical prodigy – played a ton of instruments, had a wonderful singing voice, etc – and he had inherited her talents. he plays the piano, the guitar, the drums, and the bass. he’s basically a one-man band.

he writes and records his own songs. he taught himself how to mix audio and his apartment doubles as his studio (his soundproofed his entire room for it too). his sound is similar to the likes of troye sivan / years & years / the neighbourhood / etc. best described as alternative/dark synth pop, but occasionally he’ll dabble in different genres.

connections.

LEGAL GUARDIAN ; m or f ; 0/1 –– the person who took him in after his mother passed away. they have to be at least two years older, and can either know him from school, or if your muse is older, they might have known his mother (possibly one of her co-workers).

EXES ; m & f ; 0/2 –– rhys is bisexual, and has dated both guys and girls. one of his exes must be male. his relationships have never been serious, on his end at least. they can be amicable exes, or it may have ended badly.

ROOMMATES ; m or f ; 0/1 –– pretty straightforward. they share an apartment, but they don’t necessarily have to be close friends (although they can be!). rhys is often at work, and when he’s not working he’s just holed up in his room.

CO-WORKERS ; m or f ; 0/? –– they see each other quite a lot, considering how often rhys works. they can have a purely professional relationship, or they could be friends outside of work as well.

[mvsicoftheniight-blog]

Alright at last I am about to lay down some information about Metal!Erik

Brace yourselves because this gonna be long. 

So first, I think I should start with backstory?..

Erik became a victim to human trafficking at the age of five, when his mother sold him into an illegal circus. He endured all kinds of horrors from being locked away, beaten and mocked to being raped. It lasted four years until the circus was seized by police. Erik was taken to an orphanage, however little better awaited for the poor boy. Unwilling to live there shunned and loathed, he ran away in less than a year. After wandering in the streets of Paris aimlessly for two months or so, he met Antoinette (Madame Giry). She was a few years older than him, ballerina in training, an orphan too, but  chaperoned by the theater as a young shooting star. Antoinette took pity in Erik, thus hid him in the vaults of Opera house and took care of him. Urban Legends whispered the theater was haunted, so it was easy for Erik to pass as a ghost. In Opera Populaire, he discovered his genius and undying love for music. When Antoinette turned eighteen, already a quite famous dancer, she at last was able to make herself Erik’s legal guardian after gaining him fake documents. Life was not smooth for them despite her salary. Erik was tormented by severe mental disorders and emotional problems, struggling with rapidly developing addictions and lack of social skill. Antoinette’s lover left her with child. But they were strong, they survived. Erik soon found his love for metal. It seemed like an insane idea back then, however he decided to try and combine his two most beloved branches of music. In such way, he became Phantom, one of the first to perform symphonic black metal. It took time, it took sweat and blood, people acknowledge how exquisite his talent and skill was. Antoinette, seeing his potential, dropped her new job as a ballet coach and became his manager. Around thirty five, Phantom was already a metal legend. In his free time, he draws a lot as well. He even had contributed to some architecture projects. 

Now some facts that vary, amrite? 

Metal!Erik is based on Gerik, so he is natural blonde, however he dyes his hair black. His hair nearly reaches his waist, falling in charming lush curls. His beard is dyed too. Yes. He actually has a fucking beard. 

His relationship with his deformity is a tad different than in original verse. Yes, of course he loathes himself for it and tends to blame it for many misfortunes (after all, it was the reason why his mother despised him and sold him into the circus). But he does not go as far as thinking of himself cursed. He lives in modern times. He knows the diagnosis, capillary malformation. He still hides under a mask or corpse paint, but he knows he is ill, not damned. 

He is quite heavily tattooed, has tongue piercing. His ears are pierced in nine places.

He fell in love with metal because it was dark, unbound music. Art of outcasts. Sound of freedom. 

Phantom can be counted as an one-man-band. All studio records are done solely by himself. For shows, Madame Giry hires guest musicians. He mostly tends to play keyboards and vocals during shows, but guitar at times as well. 

