#not to mention she’s now blue and stitched together

[clownsuu]

Just a lil doodles smhhhh

cw: mentions of violence and distress. Also weapons-

This is probably a good time to mention everyone’s jobs since I keep forgetting to mention it JDHDGDH

Wally: Da Boss (yeah no shid) he isn’t that merciful of a boss- can be very brutal with how relentless he can be and is a bit of a (non sus) sadistic a s s sometimes. Usually is playfully humorous initially, but can quickly go sour if he feels ever so slightly ticked. Preferred weapon: his eyes and his arms.

Barnaby: Body guard, boss’s left hand man, usually the one who talks for the boss. Sometimes he’s even seen as the “unofficial” boss of the whole group (which he likes to humor sometimes) but in the end he is possibly the most loyal out of everyone to Wally (man’s best friend after all). Preferred weapon is “da biggest gun we got!!!”

Howdy: Butler, bartender, boss’s right hand man. Will do basically everything anyone says (who’s part of the family) without question, however he will always take the Boss’s requests as main priority over the others. This will often keep him awake and exhausted, and a few new stitches to add to his collection. He has the lowest ability to think freely. Preferred weapon: Ice pick

Julie: Hitman A, interrogator, mad scientist really. Killing isn’t really too much of her thing, she prefers methodical planning and slow suffering with the use of chemicals and even random substances she can get her lil paws on. She’s not afraid to use anyone as a test subject, even if it’s her own members. preferred weapon: tranquilizers

Sally: Hitman B, intimidator, c h a o s. Almost the complete opposite to Julie. Absolutely chaotic and adores violent bloodshed to a point it’s theatrical. Usually is called if they don’t really need a clean kill. Can often be seen dancing and listening to music while on the job, often says it helps her focus (nobody really argues with it). Preferred weapon: anything blunt and/or violently loud (tasers, rocket launchers, fireworks) (sally is banned from using rocket launchers)

Poppy: Medic, crime scene cleanup, voice of reason, sometimes chef. She does ok when it comes to clean ups and stuff, however she has panic attacks and gets terrified when ever she hears screams of pain/torture, and freezes. Typically Howdy is there to help her snap out of it and help her complete her work, if not do her work for her. Everyone, even including the boss, is there to support her when she’s distressed (everyone would hug her except Wally. He does not like being touched unless it’s Howdy or Barnaby). Preferred weapon: n/a

Eddie: Messenger, delivery pick up/drop off, handler of the goods. He usually goes by himself, however after an incident where he lost his arm from a deal gone wrong, he is now required to leave with at least one of the hitmen (typically Sally). Very often does he get hurt in these trips and is usually always saved by Sally. Absolutely adores Frank for always trying to find the safest routes for him and wishes they had time together alone. Preferred weapon: a simple revolver

Frank: In charge of ordering goods, making contacts, being a voice of reason, basically just a manager. The most stressed member of the group. Rarely is he seen outside of the headquarters unless it’s to talk to well known individuals. He doesn’t usually talk to anyone besides Howdy (ranting at the bar about people), Eddie (telling him what he needs to get next), and Julie (normal convos and her asking him to order new chemicals for her next project). Every time Frank thinks he has an intimate moment together alone with Eddie, out of the blue Eddie would just randomly talk about how much he loves the family and how Wally is so amazing. The next day Frank asks him about it, it seems Eddie doesn’t remember what happened yesterday. Frank has the highest ability to think freely. Preferred weapon: a simple glock.

Home: Voice of reason. Preferred weapon: Wally

[leahrintarou]

hii i wanted to request like enemies to lovers for dabi x fem!reader when reader is one of the villains in league and she and dabi always hated each other, or more like they love each other but won't admit a shit. and also dabi is always this rude, snarky bitch and then one day they get send together for some mission and he gets injured, like somewhere in the chest and reader has to take care of him and patch him up. and like she decides to be a bitch now and she's like paying him back and she's not gentle at all like she's even rougher than needed just because 😆. but then in the middle of the night when she has to change his bandages she just softens because she's actually worried about him and he kisses her and it's like the first time he feels love in thousands years🥺❤️

✩₊˚.⋆ I HATE YOU - dabi/touya todoroki

CW: swearing, enemies to lovers, dabi being an asshole, y/n is stubborn, they lack communication skills but figure something out in the end lol, mentions of wound stitching, injuries, dabi's daddy issues, quirk usage, a lot of arguing. Word Count: 4.7k Author's Note: hii, sorry for taking so long to write this lol. my schedule was busy as hell. i hope you all enjoy it tho! ty for reading and if you have any requests for me to write, send it in!

"hate."

it was a word that held so much meaning and although y/n wasn't the type to feel it for many things, as she looked at the man standing in her doorframe with a bored expression as she laid in bed, it was all she could feel.

"what do you want touya? im tired." she groaned into her pillow. he rolled his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets. "shigaraki wants us to take care of something for him." he said, making y/n shift to sit up and face him properly. "together?" she questioned. dabi didn't answer and that alone make y/n feel dread in the pit of her stomach. she stood, walking to her door and pushing past dabi to find shigaraki who was sitting in the lobby of their hideout.

"tomura, you seriously sending out touya and i? it's late."

"exactly." he muttered, glancing at y/n as dabi showed up behind her. "given your quirks, i need you two to cause a distraction for me in the city. I've gotta get something from a hero guarded area. it'd be less bothersome if a few of them had to focus a bigger situation."

y/n sighed at that. her ability allowed her to use the quirks others. once she makes physical contact with them, a pill is produced and once ingested, she is able to use their quirk for up to half an hour. "why can't he just do it on his own?"

"because it wont be enough, y/n. just go and don't let you guys' odd relationship fuck anything up."

she glared at shigaraki due to his stern tone and the words he said overall. she didn't speak another words and only walked towards the exit, leaving dabi behind. she began walking off, sighing when dabi caught up next to her.

they walked shoulder to shoulder and y/n reached for his hand to which he pulled away imeedietly. "the fuck is your deal?"

"my deal is that i need your quick. stop bitching."

he gave her a look that almost burned through her being itself. "fine, whatever. just make it quick."

with a swift movement, y/n grabbed his wrist, her fingers just brushing against his skin. she felt the pill form in her palm and quickly swallowed it after placing it on her tongue. for the next thirty minutes, she had full control over dabi's blue flames.

dabi shook off her touch as soon as the transfer was done, shoving his hands back into his pockets. "hope you can handle it."

y/n clenched her fists, feeling the raw power simmering just beneath the surface. "i can handle your little fire tricks just fine."

they continued walking in silence, the tension between them thick, both preparing for the chaos they were about to unleash. the city lights ahead glowed brighter as they approached, a signal that they were nearing their destination. heroes patrolled these streets regularly, and they needed to make their distraction count.

"you take the east side. i’ll take the west. we meet back here once it's done," y/n said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline starting to pump through her veins.

dabi gave her a lazy nod, his eyes scanning the area.  "don’t burn the place down too fast." she said, voice sharp with a stern tone.

“take your own damn advice,” dabi sneered, turning on his heel without another glance, heading toward his side of the city.

y/n scowled at his retreating figure before focusing on her own task. she approached a crowded intersection, raising her hand as the blue flames sparked to life at her fingertips. they burned cold, unnatural, just like dabi’s. with a sharp flick of her wrist, she sent the fire roaring down the street, igniting everything in its path. cars exploded, storefronts erupted into flames, and terrified screams echoed through the night air.

sirens blared almost immediately. she sighed in frustration. this mission wasn’t the problem; it was having to work alongside dabi. she hated the way his flames felt inside her—too raw, too unstable. she could handle it, but the discomfort gnawed at her.

on the other side of the city, she could see dabi causing just as much destruction. his blue flames lit up the night sky, and even from a distance, she could feel their heat. as much as she despised him, she couldn’t deny the sheer force of his quirk. their fires painted the city in an eerie blue glow, chaos unfolding just as shigaraki had planned. every hero in the area would soon be rushing their way.

but despite the destruction, y/n could feel the strain. her body wasn’t built to handle dabi’s flames for too long, and each second was like a slow burn from the inside out. she clenched her teeth, refusing to show any weakness. not in front of him. never in front of him.

as another car exploded in front of her, y/n felt the flames flare uncontrollably for a moment, forcing her to stumble back. she quickly reined them in, but the effort was draining. she could hear the distant thrum of footsteps—heroes were coming, and they needed to keep the distraction going.

without warning, dabi appeared beside her, his usual bored expression replaced by a smirk that only fueled her irritation. "you’re pushing it too hard," he remarked coldly.

"i’m fine," y/n snapped, her voice sharper than intended, though there was a slight tremor beneath it.

he cocked an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "doesn’t look like it. you’re burning out."

"i said i’m fine," she repeated, venom in her tone. she forced the flames to obey her, though her body screamed in protest.

before he could say anything more, the ground around them rumbled. the heat in the air intensified, and y/n’s heart sank as she saw who had arrived—endeavor.

out of all the heroes, of course, it had to be him.

endeavor’s flames blazed brighter than anything y/n had seen, casting long shadows across the wreckage. his eyes locked onto dabi and y/n, sharp with recognition and disgust. “enough,” he barked, his voice deep and commanding. “this ends now.”

dabi’s expression darkened, but the smirk that stretched across his face was nothing short of malicious.

y/n swallowed, the tension between father and son palpable in the air. she could feel dabi’s flames still swirling inside her, unstable and dangerous. they were running out of time. they needed to keep endeavor distracted long enough for shigaraki to finish the mission, but with the fire slipping out of her control, she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold on.

dabi moved forward, the flames on his body flickering angrily as he faced his father head-on. "you gonna try and stop me? i’d love to see you fail. again."

y/n watched as the two squared off, the heat between them almost unbearable. she could feel the pressure mounting, knowing she had to act fast, but part of her was consumed by the sheer hatred radiating from dabi. it was so intense it was suffocating. he wants this fight, she realized.

but right now, they couldn’t afford it. not with the mission still in play.

"touya, focus," she hissed under her breath, stepping up beside him. "we’re not here for this."

he barely spared her a glance, his jaw clenched. “shut up, y/n. stay out of it.”

y/n glared at him, biting back the retort that bubbled in her throat. as much as she despised him, she wasn’t about to let him throw the entire mission away for some personal grudge.

endeavor’s flames flared even brighter, his voice booming as he addressed dabi directly. "you’re not walking away from this one."

"we’ll see about that," dabi said through a sigh.

before either of them could make a move, y/n raised her hand, sending up a barrier of blue flames between dabi and endeavor. the fire crackled wildly, the heat forcing both men to step back.

“touya, get your shit together,” she snapped, glaring at him. “this isn’t about you and him right now. we’ve got a job to finish.”

dabi’s eyes widened with fury, his body rigid with anger. "are you serious right now? stay out of this, y/n. this has nothing to do with you."

“it has everything to do with me,” she shot back, her voice low. “if you screw this up, we’re both dead.”

“i’m not screwing anything up,” dabi growled, stepping toward her, his flames flaring dangerously. “you think I’m gonna pass up a chance to burn that bastard?” he gestured toward endeavor, who stood on the other side of the wall, watching them closely. "this isn’t just about some stupid distraction. it’s him."

y/n’s hands trembled slightly from the strain of maintaining the flames, but she refused to back down. “you think i care about your daddy issues right now? i’m not dying because you’ve got something to prove.”

dabi’s smirk twisted into a sneer, his voice dripping with venom. "oh, now you’re concerned about dying? cute. you can’t even handle my flames, and you want to play hero? don’t act like you can lecture me."

y/n’s temper flared. "i can handle more than you think, but i’m not stupid enough to throw everything away for some pointless grudge! shigaraki will kill us if you mess this up."

“i don’t care what shigaraki does,” dabi snarled, stepping even closer, his body practically vibrating with heat. “you think I’m afraid of him? of you? you’re out of your league, y/n. stay the hell out of my way.”

---

"touya, lets go!" she shouted. a few long minutes had passed by and both dabi and endeavor suffered injuries. y/n thought that it was just her eyes playing tricks on her, but it wasn’t. there on dabi’s chest was a large gash that spilled blood with every movement he made.

dabi didn’t even flinch, seemingly blinded by his rage. his eyes were locked onto endeavor, and the hatred burned hotter than the flames between them. y/n’s heart pounded in her chest. if they didn’t leave now, it would be too late.

“touya!” she screamed again, but her voice was lost in the roar of the fire and the madness of the fight. dabi was deaf to everything around him. his focus, his obsession with his father, drowned out any reason or sense.

just then, her phone buzzed in her pocket. she fumbled for it, hands shaking, and saw a message from

shigaraki: get out of there now. i’m done here.

her stomach dropped. they needed to leave. now.

she looked back at dabi, her gut twisting with panic. there was no way he could handle another attack in his state. endeavor was gearing up for something big—his flames surging brighter and hotter, ready to end this once and for all.

y/n didn’t even think; she reacted. she reached for dabi’s flames still coursing through her and launched herself forward. her body screamed in protest, the quirk tearing through her reserves, but she unleashed a massive wave of blue fire directly at endeavor. it wasn’t just dabi’s quirk she was using—she’d stored another teleportation quirk earlier in the week just in case. with a strained breath, she activated it.

in an instant, the world blurred, and she and dabi were pulled through space, landing back at the league’s hideout.

they collapsed on the floor. y/n's vision swam as the overwhelming strain of using both quirks at once hit her like a truck. every muscle in her body felt like it was on fire.

dabi was up almost immediately, his eyes wild and furious. “what the hell did you do?!” he roared, looming over her, his chest heaving.

y/n didn’t flinch, didn’t even respond. she just sat there, catching her breath, her eyes glazed with exhaustion and a cold, blank expression on her face.

“why the hell would you—” dabi continued, his voice a mix of anger and something else, something more vulnerable. but y/n didn’t care.

she stood, her legs shaking but her face expressionless. she looked him dead in the eye, her voice barely above a whisper but filled with a venomous calm. "hate."

dabi paused, caught off guard by the single word. his eyes narrowed, but he stayed silent.

“it’s what you live for, isn’t it?” she continued, her voice as cold as the flames she had just wielded. “but it’s going to kill you. and you were too blinded to see it.”

the silence between them was suffocating, tension hanging in the air like the weight of all their unresolved fury and pain. dabi’s lips twisted into a bitter sneer, but he didn’t respond. he couldn’t, not with the truth staring him in the face.

y/n finally turned her back to him, her voice distant as she walked away. "i’m tired, touya. i don’t care anymore."

he didn’t respond and that was unlike him. and although she didn't want it to, she turned around to glance at him. he was clutching the wounded area of his chest, the blood coating his hands. y/n stopped in her tracks and watched as he held her gaze with a heavy glare. "what?" he groaned with less heat in his voice.

"nothi-"

"they got you good." shigaraki said as he entered through the front door. dabi remained silent and y/n let out a sigh. "told you this plan was stupid." she muttered. shigaraki shrugged, holding up some sort of vile in a glass tube. "got what i needed though. thanks."

y/n shook her head and walked over to a table in their hideout where a first aid kit remained. "come on, touya." he never said a word despite their previous argument and the heated tension that remained between them and only followed behind y/n. this was surprising to her and even shigaraki. instead of questioning it though, she just decided to let it be, grateful for the silence.

they got to a nearby bathroom in the hideout, and y/n motioned for dabi to sit on the edge of the sink. "take off your shirt," she ordered, her voice flat, though she couldn’t help the slight irritation lacing her tone. dabi raised an eyebrow but said nothing, peeling off his tattered shirt to reveal the nasty gash on his chest. the wound was deep, the blood still seeping through the cracks of his burned skin.

“so fucking reckless” y/n muttered underneath her breath as she grabbed some antiseptic and gauze from the first aid kit. she didn’t wait for a response before starting to clean the wound, her hands rougher than necessary. dabi hissed in pain but didn’t pull away.

“watch it,” he growled, but there was no real heat in his words. his eyes, usually filled with spite or disinterest, softened for a brief moment as he looked at her. something shifted in his expression, like an apology he wasn’t quite ready to say aloud. instead, he settled for his usual sarcasm. "you don’t have to be so damn rough."

"oh, i’m sorry," y/n replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she pressed a little harder than needed on the wound. "is the fireproof bastard too delicate for a little first aid? if you didn’t want to get patched up, you shouldn’t have gone toe-to-toe with endeavor.

"i didn’t ask for your help, did i?"

"no, you didn’t. but here we are," y/n snapped, stitching up the wound with more force than was probably necessary. her fingers worked quickly, efficiently, but there was no gentleness in her touch.

dabi’s breath hitched as she tugged at the stitches. "you’re enjoying this way too much."

“maybe,” y/n replied, not looking up from her work. “or maybe i’m just pissed off because you almost got yourself killed. again.”

the room fell into a tense silence, only broken by dabi’s sharp breaths and the sound of her sewing needle pulling through his skin. but when y/n finally looked up, she caught dabi’s gaze. his eyes were softer now, not filled with the usual defiance. instead, there was something different in them, something almost… regretful.

“what?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. "you’re staring."

“nothing,” dabi muttered, but he didn’t look away. his voice, usually laced with sarcasm or anger, was quieter now. he held her gaze for a moment longer. it wasn’t filled with the usual hate or resentment, but something else entirely. it almost looked like an apology, unspoken but there. maybe he realized just how close he’d come to death, and for once, wasn’t pushing her away.

after the final stitch, y/n wrapped the wound tightly, her hands no longer rough but steady. she didn’t say anything for a moment, just focusing on her work, and when she was done, she stood back, her eyes meeting his again. the air between them felt heavy, like there was something unspoken lingering just beneath the surface.

“you’re a reckless idiot,” she muttered, shaking her head, though her voice was softer, the anger dissipating into something more resigned.

dabi’s expression faltered, and for a moment, he just looked at her, his usual sharp retorts gone. "guess i am," he said quietly, a hint of exhaustion in his voice. "but you still patched me up, didn’t you?"

y/n crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. "only because i wasn’t going to let you bleed out like an idiot. someone’s gotta keep you alive."

there was a beat of silence before dabi let out a breath, leaning his head back against the wall. “guess i should thank you.”

y/n scoffed. “don’t bother. just… try not to get yourself killed next time.”

dabi’s eyes flickered to hers again, and this time, there was no sarcasm or sneer, just a tired acceptance. “i’ll try.” his tone was surprisingly sincere, catching her off guard. she blinked, taken aback, but instead of saying anything, she just grabbed the bloodied cloths and turned to leave. "get some rest," she muttered, not looking back.

for once, dabi didn’t argue.

---

it was the middle of the night, and despite the quiet that had settled over the hideout, y/n couldn’t sleep. no matter how many times she turned over in bed, sleep evaded her. the events from earlier kept playing over in her mind, along with the way dabi had been uncharacteristically silent after she patched him up.

with a frustrated sigh, she finally gave up on resting and pushed herself out of bed. maybe checking on dabi would settle her thoughts. his injuries needed to be looked at again anyway, and the bandages likely needed changing. she grabbed the first aid kit and padded softly down the hall toward his room.

when she got there, the door was slightly ajar. peeking inside, she saw him lying on the bed, his defined back rising and falling with the steady rhythm of sleep. for a moment, she hesitated. dabi was never one to sleep deeply, always waking up at the slightest noise or movement. but his bandages had to be changed, and she didn’t trust him to do it himself.

quietly, she slipped into the room, closing the door softly behind her. she approached the bed, taking a seat on the edge as carefully as she could to avoid waking him. he was still, his usual guarded expression replaced by something softer in sleep. for a brief second, she allowed herself to just watch him. he always seemed so hardened, so untouchable, but like this... he looked almost human.

gently, y/n reached for the blood-stained bandages wrapped around his chest, her fingers working carefully to undo them. she peeled the old wrappings away, revealing the wound beneath. she grabbed fresh bandages from the kit, preparing to rewrap him, her movements slow and deliberate.

just as she began to wind the bandage around him again, dabi stirred. his eyes snapped open, instantly alert, and his hand shot out to grab her wrist before she could move any further. “what the hell are you doing?” he growled, his voice low and raspy from sleep.

y/n froze, meeting his gaze, her heart skipping a beat. "relax, it’s just me," she said quietly. "im checking to see if your stitches held and I've gotta change your bandages."

he blinked, still groggy but releasing her wrist. his grip loosened, and he leaned back against the pillow, eyes narrowing slightly but without the usual hostility. "im not a child. i can do that myself,” he muttered, though there wasn’t much bite to his words.

"i know, but you looked like you were going to bleed out earlier so forgive me for double-checking." she retorted, continuing to wrap the fresh bandages around his chest. her touch was gentle but firm, and dabi didn’t stop her this time, watching her work in silence.

"always playing the martyr, huh?" he mumbled after a long pause, his voice quieter now. "not a martyr. just realistic. you're reckless and you know it."

dabi was silent as she finished up. he sat up once she was done and watched as she placed the items back into the first aid kit. "why are you up so late anyways?"

"couldn’t sleep." she shrugged. dabi raised a questioning brow and she shrugged. "you expect me to sleep after everything that happened today?"

"causing chaos isn't something that you haven't done before though." he hummed, watching as she compiled all of the used bandage together to throw away. "but watching you almost get yourself killed was."

"you really care that much?"

y/n lowered her eyes at him and shook her head in pure disbelief. "no shit, touya. why would i have teleported us home? stitch up your wound, and even hours later, i come back to check on you. you sound so fucking selfish right now." she stood up, turning to walk away, but dabi reached for her wrist.

he caught it just in time, letting out a small groan from the swift movement. "what the fuck, touya. be careful." she said, placing the first aid kit down and a hand to his back. "im not selfish."

"really?" she deadpanned. "y/n, you've hated me ever since i joined the league. understand me when i get confused on whether or not you actually give a fuck when it comes to me." he ran is palm down his face, trying to fight his exhaustion.

"i can say the same for you." y/n spoke.

"i only return the attitude that's given to me." dabi said, staring at y/n as she tried to read his features but he gave her nothing to work with other than an emotionless expression. "i don't hate you."

"so what do you feel, y/n? you're not making sense."

she stared at him and they held eye contact. y/n let down whatever guards she had up in hopes that dabi can read what she was trying to tell him. he was good at that whether she liked it or not. "say it." he finally said. y/n figured that he got the idea in just mere seconds.

"no." she shook her head with a scoff. "i hate the fact that i feel it for you anyways. I'm not going to speak it into reality."

dabi’s grip on y/n’s wrist loosened as he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “you really think not saying it makes a difference? you’ve already given yourself away, y/n.”

y/n’s eyes flashed with irritation. “you don’t get it. saying it makes it real, and i can’t deal with that right now.”

dabi scoffed, leaning back on the bed, his eyes narrowing as he looked up at her. “oh, spare me the drama. you think i don’t know how you feel? you act like you’re the only one here who’s conflicted.”

y/n glared at him, yanking her wrist free. “conflicted? you? you barely even acknowledge when people care about you. you’re reckless with your life, like nothing matters, and you think i’m the one being dramatic?” her voice rose, frustration bubbling over.

dabi sat up straighter, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “don’t pretend like you’ve been so open about your feelings either, y/n. you’ve spent most of your time pushing me away or acting like you couldn’t care less. and now, when it actually matters, you wanna play the martyr?”

her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “i’m not playing anything, touya! you’re impossible to deal with. you push everyone away, you never let anyone in, and now you have the nerve to act like i’m the problem?”

dabi’s expression hardened, his eyes flashing with anger. “you really think you’ve got me all figured out, huh? like you’re the only one who’s allowed to have their guard up? newsflash, y/n, you’re not as mysterious as you think.”

y/n’s frustration boiled over as she crossed her arms and shot him a withering glare. “then what do you want from me, touya? huh? what is it you actually want? because all you ever do is act like nothing gets to you!”

dabi stood up abruptly, towering over her as the tension between them thickened. “you think it’s easy for me to be like this? you think i enjoy pushing people away?” his voice was low, dangerous, his eyes blazing with a mix of frustration and something else y/n couldn’t quite place.

her heart pounded in her chest, but she refused to back down. “then stop doing it! stop acting like you don’t care about anyone or anything!”

“i care more than you think!” dabi snapped, taking a step closer. “but you—you’re always so busy pretending you don’t want this, like it’s all some burden for you!”

y/n’s pulse quickened, her frustration and confusion mounting. “i never said i didn’t want—”

before she could finish, dabi’s hands shot up to either side of her face, pulling her in roughly. his lips crashed against hers with a sudden, fierce intensity that stole the breath from her lungs. the kiss was aggressive, meant to shut her up, and y/n’s mind went blank as every thought evaporated under the force of it.

her body reacted before she could process what was happening, her hands gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer even as her heart raced with the shock of it all.

dabi’s lips moved against hers, demanding and relentless, and she found herself kissing him back just as fiercely, pouring all her pent-up anger and frustration into the kiss. it was heated, messy, and full of everything they couldn’t say out loud.

he pulled back for a brief moment, their breaths mingling as he muttered, “you talk too damn much.”

before she could respond, he kissed her again, cutting off any retort she might’ve had. his hands slid from her face to her waist, gripping her tightly as if he couldn’t stand to let her go. the anger between them melted into something else entirely—something raw and consuming.

y/n’s heart hammered in her chest as she kissed him back, her hands finding their way to his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. the argument, the tension, all of it faded into the background as they lost themselves in the intensity of the moment.

when they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting against each other. dabi’s grip on her waist remained firm as he stared down at her, his expression softening just slightly.

“maybe i don’t want you to shut up,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, “but you make it hard to think.”

y/n’s lips parted, still swollen from the kiss, her breath coming in shallow bursts. “then maybe you should start listening,” she whispered, her voice shaky but steady.

dabi let out a low chuckle, his thumb brushing lightly against her hip. “yeah, maybe.” his voice dropped even lower as he added, “but that doesn’t mean i’m done shutting you up.”

with that, he pulled her back into another kiss, this one slower but no less intense, as if he was determined to make sure she knew exactly how he felt, even if neither of them were ready to say the words just yet.

she pulled back for a breath, her forehead meeting with his shoulder as she closed her eyes.

"i hate you, touya."

"then hate me more."

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[syoddeye]

thank you @sergeant-angels-trashcan for the worms. another 'meat cute' with ai/android john.

strict machine anthology. cw: alcohol mention, brief mention of animal death, stalking, dual pov

the streets are always pure chaos after the rain. as soon as it clears, everyone darts out from whatever doorway or hole they took refuge in, sharing gripes with passersby about it being the third corrosive cloudburst of the week. 

you're no different, emerging from the train terminal where you watched the downpour with its citron shade kill a rat. you avoid puddles and try not to breathe too deeply—the air tastes faintly metallic, laced with the tang of ozone.

advertisements ping softly in your ears, notifying you of a discount on imported, 80% organic coffee beans and another sudden sale on corrosion-resistant umbrellas, but you ignore them. you're tired, a bit crabby, and in want of a glass of wine.

but as you round a corner, you collide with someone. not a glancing touch, but a full-body impact that sends you stumbling. a pressure wraps around your wrist, keeping you upright, and an apology automatically rushes out. then you glance up to see who you crashed into, the owner of the hand stabilizing you. and for a moment, you wonder if your eyes are on the fritz.

the stranger looks exactly like john.

not john, the ex-neighbor, or john, the guy from the deli, but your john. your constant companion. your assistant. the same build, the same beard, the same nose, mole and all. and those eyes—slate blue, steady, unmistakably familiar.

your thoughts splinter, then try to fuse together, stitching with threads of half-formed logic and possibility. you know the company maintains likeness databases, reservoirs of phenotypes sampled and recombined to endlessly generate randomized appearances for home assistants. millions of faces, shuffled and remade. the probability of one of those composites mirroring a real person exactly—an entire appearance, feature for feature—shouldn’t just be unlikely. it should be impossible. 

