#not to mention the end of the song moves to a gallop

[staticrevelations]

constantly thinking about Not Strong Enough by boygenius and imodna

black hole opened in the kitchen

the shade creepers at Zhudanna's place

drag racing through the canyon

the deathwish run in the ravine in bassuras

do you see us getting scraped up off the pavement?

imogen's crawler wiping out and a barely-alive laudna rushing over to her, imogen rushing to laudna's dead body after the showdown with otahan

i don't know why i am the way i am not strong enough to be your man i lied, i am just lowering your expectations

imogen asking to kiss laudna, an unspoken expression of desire for something more than friendship, and laudna immediately feeling unworthy of imogen's love and affection and telling her she lost her way and is afraid she's a bad person

half a mind that keeps the other second guessing

delilah a constant presence in laudna's head, both of them torn as to whether to use the power of delilah and ruidus or fight it

always an angel, never a god

both of them doomed to be the playthings and messengers of higher powers, never able to have true control over themselves or their lives

i don't know why i am the way i am there's something in the static i think i've been having revelations

imogen's struggle to find out why she suddenly started hearing people in her head, the way it always sounded like static to the point that the noise was starting to become too much until one day laudna showed up and it sounded like music, like a revelation in the flesh

skip the exit to our old street and go home go home alone

both of them wanting, more than anything else, to settle down and live a quiet life together in their own little home

[jensettermandu]

beware - kim minjeong

genre; smut

pairing; tattooist!winter x rockstar!female reader

content; smut, cunnilingus (r. giving), fingering (r, giving), brief mention of choking and spanking, implications of an unhealthy relationship, winter and reader both have piercings and tattoos but it doesnt go too much into it!

wc; 3.8k+

masterlist.

Her feet came to a stop, looking at the tattoo place and hoping that Minjeong wouldn’t throw her out this time too, last time was in the middle of the night, out in the middle of nowhere in a cheap motel. Her eyes scanned through the big glass windows, seeing the shorter girl who was sitting on the saddle chair with her back facing the window.

Minjeong slowly finished fixing her station, cleaning every little thing and organising everything, hating when her workstation would be messy. It wouldn’t even pass by Richie if it was and she was sure she would get fired as the guy had a lot of high-end clients because the place was known and had celebrities stopping by. 

She was somewhat underpaid despite having more clients than most of the other tattooists because of her designs and skill, but she knew that if she got hired anywhere she wouldn’t even get half the pay. It was a dog-eat-dog world in the end. 

Her ears were being graced with the heavy instrumental and the aggressive vocal fry of the metal song playing, that was until they were graced with the opening of the door. 

She was closing tonight and hated people who couldn’t read closing hours that were written clearly on the glass doors. “It clearly says that it’s closed.” She informed with an annoyed grumble, sighing as she waited for a response only to get none. 

Her ears tried to catch any sound of whoever entered as she had yet to turn around which was difficult with the music distorted music. She at last decided to turn around only to get stopped, her heart jumped up in rate at the cold hand that clasped over her mouth, the yelp muffled—in fear the first thing she did was elbow the person.

“Fuck–” She quickly turned around at the familiar voice that groaned in pain. “You’re fucking strong.” Y/n whined as she crouched down, holding onto the side of her ribs after the powerful blow. She was aware that Minjeong was strong after being manhandled by her in bed, but she didn’t expect her to have such reflexes. If she knew she wouldn’t have tried to scare her. 

“Are you fucking crazy?” Minjeong exclaimed, her hands wrapping around the girl's arms who looked up at her with her lower lip puckered. The girl’s heart eased from the galloping that it did when she thought she would die or get kidnapped. 

“You should know the answer.” Y/n’s voice came out somewhat strained from the pain.

Minjeong helped her back up on her feet, dragging the frail girl up by the arms. The strong scent of vanilla on the singer invaded her nose as she hadn’t been around the scent for a while. 

Minjeong sucked air through her teeth and shook her head, looking at the girl although her eyes trailed her stomach and the pierced navel first before going higher up. The band member was busy massaging her ribs slightly. “You’re a female yourself, you should know what is bound to happen if you think from my perspective for a second.” The girl complained and Y/n’s gaze fell on her at last. 

“I’ve been told that I see from the perspective of an idiot and not a woman and anyone can be an idiot.” She said with a small shrug, fixing the leather jacket as it had moved around from how she tried to see if Minjeong managed to bruise her. It was just slightly red. 

She hummed and turned back around on the chair to her station to finish up what she was doing. “Whoever said it was right,” Minjeong confirmed as the girl seemed quite reckless from what she’d seen on stage and now. 

“It was Richie—Is he in?” Y/n replied and looked back, deciding to sit down on the tattoo chair. 

“No, I’m closing tonight.”

Y/n looked around the chair that had a bunch of levers to be pulled and whatnot. The girl pulled one and reclined it further back before lifting her head and looking at the two separate legrests connected to it. “This could pass as some BDSM type of chair, would you let me eat you out on it?” Y/n questioned as ideas started to pile in her head about how she could position the girl in the chair or the tattooist position her. 

Minjeong finished and she turned back around to see the girl playing around with the levers and adjusting the chair. “No, there are windows right there and stop before you break something.” She slid over on the saddle chair she was in and grabbed hold of the girl’s hand, making Y/n look back up as she had been looking under the chair. 

The rockstar that had been plaguing Minjeong lately blew away the strand of hair that fell in front of her eyes and the two locked eyes, Y/n smiling at the girl. “But it could work if there weren’t any windows.” Y/n prompted as the idea as a whole didn’t have to be excluded if it hadn’t been for the windows. 

Minjeong let go of her hands and manoeuvred around to be in front of the girl. “If you’d do this…” She trailed off as she grabbed hold of the girl's legs, making sure that each was on the leg rests. Y/n watched the girl with a small smile, both of them in a better mood than the last time they were together. 

They had been able to wind down and relax after their latest rendezvous that had been intense with emotions; from the night they spent on the shitty mattress in the cheap motel to the constant fights they could have whenever they were together. Passionate, but in all the wrong ways as they both could still taste the bitterness of alcohol and the saltiness of tears on their lips. 

“Is this what you had in mind?” She asked as she pushed each leg rest apart, biting her lip as she parted the girl's legs and slid closer. Minjeong’s hands trailed over Y/n’s smooth and long legs, the scent of caramel and vanilla lingered along her skin.

Y/n hummed as the fingers ran over her knees and to her inner thighs. Minjeong’s fingers gently traced up creating goosebumps while she watched her fingers disappear under the black mini-skirt. Y/n expectantly watched until Minjeong caught her lust-filled gaze.

“Too bad there are windows then.” Minjeong reminded as she wasn’t going to risk getting fired if someone saw them and wouldn’t mind their business. She slid right back, teasing the girl and Y/n frowned, pulling the seat back up to sit straight as it had been reclined. 

“When do you get off?” Y/n asked.

“In 15.” She informed her and slid right back to her place. The heat that was pooling would have to wait a bit more, although neither knew how to make the time pass quicker because talking would mean having to beat around the bush of their last fight or talking about it which they never did. It was easier to fuck away the memories. 

“I won’t need more to make you tremble,” Y/n said and hopped down the chair, Minjeong’s eyes widened slightly when the taller girl grabbed hold of her hand and pulled on her. The girl rolled a bit on the chair before she managed to get up–ignoring her chair that fell over in the process. 

“Y/n–”

“It’s 15 minutes to waste doing something better than sitting around.” The lithe girl cut her off and Minjeong followed the girl who knew her way around the place. 

They walked past the counter and pushed aside the grey curtain that hid the small corridor that led to the office, bathrooms, changing room, and the first door on the left that Y/n decided to push open to not waste time—the supply room. The girl opened the door and blindly reached for the small light switch while entering and pulling Minjeong in after her. 

“I’m not trying to get fired for having sex in the supply room,” Minjeong muttered as all the ink, sanitisers and whatnot were stacked on the metal storage shelves. The door closed in the dimly lit room that just fit them both. 

“Trust me—” Y/n started and turned the girl around, Minjeong somewhat squirming at how cold the hands that gripped the flesh of her ass were. “We aren’t getting caught.”

Minjeong didn’t get the chance to question the girl’s words when all she did do was push her tongue against Y/n’s tongue when their lips met in that familiar kiss that was needy and somewhat sloppy. The barbell massaged against her tongue, making Minjeong play with it as she tilted her head to get more of Y/n’s mouth and lip gloss that tasted of vanilla. 

It was the least Y/n could do after their messy night.

Y/n squeezed the flesh in her hands, Minjeong hummed and ran a hand under the cropped tee. “You have a nice ass.” Y/n breathed out as Minjeong ’s fingers trailed up her ribs before she cupped the girl’s breast and ran her thumb over the hard nipple, this time the girl had simple barbells, making it easier for Minjeong to tug at the bud. 

“I’d have to say the same to you.” The shorter girl replied with her face nuzzling into the taller girl's neck to leave kisses that sent shivers through her whole spine, her lip rings gracing Y/n’s skin with a slight cold.

Y/n bit her lower lip as she pulled the skirt up over Minjeong ’s ass who pulled away and looked up at her. The air was cold against their hot skin and the blonde’s ass was left exposed in the lacy underwear. 

“But I love your hands on me.” The vixen hummed at Minjeong ’s words and pulled her right hand away, the other still gripping her other ass cheek.

The slender hand came to view, the same fingers that worked Minjeong’s pussy until it hurt and left her dripping wet onto her sheets, the hand that made her arch and squirm. Somehow just seeing the singer and guitarist's hand made Minjeong imagine what it had done and what more it could do. 

It made Minjeong lean in as Y/n gripped the side of her neck, thumb caressing the thudding pulse below the soft and inked skin where a tattoo started and trailed down. Their breaths mingled the tattooist stared up at her scum of a girlfriend if she could even call the problematic rockstar that. At least she was her tattooist, wasn’t she? She felt at mercy under Y/n’s touch and gaze, it was predatory, but she found comfort in the danger. 

Her peaceful life of tattooing people day to day turned into one of chaos drenched in ecstasy which made everything bearable. God, Minjeong despised her girlfriend as much as Y/n probably despised her, but at the same time, she loved just as much as she hated, the same way Y/n did. 

Y/n’s tongue stuck out, smoothing her hand over the slim neck until it was in her hold, toying with the lip ring on Minjeong’s plump lips that were wet and swollen. 

“Y/n.” Her voice was thick with lust, her cunt already throbbing as she wanted the fingers to work on her until her pussy was raw and aching from being at it for too long once again. A barely there whine at the teeth that tugged at her bottom lips, loving how the hand gently squeezed her throat while another kneaded her ass. Her nails dug into the side of Y/n’s ribs where her hand was under the girl's shirt. 

The two pulled back into each other, tongues moving against each other in heat and slickness. A gasp followed with a hum at the stinging when Y/n’s hand harshly clasped with Minjeong’s ass cheek the sound bouncing off the walls, gripping it and pulling her closer while Minjeong squeezed the breast she cupped in her hand.

The two stepped back as Y/n guided the way between the two metal shelves with her hands letting go of Minjeong and moving to grip her slim waist. Their lips parted from the messy kiss, only leaving remnants of salvia after each other. 

She slipped her hand from under Y/n’s shirt, running both her hands to her shoulders as Y/n leaned into her jaw, kissing along it with lips leaving a trail of shivers and goosebumps after, making Minjeong ’s chest heave a bit quicker.

“Fuck.” Minjeong sighed at the way Y/n nipped at her skin and moved her hand up to play with her nipples, her pace picking up as she kissed along her exposed collarbones. Her hand kneaded Minjeong’s breast through the spaghetti top that stopped right by her belly button, the hard and sensitive nipples protruding through the dark material as she was without a bra. Y/n pulled Minjeong closer by her waist, making it easier for her to lean down to her breasts. The blonde gasped when Y/n’s teeth tugged at her bud through the shirt, making her whine at the pain yet pleasure as she unconsciously tried to push Y/n to get down on her knees.

The singer hummed before pressing her pierced tongue against the same nipple through the shirt. It eased the pain and increased the throbbing of Minjeong’s clit who was holding back on moans because she had yet to touch her wet cunt and she already felt whiny. The words that followed from Y/n’s mouth made Minjeong push her onto her knees at last. 

“Gonna spend all my love and money on you.” Y/n’s voice humidly left her as she got down on her knees in front of Minjeong who held onto the top of her head. Their words tended to be fabricated and Minjeong was tired of listening to them; she preferred to have Y/n show it even if it would be in a different way from what anyone would expect.

The tattooist only had herself to blame for falling and getting tangled in the web of an unstable rockstar who was running a reckless life. It left marks on Minjeong, probably scarred and the only marks she left were with a needle and ink. 

“Shut up and show me instead.” Y/n looked up at the girl above her and smiled while running her hands up Minjeong’s smooth thighs which would have her in a choke hold while her face would be buried in her sweet pussy. 

The girl pushed up the skirt before attaching her lips to Minjeong ’s thighs. She could feel the girl holding back from squeezing her legs shut as she continued to kiss the inside of them with her nimble fingers running to the hem of the black lace panties.

Y/n pulled away and pulled down the panties, seeing the clear spot of wetness that Minjeong had left after her. She helped her out of them before stuffing them in the pocket of her jacket. 

“I want them back after.” The blonde managed to let out during her anticipation of getting her pussy eaten by the girl on her knees in front of her. 

“Do I come off as someone who steals panties?” Y/n questioned as she made Minjeong part her legs, giving her a perfect view of the glistening heaven between her legs. The vixen licked her lips and guided Minjeong’s right leg, her converse covered foot planting on the bottom shelf of the storage shelves. 

“You do, I’ve known you long enough.” Minjeong grabbed hold of Y/n’s head, her back pressed against the wall as her chest heaved. 

“You’re not wrong.” A cheeky smile covered Y/n’s lips as she leaned back in and started to kiss along Minjeong’s right thigh, the leg being propped against the shelf.

“I know I’m not, I’m missing pairs.” The girl breathily mumbled.

Y/n didn’t reply and instead reached her fingers up to Minjeong’s puffy and swollen lips using two fingers to part them. She leaned in between her legs—Minjeong releasing a light moan at the tongue that ran up from her clenching hole up to her throbbing clit. 

Y/n gathered the slickness around the bud that she swirled with her tongue before going back down and doing the same thing again. Minjeong’s juices gathered themselves on her tongue, the taste robust on her tongue and addicting, making Y/n dp it much messier to have as much as possible to lick up after leaving Minjeong a sopping mess.

The light moans and whimpers gradually picked up as Y/n continued to run her tongue along the lips she held spread with her fingers. As she gathered enough around the swollen clit she made Minjeong gasp, the grip tightening in her hair and Minjeong’s other hand quickly grabbed hold of the shelf post for balance. Things clattered as they fell from how abruptly she grabbed it, the shelf not being mounted to the wall. She hadn’t been prepared for the harsh suckling Y/n would provide with her mouth on her clit. 

“Fuck—that’s so good,” Minjeong whined, her head slumping against the wall as she closed her eyes. Her hips gyrated into Y/n’s face, unable to even try and hold still at the tongue that was flicking at her clit while Y/n moved her fingers down, teasing around the grasping hole that seeped with more wetness, running down her thighs. 

“I want you to fuck me with your fingers.” The girl moaned out, feeling Y/n tease around her hole with her fingers, remembering the view of them from earlier. The words made Y/n moan against Minjeong ’s cunt, the girl on her knees squeezing her thighs together. “To just play with my pussy until it hurts.” She spurred, wanting to get fucked until her vision would blur again, to get fucked over and over again as it made her forget everything. 

Minjeong moaned, her back arching at the two fingers that pushed into the warmth of her walls that were thudding, tightly engulfing them as they got clenched around with each moan. 

With her lips wrapped around the girl's clit she continued to suckle while flicking her tongue, Minjeong’s moans becoming louder and her grip on her hair tighter as her hips bucked into Y/n. She continued to scissor her fingers inside the girl, doing her best to adjust the tight hole more. The room filled with the moans, whines, whimpers and squelching of her pussy and the mess Y/n’s mouth was making.

The blonde could feel her body heat up at the firm yet soft muscle flicking at her swollen bud. She hummed, swallowing the dryness in her mouth as she tugged Y/n’s face more into her dripping pussy, the fingers stretching her out from the motion and being eaten out was one of the best things she could have gotten from her girlfriend at the moment. 

“Can you take one more?” Y/n pulled away mumbling, making Minjeong look down. The heat crashed in her stomach at the lead singer who was so assaultive on stage but was on her knees with a glint of submission in her eyes that were circled by the smudged eyeliner as her chin glistened with her juices, looking like she hadn’t eaten in years. It made Minjeong believe that Y/n could be different to her compared to what she truly was in front of everyone else. 

“Yeah, just keep fucking me.” 

Y/n couldn’t have gotten a better confirmation as she leaned back in with her tongue licking up and lips wrapping right around Minjeong’s clit again. This time she slowly pushed a third finger inside Minjeong’s snug walls which was enough for them to tighten at the stretch. She slowly moved her fingers, massaging and pressing her spongy wall while her tongue worked quickly, contrasting the slow strokes of her slender fingers. 

The pleasure overwhelmed the slight sting of three fingers being pushed right into her tightness. Her juices leaked, running down Y/n’s wrist who was lost in the way she had Minjeong so worked up. 

The build-up was fast at how her g-spot was pressed at and the work of the quick tongue, the hard barbell occasionally massaging added to the sensations that were blurring her head. All that Minjeong could hear were her noises, Y/n’s purr-like hums and how messy it was. Her mind filled with black as her eyes shut tightly and she gripped the post hard—something shifting and falling once again at how her body spasmed and she accidentally yanked on it from how sudden it was. 

Y/n glanced up at the girl who arched her back off the wall and threw her head back, her cunt pushing into Y/n’s mouth. A splatter of words fell from Minjeong and the girl couldn’t figure out what they were as they sounded more like whimpers. 

“So good, I want to cum all over your tongue, Y/n.” It made Y/n moan once again, wanting nothing more than for Minjeong to let go of everything on her tongue and face.

Minjeong felt the tingling spread through her body, her legs trembling and her eyebrows furrowed. Her breath hitched and warmth washed over her like a hot shower. Crying out at the orgasm that was way more intense than she expected in these circumstances as she felt lightheaded and white flashed behind her eyelids. 

Y/n tightened her grip on Minjeong’s hip, feeling the girl’s knees buckle. “Oh fuck…” Minjeong breathed out, the energy draining from her body as it relaxed. She blinked her eyes open—Y/n pulling her skirt back down as she pulled away, pulling her fingers out and helping the girl who unconsciously slid down to the floor with her. Her eyes shutting once more.

She looked at the girl in front of her whose cheeks were all flushed, her knees slumped against each other and her hands limp on the floor as she panted for air in the tight and hot space. Y/n leaned forward, restraining Minjeong of any possible room with her hands on each side of her on the cold ground. 

Her eyes opened, coming face to face with Y/n and despite feeling like she was held down by stones her hand came up. The tattooist cupped the singer’s cheek and pulled her in as she couldn’t get enough, she constantly needed more of what they had. 

It had all been so seemingly innocent, but before Minjeong knew it she was dragged into deep waters, drowning in Y/n's arms with no way out as it grew like an addiction. It had been too tempting no matter how many people told her to beware of what was disguised as innocence but only led to harm. They both dragged each other and what made it work was that it was always a one-way ticket to the gates of hell. 

masterlist.

[animatorweirdo]

The orc eater

Maglor and Camilla are worried for you since you have disappeared once more. However, they have little to worry since the ones who scream more are those who end up in your way.

Warnings: Mentions of violence, disappearing, Camilla being a bit snappy, severed limbs, blood, fear, horror, hunting, killing, sadistic mimicking of voice, a lot of orcs are dying in this one.

Chapter 10

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

The horses whine and trot on the road. The torches were lit on the walls of Himring, illuminating through the dark. Maglor rode before his group of riders, galloping through the front gate, returning from his failed attempt to find you before nightfall. 

Camilla waited, watching the front gate as the riders came through, and perked up when she saw Malor come at last. However, her expression changed when she noticed the grim expression on his face, and you were nowhere in sight. She could already guess what had happened but decided to greet him. 

Maglor climbed down from his horse, petting it before allowing the stablemaster to take his steed away. He then turned his attention toward a familiar face. 

“Guessing from your expression and the fact (Name) is not with you. You didn’t manage to find her,” Camilla stated, crossing her arms. “No... this is the only thing left from her,” Maglor handed her your water flask. “I’m sorry…” he added. “It’s fine… what happened?” she asked. 

“We managed to locate the camp and dealt with the orcs. However, (Name) got one of them before we got there and dragged the bastard into the forest since I found broken ropes, tracks of a struggle, and frost on the ground. She most likely turned, so I did not dare to risk facing her with my men,” Maglor explained. 

“A wise decision. It’s better to keep your distance for now,” Camilla replied, “It’s better to let time do its work and hope nothing drastic will happen,”

“Will (Name) be alright?” Maglor asked with a concerned tone. 

“She will be fine as long as she continues to hunt orcs and nothing else,” Camilla answered as they began walking. “I’m more concerned about where she might end up at the crack of dawn,” she added. “She better not end up in another enemy fortress, or I swear to god I will personally murder her myself,” she said with an annoyed tone. 

“We will find her. I’m sure of it,” Maglor said confidently. Camilla stared at him. “Yeah, how about you worry about your own things for a while? I will handle trying to locate her when the dawn rises,” she said, leaving him alone. 

Maglor stood there alone for a moment, progressing her response and the way she spoke to him. He felt a pang of pain in his heart to receive such mistrust, but he then remembered your words and shook his head while returning to his chambers. He will not let his pride cloud his judgment. He will earn her trust once the time comes. At the moment, he hopes that wherever you are – you are safe. 

In the dark of the forest, when the owls hooted and the bats flew in the sky, catching bugs and shrieking their songs. It was cold despite the heat that should still radiate from the day. Two human men were scurrying through the dimly lit forest, hunting for prey. 

“I don’t think this is a good idea. We should turn back,” one of the men mumbled anxiously, bothered by the darkness and the sounds around them. He was holding his bow with shaking hands. 

“Why? Scared of the dark?” the other much bolder man asked while scouting through the trees and bushes with no fear of what might lurk in the dark. 

“No. What if we encounter orcs? You do know they had become more active around these parts,” the scared man uttered with a loud, hasty tone. 

“It will be fine,” the bold man said back. 

The bolder man suddenly perks up when he hears something move and twigs snap. A grin plastered on his face with excitement. 

“I heard something. Go around there to check it out,” The man pointed out. “What? No! I don’t wanna go there alone!” the scared man protested. “Just go! Stop being such a wuss!” the bolder man ordered, and the scared man complied, moving carefully through the bushes while uttering silent curses. 

He wandered through the forest, trying to locate the source of the sound. His ears picked up something, and he walked closer, readying his bow for the kill. 

His mind was thinking of a deer or a hefty boar that could feed his family for a while. However, he did not expect to see something much more unsettling. 

He finds a severed arm of an orc, most of its flesh eaten off. There was a trail of dark blood, which he followed with his eyes till he saw more body parts and something, or rather, someone crouching down on a rock beneath the moonlight, eating what seemed to be a piece of flesh. 

The man watched in terror as the strange person ripped and groaned at its meal like it wasn’t satisfied with the taste. He stepped back, incidentally stepping on a twig that loudly snapped in half, gaining the creature’s attention. 

You snap your frozen gaze toward the man. He felt his heart stop as he looked into your glowing blue eyes that glared at him. Everything other than your eyes was dark. The man struggled to hold his bow. 

A set of whimpers left him as you began to growl at him. 

You suddenly began releasing threatening sounds and crouched down on four, making the man step back in a panic since it meant you were about to attack. In his clumsiness, he dropped his arrow on the ground. He picked it up and tried to knock it in haste, but then an arrow flew over his shoulder. 

You dodged the arrow in a quick reflex and then bounced, making the man drop on his back as you went after the orc hiding behind him. The orc sent another arrow, but you already tackled him to the ground and dragged him into the dark. 

The man shuddered when he began hearing the screaming and yelling of orcs. It sounded like a massacre as the orcs’ blood-curdling screams echoed in the air. He was then reminded of a recent rumor that had passed his home village. 

“The Orc eater,” he uttered as he listened to the ongoing onslaught. 

The orcs struggled to hit you with their arrows and swords as you moved at an unnatural speed to them. You tripped one of them down and dragged him away screaming from his friends. 

The orcs fell into a brink of terror as they watched you take them down one by one. They began running for their lives as they could not strike you. You appeared and tripped another orc down, but this time, you dragged him up into a tree, where he began screaming, and blood poured down from the branches. 

One last orc was left standing. He cautiously moved through the misty dark forest – anxious to hear any sounds caused by an animal, a bug, or the screams of his now dead group. He gasped when he heard something move behind him. He held his weapon with shaky hands, ready to strike down any enemy. 

You quietly climb up the tree, observing as the unsuspecting orc quivers beneath you. A twisted grin dressed your sharp teeth as you see his heart beating with fear, making his blood rush faster. They tasted better when they were filled with fear. You decide to play and make his heart beat even harder. 

The orc jolted when he began hearing the distant screams of his group. They were filled with pain and terror, which left him shaking and nearly dropping his weapon. His black heart began pounding faster on the brink of despair. Unknown to him, it was you mimicking the sounds of his dead group when you brutally killed them, making them sound distant even though you were right above him. 

The orc couldn't hold it together anymore. The fear in his body clouded his mind.  He dropped his weapon and ran for it, but then you made your presence known and bounced on him from the tree. 

He fell against the ground with you on top of him, screaming and flailing as you ripped him open, letting his blood dress the ground, and his screams filled the silence of the night. 

All the animals and insects remained hidden in their homes as the orc screamed and the predator feasted on its prey.

[ladylaviniya]

The Bronze Dragon ★ Chapter 10 ★

||Chapter 9|| Masterlist || Chapter 11||

Chapter Summary: Threats and false promises are made with a knife, blood and a little bit of fun.

Pairing: Dark!Aemond Targaryen X Laviniya Targaryen (My OFC)

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Post-War Dance of The Dragons, Mentions of Targaryen Heritage, Alternative Universe, Humiliation, Threats and Coercion With A Knife *Some Smut This Chapter*, Oral Sex F!Receiving, Dubious Consent.

Word Count: 9,480k

Author Notes: ★ I do not have a beta, and I am grateful for everyone who helps me edit. I type this story on my phone using Microsoft Word App. Thankyou and please be kind. (If it's simple spelling like colour vs color, understand I am Australian and we love adding extra vowels.)

Inspiring Song: "Bad Liar" by Imagine Dragons

The forest was alive with the sounds of nature. She ran through the trees with all her might, hoping to lose those hounds and their galloping master. There were hounds barking in long, mournful tones, and other hounds with shorter, more angry howls and yips. The night air was thick and heavy, and by the time she reached the stream, her dress clung to her body, soaked with sweat and sticking to her skin. Her long, snowy-white hair was plastered to her neck and shoulders, damp with sweat. Bugs stuck to her ankles covered in the king’s blood.

She allowed herself to slow down from her initial sprint, switching to a more stealthy mode of navigation. Carefully, she moved through the trail, ducking behind trees and avoiding the pursuing riders. The forest floor was unforgiving, littered with sharp rocks and pointy sticks. Every step was met with a sharp intake of breath as her unprotected feet were constantly assaulted with small thorns and stones.

Moving as quickly yet as quietly as possible, she kept to the shelter of the forest, slipping between the brush and trees with practiced skill. Fortunately, the path she had chosen was bordered by a stream, and once she neared the edge, she didn’t hesitate to step into the cool water, moving silently forward. Moonlight filtered through the dense canopy of trees, casting a silvery, bluish-gray hue over the surroundings.

The water was still and silent, its surface barely rippled except for the small waves she created with her movements. She searched for any sign of movement in the water, but saw none. She assured herself that if any creature was concealed beneath the surface, its presence would be betrayed by ripples or splashes.

She placed the hilt of the knife into her mouth.

With an impulsive plunge, she submerged herself in the cool, dark water. Rising from the depths, she buried her hands in the damp grass on the bank. She slammed the blade into the dirt above the muddy bank. She ran her fingers through her clean, ivory hair and smeared handfuls of mud on her face and dress. Then, a sharp pain in her shoulder caused her to wince, suppressing the urge to rip the bandage from under her gown. She dug her hands once more into the mud, coating her arms and legs with a thick layer of mud, grass, and moss. Once she was completely covered from head to toe, she pushed herself up, taking the dagger into her hands and carefully moved along the bank of the water, trying to avoid disturbing the surface and revealing her presence by the sound of careless splashing.

Her progress was hindered by the precarious bank, as every few steps, her foot would slip off, plunging into the mushy embankment below. Occasionally, she’d lose her balance and end up tumbling into the water. However, she never let go of her knife and would manage to quickly return to her task, ensuring to coat herself with more mud once again before resuming her journey.

The effort of her mad dash through the forest had pushed her to her physical limits. Her chest ached, and though she was young and fit, the heavy air was proving taxing to her burning lungs. Gasping for breath, she heard a distinct wetness in her breathing, each inhalation sounding laboured and strained. Seeking refuge beneath the protective cover of two thick trees, she paused to rest, her eyes wide and her body teeming with a restless, buzzing energy. Her hands clenched the blade hilt harder, ready to strike.

With each passing moment, she was acutely aware of the urgency of her situation. She hurriedly pushed herself to her feet, continuing on her path. The intense effort was taking a toll on her body, her heart racing at an unhealthy pace. She dared to glance over her shoulder, yet she heard nothing—no sounds of hounds or riders. The night had become eerily silent, an unnerving quiet that sent chills down her spine.