Yes, he does still compose some clean symphonic music and he does still enjoy Opera. 

He is a loner. He rarely befriends people, even fears them. If not Madame Giry, he would be lost. He mostly tends to leave the house in the evening or at night. He communicates little even with fellow musicians, but interestingly, tends to at times answer fan messages. After all, it’s easier to do through the internet. 

He is not too fond of being photographed unless he is on stage.

His mental disorders include severe PTSD, anxiety, depression, insomnia, night terrors, panic attacks and occasional hallucinations. No need to mention emotional trauma, self loathing and lack of social skill. They already had been mentioned before... 

He smokes occasionally as well as struggles with drug additions. He had been to rehab a few times. Yes, he does drink, but it does not affect him much. 

Unlike original verse Erik, he knows what to do with his body. It would be a hard feat to actually date, but he has had occasional one-night-stands, especially in younger years. Back then, he would at times even use sex to get his way.

However he does long for love and sincere affection. Perhaps even secretly for a family (well he does have Antoinette and Meg though). 

In this verse he sees Meg as a younger sister and a friend. He would die for her, he would kill for her. This can be flexible though.

Madame Giry to him is a sister, a friend, a motherly figure and the bad cop. She is mostly the one to keep him together. They had always been there for one another and would will be. 

He has a few cats. He tends to bring stray cats at home. 

Madame Giry has him work part time in a tattoo parlor in hopes to improve his social skills. 

He despises religion and any form of ignorance. He is deeply into occult. 

Remember in this post X I stated I can portray Erik as a sort-of hermaphrodite? Well, with this addition (without it if you are alright or more comfortable with simple mpreg and no scientific justification), the story gets all the more dramatic. At thirteen, he had an abortion. I speculate he got his way for the fake documents. He did not want to get rid of the baby, but he was too weak and young to carry it. The pregnancy would have either ended with miscarriage or his death. At fifteen, he gave up a baby for adoption. The one-night-stand most likely has something to do with Antoinette being able to adopt him, as it’s not very realistic for an eighteen year old to gain custody without some not very legal aid. He wept, he wanted to keep and raise the baby, but understood there was no way he could support it. He still regrets the parting (if your character wishes they can encourage him to look for the child, but he deems it hopeless). Two miscarriages followed in his twenties. For these quite horrendous experiences, as much as he would yearn for a family, it frightens him to even think about it. Getting pregnant again would frighten him immensely because he would have little hope of everything turning out alright. 

Sooo... for now, that's it?.. I may update this, I may not... 

[riverdalefiction]

Not a Friendly Kind of Love

Summary: Through a series of events, Josie realizes Valerie’s more than just a friend to her.

Rating: K

Genre: General, Canon Compliant, Fluff

Pairing: Josie x Valerie

Timeline: Season one

Word count: 1,232

She was straight. Surely, she was, for sure, for certain, absolutely one hundred percent straight.

There was no way in hell Josephine McCoy, the Mayor’s daughter, the frontwoman of Josie and the Pussycats, was the one to take any liking towards girls.

And then came Valerie.

The first time she sees her, five year old Valerie’s walking to preschool with her older brother, hand in hand. She’s sporting pigtails, but her frizzy hair’s already loose around her scalp, and her eyes are something Josie notices from miles away.

The brother leaves her close to Josie, kisses her goodbye. Josie wonders how it feels to kiss that cheek.

She must’ve smelled like chocolate, because that’s the only reason why Josie would like her so much.

Little Josie approaches the girl, introducing herself. Mom always made a point of how important it is to be the first to approach someone, to leave a good impression. Josie thinks she left a pretty good impression, because Valerie’s walking home smiling, hand in hand with her.

It’s a few weeks later that Josie gets to kiss her cheek, when Valerie’s sad and Josie cheers her up. It’s innocent, it’s two little girls bonding over bleeding knees—because of course you can’t skate holding hands, Josephine!—but it’s the start of something neither of them realizes.

They say people bond best over bruises and blood. Or they don’t – Josie’s not sure.