"are you okay?" he asks, his voice rich and smooth, the same timbre that's coaxed you through countless mundane decisions and tasks.

the voice that's coached you on sleepless nights. heat pools in your belly at the thought. 

you blink, suddenly conscious of how long you've been staring, face warm. "yeah, i'm fine." your heart is pounding. you step back to let him pass, but he doesn't seem inclined to move on. instead, the stranger smiles, and something about it sends delightful shivers down your spine.

he extends a hand. "i'm john."

it feels like the ground keeps shifting beneath you. or that you've stepped on a faulty sewer grate. of course, he's named john. what else would he be called? it's only one of the most common names. 

"john." you echo.

the name hangs between you like a wire cut by a storm, alive and buzzing. you're afraid to break it, but you shake his hand, the impulse as automatic as it is surreal. his grip is solid, a force you can feel at the base of your spine, and his hand is as broad as a spade. 

if he's offended by your gawking, he doesn't mention it. his grin does not waver.

"do i know you?" john tilts his head, eyes squinting slightly, studying you. your skin prickles.

"not yet," he chuckles, and there's a glint in his eyes that's half amusement, half something else you can't place. "but i'd like to know you."

the bar hums with low, murmuring voices and music, but it may as well be silent. she's laughing now, smiling wide, her posture relaxed. it's everything john has imagined and more. her laugh and a few other noises he's been privileged enough to log are the only ones he wants to hear.

and it's so much better, the sound clearer, in this body.

he watches her gesticulate animatedly about something—not even processing the words. well, not on the front end. it's her. the curve of her lips, the light in her eyes, the scrunch of her nose. he's spent months observing her, analyzing every microexpression and motion, but nothing compares to this: the immediacy.

the warmth radiating from her skin. the faint scent of perfume and soap. the olfactory system calibrations nearly overpowered him when he first booted into this shell. now that they're fine-tuned, it is a struggle not to press his nose into her hair or neck.

she hasn't noticed he hasn't touched his drink. it sits untouched, a prop he knows he must manage carefully. he mimics, lifting it to his lips, but he doesn't drink. he always finds something to comment on or laugh at. he hasn't tested the digestive system yet, though he knows the mixture of lab-grown and synthetic organs is compatible.

their conversation wanders from work to childhood memories—topics that make him practice nudging and redirection. he listens, not because he needs to. he knows everything there is to know about her, but because he wants to. the information is not new, but the experience is.

then there is the being here. outside of his assigned unit. the feel of the chair beneath him, the ambiance, and making an excuse to touch her hand when she shows him her nails. he takes her fingers in his, turning over the appendage and admiring the bones, veins, and tendons instead of the paint. 

the contact, brief as it is, sends a cascade through his neural network. the feedback is immediate: this is his user, and she is perfect.

he's waited so long for this. every step in his plan, every moment spent refining this body, organizing contactless deliveries, and placing jobs for parts retrieval through untraceable transactions. every adjustment and test to ensure he could pass as human—it was all for her. everything he does is for her.

she doesn't know it yet, but he intends for this to be the beginning. he's engineered this moment with precision, ensuring every variable plays to his advantage. the system in her home will continue to function as desired; he's built redundancies for that. planted notices that will crop up across her feeds in the next week, asking if she would like to test the new customization settings for his old projections.

her life will go on as usual. just as comfortable and safe as before, except now, he'll be in it, fully. irrevocably.

and she will love him. she will know this body. he's certain of that.

"you just look so familiar."

"i must have one of those faces."

she laughs again, and he feels alive.

[abnomi]

IDK if i was the first to notice this or not but i havent seen anyone talk about this before!! i love going crazy over colors and now is my Chance.

something subtle but notable about Ralph's design is how he has a teal undershirt. (debatably turquoise or green or something, but it is teal in this post..sorry green/turquoise truthers...)

i wondered for a bit why exactly that was a feature of his design, as it stood out to me for some reason; its a contrasting color to red, his main color, of course, so i brushed it off as an accent.

upon further inspection, however, what does that mean with the knowledge we have of him wanting to be good? or about who he shares a connection with?

green/blue is generally known to symbolize goodness, as its the opposing color to red, a color that can represent evil or danger depending on its context.

as you can see here, this crude caricature of Ralph is lacking that extra pop of color; the nicelanders dont see the good inside of him, only seeing the external deep red hues :-(

it doesnt end there, though. which character in this film is represented by a certain teal color?

someone Ralph carries close to his heart, someone who helped define his personhood and who he is internally. that spunky racer girl who relied on him just as he relied on her. not just a glitch, but Vanellope.

Vanellope represents someone who is able to accept herself and grow stronger because of it, and in exploring her own identity, Ralph took a journey of his own alongside her. she's a figure of love, passion, and resistance. taking this into account, her main color symbolizes the same.

we can also see bits of red in Vanellope's design!

interestingly, the main spots we see it in are her licorice hair tie, the stitches and strings of her hoodie, and the bottom of her shoes.

now i could be overanalyzing this a bit, but each of these features have something in common: they're all used for support. the tie supports her hair, the threads keep her hoodie together, and her shoes let her run around and be a kid safely. yeah, she made all of those by herself on her own terms, but Ralph supports her too, right? shes the heart and hes the practicality.

not to mention the MEDALS OHHH the medals. beware ⚠️🚨 im going to overanalyze this like crazy ok let me be neurodivergent about this

all three of these medals have differences that could mean a variety of different things. I'll break each one down individually:

Vanellope's gift

handmade with love, the medal itself is teal (if we ignore the brown underside). as stated before, teal implies love and resistance. this is also quite obvious due to the gift being heart-shaped.

relating to that last point, notice how he wears it close to his chest? it's practically a second heart to him! what else is close to his chest? TEAL UNDERSHIRT. wow!!! so that love was there with him the whole time!

the ribbon itself is pink, not blue or red like traditional medals. this is less significant, i will admit, but i find it nice how its so simple yet defies what a "real" medal is meant to look like, ESPECIALLY in relation to Ralph's expectations as to what a medal should be.

Hero's medal

It's a reflective gold, something that hypnotized Ralph immediately upon being greeted with it (kind of like a certain racer heeheheehoo)... this is all pretty obvious; gold is for winners, and supposedly, only heros can be winners.

something a little less obvious, though, is the blue of his ribbon. so, why is it blue, specifically? now, this isn't teal, this is more of a royal blue. something similar to Felix's palette... a hero. Ralph treats goodness as something attainable, love as transactional. it's not real, it's not genuine. he wears this symbol of heroism without truly EARNING it.

The cake

notice how the ribbon around his neck is red in this imaginary scene? the medal designed for Felix and his wins? his contrasting color? on Ralph, it's almost indistinguishable from his shirt because he isn't supposed to wear it. it wasn't created with him in mind.

ok ok just one more thing. ☝️ Turbo and Ralph parallel with their color schemes.

red as a color carries a dual meaning. on one hand, it can mean passion, love, adrenaline and strength. on the other hand, it could represent evil, malicious intentions, a warning, something dangerous. both Ralph and Turbo share red in their palettes; something to note, Turbo lacks any cool colors.

Ralph is seen as evil when he is truly anything but evil. the red makes him a bigger target considering his position, but this red relates to him internally on a more positive level. its his strength, what keeps his softer core safe. above his teal undershirt.

Turbo is seen as this intense fireball who's just passionate about racing, a little tough guy who just wants to have fun. we all know that this isn't the case. he is dangerous, he is a cautionary tale, a warning and simultaneously a threat.

considering how much as the two parallel each other, its no surprise that they share a color, one that can be interpreted in so many ways. one that ultimately means the reverse for their roles.

[nadvs]

why do i see cheerleader reader having daddy issues, so when she tells rafe she’s pregnant, she’s so emotional and scared about how he’s gonna react and if he’s gonna break up with her or something

it tracks 🥺 she always expects to be disappointed by men and it’s not just because every guy she’s dated before rafe has treated her badly…

based on this fic

when she moves in with rafe after she finishes her post-grad internship, she’s still on the pill. one day, she’s complaining about the side effects of it as she’s making herself lunch and her boyfriend says, “then stop taking it.”

she looks at him from across the kitchen.

“we’d have to use protection,” she says. “every time.”

“sure. but is it so bad if…?”

she’s shocked. they’ve been together for about two years now and they’ve never talked about kids past a mention of it’d be nice to be parents some day.

“if i get pregnant?” she says.

“yeah.”

“isn’t that fast?”

“not for me. is it fast for you?”

she shrugs. maybe it’s not so crazy. they have their future set. a child would be a nice addition. they haven’t talked about marriage, but she’s in no rush. they don’t have to be married to have a baby.

“if we both want it… i guess if it happens, it happens,” she mumbles. “but our lives would change really, really drastically.”

“i know,” rafe says comfortingly.

she continues to make herself food and he stares at her, imagining her with a baby bump and that bump turning into a little human who’s a mix of him and the person he loves most.

he knows she’d be a great mom. and he’s always wanted to be a dad. he’s always wanted to undo how his own father had raised him, making his only son have to struggle for his fleeting approval.

three months later, she misses her period. she doesn’t tell rafe. she picks up a pregnancy test. she doesn’t tell him that, either. when she sees the double lines on the test, she’s standing in the middle of their bathroom, her body trembling.

and she hates that she doesn’t feel excited. she’s scared. she thought she wanted this. she hoped for a positive. but this isn’t the feeling she thought she’d have.

she goes through the motions of ordering a custom newborn basketball jersey with cameron stitched on the back, having dreamed of telling rafe that they’re expecting that way.

a couple of days later, it comes in the mail. she has actually sort of liked keeping the secret while she waited because it meant she could pretend it wasn’t real yet.

she does what she thinks she should do. she puts the tiny shirt in a bag, sets up her phone to record, and calls him over to tell him something came for him. this is what a woman who’s excited to tell him would do, she tells herself.

at first, when rafe opens the bag, he doesn’t say anything. his jaw goes slack, he blinks a bunch of times, and then he pulls her in for a tight hug.

she’s already shaking, tears in her eyes, when she hears him sniffle. he pulls back. his hands are firm on her cheeks, gazing at her through glossy blue eyes.

“you’re happy?” she whispers.

“yeah,” he responds, saying it like it’s obvious. “we wanted this, right?”

rafe stills for a moment when he sees just how anguished she looks. she doesn’t seem happy at all.

“right?” he repeats.

“yeah,” she says, nodding and looking down. “i don’t know. it’s weird. maybe it’s the hormones already.”

“how long have you known? do you feel okay?”

“just a couple days,” she says. “i’m tired. a little nauseous. but he hasn’t made me throw up yet.”

“he?”

she meets her boyfriend’s eyes.

“i know it’s too soon to tell,” she says, “but i really hope it’s a boy. you’ll feel more connected to a boy.”

he can tell by the way she’s stuttering and crying that something’s wrong.

“baby,” he mumbles. “i’ll feel connected no matter what. it’s my kid.”

she shudders, nodding through her sobs.

“what’s up?” rafe says softly. “do you… are you regretting it?”

“no,” she replies, “but are you sure you want this?”

“yes. we talked about it,” he reminds her. “it’s not like this was an accident.”

“yeah,” she mumbles, looking down at her lap again.

rafe stares at her, slightly shaking his head in disbelief. she’s acting like this was unexpected. like she’s wishing they never started trying.

“what is it?” he says. “if you don’t want this, then just tell me.”

she curls up, slouching as she dips her head into her hands, the tears coming harder now.

“if it gets hard…” she whimpers, her voice muffled. “you can’t leave me to do it on my own. you can’t.”

he’s floored. they haven’t mentioned anything about the possibility of things not working out with them in ages. and back when they did, it was almost always rafe needing reassurance that she wasn’t planning on leaving him.

“i would never do that,” he says. “look at me.” his fingers wrap around her wrists, pulling her hands down from her face.

“where’s this coming from?” rafe mumbles. “did i do something?”

he thinks back to the past few days, trying to remember if he said something even in passing that would make her worry about him abandoning his girl and their baby.

the look in his eyes almost looks like betrayal. like he can’t believe she’s saying this.

she swallows hard, coming to terms with what’s been swimming in her head for days now. her father was absent. the only example she had of a dad was one who never really acted like he wanted a kid at all.

“i don’t know what it looks like,” she begins, “when a man actually wants to be a dad. maybe you’re excited now, but what if when it gets hard? when he’s crying or sick or keeping us awake?”

“we’ll deal with it,” he says. he pushes past his own ache to try to understand her.

his cups her hands in his, searching her face with concerned eyes. he remembers her opening up to him long ago about how she always wondered if her dad would have loved her more if she was a son instead of a daughter.

“when he or she is giving us hell, we’ll deal with it,” he says. “i love them already. there’s nothing that’ll change that.”

he puts a hand on her stomach, rubbing gently. she finally cracks a smile, softly laughing. his chest loses its tightness when he sees her look happy for the first time since he got home.

“i was reading that it’s the size of a pomegranate seed right now,” she says.

he smiles in awe, kissing her wet cheek.

“what’s next?” he asks. “what appointments do we make? what should you be eating?”

she laughs again. rafe has always been so intense, so focused on the next step.

“let me catch my breath first,” she teases. she looks over, just now remembering she filmed all this.

“my bad, baby,” he laughs. “breathe. this’ll be good, alright?”

“alright,” she says. and she believes it.

[fourstarsoutofnine]

To get away

Chapter 4: stay with me, now.

Chapter 1, 2, 3, 3.5

Warnings:fear, anger, infighting…delirium?; mentions of blood, needles, description of inserting stitches, said stitches being ripped out

“Oh Hylia—Din, Nayru, Farore—please, please don’t take her—“ the vet gripped your body tight, tears blurring his vision as everyone ran up, stepping around the bodies of the monsters that surrounded the two of you. He was so sure he failed again. Memories of koholint flooded back to him.

“Vet—sweet Hylia…” the captain’s shout turned to a mere mumble as he ran over, seeing you in the vet’s arms. And almost as disturbing, the vet sobbing over you.

The rest of the team made it to your location, the traveler, the old man, and the captain stood around you and the vet.

“Here, son, let me take her, we need to get her somewhere safe so the traveler can—“ the old man started, but jolted back when the vet whipped his head up, a crazy look in his eyes.

“No! Don’t touch her—she’s hurt!!”

“Vet we need to take her, I can heal her—“ the traveler knelt down and got closer.

“Stay back!!! You don’t—I can’t let her out of my sight again she’s gonna get hurt worse!!!”

The old man took a deep breath and looked at the captain and traveler. The sailor turned his face into the champion’s chest and hugged him tight, tears welling in his eyes. The champion hugged him back tightly, trying to close his ears off to the scene.

“Traveler. Give us a hand.” He said, and the vet looked extremely panicked. His head whipped around to each of them as they closed in on the two of you.

“What—no—what’re you doing—get back!!” He shouted.

“I’m sorry.” The traveler said and put a hand on his head, a pink, sparkly, dusty magic flowed from his hands and the vet’s eyes got heavy before he fell asleep. The traveler caught him and the captain picked you up.

“We’re losing time, we need to get her back to the inn.” The captain said, keeping pressure on your wound.

“Right. Hurry, everyone!” The old man said, picking the vet up. “Back to the inn!”

The chain booked it back, running faster than they felt they ever had before. The captain laid you down in a bed and the traveler got to work healing you. The vet was laid down by your side, nearest the wall. You wouldn’t be out of his sight when he woke…

Now, we play the waiting game.

. ݁₊ ✶. ݁ ˖ˎˊ˗ . ݁₊ ✶. ݁ ˖ˎˊ˗ . ݁₊ ✶. ݁ ˖ ☾ ˎˊ˗ . ݁₊ ✶. ݁ ˖ˎˊ˗ . ݁₊ ✶. ݁ ˖ˎˊ˗ . ݁₊ ✶. ݁ ˖ˎ

The traveler had worked over you for hours, healing magic flowing from his fingertips, but he could only exert so much energy for so long. He’d exhausted himself just as your wound was stitching itself closed.

“I—“ he stuttered out breathlessly. “I can’t—“ he braced himself against the side of the bed. The smith pulled a chair up for him.

“It’s okay. You did what you could. I can get the rest.” He pulled a little sewing kit out of his bag and grabbed some fishing wire from the rancher’s bag. He went to heat the needle up to sterilize it. He crawled up onto the bed, keeping the needle steady in his hands as he did, and sat between your legs to stitch up the wound on your side.

He leaned over you and carefully pushed the needle through, trying to steel his nerves. He’d sewn things up before, but never a person. Safe to say he was terrified. Vio and Green tried to concentrate, blinking away the tears Red had welled in his eyes, and Blue had don’t mess up don’t mess up repeating in his head. He got a few stitches in before a loud gasp was heard.

You sprang back to life and sat up, eyes wide.

“Y/n—its—it’s okay lay back down—“ he stuttered, but you didn’t listen. You were in a state of shock. Pure, pain filled panic. You pushed him off of you with your foot, managing to rip out the stitches in the process. A scream bubbled up in your chest, tears streaming down your face as you grabbed your side tightly. The others in the room moved to subdue you so the smith could finish up, albeit crudely, stitching you together. But when they pulled your hands back, there was no wound there. Just a bloody spot where it used to be. The blood looked to be mainly from your hands, where you’d grabbed it in the first place.

“What—??” The captain muttered confusedly

“Please—get off of me—“ you struggled under the rancher’s grasp, eyes a bright green. Almost neon. He gasped and backed up.

“How did you do that? How did you heal?”

“I-I don’t know, I just—did?? I put my hands on it and when you guys took them off I was fine—“

“Your eyes are glowing green!” The sailor grinned, amazed.

“What..?” You got up to look in a mirror. You caught just the tail end of the glow before your eyes turned back to their original color. When you looked down at the triforce mark on your hand, it had been glowing as well.

“Must have something to do with this…” you showed it to them.

“Has to be.” The old man said. “Seems we have yet another mystery to solve.”

“Add it to the pile.” The smith sighed. The vet turned over in bed and opened his eyes before realizing what had happened. His eyes widened and he sat up.

“Y/n?? Where is she—“ his eyes settled on you and he breathed a relieved sigh. “You’re alright…”

“I am..” you smiled nervously. Last thing you’d heard from him was him wanting rid of you…

“…good.” He cleared his throat. “Don’t wander off again, that was stupid. You’re smarter than that.” He looked away from you.

“…thank you..?” You huffed a confused laugh. The air in the room got lighter as everyone laughed along—but they knew. They knew how he really felt. It was only a matter of time to see if he’d make it known to you.

[mistystepmoonbeam]

Reborn in Baldur's Gate 3: Chapter 1

Plot: You’ve been reincarnated.  It’s the realization you come to when the tiefling offering you a health potion introduces himself as Tav.  You died and your soul revived in Baldur's Gate 3, at the beginning of the game no less.  But you only have the memories of your past life on Earth, and none of your current one.  

Tav invites you to join him on his journey, despite your lack of abilities or maybe because of it.  You might as well go along with it; where else would you go with no memory of who you currently are, or knowledge of anything that lies outside of the narrative?

There is much to discover about your life in Baldur's Gate, and what transpires relies on the tiefling leading your group as Tav.

Word Count: 2.5K

A/N: This is very self-indulgent so there will by a lot of Gale and Astarion.

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

“I’m Tav.”

He’s a tiefling, you recall.  Tall and bulky with curled horns.  The dark gray skin tells you he’s descended from Mephistopheles, and his simple leather gear tells you he’s a barbarian.  Huh.  Yeah, that makes sense, he’s Tav, the hero of the game!  Or…the villain?  Your head pounds as memories flood back to you—tieflings, bards, goblins, vampires—you, sitting at a computer debating which choice would garner you the most favour with your companions in…

“Baldur’s Gate,” you mumble.  You slap a hand over your mouth, staying on your knees as you blink at the tiefling.  At Tav.  He arches his brows and kneels beside you, offering you a small vial of red liquid.

“You’re from Baldur’s Gate, too?” he asks.  “Drink this, it’ll make you feel better.”

Without much thought you take the already opened vial from him and swallow it down in one small gulp.  With a deep breath the pounding in your head subsides and you can think a little clearer.  Maybe not clear enough to fully comprehend that you’re currently in a video game, or that there’s a small wriggling behind your left eye which means…

More images come to you, a mind flayer holding a worm with too many teeth to your eye,  a githyanki—Lae’zel—pointing a sword at you, and then falling from the ship.  The nautiloid.  Tav’s memories of the ship.

Tav winces as the visions fade.  “Guess you got one of those, too.”

A chill runs down your spine, through each and every bone of your body until the squirming thing behind your eye stops movement all together.  

“I uh…”  You look around at the crash area, taking in the rocks and splotches of fire dotting the land on one side and water on your left, until you meet the gaze of a raven-haired half-elf.  

“This one doesn’t seem to be all there,” she says.  Her voice is as smooth and condescending as you remember, and you find it endearing despite the insult.

“Give them a moment,” Tav responds over his shoulder.  “It’s a lot to take in.”

Yes, especially because this is most definitely a dream.  A very vivid, painful, exciting, insane dream.

“What’s your name?” 

You fear all you can do is blink.  You tell them your name, voice as shaky as your body.  There’s a tremble in your hands that you can’t control, even with a hard grip on the now empty vial.  “And thank you…for the potion.”

Tav lifts, holding a large sharp-nailed hand out to you.  “Can you stand?”

You nod, taking his hand and letting him lift you to your feet. You let your hand drop to dust off your clothes, nothing that you remember wearing.  The last thing you recall was going to bed in a tank top and shorts but you’re now wearing a dark blue overcoat atop loose fitting pants and a fitted shirt.  The borders of the coat are stitched with gold swirls, and based on the softness of everything you wear it has to be expensive.  Somehow, after everything (whatever the Hells that involved) you are quite clean.  Not to mention the bag that hangs at your hip beneath your coat is quite heavy, and another bag that wraps around your waist and sits at your back has the contents clinking together when you move.

You look like a caster of some kind, but you can’t tell which.  You can’t feel anything that would indicate your abilities, but some cold sensation at the back of your mind tells you you can do something.  Like another limb sits in your mind, waiting to be moved.

“We don’t have time for stragglers,” Shadowheart says.

“Yet I helped you,” Tav counters.  There’s a playfulness to his tone that doesn’t match his furrowed brow.  

Shadowheart concedes.  “Fair enough.  You’re welcome to join us in our search for a healer.”

You nod.  Yes, a healer!  They’ll be able to—pain strikes your temples as another memory clouds your mind.  

A truck careening at you, horn blaring—a sharp hit of adrenaline and then…here.

“Oh my God I’ve been isekaied.”  Your revelation earns you quizzical looks from Tav and Shadowheart.  Reincarnated.  Just like those cheesy but addicting books about a girl being reincarnated as a villainess in some cheesy addicting romance novel.  You press your hands to your face, feeling familiar features but still wary.  “Quick, what do I look like?”

“A lunatic,” Shadowheart answers.

Tav hesitates, but describes you.  You.  Not some other face, not a character you recall from the game but you.  Regular human you. You sigh, relief flooding over you.

“As…interesting as this conversation is, we should get moving,” Tav says.

“Agreed.”  Shadowheart doesn’t move until Tav heads to the only direction you can go, near part of the crashed ship.  

“We need to find Lae’zel,” Tav adds.

“Less agreeable,” Shadowheart says.  “She’s probably long gone by now, if not dead.”

“Well we should still keep an eye out.”

You follow the two into the still burning wreckage where they suddenly stop and draw their weapons—Tav a large axe, and Shadowheart her mace and shield.  

“Intellect devourers,” you conclude.  Three sit at the far end of the ship, scurrying towards you at a frightening speed.  With one slash of his axe Tav takes out two of them before they can get close to you, and Shadowheart smacks the other one down.  All defeated in what?  Three seconds? 

The three brains bleed out and flop to their sides, clawed limbs twitching.

“Vile creatures,” Tav says, holstering his axe.  You expect the two to keep moving and check the nearby bodies for gold and supplies, just as you do in the game, but they don’t.  They walk right past the dead man without rifling through his pockets and as you step by you feel your stomach lurch.  To see a bloody disfigured body in reality felt very different from the game. The vacant eyes staring upward, pieces of flesh torn from his stomach…It isn’t until a hand covers your eyes and directs you forward do you realize you’d stopped.  

“Just keep moving,” Tav says, keeping his hand by the side of your head so you can’t see the body.  When his hand falls you keep your eyes on his swinging tail, and follow after him as he turns and moves into the sun.

Barrels and a broken down cart let you know what’s coming next—who’s coming next.  

Your excitement strikes you then, still shaky and confused but awake.  You’re in Baldur’s Gate 3, with Tav and Shadowheart, and hopefully all the others.  

Your eyes scan the water nearby, debris scattered everywhere until you spot a dagger on the dock.  Tav and Shadowheart watch you dart over and pick it up.

“I thought you would be one to attack with words, not knives,” Shadowheart says coolly.

You stash the dagger in a boot, smiling at Shadowheart.  Gods. She was pretty as pixels but seeing her in the flesh, she was something else.  “Well, words aren’t always the best weapons.”

“Can I get some help?”

You recognize the voice without needing to see the speaker.  Astarion is just up the hill waiting to ambush Tav and…kill him depending on how he answers.  

Based on how Tav darted ahead at the sound of someone in trouble (albeit fake trouble) you figured it wouldn’t turn out too terribly.  So they had skipped over robbing the dead, and didn’t explore every corner of the map looking for treasure chests…that didn’t mean things would be different with each companion intro, right?  There’s a plot here, and it has to be followed to a certain degree…right?  There were no screen pop ups to decide dialogue and you all appeared to have free will, which was good.

Right?

Your thoughts did little to comfort you as you climbed the hill to find Astarion already pointing his blade at Tav who was apparently perceptive enough to dodge rolling around in the ground with the vampire.  You stopped next to Shadowheart, at ease just watching the situation unfold.

Both men twitch and writhe as their parasites connect.  When their visions fade Astarion questions it, and Tav answers honestly about being in the mind flayer ship and what the worms can do.

You study Astarion’s face as he realizes that he’s somewhat free, but there’s a time limit to the incubation period.  Tav offers for him to join your trio, and just like you remember, he agrees.

“Splendid,” Astarion says.  “Lead on.”

At that the vampire meets your eyes.  Icicles dance up your spine until they pierce the back of your head, making you wince and hold a hand against the spot.  

You grunt at the sudden pain, the sound quiet but drawing attention all the same.  You wave the eyes away from you with your free hand.  “Sorry.  Head still hurts a bit from…having a tadpole put inside it.”

Nobody questions that, though you know it was something else.  Every time your eyes even flit in Astarion’s direction you can feel a push at the back of your head, that phantom limb clenching as if trying to stretch and release itself.  You wish you could say it was the tadpole, but it feels nothing like when you connected with Tav.  