She had to find a way home and rally a support to her cause of defense. She would go live with the sister she had never known in the Eyrie. The Eyrie was impregnable. The Eyrie had a army twice as trained and better armoured than any northerners.

The words echoed through her mind like a mantra, providing a shred of comfort in her dire situation. “I do not have to marry the king. I do not have to marry the king. I do not have to marry the king.” She repeated them three times, each repetition a desperate attempt to assuage her mounting panic. Another fifty metres passed beneath her feet before she was suddenly halted by a pair of powerful arms that encircled her and pulled her back against a chainmail chest as cold as a winters morning and hard as the Runestones walls.

She tried to yell but a large hand swiftly smothered her cry. A nearby hound bounded out onto the path, leaping and jumping joyously, emitting a long, low bark of victory. The excited canine jumped and spun, clearly enjoying its success while Laviniya found herself incapable of squealing, as the knight’s iron grip on her face kept her mouth firmly shut.

She tried jerking the blade back into his side but the sharp point was no match for his chainmail. He grabbed and squeezed her wrist hard enough for it to drop the knife with her tiniest whimper.

His fingers holding her tight and firm suddenly pinched her nostrils together, making it harder for her to draw breath. She fought back with all her might, her body writhing and struggling against his hold. She managed to open her mouth wide and snapped her teeth down hard on the top of his hand, tasting the metallic tang of warm blood. With a violent jerk of her legs, she tried to free herself from his grasp.

“Fuck! That hurt, you little-!” The knight that she realised was Ser Gilbar, cursed as he involuntarily released his grip, dropping her hard, trying to free his bitten hand. On her hands and knees she took advantage of the momentary reprieve, she tried to dart forward, but a sudden wave of nausea overpowered her senses, sending a powerful shudder through her body.

Her ankle was ruthlessly seized in a powerful grip, and she was pulled back forcefully. Strangely, the thought of screaming didn’t even occur to her; her mind was solely fixated on trying to escape as quickly as possible. She clawed at the ground, desperately trying to find purchase and pull herself away from Ser Gilbar.

A massive bicep encircled her throat, followed by the vise-like grip of a second arm around both of her own. Her airway was instantly blocked, her body instinctively trying to gasp for air, but the pressure on her throat kept her mouth sealed shut. The arm around her neck constricted even further, cutting off any chance of inhaling or exhaling.

“Please do not struggle, Lady Laviniya,” the knight spoke calmly, his voice cutting through the din of the celebrating hounds, “Please try to calm yourself and be still, it will be over soon, I promise.” He grunted.

As her vision began to blur and spots danced before her eyes, she pondered the irony of her impending death. She probably looked like a fish, with her mouth gaping open, her eyes bulging, and her body desperately thrashing around in a futile attempt to catch a breath.

“Apologies, Lady Laviniya. Just go to sleep now,” the knight, Ser Gilbar, softly instructed. Exhaustion overwhelmed her, leaving her unable to continue fighting. With no choice, she allowed herself to yield to the darkness, her world slowly fading into deep, unconscious slumber.

The skin around the sutures was a sight of redness, rawness, and swelling. The wound extended across his palm and reached a point just shy of the top of his wrist. The maester had done an examination of the injury and thankfully, no major damage to his tendons had been detected. Aemond was able to move his fingers and although his grip strength was somewhat impacted, it could have been far worse. However, the maester had informed him that he had been exceptionally lucky, for it appeared that Aemond’s life was spared by the fact that the artery in his hand had only been nicked.

The revelation had shocked even the king, a man who had faced countless dangerous battles on dragonback and engaged in hand-to-hand combat with seasoned warriors who had honed their skills throughout their entire lives. Yet, here he was being told that a young woman, who he found himself growing increasingly infatuated with, had come precariously close to bringing him death.

Aemond knew that the wound would undoubtedly scar, but strangely, he found an odd sense of satisfaction in this fact. It would serve as a constant reminder of the danger he had just narrowly escaped. He had to admit, he had underestimated her just as he had with his nephew in their youth. And yet, he had thought that was a mistake he would never repeat.

Aemond’s mind was filled with shame as he thought of how easily she could have struck higher. The blade could have sliced through his throat, leaving him to bleed out on the floor like a slaughtered pig, unable to cry out for his guards in time before meeting the bitter end of his reign.

The king then felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he considered what might have befallen Laviniya if the outcome had been different. Ser Gilbar was indeed a man to be trusted, but the other knights in his employ were not. They were nothing more than a pack of hungry dogs, always looking for an opportunity to rape and pillage where they could and without their king to command their mercy, Laviniya could have been a torn up corpse of blood and cum.

Despite himself, Aemond found himself grinning as he gingerly traced his finger along the edges of the stitches. It was a delightful turn of events, and he had to admit, she had managed to impress him at every turn without even requiring to remove her clothes.

It had been a long two years for him, filled with nothing but indulging his primal desires, but never having his intellect and personality so fiercely engaged. She had broken that pattern, and it was a welcome change for him.

He thought about how filthy she was when she had arrived and he had paid a elderly woman, the sister of the Maester to wash and care for his woman. After many hot buckets of water and towels and soap, she was finally clean, but he recalled walking in on her and worrying as she stirred and cried in her delirium state. She was so small and helpless and he had done this to her, forced this onto her. It reminded him of Jaehaera. He could not fault her for trying to escape him. But he would be obeyed.

He told the Maester’s sister to wash and cloth Laviniya in the cleanest thing possible. He paid her fifteen gold pieces, a wage that would support her and her brother for a year.

A soft knock on the door and he called for them to enter. Ser Raynard entered with the Maester's sister.

“She is awake my lord.”

Her head throbbed mercilessly, the voices around her sounding distant and somewhat distorted, almost as if they were being filtered through water. She wondered if she was underwater pondering whether some stream creature had claimed her in the murky depths. Uncertainty reigned as she lay disoriented and dazed, struggling to make sense of her current predicament.

Her body felt dry and uncomfortable; it was as if she had peeled off a layer of skin, revealing a new, fresh layer beneath. But in her distortion space of sleep, she found herself dreaming of peeling away and shedding skin, an endless supply of it. Like she was a serpant, or maybe- a dragon. But the dream was to hazy and every so often a blue orb filled the dream, an eye. But the space around the blue kept trembling and swaying. Even now, she couldn’t shake the sensation, as if she were still in the dream, with the itchy feeling of scales beneath her fingers.

A flask of cool water was placed to her lips. She sucked on it greedily. Her mouth was very dry. Her head hurt so badly. But she felt so warm and beneath her was something soft like a blanket of the softest sheep wool. Was she in her room in the Runestones? Was the maester nearby? Had she been hit by a large boulder? She recalled there was a loose risk in the wall near the stable heard that needed reinforcing. Why did her throat hurt so bad? She couldn’t afford to miss her class with Septa Tanisha and her best friend Myrielle. She needed to wake up soon.

Through the haze of her dreary eyes, she could see a single face.

“Is she going to be alright?” a familiar, warm, masculine, voice worried. She felt a warm hand on her cold one and shuddered at the difference in temperature, her insides felt so warm by the hand touching hers alone. She wanted to hold that hand again. It was so soft.

“The little dear shall be alright, your grace ,” an old woman’s kind voice, calmly assured, “She merely needs rest. We gave her a rather strong sedative to keep her asleep while we washed her. She’s fighting against the medicines of the  sedative though – or nightmares are coming through her sleep.”

“Nightmares?” the King replied.

“She keeps mumbling things about blood and fire and then nonsense about eggs and saddles.”

There was a warm chuckle. And then silence for a long time. She felt her body grow warmer and then a breeze would make her skin impossibly icy. She couldn’t move and when she tried to speak all she could manage were weak whimpers.

The knight’s voice, tinged with concern, reached her from a distance. “I swear, I didn’t want to harm her. I did everything I could to be gentle, sire. I promise, I would never harm such a sweet girl,” he pleaded sincerely.

In response, the king grunted, then sighed before speaking, his tone conveying a sense of trust. “I believe you, Ser. I entrust her care into your hands. Thankyou for bringing my bride back to me.”

An uncertain amount of time passed before a bright light intruded her eyelids, forcing her to scrunch her face in discomfort. The King’s soft laughter filled the room, followed by a gentle command, “Come now, Laviniya, wake up please. Avy jorrāelan.”

Another flask of water was presented to her lips, and she obediently drank the cool liquid, although she still felt filthy, caked in dirt from head to toe. The light stabbed her eyes again, pain radiating through her aching head.

A gentle old woman with kind eyes spoke to her, holding a bar of soap in her wrinkled hand. A warm smile Laviniya d her face as she carefully offered a sip of water. As she lifted her hand to her face, she noticed the thick layer of mud coating her skin from head to toe. She started to remember her panicked flight through the forest. She recalled being pursued by something, but it wasn’t a wolf or a lion. It was a man. Yes, a man had attacked her. Ser Gilbar.

Darkness took hold of her again.

She slowly regained consciousness, her head throbbing with pain, and her jaw aching intensely. Her hand instinctively rose to touch the tender skin on the side of her face. She gently pressed her fingers against the soreness, finding it tender to the touch. Taking a moment to gather herself, she carefully opened her mouth and gently cracked her jaw. The action caused a sharp bite of pain, but it also brought a small sense of relief.

“Gods,” she sighed. She was in the small inn room again, this time there were many towels and buckets around the floor and bed. Her dress that was filthy was gone, all the cracked dirt coated her arms was gone. She was clean and made new, wearing only an stain and aged nightgown.

She opened her eyes, though the effort proved taxing on her sore eyelids. Each passing moment brought more clarity as the memories of the previous night began to resurface. Awareness of her surroundings, her actions, her failed attempts, and the overwhelming sense of impending doom slowly returned to her. A chill crept through her as the weight of her defeat settled deep within her core.

The memory of attempting to follow the stream played vividly in her mind. Although she was aware that her actions could pose a threat to her people, she couldn’t bring herself to confront the king’s wrath in the confining space of the inn. Instead, she had chosen to face him as she stood safely behind the fortified walls of Runestones. She knew that she hadn’t gotten far before being captured.

Despite the knowledge that it would take over a week of walking on foot to return to her home, the thought of being free from the king’s executioner for that period of time provided a small measure of comfort. Even though she believed that she had acted responsibly, a deep sense of guilt gnawed at her. She truly hadn’t wanted to maim the King, she just wanted him to let her go and cease his torment. The pain throughout her body reminded her of her failed escape and the consequences that lay ahead.

A mix of feelings coursed through her, and she found herself questioning whether she had caused significant harm to Ser Gilbar. Almost immediately, she chided herself for even considering his well-being. The metallic taste of blood was faint now in her mouth, a gruesome reminder of when she had bitten him. Within her own denial, she lied to herself that she was glad to have hurt him. She tried to tell herself that the knight deserved to have a bite scar on his hand forever to remind him of the woman he brought back to be slaughtered by a vicious and cruel king.

As she observed her surroundings, her gaze lingered on the window at the far left of the room. It was undoubtedly the same opening the king had leaned out of the previous night, using it to taunt her with his menacing presence. With a sense of dejection, she concluded that it was too high off from the ground to jump from without killing herself or breaking a few bones. She realised eventually that her own ankles and wrists were tightly trussed and tied to the four corners of the bed posts, each limb secured by a combination of sturdy leather belts and tightly knotted rope. Consumed by fear in her helplessness, she kicked and thrashed to try to break free, but the limited space she could move in only caused her body to be pulled even more taut.

Laviniya tried not to cry in her hopelessness, but it was a great feat. Laviniya couldn’t hold back her tears as her emotions overwhelmed her. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, letting her sobs wrack her body. She wept for her Cousin Gunthor, sobbing for him to save her somehow. She cried out prayers to the gods to save her. She wanted to go home.

Eventually, however, she turned her face towards the lone window in the room, her tears continuing to fall silently. As she looked out at the blue sky and the tops of the trees, she allowed herself to become lost in the peaceful swaying of the branches in the gentle breeze. She tried not to think about the impending doom or execution for her crime. For now, she wanted just to remain in this small bubble of peace.

After an indeterminate amount of time, the door to the room creaked opened. The Kings face appeared, hard and firm like that of a disappointed father.

“Good morning, Lady Laviniya.”

“Good morning, your grace," she said meekly.

His eyes took in the sight of her, and acknowledged his own excitement influence by the fear that was rolling off her in waves. Seeing her like this was exciting, it was a powerful feeling, thick and sweet like syrup, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“You look lovelier now that you’ve been cleaned up and scrubbed of all that muck.”

“Yes, my king,” she shuddered, her voice catching slightly as she tried to keep her fear under control. “Thank you.”

She was afraid to say more, afraid to anger him further. He could see it in her eyes, in the way her body tensed and trembled as he drew closer. The king circled the bed, his gaze locked on hers. Her purple eyes were wide with fear, a testament to the power he held over her. A thrill of pleasure coursed through him as he watched her, knowing that she was powerless to resist him. He yearned for her, wanting to bathe his senses in her presence. To inhale her scent, to taste her flesh, to devour her completely.

Yet his voice was calm and almost casual as he asked, “How are you feeling?”

The question seemed to catch her off guard, her face betraying her confusion. He watched as her nose crinkled and her brow furrowed, the emotions flickering across her features like the flames of a newborn fire having oxygen breathed into it.

Her voice was so quiet that he had to lean forward to hear her clearly. “Terrified,” she breathed. “Scared.”

He smiled, enjoying the feeling of power that coursed through him at the sound of her soft admission. She was defiant, yes, but only because she had never been taught how to submit or respect a king properly...She had never known the pleasure of surrendering to him, her king.

There was something pure and untouched within her, a genuine goodness that was rare to find in this godforsaken land. It called to him, stirring a primal, possessive instinct that he could not ignore. He wanted to shield it, to protect it from the harsh realities of the world, to keep it all to himself. It would be his, and his alone.

He would build a fortress around her, a fortress with walls of solid steel and doors that only he held the keys to. No one would be able to touch her, to corrupt her innocence or extinguish her light.

The thought of the challenge ahead sent a jolt of pure excitement through him. How to mould her delicate mind, to exert his control without causing it to shatter completely? He wanted to dominate her, to make her bend to his will, but not in the same brutal way that his brother had to Helaena. He wanted to possess Laviniya, to own her, but not by breaking her spirit. No, he wanted her to surrender willingly, to give herself to him completely.

He leaned in even closer, his voice low and sultry as he spoke. “You needn’t be scared,” he assured her. “If you simply obeyed me.”

She met his gaze, her eyes darting back and forth in a futile attempt to hide her thoughts. “I’ll obey,” she promised, her voice trembling slightly. His smile widened at her hasty promise. He could see the deception in her eyes, the way they darted back and forth, giving away her true feelings. He knew full well that she was lying, but he found her attempts at dissemblance amusing and cute.

He flexed his hand, grimacing as the pain in his palm flared up again. The soothing salve applied by the maester had done little to ease the throbbing, and he could hardly wait to make her suffer for it. But he had to bide his time, patience being the key to all things. He would have to wait, but the punishment he would inflict on her would be all the sweeter for the delay.

He took a deep breath, trying to push aside the tantalizing images that were racing through his mind. The thought of her, bent over a table in his chambers in King’s Landing, her dress up around her waist, her bottom red from his hand...it was almost too much to bear. He loved fucking a woman after a good thrashing. He had to remain in control, no matter how much he wanted to give in to his desires. There would be time for that later.

His gaze roamed over her body, taking in every inch of her soft, enticing curves. Her creamy inner thighs, her blushing face, her tousled hair. She really was the perfect creature, a masterpiece in human form. He could see her growing restless under his scrutiny, her discomfort making her shift and shiver. Finally, she broke the silence, her voice a soft whisper as she vowed, “I promise.”

He paused beside the bed, holding his injured hand up for her to see. He could see the shock and guilt written all over her face, her lips parted in a silent gasp as realization of what she had done hit her.

“Oh, I don’t know,” He chuckled, seeing the surprise and fear written so clearly on her face, “You promised not to throw wine in my face if I did not tie you up and gag you, and yet here we are- a cut hand and you back to being tied up... So please forgive me when I say that I’m not convinced you’re telling the truth right now.”

They were frozen in place, each looking deeply into the other’s eyes. There was a charged tension between them, the air thick with emotions and unspoken truths. For the first time since they had met, they were both completely honest with each other. No more lies, no more games, no more denials. The moment felt like an eternity as they stood there, their gazes locked together, the only sound the slow, steady beat of their own heartbeats. All pretence and subtlety had been stripped away in an instant, replaced by pure, unfiltered honesty. She could see the stark reality of her situation, the power he held over her. He was her captor, her master and King now, and there was no denying it. For a moment, it felt like he was seeing her for the very first time, his gaze searching her eyes intently, taking in every detail of her being.

She wet her bottom lip, nervously.

“You forget,” she reminded him, Her voice was soft and shaky as she spoke, but there was a hint of challenge in her tone, “that you still owe me two truths about yourself that no one else knows... If you want honesty from me, my king, you shouldn’t have thrown away your advantage in cyvasse so frivolously.”

He couldn’t help but let out a warm, deep laugh as her words sunk in. His eye still locked on hers, a smile spreading across his face at the unexpected boldness of her words. She had the audacity to challenge him, after everything that had passed between them. It was both ridiculous and admirable, and he found himself totally drawn to her spirit.

He leaned in closer, his eyes narrowed as he replied, “Ah, my little lavender lamb, you are entertaining. That is partially true,” he continued, a sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I did tell you about why I killed my brother, but that was only one truth. I promised you two, did I not?”

He fixated on her breasts beneath her thin shift. The room felt chilled, the air cool against his skin. The nipples appeared, small and hard, sat beneath the material of the, beckoning him. His mouth salivated at the thought of tasting them, and he pondered what her skin would taste like admits sweat covered sex. Deep down, he longed for the sensation of the hardened teats against his tongue, their sweet taste hopefully remaining when they would swell up with  milk for his children.

He kissed her forehead.

Her face flushed. 

“Something true about me that none knows but me-” he paused, “As a boy, after my eye had been carved out, I used to keep a dagger under my pillow, because I feared my brother or my nephew’s would try to kill me in my own sleep. It is a habit that surprisingly almost became my downfall when you decided to fight me.”

“I have no intention of fighting you anymore,” she asserted, her voice laced with sincerity. “Please, give me another opportunity. Untie me, and I’ll prove to you that I’ll do as you desire. I will go with you without fight and serve you without complaint.”

The king’s interest was piqued, his gaze unwavering. “Hmm, you’ll do as I want?” he repeated, his voice a mixture of scepticism and intrigue.

“Yes, your grace,” the young woman replied, her voice tinged with a hint of desperation. “I’ll do whatever you ask, I promise, sire, I’ll-....I’ll-.”

The king chuckled at her fumbling words. “Be sweet, submissive, and loving, is that right?” he prompted.

A tear left her eyes as she swallowed hard, she shuddered with a forced smile, “Yes, I will be all those things,” she agreed, her voice filled with purposeful hope. “I may not know what you expect, but I am willing to learn. Teach me, your grace, and I will do my best to please you.”

Aemond’s gaze drifted downwards, a sly little smirk playing upon his lips. The expression lasted but a moment, replaced almost instantly by a thoughtful frown. He slowly withdrew his hand from his pocket, the gesture subtle yet deliberate. Sensing an opportunity to speak, the young woman opened her mouth, but her words caught in her throat as her eyes instinctively followed the path of Aemond’s hand.

He lifted to the light, a dagger.

He gently touched the blade to his finger and rotated it slowly. She grew paler as she fixated on the blade. She froze, processing the sight before her as all the thoughts races through her mind.

Aemond paused, his brow furrowing in mock concern. He continued to slowly twirl the knife in his hand before addressing her directly.

“Is something troubling you, Laviniya?” he inquired, his voice cool and controlled. “Or are you trying to sweet talk to me, as you’re so fond of doing?”

Sweet talk? She hadn’t sweet talked to him? That was all he had ever done to her since they’d met along with his manipulation and cruelty. Nonetheless his words were a subtle warning, his tone making it clear that he wouldn't fall for her schemes again.

“I guess you don’t love your beautiful fingers as much as I thought you had? Maybe if I cut something far more precious it would solidify the reality of my tolerance? Maybe your nose? Or one of your pretty purple eyes. I envy them you know, you carry true Valyrian genes and hold little appreciation for their beauty...maybe I should send them to your Cousins in the Runestones to remind them I am always watching out for rebels.”

 As her mind connected the dots, a look of sheer terror washed over her face. Her breath caught in her throat, and her eyes filled with tears.

“Forgive me, your grace,” she pleaded in a shaky whisper. “I’m sorry – I’m sorry.” Her voice quivered as tears streamed down her cheeks, trickling down her temples and seeping into her hair.

He looked up at her, soaking up her sorrowful face, and posed a simple question, “What are you apologizing for?”

Without breaking eye contact, he twirled the dagger against his finger pad, letting the prick enter his skin, and the hot bite of blood rose up the surface of his skin, gliding down his fingertip.

She struggled to maintain her composure, her voice cracking as she spoke. “I’m truly sorry for cutting you, hurting you,” she choked out, her body wracked with tremors of fear. “Please believe me, it was not my intent. I never wanted to cause you harm. I wasn’t thinking. It was just on the bed and I just wanted you to release me and let me go home!”

Her eyes brimmed with tears as she looked up at him, wailing out her pleas for his forgiveness. He lowered his weapon, his stern expression softening as he took in her quivering form.

He yearned to see what her blood would look like, pressing the tip of the blade into the skin of her soft thigh. The tip of the dagger wiggled a little dent on the pale flesh like a dimple of the face. She started to cry, terrified of the prick potentially piercing her flesh.

“Are you going to kill me?” she sniffled. His eye glanced up  from the pink knife made dimple back to her scrunched up face. “I know I am to die for treason sire, but I want to know if it will be you or one of your knights as my executioner.”

He studied her reaction.

His gaze fixated on her as he gently pressed the blade flat against her skin, a grim fascination in his eyes. She twisted her head towards him, her amethyst eyes wide and brimmed with tears, now red and puffy from crying.

Her lip wobbled and she sniffled, “Please don’t give up on me just yet, Your grace. Please. I will be good, I swear it. Please.”

Her eyes met his, silently begging him to stop.

 She let out a deep sigh, her despair palpable. It was almost laughable how perfectly she played her part. The presence of the knife had obviously brought out some legitimate emotions in her, but she knew exactly what he wanted to hear. He couldn’t help but smile slightly as he watched her, his lip twitching with a blend of astonishment and enjoyment.

“Why must everyone forsake me?” she sobbed, her voice filled with bitter despair. He let her weep a few moments longer, amused by her manipulative tactics.

“My cousins will not rescue me...my own father rejected me, and my mother abandoned me in death. I am tired of feeling unloved and unwanted.”

Her breathing hitched as she spoke, her voice trembling with vulnerability. “You don’t even want me,” she whispered, her eyes looked away and squeezed as she braced for his torture..

His eye widened in surprise, his eyebrows furrowing as a smirk still played on his lips. “Is that so? And yet, I went to all this trouble to kidnap you. I suppose I was mistaken—are you not Laviniya Targaryen, daughter of Daemon Targaryen, the traitor?”

She swallowed hard, struggling against the bonds that held her wrists to the bed. Frustration and anger boiled within her as she tried to speak through clenched teeth, but her words came out as a frustrated whimper instead. “Exactly,” she spat, her voice laced with bitterness.

“You don’t want me, not really. You want me because of my name, my bloodline, but not me. Not just me. No one has ever truly wanted me, just for who I am!”

He let her yell and scream. He  looked down at his own lap and waited for her to stop crying and thrashing. When she had calmed her wild self down, he brushed her hair away from her face. His eye fluttered shut.

Aemond’s tone hardened as he asked the question, his eye narrowing slightly, “Do you want to survive this, Lavinyia?”

His words hung in the air like a thick, heavy fog, and the weight of them was unbearable. This was no ordinary question, it was a test of her will, a challenge to her very existence. The axe or the hangman’s rope were not distant threats in this moment, they were very real possibilities.

“Yes,” she said with a wobbly lip.

“I could pardon this treason and allow you to live Laviniya,” he stated clearly, “But this was a heavy crime, this is something that is worthy of death or being sent to the Wall if you were a man. But as you are not a man. I am at a stand still as to what I shall do with you. Despite your violent appetite, I still have use of you, and therefore I ask that you prove to me you’re ready to learn,” he said. “I cannot teach if you do not want to learn. And I believe firmly that you have the potential of a queen. I said so last night and this upset you into a spiralling event that left me with a scarring wound. So I ask for your survivals sake, are you ready to learn, ready to obey me?”

With a weary sigh, she finally spoke, her voice a strained whisper. “I’m ready, I’m ready to learn. I...I’m just so tired of being abandoned sire.”

He watched her, hearing the raw truth in her words, the confession that she ached to know something he alone could teach her. For a moment, his own isolation echoed in the silence between them, but he pushed the thought away.

“Then prove it,” he said brusquely, his gaze firmly fixed on her face.

As his fingertips grazed her cheek, Aemond felt the cool, dampness of her skin beneath the pulsating heat of his injury. She responded to his touch, pressing her face against him, her lips finding their way to the sutured skin with a gentle, contrite kiss.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, her voice a low, sincere whisper, filled with remorse and willing submissiom.

Aemond sat down on the bed, leaning over her with an intense gaze. He gently wiped away the tears that streamed down her face, his touch surprisingly tender.

“Will you run from me again, Laviniya?” he asked gently, his voice soft but firm.

She took a trembling breath before answering, her voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” she said, meeting his eye with a fierce intention. “I won’t run.”

Aemond’s gaze was firm as he held her chin in his hand, his fingers holding her in place. His eye travelled over her features, taking in the way he lilac eyes glimmered with tears, the soft blush of colour on her cheeks, and the way her hair splayed out in a halo around her head.

“Will you be a good girl?” he asked, his voice a deep, authoritative rumble.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears. “Yes, Your Grace,” she whispered, her tone obedient and submissive.

Aemond’s blue eye narrowed as he studied her, his voice low and suspicious. “Are you lying to me?”

She answered immediately, her words coming out in a breathless rush. “No.”

He watched her carefully, his face guarded. “Are you trying to trick me, Laviniya? If I release you from your binds and you try to harm me, Ser Raynard has been commanded to cut your head from your shoulders.”

She shook her head quickly, her eyes widening with a mixture of fear and honesty. She did not wish the end to come so soon.

“I’m ready to obey and serve you,” she whimpered. She knew she was lying through her teeth in ways, but she hoped that her words would convince him. Aemond noticed the deception in her eyes, but he still smiled, giving a slow nod in response. He reached for her restraints, his expression sadistic and uncompromising.

“Very well then, I will untie you” he said gruffly. “We leave for the Red Keep today, and because I am most merciful, you will be inside the carriage and not be dragged behind it. If you attempt to run away again Laviniya, I will not hesitate to drag you all the way to the red keep by your hair alone. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my King.” She continued to whimper, “I understand.”

Aemond set the dagger beside the expanse of her pale thigh before reaching up to untie the leather restraint wrapped around her right wrist. It was the same weapon she had wielded when she sliced him open, the one she had dropped during her struggle with Ser Gilbar. But her memory was fuzzy, and she couldn’t recall what had become of it after that.

She could practically feel the cold steel of the knife against her bare skin, a threatening reminder that she was completely at his mercy. There was no escape, no way to break free. This man, this dangerous, unhinged, violent man held her life in his hand, and there was no way to change that.

With a sinking feeling, she knew that even if she could somehow grab the knife and drive it into his throat, it would be a futile effort. Aemond had been right all along – if she killed him but failed to escape, her fate would be sealed. And there were indeed fates worse than death that awaited her if she was captured, or if the guards outside discovered the truth behind the King’s death.

Aemond carefully released her other hand from the leather restraint, lowering it slowly down to her side. She didn’t dare reach for the dagger, he smirked. He untied her left wrist.

 Her eyes widened slightly as he lifted her wrist up to his mouth, his lips brushing against the delicate skin with a feathers touch. Aemond placed a warm, gentle kiss on the sensitive spot where her pulse fluttered, then inhaled deeply, his breath warm on her wrist. He placed her hand at her side once more, and she lay still, barely daring to breathe.

She knew she had to be careful and play the pieces of this board right. She needed to convince him that she was truly submissive, that she would yield to his will and obey his every command. Aemond was too astute to fall for a sudden declaration of worshiping love and devotion. She had to be both convincing and subtle, finding the right balance between feigned obedience and genuine vulnerability.

She knew that Aemond’s ego and arrogance were his weaknesses. The fact that he was untying her bonds meant that he believed he had control over her, that she was no longer a threat. So she decided to appeal to his ego, to play the part of the scared, sad, tired girl who was willing to obey him, even to eventually come to love him. It was a dangerous game, but she had no other options left.

Laviniya resigned herself to the reality of her situation. Even if it meant spending endless nights, weeks, months, or even years in Aemond’s bed, she knew that eventually, an opportunity to escape would arise. But in order to seize that chance, she would have to be absolutely perfect. She would have to play her part flawlessly.

She knew that she could not afford to overthink or worry about the future right now. Her immediate priority was to focus on the man in front of her, the man who was even now untying the bonds holding her ankles. Nothing else mattered in this moment but convincing him that she was willing to submit herself to his will.

As Aemond’s fingers glided over her calf, the heat radiating from his fingertips sending tingles across her skin. She couldn’t help but glance down at the knife on her thigh, the cool, steely blade a stark contrast to the searing touch of his fingers. The great difference between the two sensations sent a shiver down her spine and caused goosebumps to ripple over her flesh.