Well, they skip dinner that night, instead stay in Valerie’s room eating sweets. It’s not good for them, Valerie’s mom tells them, but they know. They won’t eat too much. Except it’s a sleepover and they eat all of it, but neither really cares when they wake up.

They braid each other’s hair that morning. It’s messy, they don’t know how to do it, but it’s the most fun Josie’s had in a while.

Now, she can’t think of a life without Valerie in it.

In fact, it’s Valerie’s idea to start a band. They’re eleven and they’re, really, just playing around with Val’s synthesizer and Josie’s singing and there’s something very magical about the situation. It’s not meant to be taken seriously, but to Josie—someone who’s spent all her life looking up to people like Adele, Beyonce and Alicia Keys—it seems like the answer to everything.

They don’t have a name, at first. It’s two years of trying and failing, scoring gigs only because of her mom, but it’s great. Val’s with her all the time, and they spend more time practicing and writing songs than studying, and it’s all Josie ever wanted.

They’re thirteen when Valerie gets a boyfriend. He’s a grade above, cute and funny, and he brings her roses when he asks her to homecoming.

Josie goes alone. Josie meets Melanie, who’s a guitarist and exactly what they were missing.

Josie spends the night talking to Melanie and watching over Valerie. She feels a little ill, a bit like she’s going to faint, and a little dizzy when she sees her with her boyfriend. It lasts a couple of months – she barely sees her anymore. It’s more her and Melanie and her and Valerie and there’s something so awfully wrong with that, but she doesn’t say anything.

When they break up, Josie’s happy. She tells herself it’s because they can finally practice as they should, and because her room smells like chocolate again. She makes up a rule about boyfriends that all three girls agree on.

(She doesn’t make one about girlfriends. She doesn’t think of it, or she does, but finds a reason not to put it. She doesn’t know.)

They’re fifteen, they’re the Pussycats and they’re starting to kick off when her Mom pulls her aside. She’s worth more than Val or Mel, she tells her, she’s got a voice and doesn’t need them to succeed. The Mayor’s going to be their manager, and Josie’s going to be the face of the band.

When she breaks the news to the girls, they smile at her and say it’s all right. Josie knows it isn’t.

Josie and the Pussycats have their first real gig three months later, for Valerie’s birthday. She’s sixteen, the oldest of them, and they have a little party after they finish their gig.

(The party includes nearly fifty people—Oh my god, Josie, you didn’t have to!—and a bit of booze, at Josie’s. Things happen that not one of them mentions, ever.)

After the party, it takes them at least a month to be back as they were. Something happened there and Josie can’t really remember what, she just knows it leaves a fuzzy feeling in her stomach whenever she sees Val, and she’s more embarrassed than ever. It seems Val’s in the same situation, and Melaine isn’t saying anything.

When they’re sixteen and Valerie leaves the band for Archie Andrews of all people, Josie wants to destroy something.

They’ve made a rule about boys. She’s made this rule for Val, it wouldn’t hurt this much if this were Mel.

(Josie has nothing against Melanie, it’s just that her stomach stays sane in her presence and the thought of her having a boyfriend doesn’t aggravate Josie half as much.)

Josie cries. Josie is sad, because Val isn’t here, and she feels so goddamn lonely it’s a miracle when Val comes back. But she’s still dating Archie Andrews, and then she isn’t, because she’s had half a mind to realize the boy was next to cheating on her with Veronica Lodge and maybe Cheryl Blossom, too.

The two girls have a sleepover and Val cries in her arms, and Josie wants to hurt Archie for hurting Valerie. But she doesn’t, because Val’s good and she’s trying to be good for Val.

It’s that night when Josie realizes she, in fact, loves Valerie Brown.

(It’s definitely not a friendly kind of love.)

Nothing happens a long while after that, and the trio is stronger than ever. It’s funny, Josie tells them, how they needed to get through so much trouble to score a gig outside of Riverdale. They’re eighteen and it’s at a small venue and Josie’s parents don’t come, but the crowd seems to love them.