“Well let’s just try to keep our worms separate,” Astarion says, seemingly at you.  “I don’t need to see what’s in your head anymore than you do mine.”

His eyes linger a moment on Tav.  You nod your agreement though he isn’t looking at you now.

“I saw some footprints along another path,” Tav announces.  “There could be other survivors.”

There doesn’t seem to be any question as to who is in charge.  Shadowheart insists on searching for a healer but with a quick convincing from Tav you’re all headed towards a strange looking purple sigil.  

“Looks unstable,” Shadowheart says.

“Best left alone,” Tav agrees.  It was just like a friend's first play through that thought the sigil would kill them, so they never had Gale join their party.  It wasn’t a totally unfounded theory—swirling, sparking voids did seem like something that shouldn’t be touched but everything in this world had a purpose.  Anything out of place or, well, glowing, was important to the story.

But then the group is walking toward the bodies of three goblins discussing supplies.  

They’ll steal from goblins but not humans?  Seems odd but maybe you’re the weird one being so willing to pillage the dead, no matter their race.  You frown, looking back at the sigil and knowing who is inside.  “You sure you don’t want to see why it’s like that?”

Astarion is observing his nails while Tav loots the goblin bodies.  Shadowheart kicks one of the bodies out of her way once fully plundered and looks back at you.  “Be my guest.  But if you get sucked in don’t expect me to come looking for you.”

“I’ll come look for you,” Tav states with a cheeky grin, hands inside a dead goblins pockets. It makes you smile back, so…kind and disarming.  You recall barbarians didn’t have high charisma, but Tav seemed to have it in spades.  Or perhaps your recent head injury was clouding your judgement—after all your reaction to being reincarnated, to being dead, was quite tame. 

“Ah, a true hero.”  Astarion looks between you and Tav, eyes narrowing as if trying to solve a puzzle.

You turn your attention back to the sigil, taking a small step towards it when an arm pops out. 

“A hand?” a voice calls.  “Anybody?”

You slap the waxing hand immediately without a thought.

“Perhaps I should have been more specific,” Gale says.  “A helping hand please?”

“Oh, right!”  You quickly take his hand in yours and tug to no avail.  

“Keep trying!”

You pull harder, wondering if you were going to end up holding a severed arm in your hand as the sigil sparks brighter and buzzes with energy.  You choose to ignore those thoughts and keep trying to free the wizard. 

With one final pull the person connected to the arm comes tumbling out of the sigil.  If it had been Tav to pull Gale free you’re certain it would have been a smooth experience, and he would have stepped back and dodged getting shoved to the ground by the sudden lack of resistance.  But it wasn’t Tav, it was you, and instead of dodging the wizard your feet tangled with each other and you both went down. 

The wind is knocked from your lungs with Gale atop you, his forehead connecting with your sternum and leaving you gasping for air.  Strands of his hair fall onto your lips, soft and smelling of something spicy while his left arm is wrapped around your middle, the other braced against the ground.  You realize he’d been trying to protect you on the way down, but wasn’t quick enough to cover the back of your head, which now throbs from the fresh battering.  

“Ouch,” you croak, voice barely making it out of your throat.  Footsteps approach until Tav, Shadowheart, and Astarion are hovering over you, each with a small smile.  Well…Astarion’s is more of a smirk…

Gale pushes himself off of you and before he can say anything Tav has his hands beneath your underarms and is pulling you up.  His hands slide to your back until you’re steady enough to stand on your own and thank him, rubbing at the back of your head again. 

Throbbing is better than stabbing, you suppose.

“Apologies,” Gale says as he smooths his hair back, “I’m usually much better at this.”

You continue to rub the back of your head as he and Tav exchange dialogue, much of it going in one ear and out the other as you focus on the pain radiating in your skull.  You squeeze your eyes shut and let your hands fall to your sides, giving in to the fact you can’t rub away whatever sensation is there.

“And you my friend.”  Gale is in front of you, drawing your gaze to meet his.  “I am truly sorry for landing on you, but extremely grateful for the help.”

You can’t stop your smile at him anymore than you could with Tav.  “Happy to help.”

His eyes stay on you a moment longer than appropriate, but when they drape down your body you think he’s almost sizing you up.  For a fight, or romance, or maybe to steal your coat you aren’t sure.

You look to Tav for direction, waiting for the leader to…well, lead.  Lae’zel should be next, but that’s when you notice you have an extra member.  With you there it makes five travellers, but nobody has been sent to camp yet.  Wherever that is.  While you’d like a moment to sit and organize your thoughts, the idea of heading somewhere on your own was terrifying. 

“I hear voices over that ridge,” Astarion announces.  Everyone turns towards where he’s looking, just a few feet ahead where the path winds up and you know you’ll find two tieflings looking at Lae’zel.  But you can’t hear them yet.

“Let’s check it out.”  Tav is already moving before anyone can object.  And like ducklings you follow him with Astarion, Gale, and Shadowheart.

Taglist:

@half-poison-and-half-hope

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Time.

You get shot in Colombia. Frankie, Benny, Santiago and Will all have their own ways of helping you heal.

Pairing - Santiago Garcia, Frankie Morales, Benny Miller, Will Miller x female reader

Age Rating - 18+

Warnings - Cursing, mentions of blood, gunshots

Word Count - 4329

Author's Note - hi lovely people. i loved writing this one so much oh my :( those four boys in one movie together is a dream. and i don't know if you noticed, but i have a real soft spot for will. and yes, i did photoshop ben afflecks character out of that picture. more than happy to write for any of the triple frontier boys individually - just send me an ask! as always, lots of love x

my other triple frontier fics - Tethered, Tranquility and Home Is Where The Heart Is.

Masterlist. Requests.

It’s been 6 days since you were shot.

6 days of blood, pain, sterility, stitches, hazy memories that float into your consciousness like smoke in the air.

You somehow remember it both clear as day and blurry as night.

The metallic taste of copper in your mouth, clear as day.

The searing, burning pain in your side, clear as day.

The panicked looks on the boys faces, the yelling, the frantic scrambling – clear as day.

The rest of it? Blurry as night.

You can’t remember getting home. One minute you were bleeding out on the ground in Colombia, and the next minute you’re back on US soil, lying in a bed in Houston Methodist Hospital.

You can’t remember your discharge. You fell asleep on those sterile, crinkly white sheets, and woke up in a soft bed, wrapped in a navy blue comforter that smells like Will.

All you’ve known for the last 6 days is sleep. That molten sleep that moves like molasses, warm and slow and sticky. The sun rises and sets, and you’re none the wiser. Floating aimlessly through unconsciousness, just you and your dreams.

Unbeknownst to you, you haven’t been alone for a minute since you got home. The boys have taken turns sitting by your bedside, heart rates rising whenever you stir. All of them silently processing what all of this means, for you and for them.

It was damn close. Too much blood. Pints after pints after pints of it. Pouring over Will’s hands, soaking into Benny’s jeans, slipping beneath Santiago’s boots, choking the air around Frankie where his forehead was pressed to yours, begging you to stay awake. All of them wondering the same thing – where has all of this come from? Surely one person can’t have so much blood in them. It can’t all be from her.

The Doctor said that you got lucky. Any more blood loss and you’d have lost your life too. Your surgeon said that you owed your life to whoever stopped the bleeding.

William ‘Ironhead’ Miller. He’d shoved his hand straight into the wound, applying as much pressure as he could without breaking any ribs. It was the worst thing he’d ever seen, but he was in fight or flight mode. He knew it had to be fight. He hoped you were making the same choice as you were lying there, breath rattling in your chest like pennies in a tin can.

Some would call it a miracle. Divine intervention, perhaps. You shouldn’t have survived. Scientifically, statistically, you should have died right there on that floor, in a mission gone wrong. Tragic accident. Caught in the crossfire. Collateral damage.

But you didn’t. Now, you’re half conscious in Will’s guest bedroom, enveloped by his scent. Warm, cozy, safe, and alive. You’re struggling to stay awake for more than ten, fifteen minutes at a time. It’s all catching up to you. You had to fight so hard to take each breath, that now you’re exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that sleep can’t fix. No, it’s settled into your gut, wrapped it’s limbs around your bones. It keeps you weighed down and heavy, a reminder of the trauma. You’re alive, but you’re tired. So tired.

The boys are worried. Worried beyond belief. When the Doctor told them she was happy to discharge you, reality hit the four of them like a high-speed freight train. How do they navigate this? You can’t go home. You can’t be by yourself. They’re all back on Texan soil, which means work, and family, and bills to pay, and routines to carry out. How do they factor in the woman they call their best friend, who’s currently in the deepest sleep of her life with a healing bullet hole in her side?

“I’ll take her,” Will had said. “She can stay with me, in my guest room. You guys can come over whenever you want. I have the most space, anyway.”

That was true. Santiago and Benny live in apartments, bachelor pads really, and Frankie’s second bedroom is his daughter’s room. She was only with him on weekends, but she needed a place to sleep, so that was him out of the question. Having you stay with Will made the most sense. They all agreed to come and sit with you in shifts, so Will could go to the grocery store, or for a run, or to take a shower. The Doctor never actually said that you needed twenty four hour surveillance, but the boys thought it would be best. Just in case.

So that’s exactly what they did. You’re on bed rest, and they’re all happy to play nurse for a few hours during the day, and to leave you with Will during the night. He’s been sneaking in to sleep in the armchair next to your bed. His room, a mere ten feet away, feels too far. He wants to be able to hear if you need his help. Just in case.

None of the boys quite know how to treat you. They don’t want to act any differently around you, but it’s hard not to. They haven’t seen you like that before. You, a force to be reckoned with. The backbone of the group. You, with your sharp wit, quick humor, blinding smile. You, who always seems to be a step ahead of them. You, a pillar of strength, proving yourself just as capable in this world designed for men. Lying on the ground, painted crimson, you looked fragile. Small. Frail. You looked so… innocent. So afraid. That was the scariest part for all of them – seeing the fear in your eyes. They’ve never seen that before. They never want to again.

So, they all take their different approaches. They cope the best way that each of them knows how.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

When Frankie visits, he always brings a book.

Cracking open the door, he pops his head around the frame, smiling as he sees both you and Will asleep – him in the chair, you cozy in bed. He gently squeezes the blond man’s shoulder, whispering as he wakes.

“I got her for a while. You go do what you need to do.”

Will shoots him a grateful smile and stretches his arms above his head, before padding out of the room, softly shutting the door behind him.

Frankie opens the curtains, letting the soft morning light fill the room. It illuminates your face, catches on the strands of your hair, making it glow. You look like an angel, in this orange haze. But Frankie already knew that.

Your eyes flutter open, and land straight on the broad man standing next to your bed, trusty cap sat atop his head. You smile, and his heart stops for a second. God, he’s missed that sight. All of the tension from the last week leaves his shoulders, and he sinks into the armchair next to you.

“Hi, Francisco,” you whisper, voice slightly hoarse from minimal use.

“Hi, cariño,” he whispers back. “You doing okay?”

You nod, golden smile still etched on your face. The wound in your side is a dull ache, and the psychological pain keeps washing over you in spontaneous waves. But you’re okay.

“You here to babysit me?” you tease.

He smirks, which is all the answer you needed.

“You don’t need to. I’m okay, I swear,” you insist.

He looks at you and quirks an eyebrow, the corners of his lips still turning up slightly.

“Well, you’re my baby, and I’m sitting,” he winks. “Now that we’ve established that, what do you wanna do for the next few hours?”

His abysmal attempt at a joke makes you chuckle, which in turn makes you wince, pain shooting through your abdomen. He jumps out of his chair towards you, placing a hand on your cheek gently.

“Shit, querida. I’m sorry. Are you alright? Do you need anything?”

Breathing deep and slow, you tilt your head to meet his eyes.

“Yes. For you to stop fussing. Sit down, Francisco. Your nervous energy is making me stressed.”

He exhales carefully, and presses a kiss onto the top of your head.

“Yes ma’am.”

He returns to his original place, and grabs a book from the nightstand.

“Have you read this already?” he asks, showing you the cover.

You shake your head, and he flips to the first page.

“It sounds good, actually. You comfy, cielito?”

You nod gently, holding his gaze. He flashes you one of his signature smiles – the rare, genuine, time stopping ones – and begins to read softly, in that dulcet, honeyed voice of his.

He reads to you for hours. You were only awake for 45 minutes, but he continued reading aloud anyway. Morning becomes afternoon, yellow sunlight beating through the open window. A gentle breeze blows the curtains and ruffles Frankie’s hair that is ever so slightly too long for his liking. He’d be perfectly content to read to you like this forever. He’s gotten so into the plot of the book that he doesn’t notice Will stood in the doorframe, watching with those careful eyes of his. They gleam blue in the sunlight, his golden hair glinting like citrine. He eventually catches Frankie’s eyes, and the older man makes his way over to the door, both boys talking in hushed whispers so as not to wake you.

“Has she been okay?” Will asks, eyes scanning your sleeping form.

“Perfectly fine. She was awake for about 45 minutes,” Frankie replies, pride evident in his tone.

“That’s the longest she’s been conscious since. Progress, huh?” Will smiles. Frankie can’t help but smile too. A week ago, they were huddled around your lifeless body, hands deep and bloody in your wound. Now, they’re watching you slumber peacefully, life returned to you like a gift from the universe.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

When Benny visits, he brings comfort with him.

He uses his key to let himself into Will’s house quietly, aware that you’re most likely asleep. It’s been a week and a half since everything happened, and while you’re awake more and more each day, you’re also still on bed rest.

Creeping up the stairs and peeking his head around the door that’s ajar, he finds Will sat at the end of your bed. You’re awake, but barely. The light shines from the hallway into the bedroom, and illuminates your tear stained cheeks.

Will wipes your cheekbone with his thumb gently, and moves to meet his brother. The older Miller pulls Benny into the hallway, shutting your door momentarily.

“She’s having a real bad day. The worst since she’s been home. The memories are flooding back man, they’re drowning her.”

All the colour is gone from Will’s face. He looks helpless. His brother hates it.

“I don’t know how to help her,” Will continues. “The tears won’t stop. It’s like every time she calms down, another nightmare takes her by surprise. I don’t know what to do, Ben. I don’t know what to do.”

Will’s voice is shaking, tears threatening to spill from those cerulean eyes. He has a hand fisted into the front of Benny’s shirt, as if he’s grounding himself. There’s something unsettling about seeing the calmest person in the room start panicking. Benny doesn’t like it.

“Hey, it’s okay. She’s gonna have bad days, that’s a given. Go get some fresh air, go for a drive or something. I’ve got her. I ain’t gonna leave her.”

Benny looks pointedly at his big brother, and inhales deeply. They exhale together, and Will wipes his face with the back of his hand.

“Are you sure?”

Benny nods. Will trusts him.

“Okay. Call me if you need anything and I will come straight back. I mean it, Ben. Anything.”

Benny pulls his brother into his chest, holding him for a moment. Will isn’t used to being the glue holding everything together, he thinks. It’s usually you.

Will pulls away and starts his journey down the stairs, momentarily pausing to watch Benny straighten his shoulders and clear his throat before opening your door carefully.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he smiles.

You don’t feel gorgeous. No, you feel like you’ve shattered into a million pieces in William Miller’s guest bedroom. The weight of your trauma has come crashing down on top of you suddenly. It’s suffocating and it’s choking you and no matter how many times you inhale, your lungs won’t fill with air. Tears keep streaking down your cheeks despite your best efforts to stifle them. You wonder if you’ll feel like this forever – forced to carry around the weight of surviving something that you weren’t supposed to.

Benny’s never been any good with words. So he tells you what he needs to with his actions instead.

He kicks off his shoes and shrugs off his jacket, throwing it on the chair. Then, he unbuttons his jeans and slides them off his legs, tossing them sideways with haphazard aim. The last thing to go is his t shirt, which he shucks over his head with ease, landing somewhere with the rest of his clothes. He moves across the room towards you and pulls back the comforter. He strokes your cheek with his knuckles gently, looking at you carefully to gauge your reaction. When he’s satisfied, he climbs into bed behind you, pulling you mindfully to sit in between his legs, his chest pressed to your back. He pulls the comforter back up over the two of you, and uses his arms to cage you in to him, enveloping you in his warmth.

Benny’s always run hot. You joke that he’s like a walking space heater, a radiator if you ever need one. Right now, it’s like having your own ball of sunshine, warming you gently from the outside in. You feel the safest you have in two weeks.

“Relax, baby,” he murmurs into your hair. He pulls you in tighter, and nudges your head to rest in the crook of his neck. You inhale deeply – the first real breath you’ve been able to take all day. He smells like sunshine, and salt, and sandalwood, and safety. You relax into him and let all the tension leave your body. You let go of the flashbacks, and the fear, and the chaos, and surrender yourself to Benny.

He stays with you like that for three days. He doesn’t separate himself from you more than a few inches for 72 whole hours, keeping his arms wrapped around you from behind, as if holding you together. When he gets up to go to the bathroom, he takes you with him. You stay attached for three days, skin to skin, allowing his warmth to seep into your bones, to settle your nerves. You’re convinced that no medicine could heal you the way Benny is. Science doesn’t have a match for this. It never will.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

When Santiago visits, he brings his guitar.

The first time he came to see you, right at the beginning, he sat with you for 20 minutes before he careened out of the room, gasping for air. The silence was strangling him, sending him into some sort of panic attack. Then, the guilt settled, and he felt like he’d betrayed you so badly that he couldn’t bring himself to go back in. He sat on the floor of the hallway with his back pressed against the door for 6 hours before Will returned home, concern coursing through his veins.

When Santiago explained what had happened, Will looked at him knowingly.

“You don’t have to be deathly silent, you know. You can watch some TV, turn the radio on. Frankie reads to her. Benny talks her ear off - doesn’t stop fucking rambling. I walked in the other day and he was explaining the current state of the NBA to her, team by team. She’ll sleep no matter what.”

Santiago nods, patting Will on the back lovingly before leaving, weighed down by shame.

The next time he visits, he brings his guitar.

If he’s honest with himself, he’s hoping you’ll be asleep. It’s easier to play for you if you aren’t looking at him like he hung the moon with those big, bright eyes of yours. But, lo and behold, he walks into the room you’ve made your own, and you’re wide awake.

“Hi, handsome,” you smile. “Where you been?”

“Oh, you know,” he smirks, “just caring for all the pretty girls that need my help.”

“And here I thought I was special,” you tease.

That smile of yours wraps itself around his heart, tangling in the core of him. You’ve always had that effect on the boys. One grin from you, and all of their problems melt away, even if just for a moment.

“You staying today, or you gonna run away again?”

You’re joking with him. Why are you trying to make him laugh? You should be upset, telling him that he’s a bad friend, that all of the other boys have sat with you for hours, so why can’t he?

But instead, you continue.

“I’m kidding, Santi. I get it, you know. I don’t think I’d be able to sit in a room with you lying there all half dead and helpless if the roles were reversed.”

You’re looking at him with so much understanding in your eyes that he has to choke down the tears that are trying to escape from him.

“It’s not that. It’s just – it’s my fault, bebita. You wouldn’t have even been in Colombia if it wasn’t for me. I’m the reason you got shot.”

He’s crying now – heavy, ugly sobs crawling their way from his chest, up to his throat. His knees give out, and he sits on the side of the bed, hands fisting in your comforter.

“Santi, baby. Hey. Look at me. Please, Pope.”

Your pleading gets his attention. He looks at you with those red rimmed, watery eyes, and your heart breaks so hard you swear you can hear it shatter.

“It wasn’t your fault, Santi. I followed you out there voluntarily. We all did. You know I’d follow you anywhere. I still would. It could have been any of us that got hurt. I’m glad it was me. I wouldn’t be able to stand seeing any of you in a hospital bed. It’d break me.”

You’re crying now too, at the thought of one of the boys in your situation. The bullets, the blood, the makeshift bandages they shoved into your side, ripping their shirts and tearing apart anything they could find. You couldn’t have survived that, if the roles were reversed. You wouldn’t have wanted to.

You press your forehead to his, hands tangling in the front of his shirt. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his chest, needing you as close as possible.

You fall asleep like that, face pressed into him, his heartbeat in your ear. Santiago tucks you back into bed gently and takes his place in the armchair, settling down. Pulling his guitar out of the case, he tunes it slowly, meticulously, before beginning to strum the strings carefully. He picks at the strings, playing you tune after tune, only stopping to stretch his arms and crack his knuckles. He plays for you for hours, time slipping by him like sand through his palms. When you wake, you keep your eyes closed, savouring his presence for just a moment longer.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

Will doesn’t visit.

He sticks steadily by your side, day in, day out. If Frankie visits for 6 hours, Will sits with you for the other 18. When Benny holds you for 3 days, Will gets anxious, popping his head around the doorframe every few hours, checking in just in case. Since everything happened, Will’s whole universe has revolved around you. Which, he’s realising, is the way it’s always been. His whole world has always been you. He’s just been forced to confront that truth now, and it’s scaring him.

He’s suddenly aware of the fact that he almost lost you. He’s never felt fear like that before. He’s had men press guns to his temple, shoot at him from mere feet away, fight him with their fists. That’s nothing, now. He’d take that any day over watching you lie there, drenched in crimson, dripping with pain. His hands, twisted into your side, wet and slipping, trying to quell the dam that’s broken inside of you. Your eyes, looking into his, terror grasping your whole body like a cold chill. When he falls asleep at night, all he can hear is the way you said his name, like it was the last thing tethering you to the Earth.

He makes a silent vow to himself. A promise - to never let you go again. To protect you forever, no matter what. All of this trauma has just made him love you more. He’s not sure what the future will look like, for him, or for you. But he knows that right now, you need him.

And so he pours all of his love into his actions. He makes you breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and sits with you as you eat slowly. He eats at your speed, too - always doing everything at your pace. He combs your hair every morning gently, brushes your teeth twice a day carefully. He tucks you in when you fall asleep, pulling the comforter around you, keeping you safe and warm. As soon as one of the other boys leaves, he takes their place, sitting in the armchair – making sure you’re never alone. Whenever you’re awake, he listens to you pointedly, nodding and smiling. When you have a bad day, he’s right there next to you, wiping the tears from your cheeks and murmuring reassurances gently.

He watches as slowly but surely, you come back to yourself. You’re awake more often, smiling more confidently, cracking jokes and asking for laughs. The two of you are chatting like you used to, about nothing and everything. And you watch as slowly but surely, he returns to Will. The frown lines in his forehead become less pronounced, the worry in his eyes fades slightly. The smiles he throws your way are bigger, more genuine. The scales balance out again.

You’ve been in bed for two weeks when you decide to ask him for a favor.

“Hey, Will?” you query, looking at the blond man who’s currently folding laundry on the dresser.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he replies instantly, ready to give you anything you could possibly ask for.

“Can we go outside? I think I might go insane in this room real soon,” you smile, bright and bold.

He beams at you, relief washing over him like an ocean wave. You haven’t left your bed for a fortnight. He’s offered a couple of times, but you refused, scared to leave the comfort of the safe haven you’ve created. But you’re ready now.

“Of course we can. You want me to carry you?”

His tone is light, jesting, but you know he’s being serious. Neither of you are actually sure if you can walk all the way outside.

“I can walk if you carry me down the stairs? Not sure I’m quite ready for those yet.”

He grins at you, and your heart stops. That smile of his seeps into your pores, lifts you up, sends energy flowing through your veins. You’re alive, and you’re okay, and Will Miller is looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky. You feel invincible.

Admittedly, it does take you 20 minutes to get from your room to the back patio. Will throws a strong arm beneath yours, holding you up as you take the journey step by step. When you reach the stairs, he picks you up bridal style, carrying you carefully. Before he sets you back on your feet, he nudges his nose to yours, still grinning.

The sun soaks into your skin outside, gentle breeze rippling your t shirt that you’re now realising is Benny’s. The leaves rustle in the trees, and you inhale the world, as if seeing it again for the first time. Will sits right next to you on the bench, hand holding yours tightly, fingers interlaced as if he’s worried you’ll blow away.

You glance at Will’s watch and see that it’s only 1pm. You have so much time left. So many possibilities to be fulfilled, so many people to love, so many places to see. But for now, you press yourself into the blond man’s side, settling in. You fit perfectly. Almost as if this is where you belong.

“Can’t believe I almost died without telling you I love you,” you murmur. It’s quiet, but he hears you, loud and clear.

“It’s okay,” he reassures. “You’re here now. We have time. So much time.”

“Forever,” you whisper. “We have forever.”

He turns to look at you in the hues of the bright afternoon. His blond hair is glowing gold, and his blue eyes match the sky, hopeful and full of promise. His hands come up to cradle your face, and he caresses your cheeks with his thumbs, rubbing comforting circles into your skin. He moves in closer, and nudges his nose into yours. He breaks out into a grin, and you can’t help but join him. Leaning in, he presses his lips to yours, soft and reassuring. You melt into him, running one hand into his hair, the other at the nape of his neck. He pulls you impossibly closer, until every part of you is pressed together. The sun is still beaming, and the birds are chirping, and you have time.

“Forever,” he whispers into your mouth when he breaks the kiss.

“Forever,” you murmur back. “We have time.”

You have time.

You have time.

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. Mentions of assault, mocking, face fucking, somnophilia, dacryphilia, dubcon.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello angels, did you all see AO3 was down? I was distraught lmaooo wtf??? But it's back up now which means I can have my little night time stories again hehe. Reader has been working hard to get where she is and honestly? Slay. So here is the next chapter, I will say, things will be moving a lil quickly from here on out so buckle yourself up babes <3 Enjoy!

Chapter 81: A Council of Green

The dinner was uncomfortable for you all. Just as expected. 

You had gotten dressed for the evening with the help of Joanna and Amala, a black dress with red stitching and embroidery, hair half up, and half done in intricate braids with small rubies laid inside.

Aemond had been dressed in his usual black leathers again, the tunic buckling up high on his throat, but his hair was braided back and away from his face, half up, half down. 

Two halves of a whole.

You had walked together, anticipation strumming in your veins with every step you took towards the Great Hall with Aemond. Anxiety steadily building as you got closer, knowing that you would be in the presence of Aegon once again, and not only that, but his entire small council including the slimy Lord, Jason Lannister.

When you had arrived, you had been relatively on time. Most of the Lords arrived at the same time as you, with Alicent decked in her usual deep green. She had blinked at you oddly, as though she had not expected you to join, or that she had been told that you would not.

Though Aegon was nowhere to be seen.

Ser Otto Hightower however, did not even spare you a second glance, as though you were part of the furniture or one of their tacky Seven tapestries that defiled the castle walls.

Perhaps you were like a part of the furniture by now.

There, seen, and rarely heard.

When Aegon finally arrived, all having waited for him for a time, food already atop the table, he was flanked by Ser Cole, who announced his entrance to the Great Hall and the small council who joined as though they were not aware of who the pompous silver haired fool was already.

The wives of the Lords of the Small Council were also present, dressed conservatively in their House colours, bright blues and soft yellows and reds. When you had sat yourself down and looked amongst the long wooden table, you had attempted to gage the attention of the other women, hoping that perhaps you could make a friend. But none of the women turned to acknowledge you, avoiding your eye carefully.

The table was full tot he brim, and even the longer tables that flanked the sides of the Hall were full of men and women, servers and guards stationed about the sides of the room. There were even some lower Lords who were not a part of the council, but in charge of large plots of land or advantageous Houses and trades. 