Aemond smiled down at her, his lips pressing against the delicate skin of her ankle in a gesture that was both tender and possessive. His hand traced the contour of her foot before he lowered it back to the bed, the touch sending a wave of tremors through her. Despite her attempt to maintain control, her body betrayed her inner turmoil, trembling beneath his touch.

Aemond carefully untied the final restraint on her ankle, then stood beside her, watching her with a strange fascination. She remained motionless, lying flat in the position he had placed her. Unbidden, a single tear trickled down her temple and into her ear. He paused, then leaned down and tenderly brushed away the tear with of his smooth knuckle. She stared at his stitches, a big, black, ugly ladder that climbed up his palm to his wrist. She did that.

Aemond’s callused fingers reached out and took the knife from her thigh, he moved the weapon safely away from her. He held it for a moment, observing its weight and sharpness before setting it down beside him. Then, with surprising tenderness, his thumbs moved upwards, slowly pushing up the fabric of the yellowed chemise that she wore. The movement was intimate and deliberate, as if he was uncovering a prize he had been waiting to claim.

Her eyes widened in alarm as he began to push up the fabric of the chemise, her body instinctively moving to stop him. Without thinking, she reached out and grasped his uninjured wrist, her fingers clenching around it in a desperate attempt to halt his movements.

Aemond's frown deepened as he felt the pressure of her hand around his wrist. He gave her a stern look, his voice firm and demanding. "Laviniya, release my hand," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. "This is your punishment, face it now so we can find peace. Prove to me that all the words you said before had honest meaning and were not just conjured nonsense.”

Laviniya’s hand trembled slightly as she obeyed Aemond’s command, her fingers slowly releasing his wrist from their grip. She swallowed hard, her heart hammering in her chest as she wondered what further punishment he had in store for her.

Although she couldn’t understand why he was punishing her, particularly after the knife show and implied threats he had shared earlier, she knew better than to question him now.

“Lay back down,” he softly commanded, “lay your head against the pillows. This shan’t take too long.”

As she lay there, her body rigid and taut with tension, a few silent tears brimmed in the corner of Laviniya’s eyes. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Aemond, and instead fixed her gaze on the ceiling above. She did her best to distract herself from the present moment, to think of anything other than what the king might be doing to her.

Despite her best efforts, her mind kept creeping back to the possibilities, the uncertainty adding a layer of anxiety to her already tumultuous emotions.

She could feel the chemise being lifted gently past her hips, the fabric slowly revealing her to Aemond’s gaze. He was silent for a moment, taking in the sight of her. Aemond’s single eye roamed over the expanse of pale skin, his breath catching at the sight of the thin patch of white wool that covered her most intimate of parts.

It seemed like an eternity before he spoke, his voice a low, guttural groan. “I have not seen such pale hair on a woman in many years.”

Her intimate area was as Aemond would describe, perfect. It was untouched, it would be for him. She looked like a peach, with a windowing slit of her lips poking through to greet him...and his mouth. Towards the top of her blush red lips was the peeking pearl of his lusts desire.

“My, what a pretty pussy you have Laviniya. Had I known sooner this is what shared my bed, I perhaps would have dishonoured your virtue for good.”

As Laviniya lay there, her body exposed to Aemond’s view, she couldn’t help but sniffle and nod in response to his words. It wasn’t so much a sign of agreement or approval, but rather an acknowledgement that she had heard him speaking.

Her breaths came in short, shaky huffs as she waited for him to continue, her body tense and anxious in anticipation of the king’s next move.

“Will you please hold the backs of your thighs for me please?” he asked, his eyes gleamed and his mouth watered.

He did not demand it of her in that arrogant tone he so often used, rather he asked politely – or as politely as could be expected under the circumstances.

Her body trembled slightly as she brought her trembling hands down to her thighs, her fingers grasping the back of her legs. She did as he requested, but her eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, refusing to look at the man who now had complete control over her.

Aemond’s smile spread across his face as he studied her, his eye tracing over every detail of her perfect form. He let out a sigh of admiration, then spoke once more, his voice both firm and commanding.

 “Truly perfect,” he repeated, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. He paused for a moment, his gaze fixed on her face. “Now, you must promise me that you will hold completely still as I punish you. Otherwise, the consequences that follow will be far more unpleasant. Do you understand, Laviniya?”

“Y-yes,” she quivered, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Aemond was not satisfied, “Yes, what?” he hummed, “Who is speaking to you?”

Laviniya paused, her mind racing for the correct answer. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she could feel a bead of sweat forming at her temple.

“Ñuha dārys kessa,” yes my king, she gulped.

Aemond’s eye widened in surprise as he heard her respond in Valyrian, his lips parting in a slight gasp. “Oh, you clever little thing you,” he praised, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “And you got the structure of the sentence correct, too.”

Leaning down, Aemond pressed a hot kiss to the soft skin of her thigh, his lips lingering there for a moment before he added, “All I want to hear is you to say that. You may not be bright, but you are immensely clever, my lavender lamb.”

His face was so close that she could feel his hot, even breaths fanning over her clit and lips, the sensation causing a small, involuntary twitch of her body and a loud hitch of her breath.

As she jerked back slightly, Aemond chuckled, his voice low and dark. “So sensitive,” he murmured, “and I’ve barely started.”

Aemond moved without warning, his mouth descending upon her suddenly. His tongue, large and flat, lapped at her with a gentle but firm touch. The feeling of it was both unexpected and intense, forcing a outcry of wordless noise from her mouth. Her eyes blew up wide and looked down to watch as he lavished her cunt like the sweetest desert.

He glided the tip of his tongue from her tiny puckering back entrance all the way up her crimson slit to the tip of her clit before wrapping his lips around the pearl and sucking it hard. His hands spread her thighs further apart and thumbs spread her lips wide so he could continue licking and sucking away at every possible crevice of her cunt.

As Aemond’s tongue worked its magic, Laviniya’s eyes rolled back in her head, unable to keep them open as the sensations overwhelmed her. Her mouth, too, lost the ability to stay quiet, and she found herself panting and gasping for air.

Her pleas and words, usually so measured and composed, turned into a jumbled mess of confusion and incoherence as Aemond continued his relentless assault. She was no longer his fiancée, no longer the untouchable fair lady. She was nothing more than a quivering mass of sensations, entirely his moaning lavender lamb.

Who would have thought that a single act of defiance could lead to such a strange and unexpected turn of events?

Laviniya had never imagined that after slicing up the king’s hand, she would be rewarded with such new and forbidden pleasures. She had expected retribution and punishment, not this whirlwind of sensations and emotions that Aemond was unleashing upon her.

The lewd suckling noises he made had her whole body shaking in delight and fear.

In that moment, Laviniya lost all pretense of control. Her self-restraint vanished, and she reached down, her trembling hands finding Aemond’s head and tangling in his soft, silvery hair. Her fingers brushed through the strands, and she gripped them tightly, tugging him closer into her with a needy grunt.

Aemond’s eye gazed up at Laviniya intensely. It could almost be mistaken for a glare, his single eye boring into her with heat and frustration. The interruption had been unexpected, and he had been the victim of her hand tugging his hair.

As soon as she realized what she had done, she quickly released his hair and pulled her trembling hand back, her eyes filling with tears.

“Ñuha dārys,” My King, her words a whining plea. “Forgive me, please,” she begged, her voice thick with pleading and remorse.

Aemond shook his head, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips as he gently took her trembling hand and placed it back on his head.

With tentative movements, she experimentally closed her fingers around the roots of his hair again. She lightly tugged on them, urging his glistening lips closer to her clit. There was fear and anticipation coursing through her entire body.

This time, Aemond’s mouth latched on once more, his tongue resuming its pleasuring pace. Laviniya choked on the pleasure that coursed through her. As he groaned it sent a rush of deep, shuddering vibrations through her core and up her entire spine. She felt an intense desire to be closer to him, wanting nothing more than to sink deeper into this overwhelming sea of sensation.

She got her wish as the tip of his tongue wiggled it’s way inside of her.

Even as her mind attempted to grapple with the reality of the situation, a nagging doubt crept in. Was this truly a punishment, or just a delightful dream? If it was a dream, it was a happy one, that’s for certain. As Aemond continued his relentless assault, the memory of their hatred began to fade, replaced by the intoxicating pull of pleasure.

As Aemond continued his relentless assault, her broken heart seemed to slowly stitch together, piece by piece. This man, a stranger mere days ago, made her pant and writhe beneath him, filling her with a perverse sense of devotion. The feeling of being small, vulnerable, and protected was alien to her, yet it didn’t fill her with fear. She found herself feeling oddly safe and cared for, and a part of her welcomed this change.

She felt his nose press against her clit, and she choked as her lower body buzzed.

She whimpered, feeling something she had never felt before take over. Her body felt like it was rising off the mattress and her hands left his head to grab the blankets around her as she thrusted her hips forward to chance that burning ecstasy...

Such things were short lived as Aemond launched himself back and away. Laviniya’s body shivered violently, a cry of confused anguish escaping her lips. The abrupt departure left her feeling bereft, her body still humming with the memory of the sensations he had wrought upon her.

Aemond’s laughter echoed in her ears, cruelly interrupting the delicate balance of the moment.

His chin was drenched in her wetness.

He had halted the extraordinary surge of ecstasy that had been on the brink of cascading within her, leaving her feeling incomplete and unable to suppress the tingling, maddening sensation now that he had ceased.

Her eyes fluttered hazily in search of her bearings, her fingers feeling sore and her insides swollen.

Her eyebrows were drawn together, and it took a few moments of his amused laughter at her hopelessness before she grasped the nature of this punishment fully. With faltering strength, she awkwardly pushed the chemise down her thighs, shamefully averting her gaze as the king kept up his mocking chuckles.

“Sweet Lavander Lamb, what’s wrong?” he teased, giggling, “You look so forlorn. I did warn that if you didn't hold still, the consequences would be unpleasant and you moved quite a fair bit... I’ll let you finish when you start to behave like a good girl.”“

Avy jorrāelan!” she snapped. With a huff, she whipped around and hid her tears, pulling her knees up to her chest. Her reaction prompted an even louder bark of laughter from him.

The door of the room knocked.

        HELPLINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

[chop-zulyzulyyy]

Throne and Sickle Ch.2

Chapter 2: Sweat Tea Manners

Turtle bros x fem!parkour!reader

Summary: In which the turtles record their training one fateful night, and find the rooftops hold stories with a beginning...and an end.

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Author Note: I hope everyone is staying warm! It's cold out here. Please enjoy Chapter 2!

Disclaimer: I don’t own ROTTMNT, sigh.

Genre(s): a bunch of stuff, really. You'll figure it out ;)

WARNINGS: Heavy topics NOT for the lighthearted; like seriously it’ll get dark in some parts. Mentions of s*xual assault, bl**d, sh*rp objects, and more. I will do my best to organize in a way that readers can identify the warning sign!

A daydream is an evasion... - Thomas Merton

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If the morning consisted of a bright sun, warm and not harsh, if the birds chirped their pretty songs, or the plant leaves were covered from the dew drops, if the level of noise pollution was less compared to the other times of the day, only the morning birds knew. It was early enough for anyone barely get out of the warmth of their bedsheets. And alas, warm light streaming from the kitchen coupled with the faintest tunes of humming could be heard where an orange terrapin poured batter onto a sizzling pan.

With the many hours of sleep (that could technically count as hibernation), Mikey was physically up to par. The entirety of planning Supernova didn’t allow a decent alternative to avoid being so drained, and he could still feel the eraser shavings all over his floor from pages ripped, pages crumpled, pages smudged full of past ideas. Putting aside a mental note to create papier-mâché with those later, Mikey pondered. Everything played out much better than he hoped, at least.

Well. Almost everything.

Chopping up some bananas, he chewed his inner cheek. Mikey remembered: woke up in his bed around the late hours and hearing his bros hushed whispers from the main room. He would’ve gone right back to sleep had he not heard their Pop’s voice join in. Last time that rat woke up for squat he snuck out of the lair in ugly clothes. He sat up and rubbed his eyes when Leo peeked inside his room. Mikey asked what happened, only for him to shrug it off with ‘we’ll talk about it in the morning’, coaxing his baby brother back to sleep afterwards.

Allowing for the pancakes to finish, he moved on to slice avocado. Where Mikey loved pancakes and fruit, Donnie always preferred avocado toast topped with tomato and three cups of dark roast (those ratios dear Lord). Mikey to this day has to fight him to eat some more fruits. Raph enjoyed anything as long as there was sausage- it needed to have meat, Raph told him. Leo barely strayed from Mikey’s special omelettes- mushrooms and bell peppers were nonnegotiable. It didn’t bother Mikey much, at least he enjoyed a mountain of chopped bananas with it. Pops was traditional: give the man a small cup of tea, steamed rice, miso soup, and tamagoyaki and he was off to a great day.

Mikey flipped the pancake over. Breakfast was soft pancakes and berries, as warm as they would be in the sun, maple syrup threaded upon the top with a gallop of butter. It remained his favorite breakfast, but it had nothing to do with the food. He loved it because he was surrounded by his family at that time of day, because there was softness and vulnerability shared before the events of training and battles and enemies caught up to their brains. Compared to dinner there’s the same sentiment however by then everyone is too exhausted, and their thoughts are a befuddled mess. It’s odd how emotions are transferred. Mikey smiled, soft and small. Whatever was going on…he’d offer all the food he could make to keep them happy.

���Hey, Angelo.”

The orange terrapin turned to the doorway to find his brother yawning still…equipped with gear-“Tell me you did not pull an all-nighter again, Donnie.”

He shrugged, “There was no way to silence the genius that is my brain.”

Mikey put his hands on his hips, unimpressed. Donnie avoided his reprimanding gaze, sucking his teeth, “Sigh. Alright fine. I’ll set up appropriately for bed tonight.”

Mikey smiled, “Good.”

At that moment Splinter and Raph entered the kitchen where the former hopped up to the chair unaffected from the early morning hour, being a morning person himself as Raph gave Mikey a head pat.  

“Morning! Where’s Leo?” Mikey swatted Raph away when he stole a few berries from the bowl.

“He went to pick up April. Just a heads up in case she hasn’t eaten anything yet.” Raph muffled, mouthful of berries. Mikey nodded, pouring a second batch of pancakes onto the pan. He sprinkled some chocolate kisses in the batter and a few of Leo’s banana slices when a blue portal appeared at the doorway. Leo trudged through with a sleepy April tucked under his arm rolled in a pink blanket, accompanied by Mayhem. Donnie snorted at this, grabbing a second mug from the cabinet above the coffee maker as Mikey set everyone’s plates on the table.

“Morning Leo! April still out, huh?” Said turtle groaned, setting April upright in a chair and settled himself beside the girl. He flicked her forehead, jolting her awake.

“This girl could sleep through a demolition on her own building! I’m so done with morning pick-ups.”

“So, anyone gonna tell me what happened last night?” April yawned, cutting into her pancakes. Mikey turned to them, fork stopped halfway in the air. Donnie sipped his coffee with a finger up.

“Well,” he started, “we have reason to believe the Robin Hoods know…about us.”

Her neck should’ve snapped in half with how she turned so fast, seriously. “You mean- hold up we’re talking about that parkour group right? Same guys making cops run around like crazy?”

Raph nodded as he cut into his egg with a sigh, “We don’t know exactly much, either. We got through Mikey’s showcase, he passed out. Next thing we know someone was watching us without the cameras picking up on ‘em. Last thing she did was leave a note with ‘S.O.S.’ on it and coordinates with a date.”

Mikey blinked in surprise, “Aw man! I missed all that? So then are we going?”

“Absolutely not.”

Everyone faced Donnie.

“What is disturbing is their motive, not to mention the many variables in question. How long have they known, why was this Robin Hood alone, their purpose of their group, does it affect us in a negative light? Too many questions and no answers.”

Mikey hummed, “Yeah, but if that girl came alone then that might mean her group doesn’t know?”

April shook her head, “That’s not always the case, Mikey. Sometimes a group can send one of their own as a middleman- the messenger of sorts.”

“True…”

Leo pointed a fork covered in omelette at Donnie, “Then how about we send our own middleman? Not one of us, obviously, but S.H.E.L.D.O.N? You said he’s got all the cams, the feeds, Megan Fox’s phone number for pizza’s sake,” he waved the fork, “we could totally use those to see what they want.”

Donnie crossed his arms, one hand covering his chin in thought. While that was true, he didn’t know if their numbers would be a problem. A hacker on their team was the last thing he needed. Not that he wouldn’t wipe the floor with them but still. One of their best surviving attributes included stealth- it’s how they remained hidden for so long- and now that somehow these Robin Hoods know, it just didn’t sit right.

Donnie relented, “Very well. I’m going to retrieve the cubes first and go over a few things before we do anything.”

“Sounds Gucci to me,” Leo grinned, “I’ll come with. Last thing we need is for people to spot a purple UFO. Donnie’s got enough of that E.T look to him.”

This earned a cube of tomato to the forehead. The others remained silent, peacefully eating while watching the other go back and forth with each other.

Splinter swallowed his tamagoyaki, “So, my sons. When do they request to meet?”

“Midnight Friday.”

April swallowed her food, “That won’t be for another three days. How about in the meantime I scope around the city, ask around and get the deets?”

Splinter nodded, “And I will search the hidden city.”

Raph nodded, “Great idea. Let us know any updates.” He gave a thumbs up in her direction.

And with that, conversation soon trailed off into different topics as they enjoyed their meals. Mikey felt a hand on his head and turned to face Splinter. He smiled.

“I heard you did a wonderful job, Orange. Soon you will be as spontaneous as Lou Jitsu!”

Mikey laughed, “Thanks, Dad. Now stop taking my berries, I saw you take them with your tail!”

“I recall no such thing.”

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Clinking of teacups, mugs, and metal spoons as they twirled drinks into perfection were the makeshift alarms for rousing New Yorkers in the diner, hushed conversations shared so as to not disturb other customers. Streams of golden light were beginning to peak over buildings, creating a rainbow of colors if it passed through glass of any kind but no warmth could be felt yet. It was too early. Outside the diner, shop owners could be seen pushing metal port doors up, rumbling as they rolled into place. Other early risers were getting a jog in or a bike ride, or just barely heading out to work before the morning rush. Cab drivers lined up against the curb on standby.

“Good morning, sugar. Can I get you something to drink to start off?” A sweet, middle-aged dark-skinned woman asked, a notepad in hand. She untucked the miniature pencil from behind her ear.

“A coffee, please. Vanilla creamer if you have any.”

Scribbling, she nodded. “Of course. Are we ready to order or you need a minute?”

“I need a few minutes, if that’s alright.”

She smiled, warm and understanding, “You take your time. Seems a little early for a high school student to be out. Studying for an exam?”

“U-uhm, no. I graduated a long time ago.”

The waitress blinked, “Hush your mouth! Baby you look like you’re fresh out of the oven. Now what kind of skincare do you use? Spare me some of those secrets?”

This earned a lighthearted laugh, “I get that a lot, but you wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”

“Mhmm, I hear ya. I’ll go get that coffee right out for you, sweetheart.” With a wink, the waitress left. She greeted the chef over the counter who nodded his head to her customer.

“Morning, Udora. Miss give you her order?”

Udora shook her head, brewing a fresh pot of coffee. “No not yet, but table three is still waiting on their eggs, Alan.”

“Ah, geez!” He scrambled to scramble the eggs, the silly cowboy. “I gotta say, I’ve seen that girl around these parts a few times. For all the clouds I’ve seen in Texas, there’s never been someone with their head in them as much as her.”

Udora sighed, “You of all people know it is never our business to meddle. Our job is to give these kind customers their meals. Your mama never told you ‘nun?” she teased.

Alan rolled his bluebell eyes, scratching his scruffy beard. “All I’m saying is young people should be enjoyin’ life, getting some girlfriends and boyfriends, going on dates, and buying clothes. They’re all worried too much these days. Too young to stare out windows like Miss over there.”

Udora smiled. Alan was an old diamond in the rough, but she’d never tell him that. He’d just respond with ‘what do I need diamonds for, just get me a can of beer and a radio’. Alan was an ex-marine, born and raised on Texas soil who yearned for a fresh start, and found himself here in Maraschino’s where somewhere in time found himself a friend in Udora. She herself sought out a new beginning in her prime, away from New Orleans. They’ve seen thousands of faces, heard a million stories, and always wondered where fate took people. In this morning’s mysterious customer, they had a feeling it was one of those times when life became everything at once. Udora glanced towards the booth; a petite little thing she was. She leaned against a hand over her mouth, peering out with a glazed look, the other hand curling around her arm. It wasn’t that cool out to warrant a jacket, but Udora worried she’d catch a cold with just a thin long sleeve. Not hair out of place, not a wrinkle on her skin but the shadows Udora herself fought to escape in her years made her appear… haunted, despite sitting in the glow of the sunlight streaming through windows. Udora prayed, as she set the coffee mug in front of the young woman, that she’d be able to feel the warmth of the sun one day.

“Here you go, baby. Anything to go with that coffee?” She coaxed. The young woman welcomed the mug with a grateful smile and pointed to the menu.

“Yes, I’ll have your pancakes and fruit please.”

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🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎

Fun Fact: Red Eared Sliders have poor hearing but good vision and are very sensitive to vibrations. When startled or threatened, they will quickly slide off rocks/logs back into the water (hence the name).

🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎

[crackedoutwalnut]

Never Quite Free (Natasha x Reader)

Summary: Natasha grows concerned after you start ignoring her and decides to check on you.

!TW WARNINGS: Implied sexual assault, PTSD, and panic attacks! (lots of fluff near the end to make up for it i promise)

A/N: just a vent fic,,, as a treat. The song referenced in the fic is Never Quite Free by The Mountain Goats, in case you want to listen to it for context though you don't have to.

--

It's all good to learn that right outside your window There's only friendly fields and open roads And you'll sleep better when you think You've stepped back from the brink And found some peace inside yourself Laid down your heavy load It gets all right to dream at night Believe in solid skies and slate blue earth below But when you see him you'll know

For the longest time, going out into the world was like maneuvering across a field of landmines. The bombs could be set off by nearly anything, from minute details that had latched themselves to the back of your mind to glaring reminders that were almost impossible to ignore. Anything and everything that reminded you of him had seeped its way into the cracks in your brain, leaving irreparable stains and water damage in its wake. From the smell of cedar and pine aftershave to the brassy sound of a jazz trumpet on a passing radio, these reminders were minuscule as thumbtacks, and yet they felt like railroad spikes being hammered into your chest and skull.

In the past, you would bury yourself in work or drink yourself nearly to death to escape his ever-present grasp on your mind. Your life had been filled with you shoveling meaningless noise into your routine in attempts to block out the alarm that always seemed a pin trigger away from sounding in your head. Then, you met Natasha. You learned that she knew over seven languages and almost exclusively cussed in Russian when she was pissed enough. You memorized her favorite shows and books and how she snored like a lawnmower when she laid on her left side- a fact she vehemently denied. Natasha Romanov was caring, smart, strong, and oh so protective.

It's okay to find the faith to saunter forward With no fear of shadows spreading where you stand And you'll breathe easier just knowing that the worst is all behind you And the waves that tossed the raft all night have set you on dry land It gets okay to praise the day Believe in sheltering skies and stable earth beneath

These little bits of information filled your mind and heart with endearment and love, thoroughly pushing the smell of cedar aftershave and rot to the far back of your mind. And that was where he stayed for the longest time. For a whole two years, you filled your days with movie dates, forehead kisses, and late-night cuddles. She introduced you to her friends, Steve Rogers, Carol Danvers, Wanda Maximoff; you even befriended Tony Stark- though Natasha never explicitly refers to him as a friend. Everything was going so well for the first time since before you met him. But, like a cockroach, your past is not so easily killed.

But hear his breath come through his teeth,

Walk by faith Tell no one what you've seen

You were at a local coffee shop when you noticed him. He was sitting at the table adjacent to yours, scrolling through his laptop, briefcase at his side. When you beheld him, it was as if your muscles were turning to concrete slabs. They were dragging you down, below the faded wooden floorboards, below the concrete foundation, until you were choking on dirt and rocks. It took you nearly five minutes to realize it was not him. However, him or not, the damage was done. Because you had seen his well-kempt mustache and graying sideburns, had seen his eyes the color of a lethal tundra. You could have sworn you felt those eyes watch you as you rushed out of the café and into the crowded streets.

From that day on, he was back. He visited you in sleep and trailed you all throughout work—a hefty shadow. However, it was not until you were in bed with Natasha that it came to its tipping point.

Your fiancée, having noticed your peculiar attitude, had decided to surprise you with a night of candles and wine. Not wanting her to be more concerned than she already was, you played along. You forced yourself to reciprocate every kiss and caress despite the acid in your throat and the timpani in your chest. Eventually, Natasha swept you off your feet into a bridal style carry and led you into her bedroom. Gently setting you on the bed, she quickly straddled your hips. Leaning down, she cupped your cheeks and pulled you into a heated kiss. You swallowed down bile and half-heartedly opened your mouth to allow her tongue space to explore. She groaned and tore off her shirt as she pulled away from you.

"God, you're so sexy," she murmured, grinding her hips further against your abdomen. Natasha grabbed at your shirt, pulling it off your torso before chucking it across the room. You felt your throat tighten as your upper body was exposed to the elements. Your fiancée set about yanking off your sweatpants, murmuring bits of praise under her breath as she did so. Her gentle lithe hands seemed to grown more masculine and rough the longer they touched your bare skin. Her body morphed into the familiar form of a naked man. His sickeningly familiar graying mustache and coarse chest hair set flares of frigid panic through your body. He was here, he was here, hewasherehewashere.

Your body convulsed and kicked out at your assailant; flashes of his rough hands forcing your legs apart fueled the strength behind your attacks as you lunged to your feet. You shoved him off of you with a borderline unhinged snarl.

"Get the fuck away from me, Castor!" You screamed before hurriedly shoving on your clothes and sprinting out the door of the apartment. He was following you. You could hear his heavy footsteps thudding behind you. Your thighs burned from the sudden exercise, and the roaring in your ears drowned out your surroundings. You shoved your way into the elevator, nearly punching the first-floor button with your fist. Sweat dripped down the nape of your neck as you struggled to suck in breaths of air. Clutching your chest, you allowed your knees to collapse.

When the elevator slid open, you shot to your feet and ran through the lobby, out into the cool night. You clumsily pushed people aside, his voice clawing through your ear canal. You wildly waved down a taxi and slid into the back. Your voice was as flimsy as tissue paper as you gave the driver your address.

When you got home, you slid all three locks into place and snapped your curtains shut. You huddled under your blanket and slowly succumbed to a sleepless night.

--

Natasha was many things, but a worrier was not one of them. Why should she spend all her time fretting when she could just get up and solve the damn problem herself? However, after three days of complete radio silence on your end, she was sorely tempted to break into your apartment. That night, you had rushed out of her apartment as if the Devil himself had been at your heels. The look in your eyes had been that of a wounded animal. Natasha felt her stomach clench with anxiety as she stared down at her phone. 37 texts, 10 calls, 10 voicemails, and not a single message answered. You were always a punctual texter, which only made her worry worsen.

Natasha shoved her phone back in her back pocket and took a long sip of her coffee. What the hell could have caused you to run out of her apartment mid-sex? Not to mention, who the hell was Castor? Natasha finished off her coffee and set her red and black spider mug in the sink. The cup had been a 6-month anniversary gift, and she made sure to drink out of it every chance she got. After cleaning up the last of her breakfast, Natasha pulled out her phone once more and typed out another message.

Nat: darling I've tried giving you space but its been 3 days and I'm worried. I'm coming over.

Natasha moved to put the device away; however, after a second, she reconsidered it and unlocked it once more.

Nat: I love you <3

Pushing the phone into her pocket, she rushed out the door. When Natasha arrived at your apartment door, she immediately pulled out her phone once more. Nothing. She huffed a shaky breath and pulled out her copy of the apartment key. You had given it to her after you almost burnt down your apartment trying to cook for their date that night. She had to rush over to your apartment to clean up the damage done by the small grease fire and cook you both last-minute spaghetti.

She twisted the key in the lock and quietly pushed the door open. The apartment felt akin to a tomb. The curtains were drawn, and all the lights were off. Dirty dishes were piled up Tetris style in and around the sink, not to mention the empty takeout containers strewn throughout the living room and dining table. The TV was quietly playing It Chapter 2, yet you were nowhere in sight.

Worry continued to grip the assassin's chest as she called out, "Y/n, kotyonok are you here?" Being cautious of the numerous fast-food containers and clothing items thrown about, Natasha made her way towards your bedroom door. She hesitated for a moment before steeling her nerves and carefully knocking on your door. For a moment, she heard nothing, only the faint sound of Pennywise's voice coming from the living room. Then, just as she turned the knob to open the door, she heard whimpering. Her heart ramped up to a gallop as she quickly opened the door to your bedroom.

Natasha was certain she had seen war zone's tidier than this. Clothes covered nearly every inch of the bedroom, mattress, and wardrobe. Not to mention the numerous crumpled tissues and fallen picture frames. However, the state of your room was hardly her first concern because in the center of it all, huddled in shaking ball, was you. Painful sobs were rasping from your lips as you burrowed your face further into your knees. Your hair was tangled and greasy, and you were wearing one of Natasha's sweaters with a food-stained pair of boxer shorts.