If they love them, Josie figures, she might as well tell Valerie she loves her, too.

But she fumbles with words later that night, and it’s summertime and they’re going to go to different colleges soon and it hurts, so she just kisses her instead. And it’s only the next morning that she realizes Valerie kisses her back, and it’s passionate and lovely and desperate and needy and Josie finally admits it.

Josie McCoy is gay indeed, and she’s been gay for as long as she can remember. She’s known Valerie as long as she can remember.

Perhaps there’s some coincidence, there.

[hwaryungrp]

SPOTTED! YU HARIN . 19.

Looks like they’ve been wandering around Hwaryung! You can find them living at HAI DORM RM #304 or if they’re not home they’re probably working at MIRAE DEPARTMENT STORE AS A SALES ASSOCIATE. Turns out they are also currently studying COMMUNICATIONS at HWARYUNG ACADEMIC INSTITUTE. If you can’t find them offline, feel free to message them @hahaharinz_.

BIOGRAPHY

TW: implied homophobia, self-hate, mentions of religion

at birth, she is adored. it’s the chilliest winter of the decade, but her smile remains bright, tiny hands reaching towards her mother’s face as she’s cradled in warm arms. a kiss is pressed to her forehead. “I love you.” her father caresses her cheek, echoing her mother’s sentiment as she’s rested gently into her cradle, eyelids heavy with sleep. “goodnight, harin.”

at five, she wonders what’s wrong with being ‘different.’ brows furrow in confusion as she stares up at the colorful stained glass windows stretching up to the ceiling, a hand tugging at her mother’s dress. “what does he mean? the guy in the curtains?” she’s shushed, her mother promising to explain later. as they leave the church, the curtained man’s – or priest, as harin is told – speech resounded in her mind. “papa, what did he mean? what’s wrong with being homosens- hobosax- hom-“ she’s shushed again, her father shaking his head. “honey… it’s… there are people that are different. they have… a different lifestyle.” she blinks, clearly perplexed. “just… remember, sweetie. only men and women are allowed to get married, okay?” it’s odd, she thinks. she returns his ‘okay’ with one of her own, but she didn’t understand. what was so wrong with being different?

at eight, she understands what was wrong with being ‘different.’ tears well in her eyes as she’s told that she’ll never see her uncle again, a wail threatening to escape from her lips. “b-but why? i m-miss him!” her father curses angrily, pacing their living room floor. her mother joins her on the couch, arms circling around her shoulders. “sweetie… remember when we told you only men and women are allowed to get married?” she nods, sniffling. “well… you uncle married another man. and that… isn’t what god, the father, wants.” she hiccups. “b-but why not?” there’s hesitation in her mother’s face, her eyes glancing at her father. “it’s just… wrong, sweetie. it’s unnatural.” her father curses yet again, his hands balled into fists… it’s then that she realizes that she never wants to be different.

at eleven, she thinks that she’s ‘different.’ at first it’s subtle– sometimes her gaze lingers a little too long on her friends lips as she speaks, other times she’s entranced by the gentle sway of her classmates hair as she passes her in the hallway… “that was normal, right?” she ignores the doubts about herself. “it’s okay to think girls are pretty,” she thinks. “you just… appreciate them.”

at thirteen, she believes that she’s ‘different.’ she dreams of her fingers intertwined with another’s, a smile lifting her lips as her head comfortably nestles in the crook of their neck… in the crook of a girl’s neck. she inhales, breathing in the soft smell of summer as her thumb draws circles into the female’s skin. it felt good – no, it felt right. she awakes the following morning, gaze fixated on the ceiling as she tries to make sense of her emotions. “it was only a dream.” she sits up, blinking at the morning sunlight. “it doesn’t mean anything.”