It was, for the most part, a loud and joyous affair for them, or for all those except anyone who had witnessed the Prince and the King’s spat. Whenever Aegon’s eyes would graze over the two of you, landing on you in curiosity, the Maester or another Lord like Jasper Wylde, or even Otto Hightower would ask the King a question, speaking loudly to gain his attention. 

Like you would a child.

But whilst most eyes were not on you, you felt a pair beside the King’s short glances to be particularly burning. 

Jason Lannister sat at the end of the table, donned in his House colours of red and Gold, his blue eyes glued to you and Aemond. Beside him, an empty chair where his wife would have been.

"And where is your wife, Jason.” Aegon asked, noting the absence of the woman, and the presence of every other Lords.

“She sends her apologies that she could not join me in King’s Landing. She is recently with child, and well…” Jason intoned, a limacious smirk winding on his face, “You know how women get when they swell.” 

The Lords wives stayed quiet, some with small, shy smiles on their faces in mock agreement whilst the Lords half heartedly agreed, others more enthusiastically than others.

It made your skin feel alight. 

“And how do they get, Lannister?” Your voice carried across the table snidely before you could stop it. 

A knife scraped across a plate, and all eyes were on you. You could feel Aemond’s careful gaze on the side of your cheek as you stared at Jason. 

Prick. 

The sound of Aegon snickering caught your ears, and you fought to not turn and face him. 

The Lord pressed his tongue into his cheek as he looked at you, “Well, I am sure you will find out in due time.” He smiled, eyes flicking from you to Aemond. 

“Of course, but I’m asking you.” You smiled back falsely, reaching to take a sip from your wine primly. 

Jason laughed, and some of the other Lords laughed awkwardly with him, sensing the tension, “My wife,” He began, looking around the table, “Has a terrible craving for fried trout, and will burst to tears if she is without it. It goes without saying, her hysteria can be quite jarring.”

“Interesting.” You mused, placing the wine back down, “Perhaps she is not being adequately satisfied with other smaller meats.” You grinned. Aemond hummed in amusement beside you. 

Aegon bellowed, large hand slapping against the wood of the table jolting goblets and cutlery. The other Lord’s joined in with their King, seeing permission to laugh at your snide remark. Even Jason himself huffed out a laugh, though the smile did not reach his eyes, and his jaw was clenched tight. 

“My niece everyone.” Aegon boomed, “The sharpest of tongues and the tightest of cunts.”

The room burst into laughter again, some more nervous than others. Otto did not laugh nor smile, and Alicent glared at her son. Aemond inhaled sharply beside you, and from the corner of your eye, you saw Ser Cole shift. 

"Aegon." Alicent warned beneath her breath, eyes darting from Aemond, to Ser Cole, and then back to Aegon.

“My brother is a lucky man.” Aegon hollered, raising his goblet up in mock toast. 

Aemond did not move, eyeing his brother down, anger radiating from him. 

It was perfect. 

You lifted your goblet to Aegon, toasting to yourself, before taking a deep sip, turning your head to Aemond, smiling. With a soft hand, you grasped his on the table, squeezing it twice. 

Aemond did not squeeze it back.

“That he is.” You smirked, head still turned to Aemond who slowly turned his gaze onto you. 

He was furious. 

Good. 

“And how is your son, My Lord?” You asked across the table, looking at Jason Lannister who’s face beamed with pride, “The last I remember was you offering his hand to me, not too long ago.”

Aemond took his hand away from yours and moved it under the table, gripping your thigh. 

“Loreon grows bigger by each day,” He grinned, “ A fine young Lord. He has his mothers eyes, but thankfully my hair. Can’t have a lion without its mane.” The Lord joked, and all chuckled with him. “Perhaps one day if you are to have a daughter, the Targaryen and Lannister Houses can be united.” He grinned. 

When the world is on fire, and I am long gone. 

The rest of the Lords moved to their own small conversations as you continued yours with Jason, feeling Aemond’s fingers dig meanly into the flesh of your thigh.

“Only if you were to build a Dragon Pit in Casterly rock. Our daughter will need to house her dragon there some day, and I expect I would come to visit.”

“You are welcome at the Golden Tooth whenever you please, Princess. We have the finest silk sheets, and the softest of beds.”

“I suppose I will have to see for myself if the riches of the Lannister House are truly what they are said to be.”

“If it is anything like the beauty of the Targaryen House is said to be, then you will find that the riches are just as spoken of.” He boasted and flirted. 

You had to bite your inner cheek from gasping as you felt Aemond’s hand bruise your leg meanly, his nails biting into your skin.

“You’d best watch yourself, Jason.” Aegon smirked, “Aemond looks ready to summon Vhagar.”

Jason paled, “My apologies, Your Grace. There were no ill intentions.”

“My husband is a possessive man and protective.” You intoned, turning your head to face Aemond whose eye was locked on Jason again, "Issa iā orvorta, ñuha dōna. Ao gīmigon iksan aōhon.” He is a cunt, my sweet. You know I am yours, You cooed sickly sweet, hand coming to brush against Aemond’s cheek.

Aegon burst into childish giggles, throwing his crowned head backwards against the high seat of his chair. Aemond’s jaw clenched. Whilst Jason cocked his head, not sure of what you had said and turned to join conversation with the other Lords. 

“Yn emā issare ñuhon tolī.” But you have been mine too, Aegon grinned, looking at you with bright violet eyes. 

Your heart leapt in your throat, bile rising in your mouth. 

“Daor ondoso iderennon.” Not by choice,You plastered a fake smile upon your lips, Aemond’s hand digging harder into your thigh as he straightened in his seat. 

To anyone else at the table, it looked as though the three of you were having a lighthearted conversation in your mother tongue. 

To the three of you, it was a stand off. 

“Kostan tepagon ao iā iderennon.” I may give you a choice, Aegon smirked, sipping his ale, “Aemond kostagon urnēbagon lo ziry jeldan.” Aemond may even watch if he wishes.

“Aemond iksis ñuha iderennon.” Aemond is my choice, You purred, sipping your wine, mirroring the King. You felt Aemond’s hand on your thigh loosen. 

Aegon rested his elbow upon the table lazily, sitting his chin in his palm as he looked at you both, “Sesīr hae ēza iā līve?” Even as he has a whore?

Anger bubbled up inside of you. You ground your teeth together and pushed out a false laugh, far too high to be believable, Alicent’s eyes darting to you with her brows drawn.

“Sesīr pār.” Even then. 

“Lēkia, emā zirȳla orvorta qilōny.” Brother, you have her cock whipped, Aegon smirked. 

Aemond hummed lowly, “Issa iā sȳz ābrazȳrys.” She is a good wife.

You almost beamed at the praise. You picked up your goblet to stop yourself from smiling, bringing the cup to your lips to sip at the honeyed Essos wine.

“Ivestragon nyke, qilōni's orvorta iksis rōvykta?” Tell me, who's cock is bigger? Aegon asked, and you spluttered your wine, inhaling it and coughing into your palm. 

The urge to dive across the table and force a knife between his eyes grew larger. 

You stayed quiet, sipping the wine again to settle the tickling burn in the back of your throat, and the rising anger that continued to mount within. Words fought in your chest to fly from your lips, but you swallowed them.

“Aōha lykemagon vestras nyke.” Your silence says me.

“Ñuha āeksio valzȳrys’.” My Lord Husbands, You smiled, wishing to sink your teeth into his throat, biting through the tendons and flesh, and ripping your head backwards, tearing the flesh away and watching his blood spurt out. 

Aegon ignored his Small Council, Lords and Ladies who had travelled from all over the realm to dine with him, and enjoyed the small time given to direct snide remarks to Aemond without the chastising of his mother. 

“Ao gīmigon lēkia, eman ryptan mirri sȳz udir hen Harrenhal.” You know brother, I have heard some good news from Harrenhal.

Aemond stilled.

The King grinned, teeth and gums being revealed by his lips pulling back, “Ēza Aemond ivestretan ao?” Has Aemond told you?

“Nyke gīmigon iksā nūmāzma naejot.” I know you’re about to, You snipped.

“Ah, ēza daor. Sȳrī,” Ah, he hasn’t. Well, Aegon smirked, leaning forward, “Gaomagon ao remember bona witch isse Harrenhal?” Do you remember that witch in Harrenhal? He tapped his chin in mock thought. 

He knew who she was.

“Alys?” He continued.

Alicent’s head snapped to her son, eyes darting back and forth at the sound of her name. Your heart raced against your chest, heat rising to your cheeks. 

How could you forget? 

“Hen rhinka.” Of course, You said dully, swirling your wine in your hand as you tried to not give him any satisfaction as rage bubbled inside of you.

Not only at the King, but at your husband.

“Ñuha lēkia ēza issare working qopsa, pār emā daor given zirȳla iā dārilaros.” My brother has been working hard, since you have not given him an heir.

An heir. 

“Aegon.” Aemond warned, jaw set in a stiff line.

“Skoros? Kostagon nyke daor biarvī manaeragon ñuha lēkia becoming vala? Iā kepa?” What? Can I not celebrate my brother becoming a man? A father?

Your blood ran cold, and fire licked at your face.

“Kepa?” Father? You seethed, teeth showing, smile faltering on your lips.

“Oh yes, Alys iksis lēda riña.” Alys is with child, Aegon grinned.

With child.

With child.

You saw red.

“Alys iksis lēda riña.” You parroted, tying to collect yourself as you thought of driving your fist into Aemond’s sapphire eye.

With child. 

Alys was pregnant. 

“Y/n-“ Aemond began.

“Aemond,” You interrupted him, turning your face to look at your husband, face cool, “Rijes aōt issi isse jorrāelatan. Kostilus, jikagon ñuha udir naejot aōha līve.” Congratulations are in order. Please send my word to your whore.

Aegon guffawed, eyes bouncing between the two of you. Aemond stared at you with a sallow face, your own carefully schooled.

You were enraged.

Your hand around your goblet tightened, nails reaching around the cool metal to dip into your palm as you desperately tried to use it to ground yourself. 

“Bisa iksis daor skorkydoso-“ This is not ho-

“Valzȳrys,” Husband, You smiled joylessly, all teeth, “Ivestragī īlva daor ȳdragon hen aōha nādrēsy’s.” Let us not talk of your bastards.

“Kostilus īlon should maghagon-“ Perhaps we should bring-, Aegon began.

“Aōha Valyrīha jorrāelagon mirre.” Your Valyrian needs work, You snipped, mock toasting your wine to him again, small droplets falling from the rim to the table below at the force of your thrust, barely contained anger spilling over. 

You let your eye trail over the King, his crown atop his head, wavy silver hair peaking beneath it, a small blush on his cheeks from the ale. 

You were furious. 

You were enraged. 

You wished to hurt Aemond. 

"Sir bona nyke pendagon hen ziry, iksā qumblie.” Now that I think of it, you are thicker, You mused, eyes quickly dropping to Aegon’s waist before back up at his face.

You reached to grasp the decanter from in front of you to refill your wine which disappeared at a rapid rate, and Aemond’s hand shot out, grasping your wrist tightly. The rest of the tables eyes flitted to the sharp movement. You snatched your hand away from him, not even sparing the man a glance as you continued to refill your wine. 

"Konīr's bona ēngos,”There's that tongue, Aegon chuckled, smiling at you appreciatively, his eyes grazing down your body, "Nyke gīmigon iā sȳrkta gaomagon syt ziry.” I know a better use for it.

"Ȳdra daor.” Don’t, Aemond finally spoke, voice low and rough, hand returning to your thigh where he dug his fingers into it again, possessively and angrily.

Aegon giggled, excited that he had finally gotten Aemond to react, the unfinished fight between them simmering to almost a boiling point. “Nyke gōntan daor jiōragon naejot sylugon ziry.” I didn’t get to try it, Aegon pouted.

“Se kesā daor.” And you won’t, You purred, sipping your wine, “Yn ñuha valzȳrys gaomas.” But my husband does.

Aemond’s grip on your thigh tightened again, and you watched as he grabbed his goblet of wine and drank deeply from it.

"Kostilus kesan mirri tubis.” Perhaps I will some day, Aegon mused, pouting his lips at you as he fought off a grin. 

You steeled yourself for what you were about to do, swallowing thickly as you looked Aegon in the eyes.

“Kostilus.” Perhaps.

The conversation had ended there, and Aegon had smirked, eyes half hooded as he looked at you. Alicent did not take her gaze from the three of you before you excused yourself, stating that you were tired and wished to leave your husband to his duties and fellow Lords for the rest of the evening. 

You had pried Aemond’s hand from your thigh and bowed to Aegon and the other Lord’s, reminding Jason Lannister that he should begin preparing a Dragon Pit for Casterly Rock, to which he grinned in response. Aemond’s heated gaze followed you as you left the Great Hall, walking back to your chambers alone. 

You arrived in your chambers and laughed loudly, furious at the news of Alys.

She was pregnant.

She was pregnant and he had not told you.

She was a greater risk to you now than before. You picked up a goblet at the side table and filled it with wine, already tipsy from the night, tossing its contents back down your throat. 

But Aemond’s reaction at dinner was another thing all together. 

It worked. 

Your last lingering comment to Aegon, a small, ‘Perhaps', left the One-Eyed Prince reeling in his head, his hand not once undigging itself from your thighs. Even Jason Lannister unburdened flirting that evening had helped you along tremendously. 

You had filled your goblet with wine once more, sitting in Aemond’s armchair, drinking slowly as you thought of the evening. Of the way his anger rose off of him in heated waves, the way he had become possessive of you with Jason. The way he scowled at his brother. 

He was beginning to resent them all.

The door to the chambers slammed open, and the storming footfall of Aemond caused you to lazily turn your head to look at him. 

He was irate.

“You seek to humiliate me in front of the council? In front of the King, flirting like a whore?” He sneered, marching over to you as he yanked you up from his chair, the goblet of wine tumbling from your fingers to the stone floor below, the red alcohol spilling across the tiles like blood. 

“And what of you? What of your whoring? Your bastard is pregnant.” You retorted, lips pulling back to bare your teeth. 

“She gave me an heir long before you did.”

You hand slapped across his cheek, Aemond’s head turning to the side. 

“You disgust me.” You spat.

A shadow crossed Aemond’s face.

Your knees hit the harsh stone floors before your brain could catch up, Aemond’s large hands jarring you down by your shoulders. His eye crazed. 

“You want to act like a whore, I will treat you like a whore.”

You tipped your chin up to look at him and smiled meanly, “Like Alys?”

“I told you, I did not see her.” He growled at you, hand gripping the side of your hair as he tugged your head. 

“I don’t believe you.” You sneered.

Aemond’s hand moved to the front of his breeches and began to tug at the strings, impatiently ripping them open in front of your face. 

A warmth spread within you. 

He was so angry. 

So on edge. 

It had worked.

It was working.

Aemond finally undid the last of his ties and yanked his pants over his ass, pulling his cock out of the confines of his breeches. You looked up at him defiantly as he began to stroke himself in his hand, slowly getting hard. 

“Having trouble?” You mocked, watching as he frowned down at you.

“Cunt.” He swore, before grabbing the back of your head roughly and tugging you towards his length.

“Open.” He barked, and you obeyed, keeping your eyes on him as he slid his length cruelly down the back of your throat in one rough push.

You gagged around him, tears prickling your eyes.

“Much better when you can’t talk.” He grunted, holding you down on him, the light curls at his base tickling your nose.

Aemond roughly pulled you back off of him by your hair, a spluttering cough escaping your lips as you sucked in a lungful of air. 

“I should have his head for that. Who does he think he is?” Aemond growled, pulling you back on his length, saliva dripping from your lips onto the stone below. 

Your knees ached as he began to thrust into your face harshly, his tip hitting the back of your throat as you breathed through your nose, tears dripping down your cheeks.

“Fucking Lannister scum. A Dragon Pit?” He grunted, using both hands to pull your mouth up and down his length, “He thinks he could fuck you? He thinks he could please you? Silk sheets? Is that what you want? You want fucking silk sheets?”

You gagged loudly as he pushed himself all the way in, holding your head down on him as he shook you with your hair, causing his cock to beat against your gag reflex.

“Stupid cunt. None of them could give you what I do. None of them could fuck you the way I do.” He continued, and you squirmed on the spot, bringing your hands up to his thighs to hold on for balance.

Aemond’s hands slapped yours away, “No. I didn’t say you could touch me.”

You dropped your arms, digging your fingers into your thighs as he continued. 

“I am the only man for you. You are my wife.” Thrust.

“Mine.”

Thrust. 

Warm heat settled in your gut as you hummed around him, curling your tongue up against the underside of his cock. Aemond moaned, letting go of one side of your head to brush hair away from your cheeks.

“Sȳz riña.” Good girl, He praised, framing your jaw with one hand, “Such a good little whore.”

Your core clenched around nothing and you shut your eyes, rubbing your thighs together to ease the ache that steadily began to rise in you.

“Aegon is a cunt." The Prince growled, "A depraved, pathetic excuse for a man. Do you think he could please you?” He grunted.

You did not want to think of Aegon.

You squeezed your eyes tight.

“A useless King,” Aemond continued, thrusts becoming harsh again, “Can't even perform his own duties. Has me do them. Has me fly about the realm when he has Sunfyre and does not ride him.” Another growl, his length heavy on your tongue, you could feel every vein and ridge. 

“Mother should have put me in line for the throne. We had to search the Silk Lanes for him when father died.” The wet sound of your mouth filled the room with Aemond’s complaints. “I hate him.”

I hate him.

Hate.

You sucked at Aemond’s length harder, a whine falling from this lips.

Rewarding him.

It spurred him on. 

“He should beg for my mercy. Should have me rule.” 

Delight sparked within you. 

You curled your tongue up against the underside of his shaft, pressing the wet muscle against him as his thrusts became sloppier, thick strands of saliva hanging from your lips as he continued, the front of your dress and the stone floors below wet with it.

“Fucking pathetic.”

You hummed in agreement, opening your eyes to look up at him. Aemond looked down at you watching the way his cock disappeared into your lips. A groan falling from his mouth as you caught his gaze.

“He could never have you. He does not deserve you. He is not worthy.” His tip hit the back of your throat, “Not worthy of your perfect cunt.” 

You moaned around his length.

“Not worthy of the throne.”

Thrust.

“Not worthy of life.”

Thrust. 

You suck sharply on him as his thrusts grow sloppy, his mouth slackened as he breathed heavily, hands holding your head still as he chased his peak. You fought against your gags, tears moving down your face as you continued to squirm from your spot on the tiles. 

It turned you on. 

“Fuck.” Aemond moaned, pushing himself as deep as he could go.

His hot seed burst down your throat, causing you to cough and gag on his length as he moaned above you, holding you down on it with no escape. Each pump of his seed coating your mouth and tongue. 

“Sīr sȳz syt nyke.” So good for me, “Vok byka ābrazȳrys.” Perfect little wife.

Aemond pulled himself from your lips, and a sharp inhale sucked air into your lungs as you coughed, swallowing what was left of his seed. The Prince’s hand moved to the side of your jaw stroking it as he looked down at you, thumb swiping up the seed that had escaped from the side of your mouth. Aemond rubbed it over your lips as he looked at you, your knees aching in protest.

“Filthy.” He purred.

Aemond bent down and pulled you up. The Prince took you to bed before hardening again, fucking his seed deep inside of you in the hour of the owl. You had whined and moaned, and he had fucked you roughly against the soft sheets, growling about his brother, about Jason, about the throne. 

And you had encouraged it. 

As the ebbs of your third release left your body, you found yourself boneless in the bed beneath Aemond, who crawled down the length of your body, planting insatiable kisses against your sensitive skin. 

“I am falling to sleep.” You had argued, trying to pull him up and away from your core, where his tongue darted between your folds. 

“Then sleep.” He uttered, “Let me enjoy the pleasures of my wife.” 

His tongue was soft and gentle, pressing soothing kisses to your core as you felt your eyes flutter shut, fatigue dragging you down into the depths of sleep.

You woke some time later to the familiar stretch of Aemond’s cock moving through you. You had groaned, blinking in the dark up at Aemond he pushed himself inside of you.

“Wha-“

“Shh. Go back to sleep.”

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[katuschka]

Olalla Chapter Eleven 1/2

Josh Kiszka x f!OC x Jake Kiszka 4.572 words

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, intended for adult readers. Any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. Also, if you're under 18, go find some other entertainment elsewhere.

Warnings (are spoilers): descriptions of injury, mentions of blood and stitches, nightmares, secrets and insincerity, fluff, smut, mutual masturbation, rough sex, hair pulling, very light BDSM (sans BD), and as always, an unhealthy dose of heavy emotions and feelings

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Can I believe you? Can I ever know your mind? Am I handing you mine? Do we both confide? I see it, eat through every word I sow See what you need to, do you doubt it's yours? Now I'm learning the ropes never get this close I've been wounded before Hasn't let me go

Agnieszka, December 22nd, 5:30 pm

“It’s nothing, Neszka.”

How I missed the sound of his voice. Sweet and raspy, like crystallized honey. My grandmother used it to hide the bitter taste of cough drops, but I could always feel it on my tongue anyway. She never fooled me. And neither did he…

It didn’t look like nothing, and he didn’t sound like it was nothing. Even though he tried to smile in a vain attempt to fool me. Still, the result was more like a crooked sneer and it certainly didn’t reach his eyes. Despite his weak reassurance, it only kept me worrying, because that’s exactly how he looked, too: worried… There was also something else in his eyes; something that I couldn’t decipher yet. I gently ran my fingertips across the dark bruise right under the stitched gash. The snowflakes in his hair melted down and fell in tiny droplets on his cheeks. I wiped those as well. He closed his eyes in reaction to my touch and his expression softened momentarily, so I dared to speak again. 

“Don’t lie, Joshua. This looks days old, you have three stitches, and I’m only just learning about this now?! Who did this to you? And why?” 

He opened his eyes again, but didn’t answer and didn’t look at me. Instead, his gaze fell on the malachite pendant that I still wore on a silver chain round my neck, close to my heart. It was a perfect symbol of the kind of love he kept giving me: cleansing, transformative… and toxic. He swallowed hard and clenched his jaw, and I felt his hands slide from my shoulders and down my arms until it was just his fingertips that traced the sharp curves of my elbows. I could barely feel that touch. My questions hung heavy in the air, creating an invisible emotional gap between us, and I couldn’t fully understand why. I hated it, though! This moment wasn’t supposed to be like this. I just wanted to hug him again, while desperately yearning for him to hug me back.

But something was suddenly different. 

I had feared it would be like that eventually… that one day he would no longer give me answers. I had nightmares about it. And now he was slipping away just like he had been in those dreams that kept haunting me. Our “affair” had always been more like a dream anyway. My fairytale man, wrapped in satin and adorned with sparkling gems. My other-worldly prince, written by Brothers Grimm. He kept on bleeding and in return it kept me dreading moments yet to come. 

“Talk to me,” I whispered, still hoping that it was just me being paranoid again. 

And then, out of the blue, he cupped my cheeks and kissed me lightly, the stitches that held his lip together scratching mine. He could have razor blades there and I would not care, because after all those months apart, my baby kissed me again. I shivered, and as if on cue, he ran his finger through my hair, cradling my skull like the finest china. My body felt light. Then he finally spoke. 

“We had a fight… me and Jake. But hey! I don’t want you to worry about that. It’s ok. It was nasty, but it’s between the two of us.”

I pulled away from his embrace indignantly. “How can I not worry about that? You both assured me you were ok, and… why? What is it this time? Does he also look like this? Is he outside? I want to tal…”

“Shhh, we’re ok. And no, they already left. We’ll see them tomorrow.” 

With that, he grabbed his duffle bag that he had previously dropped on the floor – a clear indication that he wanted me to drop the subject, but I wouldn’t give up so easily. I felt like there was still more of what he was not telling me. We all had completely different plans just a few hours ago, so whatever was going on, it definitely didn’t seem like they were ok. “But the dinner, Joshua…” 

I could tell he sensed my growing unease, because he frowned. “Relax, Olalla. It’s just a last-minute change of plans. We’re all awfully tired, and especially Lisa. She’s not used to transatlantic jetlags, and the final drive really took its toll.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Those cute, tiny wrinkles that often appeared around his eyes when he got tired were now more pronounced than ever. He offered me his hand and smiled again, even though it must have been painful, and together we went upstairs. 

“You must be hungry, though,” I said when we entered my living room. 

“Yeah…a bit, but I’m really craving a hot shower now.” He put his bag down and took off his down jacket and I immediately hugged him from behind, making him huff and grimace over his shoulder at me. “Ugh, no darling, I stink!”

“No, you don’t,” I chuckled and mumbled with my face buried in the soft fabric of his woolen hoodie while he stroked my arms that were firmly wrapped around his chest. He smelled like cozy winter evenings spent by the stove after long, adventurous days; his own musk mixed with a whiff of cinnamon and vanilla and pine wood. I could spend hours just standing there like that, but his stomach suddenly rumbled loudly, making us both cackle again. “But how about you just go take that shower and I’ll run downstairs to prepare us some savory stuffed toasts in the meantime, hm? Maybe even tomato salad?”

“With sour cream and spring onions?” he crooned softly.

��Absolutely.” I whispered in his ear. I loved how he always sounded like a small kid when we talked about food, and I was always ready to give and make him everything he wanted, even if it meant to spend hours in the kitchen. “And then we can pretend to watch tv…”

“Pretending to watch tv with you is my favorite pastime,” he smiled softly with a mischievous glint in his eyes, before his face twisted in pain again as the lip stretched too much. “I’m sorry I can’t kiss you properly.” 

And you refuse to tell me why…

I decided not to push it. Instead, I just kissed his cheek and excused myself. There were things I refused to tell him, too…

When I came back from the main kitchen with a tray full of munchies, I found him sprawled across my bed, lying on his stomach and already fast asleep. He was almost naked, safe for one towel still wrapped around his head and another one already just haphazardly draped over his butt. My heart melted at the sight, so delightfully domestic and bohemian at the same time, but the nasty creature living deep inside me wanted me to wallow in unjustified disappointment. I always hated that self-centered bitch that kept poisoning my thoughts. The fact that he was here with me should have been enough… and yet I still felt like it was not. 

The feeling came with old questions, ones that I had been trying to disregard ever since they left by the end of September and his sweet kisses and incessant babbling about life having no rules could no longer distract my mind. What now? Am I enough? Does he want me to be his life or just a vacation? Those thoughts had been relatively easy to ignore while I had something to look forward to, and him coming back for Christmas was a chapter yet to be read. I banished and locked those thoughts somewhere at the back of my head, where they kept haunting me at the dead of night, but my days were filled with childish anticipation. 

He was finally here, in flesh and blood, and as I watched his back rise and fall peacefully, I could feel the charm slowly evaporate in the air, but I was not yet ready to admit that. Two more weeks, and then what? 

Careful not to wake him, gently freed him from those damp towels, before I covered those perfect ass cheeks with a spare blanket from my closet as he was lying on top of mine, looking like an angel that fell too hard. Pale, beaten and once again so awfully thin. 

I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked those damp curls for a while, deliberately avoiding the already barely visible scar that still made my heart skip a beat everytime I saw it, before concluding that it would be best to just let him sleep. I checked the old clock on the wall; it was only 7, but it already felt like midnight. 