The assassin felt sorely tempted to sprint across the rooms and scoop you into her arms. Instead, she went for the safer route, which was carefully wading through the mess over to your side of the bed. Tutting quietly, Natasha swallowed the urge to cry alongside you as she quietly cleared her throat. "Mon trésor, can you hear me?" she whispered, setting a hand next to your own, cautious not to make contact.

Instead of a relieved smile or a tired 'yes' like Natasha had expected, your entire body flinched away as if you had been punched. Your eyes snapped open as you scrambled across the bed, looking around hysterically. "Castor?" you called out, eyes wild with panic.

Natasha furrowed her brows and backed away from you. "Y/n it's me, Nat. I'm not here to hurt you; I just needed to see if you were okay."

Slowly, your eyes shone with recognition. Your body, however, remained as taught as before as you studied your fiancée carefully as if she was a trick or a mirage. Natasha felt her heart fracture slightly at the display of fear. "Nat?" Your voice was quiet and raspy; if she had not seen your mouth move, she would not have registered that you were speaking.

"Yes, kotyonok, it's me."

You furrowed your brows and brought your knees back up to your chest. "Wha-what're you doing here?" You asked, your voice slurred and shaky from the sobs racking your body.

Natasha carefully sat down on the edge of the bed, "I have been so worried about you. After you ran out on me a few days ago, I have been trying to check to see if you are okay."

Your face crumbled once more as you buried your face in your knees, "I-I'm," you hiccup, "Sorry, Nat."

Natasha tutted dotingly and slid back so that she sat beside you, still cautious not to touch. "Hey, hey, it's okay, darling. You're okay; just breathe for me. Can you do that, sweetie?"

You inhaled quick stuttering breathe, which quickly dissolved into hyperventilating. You clutched at your hair and squeezed your eyes shut.

Your fiancée watched with a heartbroken expression, "You're okay, you're okay, just keep trying. Can I touch you?" You nodded shakily as she pulled you onto her lap. Gently, she pulled your fists from your hair and replaced them with her own. She stroked your knotted locks and quietly cooed sweet nothings into your ear. She guided your fist to rest atop her chest as she whispered, "Copy my breathing okay, mon trésor?" Sucking in exaggerated breaths, she held her hand atop your own to keep it in place. After a few tries, your breathing eventually settled, and you let out a long whimpery sigh.

It's all good to learn that from right here the view goes on forever And you'll never want for comfort and you'll never be alone See the sunset turning red let all be quiet in your head And look about, all the stars are coming out They shine like steel swords Wish me well where I go But when you see me you'll know

Natasha smiled and kissed the top of your head, "You're doing so well, my love. Nothings going to get you while I'm here, I promise."

You burrowed further into her lap and placed your head atop her chest, letting the sound of her steady heartbeat soothe you into a lull. The two of you sat there for what seemed like eons as you soaked in the feeling of safety and warmth. Natasha hummed quietly, placing chaste kisses on the crown of your head every once in a while.

Sucking in a breath, you spoke, "He was a family friend." Natasha's humming stopped as she looked down at you. "His name was Castor Davids, and my dad met him at work. He was nice at first, sort of like a goofy rich uncle. He would always buy me new toys and books. He would even take me out for ice cream. Even when I got into fights with my parents, I knew I could always talk to him when I was upset. But then..." you gulped, your voice breaking. Natasha continued stroking your hair. "But then one day, he was babysitting me while my parents were out at a baby shower. H-he..." Your words broke off into a sob, and your fiancée quickly shushed you.

"You're safe; you're here with me. No one can hurt you, I promise. Just relax, darling. Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me that you're safe now." Eventually, after a few more minutes of comforting words and protective hugs, the phantom hands that had been grasping at you for days disappeared.

You burrowed your head further into her chest and huffed, " 'm sorry I ran out on you the other night. I shoulda texted."

Natasha chuckled humorlessly, "Darling, that is the least of my worries. What I am worried about, however, is the last time you had an actual healthy dinner." You looked down at your lap sheepishly and shrugged. Natasha playfully pinched your side and untangled herself from your hold. You whined at the loss of contact and looked up at her accusingly. "I am going to make you a proper dinner, and we are going to sit down and watch stupid TV shows."

You huffed, "Can we watch House Hunters?"

Natasha sighed and nodded, "Fine, only because I love you, though." You grinned and slid out of bed. Your fiancée inspected you with a grimace, "First, we're going to take a shower."

--

TAG LIST:

@midnight-lestrange

[fan-of-encouragement]

Honey I'm Still Free

This is a commissioned fic that @danniburgh wrote for me, and I'm absolutely In Love. Her commissions are open as of posting this, and she's amazing.

Marcus Pike × F!reader

No warnings, just fluff and mention of Marcus's past bad relationships.

He was new.

A new face to know.

And he was cheerful; almost too cheerful.

He was happy; you met him as a happy man, self realized, self assured, self-centered but not egotistical; he was kind, and he was good. And he was happy.

Marcus Pike arrived at the D.C. FBI office and you were the one that gave him the welcome tour; in between directions and pointings at where which room was located and who worked where, he told you almost everything about himself and that kicked off an unexpected friendship. One that began inside the four walls of his office and the four walls of yours, and the glass walls of the shared conference room that separated them and that most often than not, was used as a lunch room.

When you met Marcus, he was a once divorced, newly engaged man that was waiting patiently for his bride to arrive and live with him what he described as a life he wanted; he told you everything he had to tell about his girlfriend and how he felt, deep inside of him, that she was the one.

Until she broke up with him.

Then, as if by magic, or as if someone had flicked a switch, Marcus changed.

You didn’t understand, whenever you analyzed it, why a woman would leave a man like him; whenever you put a little bit of thought on the matter you came to the same conclusion: there was no good reason. The truth of the matter was, even having met Marcus for no more than a month when that went down, that he was a good man. And everyone that walked around him or worked with him or even talked to him knew it.

Marcus Pike was a good man with a good, kind, warm soul that radiated nothing but care and love for others; he was stern and he was good at his job; he managed a team like no other agent you saw before but, at the end of the workday; when all the reports had been signed, when all the field agents had called in and Marcus lit his desk lamp to finish the last of the paperwork of the day, when the floor was quiet enough to hear the cars drive sporadically on the highway next to the building, he was craving for something more. Something he didn’t have and he was desperate for. Love.

Six months into you knowing Marcus, as he laughed at a bad joke you told him, with his head thrown back and his lids closed and the wrinkles on the sides of his eyes showing at full contrast, you realized you had fallen in love with him.

But you didn’t fight it; it felt right. You knew he was still struggling with the fact that two serious relationships in his life had failed in what he described as a miserable, sad, incredibly stupid manner. 

The remnants of that pain were still noticeable; when he looked outside the window for more time that he wanted to admit, whenever he heard a certain song on the radio, whenever someone mentioned any lines from Casablanca, the glowing ashes of the hot, scorching pain he had yet to get rid of and extinguish could be seen from his eyes.

You knew and you understood him; he needed time; he needed support to get out of the house in flames he was inside of because of people that didn’t know what they wanted. And you, as he hugged you goodbye, resolved you were gonna be there for him.

As you drove home, you realized there was some selfishness behind your resolution; but you figured out as much. You were in love with him, and besides trying to help him be himself; as you had met him or better, you hoped, just further back in your mind and your heart, he would notice you were there. Waiting for him to be the man he wanted to be.

When you opened your front door and you slipped out of your shoes, you thought of how would he react if you told him you were falling in love with him; you knew he wouldn’t let you wait for him like a damsel expecting a brave prince or a knight in shiny armor galloping to you on a mighty stallion. But you weren’t dropping everything until he decided he was better… You were just hoping he would notice you were there. And that was rightfully enough reason for you to do it. 

And you were his friend.

The next morning you texted him before going out to work if he was in the mood for some pancakes; immediately getting a big YES in all caps as a response. You drove to your favorite diner; which had quickly become his too. And walked out of there with two white plastic bags filled with pancakes for him and waffles for you.

“Oh my god, bless you!” Marcus let out as you walked into his office with the two big bags. You gave him a smile as he moved his stuff to the side so you could put the bags down.

“Since when are you devoted, Mr. Pike?” you teased, when you put the bags on the desk and pushed his towards the other side, towards him.

“Since my best friend brings me breakfast,” he raised his eyebrows and pulled out the styrofoam packet from the bag and a plastic fork “how much do I owe you?” Marcus asked as he opened the plate and bit his lower lip when the chocolate chip and strawberry pancakes saluted him from the dish.

“Nothing?” you replied, doing the same with your honey caramel waffles, Marcus rolled his eyes.

“Then lunch is on me.” he shrugged, lifting his tie and loosening it a bit from around his neck, throwing it on his shoulder, you scoffed and saw him dig into the pancakes with a small smile adorning your features.

“The least you could do, baby.” you teased, making him smile through his pancake bite.

When lunch hour arrived that same day; he knocked on your door and opened it before you could say come in. He stuck his head inside your office and smiled at you.

“Lunch?” he asked with his eyebrows raised and his small smirk on his face, you reciprocated his smile and nodded, standing up from your chair and closing your computer.

“What are we ordering?” you asked as you walked around your desk and he opened the door wide.

“No, we’re going out.” he let out lowly. You narrowed your eyes as you crossed the threshold and he started walking towards the elevators.

“To what do I owe this honor?” you asked, following him, Marcus chuckled.

“What do you mean?” he said as he clicked the elevator button to call it.

“You’ve never taken me out to lunch, Marcus.” you remarked, the elevator doors opened and he frowned.

“Really?” he questioned, you nodded and hummed in affirmation as the both of you walked into the metal box. “why?” he chuckled.

“What do you mean why?” you laughed at his reaction.

“I mean…” he started, crossing his arms on his chest “we’ve been close almost since I arrived, don’t we?” you nodded with a small smile on your face, Marcus blinked a few times “I feel like we would've gone out together, at least once…” he said with a shrug.

“No, not once.” you remarked again as the elevator door opened on the basement parking lot and you walked out.

“Well, that’s on me, then, I’m the asshole friend.” he let out as he nodded his chin in direction to his car, you chuckled.

“Not an asshole, a busy friend.” you tried to reassure him as he remotely unlocked the car and the both of you hopped inside at the same time. 

“I shouldn’t be busy for you, anyway,” he muttered, pushing the ignition button to turn on the engine. “I mean, you’re the one that helps me the most around here, I should be more grateful.”

“Nah,” you whispered as you buckled your seatbelt “I’m just the coworker that doesn’t like to see others struggling.” you teased with a smile as he backed up the car, he looked at you for a split second and sighed, calling your name.

“You know you’re not just my coworker.” he muttered, getting out of the parking lot and incorporating into the traffic. Your smile grew.

“No?” you turned to see him, knowing exactly what he was going to say if you dropped the question that was dangling on your lips, he shook his head. “then what am I?” you asked with a low voice that you hadn’t use in a long time because you didn’t find the time or the place to use it. But, as you were sitting inside the car of the man you were growing deep feelings for, with the tiniest opening to his heart and his mind, you decided to bring it out again.

Marcus almost slammed the brakes of the car. He felt his breath hitch in his throat and as he stopped the car on a red light; he turned to you.

“What?” he whispered. You raised an eyebrow and shrugged slightly.

“What am I?” you repeated the question. Marcus knew the look you were giving him; god he was sure he wouldn’t get that look from anyone anymore, and he had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t look for that look in any woman he met. But there it was; your gaze was deep on him, your lips were loose and open just slightly towards him, your eyes were steady on his and he felt the despicable, gut wrenching feeling of the most deep, disgusting, ingrained insecurity inside his mind and inside his chest that made him think of nothing but his trained instinct of fight or fly.

“My friend.” he whispered out just as the light changed to green. You smiled to yourself and looked out through the window, letting out a sigh.

“Good,” you let out, “besties.” you teased. Marcus let out a nervous chuckle and nodded. He didn’t say another word until he stirred the car to the restaurant’s parking lot.

__

Marcus heard two consecutive knocks on his door and lifted his head from the massive email he was reading.

“Come in.” he let out on a sigh as he stretched on his chair, and rubbed his eyes; the light of the computer wasn’t helping his sight.

“Brought you coffee.” he heard you, he opened his eyes and saw you closing the door behind you with your hip and two carton cups that were steaming.

“My lifesaver.” he smiled at you and shifted on the chair, you sat in front of him and handed him his cup.

“Cream and no sugar,” you let out “so you don’t get sleepy.” he smiled.

“What’s the occasion?” he asked, you rolled your eyes.

“The occasion is ten thirty at night and you’re still here.” you said, Marcus sipped his coffee and raised his eyebrows.

“You’re here as well.” he shrugged.

“I just finished,” you let out “kinda was waiting for you.” Marcus frowned, you leaned down and rested your back on the chair.

“Why?” he let out, tensing his shoulders.

“Wanted to talk to you.” you muttered, gazing at him. Marcus wanted to shrink on the chair and flee from the room, but he didn’t, he stayed at his full height of 5’11” and tried to hold your gaze.

“Okay? something happened?” he asked with a low voice, you shook your head twice and saw him partially relax.

“Marcus, how long have we known each other?” you asked him, he frowned a bit but looked at the surface of his desk.

“Almost a year, why?” he replied and you hummed in appreciation at it.

“You know why, don’t you?” you said, biting your lip and smiling at him.

“I have a suspicion.” he muttered.

“Good, so should I just say it?” you asked, Marcus shook his head immediately.

“Please, don’t,” he whispered, you were expecting his reaction so you just nodded “I’m so sorry.”

“I understand,” you smiled again at him and Marcus felt his chest contract inside his torso “I was just… making sure.”

“Honey…” he let out, you shook your head.

“Really, I get it.” you winked at him, taking your coffee and standing up.

“Wait,” he stood up as well, “am I gonna lose you?” he asked, trying to reach to you, you raised your hand and he took it.

“Of course not, silly,” you gripped his hand “I’m gonna be around, just let me know if you need me.” you said, Marcus nodded and you slipped your hand off his.

Marcus saw you leave his office and let out a deep sigh once you had closed the door. He threw himself on his chair and dropped his head back to look at the ceiling. God, what was wrong with him?

He tried to reason with himself as he started to breathe normally; you were amazing. He was sure of it because he saw you almost every day. You were beautiful and attractive and funny. You were smart and so damn capable it made him feel beneath you even when you were at the same rank; you meant a lot to him and you, for some reason that didn’t fit inside his head, never hesitated to tell him how much he meant to you, too.

And it was so damn obvious how you felt about him because you didn’t even bother to hide it; he admired the way you just showed it without advertising it and how you just didn’t let it affect your job or your life.

Jesus Christ, you were in love with him and he was there, sitting in his office after you just told him you understood him; you’d stayed close to him despite him being trapped in his own insecurities, despite the barrier he had put between you and him, despite looking at him clutching at the past and wrapping himself around his tragedies like an orphan child would do to a warm blanket.

You were there for him, loving him and caring for him as best as you could, even when you knew he was processing and working to be out in the open again; even when you knew it took him time to comprehend that he shouldn’t feel embarrassed or sad anymore.

Holy shit; you were there all that time and he was just choosing to be blind to what you were doing; even choosing to shove away all the deep, warm, involving love he felt for you.

Marcus stood up from his chair once again and he rushed to walk around his desk and out of the office, walking the few feet there was between his office and yours, he knocked a few times and opened the door; about to burst out his words, then he noticed the office was empty. He checked his watch. It was ten minutes past eleven and he cursed himself for thinking you meant you were going to be around literally.

He rushed again to his office for his things and his car key, desperately trying to order words inside his brain as he all but banged his foot on the elevator floor and trying at the same time to calm the fuck down as he walked to his car.

Marcus was sure it was a good idea with poor execution; he was a romantic at heart he should go pick up something that would tell you he just took his head out of his own ass and realized he was also in love with you; but the feeling of just tell you everything was stronger and was driving him crazy. He was driving like a madman through the highway that led to your apartment, and when he pulled over and looked at the building, he nodded to himself.

“Just say it, Marcus.” he muttered to himself, opening the car door and walking out.

The easiest part was to walk to the front door, buzz himself in and walk up the stairs to the fourth floor; the easiest part was stepping through the hall and towards your door and knocking on it three times.

You opened the door and the easiest part was over; you were in your pajamas; a silk, shimmering top and shorts too short for Marcus’s own good.

“Marcus, what’s going on?” you asked. He cursed himself inside his head. He had forgotten each and every word of the three point argument he had built inside his head on the way to your home; he saw his thoughts pour over his head and melt at your feet and he did nothing else but stand there, in your threshold; with his mouth dry and his eyes on your body. “Marcus?”

You frowned and stepped to the side, grabbing his forearm to pull him inside. Marcus had been in your apartment before, but he knew then it was different.

“You okay? I’m getting worried” you muttered. Closing the door, Marcus shook his head and tried to steady his heartbeat, failing.

“You told me to let you know if I needed you, right?” he asked, barely audibly. You nodded. Marcus licked his lower lip and sighed, “I kinda need you now.”

“Yeah, absolutely, what happened?” you told him, stepping closer to him, raising your hand to his arm.

Marcus felt a bolt of confidence because of your touch. He breathed in deeply and smiled at you, making you frown again.

He put his hand hesitantly on your waist and he felt you stiffen. His eyes traveled from your eyes to your lips and back, and he stepped even closer to you with a smile on his face.

“You’re here.” he whispered, leaning towards you to grab your lips in his with a kiss you didn’t expect, but didn’t dare to deny.

[sisterofleatherfrog]

The Silence Brings Me Home

Hey! This is my first fanfic so I hope you all enjoy it! I was inspired by an illustration I saw of Crosshair sobbing and holding Lula for comfort (which I cannot find for the life of me, if I do eventually I’ll link it). I meant to get his done before ep. 11 Devil’s Deal (and especially before this week’s) because we still didn’t know what Cross looked like at that point, but I’m slow and here we are. There is some fanart I did at the end, I’ve only recently gotten back into drawing after a long time, so it might be a little rough sorry!

Summary: The Batch get Crosshair back, but what he has, and almost done haunts him. Comfort is given in the simplest of ways: by being presen for the healing.

Warnings: Mention of blood/injury, killing/murder. Heavy angst with comfort. Self loathing ideation.The beginnings of a family healing together from trauma.

Word Count: 2188

It was as close as it got to silent within the Havoc Marauder. The ship always faintly hummed as it cruised through space; the engines and various systems constantly working away in the background via a complicated web of technology and wiring, maintained by the Batch’s resident genius. Rumors were, if someone listened close enough as a ship passed through hyperspace, they could faintly hear the sound of the decillions of particles out there passing around the ship. Something like sand blasting the outside of the hull, but with a bell-like, ringing, song. It was that sort of silence that found all six of the inhabitants within the Marauder.

Tech, the aforementioned genius, was nursing a new goose egg on his forehead with a cold compress while attempting to repair a hairline fracture in one of his goggles lenses. Echo sat across from him helping to guide the nearly blind man in his endeavour. Besides a myriad of small cuts and new bruises, Echo’s left leg lay detached and balanced on his lap, waiting for attention from Tech for a recently smoking blaster hole through the calf. Laying in his bunk, Wrecker was also nursing a new blaster wound: the bolt having ripped through his armour and taken a chunk out of his right bicep. He lay quietly, making sure to stay off his wound so the bacta could do its work and trying to process the events of the day. Remembering the adrenaline and the genuine moment of fear he’d had, but smiling nonetheless. Foreword in the front of the ship, Hunter sat quietly, his face kriffing hurting, his nose having to have been reset after being knocked out of joint. He’d definitely taken a beating, he’d be feeling everything that currently hurt fivefold tomorrow, but the wounds could have been worse. Everything could have been much worse. What could have been was an ache that never faded and a silence that was never filled. 

Hunter’s gaze slid to the seat beside him, looking at the small girl that had so quickly become a priority in his life. Omega was curled up on the seat, her arms and legs tightly squeezing Lula to her body while her eyes peaked over her knees to watch the blue of hyperspace. She had thankfully missed all the action this time, safely tucked away within the ship by a promise Hunter had made her swear. He looked over at her, thankful she and his vode were all together here, alive, and relatively in one piece. Still needing something to comfort him though, he reached over and ruffled Omega’s short blonde hair. Her eyes, brown like his, slid over to look at him and he could see a small smile curling at the edges of her mouth. She’d been incredibly worried at the state her family had been at their return, seeing them beaten, bloody, bruised, and punctured wasn’t something a kid should ever be exposed to. They were alive though, and…

Hunter turned his head a little, gazing into the back of the ship where, almost hidden in the furthest recess of the bunks, he could see a pair of long, thin legs encased in black armour. Omega followed Hunter’s gaze and that smile wavered some as nervousness played over her face. She was happy her family was alive and she was happy that her fathers’ brother had been brought back, but the fear of all that time being hunted lingered like a dark cloud on the horizon in her mind. Omega knew it wasn’t Crosshair’s fault. The chip wasn’t something that the host could reason with; locking them far away in the back of their own minds. From the little she could get from what she’d heard, he could be mean, but wasn’t inherently malicious. Everything he’d done in his hunt for them under the Empire was a stripped version of himself- the man was gone but the shrewd soldier remained.

…

Waking up in that dingy medbay was one of the most disorientating moments of Crosshair’s life. He was… a man again, something that thought independently from orders given. But good soldiers follow orders. He wasn’t a drone though. But you are a soldier... Yes, he was, but something else guided him, rather than his superiors he’d always looked elsewhere- 

“He’s awake!” The call came from nearby, as did the sound of several pairs of feet rushing in. He knew that voice, but reacted on instinct to the people closing in and jerked his head up, ready to defend, no, attack- Hunter was there, the closest, he was one of his targets-

...So follow through.

No!

Revulsion rose so strongly within himself that everything in his mind that wasn’t his own shrank back like frightened animals, leaving him gasping with an acrid taste in the back of his mouth and a feeling of bile rising in his chest. Pitching sideways he landed gracelessly twisted on the metal floor and began heaving, unable to tell if anything came up at all; not able to remember when the last time he ate was, only feeling a burning in his stomach. Hands gently touched his back but he jerked violently, seeking to remove that touch even if it wasn’t a punishment. When was the last time he’d been given that understanding? When had somebody last cared that his body needed tenderness? It felt unnatural to him now, no longer familiar, and painful.

Voices filtered through as the haze of sickness cleared: “...scans indicate the procedure was a complete success and that he should recover the same as us. Crosshair’s reaction is due to something else entirely.” Tech, he’d know that voice always rattling away with statistics and diagnostics. He’d almost silenced it forever with a single shot- how long ago was that? How long had it been since the ion engine had left him broken and the Kaminoans had pieced him back together, fit him with an eye that didn’t quite measure up to his shooting one and left him always a little off balance? 

“Crosshair? Vod?” Hunter now, “Are you with us?” Crosshair felt him kneel next to him and could see his concerned face in his peripheral vision now that his initial haze had begun to fade. 

He considered himself for a moment now that the remains of whatever had been in his head were gone. “Yes, I’m here.” Physically, but everything felt so strange. He could hear Wrecker roaring something nearby, probably his loud approximation of a greeting, but he made no move to meet it, didn’t (couldn’t) move himself to. At this, Hunter motioned for him and the others to back off a little before speaking again. “That’s good, we finally caught you and your inhibitor chip is gone now. You’re going to be fine, we’ve got you.” Fine? After everything Crosshair really didn’t think so.

…

Despite the best possible outcome the Batch made their way back to the Marauder, from another downed Jedi cruiser they’d managed to locate thanks to Rex, in an unwieldy silence. Back on the ship they all finally began to address their variety of wounds, and Crosshair, seeing this, froze. This was all him. This was his fault. He had hurt his vod, brought them pain, tried to kill them. He felt sick again, felt as if he was dropping out of his body while his heart constricted painfully and began to race in a clumsy gallop. Crosshair stayed where he was in the back of the ship and sat while somebody got it under way, finally feeling the vague reeling in his gut from entering hyperspace. 

It was quiet, nobody made a move to approach him yet. He didn’t know if he even wanted one of them to get close. Everything felt so wrong. He was wrong. What he’d done, betrayed and tried to murder his family, all because of an order?! Him, who flicked his toothpicks at commanders and belonged with a group of defective clones, couldn’t defy an order. Kriff him. One simple pull of a trigger and it could have been any one of them. If he hadn't missed, it could have been Tech’s brain matter splattered over the hull of a downed starship. His vod who was so much like an over-eagre younger sibling. Or Wrecker, who Crosshair had teased and soothed in equal measures in his life. Or Echo who, even though he wasn’t modified like the Batch, could never be normal again and Crosshair had learned to respect him as a brother. And Hunter… he couldn’t think it, couldn’t parse a world where he was dead, where he had been responsible for his death. 

Kriff him. How did he- how did he go on alongside his brothers when he’d almost done that? When he’d always be haunted by the pitiless voice in his head (his own, that had ordered the death of innocents) that had repeated his mission as a mantra. He could scrub his skin forever with the harsh scourer he used to clean his armour, but this isn’t something he could wash away. Whether it be in the new scars that had accumulated on their bodies, or the cybernetic eye that now greets him in the mirror, there would be no losing this. No taking it back or making it better. He couldn’t- he should-

A black mass came into his sight and he jumped. Lula was being offered to him in two small hands. The girl, what was her name again? She’d spoken to him when they were all in the cell on Kamino together (the last time they were all together where he wasn’t trying to kill the rest of them). She’d told him it wasn’t his fault, had she known what was working against him in his head? It didn’t matter now. The girl-Omega, that was her name- watched him partially hidden behind the tooka doll with the eyes of his brothers. 

“Here” She said, her kaminoan accent still strong after all the time she’d been running, “Wrecka’ lets me borrow her when I’m upset, I don’t think he’ll mind if you do too.” 

Crosshair looked at the old, scuffed doll and noticed a stitch in grey forming a cuff on it’s left arm. It had been a dumb scuffle over his and Wreckers continual rivalry and it had ended up with Lula getting the worst of it. He’d stayed up all night trying to make his stitches even and neat, not wanting to ruin the doll. He touched those stitches, gently tracing the line they made before gently grasping it and curling forward, needing to wrap the aching sore that was himself around something. Omega slipped onto the seat next to him and leaned into his left, he wanted to flinch away but something about this gave him... grace. He’d ordered the men under him to aim for her fragile little body and yet here she was offering him comfort through it’s support.

What comfort did he deserve though? What did he deserve indeed. Crosshair gazed unseeingly at the floor, trying to piece the parts of him left scattered in a thousand memories together to once again become the man he was before all this. He startled again when another body suddenly pressed itself into his right side. He turned, a masque of death greeted him, etched into a face permanently carved stern, but the eyes- Hunter’s eyes reminded him of the rail-thin cadet he used to be, not built to fight off any clones who wanted to get a piece of him on his own. He wasn’t alone back then though, three other boys were always there to back him up, and they would patch each other’s wounds together in their quarters afterwards. Hunter, their de-facto leader, was always worried about the hits they’d taken, not relaxing until every bump was seen to and bandaged. It was that look again, that same look that said: ‘I’m staying right here until I know my brothers are going to be fine.’

Some more shuffling in the ship Tech and Echo came into view, the latter still short a leg and being supported over to sit across from him. They didn’t say anything, but Tech came and sat in front of Omega on the floor, letting himself rest against Crosshair’s legs. Echo didn’t move to touch him, but remained in his presence just the same and gently smiled, his posture relaxing to lean against the wall of the berth. Just visible from behind a corner, Wrecker gingerly turned over with his injury, meeting Crosshair’s gaze with a smile already there for him. His injury prevented him from rising, but he extended a large hand towards him from his bunk. He was too far to physically reach him, but the gesture translated anyway: ‘I’m here brother, I missed you, I was worried.’ 

The Marauder sang through hyperspace; no words were spoken by anyone aboard for a long time. But this silence was familiar, and even though he felt a long way from having earned it, Crosshair could understand it perfectly: ‘Welcome home.’

Here’s Crosshair as in the story, I thought it would be really cool if he and Wrecker had matching cybernetic eyes. I gave him his ep. 11 haircut though because it’s cool.

[dhwty-writes]

Toss a Coin to your Lover

I finally cracked. After months of reading (who are we kidding, inhaling) Geraskier fanfic, I finally wrote an one-shot. What inspired me to do it was this extremely heartwrenching post by @clown-of-rivia, who kindly gave me permission to write this. And write I did! I typed half of this at 2 AM on my phone because I couldn’t sleep until the words were own and the other half in the last 3 hours. It was a lot of fun, honestly!

Best you read the post mentioned above first to know the context but basically what happened is that Geralt and Jaskier slept together and Geralt (like the absolute idiot he is) put some money on the nightstand the next morning and left (because he couldn’t imagine himself worthy of love that is not bought). Here’s what happens after. It’s angst but with a happy ending, don’t worry. Enjoy!

Read on AO3

Jaskier stared at the coins on the nightstand for a very long, probably an embarrassing long time. Alright, definitely an embarrassing long time. But in his defence, the sun had barely risen and he'd frankly had the best sex of his life - and that ought to say something - so he thought he ought to be forgiven.

He'd be very glad to say that, when reality had finally caught up to him, the first thing he'd felt was rage. Alas, that was not the case. Because despite what other people thought, despite his infamous reputation as an exceptional (and intermittent) lover, despite everything, he actually cared about sex. His flings were seldom only a fancy to sate his needs; he was genuinely, truly, deeply in love with his usual bedfellows.

And Geralt? Geralt wasn't his usual bedfellow. He wasn't anything like his usual bedfellows. Jaskier fell for people easily and had been even more prone to do so in his youth. He had been in love with Geralt from the first moment he saw him. And over the years the feelings hadn't subsided in the slightest.