at fifteen, she denies that she’s ‘different.’ she smiles as a classmate asks her if she’d like to go on a date with him, nodding her head before she could even really give it any thought. they meet for lunch and a movie, her laugh loud and joyous as he walks her back to the train station, recounting how he jumped during a particularly scary part of the movie before her asks her out on another date. she had fun, so she agreed… and then he asks her out on another date… and another… and another… at the end of their fifth date, her asks her to be his girlfriend. she stares at him as they stand in front of the train station, the world around her quieting. “of course,” she says. “i mean, who else would buy me free food?” her eyes study his expression shift from nervousness to relief before she finds him leaning in, his lips pressed against hers. she heads straight home afterward. “guess what?” she paces her bedroom floor, ear pressed to her cellphone. “i have a boyfriend!” she exclaims to her friend on the other end, her tone giddy and excited despite the churning in her stomach. ‘this is right.’ she tells herself. ‘this is normal.’

at sixteen, she acknowledges that she may be ‘different.’ she huddles close to a long time friend hoping to stay warm as they settle on a neighborhood park bench, their giggles echoing before the sunset. “but for really, your boyfriend looks exactly like that one guy from–” harin isn’t listening. she’s too focused on the way the female’s eyes crinkle at the corners, especially so when she laughs… they break into another bout of snickers, harin likening the girl’s laugh to the chiming of bells. she leans on the other for support as they attempt to regain their composure, her head resting against her friends shoulder. as she’s finally able to breathe her head rises, her smile dropping as their noses nearly touch. ‘kiss her.’ says her conscience. she’s quick to jerk away to the opposite end of the bench. the park is silent. “harin?” she stares at her feet. “harin…?” a tear rolls down her cheek. “are you okay?” even more tears stream down her cheeks. “what’s wrong?” she’s close to sobbing at this point. the words escape her before she can stop herself. the self-doubt, the dreams, the denial – from start to finish, she tells her everything. she was so engrossed with thoughts of fear, shame, and disgust that she almost didn’t hear “it’s okay.” she walks home, cheeks tear stained… but happy.

at seventeen, she accepts that she’s ‘different’… but her parents do not. after a year of consistent arguments and heartache, she’s lugging her belongings onto a train to ganggukdong, choosing to leave her life in seoul and take up her grandmother’s offer to live with her in hwaryung instead. her best friend gives her a teddy bear that says ‘love you,’ a few of her friends send her off with ‘we’ll miss you,’ her ex-boyfriend texts her ‘good luck,’ but her parents leave her with ‘listen to your grandmother.’ her stomach churns. the idea of starting over frightened her. self-doubt tries to creep it’s way back in. “don’t cry,” she whispers beneath her breath as she wiggles into a seat. “it’ll be okay.”

at eighteen, she feels better about being different. she sits on her bedroom floor, doing her best to not touch her face while her face mask dry as she flips through old photos. there was one of her riding a bike, her smile missing a front tooth as she beams at the camera. she cackles. “gosh i’m cute.” the net photograph has her guffawing, eyes watering as her school picture featuring her terribly chopped bangs sits before her. “grandma, look!” she hurries to the sitting room where her grandmother reads, waving the picture in front of the older woman’s face. “aw!” her grandmother exclaims, gathering the photos in her hands. they giggle as harin sits beside her, nostalgia filling the air. as they flip to the net photo, her smile falls – a picture of her first christmas greets her, her parents smile bright as they hold her upright in front of their brightly lit christmas tree. she sighs. “i know,” her grandmother pipes up. “i know.” it hurts. “grandma, you love me, right?” her voices quakes. her grandmother doesn’t miss a beat. “of course i do. gay, straight, blue, or green, you’re my granddaughter. and like i told your uncle, i will always love you.” a soft smile lifts her lips. “it’s okay.”

at nineteen, she feels like herself. she yawns loudly as she rises from her bed, cursing as she stubs her toe against her bed frame. “wait – fuck!” she’s late for class. she haphazardly clothes herself and nearly breaks her nose as she flies out the door, but she’s off! her shoes may not match and her sweatshirt may be donning a mysterious brown stain, but she felt okay. she felt good.  she felt right. she felt normal.

and she knows that she’s always been normal.

PERSONALITY

( + ) confident, sociable, easygoing  ( - ) air-headed, loud, blunt