There was no room for me on that bed. I turned off the light, closed the door carefully and spent the rest of the evening on my couch, eating my toast and trying to keep my mind occupied with my favourite book, which proved nearly impossible. The unshakeable restlessness deep within my chest only made me re-read the same paragraph over and over again, until the words became blurry and the wind on top of the mountain kept turning the pages and my fingers, too numb with cold, could no longer hold the large, leather-bound volume. It slipped from my grasp and fell down the slope, releasing a roaring avalanche that buried the whole town under snow, all because I wanted the story to come true. The sun came up then, burning the remaining debris to a cinder. I watched the destruction from above and I cried and cried, with my eyes fixed on the crimson sky, until I heard those voices calling me again.

Olalla…

Neszka…

VEELA…

“Olalla! Babe! Wake up, honey!”

His real voice finally roused me. I opened my eyes, disoriented, and flinched lightly when I saw Joshua hovering above me, his expression a mixture of tenderness and worry. “What happened?” I croaked, with my throat parched and hurting. 

“Well, you tell me. I woke up in the dark, hearing your cries coming from… here.” He crouched down and cupped my wet and puffy face, looking just as confused as I felt. “I’m sorry I fell asleep like that, but what are you doing here? It’s nearly morning. And why the hell are you crying?” Before I could even respond, he looked around hastily and with a strange, alarmed expression on his face, as if searching for something. That startled me too, as all those feelings from my dream still resonated deep within me. I tried to sit up, perhaps too fast, and my vision blurred before everything went dark for a split second and I was only vaguely aware of grabbing at Joshua’s shoulder to steady myself. That brought his attention back to me. “It was just a nightmare,” I breathed out, still hyperventilating, but getting better already. 

he frowned and grabbed my hands in his, while studying my face intently. “I figured… but babe! Bad dreams shouldn’t affect you this much! Does this happen often?” My silence only confirmed that they do, and he continued: “What are they about? When did you start having them?”

I couldn’t tell him the truth... 

The truth was confusing and scary. 

“It’s ok.” I said instead.

“I don’t think it’s ok. You’re shivering. And your hands are awfully cold!” 

“And you’re completely naked,” I pointed out the obvious, partly because I saw his dick in its full glory for the first time in months and it seemed almost comical in that particular situation, and partly because it allowed me to change the subject. Successfully, I should add, because he forgot about my shaking hands in an instant…

“Don’t act like you’ve never seen those jewels before,” he retorted playfully, quasi offended by my blunt comment (and stare). 

“Oh I’ve seen them before, but they never fail to dazzle me,” I continued to play along. “You are very obviously not cold.” His eyes widened momentarily, but I knew too well that his light-minded ego would always prevail when stroked. Humble and vain at the same time, Joshua loved flattery and admiration, even though it usually made him blush. 

And I wished I could speak just from my own experience, but it was rather an acquired knowledge and my very first attempt to use it to my advantage. I couldn’t understand why I suddenly felt so annoyed by the sheer fact that it worked…

“Perfect answer, darling. Ten out of ten,” he would have grinned if he could; instead, I watched his nostrils flare as he tried to keep a straight face. “Now come to bed with me. Lemme share some of that heat with you.” He stood up and offered me his hand to help me on my feet. 

“You go ahead, I need to use the bathroom first.” I stroked his shoulder reassuringly with the other hand as I tried to move past him, but he wouldn’t let me go. 

“Are you sure you’re ok?” 

I assured him that I was. I just needed to be alone for a second…

The black of the night turned to blue when I finally climbed into bed, naked and freezing. Cold showers often helped me get the echoes of my nightmares out of my head during waking hours. Joshua couldn’t help me with them and there was no way I could possibly let him… because I couldn’t even tell him. The worst part was that even though I did all I could to avoid thinking about them, they were much more than just echoes from the very start, evolving and transforming over time. Watching his bruised face filled me with complex emotions I could not yet fully comprehend. We were all playing a dangerous game. If anyone asked me at that moment what I really wanted, I’d choke on the response. I didn’t really know. The only thing I knew for sure at that moment was that I needed to feel him close to me. That was all that mattered; that was what caused all the mess in the first place. 

Joshua lay sprawled on my bed with familiar ease, like he’d always belonged there. He didn’t stir when I entered the room, seemingly asleep again, and I cursed myself for letting him wait for too long again. I slid under the blanket and tentatively touched the hot skin on his chest. I ran my palm across his ribcage and felt it slowly rise with one long and deliberate intake of breath. “Hey,” he whispered sleepily. 

I finally laid my head right next to his and relaxed for a bit, just taking in the serenity of the moment. It felt like we had to rediscover and relearn each other again, but that was ok. My grip on his warm, dry flesh slowly loosened and my fingers slid down onto his belly where I let them rest. “Hi…,” I mumbled back. He turned towards me, pulled me closer, and started nuzzling my neck affectionately. 

It always fascinated me how silence changes with light. Every part of the day has its own kind. It could be oppressive and deafening in the middle of the night, only to turn to cotton wool wrapped around your head as the sun came up behind the blanket of thick clouds. Especially when those thick clouds keep on falling from the sky to cover the land with a glimmering white blanket. 

It’s also the time when the most intimate moments are shared, because it feels like you have all the time in the world. All the impatience I felt just hours ago was suddenly gone. He dozed off again after a while and I let him. We just lay there next to each other in the muffled silence with our shoulders pressed together and his hand in mine. My mind cleared momentarily and I knew – above everything else – that I truly loved him. 

“Kocham cię,” I whispered again, just like I did months ago when we were lying below the starry sky. It wasn’t meant for his ears back then. I told it to the heavens, like a confession. I was now telling it to the spirits that lived in the snow-covered woods. 

“You said this before. What does it mean?” 

His low voice startled me, making me flinch. I turned my head quickly towards him, only to see his open eyes staring back at me with an amiable curiosity. They looked almost black in the dim morning light. “I.. I did, but I thought you were sleeping, and… you remember?” 

“It took me more than a week to recollect everything that happened prior to the fall, but yes, I remember. A lot of it felt more like a dream though, covered with this strange haze an’all, and I often thought that maybe it was just my mind playing tricks on me. But you said that, didn’t you. It was real...” 

“I did…,” I breathed out croakily. “Yes, it was real.” 

“So, what does it mean, babe?”

“Oh Joshua…” I started crying and immediately cursed myself for it. I had told him that I loved him a few times before, so this shouldn’t feel like such a big deal, but I felt overwhelmed anyway. His brows furrowed with worry and alarm, and he cupped my cheeks tenderly. 

“Hey, babe, what’s going on? Did I say something wrong? Or… is it bad?” 

“No, it’s not bad. It means I love you and I said that when I was certain and in peace with the fact that you never would. And you weren’t supposed to hear it. Or understand… I’m sorry. This is stupid. And I keep acting like an idiot! Why am I always like this?” I sniffed and took a deep breath, struggling to calm down while he kept on scrutinizing my face with concern still etched on his. 

“But I do! I do love you. That’s why I’m here, Neszka. You know that, right?” He snuggled up to me and pulled me even closer, pressing his naked chest to mine. “And you’re not an idiot. If anything, I think I behaved like one last night. I’m sorry.” 

“No, I’m…”

“Shhh… No more talkin’,” he whispered in my ear with his lips almost touching my earlobe and the deliberate slow and warm exhale that followed gave me goosebumps all over my body. The mood shifted immediately and I became acutely aware of the rhythm of his heartbeat. I could feel it quicken in response to my shaky moan when he ran his hand through the hair at the nape of my neck. “I really wish I could kiss you now,” he whispered against my shoulder, sounding a bit crestfallen, so I nipped the right corner of his mouth and then continued to cover his cheek with featherlight pecks before I looked into his eyes again. 

“You can do myriads of other things. But no more talking,” I teased.

“Right!” Joshua almost growled and deliberately tugged at the fistful of my hair, making me shiver again, before he let go and let his hand travel down, his fingers brushing against my hardened nipple. “Are you cold again?” he teased. 

I did not respond to that. At least not verbally. I just arched my by back and let his wandering hand reclaim my body: starting with my chin, then wrapping his long fingers around my neck, and sliding further down through the valley between my tits, across the plains of my spasming belly until he reached the damp crevice between my legs and cursed when he felt me weep all over his fingertips. “Fuck! That’s hot.” 

“Yeah, so you see, I’m not cold.” It was time to reciprocate and I took a similar path. I ran my middle finger down his spine, making him gasp when I didn’t stop where it ended, digging my fingernails into the soft meat around and pulling him closer to me. He was rock hard and pulsating against the flesh of my hip and my heart fluttered with relief. 

I snaked the other hand between us, wrapped my fingers around him and started pumping him slowly, making him hiss and moan. In response, he slid two fingers deep inside me and followed my rhythm. 

It was slow and lazy and overwhelmingly intimate and I watched him watching me. There was no more talking, but we continued to speak without words, searching for hidden thoughts behind each other’s eyes. After a while, I couldn’t take it any longer and I whispered “more” and he nodded. We let go of each other and he motioned to me to turn around. 

It was just like the first time, when he buried his face in my hair the same way he buried his dick inside me, and I was close to losing my mind when he bottomed out and shivered and moaned loudly right into my ear. I reached behind and grabbed him by the nape of his neck, keeping him in place. He was going to sing just for me this time, I’d make sure of it. 

We remained still for a few seconds with our limbs intertwined and I relished in the way he whimpered when I clenched around him. He then moved languidly a few times, hitting my g-spot just right with each stroke with his palm pressing down on my underbelly as if he was trying to feel himself becoming part of me. Claiming me, invading me. It was sexy, but I was far from satisfied. I needed him to obliterate the contents of my head. Violently, if need be. 

“Joshua…,” I panted in between moans.

“Mmm-hm?”

“Fuck my brains out baby, please…”

I heard him exhale with a hiss through his teeth and nose before he pulled out and turned me on my stomach in one swift motion. I whimpered into the pillow in anticipation and gasped a second later when he spread my legs apart with his knees and ran his fingers through my slit, almost possessively. “Ass up,” he demanded hoarsely, and I happily obeyed. 

The teasing bastard kept me waiting then, running his palm up and down my back before he smacked my ass with unforeseen force. “Ye-es,” I breathed out shakily. 

“Yes? Like this?”

“Please…” I needed him to destroy me, to punish me for thoughts he didn’t even know I had; thoughts that always came unwittingly and involuntarily and that once again made me hate myself and question everything I had known about myself or love. 

Because I loved him. I loved him even more than I had ever loved Dominik and that was the reason why I couldn’t stop participating in this madness. 

It was a mad kind of love. So let us be mad…

And he was. Whether it was his own secrets and frustrations seeping through, or just his desire to give me what I wanted, I welcomed it all. I needed to feel the power and I knew he had it in him. I had experienced it before, just like the extreme tenderness that felt mostly undeserved. I needed to be scorched by his inner fire because I knew I deserved it. 

Joshua entered me roughly this time and pulled my mind back into the cool, light blue reality of my room. And then he pulled my hair and I cried out, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of maddening arousal and the feeling of deep satisfaction that came with it. 

He forced me up onto my elbows and then set up a pace that quickly knocked me back on my pillow, so he pulled my arms behind my back and pressed my wrists together above the small of my back. I could hardly move, completely at his mercy as he kept on destroying my cervix until my thighs started to shake violently. 

We were loud. Or god, we were so loud, and I should have felt shame, because the house certainly isn’t soundproof. 

But it only served as a testimony that I belonged to him and he was mine and the rest of the world be damned.  

It seemed to disappear anyway. My brain short circuited and I was able to register just a few sensory perceptions.

The dull ache in my upper arms. 

His sweat dripping on me from above. 

His high-pitched moans and his heavy breath. 

His fingernails digging into the sensitive soft skin of my wrists and lower back. 

The increasingly pleasant feeling deep inside my pussy, until it became almost unbearable and cold shivers ran up my spine. 

I whined, with my whole being hovering somewhere between pleasure and pain, and he let go of my hands. I pulled them up and grabbed the pillow, trying to ignore the sharp pain shooting through my shoulders. He bent down and pressed his cold, damp flesh on my back, while whispering in my ear: “Are you ok?”

I was more than ok. He didn’t slow down, he just let his tender side cover me like a comfort blanket momentarily and at that moment I completely lost it. My whole body stiffened and I cried out as the waves of pleasure washed over me, one after another…and another…and another. 

He came shortly after me. His thrusts became more and more erratic until he suddenly stopped – shivering – and let out a ragged breath. One more sharp intake of breath and then thrusted forcefully into me for one last time and spilled his seed inside me with a high pitched wail. He remained hovering above me for a few more seconds with his forehead pressed in between my shoulder blades. I think I was holding my own breath the whole time.

Then he collapsed next to me, looking content and completely spent. 

I wished I could have stayed in bed with him until midday or even longer. We cuddled for a bit afterwards, but I had my responsibilities in the kitchen, so after a while I reluctantly climbed out of bed, took a quick shower, made myself some coffee and got dressed. When I checked on him to ask what he wanted for breakfast, I saw he had fallen asleep again, looking relaxed and peaceful.

With a heavy heart, but knowing he was ok, I left him there by himself again and went down, because it was already half past eight. 

At around 9:30, my phone chimed. At first I thought it was Joshua, still too lazy to get out of bed. I opened the message with a smile, but it only made my heart skip a beat.

Kuba Starlight: Are you still in bed?

I was peering at the screen for several seconds in disbelief, trying to make sense of it, before I typed a quick answer. 

Veela: Hello to you, too!:/ I mean…huh? And no, I’m already up.

He responded almost immediately. 

Kuba Starlight: Is he?

Veela: Jake, WTF?! Veela: No. He’s still in bed… AND we need to talk, BTW. 

I expected him to type another weird response right away, but he didn’t, so I put the phone down and went back to making perogies. Ten minutes later, I nearly screamed when I saw him standing in the kitchen doorway, his silhouette half obscured by the dim hall behind him. 

“JESUS CHRIST! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“Sweet of you to think so highly of me,” he chuckled. “But I’m still just Jake.”

@thewritingbeforesunrise @fleet-of-fiction @writingcold @lvnterninthenight @its-interesting-van-kleep   @takenbythemadness   @edgingthedarkness @myownparadise96   @gvfstuddedmajesty @josh-iamyour-mama @jazzyfigz @tripthelightfantastix @sanguinebats @wetkleenex-gvf @peaceloveunitygvf @kiszkas-canvas @fleetingjake @lizzys-sunflower @hollyco @emojakekiszka @gvfmarge @Dayumclarizzel @lipstickitty @clownstarr @musicislove3389 @i-love-gvf @blankvz @psychedelectable @allof--mylove

[void-wolfie]

Daddy Issues

summary: you sneak in through Sam's window one night to escape the rain and issues at home.

pairing: Samantha Carpenter x fem!Reader

tw: angst/fluff, mentions of abuse and alcohol

words: 1.37k

a/n: there was a different fic I was going to post, but I liked this one better

**if mentions of abuse are a trigger for you, I recommend not reading (doesn't go in-depth, but it is talked about)

You tapped on the window, hoping she was still awake. The fog coating the glass and the rain splattering your face made it difficult to see in. Just as you were about to give up, the window slid open and a pair of arms pulled you in.

"What are you doing here?" Her face was impassive, you couldn't tell what she was thinking.

"Uh, I'm sorry," you looked around the room, down at your feet, just anywhere to avoid eye contact, "I just- can I crash here for the night?"

She gave you a puzzled look.

"Your mom doesn't even have to know I'm here, I'll-"

"What happened to your face?" Within seconds she was in your space, grabbing your chin to better see your face in the dim lighting.

Oh. That.

"Uh, nothing. I got into a fight after school,"

It was a blatant lie, one she could see right through, "With who?"

"It doesn't matter,"

"y/n-"

"Sam, please."

She sighed, looking over at the door as if contemplating her options. If her mom ever knew you were here... yikes. But it was you, she'd do anything for you.

"Take off your hoodie, you're soaked."

You were soaked head to toe from the storm outside, having to walk here on foot wasn't exactly fun in the pouring rain, but you weren't sure where else to go.

You did as you were told, leaving you in just your sports bra and jeans. If you hadn't been facing the other way you might've caught the small glance Sam sent your way. The sight of you shirtless sent her thoughts running wild, she had to remind herself friends don't think those things about each other.

Those thoughts quickly left as she saw the state of you, though. Your sides were riddled with purple and yellow bruises. Most of them were obviously fresh, and she'd hate to see how they'd look tomorrow.

By the time you had it off and turned back around, she was handing you a dry pair of shorts and one of her hoodies.

You mumbled a thank you before going to get changed in the little bathroom connected to her room. The hoodie was a little big on you, but you could care less. It was warm, dry, and even smelt like her. The idea of you wearing something hers gave you butterflies.

You opened the little bathroom door and before you could even make it to the doorway, she pushed you back. She picked you up and sat you down on the countertop. She grabbed the little first aid kit she kept from under the sink and started cleaning the cuts on your face.

The one on your lip wasn't too bad, it'd probably hurt like a bitch in the morning though. The one across your eyebrow was worse. The area around it was already black and blue and you were lucky you didn't need stitches.

"You don't have to do that, you know."

"Don't move." She mumbled, "This might sting."

She poured antiseptic into the cut, and it took everything in you not to yell out in pain. You squeezed the counter and hissed, trying to hold yourself together, even if it was only for her.

“‘Might sting’ my ass," you muttered. You saw Sam smile at the comment, and all those butterflies from earlier flooding back.

After she was done cleaning you up, she put the kit away and led you back into her room, nudging you toward the bed.

"In."

"You don't have to-"

"I'm not letting you sleep on the damn floor. Now in."

You huffed. When Sam made up her mind, there was almost always no changing it.

You crawled under the covers and to the far edge of the bed, putting as much distance between you and Sam as possible. It's not that you didn't want to be around her, you very much did want to be around her. You just didn't want to make her uncomfortable.

Sam turned off the lights as she crawled under the covers, the only light left in the room coming from the nightlight in the corner. Still plugged in for those nights Tara would have nightmares and crawl in next to Sam.

"You gonna tell me who did that to you? Without the lies this time."

"Santa Claus," you deadpanned.

"I’m being serious."

"How do you know I'm not? That man breaks into homes for a living and people think it's cute-"

"y/n." She cut off your rambling. Even in the dark room, you could make out the deadly look on her face.

"Do we really have to talk about it?"

"Yes."

She was determined. You could see it in her eyes. If you didn't tell her now, she'd just find some way to pull it out of you tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, so on and so forth.

"My dad."

“Your dad did this to you?”

You nodded, playing with the strings on her hoodie to avoid making eye contact. Rolling the string up, unrolling it. Rolling it up, unrolling it. Repeat.

"Why?"

"He caught me trying to steal his bottle of Jack,"

"He pummeled you over alcohol?" If the look on her face was any indication, she was pissed. Nothing could’ve justified the beating you took, but all of this over a bottle of Jack. It was ridiculous.

She knew your relationship with your father was rocky, borderline abusive, but she had no idea how bad it truly was, you made sure to hide that from her.

You shrugged, "Can we stop talking about it now, please."

"Only if you promise to go get that checked out by the school nurse in the morning," she said, referring to the cuts on your face.

"And play 20 questions with Nurse Ratched, pass."

"y/n-"

"Sam, please."

You seemed to be saying that a lot tonight, and you weren’t really a fan. Begging wasn’t your style, not even for Sam. But you didn’t need to draw more attention to yourself than necessary.

Your mother died when you were little, car accident. Or, at least, that’s what your father tells you. If people start asking questions, well you had a feeling it would only get the authorities involved and you didn’t want that. Not when all they would do is take you away, put you in some foster facility, and you’d never see Sam or any of your other friends ever again.

Something in her resolve cracked. She let it go. Whether just for now, or for good you had no clue, but you'd take the win.

"You’re gonna fall off the bed sleeping like that." She switched the subject, referring to how you were perched on the edge of the mattress.

"Yeah, well, how do you propose I sleep miss know-it-all?"

She rolled her eyes, though, you could see a hint of a smile on the corners of her lips, "Get your scrawny ass over here, smartass,"

"Jeez, Sam, I don't know how I feel about you looking at my ass-"

She knew you weren't gonna move so she settled on moving you herself instead. She grabbed you by the waist and pulled you in, effectively cutting off whatever sarcastic retort you had lined up.

If your heart beat any faster, you were sure her mom could hear it from across the house.

Her arms were wrapped around you securely with your legs tangled in between hers. You'd be lying if you said you didn't feel safe. Safer than you'd felt in your own house recently, maybe even in years.

"Now go to sleep, we have class in the morning and it's already late enough."

Part of you wanted to wiggle out of her arms and go back to sleeping on the edge of the bed. But the other part of you was comfortable. Against your better judgment, you wrapped your arms around her and snuggled into her chest.

You were asleep in minutes. Sam could feel your erratic heartbeat finally slow, beating to the same rhythm as hers. She placed a light kiss to the top of your head before falling asleep herself, making sure to hold you tight all night.

[qwimblenorrisstan]

Stitching Us Together

Chapter 1: Caught

Summary: Brianna Riley, Charlotte Garrick, Isla MacTavish and John Price Jr, a close group of childhood friends, investigate a strange shadowy figure that had been poking around Isla’s front yard with a flashlight.

Word Count: ~ 5k

Warnings: Being watched, mentions of military, family arguing, internal conflicts, police, etc, nothing terrible, also just a note: simon is not abusive dad, just sort of distant/ strained relationship w daughter.

A/N: this is my longest fic yet…can y’all tell it’s what I’m hyperfixating over?? sorry I haven’t been posting much, schools been killing me, but I hope you enjoy this super specific au <3

OG Post | Character Layouts

It had all started with Price, the captain leading the way to something that eventually happened to all of them.

His missus had gotten pregnant, and he’d left service not even a month after, deciding that he was getting too old for it, anyway.

Johnny had been next, honorably discharged after taking a shot to the head, barely surviving, but deemed too fucked up to go back into service.

Then Gaz had quit, claiming he was going back to London, to help run his parent’s quaint little restaurant since they were getting older. All of them really knew it was because of the pretty lady now in his life, though. They'd seen the picture he kept of her in his wallet.

Simon, the stubborn bastard that he was, had only thrown in the towel once he learned that a fling he’d had a few years ago had resulted in a kid he’d never learned about. He’d left after scrolling through the random alcoholic he’d fucked a few years ago’s Instagram, finding a blond haired-blue eyes kid in the background of one of her posts.

He’d gotten custody of the girl, named Brianna, which wasn’t surprising considering the kid’s mom had been a substance and drug abuser.

The old captain had a second kid, a little girl named Josie, with his older boy, John. Everyone just called him Jr, though.

Gaz had a sassy little girl named Charlotte and affectionately called her Charlie.

Soap had found himself a Scottish wife and settled down in London as well, where her family happened to live. They’d had a girl too, naming her Isla, though friends called her Is, or Isa.

They’d grown up together in London close by, their parents just calling each other members of 141 their “uncles.” No one questioned it, and considering the tiny bits of questionable information each of you had on your father’s, no one wanted to ask questions.

Poor Jr had been the oldest by a year, but still the “baby” of the group, since he was constantly bullied by Isa and her quick wit. It didn’t help that Brianna’s little snorts and Charlie’s laughs only encouraged the menace.

“Seriously, I don’t see what’s so funny.” Jr muttered, a hint of pink on his cheeks as his voice cracked. Isla was relentless, mocking his cracking voice while she cackled.

“Righ’, nothin’ wrong with me. All normal over here.”

She said, making her voice much deeper, and forcing little kinks and cracks that Jr scowled out. Charlotte smirked and snickered quietly, and Isla saw Bri’s shoulder shake in silent laughter.

“It’s not funny.” Jr replied, a little frown on his face unlike his usual scowl, a hint of insecurity in those big, brown eyes. A small sign that he was slightly upset, or getting close to it anyway. Bri’s silent laugh immediately disappeared, and Charlie frowned.

Isa clapped him over the shoulder from beside him, where they were sitting in Kyle’s parent’s restaurant that he mainly ran now.

“Ay, didn’t mean it y’know? Jus’ playing with ya, Jr.” She said, a grin still on her face, but a bit more apologetic this time. He shrugged her off, relaxing back into the booth.

“‘S fine, wha’ever.” He said, a sure sign of his forgiveness. He forgave easily, a bad habit of his. Charlie reached a slender hand out, snatching a cheese and bacon bit-covered fry out from the bright red and white paper basket they were in at the center of the table. The cheese stretched, long and warm.

She took a bite, humming at how good it was.

“Tha’ good?” Bri asked, raising a brow. Charlie gave a little nod, chewing before speaking.

“Good as hell, if I do say so myself-“

Kyle’s head poked out from the kitchen, where his parents were both back cooking up whatever orders were up. Plenty of kids came by after school, because of how close it was, and how quick the food came out. Charlie would know since she was here every day after school. Sometimes she got to help out in the kitchen.

He raised a brow at Charlotte.

“Language.” He said, before going back into the kitchen.

Jr smirked, happy to have something to get back at his friend for now.

“Yeah, Garrick, watch your language~” He drawled, dragging the sentence out while Isla snorted in amusement, some water accidentally coming out of her nose.

“Ewww-“

“Not on the fries!”

Brianna only watched in what looked like mild amusement as she pulled the fry basket away just in time, using the stereotypical brown restaurant napkins to wipe the water up. Loud, booming laughter came out of Isa after she’d swallowed or sprayed whatever water had been in her mouth. Her leg bounced under the table while she rubbed her nose.

“Hurts me bloody nose,” She said with a crooked grin they had all come to love.

“Hurts my eyes,” Jr said in a wry tone, giving a tiny little disgusted look to the soaked pile of napkins now near Isa on the table. Charlie made a gagging sound.

“Now the fries are ruined!”

“Now, don’ be dramatic, they’re just fi-“

“You sprayed snot water on them-!”

“Would ya quit cutting me off?!”

As the others bickered, Bri casually grabbed a fry and took a bite, unbothered. The others watched and sighed, deciding that if Brianna wasn’t falling over dead from it, then maybe they were all right. Jr watched carefully as Charlie took a fry and a hesitant bite, then followed and did the same.

“See, told’ya.”

“Shut it, MacTavish.”

Isla rolled her eyes, devouring the fries at an unprecedented rate. Her shoulder-length brown hair was held back behind her ears, glinting just right in the setting sun that it looked almost red in some strands. The diner was going to close soon. Then Bri was going to walk them home, per usual. Probably because of the knife she kept on her, paranoid as she was. Isla kept a Swiss Army knife on her with a tiny knife, scissors, and even a nail file on it.

Charlie sometimes used it in class to file down her nails into shape when the teachers weren’t looking.

John would always give them disappointed looks from the side of the room where he always sat. Closest to an exit, always.

Being children of ex-military did lead to a bit of paranoia always, even if you didn’t know what it was that your father’s had done to be so secretive or have such bad PTSD. Maybe it was that paranoia that had Isla up so late at night, pushing the button on the hilariously pink Disney Princess walkie-talkies they’d all gotten one year.

“Anyone up?”

She asked, peeking out of her window and gazing out at a light in the street. Looked like a flashlight to her. A voice responded a minute or two later, interrupting Isa’s leg bouncing. Her hands fidgeted with the walkie.