He was not ashamed to say that at this point he loved Geralt with all his being. Melitele's tits, he'd spent the last two decades traipsing after the damned witcher, composing ballad after ballad to his glory and beauty and virtue and finally - finally! - he'd thought Geralt had understood.

And then-

This.

Disbelievingly he stared at the money on the bedside table.

So, naturally, Jaskier felt hurt. He wanted to curl up and cry for days as he'd done after his first heartbreak, a lovely stable hand his father had sent away after catching them in the hay.

But then- resignation. Because he'd always known. 'Death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak.' In some way he'd even been prepared for it, as much as one can prepare for such an eventuality. But not like this. This wasn't fair, this wasn't how it had been supposed to go, his heart not only broken but shattered into a million pieces, like the beautiful painted glass vase he had broken all those years ago in the Countess de Stael's manse. Beautiful even in shambles, yet dangerous to everyone who dared touch the shards.

He exhaled forcefully, clinging to the feeling of glass cuts on his hands, clinging to the pain, the sting, the bite. Finally, the rage kicked in. That was better than heartbreak, that was something he could use as a weapon, wielding words as lethal as any sword, as sweet as honey and as beautiful as a field of poisonous buttercups.

He stuffed the coins into his purse and got up to get dressed, seething and too furious to even attempt buttoning up his doublet. It wasn't as if Geralt hadn't seen that before. He had and he had loved it and then he had thrown coins onto Jaskier's nightstand and left. The audacity!

And the audacity to just leave! Jaskier was of half a mind to not go after Geralt after all because wasn't that a pitiful sight? The great poet Jaskier in the role of the scorned lover, running after his witcher with desperate need? But then again, he was just too angry and he needed to have words with Geralt. Oh, and what words they were about to have!

'Errands to run,’ Geralt had said and Jaskier scoffed in disbelief. Because now, apparently, the witcher had gone craven, Roach and her master long gone when he peered into the stable. 'Good,' he thought, 'so he's afraid.' And he ought to be, really. Jaskier wasn't about to just stand idly by and let the love of his life leave - he had been much too persistent over the last two and a half decades for that.

So, he tightened the straps of his lute case and his bag and set out to do what he did best: Not composing or singing or giving exceptional blowjobs (although he certainly excelled at all of those tasks), no, no, no; what Jaskier did best was tracking a certain whitehaired witcher of his, no matter how little he wanted to be found.

A few pointed questions and sweet words later, he was on his way, huffing and puffing while running to match the speed of a horse and trying to compensate the head start Geralt and Roach had gotten – and praying, Melitele, please, that they hadn't galloped away because then would take days to catch up to them – yes, he spoke from experience, one of his not so fond memories from the beginning of their friendship when Geralt had still thought he could shake the bard. He had learned better quickly, though now it seemed he had forgotten the lessons learned half a lifetime ago.

Luckily, though, he hadn’t galloped away, as Jaskier caught up to him half a day's march later while he was watering Roach by a creek. Good. That was good. That meant that his white wolf wasn't completely averse to being found. Still, the sight of the peaceful tranquillity - as if nothing had happened - only fuelled his rage.

'How dare he?', he thought. 'How dare he be calm when I am furious, how dare he find peace while I am aching, how dare he hurt me and not hurt in turn?'

Oh, but that wouldn't last for long. No, Jaskier would see to that.

"Geralt!" he called even though he knew that the witcher had to be long aware of his presence. Still, he hadn't deemed it necessary to acknowledge him, not turning, not even raising his head. The nerve of this! "What errands lead you to the middle of nowhere?"

The witcher flinched and looked up, his brows furrowed. It was a look Jaskier had long learnt to identify with pain. 'Good,' he thought, although he felt a little guilty, 'he shall hurt, too. Just like I do.'

"No answer?" he asked flippantly. "Fine. Then I'll do the talking. As always. You better sit down, witcher, because we will be here for a while. And you will listen." Geralt didn't move. Fine for him.

"What the actual fuck," he began his tirade, "we're you thinking, you cursed witcher?" He flinched but Jaskier didn't care. He was bitter and battered and broken-hearted and it was Geralt’s fault!

"What do you take me for?" He shouted and dug for the coins in his purse. "Some common whore? Some- some common travelling bard who will just as easily fall into bed for some coin as fall into song?" He probably shouldn't care that much but even if he was now famous enough to normally elude such propositions- as well as the need to accept them - it still rubbed him the wrong way decades later.   

"For years I've kept you company, for years I've sung your praises. 'Toss a coin to your witcher', indeed. Here!" One by one he hurled them in Geralt's general direction. "Have some coins! Have plenty of them because trust me, I’m not wanting for money! I’m not wanting for anything, to be precise! I could easily retire to Oxenfurt to teach or to basically any court on the Continent to make a home. Easily, do you hear me? I do not need your pity! I do not need you to pay me!"  

He had run out of Geralt's coins to throw and while he could certainly bombard him with his own money, he was actually quite protective of his earnings. So, he reverted back to verbal assault: "Is that what that was to you last night? Another night of paid company you like to indulge that you could just leave behind come morning? What were you even thinking? That you could finally shake me of after years of travelling with you?"

He gasped as a terrible thought came to his mind. "Is that what it is? You try to insult me so that I finally stop following you? Because then you have succeeded, Geralt. This insult is-"

"Jaskier," Geralt said, the first time he spoke since his arrival. It sounded weak. Broken. Pleading.

"No!" he answered. "No, I'm not finished with you, yet! You humiliate me, Geralt. For years I've endorsed your terrible bedside manner but this is a step too far. Really, I'm at a loss for words! I woke up with a wonderful afterglow to see you leaving and was worried for you. Turns out I shouldn't have been because apparently this night has no impact whatsoever on you. You're as calm as- as- I don't even know! See what you do to me? I'm a poet! A minstrel! A pretty little wordsmith, yet you make my words fail me. My weapons, my craft, my only asset, my-"

"Jaskier, please," Geralt interrupted him and to his shame tears rose to Jaskier’s eyes, "I didn't want to hurt you!"

"Then why did you do it?" he yelled, choking on the tears. "Because guess what, Geralt, I'm hurt! I'm really fucking hurt!"

"I'm sorry. Last night was a mistake."

"Oh, great," he scoffed. "First you add injury to insult. But sure, why not add insult again?"

"I shouldn't have made you do this."

"Made me?" he howled. "You didn't make me do anything! Fuck, I kissed you because Melitele's tits, I've been in love with you for so long and I just couldn't take it anymore!" His voice broke on the last syllables and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to quell the tears. "Shit-!" he croaked weakly. He hadn't meant for it to go this way, he was angry and he wanted him to feel the fury, not to crack down before him, show him his weakness, show him just how helpless he made him feel and-

He gulped down air, in a hope to stifle the violent sobs that shook his body. Oh, how he ached to curl up in a lover's embrace, to be held and comforted and yet Geralt was the one to reduce him to the blubbering mess. It was fucked up. It was so fucked up. Fucked up to run after him, fucked up to yell at him, all so very fucked up.

Still, he calmed down. Slowly. But still, he did.

When he was only sniffling a bit, he lowered his hands and found Geralt staring at him, unmoving, unblinking. Then he said: "No you're not."

"What do you mean, I'm not?"

"You're not in love with me. You can't be."

He scoffed. "Do you now claim to know my heart better than I do? Do you think I cannot judge whom I love? Do you think me an imbecile, Geralt? Incapable? Weak? Whatever it is, tell me! Better tell me now!"

"I think you are insane," he growled and Jaskier gasped, "to think yourself in love with a witcher."

"What, you absolute idiot, do you think have I been doing the last twenty-odd years? It hasn't been a deterrent all that time, so why should it be now?"

"Because you can't love me, Jaskier," he roared, the first time he had actually raised his voice at him since the djinn. "Because I am a witcher and can't love you back and demanding your affection would not be fair!"

"Denying it is equally unfair!"

Geralt growled and turned away, obviously displeased by something though Jaskier couldn't tell what it was.

He was still angry and he wanted to continue yelling, yell how Geralt paying him wasn't fair, how Geralt leaving him wasn't fair, how- But somewhere in his rage-clouded mind a voice of reason spoke up, granting surprising clarity for just a moment.

He clung to that clear thought as if for dear life, letting the fury dissipate until he was thinking again, and not just feeling and hurting. "Geralt," he said cautiously now, "why did you pay me?"

The witcher scoffed and ducked his head. "I had to pay you something, didn't I?" he mumbled almost too quietly for Jaskier to hear. "I mean, you were expecting something. No-one would bed a witcher without- without recompensation."

Jaskier stared at him abhorred. "Why on earth would you think that?" he asked with disgust dripping into his voice.

"Because it's always been like this!" he answered exasperated. "Women love me only for the money and even then, they cannot look at me while taking me to bed. Yen could, but-" He winced. "The djinn- And you, Jaskier. You don't have anything like that. But I had to give you something. I could never ask a sacrifice like that of something without-" Jaskier watched with astonishment as the witcher's voice broke. "What else do I have to offer you?"

"What- what else would do you have to offer me?" Jaskier gasped and spluttered trying - and failing - to find any words.

He just grunted and took Roach by the reins as if he was about to walk away - again.

"No!" He stepped in and ripped the reins out of his hands. "No, you do not get to flee! You stay and listen to what I have to say." He just stared, watching the bard as he started pacing. "What do you have to offer me, Geralt?" He asked bristled. "Why, what indeed? It isn't as if you have made me famous, ensuring my wealth and livelihood. It isn't as if you've saved my life countless of times, putting yourself in harm’s way right from the very beginning when you didn't even know - or like - me. It isn't as if you listen to my endless ramblings, as if you replace my lute strings when I need to, as if you lend me your coat when I'm freezing or carry my bag when I'm tired. It isn't as if you've nursed me back to health after illness and injury alike. It isn't as if you've rendered me completely speechless last night. No, none of that has ever happened."

He ducked his head. "That's nothing."

"That's everything."

His head snapped up. "Well, I'm still a witcher!" he shouted but Jaskier didn't flinch nor waver.

"And when have I ever cared about that?" he shouted back. "My love for your mind and soul and heart has been free for as long as I know you. Why would you think that my love for your body wouldn't be?"

"You mean it," Geralt said his voice full of surprise.

"Of course, I do, you big dumb oaf! That's what I've been trying to tell you for the past half hour. What else am I supposed to do to convince you that you are worthy of love and softness and care? What else am I supposed to do to show you that I've been giving you all of this for half of my life without asking anything in return? I never needed to ask! I've been paid in turn thousandfold. Not in money, Geralt, in actions big and small. I thought-" He choked on his tears, "I thought I've been paid in love, too."

"Witchers can't love. Witchers can't feel at all."

"Stop telling yourself that lie. I've known you for twenty years, Geralt. When you're happy you smile, when you think I'm funny you huff a laugh, when you're angry you shout, when you're sad you shut me out and when you're hurt you lick your wounds. You hide it, of course, but you haven't been able to hide it from me for a long time. And I know you love people. You love your brothers and Vesemir and you love Yennefer in some way and Ciri, too. And I think you love me, too. Don't hide your love, witcher. Not from me. Never from me. You're just scared. A coward. Scared to get hurt and scared to hurt me."

"I'm not craven," he growled.

"No?" Jaskier crossed his arms. "Prove it."

Geralt looked at him quizzically. Jaskier raised an eyebrow. A challenge. An invitation. A plea. And just like that, Jaskier could see the witcher break. It was plain as day, the little crack in the facade, the little gleam in the eyes and then, suddenly, he was being kissed.

There was a desperate sob caught in Geralt's throat when they kissed, the anguish and agony overwhelming Jaskier and making him stumble a few paces back. Geralt kissed as if he'd never kissed before, frantic and fierce and forlorn, as if he feared that Jaskier would pull away, as if he waited for eventual rejection, revulsion, rebuke.

And that broke Jaskier's heart again, maybe even more so than the coin. No, Geralt could have paid him all the coin in the world and it wouldn't have hurt half as much as the onslaught of- of- decades of loneliness and loathing and longing that choked him.

He was still angry - he was sure that he would continue being angry and hurt for quite some time - but that didn't matter right now. Right now, all that mattered what that he loved Geralt. And his beloved witcher, his dear white wolf, his revered companion, friend, lover was hurting, too. Because he hadn't been able to even imagine being worthy of the affection Jaskier gave him so readily, so freely, so effortlessly. Oh, and how much affection he had to give!

He raised his hands gently to cup his cheeks, wiping the tears away with both his thumbs and leaned into the kiss. The desperation faded away, as did the agony, to be replaced with tenderness and love. He reached for Geralt's hands to place them on his hips, whispering quietly between kisses: "It's okay, it's alright. Hold me, embrace me, I've got you." He placed a tender hand on Geralt's chest, manoeuvring them until they reached some rocks beside the creek to sit down on. He cradled his witcher into his lap, carding his fingers through his hair and kissed him, wishing that he never had to stop, hoping to pour all the unsaid words, all the undelivered confessions, all the unsung ballads (that he definitely did not have ready, no) into the slow movements of their lips.

When Geralt pulled away and leaned their foreheads against each other he was almost disappointed. "I'm sorry," he said, "I'm sorry, Jaskier, I'm so sorry, I never meant- I never meant for any of this, I never meant to hurt you, to insult you, to- I just don't- I don't know how to- I want to make this good, make this good for you, and-"

"Shhhh," he made soothingly. "I know. I know, my love, my witcher, my dear heart. And I forgive you. You know I always do."

"I don't deserve-"

He pressed a finger to his lips. "No," he declared. "None of this nonsense anymore. I've yelled my throat sore trying to convince you otherwise. What else am I supposed to do to prove it?"

"Kiss me again," he begged, "A thousand times. Maybe I'll start to believe it then."

To his own surprise, Jaskier laughed. "That, my dear, I can do." He pecked him on the lips. "One," he said. "Nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine to go."

To his even bigger astonishment Geralt of Rivia, the witcher, the white wolf, smiled. Widely. "Hmm," he made. "I think I like that. Do it again?"

He did. "Two."

That earned him a quiet chuckle and a quivering sigh. "I love you," Geralt whispered. "I really do."

Jaskier smiled, too. "I know. I love you, too."

He buried his face in the crook of his neck and Jaskier's breath hitched. "I'm not good at showing it yet," Geralt said and Jaskier had to keep himself from squirming at the tickling sensation. "I'm shit at showing it. I can't promise you that I won't hurt you again. I've never done something like this before. But I will try. For you. Anything for you."

"Oh, my love," he sighed, his heart beating quicker. "And what a wonderful adventure that will be. A tale of love and woe, of-"

"-death and destiny?" Geralt interrupted him and looked at him, a sly smile on his lips. "Heroics and heartbreak?"

Jaskier gasped. "You remember!"

"Of course, I do. I never forget anything important." He opened his mouth to protest and Geralt quickly spoke: "Do you think it is a story worthy of a ballad?"

His expression went soft and his heart warmed. "No, Geralt," he said and kissed him again. "This is the stuff of an epos. In a thousand years they will still tell legends of our love. There will be novels and plays and songs, and- oh Geralt, I love you, so much it hurts."

The witcher pulled him close. “I love you, too. I love you even if I don’t show it. I love your singing, your dramatics, your fancies. I love that your hair is soft and that your body is unscarred and that your hands are always gentle. I love that you never smell of fear. And I still can’t believe any of this.”

Jaskier smiled and kissed him again. “Three,” he announced.

“Do it again?”

He laughed. “Always.” And so, he did. A thousand kisses and a thousand more. To make his witcher believe. To make his witcher stay. To love his witcher.

Because he always had. Jaskier, Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove, strolling minstrel, master poet, bard loved Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken since the moment he had first laid eyes on him. And now he got to show it to. Now he received love in turn. And in the end, that was all that mattered.

[ikeromantic]

Curiosity

Mitsuhide finally gets his answers and it’s more than he bargained for!

@yukina-otome who’s comment inspired this continuation of the scene from

Mitsuhide and the Mystery (of a Woman’s Purse)

Mitsuhide Akechi main route start of Chapter 5, fluff, around 1500 words. This ended up longer than I intended but it was a lot of fun to write. 

First: Mitsuhide and the Maiden

Previous: Mitsuhide and the Mystery of a Woman’s Purse

Mitsuhide felt ashamed of himself. The little mouse had bested him at his own game, and worse, seen right through his carefully crafted mask. Despite her flushed cheeks and galloping heartbeat, she’d told him she wanted nothing from him. That she would answer all his questions without any persuasion.

The hollow victory was deflating, but at least he would have the answers he sought. And her cooperation. That was the most important thing. His little mouse would be safe, and Mitsuhide would be able to continue his carefully laid plans without her interference. 

They sat across from each other. Teacups steamed in front of them, lending a sense of comfort to the uncomfortable conversation. The items from her strange bag were laid out across the desk. His little one looked at him intently. “Please understand that everything I’m about to tell you is true.”

And then she launched into the most ridiculous, convoluted fable Mitsuhide ever heard. It was like nothing he’d ever heard. Worm holes in the sky. A world where buildings and lights blotted out the stars. Where metal carts rolled horseless through smoothly paved streets . . . But she seemed to mean every word. He contemplated the objects between them, wondering where they fit in her narrative.

“You still haven’t explained these -” Mitsuhide gestured to the desk.

The chatelaine yawned. “Oh, I forgot. So that -” she pointed at the strange sack, “is a purse. Women in my time carry their personal things in it.”

“What is it made of?”

“A poly-blend.”

Mitsuhide looked at her blankly.

“Ah, like plastic? You don’t have it yet but -” she struggled for the best way to explain it. “It’s cheaper than wood or leather, and keeps water out. In the future, we use it for a lot of things. Probably too many things. My purse is a blend of plastic fibers and cloth - that’s why it keeps its shape.”

Mitsuhide picked up the bag and squeezed it experimentally. “And it keeps what is in it dry?”

“Yes . . .”

The warlord set her purse down and picked up the smartphone. “And this dark mirror? What is it for?”

“It’s for -” she paused, chewing at her lip thoughtfully - “for talking to people far away and looking at pictures and playing music. It does a lot, actually.”

Mitsuhide held the plain rectangle to his ear and listened. He shut his eyes, trying to focus but he heard nothing in it. 

“That’s not how it works,” his little mouse giggled. 

He set the thing down, blushing. “Then show me.” 

“Like this.” She squeezed the side of it whispering, “Please be charged. Please be charged. Come on.” 

The mirror lit up with an array of colors and then glowed a steady blue. She slid her fingers across it in patterns, and the colors changed, resolving to a picture of her with two fingers up, the ocean behind her. 

“It is magic,” Mitsuhide whispered. Kyubei had been right to suspect. Here was proof. 

“No,” she laughed again, “It’s a smartphone. All I did was turn it on, but there’s not much battery left.” She handed it to him carefully.

The warlord looked closely at the image. It was a near perfect replica of his little one. “So this was painted on your . . . smartphone? Who painted you?”

“It isn’t a painting, it’s - let me show you.” She scooted around to his side of the desk and put her cheek against his. “Smile!”

Mitsuhide did not smile. The clicking sound surprised him and he would have dropped the device if the chatelaine had not also held onto it. She touched the front of it a few more times, and then he saw himself. And her. Just as they were a moment ago.

“This is . . . amazing. You said it talks to people as well? Far away?”

She nodded. “Yes but, well, there’s no one else around with one for me to call. So I can’t show you that. But I can play you some music from my time!”

Mitsuhide gave a nod of assent. He was curious what music would sound like in 500 years’ time, though it would have been more interesting to see how the communication with it worked. He could think of a lot of uses for a magic that was faster than horses or boats. 

His little mouse tapped away at the thing again, and more colors shifted. Then a strange, discordant sound began. The beat was fast, and the singers’ voices were high pitched and cheery, yet he couldn’t pick out the instruments in the melody, or identify many of the words they sang. “What - what is this called?”

“It’s a pop song. Very popular right - well, 500 years from right now.”

Mitsuhide listened to it until the song came to an end. He couldn’t decide how he felt about it. He considered himself well versed in music and poetry, but this was outside his knowledge completely. “How is it played?”

“Ummm, probably a keyboard, a guitar . . . I’m not very good with music. I just like listening to it.” She slid her fingers along the glass again. “I should probably turn this off. The battery is almost dead.”

“It is broken?”

“No, it just needs to be charged. I can’t really do that though.” She squeezed the sides of the smartphone again, and it went dark.

Mitsuhide picked up the thin rope with metal ends. “Then let’s move on. What is this? Is it some kind of weapon women in your time carry?” He held it up to show how he thought it could be wrapped around a throat and felt very clever about figuring it out. At least, he felt clever until his little mouse laughed again.

“No, oh - most women - we don’t carry weapons. That’s my - my charger cable.” She got the words out between giggles. 

“For the, ah, the smartphone?” 

She took the rope from him and showed him how one end fit into it. “The other plugs in, but there aren’t plugs I can use here.” She shrugged and set it down. She picked up the other small case from the purse, one that looked like leather but wasn’t. “And before you ask, this is my wallet. These are bank cards - they have money, in the future. Or they would if I had a good job. And this is my ID.” She held up a shiny rectangle with writing on it, and her image painted to one side. Another excellent likeness.

“Not a painting either. A photograph.” Mitsuhide took it from her, still in wonder over how the images were made. 

“Yes, exactly.” She beamed. 

It was awkward to be the student, Mitushide reflected. Yet he was getting the answers he asked for, even if they were so far beyond his expectations as to be fantasy.

“And this - this is my makeup kit.” She popped open a slim container. In it were a variety of powders in several colors. 

This was something Mitsuhide recognized, though the case was odd. “Ah, for a stage performer or an entertainer.” His eyebrows went up, considering his little mouse working as such.

She must have seen his thoughts on his face because she flushed pink to the tips of her ears. “No, no, no. Most girls in my time wear make up. Not like that - not like . . . anyway -” she set the case down and reached for the painted scroll. 

“Ah, now this object. This gave me many questions. Some of which you answered in your story. But why are all these men . . . hot? Is it summer painting - ah, photographs?” 

If she was pink before now she went crimson. “Y-yes! Summer! Hot summer!” She rolled the scroll up and shoved it into her purse. “There are lots of umm, scrolls like this. We call them magazines. They have pictures and stories. This one . . . it’s a tourist guide. About the warlords from this era.”

“And I am in it.” 

“Mhmmm.” His little mouse looked like she would rather talk about anything else. Curious. 

“And it is about me, in the summer?” Mitsuhide raised an eyebrow. Something was not adding up in her explanation. “The . . . guide . . . didn’t mention summer. It did mention my ‘silver white hair and golden eyes’. And the term heartbreaker?” 

“D-did it?”

“Yes. Along with the physical attributes of the other Oda warlords.”

She was still sitting on his side of the desk, and now she inched away from him with every word.

Mitushide gently took the purse from her and opened up the magazine. The first page was about his lord. He held it up and read the first line. “Nobunaga is a hottie? Do explain, little mouse.”

She actually squeaked. “It - it means attractive. Good looking.” The chatelaine wouldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s about all - all the most attractive . . . historical . . .”

Mitsuhide leaned forward and tipped her chin up with a finger. “And I am one of them?”

“Yes?”

“You consider me a . . . hottie?”

His little mouse scurried over to the other side of the desk, not afraid but - embarrassed? Yes, that was definitely it. 

She stared down at the other items still on the desk. “You shouldn’t ask a girl things like that. Now . . . what else are you curious about?”

Many things, the kitsune thought, but he kept them to himself for now.

Next: One Kind of Temptation

[juminhanswife48]

Jumin X MC: going to watch Zen’s play

hehehe had this idea for a while, hope u all enjoy!!!

“MC, slow down!” Jumin quickly shuffled behind her, almost falling victim to the crowds that were accumulating on the sideways. “What is the rush?”

MC grasped his hand tighter, as if she were the mother to a toddler. His heavy feet dragged behind her, protesting every turn she took. He sighed loudly, making faces of annoyance at every sign or mention of the mysterious event. MC fled through the crowds with Jumin attached to her. “Sorry!” MC yelled back with a sweet smile as she bumped into anyone. No one could stay mad at her sweet smile, so even the street punks just brushed off the tiny alterations.

Jumin took note of his surroundings, they were in the heart of the city. The only things there were the theatre, restaurants, clubs, and shops. They’d already had dinner, it was too late to shop, so she was taking him to the club or the theatre.

“We are here!” MC smiled as she stopped in her tracks and looked behind her. There Jumin stood, his eyes relaxed with a look of absolute disgust.

“Why did you take me here?”

MC looked up and pointed to the lighting up sign: ACTOR ZEN GOES BACK TO HIS ROOTS IN...TEI’S TEA LEAF!! PREMIERING FOR ONLY 3 DAYS!! The sign read in glistening golden letters.

“MC...i’m not sitting through an hour of him galloping on stage as his fan girls drool over him.”

“Come on!” MC pleaded. “We have to support our friends.”

“Your friend.” Jumin quickly corrected.

“No, he’s apart of the RFA and we all need to get along.” MC dropped his hand then moved closer to him. “He’d really appreciate if everyone showed up. Seven is already busy with work and can’t come, so i’m sure he would appreciate it if you did.”

“Ugh,” Jumin scoffed. “I’m only going to sit through this for you.”

MC smiled, then grabbed his hand again. “He gave all the RFA members access to the balconies, so we can all watch from there together.”

MC began walking to the entrance with Jumin dragging his feet behind her. “So excited.” He sarcastically nodded.

“Oh! And he told everyone to meet in his dressing room before the show.”

Jumin looked up at the night sky before they entered the building.

This is going to be a long night.

_______

“Hey!” Zen smiled wide as MC opened his dressing room door. “I’m so glad you came!” He got to MC’s level and gave her a friendly hug.

“Hi Zen.” MC quickly hugged him.

“Back up.” Jumin appeared into the doorframe.

“Ugh why did you have to bring this JERK?” Zen rolled his eyes obnoxiously as he backed away from MC.

“Don’t hug MC like that.” Jumin immediately shot back.

“We aren’t doing this tonight.” MC said as she put herself in between the two men. She knew things would escalate if she didn’t intervene, and although it would be so entertaining to watch them hash it out, now wasn’t the time.

“Jumin, it was just a friendly hug. And Zen, stop calling him names.”

Jumin smirked at Zen, then grabbed MC’s waist and pulled her in close to him.

“Anyways!” Zen said. He turned quickly, his long ponytail swaying in the air. “Seven couldn’t make it. And Jaehee said she might be a little bit late.” He sat on his chair, then made direct eye contact with Jumin. “Thanks to her lovely boss who exploits her labor-”

“Oh my god you guys need to stop.” MC interrupted.

“I haven’t said or done anything yet to incite an argument.” Jumin said innocently. He looked around the room and saw a red couch, up against the wall. Jumin quietly took MC’s hand then walked to the couch and they sat shoulder to shoulder.

“Zen, don’t you have to do makeup or something?” MC asked, quickly changing the subject. Maybe it was a mistake taking Jumin to the musical, but she thought it would be a sweet gesture to support Zen.

“No, i just have to change my clothes before the play starts.” Zen answered.

MC always loved when the whole RFA spent time together, although it was really hard to get those gatherings.

Jumin already had a busy schedule, Jaehee too. Seven was constantly backed up with work, and Zen got mobbed in the daylight. When the RFA got together it was usually in private, or at night time. There was a flip side though, Yoosung was usually always free and loved hanging out with MC. Jumin didn’t mind when they hung out too much; he just requested that MC texted him every half hour.

“Hellooo!” Yoosung proudly announced as he answered the room. The awkward veil got lifted, as Zen smiled back. “I had to ask for directions back here and the security thought I was Zen’s fan...Oh, hey MC and Jumin!”

“Hi Yoosung.” MC said cheerfully. Jumin raised his hand up then waved.

Rather quickly Zen and Yoosung began talking amongst themselves.

Jumin focused his attention back to MC, then placed his hand on her thigh. She looked at him, her eyes big with a rose blush appearing on her cheeks.

“Jumin…” She whispered. She rubbed her nose then smiled. “About what Zen said…I feel really bad for Jaehee,” She placed her hand on top of his. “She works so hard for you, you don’t exploit her, but she deserves a break once in a while. You should go easy on her.”

“Please MC, not right now. Let’s talk about this later.”

“I’m sorry.” She was slightly embarrassed.

“Hey!” Yoosung said as he looked at Jumin. “I’m surprised you came...”

“MC just dragged me around town, she didn’t tell me where we were going.”

“Ohh, now i get it. That’s smart, MC. Good one.” Zen chimed in.

“Super smart!” Yoosung said.

Yoosung and Zen resumed their conversation, then Jumin looked into MC’s eyes. “I’m sorry if i hurt your feelings. I didn’t mean it that way. I just want to keep my work separate from my personal life.”

“I get it, it’s ok.” MC said. Jumin smiled then squeezed her thigh.

“Heyyy! So gross and handsy!!” Zen laughed loudly.

Jumin quickly took his hand from her thigh, then rolled his eyes. “You both are so childish.”

“Ignore them.” MC softly said. Jumin’s face was lit up with shades of red and pink, he tried to cover his face but it didn’t work, which Zen blissfully pointed out.

Zen and Yoosung continued with their laughter, until a tiny feminine voice said ‘Hello’ at the door.

MC looked up and saw Jaehee standing there, nervously twiddling her thumbs. She was wearing a simple, yet elegant dress. It was peach colored with light sparkles and layered with lace.

“Jaehee you look so beautiful.” MC said. Zen nodded in agreement.

“You do too, thank you so much.” Jaehee said as she slightly lowered her upper body to bow.

“Hi Jaehee.” Zen and Yoosung said in union.