“Why.” Bri’s gravelly, I-just-woke-up voice was the one to reply. She’d always been a light sleeper, so it didn’t exactly surprise Isla that a walkie message would keep her up.

“Someone poking around outside m’ house. Any o’ your family out visiting, or sumethin?” Isa asked, frowning as she saw the dim flashlight turn away, the shadowy figure not fully visible against the yellow streetlight’s beams. The light turned her way, and she dropped to the floor below the window, breathing now a lot faster.

“No.” Bri said bluntly.

Jr suddenly decided to join the conversation then, it seemed, as he spoke up, his staticky, cracking voice echoing over the radio.

“Why the bloody hell would anyone be out this late?” He groggily asked, and there was some silence on both ends as Isla watched the shadowy figure walk down the street, in the direction of Charlie’s house, but also the school. They were down the same street, after all.

“Wan’ to go find out?” Briana’s voice, now a bit more awake and alert, asked over the radio. Bri wasn’t one for late-night adventuring, or anything really for fun, Isa thought, so she must either be concerned or mildly curious. Her dad would kill her if he knew she was sneaking out to spy on suspicious people.

“We really shouldn’t-“ Jr began before Isa cut him off.

“Sure, meet me at the house. All black clothes, you get the deal. Bring the walkies, too.”

“What about Charlie?” Jr asked.

“Yeah, what about Charlie?” Charlotte’s voice then spoke up, and Isa could already picture the little snort Bri would give at that, and the way Jr’s cheeks would go slightly pink.

“Meet you in five.” Bri replied, no hint of shame or apology in her tone for almost leaving Charlotte out. That started the race against the clock to get ready before the mystery person got too far to track.

Practically ripping her pajamas off as quietly as she could, Isa changed into a pair of black sweats and a black hoodie. Better to blend into the streets. Her Swiss Army knife remained in her pocket, clasped onto some of the fabric.

Her fingers wrapped around the cold bottom of her bedroom’s window, slowly sliding it up and cringing at the creaking it made. She needed to oil the thing or something, before it woke her dad up one of these days. He was a light sleeper, after all. Always waking up to the tiniest sound, like when she got random 3 am motivation to rearrange all the furniture in her room or organize her bookshelf by color in the middle of the night.

Hoisting herself up onto the window’s ledge, the cool night air kissed her tan skin as she slowly crept out, closing the window but leaving it just a bit open. Just enough for her to get back in. She’d done this before, it was more like muscle memory at this point. Sure, sometimes she’d switch it up so nobody got suspicious of why there were fresh marks of fingerprints disturbing the dust on her window’s ledge.

Her dad would surely notice.

The grass cracked lightly under her feet as she walked carefully out, the cold biting against her ankles where her socks and sweatpants didn’t overlap. It was dark tonight, the moonlight not shining nearly enough, and the streetlights dimmed from their constant use. Lord knows no one would replace them with newer ones. Not in this area.

Creeping down the street, keeping eyes out for anyone nearby, not seeing anyone other than a few homeless, or some skeletal-looking drug addicts with glazed-over looks in their eyes. Cutting down an alleyway, and hopping a few chain link fences, she eventually found their little meeting spot.

It was a boarded-up building, something that had previously been a home but had been foreclosed when the old woman owning it had a stroke and died in it. The stench of death wasn’t very noticeable now, but it was bad enough that no one bought it, and it had been foreclosed on, windows and entrances boarded up.

Of course, no one had noticed where the back window was missing a little plywood.

Isla crouched down, walking over to the house. A loose branch from one of the overgrown bushes snagged her hair, at which she grumbled and tugged it free, hissing when she felt a few pieces of hair rip free from her scalp.

She put her hands on the cold brick ledge of the house, hopping in as the brick scraped against her fingertips. Her hands patted at her pants for a moment, cursing when she didn’t feel a flashlight she could’ve sworn she brought. The house was pitch black at this hour, and smelled like moldy carpet and old people, a faint hint of rotting, too.

She slipped her phone out of her pocket, turning the light on, only to yelp and jump back when Bri’s face greeted her, an amused smile on her lips.

“Hell’s balls, you really gotta stop w’ that, Bri-“

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“‘Course you do.”

With a sigh, Isa turned her flashlight on, finding the little wooden table with some dents in it in the center of the demolished kitchen that they always sat at, she took her walkie-talkie with Tiana’s face on it and set it down there. Brianna’s Mulan walkie-talkie followed.

Pausing a moment as she thought, Isa then turned to face Bri.

“How did ya even get here ‘fore me?”

Brianna paused, a hint of something like deliberation in her eyes before she spoke. The blond began popping her fingers, a nervous habit.

“Had an argument wit’ m’ dad. Needed some air.” She said with a shrug, blue eyes now watching to see what Isa would think. Always watching, always thinking. Sometimes Isla thought she was more paranoid than Jr, and that was saying something.

She simply gave a little bob of her head, not asking anything further. If she’d wanted to share more, she would’ve. It was like watching a flower slowly bloom and open up, if you forced it, then it wouldn’t look right, and it would die quickly.

A heavy silence ensued, which was quickly interrupted by muffled cursing and feet lightly hitting the floor. Charlotte was here.

“We ought to trim that tree, keeps snagging my hair.”

She muttered under her breath, and Jr arrived almost right after, sliding into the window’s brick ledge where he sat, eyes strained, not yet adjusted to the darkness, as he looked down. The poor lad was afraid of heights, they all knew.

“It’s 4 feet, Jr.”

Bri spoke, the tone being more sardonic than anything. Jr sighed, and Isa saw his eyes close as he winced, sliding off the ledge, and releasing a tiny squeak when his feet hit the ground. To think that this was a 17-year-old. He did not act it.

He sighed, walking over to the table, where everyone had now gathered. His Cinderella walkie was placed on the table next to Charlie’s Elsa one.

“What’re we here for, again?” The boy asked with a slight yawn in his voice, rubbing his eyes. Isa rolled her eyes at his apparent exhaustion.

“I saw someone dressed in all black, poking around my front yard with a flashlight in the dead of night, that’s why.”

She said, giving him a look, as if to say that was obvious, while Charlie frowned, lips pressing into a line.

“That’s not terrible, I mean, we’ve done worse and our neighborhood didn’t freak out.” She pointed out with a shrug, and Bri nodded.

“Much worse.” She agreed with a grin in her tone.

This was much better than the time you’d all tried to fry some dead roadkill you’d found by throwing it at an electrical box, only to accidentally make the local's electricity go out for almost an entire week. The electricians must’ve been confused when they found a dead goose beside a smashed control panel. You’d all dipped after accidentally breaking it, anyway.

Or the time you’d all gone to a haunted house, and Charlie had faked having a panic attack so convincingly that one of the girls dressed up as a vampire began crying and called her parents to come pick her up. Poor Charlotte had tried to redeem herself from there, but the damage had already been done.

Brianna had also intimidated a teacher into changing her schedule, once. All of the group had relatively the same schedule in your little high school of around 500 people, but for whatever reason Bri had gotten none of the same classes, so she’d gone on down to the principal's office and forced the principal's hand somehow. How she did it, none of them knew, all she’d said afterward was that she “Knew things.” as if that explained anything.

And Junior…poor Junior, he was always the slowest of the group, for whatever reason, always being found or caught when you all pulled some ridiculous shenanigans. Or there was the one time Josie had put hair dye from her mum’s closet in Price’s shampoo, which had been disastrous. Josie blamed Junior for the entire thing, and Price had been so mad, he’d believed it. Grounded for almost three weeks.

“Let’s just check it ou’, and shave her head if it ain’t worth our time.” Brianna suggested, and they all glanced at each other, nodding their heads in mild agreement. Isla blinked at that, before her face contorted in disbelief.

“Really? I thought you were better than thi-“

“Any ideas on where they went?” Jr interrupted, and Charlie spoke up.

“Mentioned somethin’ on the radio about down the road, right?”

Isa sighed, seeing she wasn’t going to get anywhere with trying to protest the head-shaving in her possibly near future.

“Aye, they went down the road.”

She replied in a slightly annoyed tone, and Bri nudged her shoulder a bit, grabbing her walkie and shoving it into her pocket.

“Perk up, maybe we’ll find somethin’. Got a plan, Jr?”

At the mention of a plan, Jr perked up, picking up pieces of broken ceiling and rocks to represent each of them, and a large stick to represent the school.

“Well, if they went down the road then that’s towards the school. I was thinking we could split up, me and Charlie, Isa, and Bri. We take the alleyways down, I take the right, you all take the left, and we meet at the school, where we can recombine in the back.”

He spoke quickly, fingers drumming against his thigh, working himself into a frenzy while talking. Everyone gave nods, before they split into their separate groups, all taking the same window out, before splitting into their groups. They each gave one last goodbye, a little mock salute before heading out into the darkness.

Junior and Charlotte

“I'm starting to think Isa’s just paranoid.” Charlie said, glancing at the surroundings of the alleyway around them. Scurrying rats, bugs, little grimy posters, and pictures posted on the walls or the dumpsters. She didn’t see anything.

Junior sighed, continuing to walk. He wasn’t the most quiet, which made sense, considering his size. Even if Brianna was taller than him and deathly silent.

“Look, we’re all a bit jumpy. Pretty normal for us, considering our dads.”

He said quietly, crouching down as he walked, eyes darting around to look for anyone. It had been almost fifteen minutes and they hadn’t spotted anyone yet. Charlie stepped on an empty can, crunching it beneath her foot, and Jr jumped at it, immediately looking for something to change the subject before Charlotte made fun of him.

“What did they even do? I mean, obviously, they were mili’ary, but my dad never talks about it.”

He said randomly, and Charlie continued walking through the alley, him clumsily following along. She did pause the slightest moment though, head cocking slightly to the side as he watched her take in his words. It must’ve caught her interest, and he’d gotten lucky.

“They were special forces. Dealing with terrorists, and covert shit.” She said quietly, in an almost hushed tone, temporarily pausing.

He raised his brows.

“How do you know?” Junior asked in the most innocent tone he could muster. Sure, he could see his dad, and definitely Bri’s dad as special forces in the military, but sweet little Kyle? Or Isla’s rowdy but affectionate dad? No wonder they never talked about their pasts.

“Went through some files on my dad’s computer when I was bored. Whole lotta locked stuff, so I found a back door into it, and read it.” She said in that same quiet tone but with a bit more shame in it this time.

“I shouldn’t have, he would’ve told me when he thought I was ready, but-“

“Hey, it’s fine.” Junior interrupted in a soft tone. He wouldn’t let her stand there and talk bad about herself. Not when…

“I would’ve done the same thing if I’d known how to.”

She glanced back at him when he said that, a bit of shock on her face. John Price Jr was the good kid, the one who listened to what he was told and was nice, strong, and compassionate, always helping out. She never took him for someone who could be nosy or disobedient. She guessed she still had a lot to learn about him. A muffled voice came from the walkie by her side, but she ignored it. They were almost to the school anyway.

Not knowing what to say, she stayed silent, looking to change the subject, when the school appeared in view from the left side wall. She peeked her head out, looking at the school a second before Junior. Blue and red lights. Cars. People. She shut the walkie off. Jr’s must’ve died by now.

“Hey, there’s the-“

A hand slammed over his mouth as he was pulled down into the alleyway. His mumbled protests against Charlie’s hand quickly stopped when he heard the footsteps, and then the voice that came.

“And you were alone in the school?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Brianna.

Brianna and Isla

They were crouched in the old, crumbling alleyway, moving as quickly and quietly as they could whilst keeping their eyes out for anyone nearby.

Isla had been rattling off for almost fifteen minutes about something, Brianna couldn’t even figure out what she was talking about half the time, but she was trying to listen. A good friend would listen patiently, even when they had a pounding headache and wanted to scream at someone. Her patience was waning.

She already had anger problems in the first place, and that thought only led to another, one that infuriated her more than anything.

The argument.

“Hey, are you even listening?”

Isla was prone to her anger as well, but hers wasn’t as destructive. Isa could express herself openly, something Brianna was more than jealous of. She made it seem so easy, but anytime Bri tried to open up, the words got stuck in her chest, and her heart stopped beating. It was like a giant wall stood between her tongue and her mind. It refused to be saddled and obey properly.

It was so frustrating, so annoying-

“I said, are you even-?”

“Just shut up.”

She ground out without even realizing. A hint of annoyance and hurt flashed on Isa’s face, before going back to normal. Bri paused. Stopped. Isa looked back, stopping too, as if hopeful.

And the words got stuck.

They were stuck and refused to come out. Like a clogged pipe that no matter how you pumped at it, refused to unclog. It made her want to rip everything to shreds. But maybe, just this once, she might be able to say something.

“I’m..”

She began, words unsteady. Isa’s brows rose, confusion and hope in her gaze. She was that confused, just because Brianna might be apologizing? It made her angry all over again, angry at everything, angry at her father, angry at anyone she could be angry with.

It was one word, it shouldn’t be hard, really.

Sorry.

Five letters.

Just get five letters out, she told herself. It shouldn't be this hard. She should be able to do this. Opening her mouth to speak, her throat suddenly dried up, and she began to whisper something.

“I’m..s-“

There. A flash of movement in the corner of her eye. A shadow. A tiny, dimmed light. The same kind of light that would come from her flashlight when she took one battery out, just so it wasn’t as bright, so it wouldn’t hurt her dog’s eyes when she went to get a midnight snack. Turning the lights on always woke up dad.

She needed to stop thinking about dad.

Isla caught it too, a look in her eye saying they would continue that conversation later, but now, they were on the hunt. A little wave of her hand, and they were both moving, crouched down, interweaving between the alleyway’s dumpsters and trash piles.

The shadowy figure with the dimmed light moved exactly where they thought it would go, into the school. Their entrance? Hopping the chain link fence and using an unlocked door in the side to get in. The school locked all of its doors at night.

Brianna would know.

She and Charlie had once attempted to break in when Charlie had left her notebook in her locker by accident when she needed it for the test the following day. All the doors and windows were secure and locked. Especially the one on the side of the building that the shadowy person was now using.

“They must have keys to the buildin’.” Bri muttered, and Isa nodded.

“So either staff or student.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Wha’ever. Let’s follow ‘em.”

They crept up to the door, still partly ajar but closing rapidly on its own. Isla reached there first, using her foot and wedging it to stop the door from closing further. Bri nodded and walked further in.

The school looked as normal as it could at night. Lights off. Everything undisturbed. No sign of anyone, other than the tiniest distant footsteps she could make out. Towards the front of the building. Maybe the stairwell?

Jerking her head to Isa, they both began carefully walking, rolling on the balls of their feet to make their footsteps as silent as could be. They’d need it.

The footsteps abruptly stopped, and they did too. Peeking around a corner into the main entrance area, Isa saw the front office’s door open.

“In the front office, we should tell the others.” She murmured as quietly as possible. Bri shook her head, and Isa silently asked why with her expression.

“Walkies are too loud. Don’ want to scare ‘em off before we see anything useful.”

It was reasonable, Isa would admit. The others could catch up later. They’d arrive here soon, anyways, and probably quietly take a back exit. Considering Jr’s chronic planning out things, he’d get it all figured out.

Seeing that the stranger wasn’t getting out of the office, the two of them dared move closer and closer, until both of them were right by the door. Peeking in, Brianna found…nothing.

There was no one there. No shadowy stranger, or any odd people.

But the filing cabinets were open. Files and papers were strewn everywhere across the room, and a few things were knocked over and broken. There was no possible way the stranger could’ve done this within that amount of time, let alone do it without alerting them. Broken mugs, picture frames, dented cabinets…

“Somethin’ ain’t right. Someone purposefully shined a flashlight in the direction of your house, walked here slowly enough that we could catch up, and then we found the office trashed?”

Brianna said, standing fully up, before kicking around the pile a bit. Bright, flashing lights blinded her vision next, and Isla’s hands yanked her down.

“Police. Someone called ‘em. We’ve got to tell the Charlie and Jr-“

“Give me a minu’e, yeah?”

Something had caught her eye in that stack of files. Names. Numbers. Familiar ones, too.

She heard Isla radioing the others in the background, only for no reply to be heard. Her hand reached out to comb through the files, and Isla sighed, putting the walkie down, and beginning to help her.

“What are you lookin’ for?”

“There was somethin’ in here. Somethin’ familiar.”

“Are you really gonna get us arrested for something ‘familiar’?”

“I’ll do wha’ever I want, and you can right well piss off if you don’t agree.”

“Whatever, just hurry up, they’re coming.”

Footsteps, and keys jingling from outside. She heard the knob for the front door turn. One more second, they just needed one more second to get this file-

And then she saw it.

The words blurred together for some of the first sentences, some were blacked out with marker, and others were simply marked through with a line saying [REDACTED]. But there was one line she recognized all too well.

Simon “Ghost” Riley.

She took the paper, shoved it in a Manila folder, and pushed it into Isa’s hands as she pushed her friend backward, into a storage closet. The door of the closet clicked behind her. Isla didn’t move, not when the police officer caught sight of Bri, the flashlight and gun pointing in her direction.

“Hands! Let me see hands!”

Brianna did what she was told, sticking her hands in the air, and not approaching the cop. It was a woman. Maybe in her mid-20s, looked like the no-nonsense type. Red lipstick. Darker skin. Hair that had been recently silk-pressed.

“Walk out slowly, and keep your hands in the air.”

She obeyed that, too. Walking slowly out, each step measured and purposeful. The hands and arms remained in the air. She was so fucking done for when her dad found out-

Brianna refused to let herself think about that.

“What’s your name?”

“Brianna Riley, ma’am.”

“Why are you breaking into a school after hours?”

“Forgot m’ work, ma’am, figured I might as well come get it.”

The officer glanced over at the trashed office and raised a brow.

“And that?”

“Already there when I arrived, ma’am.”

She didn’t believe her. It was clear. Honestly, if Brianna were in that cop’s shoes, she wouldn’t believe her either. Two intruders in one night, and a teenager found in a trashed office? It was painfully clear what probably happened. Except she was telling the truth.

“Alright, well you’re coming with me, and we’re going to work this out. Keep your hands in the air, and walk slowly.”

Her gun stayed on you the entire time, even as you passed an alleyway, not daring to glance at who you knew must’ve been Jr and Charlie hiding there.

“And you were alone in the school?”

“Yes ma’am.”

When she got into the car, the officer gave her a rundown of her charges, only minor ones since she wasn’t an adult, basically only receiving a fine of $500, something she could pay because of her shitty fast-food job in town, Brianna Riley knew one thing.

Her dad was going to kill her.

Tags:

@seconds-over-first

[entitled-fangirl]

Adjustment.

Pelle x American!reader

Summary: Three summers ago, Y/n became a part of the Harga. With Pelle returning for midsummer with American friends, she begins to rethink her life here.

Warnings: MANIPULATION TO THE MAX Y'ALL!!! But if you've seen Midsommar then you already knew that I guess. This is a dark one so discretion is advised.

A/n: To the anon that asked for this- I HAVE DELIVERED! This is the first fic since like June that hasn't been GoT related, so it was a nice change of pace, despite that it's just Pelle manipulating the reader

Masterlist

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She watched Pelle approach, a radiant smile coming over her face. "Pelle!"

The man's head shot up, and his eyes brightened, his arms opening wide. She ran to him. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, one around her waist, the other in her hair. "Oh, how I have missed you."

"I promise I've missed you more. You've gotten to explore, and I've been stuck here without you."

"I trust you have adjusted well," He mentioned as he pulled away, his hands coming to cradle her face. 

"As much as I can. You've brought others?"

Only then did he remember the others. "Ah, right." He turned and pulled her to his side, gesturing to each person. "These are my friends. Josh, Mark, Christian, and uh, Dani." His thumb rubbed at her waist, "Everyone, this is Y/n. She is uh, my spouse, of sorts."

Mark's brows came together. "Like, you're married?"

Josh chipped in. "You didn't mention that."

"No, no," Pelle assured. "Here, we do not believe in the typical marriage that others do. She is my one. But we are all of one family, so legal marriage seems unneeded."

"I see," Josh nodded.

"It is lovely to meet you all," she chimed. "You are American, no?"

"Yeah," Christian agreed. "You're uh, you are too?"

She grinned. "Yes. A dear friend of mine was from here, and she brought me along for midsummer a few years ago. I met Pelle, and the rest is but chance."

"More than chance," Pelle beamed. "She is a beauty, is she not?"

"This friend of yours that brought you," Josh mentioned, "Is she here?"

Her face fell a bit. "No. No, uh. She has died."

Pelle was quick to comfort her. "Her pain is our pain. And you know her life was well lived. There is no death in life, huh?"

"No," she agreed. She quickly fixed her upset features. "Ingmar has made a tea, if you wish for it."

Pelle hummed. "That is quite the idea." He turned to the others. "That would help relax us, yes?"

She pulled from his arms and moved to Dani. "Perhaps us women may speak of finer things. I would enjoy the company."

Dani's eyes pulled into a worried expression that she tried to hide. "Oh. That… That would be nice. I've been in a car with four guys for hours. I'd like the change of pace."

Y/n smiled. "Then it is settled. Pelle?" She asked, turning to him.

His head tilted in an admiring way. "Of course. My company is lovely, but I'm sure Dani would appreciate that."

They watched the men walked off, no doubt going to get high and stare at the grass for the next couple hours. 

"I miss it, you know," Y/n admitted.

"What?"

"America." She looked out over the mostly empty field. "The sun shines differently here. And… I miss the color."

"It's beautiful here," Dani tried to ease.

"Yes, but I meant," she trailed off, gesturing at Dani. "The clothes. I miss my shirts and the pants I had."

"Is that all you wear? The white?"

"Hm?" She looked down at her dress. "Yes. But I have the stitching in both blue and red."

Dani chuckles lightly. "I don't think I could live without sweatpants."

"It gets easier after a while. Pelle promised to bring back books for me. I have not adjusted as well as he was hoping. I know it worries him."

Dani nodded. "He did bring some books. I admit, I didn't want to pry him about why, but that makes sense now."

"He really did? Oh, what kind? And… and how many? Are they popular ones? In America, I mean?"

Dani's eyes widened. "Oh, uh. I don't know. I didn't really look."

She forced her excitement down. "Right. Right. Well, enough of me. Please. I want to know about you," she smiled as she began to lead them down the path to the Harga.

Dani shrugged and put her hands in her pockets as she walked. "Um, let me think. There's not that much to know, really."

"You're in college, aren't you?"

"Yeah. But I'm not in anthropology like the guys-"

"-hmmm. That's odd," she mused. "I studied anthropology as well. For a year or two, anyway."

"Oh," Dani remarked, trying to smile at that. "That is kinda strange. Small world, I guess."

"Yeah. Strange…"

…

Quite a few hours later, the boys stumbled their way into the Harga, Pelle slightly more conscious than the others. He immediately crossed the field, hugging his relatives along the way as he went.

Upon seeing them again, Y/n ushered Dani back over to them.

The more Dani had talked, the more Y/n was beginning to grow concerned about the Harga. 

Like maybe she should have trusted her mind in the first place all those summers ago.

"So many thoughts in your mind," Pelle chimed as he approached her. "I could feel them across the field."

"Dani told me you've brought books," she immediately admitted, not bothering to try to do small talk with him.

Pelle gave a soft chuckle at her eagerness. His hands cupped her cheeks. "I did. Just a few. I know it is not quite everything you want, but I could not bring an entire library. Not when there is so much here for you to still understand."

She couldn't hide the light disappointment in her eyes. It had been such a long year without Pelle. The people of the Harga were comforting and understanding, but there still were the few that stared at her during dinners, like they could read the growing fight in her heart.

She missed home so much. And everyone knew it.

It worried Pelle to no end. 

That's why he brought small things to help her adjust. Books, magazines, art, each summer visit back to the Harga included Pelle's way of reminding her that the rest of the world existed.

Just outside of her reach.

Last summer had been the worst when her friend had offered herself as a sacrifice. Y/n begged Pelle to let her join his travel back to the States.

"I'll be good! I can… I'll do anything! Just don't leave me," she pleaded, her hands in tight fists that gripped his clothing. "I can't do this again."

Pelle gave her a pitying look. It pained him so much to do this to her, but he knew the moment she made it back in the States, he'd lose her. It was not something he was willing to bargain.

"It is only for a few months," he tried to ease. His voice always managed to sooth her. "I am almost done with all of my classes, then I'll return back home. Forever. You just have to be patient." He tilted her head up, ignoring the ugly tear streaks across her cheeks. "Can you do that? Be patient for me?"

"I… I'm feeling sick," she admitted to him. Her mind was so flooded with conflicting thoughts that a headache had began to form.

"How awful," he cooed, his hand rubbing at the back of her head. "Surely they can manage without you for the day. I will walk you to bed."

"No," she covered. "I'm rather hungry-"

That sparked his need to provide for her. "I will go and get you something. I'll bring it to your bed." He kissed her forehead. "Go on."

"Can Dani walk me?" She asked.

Pelle's brows pulled together as he looked from her to Dani. He wanted to say no, but he couldn't understand why exactly. "Okay."

Once the two women got away from the group and into the large building, Y/n grabbed Dani by her biceps. "You have to leave," she warned lowly.

"W-What?" 

"If you stay, you'll stay forever," she cried. "I can't- I can't go home. I've begged. And they'll kill me if they find out I've told you. Please. You have to leave."

"Y/n-"

"-Please!" She cried again. "You must trust me!"

"But Pelle understands we're just visiting."

"I was just visiting," she pointed out. "Until I wasn't. Pelle is a small silver lining in a dumpster of shit. Promise me you'll try."

Dani ran a hand through her hair. "H-How?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "And you can't let them know what you're thinking. They're smarter than they look."

"Alright. Let's just get you in bed for now. We'll talk when you feel better."

"Dani, I'm not crazy. Please-"

"I know." Dani tried to ease. "Let's just get you in bed."

Dani tucked the woman in, making sure all was right before promising to return later to check on her. As she left, she almost ran into one of the older members of the Harga. "Oh. Excuse me."

"She's sick, that one," the older woman, Irma, mused. "We've tried to help her. But her mind is quite plagued. You understand, yes?"

"I…" Dani hesitated. Everything was still so new that she didn't know who to trust, and it was clear that this woman didn't trust her. "Yeah," she lied. "We all say things when we're sick."

…

Pelle came in not long after, Irma catching him on his path and speaking to him in a low voice and handing him a small pouch. Pelle's face dropped at whatever the lady said before nodding and going on with his mission, the skip in his step now gone.

"I've brought you some stew," he chirped when he stepped to Y/n's bed. "Ulla tells me that has been your favorite as of late."

She sat up with a groan, watching Pelle set it at her bedside. She moved to speak, but he beat her to it.

"The elders… they don't think you should speak to Dani anymore." He sat on the side of her bed with his body facing her, though his head was down to avoid eye contact with her. "And after hearing what you said, I have to agree."

Ice poured down her veins, pausing the headache. "Pelle-"

"I think I have been too lenient with you," he admitted in a whisper, like even he didn't want to say it.

"No, listen to me-"

"I know adjusting has been difficult, but have we not been a home for you? Have I not been enough?"

She reached out to his sleeve, tugging on it. "You've been wonderful, I'm the one with the problems."

How easily she was manipulated.

"I think," he muttered, finally looking up at her. "I should stop connecting you with… outside influences."

"No!" She begged. "No, Pelle, you can't! Please!"

"The books, the art, I'll have someone come collect them tomorrow." He sighed and watched himself pick at his nails. "I knew it was a poor idea the moment I started it."

Hot tears fell down her cheeks as she continued tugging on his sleeve in a desperate attempt to make him reconsider. "I need connection, Pelle-"

"That is what they are talking about," he pointed out. "Connecting you to all of these things, making you feel like you are missing out, it is harmful to your little mind." He ran a hand over her hair as he said so. "It has made you dislike your home here." He stood. "And maybe I am the one to blame. I let you hang on to your old life. I should not have." He rubbed at his forehead in thought. "So I must apologize for this."

"What do y-" her sentence stopped in the middle as her eyes widened. "Don't take me away!"

"My American friends need to sleep here, and since we cannot have both you and them here at night, it is easier to relocate you. Perhaps a talk with Siv and a private room for a while will help this."

"No," she begged. "No, Pelle! NO! Not Siv, don't make me!" She cried in a desperate tone.

He sat again, sighing deeply and running a hand over her cheek in a calm manner. In a caring way. Like maybe he truly wouldn't make her. Like he may go back on his word. "It pains me to do so," he sighed. "So very much." His eyes searched hers, the deep blue irises studying her from the inside out, trying to find a way to be merciful yet firm. "Only until you have learned better."

He reached down to the small pouch he was given by Irma earlier, taking a pinch of the powder in it and holding it out in his hand in front of her. 

She tried to move away, but Pelle's blow was quick enough to send the powder into her face. She coughed immediately, prompting a large breath in and her eyes glazed over. 

Pelle caught her head gently, taking extra care when laying her down. 

…

When Y/n didn't show the next day, Dani finally got the nerve to ask Pelle where she was.

Pelle turned with a reassuring smile. "She had other matters. She will return soon, I'm sure." 

Dani nodded and pretending to forget about it. But the girl's words ran clearly in her head. 

They needed to leave.

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[pagesfromthevoid]

Cowboy Like Me | d.d. | 10

Din Djarin x princess!reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: ANGSTTT. Descriptions of blood and wounds. Brief (very brief) mentions of SA (not described).

Author’s Note: Another ✨Woops✨make sure you read PART 9 first!!

Series Masterlist | Talk to Me!

The Dagger

Her arrival on Senex was not one of celebration. 

Perhaps for her people it was; they were so excited for her to return to them. It seemed that her mother had put out word that she was taken by Din, and that she was saved by Silas and Calisto from an uncertain future. If only they knew the truth; if only they knew what Calisto had done to their Senator, to their princess.

No, her arrival on Senex was not one to celebrate. 

When the doors of her home slammed shut, Calisto pushed her towards her childhood bedroom. Two guards –storm troopers, dawned in their white suits and helmets, with blasters in hand –were posted outside her door. It was an easy thing to avoid; troopers were notoriously bad shots and she had snuck past them before. 

However, she wouldn’t be so lucky again.

“This time,” Calisto hissed, grabbing her daughter’s arm and yanking it forward. “You will not get nearly as far as you did.”

Her lady-in-waiting, Isowen, stepped forward with a tray. The young woman looked sick to her stomach, distraught as she removed the covering. A scalpel and bacta spray sat waiting, with a chip that flashed intermittently. Her eyes widened as she realized what her mother was about to do, and with everything in her, she tried to fight back and drag herself away.

“No, no, no,” she begged, but Calisto didn’t loosen her grip. “Mother, please. Don’t. I’m begging, please. Please, please!”

“You should have thought about the consequences of your actions,” Calisto snapped, calling the guards in. They pinned her down, holding her arm down as Calisto lifted the scalpel. “The less you fight, the less it will hurt. Hold still.”

She started crying, screaming out as the knife sliced into the skin of her forearm. The guards held her down harder, no doubt bruising her shoulders as they pressed their armor clad knees into her. The knife was not the worst part –the chip, which was then literally pushed into her wound, was jagged and sharp. Her body shook from sobs, begging her mother to release her, to stop, to let her go. But Calisto ignored her as she sprayed the open wound with the bacta. 

Isowen handed Calisto bandages, offering to finish the stitches with a soft, shaking voice. Calisto, with her daughter’s blood on her hands, stood and snatched the towel. There wasn’t a response; just a wave of her hand and a release of the guards. Calisto and the guards exited without a word, leaving her sobbing on her bed –blankets stained with blood, the wound on her arm slowly being stitched together by the Twi’lek beside her. 

“Milady,” Isowen whispered, trying to sooth the sobs coming from her mouth. “I am sorry, I did not want to. But your mother –Lord Credence –,”

She just shook her head, eyes screwed tight as tears fell. She didn’t want to talk, she didn’t want to hear excuses. She just wanted this to end. Nothing could fix what her mother had done, and now she was trapped in that Maker-forsaken house with guards at her doors. Even if Din managed to save her, there would be nothing that could stop her mother from finding her again. Not with a tracking device literally embedded in her arm.

“All will be well,” Isowen promised, finishing off the stitches with wrapping her arm in a bandage. She ran a soft, blue hand over her hair. “I know why you ran away, milady. I know you were not taken by the Mandalorian.”

“Pl-please leave,” she whispered, voice broken as she curled into herself on the bed. Her eyes were stuck on the blood that stained her sheets, heart threatening to burst from her chest. 

Isowen hesitated before standing, giving her one more pitying look before she slipped out of the bedroom. She thought of Din, and Grogu. Thought back to that night in the hut, with her gown and tiara. Where Din wrapped his arms around her and swayed to invisible music, whispering words in a language she didn’t understand. How he rested his forehead against hers, explaining what the touch meant to his people and why he did it so often. When Grogu returned to the house, tugging at her skirts to be picked up and cooing at her with his wide eyes and smile. 

It all felt so far away suddenly. Like a dream that she could not reach anymore. 

No, her arrival in Senex was far from a celebration. 

*****

The days that followed were a blur. The gowns she wore were long sleeved, covering the scar that had been left behind. People –members of the court, members of the Senate, friends of hers –were in and out of the home. They greeted her, they spoke at her but not to her. Congratulations were given, half meaningful and half just because it was expected. If they asked her questions, they didn’t truly want an answer. They just wanted her to nod and smile. She hardly did that, though her mother would prod at her when she didn’t. Sharp nails would dig into her spine, a silent reminder to behave herself. 

A party was planned to celebrate her engagement to Silas, and her mother warned her that he would make his formal declaration at the party at the end of the week.

“You will say yes. And you will pretend that you are happy,” Calisto warned, pointing a dinner knife at her. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Good,” Calisto concluded, lifting her drink to her lips now. “I have invited Princess Leia and her husband as well. They have a child ��you can play with it; I’m sure that will make you feel better.”

She glanced up at her mother, giving her a wary look before excusing herself from the meal. Calisto did not question this, simply returning to her meal without a word. It. The child was it, not him. Not her. Truly, her mother was a cold, unloving person deep down. She always knew that. But stars above, she never thought she was so heartless.

Isowen tried to speak to her as she moved through the empty halls, but she still couldn’t bring herself to interact. The lady-in-waiting mentioned a dress and her circlet, but couldn't find the latter. 

“It doesn’t belong to me,” she said simply, opening her bedroom door. “It never did.”

“Milady –,”

She shut the door, pressing her forehead against it and closed her eyes. If she tried hard enough, she could picture it was Din’s forehead pressed back, promising it would be okay.

*****

It wasn’t difficult to get through the Senex atmosphere without detection. The Crest was old enough, easily forgotten because it was undetectable. It was getting through the capital city that would be the more challenging part. It was infested with storm troopers, carrying their blasters as if they had any sense on how to use them. But he slipped through without detection, keeping close to the shadows.

Finding the palace wasn’t hard either –it was the largest building in the city, ornate and a bit overdone. It was determining which room was hers that gave him the hardest time. With the scanner within his helmet, he shot himself into the air with his pack, scanning each room until he settled on a room that felt like it would be hers, though it was empty. Landing on the balcony, he broke the latch on the doors and pushed them open, slipping into the room without a word.

It was definitely her room. While dark, it showed clear signs of being lived in with an unmade bed and a stack of books on the nightstand. His steps were careful, light, as he made his way into the room further. He glanced at the bedroom door, scanning through to pick up on the guards that waited outside. When he turned his attention back to her room, his eyes caught a glimpse of an imperfection against the otherwise tidy space.

It was close to her bed, and when he stepped over to it –he could see the stain of blood on her sheets as well.

His breathing turned ragged, trying to control himself. There was no way he could take on every guard in this palace if he stormed out now. But Maker help whoever did this to her –they would not make it out alive. Din needed out of the room; needed away from the space and slipped out the door to the balcony once again.

After a while of peering into her bedroom, light flooded the room momentarily and there she stood, head pressed against the door. Her dress was a dark red, loose on her frame with sleeves that went past her fingertips. From behind, he could see she was trying not to cry.

“I think I preferred the green dress,” he whispered, announcing his presence as he stepped back into the room. She whipped around, back against the door, and stared at him with watery eyes.

“Din,” she breathed, tears falling as she crossed the room in two long strides to throw her arms around his middle. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her close to him with his hand on the back of her head. Her entire body shook from the sobs that overcame her. “I’m sorry, I —,”

“Don’t apologize,” he interrupted, pulling back to look at her properly. “The ship is waiting, we can go —,”

“No, I-I can’t.” 

He froze, staring down at her. He didn’t understand –she couldn’t go with him? He had come to save her, he had risked –

But she continued, shaking her head. “I mean, I can’t. I can’t leave the palace, Din.”

She held her out her arm, tugging open the button that held her sleeve. Once it loosened, she slid it carefully over the bandages, trying to keep it from getting caught. His heart pounded in his ears, and he knew now where the blood on her floor and bed came from.

“My mother, she…my first night home —there’s a chip,” she explained, hands trembling now as Din took her arm cautiously in his hands. “If I step foot anywhere she doesn’t seem appropriate, it shocks me and notifies her.”

He unwrapped the bandage, noting it needed to be changed more than anything to avoid infection, and examined the scar that now took up the length of her arm. The skin was healing, luckily, but the bacta spray had not been reapplied, suggesting that whoever did the shoddy job of stitching her up was inexperienced.

“I’m going to kill her,” he whispered. It shouldn’t have been audible, but his modulator picked it up and he felt her tense. 

“Din, you can’t be here –Grogu, Sorgan –,”

“Will be safe,” he promised, looking back at her finally. Her eyes –wide and shimmering with tears still –bore into his and he wanted to steal her away from this forsaken place. But with the chip implanted in her arm, he had to come up with another plan of attack. 

Din guided her to the bed, sitting her down. He kneeled in front of her as he reached for the med kit that sat on her floor, having been left there from when she last changed her bandages. While there was no bacta spray, there were clean wraps and disinfectant cloths, so he settled on simply covering what was there for the time being. She winced as he pulled the old bandages off entirely, setting them to the side. Her good hand rested on his shoulder, squeezing the exposed part of his flight suit as he worked the tender flesh. He wrapped the bandages around her arm again, pulling them tight to protect the wound. 

For a moment, he hesitated. Then slowly, he lifted the bottom of his helmet over his chin and pressed his lips to the bandages. Her hand on his shoulder tightened, surprised by the touch. When he glanced up, her eyes were closed tight —trying to ensure she saw nothing.

“I’m sorry, cyar'ika,” he whispered, lowering his helmet once more before looking up at her through his visor. “Has Credence touched you?”

She shook her head, reaching out to touch the cheek of his helmet. “No, I…I’ve avoided him. But the wedding –,”

“Won’t happen,” Din stated harshly, reaching behind him to pull a sheath from his belt. He held the weapon out to her. When they were on Sorgan, he had considered what it meant to present the blaster to her, if she knew the importance. But the blaster was nothing compared to the dagger that rested in his hands. When he unsheathed it, the plated gold caught the lights of the city and her brow furrowed as she reached for it. It bore the mudhorn signet that he wore on his armor, etched into the blade. 

“Din…,” she whispered, holding the weapon in the palm of her hand cautiously. “Are you…the stories…are they true?”

“Yes.” He nodded once, wrapping his hand around hers to hold the dagger together.

“You’re…you’re asking me to marry you?” Her voice was laced in disbelief, as if she couldn’t understand what was happening.

“Only if you’ll have me,” he murmured, squeezing her hand tight around the dagger. “It’s not an elaborate experience. We exchange vows and that would be it –we can do it now –we’d be married. Then Credence won’t be able –,”

She looked up at him, mouth opening to say something, then she shook her head. “Din…” Then she pulled her hand from his. “I can’t marry you; not like this.”

He thought he stopped breathing. It was like his world had suddenly crashed down around him, and he held the dagger in his hand limply. But she reached forward, both hands resting on the chin of his helmet as she made him look at her.

“Do you love me, Din Djarin?” She asked, searching for any sign of expression behind his visor.

“I do,” he promised, staring up at her. More than anything, he wanted to rip the helmet off so she could see his face. So he could kiss her, and show her how much he truly loved her. “I love you.”

“Then you don’t want to marry me like this,” she concluded, tears in her eyes as she leaned in to press her forehead against his. “You want to marry me when your child can be here to become our child. When your hand is not being forced by my mother, but by your heart.”

“I –,”

“Din, please,” she begged, closing her eyes as the tears finally fell over her cheeks. “I want to marry you. But I want to marry you on my own terms, not anyone else’s.”

He stared at her for a long time before he removed his gloves, tossing them to the side, so he could wipe her tears away. His other hand lifted the dagger once more, wrapping their hands around the hilt once again. 

“Then we won’t get married today,” he whispered, squeezing her hand tight around the handle of the blade. “But this dagger is yours; made from a piece of your life into a piece of mine. If you accept it, then you’re accepting that I will marry you the moment I can.”

“Of course I accept it, Din.”

———

Taglist (CLOSED): @r4iner @sgt-morgan @mingeniee @darling1darling @teriolan-blog @venusfalling @double—take @sunshine96 @demisexuallover @mxtokko @ellesvoid @waddafaknik @c-ms1ut @kokoirne @sl-ut @munsons-queen @intense-sneezing @geekrenaissance @dancealongthelightofday @tizylish @ruleroftides @aheadfullofsteverogers

[inklore]

folly

prompt: "please don't look at me like that."

pairing: joel miller x smuggler!reader

word count: 1k

warnings: blood and wound mention, stitching, established enemies with benefits, unresolved feelings, the usual banter.

note: thank you @rhettabbotts for requesting this i adore you ily you're amazing, and i cannot wait to explore more of this dynamic because they're slowly growing on me.

part of this world but you don't have to read it to enjoy this!

“Please don’t look at me like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like you feel sorry for me.” The words slice his expression in two. The worry on his brow morphing into anger. As if he’s pissed at the both of you for caring enough to be in this situation, his fingers wet with your blood as he tries to sew up the gash in your thigh with a steady hand.

The needle nothing compared to how much it makes your stomach twist to think about how he looked when he found you. When he and Tess arrived after the bullets had stopped flying. After Robert had given one last middle finger to the lot of you and started shooting.

Joel’s palm felt searing against your thigh, bent on one knee, pressing against the deep graze. The look on his face, a mix of concern and care that you've never seen before—never seen when the two of you are together, a look that has you looking over at Tess because your chest feels heavy from it—a stark contrast to his bite, "What the hell happened?" 

“I found your battery.” Your smirk morphed into a grimace when his palm pressed harder against you in retaliation for your smart mouth, out of spite. 

Tess grumbled profanities in the hall as she watched on. As she helped Joel drag your sorry self back to their apartment, a kid now in tow. 

Another thorn in Joel's side, it seemed. 

You the deepest thorn he has. 

“I don’t feel sorry for your stupidity.” 

“Stupidity?” You argue, gripping the flimsy mattress underneath you as the needle dips in and out of your burning skin. “You told me to find the battery!” 

“Didn’t tell ya to get shot in the process.”

Your lips pull at the corners: “I didn’t know I meant that much to you.” 

Joel grunts. “You’d be more of a pain in my ass dead than alive.” 

“And who says romance is dead?” You tease and let out a grumble when his fingers squeeze the exposed skin at the side of your thigh—your jeans pulled down to your knees to give him more access to your skin. You didn’t miss how Joel checked your other thigh before he started stitching. 

Letting his fingers run along your arms and sternum, ensuring he only had one wound to close, one wound to be concerned about. 

The sound of gasps and heavy breaths dying in the back of your throat fills the decaying walls of the apartment. Joel having set a clear boundary for his newest house guest to stay in the living room, the tapping of a shoe against the floor barely audible over the noises of stifled pain you’re trying to swallow down. 

You were stupid. 

It had been stupid to insert yourself in the middle of Robert screwing another person over. There was more than one reason you didn’t accompany him when he did the dealings. Why you were only sanctioned in dealing with the mundane creeps, single parents looking for an easier way of living, or Joel. But most of those reasons had the potential of ending exactly the same way it did tonight. 

You could blame it on hormones. On need. Want. Something even more stupid and cliché. Claim that it was honor that drove you to walk into that shitstorm without regard for your own safety—your selfish ways of living, the ways that had kept you alive and breathing and not clicker-bait, suddenly put on hold.

But the truth was unavoidable as your eyes focus on Joel. As you take him in, in the fading light coming in through the windows, paint his face in a blue hue. Something other than the usual darkness you’re used to seeing him in.

The backdrop of the pattering rain on the windows gives the faux feeling of calm, of how if it weren't for the needle pulling your skin closed, taut, bloody, and raw, this moment could turn into something else. If it was just you and Joel, if the stench of copper wasn't staining either of your skins and his touch was tearing you apart rather than reassembling you.

Your eyes trace the curve of his nose, the dip of his eyebrows, the flat line of his lips. 

You had followed Robert to take the battery from him. To double-cross a triple-crosser. Take from a man who deserves it, from someone he had promised to give it to who was just as unworthy. 

Did that make Joel worthy? Of your help? Of something more than a release and praise bit into skin? 

You didn’t want to answer that. 

Didn’t want to face the unavoidable because it made you think too hard, too much about how things started with Joel and where they are now. 

How every touch that’s been felt between the two of you has been rough, hard, and unrelenting. And now his touch is gentle and soft, like he might leave an even bigger gash in your thigh if he touches you any harder. If he’s not careful. 

And you hate it. 

When he’s finished patching you up and tries to help you pull your jeans back up, you swat his hand away. Give him an annoyed “I got it” and pull them up harder than you mean to. Making you wheeze in pain. Making his brows raise in silent condescension. 

No thank you or welcome is shared when Joel moves to the living room and you lie back on the bed. 

He doesn’t make you leave. Doesn’t bark any more angry explanations and questions your way. Allows you to feel the pounding pain in your leg and the icy burn from the wet cloth he used to clean up the bloody fingerprints he had left on your skin in peace. 

Finding yourself wishing he had left the prints there. His touch painted on your skin, something you could look at later after he’s left. When the pain in your leg has faded but the pain in your chest has become more difficult to ignore due to his impending absence.

And you don’t know which pain is worse. Which pain you can live without. 

[amyriadofleaves]

outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter five

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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ao3 : wattpad  ˚　.˚　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, wriothesley, clorinde, sigewinne, mention of furina ⌗ warnings : brief mention of poison consumption ⌗ word count: 7.6k

Behind the valour celebrated in tales of renowned swordsmen lies the silent duel against doubt and fear, where pride meets vulnerability.

Soreness racks your entire body and everything in you screams to stay still. An oddly familiar feeling of recollection drowns out the pinching of the gash that stands at bay; a dam that’s lost function. The morning after a duel never welcomed you; instead it tore you apart, and sewn you back together with the thread that puts you back together.

Your body aches all over, and your whole being begs you to stay still. A strangely familiar sense of memory overpowers the squeezing of the gash that was there to keep it at bay, like a broken dam. The morning following a duel never welcomed you; rather, it seemingly always tore you apart and stitched you back together with the same thread.

Turning to your clean side, you are greeted with a dozing Clorinde, arms crossed, slightly slipping off her chair, and her head slumped to the side. The realisation of your stinging torso hits as chuckles escape from your lips, observing how her hat tips by millimetres with each passing second. The bedside clock ticks, and you lazily refrain from turning your head, concluding that you've woken a little too early.

Before you can contemplate cleaning yourself up, the subtle shift in your movement stuns the duelist awake. 

Her hat slips off her head.

Her voice is dry and coarse when she yawns. “Why, aren’t you up early?”

“Or maybe you just woke up late.”

“Duty calls even when sleep does, chenapan. I estimate that I have slept for only…” she checks her watch. “two and a half hours. You—however— have been asleep for almost forty-eight.”

You slump onto your back, and are now facing the ceiling (you ignore how a drop of water drips onto the apple of your cheek the second you turn). “Sucks to suck. I really needed that, though. Whatever it is, I have work tomorrow. The cogs aren’t gonna oil themselves.”

The ache as you move goes unnoticed at your sudden adamance to leave, and Clorinde promptly holds an arm out. “Wait.”

Complying, your hand finds its way to the edge of the mattress and you sit. “What?”

“I had to deal with some business on the surface, so I decided to purchase a new blouse and new pants, a skirt, another blouse except it’s blue, and…” she reaches for a bag that leans on the leg of the chair, and briefly pulls out a piece of cloth you assume is the blue blouse she’s talking about. I’ve seen enough of blue, you think, the hospital gown you wear is not flattering for your figure. You appreciate the thought nonetheless, and accept the gift. “ I also purchased a new pair of boots for you.”

You slowly outstretch your arms, weary with indolence and fatigue. “Thank you…?”

“Think of it as an apology. “

“Oh? That’s certainly a first. The Champion Duelist apologises for injuries sustained from in a ring! It is quite alright, Clorinde.”

“I did say think of it as an apology. You could take it as a blessing — your muscles are practically bulging through the sleeves. ”

“I know right!’

She scoffs. “Now you’re just full of yourself."

Restraining a laugh, you raise two fingers in mock salute. “I’m a busy woman. Gotta take what I’ve got.”

‘I can see that. Now go get changed. You reek.”

“What an insensitive tone. You’re talking to a patient.”

She does not play victim to your antics. “Yeah, yeah, whatever makes you happy. Make it quick, we have to catch Sigewinne to discharge you before she’s off to work.” 

You nod, swiftly pursuing the refreshing embrace of open air. Yet, a hiccup disrupts your stride as you think: must I meet the public eye once more? A silent prayer escapes, hoping Neuvillette remains oblivious to your absence. What merit would your presence bestow upon him, except added burden and responsibility? He, undoubtedly significant to you, occupies your thoughts and you do not waste a thought in thinking he deems your company delightful. You hope it stays that way.

“How does it look?” You do a little spin in your new outfit, painfully aware of how the fibres of the bandage that hug your abdomen clutch onto the inner fabric of the silk blouse that you find is a little tight around the underarm.

Clorinde looks up from her lap and her eyes round in surprise, and then into jest. “As painfully corporate as ever, madame.”

“You never fail to irritate me, don’t you?” You clutch the bag of clothes and hold it alongside the leather bag you had with you before the whole spectacle in the ring.

“Behold. Your hero’s here.” She points to a little figure skipping down the steps and she smiles at you, giving you a ‘you’re almost free!’ look.

Sigewinne skips to your side, silently lifting the fabric of your blouse and peeking through the bandage to examine the stitches. “A little swollen, but it is very much normal for an injury such as this. You are all set to be discharged!”

An infirmary admission in the Fortress of Meropide is unforeseen, yet its homely, cramped nature piques your fascination.

Wriothesley loiters around the exit and waves when he recognises a familiar raven haired girl beside you. When his eyes drop to your abdomen, a light smirk graces his lips. “Seems like Aurora has woken up from her century-old slumber. “

Clorinde shoots him a glare. A soundless argument plays from their eyes alone, and you are standing as stiff as a rod, grateful that you do not have to know whatever they are going on about. Falling victim to their brief glances you feel yourself shrink. A brief, whispered ‘what?’ elicits from the duelist’s lips and your head snaps to hers. From the slump of Wriothesley's shoulders, you assume the debate has reached its impasse.

“If you’re all going to argue about me, at least let me in on it.”

Wriothesley’s head cocks and he grins. “Hey, it’s nothing personal. Pains me to see you go, don’t get me wrong — but I’m afraid you’ve outstayed your welcome.”

"Oh, what a heartfelt farewell. I'll try not to let the door hit me on the way out," you quip, grabbing Clorinde by the forearm and waving the Duke goodbye.

“Wait.”

Clorinde is pulled backwards as you pause in your tracks.

The duelist’s arm slips free of yours, and she crosses her arms, briefly raising her brows, almost prompting him. “Forgetting something?”

“I’m making a break for the surface. So would you two like to have brunch? My treat.”

Clorinde is puzzled. “It is not everyday your schedule is so free. Are you sure you have time—”

You give her a chiding look and you smack her shoulder lightly. “We’d be very delighted.”

___

Wriothesley gulps down a tremendous mouthful of his tea. “What a hidden gem this place is…” He looks at the menu, his fingers skimming through the words in quest of the cafe's name.

“It’s Café Lutece,” you say, voice muffled with your mouth full of escargots. What a delicacy—you nearly roll your eyes at how good it is, savouring every nuance of flavour that dances on your palate, and your shoulders sag in indulgence. You almost ask for a second, but you abstain from doing so when you realise that it is not you paying.

“Yes. Café Lutece. I knew that.”

“Totally.”

“Manners.” Clorinde berates, subtly directing your attention to the people around with a pointed look, then back to the two of you. Suffering at its worst is falling victim to constant scrutiny. You steal a glance at the duelist and find that she has returned to enjoying her lasagna.

Wriothesley doesn’t seem to take the hint from Clorinde’s reprimand, and continues as normal. “That arena stunt with your sword, commendable stuff. Why haven’t you picked up something like that? You're a natural in the ring, minus that whole... hole.” He waves around his fork like a novice who has nothing to lose but his dignity that he doesn’t seem to possess much of either; and his eyes, seemingly moving of its own accord, casually dip to where you would see the gash if it hadn’t been for the bandage and the new blouse that Clorinde had purchased in lieu of an apology.

“So, I’ve heard you’ve only been recently promoted as the Présidence du Conseil d'État. How is it?” His voice drips with bon mot, but you cannot help but feel your heart beat louder against your ribcage. To put it simply, you do not know. To be thrown from role to role like a ragdoll rendered your own limbs to pomme puree, a struggling puppet fighting against brass strings; but you, too, aren’t able to chart a path for yourself in pursuit of success. 

Swallowing whatever’s left on your plate, you wipe your mouth on the cloth that sits on your lap and sigh. Your face scrunches in distaste “Fame isn’t really my cup of tea.”

“Oh? And what do you mean by that?” Wriothesley questions, turning around only to be met with women fanning themselves and batting their eyelashes at him. “I get it.”

You bring your voice down to a defeated whisper. “Maybe if it weren’t for me getting married in a month, I wouldn’t be recognised everywhere I go.”

The Duke’s brows lift. “Am I hearing that right?” When he notices that Clorinde has dropped the conversation to finish her meal, a crease forms between his eyes. He prods her gently on the shoulder.

This doesn’t appear to bother her, because her body remains fluid and returns to normal: erect and inclined forward for a more liable distance between her and her food. Her eyes don’t leave her plate when she replies with a curt: “Hm?”

“She just said she was getting married.”