Jumin simply looked up at Jaehee and nodded his head.

“I’m really grateful you all came,” Zen started. “I work really hard for my plays and it means a lot that you guys want to see that.”

“I know you work hard, that’s why i wanted everyone to see how talented you are.” MC said.

Jumin felt a hit of jealousy to him with that comment. He knew MC didn’t mean to make him jealous, but he still felt it. Jumin looked back to MC’s face and stared. It was something he did to silently get her attention, or when he needed to mask his own insecurities. MC looked at Jumin and saw his eyes, then she knew how he was feeling. She grabbed his hand then intertwined her fingers with him. Dammit, she thought to herself. She always forgot that supportive comments towards Zen usually made Jumin feel a certain type of way.

“I’m happy i get to experience your plays live, they usually sell out very quickly!” Jaehee smiled.

“Yeah you’re getting really really popular.” Yoosung agreed.

MC felt really bad for Jaehee. As many times as she tried to convince Jumin to not overbear her with work, he only partially listened when MC started to get frustrated, which always ended up with the same old “work life is not part of my personal life, blah, blah, blah” defense. MC had even offered to take up some of Jaehee’s work, but Jumin always respectfully declined.

So whenever MC noticed Jaehee not taking proper care of herself, or drowning in work, she would always swoop in and take Jaehee under her wing. MC couldn’t count the times that she had sent food to Jaehee, or spent hours with her organizing documents and helping her write up reports behind Jumin’s back. Jaehee and MC had a tight bond, wether Jumin denied it or not.

“Well, the show starts in 20 minutes so now that everyone is here maybe you should go to the balcony,” Zen started. “You guys just walk down this hallway, there should be stairs. Then just go to the right there should be a security guard, he’ll tell you where to go from there.”

____________

The show was going great. Zen’s performance was very respectful, and his talent poured out of every line and song he performed. MC had never viewed any of his work until then, but she had quickly realized why he was famous.

Jaehee was enjoying herself more than ever before, and although Yoosung was intently engaged with the play, it was obvious he was a bit confused as to what was going on, often times whispering to Jaehee for confirmation to this questions.

But MC couldn’t seem to focus or enjoy the play, there was something slowly eating away at her conscience. She could feel that Jumin wasn’t enjoying himself. Well, he probably wouldn’t enjoy himself in the first place; musical theatre and Zen weren’t his favorite things. But she could sense he wasnt feeling the best way, about a different topic.

“Jumin,” MC whispered into Jumin’s ear. He jumped a bit, surprised of how close she was. The loud musical number wasn’t helping her case, as it was really hard to hear anything besides Zen’s singing. “We need to talk?”

He nodded his head, then they got up and walked out of the balcony, which drew the attention of Jaehee and Yoosung.

“Be quick!” Yoosung smiled. Jaehee looked at the couple then sighed, they were ruining the beautiful moment, in her mind.

Jumin followed MC out to the vacant hallway, where she balanced herself up against the grey wall. This hallway that connected to the balcony was for VIP guests only, so it acted like a storage space away from the general public. Carts full of wires, books, and costumes flooded the sides of the hallway.

There was always something so eerie and creepy about empty hallways, especially during a musical. You were still able to head the distant echos from the theatre room, but the hallways amplified the tiny sound to make it sound like something out of a horror movie.

“When i’m being friendly to Zen, it’s nothing more than that. I’m just trying to be supportive, and i know it bothers you sometimes. I just want you to know I only have eyes for you.” MC said. Jumin got in front of her, then blinked a few times.

“I’m sorry, you just know how him and I don’t get along, sometimes i feel like he takes advantage of your kindness to get back at me.”

MC smiled. “I...I don’t think Zen is that malicious towards you. He’s just a friendly and flirtatious person.” She put her hands on his chest then began to smooth out his jacket. “But. I know when to draw the line with him.” She picked a piece of Elizabeth’s fur off of his jacket and looked up at him. “And i always do.”

“I would hope so. I’m serious when it comes to things with you.”

“Me too, Jumin. I really love you. But with that being said, if there’s something that you want me to stop doing...then I will.” She took her hands away from his chest, letting her arms rest by her side. “I care more about your happiness, and us at the end of the day.”

Jumin nodded his head then pulled her in for a tight hug. “Just stay the way you are with me.” MC felt a light kiss on the top of her head.

The rest of the night played out well, Jumin and Zen were still bitter towards each other, but Jumin felt more secure with his relationship with MC. It was getting easier for him to realize that her support for Zen only came out of the place that made him fall in love with her in the first place: her kindness and regard for others.

[sidespromptblog]

Late Night Run: Part 2 (End)

Part One

Oneshots:

Confrontation (Virgil), The Reveal, and Comfort

Summary: Logan makes muffins in the middle of the night out of worry for the dark sides, it doesn't exactly end up how he thinks it will end up.

Warnings: Questionable Light Sides Mention, Panic (Remus), Hurt/ Comfort (Remus), and Mentions of NSFS (not safe for sanders-hickies and kissing).

Word Count: 3200

AO3 LINK

Logan was used to waking up alone.

He was used to waking up curled under his own blankets absolutely freezing despite how many blankets he had piled on top of him, and he was used to being alone. Whereas Roman and Patton would sometimes fall asleep snuggled up with one another, or when Virgil would mosey on over to Patton or Roman’s room after a particularly bad anxiety spike. It wasn’t that he had ever really been excluded from these cuddle fests, it was just that Roman and Patton’s brand of comfort and even Virgil’s, wasn’t his specific brand of comfort that he was looking for. It was never anything personal, but even so, Logan got the feeling that they would never understand what specific kind of comfort and contact that he was specifically looking for. 

Not that he could ever blame them for such a thing, for the longest time even he didn’t realize what kind of comfort he was searching for. All he knew was that… what Roman, Patton, and Virgil had wasn’t it.

And all that had done was make him feel more alone than ever before, the odd one out yet again. 

However…

Waking up surrounded in warmth, tucked in between Remus’ constricting arms holding him against his chest and Deceit’s loose but very solid hold keeping him perfectly in the middle as the dishonest side snuggled into his chest. Secure, safe, and just.. just comfortable for what felt like the first time in forever he felt like this. Not just in his own room, but in someone else’s arms and in someone else’s arms. For the first time, he could just lose himself with another person, without even having to worry if the other sides would accept it or not. Because in the long run… it didn’t matter if they accepted Deceit or Remus, it didn’t matter if Thomas even did, because… he was with them… and he was going to stay with them. 

He couldn’t help but to gaze down at Deceit’s face, as the light coming in from the window lit up the sight of the scales on the side of his face. Every constant worry line that had previously been on his face had smoothed out in his sleep, he looked without a doubt, just… peaceful. Like nothing in the world could ever bring him down, like the logical side would never again have to see that deep sadness reflected in those mismatched eyes ever again. And for the most part… he really hoped that he wouldn’t have to, and that he would never be the cause of that sad hopeless look ever again. 

Logan could even feel the steady calm rise and fall of Remus’ chest, as the creative side unconsciously nuzzled the back of his neck. There was no chaotic wildness in the other’s sleep, there was just the movement of his breath coming and going like the waves of an ocean. If he could have turned his head, he knew for a fact that he would have seen the same peaceful expression that he had seen on Deceit’s face, now reflected on the Duke’s as if this was the first proper sleep the two of them had gotten in weeks. 

Just from the sheer duality of it, he didn’t know whether to lean into Remus’ embrace, to arch his back against the other’s blisteringly warm skin and those large hands secure around his middle. Or to curl even more even around the blessed coolness of Deceit, as the other side snuggled up close to his chest the softest noises occasionally leaving his slightly parted lips. It was almost akin to the noise that a cat made when deep in sleep, and Logan couldn’t help but to run his fingers through the dishonest side soft supple curly hair feeling each strand before his thumb passed over the glistening scales under his eye. 

The hushed indistinct sound that left Deceit’s lips made in response to the loving touch ignited a warmth that burned so warmly in Logan’s chest, that he wanted to just squeeze the other dark side and never ever let him go. He wanted to tilt the other’s head back and kiss him all of the ways that Deceit had kissed him last night, and to make the other’s body quake from pleasure just as he had done to Logan. He wanted to make him feel good, to make him feel as loved as he had last night. Or to merely just hold him forever, or as long as Deceit would have him for.    

“Do you even know what I would do for you?” Logan whispered more to himself than to Deceit, the protective rush that came over him surprising even himself in that very moment. “I doubt that I would be able to list them all… but the things that I would do for you…” He murmured again, unable to stop himself from leaning in and pressing a chaste kiss against the dishonest side’s unscaled cheek. “I love you, you know… a lot.”

Squeezing himself out of Remus’ arms Logan turned on his side to do the same exact thing, as he leaned in feeling Remus’ calm breathing rushing over his cheeks with every exhale that came from the creative side. Pressing an equally chaste kiss against his cheek, Logan relished in the protective wave that slammed into him as he watched Remus’ eyeballs dance underneath his eyelids to a song that only he could hear. He wanted to keep that peaceful expression on both of their faces, and to never give them a reason to worry ever again. 

“I love you too you know,” Logan murmured tenderly against Remus’ cheek, his voice barely even a whisper at that. “Stay asleep now… I’ll be back before you even know it, loves.”

And it was with that said, that he managed to crawl out of the two dark sides’ impressive grips and off of the bed that they had moved their midnight shenanigans to once it had started to get a hell of a lot more physical than just kissing. Looking in the mirror, Logan could see that the love bites from the both of them weren’t just solely located on his neck, as they spanned all the way down his spine and his chest. Just the sight of them, peppered all over his skin made a flush of embarrassment and yet pride all at once dust itself over his face in an impressive shade of red that even Roman would smirk at. Nevertheless, he couldn’t exactly just go walking around the dark mindspace in nothing but his boxers, because if the Patton and the others DID happen to show up looking for him… that wasn’t exactly a conversation he wanted to have in just his boxers covered in hickies for all to see. 

It didn’t take him long to find a shirt on the floor though given that it was Remus’ room, granted it was patchy with plenty of rips, tears, and what he hoped was paint splatters. But he wasn’t about to wake the other two up for a quest to find his own shirt, that was for damn sure. 

So he made do with what he had. 

“I’ll be back in a moment,” He whispered to the air of silence where his lovers remained sleeping, and with that last warning, he quickly ducked out of the room trying to remain as silent as he could.

Standing in the kitchen first thing in the morning was a new experience for the logical side. 

Usually Patton or Roman was the ones to cook, with both Logan and Virgil waking up to the sound of them calling them down. There had never really been a reason for Logan to cook anything with them around, given that any food they wanted was right there in the fridge he had never needed to. However, feeling increasingly out of his depth, Logan wracked his mind like it was the day of a final he hadn’t studied for. Desperately trying to think of something that he knew for a fact that he could make somewhat decently, and not burn down the entire kitchen in the process.

Eggs. 

“Eggs!” Logan repeated as relief washed through him, there were so many ways to cook eggs and in the very least he could do all of them to some degree of success. “I’ll make them an omelet, they can’t stand the texture of scrambled or over-easy eggs. I’ve seen them eat an omelet, that’ll do.” He coached himself as he scrambled around for the ingredients, they could have omelets and the muffins he had brought in last night. 

It would be perfect. 

No mistakes whatsoever.           

“Logan?” Before the logical side in question even had a chance to answer the call of his name from the bedroom, there was an almost immediate sound of a scuffle followed by the undeniable noise of a whine like a poor wounded dog left by the roadside. Just the sound of it was like a javelin through Logan’s chest, as his mouth remained open frozen in that split moment of the answer that was supposed to come out. “Logan!” 

He had never before been so desperate to answer, and yet unable to all at the same time. He had in the very least thought that the two would remain asleep while he was cooking, and the surprise… well, it was like someone had stolen the air right out of his lungs. It was like someone had simultaneously taken away any answer that he could have given at that moment with all of the urgency that had been placed on the sole word that was his name.

It had rendered him completely speechless. 

At least, until he heard the rapid scrambling of footsteps practically galloping down the hall meer seconds before Remus, still in his boxers, slid into view. The look on the creative side’s face said it all, in the second where the two of them locked eyes. The sheer desperation mixed with complete and utter heartbreak that had turned Remus’ face as pale as a corpse, making the actual makeup on his face become extremely obvious. In the few moments that it had taken to get to the kitchen, his eyes were already glassy. Glassy in the kind of way that eyes were right before the tears became even more obvious, glassy in the kind of way someone got before the sobs erupted like a spewing volcano destroying everything in its path. 

The eggs cooking on the stove were entirely forgotten in Logan’s mind. 

“You!” Remus began with a hiccup before practically launching himself across the kitchen in order to get to Logan. 

Logan couldn’t help but to stumble a little as the full weight of the Duke slammed into him, as the other side clung to his shirt and wrapped his arms around the logical side as if he were an octopus trying to constrict his prey. Logan could only hold the other tighter, in an effort to not bump into the surface of the stove and burn himself from the full force of Remus hugging him as if he were the last person alive in their own little world. It didn’t help that he could already feel a slight dampness on his shoulder, as the beginning of Remus’ tears seeped through. 

“I’m sorry!” Logan hastily began, a thousand apologies already building upon his tongue at his apparent fuck-up. “I was just going to make some breakfast for you two and-”

Before he could even finish Remus cut him off with a near dizzying kiss that left him gasping for both air and another kiss. 

“No..no no…” The creative side mumbling bruisingly against his lips, shaking his head with every word as if cursing himself. “You don’t have to apologize for leaving for anything, I jumped to conclusions way too fast and I got scared. You’re… you’re your own side and you can choose to do what you like, you don’t have to check in with us first. I just.. I woke up and I didn’t see you, I.. I…” Remus licked his lips, tasting the salt from his own tears on them in just those short few seconds, before he leaning in and stealing away Logan’s words once again with yet another kiss. That left them both rather breathless as he pinned Logan against the oven, just to make sure that the other was actually really and truly there in the flesh. “I got scared, I thought that it was a dream, the best I’d ever had and gone when I woke up…” Remus let the silence that ended his words speak for itself, there was no way that he could openly admit to both he and Deceit having that severe of separation anxiety while keeping up their chaotic persona in the eyes of the light sides. 

But then again… Logan wasn’t exactly a light side anymore.   

Remus leaned into Logan’s touch as the logical side cupped his cheek, whining like a dog that had been left abandoned on a leash for far too long. And when Logan’s cool lips met his, it was like the first rain after a blazing forest fire washing away all of the heat Remus couldn’t help but to melt into the other’s gentle caring grasp. He had been touched before, but nothing ever so open and loving as the skin on skin contact that he was getting right now. Deceit had always been good for a hug or cuddling, but even then he almost never took off his gloves or long sleeves, so feeling the warmth of another side, of Logan, felt… good. 

It was an actual honest to god good feeling, out of so many wrong ones that had occupied his life so far.

Peppering the other side’s face in small kisses Logan felt that softness inside of him warm at the purely joyous expression written all over Remus’ face, “I love you,” He softly whispered, “And I love Deceit, if there ever comes a time that I will have to leave for anything… I can promise you with everything that I hold dear and everything that is me… I will talk to you two about it. I will not just up and leave you, and I will not cut my existence off from you two as if you never existed to me.” He laid one last kiss over Remus’ lips, sealing the promise that he had just uttered between them. “You two matter to me, and you will always matter. No matter what.”

Worming his arms around Logan’s waist, Remus nestled his face into the side of the other’s neck where the dark purple and blue love marks from just last night still proudly stood out on the logical side’s pale skin. Remus kissed those marks, all the way up to the underside of Logan’s jaw until he felt him squirm as the creative side’s breath rushed out tickling him. It made Remus smirk almost proudly against Logan’s skin, before giving it a little nibble creating yet another mark to go with the dozens he and Deceit had made last night. 

But unfortunately, even he knew that reality couldn’t be chased away with a couple of sweet kisses just like that, the words that Logan had promised just last night crashing back into him.

The whine that left Logan’s lips when he pulled back would have been adorable, had he not had other things on in his mind. “Are you going to have to go back today?” He suddenly asked, shifting the mood almost instantly with his sharp worry focused words as his fingers dug into Logan’s hips. He had said that Logan could go, he had said that Logan could tell the others if he needed to, and if so… then he needed to stick with it. Despite however much pain, it would cause him to see Logan leave through that door, without being able to even help him deal with the others. “They’ll ask questions, and.. and they’ll notice that you’re not there in the morning. They’ll come down here and drag you away from us, they’ll rip us away from you, they’ll lock you away in a tower so big that even I can’t climb it, and they’ll-” 

He would have gone on and on, adding to his own anxieties about just what the other light sides would do if they had found out Logan had spent the night with them. He could have rambled until even Deceit was awake, or he would have had Logan’s cool lips not gently touched his own. 

It was a small peck more than anything, and yet it silenced him instantly. 

“Not today,” Was Logan’s answer, as his warm breath washed over Remus’ lips, “Today is about all of us. We’ll move my room after we have breakfast together, you can help me with my new makeover and Dee can help with my wardrobe, and we’re going to have a fantastic day together. No light sides involved whatsoever, they can wait until I feel like talking, not the other way around.” With another peck to his lips, Remus felt all of his tense muscles relaxing all at once. “All will be well today, no matter what tomorrow brings.” 

Remus could have cried, or he would have cried even more if not for the fact that he didn’t want to further ruin his makeup by crying all of it off or the presentation of his own mustache. Along with the fact that Logan’s sweet simple smile seemed to chase away any wayward emotion that would have sent his tears off like a rocket launcher. 

A tiny smile curled on the ends of his lips, “Okay.” He merely whispered before leaning down giving Logan the very same peck that he had given him, just on the end of his nose. 

They would be okay. Logan wouldn’t leave them, and if he did then even then everything would be okay. Logan would fight for them, just as they would fight for Logan through thick and thin. They wouldn’t lose him, and he wouldn’t lose them no matter what decided to happen that could possibly interrupt their daily existence. They would be okay. They would be okay. They would be okay. 

“Now,” Logan began, his hand rubbing Remus’ cheek yet again, making that whine crawl right out of the other’s throat once again. “Go wake up Dee, breakfast is on the way.” 

“Yes sir,” Remus practically purred before stealing one last kiss, before making a mad scramble for the bedroom that they had all been sharing. Most likely to body slam the bed and wake up the deeply sleeping Dee. 

They were all together now.

They would all be okay. 

Logan would ensure it, whether Patton and the others liked it or not.  

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

how about the male knight or equestrian in the outfit i showed you in the dms finding a very horselike or at least horse sized dragon and taming it for riding like a horse, black english horse tack included.

Thank you for the ask. For my new horse, Thunder, I am going to get him black dressage tack. My current horse, Leo, has brown jump tack.

Sorry this is short, I am too excited about my new horse to actually keep my 100% attention. But this was in my ask box for a while, waiting for inspiration to strike.

Saddled in Black

Warnings: car crash mention

*not edited*

~

Inside leg to outside rein, through the centerline, turn right, ask for trot, inside leg, inside leg, change diagonal, one... two... turn right, down the quarter line, right seatbone, inside rein, press, press, good.

Equestrian halted his horse and patted her as he allowed her to stretch out and cool down. She was one of the best breed horses in the country, with top European bloodlines. She was a warmblood-andalusian cross and cost him more than his car.

"That was lovely," Instructor applauded the rider, clapping her hands. "Though I would get her one the bit some more. You guys are so close."

Yeah. The equestrian knew of his fatal flaw and his inability to collect horses- which made his dream for being a Grand Prix dressage rider so dim.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just frustrated."

"Hmm, don't be. It took me months to learn the sitting trot. The harder time you have, the better you will be in the end."

I hope so, the equestrian said to himself, but smiled at his trainer.

After cooling down his horse and cleaning his tack, the equestrian drove home. It was night, the sky as dark as onyx, but cars had headlights for a reason.

A slow rock song played from the radio. The equestrian aimlessly tapped his fingers on the wheel, humming silently. It all seemed so peaceful, so serene, until a bright light filled the man's vision and then it all turned to black.

The equestrian shot awake, gasping for breath. What happened? What, what...

He wasn't in his car anymore. Instead he was laid across some grass.

No, no, no. He wasn't in an accident wasn't he? If he was hurt, that would be months pf recovery, months of no training...

The equestrian looked around, clutching the grass with his hands. "Hello!" He called.

Oddly enough, he had no pain. Maybe he was dying. Dying, so his body released enough hormones to stay of the agony of crashing.

The wind was cool against his cheek. He smiled, time to enjoy the last seconds alive...

"Boo!"

The equestrian jolted and gasped, opening his eyes. In front of him was the face of a monster.

It was black with green and red scales illuminating its eyes. Its forehead was dished out with a white gem in the center. A long reptilian tongue slithered in and out of its mouth.

The prince whimpered, then stopped. It was just a hallucination. A way for his brain to comprehend it was dying.

"What are you?" The monster spoke, brining a claw up to the equestrian'a face and tapping it.

"A human," the equestrian spoke, though his voice sounded too strong to be one of a dying man's.

"I eat humans."

"W-what?"

"Mmmmm delicious, naw just kiddin' man. Stand up or you'll get ticks," the monster laughed, stepping back. The equestrian slowly got up to his feet, watching the monster warily.

"What are you?"

"A dragon? Duh," it chortled, pounding the ground in laughter.

"I didn't find that funny," the equestrian said.

"I did," the dragon said before its body swirled around in nauseating colors. The equestrian stepped back; the creature seemed to be vaporizing.

Then, it took the form of a tiger.

Oh my gosh.

The equestrian backed away, nearly tripping over his own feet in desperation.

Then, it turned back.

"Hmm humans are sooo scared of everything- and stupid. No adventure in their bony bodies whatsoever."

"What are you?"

"Anything I want to be."

"THAT DOESN'T HELP THE SITUATION MISTER!"

"Fine," the dragon conceeded. "I am a shape-shifting dragon. Ladalaladalada."

"A trumpet apparently too."

The dragon huffed and sat down just like a dog, crossing its arms.

"What's your name?" The equestrian asked.

"Name?"

"Look who's dumb now. Let's call you Puff. You know... Puff the magic dragon, lives by the sea..."

"Lovely, very lovely," the dragon sarcastically clapped.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it, Puff."

The dragon, Puff, growled before turning into a... the equestrian could not believe his eyes! A horse!

A horse galloping right at him.

Thinking quick, the equestrian stepped out of the way of the pounding hooves and vaulted on.

Bareback and tackless, how fun.

"Easy, easy Puff. Whoa!" The equestrian said, slowly his seat in an effort to halt the horse. "Slow down bud, that's a good boy."

Then, the equestrian got a mischievous idea.

"Walk on."

"No."

"I have an apple."

"Fine."

Puff walked on.

By the end of the day, the equestrian was able to teach Puff to do all sorts of dressage moves. Even collection...

Now the only problem was to get back home to compete at the national championship.

[imnotwolverine]

White honey

Geralt of Rivia oneshot

Word count: 1.330

Warnings: NSFW, drug/potion use, erotic fever dream, mention of death

I had a very fun date night with my SO last weekend; a date night on drugs. For me it was the first time using XTC, and it sure brought great inspiration for this little Geralt fic. The heightened senses were a HUGE turn-on (and inspiration) for me. So here goes.. enjoy a bit of Geralt tripping balls in a faerie forest.

(Link to my Masterlist)

Thud thud. Thud thud. Thud thud.

Like a horse in full gallop he could hear his heart beat, the dizzying mix of concoctions pumping through his pulsing veins. Had he taken too many potions? Was this to be his end? Perhaps. And perhaps not. Either way, it was too late to worry about it, he decided, slumping down on all fours as he focused on the way his fingers dug into the lush moss that covered the forest floor.

Strange. He could see through the haze of his intoxicated mind that his hands were firmly digging into the moss. Yet he couldn’t feel a thing. Hmmm. Were his eyes deceiving him? Straining his golden hued eyes he peered at the green tapestry of various shades of green, his pale, strong digits all but disappearing in the thick carpet that should feel soft and welcoming.

Even stranger though, was that it now started to feel like he was floating. His heavy body had become light as a feather, every breath nearly breaking him free from the ground below him.

Geralt furrowed his brows, his heart thundering even louder in his ear now, a certain tingle starting to climb up his limbs. Like the kisses of a lover it started slow and tender, but soon became overwhelming, the sensation close to that of a wave of tiny bee stings. Yet ..it didn’t hurt. No. Hurt he wouldn’t call it. But strange, it sure was. Ticklish, almost. 

Not quite sure about what to do he tried to sit up, his head immediately reeling as his already heightened senses were now going overtime. The birds that had started their first morning song sounded high and pitchy. The soft wind bristling through the spring leaves felt like a hundred little licks on his exposed skin. The first light seeping through the thin wispy branches felt like the rays of a late summer sun, hot and inviting.

Bending his head down, he rolled down onto the forest floor, the moss swallowing him into her soft and inviting arms as his mind wandered off. Geralt sighed. Was he dying? Or was this just a really strange dream? All he could do was give in.

Warm. Cool.

Light. Heavy.

Slow. Fast.

Sweet. Bitter.

All senses started to shift. His once slow heart now beating a million beats a minute. His sweaty battle hardened body now tender and cool. His usual easy breaths now coming in heavy. The remaining tang of the bitter potions on his tongue turned into the sweetest of honey.

Turning fully on his back, he stretched out his fingers, staring out at the trees above with wide ambers full of wonder. Were the trees this beautiful before? He slowly eyed the curves of one of them. Hmm. She almost seemed to sway her curvy bark, like a temptress luring him in. She and her treesisters even smelled different now. Their half rotting limbs now smelling of young wood, basking in a hot sun. Rich and heady. Geralt hummed, staring at the seductive trees. Like a harem they all swooped and swayed, their shapes becoming more alluring the better he looked. Voluptuous, sultry shapes came to life as the wind started to caress his skin like a lovers touch, whispering his name in soft lilting tones.

‘Ge-ralt…’

Throwing back his head he could feel a different part of his body awaken. His pants feeling awfully tight all of a sudden.

‘Geee-raallttt…’

Such sweet honeyed voices he had not heard for months. And they called..for him. Just him. Would they want him? Would they have him here, on the softest of moss? With the rays of the sun warming their lush bodies? Would they?

Quickly looking back at his surroundings, his head spinning at the effort, he saw them. Dancing and giggling, their naked hips swaying in earthly delight, gesturing him to come hither. To join them.

He could almost touch them, so close they now were. And not ever had he seen such beautiful women in his long, long life. Olive skin, long tresses of dark hair, plump bottoms and voluptuous breasts, their eyes as green as the moss beneath his fingertips.

If only he could get up. Get up! Get up Geralt!

‘Mmmphff.’ The white wolf groaned, his body not willing to move as he tried with every fiber of his being to get up. He couldn’t move an inch, his body putty as he lay there sunken into the moss like it was the finest of quick sand.

‘Gee-raalltt.’ The ladies persisted, his arousal being the only body part that was whole heartedly able to answer their call, hot and heavy against his thigh.  

‘Please.’ Geralt begged, unable to bring forth any more words from his lips. Lips that were in dire need of touch. Of sweet, pillowy kisses.

‘Come, Geralt.’

‘Come…’

‘Come!’

His breeches became impossibly tight, his arousal shifting and twitching, wishing to be freed from the tight lacing that restrained it.

‘Can’t..’ Geralt cried with need, his whole body tingling as the wind licked, the voices caressed and the scents lured. Straining his eyes he tried to take in as much as he could. There were at least a dozen of them. Some stretching out, reaching their hands, whilst others had lain down on the mossy soil, their milky skin a stark contrast to the bright green beneath. And all moved, swayed on a tune his ears couldn’t hear, their voices carried through the soft wind. And on their backs, he now noticed, they carried wings. Paper thin, iridescent, nearly invisible to the eye.

Fairies.  

He had heard of many a folktale. But never had he seen them, these mythical creatures of old lore. And what creatures they were. His breath came in more hoarsely with every sway of their lush hips, tilt of their shining mane. If only they knew what they did to him..though..surely they didn’t miss the huge bulge that was straining to be released..right?

As if they heard his pleading thoughts, they started to close in the distance, their bodies melting down on the moss beside him as their nimble fingers started brushing through their long tresses. They looked down upon him, upon his needy, struggling body and smiled with satisfied, curled up lips and rosy cheeks, telling him they liked what they saw. 

‘Please..’ He said with greater strain, his heart beating so loudly he nearly missed their sweet sing-song voices as they spoke.  

‘Witcher…’

‘Come play with us..’

‘Come..come..’

Their nimble hands slowly started to wander down his body, warm and soothing to his jittery muscles. They touched his face, moving in closer and closer, their hair caressing his skin as their bright green eyes flashed with lust. Fuck. How he wished he could move right now. Touch them. Please them. But his body didn’t respond, stretched out as it lay there while these beautiful women writhed around him.

‘Geee-raalttt.’ One bent down, near brushing her lips against his, whispering his name again and again.

‘Geraaltt..’

‘Geralt.’ Her voice became deeper, more hoarse…more panicked?

‘GERALT.’

Geralt furrowed his brow, confused as her voice became more masculine, her face blurry as his jaw was jarred open by some invisible force, a liquid poured down his throat.

‘GERALT. FUCK. GERALT, YOU HEAR ME?!’

Much to quickly the beautiful fairies disappeared from his vision, instead replaced by a pair of familiar, panicked set of eyes.

‘Jaskier.’ Geralt grunted, feeling his body crumple as it crashed back down to earth, the moss suddenly wet and dirty soil, the bright light now but a murky half-dark, the sun not yet anywhere to be seen.

‘Oh thank the heavens. I nearly lost you there, old friend.’ Jaskier cried in his melodic voice, the words thick with emotion. Geralt sighed, closing his eyes, as if hoping it would return the ladies. But no. It was just him, Jaskier and his painfully throbbing arousal.

[azvolrien]

Gryphon Beach Party

I’m not even going to pretend that this has much of a plot; it’s more of a slice-of-life thing, winding up characters and letting them bounce off each other, with a fair helping of worldbuilding. It also ended up quite a bit longer than I’d intended when I started, but I was having fun.

In the spring of Asta’s second year living in Stormhaven, she decides to attend an important cultural festival and makes a new friend into the bargain. What Happens Next Will Shock You! (no it won’t)

---

           There had only been one to start with, but as the afternoon went on more and more had joined the parade until a whole flock of young gryphons hurtled around the College, all screaming something over and over at the top of their collective voice.

           Asta attempted to tune it out. “So, remind me how many of the day students have decided to start boarding?”

           Matron Inkfoot sat up on her haunches and double-checked her clipboard. “Seven first-year apprentices, four second-years, and one third-year.”

           “A third-year? It doesn’t usually take them that long to decide.”

           “It is out of the ordinary,” said Inkfoot, nodding, “but Ffion Howell’s family are moving out of the city in a month, so she’ll have to start boarding on a full-term basis. The others will be week boarders.”

           “Right.” Asta scribbled the details in her notebook. “Will the dormitories require any reshuffling to make room for them?”

           “No, there are enough free beds,” said Inkfoot. “The actual floor space is running somewhat low, but the new dorm annexe should be ready by the end of the summer before the next batch of first-years arrive.” She hung her clipboard from one of her harness straps and dropped back to all fours.

           “Good, that ought to simplify things,” said Asta just as the bell rang to signal the end of the day’s last lessons. “I’ll amend the apprentice records in the admin office and see to it that the kitchen staff know how many breakfasts and dinners they’ll need to account for. And then…” The chorus of gryphons outside had fallen silent at the bell, but as soon as its echoes faded they took up their cry even louder than before. “…And then I give up. What are they chanting out there?”

           Matron Inkfoot cocked her head, angling her ears to listen properly. The tip of her tail flicked to and fro in amusement. “Arakhasthan,” she said, making the kh and the sth into a resonant click in her throat and a sort of roughened hiss from the sides of her beak.

           Asta rolled the word over in her mind a few times. “I don’t think I have any hope of pronouncing that properly,” she admitted. “What does it mean? I assume it’s Gryphic, but…”

           “No, humans always have trouble with Gryphic,” said Inkfoot. “You just don’t have the right vocal structures. It’s why our names are usually in Imperial. Arakhasthan means something like ‘time of new feathers’.”

           “Oh, the New Feather Festival?” said Asta. “Tigerhide mentioned something about it earlier but I didn’t know what she meant.”

           Inkfoot nodded and half-spread her wings to display her glossy new flight feathers, each one a deep gold-brown tipped with black and almost five feet long. “It’s when we celebrate the end of the spring moult, when everyone loses their winter plumage and gets their summer coat instead.”

           “I did notice the gryphons were all looking a bit, um…”

           “Scruffy?” suggested Inkfoot, her tail-tuft twitching again.

           “I was going to say ‘unkempt’,” said Asta, “but it didn’t seem polite to comment.”

           Inkfoot made a soft clicking sound in her throat – the gryphon equivalent of a light chuckle – before she cocked her head in the other direction and her crest-feathers raised slightly in a curious ‘frown’. “Were you not here for last year’s festival? I know you came to Stormhaven that Hawk Moon. Sirakithi, in the Kiraani calendar.”

           Asta stared into space for a few seconds, counting the months backwards on the joints of her fingers. “I was living in Stormhaven by then, yes, but I was on a trip up to Northold around this time of year.”  

           “That explains it, then. There aren’t as many gryphons up north – they don’t make such a big fuss about Feather Fest. Do you think you’ll come this year?”

           Asta blinked and drew herself up a little. “I – well. Is it allowed? I’m not exactly…”

           “A gryphon?” said Inkfoot with another flick of her tail-tuft. “Or from Stormhaven?”

           “Well, both, I suppose, but I meant being human.”

           “No, no, plenty of humans come to the festival,” Inkfoot assured her. “There are some parties in the city – you might’ve spotted bundles of shed feathers hanging from lampposts and so on – but the big get-together will be on Aberystrad Beach tomorrow. Quite a lot of the wizards like to attend; I’ll be shepherding a few apprentices myself.”

           Asta gave it a few seconds’ thought. “I… need to get this up to the admin office,” she said, holding up her notebook. “But after that… I suppose it might be nice to get out of the city for a few hours.”

           She was far from the only person to have made that decision. The next day was perfect weather for a festival – clear skies and a light breeze off the sea, with the warmth of late spring before the oppressive heat of high summer properly rolled in from the south – and there were so many people trying to leave Stormhaven that there was a queue for the north road. Asta drummed her fingers on Pardus’s saddle-pommel as she waited her turn to pass through the Soldier Gate. Stormhaven’s city walls were not as substantial as Kiraan’s old fortifications, now long overtaken by urban sprawl and only encircling a small area around the Emperor’s palace, but they were still more than twenty feet tall, five feet thick at the base, and a more than adequate barrier to everyday passage; while there were smaller gates for pedestrians around the walls, each of the main ones was only wide enough for two lanes of traffic. There were no checks, however, and the guards waved Asta through without delay. Outside the wall, she tapped Pardus in the ribs with her heels and spurred the construct into a brisk trot. Even past the gates, the road was busy with a steady stream of carts, carriages, pedestrians and beasts of burden both natural and constructed, but the pace soon picked up and as the city fell behind, the road widened until Pardus could overtake the slower traffic and accelerate to a flat-out gallop.

           Aberystrad Beach was a few miles north of the city, but Pardus at full tilt ate up the distance in less than a quarter of an hour, easily keeping pace with the cloud of gryphons soaring above and outstripping many of them. The well-signposted turnoff soon came into sight up ahead, and Asta tugged on the reins to steer Pardus down the narrower, more winding side-road to the beach. Rolling dunes covered with wiry marram grass rose up to either side until the paving was completely engulfed; only the trail of footprints and wheel-marks through the soft, dry sand gave any sign it should be there. The sand slid under Pardus’s paws as the construct slowed to a walk and crested the last dune before the beach.

           After five years in the Sea Lochs and more than one in Stormhaven, Asta sometimes felt she was used to the sight of the Western Ocean, but she seldom had a view with no buildings or hills in the way. Out here, beyond the city walls and on top of the dunes above the beach, there was nothing to obstruct the view, and for a long while she forgot to do anything but stare. There was a chain of islands out there somewhere, she knew, but they were far enough from the coast that even on such a clear day there was no sign of them. A single ship – three masts, so not Captain Steel’s Curlew – was under full sail a couple of miles offshore, bound for the north, but otherwise only a few white dots of seabirds and the shadow of the odd small cloud broke up that vast expanse of blue-grey-green stretching to three horizons.

           Below the mottled green-yellow of the dunes and with the tide well out, the beach was a long, broad sweep of white sand split in two by the River Ystrad, its broad, looping channel shallow enough to easily wade through. Above the river, a natural outcrop of some rock hard enough to withstand the sea had been carved into a huge statue of a gryphon – more than twice the height of the city walls – sitting up and gazing out to the west. Years of wind and waves had worn its front claws smooth, leaving only vague shapes to show the sculptor’s intent, but its head with its alert stare, fierce hooked beak and pointed ears could have been carved yesterday and the detailing of the feathers on its half-folded wings was still clear even from a casual glance. A few of its flesh-and-blood cousins perched atop its head and on ledges at its shoulders and haunches, but far more had staked out little campsites along the sand below.

           There was no shortage of humans as Inkfoot had said, but if the gryphons did not truly outnumber them, the numbers were as close to equal as Asta had ever seen; hundreds of gryphons had set up colourful blankets and sunshades all along the beach, lounging on the warm sand, while others queued at food stalls just below the dunes where scents of cooking meat billowed up from fire pits dug into the sand. Still more gryphons circled above, soaring effortlessly as they caught rising thermals beneath their wings. A small group was hard at work down the beach attempting to erect two thin poles almost as tall as the huge sculpture, perhaps markers for a game of some sort. Snatches of music and voices raised in song – enthusiastic if not always tuneful – drifted on the air. And yet, for all the bustle of the festival, the beach was big enough that it did not feel crowded, and when Asta rode down from the dune she easily found a free space for herself and Pardus beside one of the statue’s hind feet. She climbed down from the saddle, laid her travel rug out on the sand, and had Pardus lie down for a backrest before she unpacked her picnic from the saddlebags. There was no one she recognised in sight – or at least, no one she dared to approach unasked – so instead she sat back against Pardus’s flank to drink her tea and watch the goings-on.

           A few of the airborne gryphons had stopped their lazy circling and, while the others drew back to fly in a vast ring around them, launched into some kind of aerial performance, twisting into loops and rolls and locking talons to fling one another across the sky. Some had clipped brightly-patterned streamers to their feathers while others trailed strings of polished metal discs from their legs and their tails, turning the whole display into a riot of colour and light to shrieks of approval from the audience. A band struck up on a stage below – two gryphons with a harp and a set of drums, and three humans with flute, guitar and fiddle – but it wasn’t clear if they were setting a beat for the flyers above or just playing along with them. A crowd quickly gathered around the stage to dance along.

           Between the cheering, the music and the thunder of wings it was absolutely deafening, and the Asta of two years ago would have been terrified – not just of the general uproar but of the gryphons themselves, of their talons like grappling hooks and their beaks that could shear through bone – but now, after the journey south with Steel, Pirate and their crew and then months of living in Stormhaven and working with Inkfoot and the College messengers, it was no more threatening than any other festival. The gryphons may have been huge carnivores who showed more expression in their feathers than their faces, but they were people as much as any human or elf.

           Asta had just finished her first cup of tea when one young man peeled off from the crowd around the stage and trotted over to her, almost tripping over a trio of small, fluffy gryphon chicks who were making a determined effort to bury an older male up to his neck in sand.  

           “Want to dance?” he asked, holding out one hand with a cheerful grin. Asta glanced up from her mug, and something in her throat and her stomach came to a juddering halt. Fair skin, dark hair, incredibly blue eyes – not Daro, of course not him, that wasn’t fair on this innocent stranger, but-

           “That’s very kind of you,” Asta stammered once her voice would obey her. “But I- I think I’m fine where I am for now.”

           “Are you sure? You could-”

           A shadow fell over both of them. “The lady gave you her answer,” said a new voice, this one a deep, gravelly rasp. The young man swallowed, nodded, and retreated back to his friends on the makeshift dancefloor.

           Asta shaded her eyes and squinted up at the gryphon who had just landed on the statue’s foot. “He meant no harm,” he said. “He’s a good lad; son of an old friend from the army. But I like to see a ‘no’ is respected. Mind if I sit?” Asta shook her head and he hopped down onto the sand at Pardus’s tail, clutching a leg of meat in his claws. His feathers were an unassuming dark tawny colour with off-white barring on his wings, and like many gryphons he wore a harness around his chest. However, where most of the harnesses Asta had seen were made of leather and often decorated with carvings and medallions, this one was sternly utilitarian – all tough, heavy canvas dyed a dull grey-green – and its only decoration was an old rank insignia pinned to one shoulder-strap. Even without it and his comment about the army she would have thought him an ex-military sort: he had clearly and literally been in the wars, for half of his tail, one ear and a toe on his left foreclaw were all missing, and various odd ridges and discoloured patches in his feathers suggested more scarring beneath them.            

           As she watched – surreptitiously, from the corner of her eye – he took a waxed cloth from one of the satchels on his harness, spread it on the sand, and carefully laid the haunch on top before he pinned it in place with his talons and began to tear away strips of meat with the tip of his beak. The outside had been seared brown over one of the fire pits, but the inside was so rare it was almost still bleeding.

           “What is that?” asked Asta. “Beef?”

           “Horse,” he said with his mouth full, and flicked his head back to tip the flesh down his throat. “Want some?”

           “I… Wh… No, I brought my own food. But thank you for offering.”

           He gave a little shrug with his wings as if to say your loss and returned his attention to his meal. “Kiraani, are you?” he asked once he had stripped it to the bone. Asta nodded, and he lowered his head to the sand to scrub away the juices crusting on his beak. “Thought so. Last time I was in arm’s reach of one of your lot was during the war.”

           “Um.”

           He clattered a laugh in the back of his throat. “I won’t hold it against you. Bravest soldier I ever met was an Imperial scout I ran into in the Darkwald. Fought like a tiger, he did – not many humans’ll square up to a full-grown gryphon with just a knife to hand, but he left quite the mark. Would’ve liked to know him better, if we’d met under different circumstances.”

           “Is that what happened to, um…” Asta nodded towards his missing toe.

           “Ayah. What happened to this, too.” He turned to look at her squarely, and she narrowly stifled her horrified recoil down to a twitch. The same wound that had taken his ear had carved a huge gnarled scar down that side of his face, leaving a deep notch in the bony ridge above the empty eye socket and twisting the corner of his beak into a permanent grimace. He laughed again, waving what remained of his tail from side to side, and lifted a talon to his intact brow ridge in an informal salute. “Flight Captain Redbolt, lately of the Second Assault Wing.”

           Asta smiled despite herself. “Asta zeDamar, still working at the College of Sorcery’s admin office.”

           “Ah, the College? You’d know Inkfoot, then.”

           “Oh, yes, we often work together to sort out one thing or another.”

           Redbolt gave a little sigh and looked up at a small, wispy white cloud high above. “Had quite a crush on her when we were both younger, but she was never interested. Wanted to focus on looking after the little wizards.”

           “They do take a lot of looking after.”

           “Talking of schools,” said Redbolt, “here’s something I’ve wondered for a while. I know how we remember the Darkwald War. How’s it taught in Kiraan?”

           “Well, there’s a certain degree of embarrassment there,” admitted Asta. “As if a lot of the people writing textbooks aren’t really sure how the army of a nation as small as Stormhaven faced down the Legions and won.”

           “I’m not sure ‘won’ is the right word. Felt more like everyone just got tired and stopped.”

           Asta nodded acknowledgement of the point. “But otherwise it’s a lot more honest and even-handed than you might expect, both about how it started and ended and everything in between. The main focus from a tactical standpoint tends to be on the wizards and the gryphons – though you can tell in some of the older books that they hadn’t quite wrapped their heads around you being people rather than just well-trained animals.”

           “In the end, are we not all just well-trained animals?” said Redbolt with such exaggerated soulfulness that Asta snorted with laughter. “You know, the books – ours and yours – always gloss over how boring it was most of the time. Lots of long stretches of just sitting around waiting for something to happen, with the odd quick burst of-” he paused for an instant, glanced at her, and obviously changed what he had been about to say, “-heart-stopping terror.”  

           “The Voynazhi priesthood don’t really like to focus on that part for some reason,” said Asta drily.

           Redbolt chuckled. “Me, I always wonder how many priests of Voynazh have actually seen battle.”

           “And how many would find another vocation if they did.” Asta looked down at her hands for a moment and asked, more quietly and with some hesitation, “Have you ever met a berserker?”

           “One or two over the years. One or two.” Redbolt opened his beak in a gaping yawn and scratched under his jaw with a talon. “Deadly fighters, but they don’t make good soldiers. Don’t work well in a team; can’t hold a formation. What makes you ask?”

           “I… used to be a slave,” said Asta. Redbolt cocked his head slightly but offered no comment. “Up in the Sea Lochs. I escaped, but before I made it down to Stormhaven I… I lived with this woman for a few weeks. Roan.” Absently, Asta brushed her fingers against her lips. “She lived alone, a long way out on the coast miles from anywhere. And she was a berserker. I suppose I wondered… I’m not sure. If berserkers were usually loners like that, or if that was just how she was.”

           “Didn’t spend enough time with them to know,” said Redbolt. “Yours, well… Clearly not so much a loner that she wouldn’t let you stay with her.”

           “No, I suppose not.” Asta fell silent and gazed out at the horizon. “I hope she’s all right by herself up there.”

           Redbolt looked from Asta to the sea and back again, quietly scraping his talons through the sand, then got to his feet and stretched out his wings to their full extent, his feathers reaching thirty feet from end to end. Despite his buzzardish markings, his wing conformation was more eagle than hawk – long, broad, and almost rectangular – and he was the biggest gryphon Asta had met so far, taller than Inkfoot and more heavily built. “Tell you what,” he said. “They’ll be starting the ring toss in a few minutes. I can give you a lift up there if you want a better view.” He pointed up to the statue’s head high above them.

           “Ring toss?”

           He laughed. “Not the kind you’d see at a funfair.” Asta bit her lip, looking with some apprehension at the statue towering above. Redbolt cocked his head, lifting his crest a little, and went on more soberly. “By the sun’s egg and the sky’s breath,” he said, “you are safe with me.”

           Asta had spent enough time with Inkfoot to know how serious an oath that was to a gryphon. Some did follow human religions – she had once seen one making an offering at a shrine to Kura – but most kept to their own nameless sky-gods. She nodded, stowed what was left of her picnic back in the saddlebags, and stood up.

           “Ever flown before? Nah? I’ll give you the – ah – crash course now, then.” He took a belt made from the same canvas as his harness from one of his satchels and passed it over. “First, you can’t sit up like you can on a horse or a construct, or even a gryphon walking; the balance and the wind resistance’ll be all off. So…” He bent his forelegs and nodded for her to climb onto his back. “You’ll want to get your knees on the back of my wing joints first, just where they meet my shoulders – gods, do you have bird bones yourself? You hardly weigh a thing – and belt yourself to that back strap, then lie flat on your belly and put your arms forward over my wings. You see those loops on the harness collar? Put your wrists through them and hold on where they join the main strap, like you’d hold one of those handles that stop you falling over on a tram. There you go.”

           “You’ve done this before?” asked Asta.

           He nodded and walked away from the statue. “Every military gryph big enough to carry a human gets the training. Never know when you’ll need to pull one of your mates out of a sticky situation. Ready?”

           “I think so.”

           Redbolt rocked back onto his hind legs and leapt into the air with one massive downward stroke of his wings. Asta’s knuckles turned pure white, but the straps held; within seconds, they were soaring in a wide circle above the sea faster than Pardus could run. Asta looked down over Redbolt’s shoulder, watching his shadow skim over the waves. The sun-warmed water was a beautiful clear turquoise over the white sand beneath; more than a few festival-goers were taking a swim and throwing a ball around. As Asta watched, one of the gryphons flying above folded their wings and dropped in a breakneck stoop right into the water with an enormous splash, only to resurface to enthusiastic cheers with a silver fish clutched in their talons.

           Another, lazier beat of Redbolt’s wings carried them higher, before his outstretched feathers found a thermal that bore them upwards until they were above the statue’s head. Asta lifted her own to catch the wind on her face.

           “Make some room down there!” roared Redbolt. Half a dozen gryphons looked up from their perches around the statue’s ears and promptly scattered, leaving Redbolt free to glide in for a landing. He flared out his wings and the fan of feathers at the base of his tail to slow himself, lowered his hind claws to the carved stone, and dropped to all fours. “There we go,” he said as the other gryphons reclaimed their space. Asta unbuckled the safety belt, slid down from his back, and peered over the edge of the statue’s head. Pardus still lay on the sand where she had left it, some fifty feet below. “I’ll say this for you,” said Redbolt, hooking a precautionary talon into the half-belt at the back of her coat. “You’ve no fear of heights. Last rider I carried screamed his head off the whole time.”

           “No, I’d say heights are one of the few things that don’t scare me,” said Asta, sitting down cross-legged at the edge.

           “Evidently,” said one of the other gryphons, this one a younger female with grey-and-white plumage and long pointed wings. “When was the last time you gave a human a ride?”

           Redbolt shrugged. “Four, five years ago? I’ve kept up with the weight training in the meantime, though. Oh – Asta, this is my niece Gull. Gull, Asta. Thought she’d get a better view of the ring toss from up here.”

           “Ooh, yeah, you get the best view of the game from up here!” said Gull, her tail-tip drumming on the stone behind her. “Tunnel Fifteen’s put together a really strong team this year, but I was just talking to Stoat here and he thinks the Windstone Wing are the ones to watch.”

           “They’ve got a very good defence this year,” said Stoat, whose feathers did indeed give him a resemblance to the animal: mostly a reddish-brown, but with a white bib down the front of his neck and a black tail-tuft. “But it’s true, Tunnel Fifteen has some very quick players. Slate is one of the best flyers out there; the Wing’ll have to account for her if they end up against the Fifteens in the tournament. Who do you think’s in with the best chance?” he asked Asta.

           This was met with a blank stare.

           “You don’t… actually know how it works, do you?” said Gull. “Oh, well, it’s pretty simple. Each team has five players; they have to try and get the ring onto their team’s goalpost, but they have to throw it; if anyone’s touching the ring when it goes over the post, the point doesn’t count. A game lasts either an hour or seven rings’ worth of play, whichever’s shorter. If there’s a draw after an hour, they have a tiebreaker round.”

           “And no biting or clawing the other team,” added Stoat. “You draw blood, you’re out of the game.”

           “It’s not as interesting since they added that rule,” said Redbolt, his tone so bland that Asta couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Gull cuffed him on the back of his head with one wingtip as the first two teams took flight above the game field, marked out from each other by different colours on their harnesses. Another gryphon with a blue-and-white harness – presumably a referee – flew overhead and dropped a foot-wide wooden ring from their talons, and both teams launched into play.

           Asta had very little idea what was going on despite the running commentary Gull and Stoat provided for her, but it was surprisingly engrossing nonetheless. Ring toss, it turned out, was a fast-paced game of skill and agility where the airborne players flung the ring to their teammates or intercepted it from their opponents so quickly that it was difficult to keep track of where it was until it landed on the goalpost and slid down to a hook a couple of feet below the top. None of the games lasted the full allotted hour, and a few of the more uneven ones barely went a minute between the referee dropping the ring and a point being scored.

           The tournament final had just started – as it turned out, neither Tunnel Fifteen nor the Windstone Wing had made it there – in the late afternoon when Stoat pricked up his ears. “Asta, you said your name was?”

           “Yes?”

           “Someone’s yelling for you.”

           Asta leant forwards over the edge of the statue – Redbolt held on to her coat again – to see Fayn, Wygar, Inkfoot and a handful of blue-clad apprentices from the College gathered around Pardus and looking in all directions except up. Fayn cupped both hands around her mouth and shouted again, then shrugged and said something to Wygar that Asta couldn’t make out.

           “Up here!” called Asta, waving one arm. They looked up at that; Inkfoot half-spread her wings, but folded them again at some comment from Fayn. Wygar nodded, stepped back, took a quick run-up, and clambered up the side of the statue as quick as a squirrel. He had abandoned his usual long blue coat in favour of a sleeveless shirt, baring his wiry, well-toned arms and the flowing blue tattoos on his shoulders. A couple of the apprentices giggled and nudged each other at the sight.

           “I hope you’re wearing plenty of sun cream,” was Asta’s only response when he reached the top.

           “Thought you were afraid of heights?” said Redbolt, his tail twitching.

           “Yes, Fayn and I are both well-protected,” Wygar assured her. “And I’m afraid of flying,” he added to Redbolt. “I like heights just fine. You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” Redbolt shook his head to muffled laughter from the other gryphons. Wygar turned back to Asta. “Fayn and Inkfoot spotted your construct down there and were worried when they couldn’t see you anywhere.”

           “Oh. Well, it’s very kind of them to be concerned, but I’m quite all right. Redbolt here carried me up so I’d have a better view of the ring toss.”

           Redbolt rubbed the back of one talon against the scar on his face. “Thought she looked like she needed cheering up,” he mumbled.

           “Inkfoot was right,” said Wygar, grinning. “You are an old softy.”

           “Oh-ho-ho, you want to have that conversation again, boyo?”

           “…You two clearly have some history together,” said Asta as Gull, Stoat and the rest of the gryphons quietly backed away.

           “All journeyman warmages are put through a course of gryphon-riding practice,” said Wygar in an extremely neutral voice.

           “You make it sound like some horrible torture,” said Redbolt. “‘Warmage’.”

           “The good Flight Captain here is of the opinion that no mage who hasn’t actually been to war should be permitted call themself that,” said Wygar.

           “I can see where he’s coming from,” said Asta slowly.

           “Thank you!” said Redbolt.

           “But if Stormhaven hasn’t seen an actual war in twenty years, surely there can’t be that many people in active service today who do fit that criteria.”

           “Which is my point,” said Wygar. “But the way he goes on, you’d think I’d never even been in a playground fight!”

           “Reckon you’re just going to have to agree to disagree on this one, lads,” Gull interrupted. “Look, the ref’s just dropping the last ring now.”

           The referee hovered above the pitch at the exact midpoint between the two goalposts and released the ring from their talons. Immediately both teams lunged into action. One big pale-feathered gryphon with crest-feathers long enough to mark him as male even from that distance grabbed the ring in his beak and hurled it halfway across the pitch with a flick of his head. One of his teammates stretched out their talons to catch it, but before it even reached them a smaller, quicker player from the other team intercepted it and threw it in a high arc to one of their own teammates, who batted it further up with their tail. One player with pointed falcon-like wings, hovering above the fray like a kestrel, hooked their talons through the ring and beat their wings, flying for the goalpost, but the pale gryphon half-folded his wings and barged into them with his shoulder.

           “Is that allowed?” asked Asta as the crowd gasped.

           “Didn’t draw blood,” said Redbolt with a shrug.

           The ring fell, but the pale gryphon’s teammate reclaimed it before it hit the ground and threw it to a player circling above the other goalpost. They caught it in their beak, passed it into their talons, and dropped it. The ring fell neatly over the post, the referee rang a bell to signal the end of the match, and the air exploded with gryphons cheering themselves hoarse.

           “What was that team calling itself again?” asked Wygar over the uproar.

           “They’re the Crag Shadows,” said Gull. “New team, they’ve never entered the Feather Fest tournament before, nobody thought they’d get this far – but look at them!”

           The captain of the losing team touched beaks with the leader of the Crag Shadows – Asta presumed that was the equivalent of shaking hands – and led their team off the pitch as the victors lined up between the goalposts and looked up at the sky. Asta hadn’t noticed in the excitement, but everyone who had been flying overhead had landed, leaving just one imposing figure in the air.

           Lady Starfeather, the chieftain of all the gryphons of Stormhaven, glided above the crowd and landed neatly on the pitch, settling on her haunches. The white tips on her otherwise jet-black feathers seemed to glitter in the sun, which had not yet begun turning red but was well past its zenith. The Crag Shadows bowed low, their beaks almost scraping the sand, before their captain straightened up and accepted the trophy – just a ring painted gold – from Starfeather’s talons. They touched beaks for the briefest of moments before Starfeather drew back and the team captain reared back on their hind legs, holding the ring above their head in both front claws.

           The cheers that followed almost totally drowned out the sound of another gryphon landing on the statue’s head. “You all need to clear the summit,” she announced. Like Redbolt, she wore a tough canvas harness, but it was dyed a vivid shade of red with a strip of gold braid down one side of her collar and she wore a sort of ornamental diadem-helmet, its bands of polished steel framing her face. The brass chestpiece of her harness, almost big enough to count as a breastplate, was engraved with a five-pointed star framed by raised wings.

           Redbolt stood up. “Time for the fledgling parade?” he asked. The newcomer nodded. “All right. Well, you all heard the Wing Guard – clear off, the lot of you!” Gull, Stoat and their friends took flight, leaving only Redbolt, Asta and Wygar on the statue’s head.

           “Need a lift back down?” asked Redbolt wickedly. Wygar just scowled at him, nodded to Asta, and clambered down the side of the statue. “Ah, he knows I don’t really mean anything by it,” Redbolt added when he caught the disapproving look on Asta’s face.

           “Does he, though?”

           “Well… Hm. Hop back aboard and I’ll take you back to the ground, eh? Truth be told,” he added as they glided down from the statue, “if it came to a real fight between him and me, unless I caught him off-guard, I’d be ash. No illusions there.”

           “Who, Wygar?” They reached the ground not far from where they had first taken off; Asta unbelted herself from Redbolt’s harness and dismounted. “I know he’s technically a warmage, but I see him around the College a lot; he’s really more of one of those harmless, slightly scatterbrained academic types.”

           “Oh, really? Ask that harmless academic about his body count some time.”

           “…You can’t be serious.”

           “I watched his Master’s exam,” said Redbolt. “He turned a bladehound into a puddle of molten steel.”

           “Wait, really? But those are-” Asta ran one hand back through her hair, attempting to reconcile that image with Wygar currently standing stoically as Inkfoot attempted to clean a smudge from his face with a handkerchief, much to the undisguised amusement of both Fayn and the apprentices. “That is… an odd idea to think about.” She shook her head as if to chivvy the thought away. “You said something to that guard about a ‘fledgling parade’?”

           “Oh, yeah, that’s an old gryphon custom,” said Redbolt as they walked back over to Pardus and the others. Asta unbuckled the saddlebags from Pardus’s harness and dismissed the construct into its summoning stone. “Though ‘parade’ is putting it a bit strongly. Every Feather Fest, all the youngsters who’ve just finished growing their first lot of flight feathers gets presented to her Ladyship up on top of the statue.”

           “It’s not mandatory,” said Inkfoot, tucking her handkerchief into one of her bags. “But a lot of families like to mark the occasion in some way – your first flight under your own power is a big milestone.”

           Lady Starfeather took off from the game pitch and flew up to the statue’s head where she landed on top of the beak, in easy view of everyone watching from the beach below. Young fledgling gryphons – not much bigger than the chicks, but with proper structure to their wing feathers and the beginnings of their adult markings instead of fluffy grey down – fluttered up out of the crowd towards her. Each one was accompanied by an adult, perhaps a parent or an older sibling. Complete silence fell on the beach, even among the humans, as one by one the adults escorted the fledglings up to sit in front of their chieftain for a moment. With each one, Starfeather lowered her head to inspect them, made some statement that none of the watchers below could hear, and lightly touched her beak to theirs before they and their escort glided back down. A hint of orange had come into the sun by the end.

           “I remember my presentation, years and years ago,” said Inkfoot once the last fledgling was back on the sand. Starfeather remained on the statue’s beak, lying down with her front claws folded over each other. “That wasn’t with Starfeather, of course – her uncle Lord Eclipse was in charge back then.”

           Redbolt chuckled. “I remember old Eclipse! Now, there was a gryph with a sense of humour.”

           “Wait,” said Wygar, rubbing the back of one hand against his face. “Lord Eclipse died in – Inkfoot, how old are you?”

           “Ninety-seven,” said Inkfoot brightly.

           “Have you told me that before?” said Fayn, wide-eyed. “I don’t think I knew that.”

           “Neither did I, and you practically raised me from age twelve!” said Wygar.

           “That’s a slight exaggeration,” said Inkfoot. “You did go back to your parents’ house every weekend.”

           “Hundred and three over here,” put in Redbolt.

           “…Huh.” Asta ran one hand through her hair. “You do give off a certain aura of ‘old soldier’,” she said to Redbolt, whose crest lifted slightly. “But I had no idea you were that old!”

           “Well, you haven’t known me very long,” said Redbolt, waving his tail. “Should have another fiftyish in me, all going well.”

           “Fayn, you’ve been in Stormhaven longer than I have,” said Asta. “Did you know gryphons could live to be that old?” Fayn shook her head.

           “I knew that they could,” said Wygar. “I just didn’t know Inkfoot, specifically, was that old!”

           Inkfoot just shrugged.

           “If it makes you feel any less out of place,” said Fayn quietly as her husband quizzed Inkfoot for further details on the ages of the various gryphons he knew, “this is my first time at the festival too. Wygar talked me into it – I’m not fond of crowds, but I get on well with Inkfoot.”

           “Doesn’t everyone?” asked Asta.

           Fayn laughed, nodding. “She’s a likeable person. Besides, Wygar’s actually got more of a role to play this year than just attending.” She cleared her throat and stood forwards, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the bonfires?” she asked.

           Wygar swore, prompting a chorus of “Ooooooh!” from the apprentices, and ran off.

           “He’s quite a fast runner,” commented Asta.

           “He is, isn’t he?” said Fayn with a fond smile as Inkfoot led the apprentices off to one of the food stalls. “Sometimes I think he doesn’t really have speeds between ‘stroll’ and ‘sprint’.”

           “What was that about bonfires?” said Asta.

           “That’s a human thing,” said Redbolt. “Before the first humans came to our land, we gryphons didn’t make much use of fire. But they have their own traditions for this time of year, so a bit got added into the festival. They light those big ones you can see along the beach at sunset,” now that he pointed them out, Asta could indeed see the wood and brush piled in heaps along the tideline, “and the littler ones in between. Folk line up to jump over the small ones for some reason.”

           “Oh, Beltane!” said Asta. “Yes, I’ve read about that. It’s sort of a fertility-luck ritual thing. The fire-jumping, that is.”

           “How is jumping over a fire going to help with fertility?” asked Redbolt.

           “That’s… a good question,” said Fayn, frowning.

           “I’m sure there’s some reasoning behind it,” said Asta. “It’s not really a Kiraani tradition – I’ll have to read up on it.”

           People returned to their little camps along the beach, chatting amongst themselves, until finally the sun touched the horizon and Lady Starfeather got back to her feet, flanked by the Wing Guards in their red-and-gold uniforms. She spread her wings, took a deep breath, and roared out over the sea. The roar of a gryphon was a higher, shriller sound than that of a lion, but still deeper and more resonant than the cry of a hawk and far more impressive than the chirping of an eagle. Standing at the edge of the water, Wygar stretched up one arm at her call and clicked his fingers. A brilliant spark flared around his upraised hand and every one of the bonfires erupted with flame, instantly burning as hot and as bright as if they had already had hours to build up.

           “He didn’t really need to do that,” said Fayn, clicking her own fingers. “That was just for show. He could’ve woken those fires with a thought.” Her voice was exasperated, but there was no disguising the pride in her smile.

           “See what I meant?” said Redbolt to Asta, quietly enough that Fayn wouldn’t overhear. “Ash.” Asta nodded.

           Wygar ran back over to them, and had just been dissuaded from explaining the precise technique he had used when Starfeather raised her wings for silence again and, once she had it, began to sing.  

           After more than a year in Stormhaven, Asta had heard many different sounds a gryphon’s voice could produce. She had heard them speak, roar, laugh and screech. She had never heard them sing. Starfeather’s voice was nothing like the high piping of birdsong; like her roar, it was a more resonant sound that reminded Asta curiously of drumming. Other gryphons took up the song, even Redbolt; humans, their voices incapable of the Gryphic words, had to settle for humming the melody. Soon it felt like almost everyone on the beach had joined in. Wygar had closed his eyes to listen; Fayn leant against his side and held his hand tightly.  

           Asta sat down on the sand, folding her arms around her shins as she listened. The lyrics meant nothing to her – she would have to ask someone for a translation – but the tune somehow conveyed a deep sense of renewal and belonging. Life goes on, the gryphons sang. We are a family, and we’re exactly where we’re meant to be.

           “Are you all right?” asked Redbolt once the song was over and Wygar and Fayn had gone to join the line of couples waiting to jump the fire.

           Asta sat up, blinking. She hadn’t even realised she was crying until she lifted one hand and felt the tear-tracks down her face. A few different explanations came to mind, but somehow the only one that made it past her lips was the truth. “I want to go home,” she said quietly.

           “Ah-hm.” Redbolt looked around. “Well… I can give you an escort, if you don’t want to go by yourself in the dark. Or you can maybe tag along with Inkfoot if she hasn’t already taken the apprentices back to the College. Where’s home?”

           Asta thought. Her flat near Stormhaven’s northern wall didn’t even register; instead her mind went to the house where she had grown up back in Kiraan, then considered Lady MacArra’s fine manor overlooking the water in Duncraig, and finally settled on an old stone tower by the sea, where hens pecked through a little vegetable garden in the shelter of an outer wall and water horses rested on the rocks after dark. “A very long way from here,” she said, watching the fires.

           “Ah. That kind of home.” Redbolt sighed and lay down on his front beside her. He laid Pardus’s saddlebags across his shoulders and took out Asta’s tea flask. It had held its temperature throughout the day and the tea was still hot. He handed it to Asta; she unscrewed the cap and poured herself a cup. “Tell me a bit more about your berserker.”

           Asta sipped her tea. “She’s… Have you seen the portrait the museum has of Lady Meredith?” Redbolt nodded. “It reminds me of her. She’s tall, very tall, with long red hair she usually keeps in a braid and fair skin with hundreds of little freckles. Lots of tattoos on her face and her arms, and maybe more under her clothes.” She smiled. “And strong, too. Very nice arms. I expect she could pick me up like a kitten if the mood took her, but she was always gentle with me while I was staying with her. Her eyes are… Do you know Captain Steel, from the Curlew? They’re grey like hers, like… well, like steel. Piercing, is the word. Like they see right to the heart of you.

           “She’s not always talkative – there’s a shyness there – but she always answered whatever questions I had and if I needed to talk, she listened. Really listened, not just sat in the same room while I spoke. I don’t think I’ve known anyone who listened to me like she did.” Asta took another sip. “The man I escaped from recaptured me after a month in her home and tried to take me back to his family’s castle near Duncraig.” Redbolt’s wings came up in a protective stance Asta recognised from Steel, though he didn’t seem aware he had reacted. “She killed him and his guards and put me on the next ship south – Curlew – to here, where I’d cross the border to freedom and be well out of reach if his family came looking for revenge. That – fighting the guards – was the only time I ever saw her go berserk. Maybe it should have scared me, but…”

           “But you felt safe with her,” finished Redbolt.

           Asta nodded. “I thought a lot about it on the journey south, and after I’d got settled here. Whether what I felt for her was real or if I’d just fixated on the first person to show me some kindness after… after a very trying period in my life.”

           “And?”

           “And… a lot of people have been kind to me since I got to Stormhaven. Surely those feelings would have faded by now if that was all there was to it.” She sighed and wrapped both hands more snugly around her cup. “What about you? Any romance in your life?”

           “Nah, not for a long time.” Redbolt stretched out his front claws, curling his tail as far around one hind leg as it could go. “Even among gryphons, the ladies prefer a fellow with both eyes and all his toes.”

           “Well, you’ve been very gallant with me today. I’m sure any lady would be lucky to have you.”

           “Ah, well.” Redbolt scratched his remaining ear. “You looked like you could use an outrider for the day.”  

           “It was very kind of you.”

           Redbolt folded his wings again. “I flew north once, a long, long time ago,” he said, watching the silhouettes around the fires. “Followed the coast all the way up to the great ice. Kept away from humans mostly – they’re not so used to us up there, or at least they weren’t back then – but I ran into the odd hunting party or trade caravan in the Sea Lochs, up in the hills or out on the water. Seemed a nice place to live – peaceful, even in the towns.” He sighed. “I’m no seer to go telling the future, but… I have a feeling you’ll find your way back one day.”

           “I certainly hope so. I’m just… Not entirely sure when.”

           “Give it time, and keep your eyes open,” advised Redbolt. “You never know when you’ll get your chance.”

           Asta finished her tea and packed the flask back in the saddlebag. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything you’ve done today.”

           Redbolt nodded. “Do you want an escort back to wherever you’re staying?” he asked. “A lot of folk just sleep on the beach – Wygar and Fayn would probably let you share their camp if you want to stay until morning.”

           “I’m sure they would,” said Asta, “but I wouldn’t like to impose. I think I’d rather go back to my flat, if you really wouldn’t mind.”

           “It’s no trouble.” Redbolt stood, stretched, and looked back at his wings. “Though I don’t think I have it in me to fly you all the way there. You ride your construct and I’ll follow.”

           The road back to the city was well-lit with lampposts every fifty feet, but it was still reassuring to have Redbolt prowling alongside Pardus while Asta rode at a walk or soaring above when she spurred the construct into a run. The sky was fully dark by the time Asta reined Pardus in outside 103 North Wall Street and climbed down from the saddle.

           “Where do you stay, out of interest?” she asked as she removed the saddlebags and dismissed Pardus.

           “Got a nice cosy eyrie up in Gryphonroost,” said Redbolt, flicking his beak in the general direction of the gryphons’ traditional home beneath the Crag. “Reward for my long service – don’t you worry about me.” He gave another little salute, tapping one talon against his scar. “Could show you around some time, if you haven’t been up to the tunnels yet.”

           Asta smiled, lifting the saddlebags onto one shoulder. “I’d like that, actually. Maybe next Starsday?”

           “Sounds good. I’ll meet you at the west ramp around noon?”

           “I’ll see you there.”

           “Sleep well, then.” With a last nod, he took flight and vanished into the dark. Asta let herself into the stairwell and climbed to her flat on the third floor. All things considered, it had been a rather interesting day.  

---

Asta gets on rather well with gryphons - once she’s used to them she finds them less intimidating than other humans - and in return they’re quite protective of her. Gryphons in general have a tendency to go ‘is anyone gonna adopt that’ and then not wait for an answer, even if the object of their interest is a grown adult in their late twenties. Redbolt made a passing comment once about how easy it had been to fly carrying her (she’s 5′5″, a fairly average height for a woman, but she is quite slim; Roan could indeed pick her up like a kitten) and the others got very concerned she wasn’t eating enough and started offering her snacks.

Further gryphon trivia:

The corners of a gryphon’s beak can curve up enough to mimic a human-style smile, but it isn’t a natural expression for them. They generally only do it if they’re trying to put a human at ease (or freak them out, whichever). A natural ‘smile’ for a gryphon is lightly flicking the tip of their tail from side to side, while waving their entire tail from side to side is a more effusive ‘grin’. Redbolt missing half of his tail means that other gryphons sometimes view him as much more stern than he really is.

Leadership among the gryphons is hereditary up to a point. That point is when the others decide that the current chief isn’t doing a good enough job and they elect someone new. Lady Starfeather’s family line have been in charge since her grandmother (Eclipse’s mother).

Although gryphons are longer-lived than humans - a hundred and fifty years is a fairly average lifespan - they mature more quickly; a ten-year-old gryphon is physically and emotionally an adult, roughly equivalent to a twenty-year-old human.

Redbolt was originally called Goshawk from his wing markings. ‘Redbolt’ is essentially a nom de guerre that people started using consistently enough that it just became his nom de paix as well. Lord Eclipse was named such not for any markings but because he was such a huge gryphon that people used to joke he blocked out the sun whenever he took flight.

[charmingly-evil]

"Elliot couldn’t take his eyes off her. It was the way that she moved when she danced. Elliot had never seen her so light and carefree, her hands twirling above her head as she spun around, shoulders rolling backwards and hips swaying slowly to the beat of the music."

A fun, flirty Christmas fic where Elliot watches Olivia dance to Santa Baby and can't seem to take his eyes off her. A few tequila shots in, and things get a little heated.

                                                    Santa Baby

Olivia Benson was drunk.

Those were the first thoughts that passed Elliot’s mind as he entered the Christmas party. Glittering tinsel in gold, red and green was strung up around the walls and dangling above their heads. A glamorous Christmas tree stood at the end of the room next to the bar, strung with delicate glass snowflakes and stars that twinkled silver, gold and blue.

And Olivia was dancing at the centre of the brightly lit hall with Alex, a glass of scotch in her hand. Olivia could not recall when she first began to feel tipsy. Perhaps it was two drinks in, when she noticed herself mouthing Mariah Carrey’s Last Christmas to Alex while she sipped her drink. Or maybe it was four drinks in, when she was calling for Finn to turn up the music as Ricky Martin came on, with Alex pulling her onto the dance floor. All Olivia knew was that she had drunk enough scotches to feel as light as a cloud and tingling all over, alcohol clouding her mind and leaving her with nothing but the dizzying desire to keep dancing, spinning and laughing with Alex, freeing the tensions loosen and ease from her body.

And Elliot couldn’t take his eyes off her.

It was the way that she moved when she danced. Elliot had never seen her so light and carefree, her hands twirling above her head as she spun around, shoulders rolling backwards and hips swaying slowly to the beat of the music. Every now and again, she would run her fingers through her hair and look over her shoulder, shooting her friend a playful smile.

He noticed that she had curled her hair tonight, so it fell in soft, tousled waves around her shoulders, tossing in the air as she shimmied to the music. She was wearing a rich scarlet dress that matched the shade of lipstick that coated her lips, making it look fuller. The dress was made of silk and fell halfway up her thighs, riding a couple of inches up her thigh as she danced and dropped lower onto the dance floor. He watched the way she laughed, how it bubbled as a soft tinkle in her throat, lighting her eyes. She captivated his attention completely.

“Don’t look now, but someone can’t take his eyes off of you.”

Olivia’s brows furrowed into a confused frown as she followed Alex’s gaze, her eyes landing on Elliot. Her dancing slowed, a hint of a blush rising in her cheeks. Alex whispered, “I think he likes what he sees.”

Olivia shot her friend an incredulous look. “Okay, I think you’ve had too much to drink. You know he’s married.”

Alex arched an eyebrow and shrugged, casting her a suggestive ‘So?’ look.

Olivia gave her friend a hardened look in response. “Alex.”

“I didn’t say he would act on anything Liv, just that he’s…enjoying the view. It’s not cheating to look right? Besides, you can find out for yourself as he seems to be coming this way.”

Before Olivia could respond, Alex was sliding off the dance floor.

Elliot turned his head to the side to see Alex go as he walked over. “I hope I didn’t scare Alex off.”

“No. I think she wanted to speak to Melinda before she leaves for the night. I was starting to wonder if you were going to come tonight. You’re late.”

“Six drinks late it would seem.” Elliot eyed her flushed cheeks and glass of scotch in her hand with amusement. “How much have you had to drink?”

Olivia breathed out a small laugh, lifting her shoulder in a light shrug. She took a sip from her drink as she began to dance again, stepping from side to side, finding her rhythm once more. “Only a few.”

Just after she said this, Olivia stumbled forward in her heels. Elliot quickly reached out to catch her by the waist, stopping her fall. Olivia held onto his shoulders for support as she regained her balance. She breathed out a small sigh of relief, glad that she hadn’t dropped her glass.

Elliot arched an eyebrow, his lips twitching into an amused smile. “Just a few huh?”

“Okay, maybe more. You can’t blame me. Cragen did give us a generous bar tab for the night.”

“I’m not judging you Liv, it is a Christmas party. It’s nice to see everyone unwinding tonight after such a long year.”

Elliot briefly scanned his environment as he said this. He could see that Alex was once again bopping along to the music. Finn had his arms around Munch as he downed his glass of whisky, speaking loudly with his friend. Even Cragen had let loose a little for tonight, opting to wear jeans and a short-sleeved, button-up shirt, looking relaxed as he chatted to Huang. It lifted his spirits to see how relaxed and jubilant the team were after such a gruelling year.

“Speaking of unwinding, aren’t you going to dance?”

Olivia stepped back as she swung her hips to the beat of the music, raising her eyebrows at her partner, challenging him to follow her.

Elliot shook his head a little, a breathy chuckle vibrating in his throat. “I don’t think so Liv.”

“It’s Christmas. You can’t let loose for one night?”

Elliot raised his eyebrows at his partner. “If letting loose means looking like I’m having a cardiac arrest on the floor like that,” Elliot shot a look at Detective Lake, who was dancing a few feet away from them, throwing his head back and forth and pumping his fists in the air, “Then I’m going to take a hard pass.”  

Olivia breathed out a small laugh when she followed Elliot’s gaze to Detective Lake, who was now twisting his feet back and forth across the floor and calling for more shots.

Just then, Santa Baby began to play. Olivia’s eyes lit with a hint of excitement at the classic Christmas song.

Ba-boom

Ba-boom

Ba-boom

Olivia began to lift each shoulder up and down in sync to each Boom. She drained the rest of her drink in one last gulp and handed her empty glass to Elliot, stepping back onto the dance floor. She raised her eyebrows and cast her partner a playful look as she began to dance, mouthing the words as she did so.

Santa baby, just slip a Sable under the tree for me

Been an awful good girl, honey

Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight

Santa baby, a ’54 convertible too, light blue

I’ll wait up for you, dear

Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight…

Olivia dropped her body lower at the word ‘slip’, her hips swaying slowly to the beat of the music. She met Elliot’s eyes briefly as she mouthed honey, biting back a flirtatious smile. Olivia lifted her hands into the air and shimmied her chest forward as she began to drop her body lower and lower, her arse sinking further to the ground. She closed her eyes as she tangled her hands in her hair, losing herself to the music.

Think of all the fun I’ve missed

Think of all the fellas that I haven’t kissed

Next year, I could be just as good

If you check of my Christmas list

Olivia brought her body back up, her hips lifting a little higher as they swung up and down. Then she began to slowly spin around, her hands twirling above her head as she did so. Facing away from Elliot, her hips began to draw circles in the air, her arse almost brushing against him. She swore she could hear him groan.

Somewhere deep inside, Olivia knew that alcohol was clouding her judgement. She would never act this way sober. She was flirting with Elliot. Worst of all, she knew that she was enjoying it, enjoying the attention that he gave her. Yet Alex’s words drifted back to her. It’s not cheating to look right?

Elliot swallowed, heat creeping up his neck. He couldn’t stop staring at her. He watched her body move, the sway of her hips and roll of her shoulders. He watched the way her scarlet dress moved with her body, accentuating her curves. He watched her dress lift higher and higher up her thighs as she dropped lower and lower, revealing soft, tanned skin.

Elliot’s heart accelerated as Olivia spun around once more, stepping closer to him. Olivia tangled her arms around his neck as she began to sway to the music. She continued to sing the lyrics to him with the same flirtatious smile, her voice husky now.

Come and trim my Christmas tree

With some decorations bought at Tiffany’s

I really do believe in you

Let’s see if you believe in me…

She was so close that he could smell her, a hint of floral from her perfume with a twist of whisky. She was trying to encourage him to move with her. He felt his free hand curling around her waist, guiding her a little closer to him.

Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing

A ring, I don’t mean on the phone

Santa cutie, so hurry down the chimney tonight…

Olivia closed her eyes as she could hear the song beginning to come to an end. She felt light, like cotton candy clouds were expanding in her head. Her elbows were resting on the backs of his shoulders and when she lent her weight onto him, she almost felt like she was floating with him. Alcohol had blurred out most of her awareness, but she could sense just how close she was to Elliot. So close that if she opened her eyes, she could count each lash on his eyes. So close that she could hear him breathing. So close that it would just take the dip of his head for him to kiss her.

She didn’t kiss him. Instead, she dipped her head down, her nose just brushing against his neck, her curls tickling his skin. She felt his heart gallop under hers at the sudden contact. She let out a small hum, smelling leather and musk, smelling his scent.

Hurry down the chimney tonight

Hurry, tonight…

“That was fun,” Olivia said softly as the song came to an end, lifting her head up to meet his gaze through half-lidded eyes. She let her arms fall from his neck, her hands briefly sliding down the slope of his arms as they did so. “You didn’t dance though.”

Elliot looked down at her, smiling with amusement at her inebriated state. “I think that’s the closest I’ll get to dancing for tonight.” He cleared his throat, noticing just how close they were, still, even after Olivia had let go of him. Elliot lifted up her empty glass and said, “I might get a drink though.”

Olivia’s features brightened with a tipsy smile. “Good idea. I’ll follow you.”

Elliot paused, meeting her glassy eyes with a dubious look. “You sure that’s a good idea? Haven’t you drunk enough already?”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds like a challenge. Bar’s not closed for another hour. We still have time to do shots.”

Then Olivia began to make her way to the bar, Elliot in tow.

“Shots? Really Liv?”

Olivia smiled and turned around, meeting his eyes. “Yes. Unless you’re scared? Don’t think you can take me on?”

Elliot breathed out chuckle in disbelief. “Far from it. It’s that I don’t want to have to take you home, or to the hospital. You’re two drinks away from falling over and twisting your ankle.”

Olivia’s nose scrunched together in a small scowl. “I can handle my alcohol El.”

Elliot grinned. “Good.” He leaned forward, whispering “Cause I’m not going easy on you.”

…

They were three drinks in (scotch on the rocks) before Olivia ordered a round of tequila shots.

Olivia and Elliot were sitting at the back corner on one of the lounge sofas, their empty glasses sitting on the glass table in front of them. It was almost midnight, and most of their team had retired for the night, leaving behind a few NYPD officers finishing their drinks. Olivia wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol, but she couldn’t shake off the dizzying desire to be closer to Elliot. And judging by the way his eyes kept drifting to her lips and down the dip of her dress, she sensed that he was feeling the same way.

Olivia noticed that they were keeping to safe topics tonight. Work. Christmas plans. Holiday aspirations, if they were to get a break this new year. Olivia noticed that he didn’t talk about Kathy and she didn’t mention that she was seeing someone new.

Olivia noticed his tie. She hadn’t seen it before. It was a dark blue with wisps of white and dotted snowflakes printed down the front, emulating a snow flurry. It was surprising to see Elliot wear such a festive tie. She was certain that Kathy had purchased this for him. Olivia noticed how tight the tie was, making Elliot look as if he were dressed to attend a case meeting and not a Christmas party. She wondered if it would be inappropriate to reach over and loosen his tie, letting her fingers run over his chest as she did so. Would she then be pushing it if she unbuttoned one button of his shirt, then two, loosening his collar just a little…

Fortunately, the waitressed arrived, shattering Olivia from her inebriated thoughts and the tension she had felt growing thick between the two of them all night. The waitress placed the tray down and left, leaving them with six chilled tequila shots, a salt shaker and lime wedges.

Olivia almost winced as she eyed all the shots, imagining the burn in her throat. “I don’t remember ordering so much.”

Elliot’s lips flashed into a hint of a smile, sensing her fear. “Thought you said you could handle your alcohol?”

Olivia swallowed, recomposing herself once more. “That’s what I said.”

“Well then,” Elliot picked up a shot glass, raising it in the air for a toast. “Bottoms up.”

“Wait.” Olivia took his shot glass and placed it back down on the table. “You need to take the salt first.” Olivia tilted her head at his raised brows and puzzled expression. “Have you never done tequila shots before?”

“I drink beer and whisky like every other grown man.”

She said almost sarcastically, “Don’t tell me you never did body shots with all the other frat boys in college?”

Elliot cast her an incredulous look that almost made her laugh.

“I’ll show you. First, you lick the salt.” Olivia squeezed some lime onto her wrist,

then cracked a sprinkle of salt onto her wrist before licking it. “Do the shot.” She picked up a glass and downed the fiery liquid in one gulp. “Then bite the lime.” She picked up a lime wedge, bitting into the fruit.

Elliot stared at the grimaced that had twisted her features. He didn’t look convinced. “This is what you did in college?”

Olivia cast him a look. “Just try it.”

Elliot repressed an eye roll and did as she said.

Two shots in and he could feel his head buzzing, his surroundings beginning to blur at the edges. He noticed how gorgeous Olivia looked tonight. He noticed a pair of glittering snowflakes that dangled on her ears. He wondered if she would wear those earrings to work. Then he wondered if she was seeing anyone.

Olivia too could feel her heart beating in her head, a sense of heaviness dragging her down. Olivia went to rest her head on his chest, letting out a small hum. She closed her eyes, relaxation and sleepiness washing over her. She could hear the steady thud of his heart. Then she felt his hand brushing her hair to the side, his fingers tickling her neck. It felt soothing.  

���Turning in already?”

Olivia lifted her head up, her eyes narrowing onto him in a defiant state. “Not a chance.”

Olivia knew it was ridiculous. Somehow, drinking tonight had become a competition, neither one wanting to admit that they had had enough. To prove her point, Olivia downed another shot of tequila, flashing him a satisfied smile.

“You’re turn.” Then a thought came to mind. “But this time, you’re going to lick the salt…” Olivia tilted her head and squeezed a trail of lime juice down her neck, juice dripping to her shoulder and down between her breasts. She sprinkled some salt along the curve of her neck. “Take the shot, then bite the lime.”

Elliot was dumbfounded, sure that he was misreading her. Then he met her gaze, her eyes twinkling daringly. His lips pulled into a smirk.

Without speaking, Elliot leaned forward, one hand pushing her hair to the side and the other resting on her thigh for support. Then he brought his lips to her neck.

Olivia breathed in sharply, feeling her insides flutter then melt under his tongue. Slowly, he began to kiss his way down her neck. His mouth was hot and heavy, opening and closing slowly over her skin, as if he wanted to savour her taste. He didn’t just stop at the salt. With the tilt of her head, his lips ventured down further until they were sucking at the hollow of her neck.

Olivia could barely breath. Just as she felt a moan stirring at the base of her throat, he lifted his head. He downed the shot in one swift movement.

“Done.”

“No, you’re not.” Olivia picked up the lime between her two fingers, flashing him a playful smile. Without taking her eyes off his, she bit down into the lime, rolling the wedge between her teeth with the push of her tongue. She raised her eyebrows, waiting.

Within a beat, Elliot closed the space between them, his lips crashing onto hers. He slipped his tongue inside, wrapping around the wedge of lime and spitting it out, before bringing his lips back to hers.

Olivia drunk in his kisses, sure that she could get high from his kisses alone.  His mouth opened and closed over hers slowly yet with an aching hunger, as if he wanted to imprint the taste of her lips on his forever. Then his tongue slipped inside and danced with hers, drawing a moan from her throat. She felt his hand curl behind her neck to pull her in closer, fingers tangling through her curls as he deepened the kiss.

She consumed his senses completely. She tasted like spice and whisky. When he brushed his nose over her jaw as he went to bury his mouth in her neck, teeth grazing her skin playfully, he smelled coconuts and a hint of floral.

“El…”

He felt her fingers pulling him closer by the front of his shirt and imagined those same nails clawing down his back as she moaned his name. He brought his mouth back up to devour hers, swallowing her moans.

Elliot was the first to pull back, breathless. He eyed her tousled hair, flushed cheeks and swollen lips. He saw the same desire he felt flaming in her eyes.

Elliot swallowed, blowing out a small breath to calm down his hammering heart. His voice was thick with desire when he spoke softly. “I think everyone’s clearing out now.”

Olivia didn’t look behind to see. She could hear the music quietening down, hear the footsteps of waitstaff coming out to pick up glasses and wipe down tables. But she didn’t want the night to end just yet…

Giving into temptation, she went to straddle his waist. With one hand balancing on the sofa to support her weight, she went to swing her leg over Elliot’s body, until she was sitting on his lap. She took pleasure in the surprise that stunned his features.

Olivia turned around and reached for the final shot glass, presenting it to him with a gleam in her eye. “We still have one shot left.”

Then she leaned forward and licked a torturously slow, wet path from the pulse under his ear and down the curve of his neck, her lips coming together to leave a red stained kiss just above his collar. The groan vibrating from his throat told her that she didn’t need to crack the salt for him to know what she was implying.

Olivia leaned forward, her lips just brushing against his as she whispered, “And it’s my go.”