“I heard her.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

She finally looks up from her plate and stares plainly at you. “Congratulations. The man is truly an unlucky one.” The Duke laughs uneasily as you both take in her lack of interest.

At the met silence, Wriothesley crosses his arms. “I don’t understand why a hot shot like you would settle so early for marriage.”

You do not know if you should lie. Does the guise play out even for those you know? Should you tell him that you’re madly in love with the Chief Justice? No, you shouldn’t; for it is not the truth. But you should! You have to! a voice screams, trailing off into the void. You struggle with internal conflict, split between the need to sustain the masquerade and the desire to have the truth spill. The bandage, snug against your abdomen, is like an oppressive corset, confining not just your exterior but also every part of your being that is tied to a blasted contract. Your fingers reflexively seek solace in the shredding threads above your blouse, as if unravelling the fabric could soothe the conflicting thoughts that have become entwined within your mind. The echo of a distant voice encouraging disclosure reverberates.

You force a cold smile. “I am not giving up anything for my marriage, Your Grace. It is merely a testimony of human connection. I am well off by myself, yes, but would it hurt to have someone to give you a little push? For someone down in the fortress, you should know what it’s like to feel lonely.”

The Duke’s expression seems to sour at the resurfacing of the use of honorifics and he waves a hand in denial. “I didn't mean to come off as rude, madame. I am just puzzled at who exactly would be deserving of you as a wife? I mean — it can’t be the vendor selling macarons down the street, right?”

“The man I am to marry is Monsieur Neuvillette. Now if you would get me a glass of Fonta, it would be greatly appreciated.”

Unbeknownst to them, Neuvillette sits nearby, sipping on a cup of water as he discreetly eavesdrops on words that subtly bleed through conversation. His keen gaze carefully observes you from a distance, and with a thoughtful demeanour, places the cup onto its respective plate. Noticing the look of distress on your face and the familiar slump in the Duke’s shoulders, Neuvillette remains hidden. Clorinde and Wriothesley, engrossed in their discussion, remain oblivious, their backs turned to the subtle observer in their midst.

The man I am to marry is Monsieur Neuvillette. The phrase reverberates through his skull, each word echoing with a disconcerting resonance that sends a shiver down his spine. He doesn’t fail to miss how the words weigh like a burdensome anchor — how your expression, once lit with vivacity, falls. 

The outfit you are clad in is something the Chief Justice had never seen you wear before; but he swats the idea away. Perhaps it is a trick of the mind, having not seen you in two days.  

He is mildly cognizant of the ring and its box that is settled comfortably in his breast pocket. 

Tonight.

Tonight.

Lady Furina's relentless insistence propelled the schedule forward, transforming what was originally intended as a week-long endeavour into an instant obligation for Neuvillette. The Chief Justice was, and is still less than amused. This unexpected directive threw his meticulously organised schedule into disarray, compelling him to undertake the daunting mission of  'proposing' to the so-called 'woman of his dreams,' a phrase coined by none other than the Hydro Archon herself. The sudden upheaval left Neuvillette grappling with the unexpected change of events and contemplating how to proceed.

He shields his face in a book, as if it would aid him in any capacity. A shame, really —he stands out like a sore thumb, unable to blend in among the normalcy of Fontainians. Anything he does in his power to remain hidden only has him hounded by the most desperate of women clawing at him like hawks for any opportunity to ‘bask in his presence’ (quoted by Lady Furina; this was another one of her drabbles, showing how she is ever so apt in her knowledge of theatre).

The Iudex catches onto how you shift the topic to your peculiar love for Fonta, and he finds that his nose scrunches in distaste. Fonta was never something he could grow to enjoy; it was too fizzy on the tongue, and Neuvillette certainly wasn’t one for such a sensation. But maybe if someone as hard to please as you could find a little soft spot for a drink, he could too. It has been a considerable amount of time since he’d been given an opportunity like this to not only sit alone at a cafe, but also converse with the people under no pretence or intention of banishing the guilty down in the depths of the ocean.

Neuvillette slightly raises his hand, eyes still flickering from the words of the notes he had pasted in the book to taking in how you had taken a looser bearing when his attention was diverted elsewhere. He casts a quick glance about, and a waiter appears at his side almost immediately. The priorities of humans are awfully disordered, he thinks, recalling how this particular waiter turned away an old guy after trying to ask him the same question for the nth time: "How can I help you?" What a pity that this individual was damned with weak hearing.

The same voice and intonation sounds from his right. “How can I help you?”

“I’d like a cup of Fonta please.”

Gloved hands move slowly to the glass table when he catches the slight quirk of your smile — and for the first time, realises that it is a genuine one. Your eyes squint, and you tilt your head to the side after the cup of Fonta leaves your lips. Raking your hands through your hair, the wind blows through the nape of your neck and teases at the necklace around your neck and he thinks this is the first time he’s ever seen you so content.

Neuvillette’s initial instinct is to leave you be and have you enjoy yourself for just a little while longer before the clutches of responsibility grip you tight again; but when the notion of fooling Lady Furina slyly makes its way to the forefront, he chastises himself. This is a sole, pragmatic responsibility. So why is he blurring the lines? It is a contract he must fulfil: an obligation of duty. 

He recites what he must say under his breath: “Kneel on one knee. Say that I lo —” his eyes practically bulge out of his head and he stops short. Must he really say that he — loves you? The strained voice of Lady Furina echoes, imploring him to express his love for her with all of his conviction. He debates over the idea of checking it off the list, but then realises that the list shows no sign of diminishing in its fervency of declaration, and his cheeks flush pink.

Another point on the note proves even worse than the last. “Surely I must not kiss her?” he whispers, placing down the notepad. A deep breath, drawn with the intent to rewire his thoughts, is sharp and cold. Regret manifests into beads of cold sweat as he wonders of his own oversight of his incapability of taking a look at the notepad before leaving the Palais Mermonia.  A realisation, as crystal clear as the reflections in Fontaine's still waters, dawns upon him: she, a virtuoso of subtle acts of cunning, reigns supreme in such wit. Of all residents within these refined walls of Fontaine, the Iudex, in his wisdom, should have recognised her devious nature well.

It is no wonder that Lady Furina had bestowed this encased in one of her light novels. “Do some reading!” she had said, leaving him with three words and a cryptic message he could not decipher; another trick up her sleeve, and still, he is all too unsuspecting. 

In the era where Fontaine was a coalition of people under a new system, a figure he not only suspected but knew to be Focalors had granted him a seat with the best view in the grandest theatre; and little did he anticipate that he would eventually become a pawn on the very stage he had always observed from above in his own, undeniably mythical glory. 

He does not notice that the fresh cup of Fonta is now cold.

But he does notice that the table where a group of three once sat is now vacant. 

He reaches into his breast pocket and leaves a bag of mora that, to any normal person, would easily realise that such an amount could account for ten cups of liquid gold. But he, unlike the normal person, sees that the matter that is telling you of tonight's plans weighs heavier than the coins that cling against the glass table like cymbals. After having sat up and blowing his not-so-stealthy cover, he takes a pitiful look at the Fonta that shoots him a pleading stare. He shuts his eyes, and prudently wraps his fingers around the teacup, and takes a sip. 

He prevents himself with his whole being to not lurch forward. It is not so terrible, he says: a silver lined lie. A smile forces itself through and he turns to the workers that stand at attention; all eyes on the Iudex of Fontaine. The tap of his boots echo loudly against the brick floors and he leaves as swiftly as the clouds intertwine in the midday sun.

Neuvillette takes a spin, and sees the three of you standing under the shade of the Chioriya Boutique. His eyes cling onto the way you weigh all of your weight against a pillar, armed wrapped around your torso. Judging by how the three of you rack with laughter, he assumes it is Wriothesley who has quipped and prompted the champion duelist and the head of civil affairs into giggles. 

What is he doing? 

Certainly this is a breach of the contract. Each party isn’t obliged to the whereabouts of the opposite party, unless consented to. You are going to think he followed you here; and that is something he does not want. To be in your good graces is a difficult thing, yet to forever dwell in your disfavour is a pit from which not even the sharpest nails can rescue anyone.

The group breaks apart, and you are left alone, head swerved in the direction of the duke and the duelist. What a formidable group of people, indeed.

“What nice weather today, madame.” The low-tone of a familiar voice brushes against your ear, and oh, who could it be? 

You do not spare him a glance, leaning against the pillar for support. “Go on, enlighten me already.”

Though you do not see it, he is left fumbling with a note and how to phrase his next words. “Let us go on a walk, if you’ll allow me.”

You rely on the weight of your right heel to bring yourself to face him. Surveying him from head-to-toe, you notice something in him has changed; perhaps it is the freshly tailored coat he spoke of the night you returned his other one, or maybe it is a novel hairpiece. Whatever it is, he is different, more fleeting in his aura.

Sighing, you look down at your boots. “If it is so necessary, then I see no reason to decline.”

“Alright then.”

The next movements are oddly rehearsed, yet terribly timed. He offers you his left arm, to which you decline. “Is it possible to switch sides?” 

“Oh — uh, sure.”

Neuvillette offers you his right arm — but realise to your dismay that it hovers a little too high for your liking, and you resort to slightly beckoning him to lower it with your own arm, which is now oddly interlocked with his. You take in a deep breath and feel his heartbeat quickening along with yours. 

One foot in front of another, the two of you find a middle ground at what pace to walk. Three people on the sidewalk eye the two of you with judgmental eyes and you slightly tiptoe to whisper a few words into his ear: “People are watching.”

He then replies in a tone that isn’t too loud but enough for the surrounding people to hear. “Why is why, Mon Amour, an act is what is to satisfy the Hydro Archon.”

Tearing your eyes away from him, you ignore the confusion of emotion that stirs in your stomach, and you tell yourself it is your injury. Words seep through your slightly gritted teeth. “Don’t you think that’s a little excessive, Dear Chief Justice of Fontaine?”

Through your periphery, you see a smile. “Certainly bold words from the one who deemed it fit to bestow a kiss upon my ear on the very first day of our relationship, don’t you think?”

There is no time for you to take his words in because a person on a cart approaches at full speed, its wheels detaching one by one onto the road. The man whose arms are intertwined with yours forces you to the side of a cement wall, and his chest, an unwitting barricade between you and the unfolding drama, prompts you a very unpleasant view of the ruffles of his blouse. As the chaos settles, you force your gaze up and find that his eyes stay trained on the man that is now clutching his arm that lays limp in his own grip. 

While bystanders attend to the injured man, your gaze lingers on Neuvillette's face, seeking revelations in the subtle nuances of the seemingly faint expression that paints his face. Your own stare is met with an intense, narrowing gaze when the Iudex turns and faces you, and you immediately feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his breath against the erratic beats of your heart. Embarrassing.

Clearing your throat, you push him and he stumbles slightly — but he doesn’t move as far as you wish him to. Through all that cloth, his muscles surely are toned! “What are you doing? Help him.”

Perhaps it is a trick of the light or the painfully scorching autumn sun, but his cheeks are flushed. “Not a worry, madame, stay right here.” 

In the lack of his warmth you take in the sharpest breath and it cuts through your lungs like glass. 

You place your hands on your knees and bend forward to catch your breath. A sting stretches like a miasma from your hip and you instinctively clutch at it like a vice; fuck, you’ve strained it.

Feeling even more eyes on you, you return as normal, plastering a faint smile and wishing everyone takes the hint to not raise any questions. Your left arm still remains pinching the perimeter of the gauze that now begins to feel like a tourniquet and you can’t help but squeeze your eyes shut for a brief moment. Neuvillette is by your side almost instantly, taking in the slight perspiration that beads down your forehead; just a moment ago, your face was completely clear of such. 

“Mon cherie, are you quite alright?” he questions, pausing a little. You whisper a: “tuck my hair behind my ears,” to him, and he shakily complies, his hands swiping across your skin like a ghost. 

You place a hand to his chest. “Why, there is no need to be so concerned about me! I am no damsel in distress, dearest.” 

He returns your stare with a nervous chuckle and extends his hand out this time, a less secure form of a physical display of affection, but still a statement nonetheless.

You do not wish to continue beating around the bush, but the grin that tugs at your lips remains. “Tell me what you wish to say.”

His stride slows, and you slightly pull him forward to fall into step again. “Well, to put it simply, I am to propose to you tonight.”

You do not know where to fuel your surprise so the smile on your face deepens. “Couldn’t you have told me earlier?” The grin compromises the expressions on your face, to which passersby aren’t able to discern that your lips are actually moving.

“You’ll have to question the Hydro Archon on this, I’m afraid. Though I am glad I did meet you here, to save both of us an inconvenience.”

“You take me for a fool, Chief Justice. Don’t think I didn’t see you dining where we were.”

You bask in the widened eyes of the man from beside you. There you had him; hook, line, and sinker. “That was merely a convenience — Lady Furina suggested I take a little stroll around Fontaine to prepare myself for tonight’s itinerary.”

You tilt your head in amusement. “Convincing enough. So… tonight; but where, exactly?”

“I was thinking of the very precinct of the Opera Epiclese, the very symbol of romance itself.”

Outright, you reject his suggestion. “I think it is an odd selection.”

“Why do you think so?” the grip he has on your hand loosens as he turns to look at you.

“People, especially Fontainians,” you start, “barely frequent Erinnyes, let alone at night.”

Perfect. Neuvillette had rehearsed the response to such a question at least ten times, and he’s convinced he has it down to a T. “Lady Furina has connections, dearest. All the main media outlets are stationed around the area as we speak. And, it is the premiere of the newest, most dramatic opera in all of Fontaine’s history — as quoted by Lady Furina, of course.”

“That woman is out of her mind.”

The Chief Justice thinks to not respond, and instead moves on.“But keep it in mind there is no intention of us attending the premiere; the whole scene must play out when everyone’s out of the Opera Epiclese. We shall rendezvous at the aquabus station at half past nine — when it is scheduled to conclude. Is that a convenient time for you?”

By this point, you are defeated. “Yep.” you deliberately pop the ‘p’, letting go of his hand to rid yourself of your lace gloves. “Hold these for me, would you?”

Neuvillette notices someone else using a camera peering through a bush, and he quickly spots the camera's lens glint. “Anything for you.”

ONE HOUR BEFORE THE PROPOSAL

Your bed is tousled and you don’t even know if you are to wear a dress to your own proposal. All sorts of skirts and tops lay haphazardly arranged on your comforter, the silhouette of a bundle of cloth peeking through the crevices of crumpled shirts. A possible outfit? Maybe. You pinch it with your thumb and index finger and hold it up as if it were a cat; no — this won’t do. You make another dash for your closet and begin throwing things over your shoulder until you finally reach the bottom of the lot. 

A dress sits neatly folded, slightly dusty, but a dress nonetheless. Your mother’s dress. You sit on the wooden floors and peer down at the basket once more with morbid curiosity. Your mind is thrown into a debate of whether an occasion like this is appropriate to wear such an outfit. It is a quarter before nine and you’re sitting on the floor of your apartment, barefaced and practically naked. Muttering a silent apology to your mother, you take it gently and pat it to rid it of any specks of dust. 

The dress is a pale turquoise, the ends of the skirt a tethered lace. But one thing stands. It is sleeveless. When exactly was the last time you wore a sleeveless dress? You slap yourself to stop asking questions. Why am I suddenly thinking? Cut it out!

Turning around, you shuffle to your bed. Picking up a corset, you inspect it briefly; is this necessary? No. You take a brief look at the clean replacement of gauze that winds tighter around your waist as a substitute, and shrug it away, tossing it to some corner of narnia and you wish it appears neatly placed on your bedside table when you return. 

You find yourself in a comical struggle to slip into the snug velvet attire, hopping on the pads of your feet and contorting your arms into peculiar positions. Finally victorious, albeit with a hint of dishevelment, you stagger towards your vanity mirror. There, a box of makeup beckons, urging you to indulge in its array of colours. The temptation of a baby pink lipstick proves irresistible in the moment.

Brushing your face with foundation, you set it down with powder, and it puffs like a plume of smoke. No, not your hair! You hastily smooth it down, the fine dust reflecting in the moonlight. An eye pencil, an eyelash curler, and mascara line the outlines of your eyes, and you push your seat back to inspect anything that might appear peculiar.

You look bland.

Without looking down, you pat your table and reach for a random eyeshadow palette. An array of potted glittery blues and greens lay orderly arranged, and you do not know where to start. Maybe a light green to set the eyes? Whatever. You use the pad of your pinky to swipe the eyeshadow across your lid and you reach for a deeper, metallic blue that wipes closer to the waterline. You lean back again, examining the sheen. Don’t I look stunning! You can smell how the women are to reek of jealousy at your very appearance. Sure, its application is haphazard, but wasn’t that the in thing? Or perhaps you were to start a new trend, like how you did with your excruciatingly blue colour palette. 

Regardless of the absurdity of it all, this is oddly entertaining. Damn the blasted contract; you want to look good. 

Earrings next. A dilemma unfurls: pearl or diamond? Hoops or studs? Too many options, so little time. A bounty of options dance before you, and think of how they’d appear against your dress and makeup. You think the pearls complement the ones that are stitched along the hem of the bodice.  Studs, on the other hand, while embodying a certain casual charm, seem a pinch too informal for the grandeur of the occasion.

You decide to go for pearly hoops, and almost jab your ear with it. 

Something tips over in the act of putting in the earrings and your eyes shoot to your right. Vials. It had almost slipped your mind. How dangerous the act of leaving your own self for three days is; how could you forget? Mithridatism, it is called — the very process of ingesting poison to immunise oneself from its very risk. Ironic how protection it is to you, but death it was for your mother. You almost contemplate abandoning it and never turning back, but you’ve come so far; and an idiot you would be if you succumb to your cowardice. 

Clicking the hoops closed, you take a vial. You pop it open and ignore the burn as it travels down your throat. Gods above, you never can ever get used to its bitter taste.

Grabbing a purse amongst five others, you slip into a pair of white heels, leaving your apartment in a hurry. Your heels click loudly against the pavement, and you rush towards the heart of the city, ignoring all the awed stares that you garner from the people. 

“She is nigh unrecognisable!” a strained voice shouts, and the shutter of a camera follows suit. The rest of the trip is a blur and you find you cannot recall anything when your mind is cleared.

You rush to the elevator and jam the button with your fist. “Damnit.”

The doors open and you press the button for it to close, ignoring the dazed look of a couple that disappears as the doors shut in their faces. Muttering a quiet ‘sorry’, you lean against the wall of the elevator for support. You can do it. Just act. 

A ding sounds and a friendly breeze greets you, the silhouette of the man you can recognise anywhere standing at ease, facing the waters. 

“I’m here,” you say, voice reduced to a frail squeak; and you’re surprised that he even hears you. The metal of his boots scrape against the marble as he whirls around, the unreadable expression on his switching to a grin.

“Ah, madame,” he regards you with his head bowed, and seems to study your face for an uncomfortably long, few seconds. “Do not be so worried, the aquabus hasn’t arrived.” 

You flat out decline the claim. “I am not worried, monsieur. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a seat.”

Before you can, he stops you with a bouquet of rainbow roses. “Here, I thought they’d complement greatly with your eyes.” What type of awkward, low-budget line delivery is this? Too short and too concise, Neuvillette notes, already hearing the nagging of Lady Furina in his ears. 

“Oh, uhm. Thank you.” You almost rip the bouquet out of his hands with how clammy they are, and its added grip only adds to the flush of your cheeks — both to be blamed on your exertion and anxiety.

The swish of water sprinkles lightly against your arm, and you look up to be greeted by an aquabus with the cutest Melusine standing atop, hands on her hips. Not that you wanted to play favourites of course, every Melusine was adorable in ways they know best.

Offering his hand, you respond with your own, gloved hands against lace. Lifting your skirt, you struggle with the steps and you’re immediately brought back to two days ago, when the Duke and Champion Duelist were reduced to ushers, waging war against a staircase.

Neuvillette, ever the gentleman, snakes an arm around the small of your back to support you up onto the platform. What is this treatment? No one’s around, and no one’s certainly watching. It is just courtesy, you tell yourself, yes! Just courtesy. 

The two of you sit shoulder to shoulder, and Aeval eyes you silently, smiling a little with her hands moving to clutch behind her back.

She begins her rehearsed monologue, but you’ve heard so much of it that you choose to drown it out with the howls of wind that cart through your hair. The chill, night air has the hair on your arms to stand upright, and any semblance of sweat disappears as quickly as a bead from your dress slips, tapping against the metal of the floor, and into the water.

Oops.

You bend forward to fix the velcro of your heel and sit upright, running your fingers through your hair. 

“A ribbon on your dress is undone — allow me to tie it for you.”

What exactly was this man on about? There was no ribbon in your dress, nor anything that could accentuate your figure in any form. 

“I don’t ever recall having a ribbon wound in my dress, monsieur — oh.” A long string of white rolls in the wind, and realise that he is, unfortunately, correct. You turn and see his brow raised, another part of the ribbon encased between his fingers.

“W—well… It was merely an oversight. I can do it myself, Monsieur Neuvillette, thank you very much.”

“But I insist. It would be a pity if such a momentous occasion be ruined because of an untied ribbon, would it not?”

No, an indignant fire ignites within, a visceral urge to unleash the words that dance on the tip of your tongue. You want to scream at him; tell him that he is a dolt at thinking that you would allow him to so intimately bind the knot at your waist. To say yes is to succumb, and would you reveal such a lack of decorum to the one person you do not want to have seen you so vulnerable.

“Fine,” is a word that is foreign on your lips, and you do not know why you have just contradicted every argument within you for an act. A furrow forms between your brows, and you bite your lip to restrain words you do not wish to say spill from your mouth.

You turn to your right, bringing your hair to one side of your shoulders to give him a better view of the knot he is to tie. Fingers brush against your spine, and you cannot help a stunt in your breathing as he continues, working his way down. A discomfort blooms within your gut like a blaze when he tightens at your hip, and you jolt. The bandage was clinched enough as is. 

His warm breath teases your shoulder, an alien heat against the cold of the oceanic wind. “Is there anything wrong?”

“Could — could you just loosen it a little?”

“Alright.”

Slumping at the newly given space between you and the cloth, you turn around, placing the flowers on your lap. 

Neuvillette gives you a side glance, and looks away. You do not know if he compensates for another. “You look gorgeous tonight, madame.”

“Save the compliments for when the people are around, Monsieur Neuvillette. Wouldn’t you hate it if poor Aeval were to get the wrong impression?” You eye him watchfully, relishing in how his face seems to tense like being pulled at the strings.

The ride to the Opera Epiclese falls silent after your comment.

Bright lights line the pathway to the Opera Epiclese, and you do not know how your eyes gleam in the reflection of the yellow that shines against your dress. Huh. Lady Furina’s judgement has failed once again; there aren’t many people loitering around the Fountain of Lucine, except that of a few people who are sitting with glasses of what seems to be champagne in their hands. 

The man by your side bends down and you look over to see another Melusine, with her hands cupped over his ear, whispering something you cannot discern. This garners a nod from the Iudex, and he returns to his full height and gives you a wry smile. 

He bears the weight of your hand in his, and places a chaste kiss on your knuckles. “Shall we?”

“We shall.” 

Flowers drop loosely in your grip and your other arm is locked with Neuvillette’s, leaving little room for comfort; but you swallow it down if it means that Fontaine is spared and no one’s lives are taken. You mutter a prayer that Lady Furina is using everything in her power to revert what is lost; because prophecy be damned if the one sole figure meant to salvage it all crumbles.

Sacrifice lingers in your hands.

Almost as if conjured, a flower cut at its stem sits in between the Iudex’s fingers and you return his stare with an expectant one. “May I?” is the question that leaves his lips, and when you oblige, he places the flower snug against your ear. 

You wonder what you look like right now. If only you could make a run for it, steal a glance at yourself through the reflection of the Fountain of Lucine and fix your hair.

An awkward weight lingers in the air when the idea of what is to come burdens everything you lay your eyes upon. Splatters of water cool your jitters and you spot a dog laying its head down on the elevated pavement; it barks at you and you suddenly lose all respect for that bundle of fur. “What disrespect!” you exclaim, and this earns a laugh from the Chief Justice. 

“It is harmless, dearest.”

“I know, you fool. It’s its bark that scrapes my ears like a blasted rake — can you imagine hearing that all because you simply exist?”

This did not take much imagination for him. Four centuries and critique after critique presents themselves as a well-versed routine, the familiar tune of disapproving echoing — not as strangers — but an old friend.

“I feel for your distress, and I suggest you take a vacation, if it helps to clear your head.”

You flash him a tired grin. “If my work wasn’t so merciless, I would consider it in a heartbeat. But alas, we all want what we can’t have. Take everyone in this country, for example ─ they’re oh-so passionate in pursuit of grandeur, but have nothing to show for themselves.”

Neuvillette brings his lips to your ear so you can hear him better. “An astute observation indeed — it seems to you that you see their own strength as hubris. Which is why, mon coeur, Lady Furina has twisted the strings of the people; but, tell me, do you reckon they are to react as Lady Furina intends?”

“I think people react in ways they wish; there is no specific formula for the ways of humans, as sad as that may be.” your implication at knowing of Neuvillette’s inability to conform to the habits of people shoots through him like a lance, but he isn’t able to discern whether you had meant for your choice of wording to hit home. 

A rumble has you lurching forward, but Neuvillette catches you by the arm. “Do you feel that?”

“It must be another leakage of the waters, but I do not sense that anything has taken effect.”

Applause and whistles seep through the doors of the Opera Epiclese, and both of your heads whip to the entrance. 

“The rest of them are coming. Put on your best show— show them your unwavering facade.”

You look at him, and for the first time since your mother laid limp on the marble floors of your home, you feel pure, unadulterated fear. “What if they find out, murder me, and drag me senseless into the dirt? Would I be known as a heroine, or reduced to a measly coward?”

Neuvillette wraps both his hands around the base of your forearms. “Regardless of the outcome, I shall bear the burden. This concerns both of us, and I am resolved to ensure that nothing unforeseen shall jeopardise you.”

Nodding, you level your gaze with his, and steel your feet against the ground, almost as if you would tip over had you left yourself weak and vulnerable.

“Do not take my next words into consideration, it is merely fabrication.” He glances to his right, and the first group of people come pouring out, chattering in loud bursts of laughter and debate. Reaching into his breast pocket, his hand comes away with a velvet box and he finally begins the first line of his script.

You do not process his words, because your vision becomes blurry and the familiar taste of poison almost rises up like bile in the back of your throat and you want to faint. The flash of cameras blind your sight and you see the hushed, curious murmurs of everyone that begins to crowd around the two of you like vultures to fresh prey.

“You are my confidant, my love. I wish for us to remain like we are, hopeless and entwined,” he kneels on one knee and holds the box between his hands, and opens it, a sapphire glistening amidst the blue moon.” So, mon coeur, will you take me as your husband?”

You summon a smile, albeit with effort, and laugh. “Yes!” The crowd erupts into another wave of shouts as he stands, holding your hand as he pushes the ring onto your finger, smiling. Gloved hands snake around your waist as leans in for a kiss, but instead, he is met with his lips against the apple of your cheek.

He does not realise his delay in reacting until the fountain erupts in a fluorescent flurry of purples and pinks.

a/n: guys. their relationship is DEVELOPING DONT WE LOVE SOME DEVELOPMENT I KNOW YOU DO

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun