#or back when I could drive with less pain? quite literally shoved across an entire 4 lane highway into the shoulder by semi drivers

[void-tiger]

29-approaching-new-year-me: mmm no. No I’m NOT willing to take shit for your Oops projected onto me anymore. I’ve proven myself to be gentle by conscious effort, and trying to contribute as much as I can, and have quite literally hurt myself physically and mentally trying to accommodate what y’all want, only it was never enough.

I’m digging in my heels now. I’ll still be gentle. But my “bark” Because Anxious and Because Woman ain’t the problem y’all pigeon holed me into believing it was. And yeah, I will Squeaky Wheel a bit, even though that is, quite frankly? Panic-inducing.

[whythinktoomuch]

ii. apocalypse now & again

(pt. i)

Kara woke up and realized that she was going to die.

Too many of the drones had survived the explosions and were still closing in on her. What little strength she had left after quite literally digging her own grave was presently and painstakingly strained just from her efforts to climb onto her knees. And on top of all that—of everything that possibly could have gone wrong for her in this moment—her helmet was cracked.

The abstract red numbers warning Kara of the kryptonite levels in the area seemed redundant now, what with that unmistakable chill already flooding her bloodstream.

“… Alex,” Kara gasped out, barely able to hear herself over the ringing in her ears. “Hey, Alex… Are you there?”

Her words were met with not one whisper or even a crackle of static, and for once, Kara was inconsolably disappointed to hear no one yelling back at her. With her teeth gritted, she shoved herself off the ground as hard as she could, drifting barely a foot into the air before the first drone crashed into the back of her head.

Kara toppled back onto the ground, knees skidding across the rubble in a shower of hot sparks. The impact had her head reeling, her mouth filling with a taste that she was now idly recognizing as blood. But there was no time to consider any of that as the drone doubled back. Kara scrambled out of the way, narrowly avoiding another collision, only to be struck by a second drone smashing right against her ear.

Out of breath but swearing, Kara whirled around and snagged the fast approaching drone into a bear hug, squeezing and squeezing until it crunched in her arms with a frantic whir. Then with a burst of heat vision, she shattered the other as it came straight for her face.

Kara used her heat vision to pick off several more drones from a distance, but of course, more and more just showed up to take their place, never wavering, never slowing… and eventually, Kara just had to laugh. Because her exhaustion was catching up to her. And Alex was hundreds of miles away. And to get out of here alive, Kara would have to somehow defeat the entire horde of drones, while all they had to do was wreck her suit a little more.

Though admittedly, it’d be overkill at this point, given the crack now spiderwebbing across the glass visor of Kara’s helmet.

Either way, it was over.

--

So, Kara laughed, grabbed at her chest in a reflexive gesture only to meet the unforgiving metal of her suit, then dropped to her knees. “Alex!” she shouted herself hoarse, because maybe if said loudly enough, the words would still be lingering in the air by the time her sister arrived. “Alex, I’m sorry, okay? You were right, and I’m sorry!”

Then she just waited—chest heaving, eyes narrowed but never blinking despite the heat pricking at the corners—because she definitely had to see this through to the bitter fucking end. That much, she owed everyone, including herself.

Except the end didn’t come.

Not this time anyway.

No, instead came a silver sphere, emerging seemingly out of thin air to hover right before Kara’s face. It flashed a blinding white just once, and everything fell absolutely silent and still. Kara’s suit powered down completely, the drones collectively dropped from the air like marionettes with cut strings, and all the lights in the immediate vicinity blinked out.

Laughter welling up all over again, Kara could only collapse onto her side in something akin to sheer relief.

The first person to occur to her, of course, was Alex, who had already saved her ass from similar scrapes on many occasions. But that couldn’t be it. Alex was too far away. It’s why Kara had to take on this mission on her own in the first place.

Then she considered maybe Winn or James, which made even less sense, given how the deceased hardly ever came back to do things like save people’s lives. Not even hers. Not even in the most dire of situations. That’s, unfortunately, just not how life worked these days.

Then she considered Alex again because the kryptonite was clearly bleeding into her brain now, and it was getting rather difficult to remember why it couldn’t have been Alex who’d just saved her. Maybe Kara did shout loud enough after all…

But then, a set of footfalls drew near, metal scraping against metal at a steady pace until a heavy boot struck Kara firmly in the chest, flipping her onto her back where she settled with a grunt.

“So glad I got to you first,” came a self-assured drawl, and Kara promptly found herself face to face with a handheld cannon of sorts. “Would be a pity to come all this way and not get to kill you myself.”

And… Kara’s jaw just dropped.

Not because of the words, nor the intentions behind them—though perhaps they both merited some attention as well—but that voice.

Kara gaped up at her supposed knight in shining, lead-lined armor because her voice—that low, husky tone paired with that very specific lilting cadence—was making her reconsider some very fundamental things about how the world might work.

Namely, that people wouldn’t come back from the dead just to save her life.

Mind still reeling away, Kara tried to sit up, only to be slammed back into the ground, hard.

“Down, girl,” Lena said, grinding her boot into Kara’s chest, the weight of her entire body behind the gesture. But that was fine.

It was fine because Kara could still draw some breath into her lungs, could still use some of that breath to talk, and she could certainly still say some things that she hadn’t uttered aloud in many a year. Like her late wife’s name, for instance.

The cannon in Kara’s face wavered, but didn’t lower. “Shut up,” Lena hissed down at her. “Don’t talk. Don’t even think.”

“So… it is you…” Kara said, and she gently wrapped her fingers around Lena’s ankle—the only part of her that she could still reach from her position—and just cried.

With a startled gasp, Lena stumbled away, wrenching herself out of Kara’s grip. “What the fuck…? What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Kara sobbed out, trying not to choke on her own tears and snot and the slight taste of blood still lingering on her tongue. She suddenly, irrationally, wished that she could just take off her clunky suit. Just to eliminate some of that distance between her and Lena. Just so she could touch the chain hanging around her neck without any hindrance. “Just… just wanted to say, hi.”

Lena kept her distance, studying Kara in a stony silence, and Kara started to see things that she should probably would have noticed sooner if her body weren’t actively shutting down on her. Like the green glow of Lena’s weapon and the kryptonite cartridges strapped to her belt. Or that she was clearly wearing a lexo-suit. Or how the swirly edges of her own vision were starting to darken, and how the chill of kryptonite was currently all she could feel.

“Hey,” Kara called out, sniffling only slightly now. “Am I dreaming?”

“… No.”

Kara nodded thoughtfully to herself. “Okay, cool, cool… So, I think I might be dying then.”

“Yeah,” Lena said, after a brief pause. “Probably.”

“Cool.” Kara tried to flash a thumbs up, but no part of her body wanted to cooperate anymore. Her exhaustion had eaten up all her drive. “Hey, can you tell Alex something for me?”

Lena sighed, but she finally stepped closer, practically in reach. “Okay, sure.”

Kara fumbled for some words and the correct order that one might put them in, but then Lena took off her helmet, and nothing else mattered anymore. Because Kara was perfectly content to just watch that ripple of dark hair, streaked with a light gray that was just… nice to look at.

She never got to see her Lena’s hair do that.

//

Kara’s shoulder was being shaken so violently that she had no choice but to open her eyes and see Alex’s worry-creased face peering down at her.

“Dumbass…” Alex grumbled, releasing Kara’s shoulder with a dirty scowl. “That’s the last time I let you go anywhere without me.”

“Whatever you say, director.” Kara laughed, but it hurt. She then tried to do a salute, but her everything was still too weak to move apparently. But at least she was still alive.

… Wait.

Kara repeatedly tried to sit up on her bed, and Alex repeatedly shoved her right back down until she gave up. But still, she had to check, had to know that it wasn’t all just a dream.

“Where’s Lena?” she demanded, and the look that Alex gave her in response was so deeply pained that Kara almost felt pathetic for asking.

“… Kara.”

“No, I saw her, Alex,” Kara said, shaking her head, then immediately stopping when her entire body somehow got dizzy from it. “Shit. Ow, ow… But wait, no—But seriously, I saw her, okay?”

“I’m not surprised that you did. You almost died, Kara. Actually, I’m pretty sure that you were dead for a few minutes back there. Again, I say, you fucking dumbass.”

“But I didn’t die. Because she saved me,” Kara insisted. “No, seriously! She took out all the drones with some sort of EMP device, and, and… we talked! And she had gray hair, and I think maybe laugh lines? And yeah, I almost died because my helmet got cracked and stuff. But now, I’m here and I’m fine, so… everything’s fine, right?”

Alex frowned, then somehow settled on the least important part of Kara’s briefing, “You cracked your helmet?”

“Ugh, yeah. The glass visor part. When I fell,” Kara said, waving her hand dismissively. “So sorry about that, by the way.”

“Suit looked fine when we got to you,” Alex said with a shrug, before irritably exclaiming, “Jesus christ, Kara, enough! I’ll just have a guy get the helmet for you, okay? So, just stop trying to get up already.”

Huffing, Kara fell back onto her bed with her arms folded and waited. But when someone eventually showed up with her helmet in tow, she was surprised to see that it was somewhat worse for the wear but perfectly intact. Even up close, with the helmet out the tech’s hands and in her own, Kara couldn’t detect even the slightest blemish in the glass.

Pouting ever so slightly, Kara shoved the helmet back into the tech’s arms.

“… Satisfied?” Alex asked, rolling her eyes when Kara just shrugged one shoulder. “Great. Listen… You just need to get some rest, okay? Once you’re back to full strength, we can work through your… you know, memories together. And hopefully, it’ll make more sense by then. Sound good?”

Kara just nodded, suddenly all too willing to be left to her own devices in the relative quiet and darkness. She accepted a gentle shoulder squeeze and the promise of another session with the sun lamps within the hour, and just curled up under the sheets.

It’s not like she hadn’t conjured up images of Lena before. Kara had been close to death enough times that it was only inevitable that she’d fall back onto memories of her dead wife at some point or another. But this was different. Whenever her brain was just playing tricks on her, Lena appeared to her the way Kara remembered her: warm and loving, bright green eyes, long dark hair smelling of lavender, and alive and young.

Never before had Kara encountered an appropriately aged version of Lena, with creases gathered around her eyes and forehead, hair gloriously faded into the most lovely blend of light grays and white amongst all that black… The Lena that could have been if only she had lived out all these past years alongside Kara.

And she was never in a lexo-suit, of all things. Lena was always wearing one of her classic pencil skirts or Kara’s NCU sweatshirt, or something. Oh, and of course, her wedding band.

Instinctively, the same way she always did when it occurred to her, Kara reached for the chain around her neck, seeking out the familiar weight of the rings that hung from there… only to jolt upright with a gasp that dried up her entire throat.

She ripped the necklace off her head, almost snapping the chain, which in and of itself was telling. Because her chain had been forged out of an extraterrestrial metal amalgamation that not even the Girl of Steel would have been able to break. The one now clutched in her hand, however, was just plain white gold.

Heart pounding in her ears, Kara stared down at an engagement ring fitted with a modest cut of diamond, somehow occupying the very spot where two simple wedding bands—hers and her Lena’s—should have been. Then something drove her to check for an inscription, and sure enough, engraved on the inside of the ring was a series of kryptonian characters, denoting a term of endearment that Kara had never used, but apparently could have in another world altogether: my dearest heart.

[moonlights-inkwell]

Demand an Encore

Jaskier x Reader

Word Count: 6,958

Summary: anon said: hello! i see your requests are open...! could i maybe get a Jaskier x reader where the reader very shyly explains (maybe after an embarrassing moment?) that they are into spanking? and Jaskier indulges them and it is fluffy/smutty? if not, that's okay!! i figured I'd ask. thank you! 💜

A/N: Anon. I literally owe you my life, because Dom! Jaskier now literally lives rent free in my head. A fic from Jaskier's perspective? It shocked me too. Oops. Also. Clapping joke title on a spanking fic? I think I’m way funnier than I am  

Warnings: Smut. Spanking. Oral (female receiving). Clothed sex? Sorta. Discussions of Sadomasochism. Canon complicit violence. A very bad take on Jaskier's perspective.

Title from Wild Blue Yonder

“Oh wank!”  

The expletive draws his eyes from his lute and upwards, to you.  

You’re busy, always busy, swinging that blade about and clashing it noisily into Geralt's. Parry, swipe, dodge, sword fighting is as boring a sport as Jaskier can even imagine, only marginally better than fencing because at least there’s some danger to sword fighting. Paint drying is a more interesting thing to watch, lectures less painful to listen to. Jaskier hates it. Sparring holds no interest to Jaskier, beyond when he tries to describe how sword fighting looks for a new song, but there are no new songs. The monsters have seemingly realised that Geralt is about, and have kept themselves to themselves, and so the well of songs about danger and adventure has dried up- like a brook during a heatwave. There’s no song about battles to be won, and if he plays Toss A Coin once more then he’s quite sure that Geralt will shove his lute up his arse sideways. All he wants is to work on a new melody and the clanging is quite possibly the worst thing he can imagine. The clanging, clanking, crashing of steel on steel is enough to drive him to distraction. All he needs is a new song, but no. He simply must be tormented by the sound of metal hitting metal. Needs must apparently, at least when it comes to sparring. 

He’s sure Geralt is doing this to spite him specifically. Revenge for years upon years of songs and mindless chatter and taunting, wrapped up with the knowledge that the bard would never complain about your training- that your safety is paramount to him, even if it is noisy as all hell and infuriatingly distracting.  

Cornflower blue eyes scan up and take you in, on hands and knees and holding your sword at such an angle to block Geralt’s swipe; face crumpled with effort and concentration while the Witcher above is as stoic looking as ever, bringing his blade down closer and closer until you slide to the ground and roll away from the sword. The buckles of your over-bust drags against the ground and knocks loose two of the buttons of your blouse, revealing an expanse of skin below the clavicle and to the dip in skin between breasts.

He wonders, not for the first time, how you manage to fight in a corset. When he was a lad, a little longer ago now than he’s quite happy to acknowledge, how a girl at a ball had collapsed because her corset was laced too tight and even after fetching a healer, the girl walked awkwardly until he left for Oxenfurt, probably long afterwards too. Yet, you can fight in one, swing that blade around with a relative ease that Jaskier can’t even manage if his trousers are tailored too high in the crotch. It’s strange. Watching you duck and twist, bend and thrust that blade around all while being held in place by tightly laced bones, it’s impressive- like watching someone dance. You aren’t a master swords-man but you’re skilled and it’s nice to watch. The exhilarated grin across your face, panting with heaving chest: it’s beauty. Pure, unadulterated beauty, even with a smear of dirt across your cheek, sweat beading about your forehead and a nick on your arm that’s letting out a small but steady stream of blood trickling down from your upper arm.

“Better.” Geralt says firmly, Jaskier watches as your face breaks into a grin and you just glow. A relaxed, genuine smile that makes you look younger than you are. You've mocked him before for how he just soaks up any validation, but even the slightest praise has your skin all but shining, cheeks flushed and mouth upturned. He understands entirely. Praise, acclaim, acknowledgement, it’s addictive; more so than any ale, any drug. Praise leaves you desperate for more, shaking and craving a next hit, almost insecurely hoping against hope that any second will bring that much needed praise. Bard's are like faeries, they require attention to survive while thriving on the energy people give, And Jaskier has been desperate for attention long before he became a bard.  

Praise from the Witcher is a seldom given gift- one that Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever been given- but he praises you. Training is important, and Geralt seems to have realised that he’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar, so sparring is when he speaks most, even then it’s minimal though; but he compliments. Your form, your grip, the strength of blows. Praise from the Witcher is a seldom given thing.

Jaskier isn’t jealous.  

He isn’t.  

Jealousy implies that there’s something to be envied, like a possession that he wants. You aren’t a possession, he knows that, and even if you were, you wouldn’t be Geralt’s. His fingers fall from the frets of the lute, sending a sour note that makes him cringe out through the clearing.  

“Gods, Dandy- if that’s a sign of what your new song sounds like then I don’t think I want to hear it!” You call over to him, head tilted as the sword twirls between your fingers. “I thought you were supposed to be a good bard.”

“You wound me, Love. Wound me.”  

“No good bard would write Toss A Coin.” Geralt says, but there’s humour in his voice- well, humour enough for it to be noticeable against Geralt’s signature style of stoicism. Must be a good sort of day, for Geralt to be joking about and complimentary. These sorts of things don’t happen every day.  

“Leave him be, Bully!” You swat at Geralt's side, grinning at Jaskier. “Don't you worry, Dear Heart, I love you- even with this brute insulting you.” It’s as if you don’t even remember that you started the insults, but that smile is enough to keep him quiet. That must be a sign of love, that Jaskier could be quiet for you: he’s never been silent for anyone before, even when he had himself half-convinced that he was in love with every person he's spent more than a night with, he’s never been able to keep quiet for more than a few minutes or so, he’s felt an overwhelming need to fill the silence. It’s pleasant to just bask in atmosphere that comes from being about you.  

The swat at Geralt had not gone unnoticed, even if it took a moment or so for him to strike you. Geralt, facing Jaskier, lifted a hand to thump you on the back, too absorbed by the simple pleasure of retaliation to have perceived two very simple things with those enhanced Witcher senses: that the laces of your boots have come undone, and that you had bent down to tie it.  

Time slows sickeningly, as Jaskier realises what’s about to happen only a second before the SLAP comes through the air at a volume none of you anticipated. Not to the lower back, a spot that while painful is little more than inconvenient when hit, but instead to your arse- angled upwards as you bent to fiddle with the ribbons of your shoes. The white-haired man had wanted something vaguely friendly but still running with undercurrents of the same energy that comes from sparring, but instead he had brought one enormous hand down onto your arse with some force. Unexpected, and completely out of nowhere as it is, it somehow is not the most surprising part.  

The moan is.  

A loud, broken moan- somewhere between pain and pleasure- which Jaskier knows all too well. That sound haunts his dreams. Jaskier would know it blind, dumb and senseless. Your moan, normally reserved for during the nights when his fingers slide inside of you, when his tongue breeches you. It’s weak, beautiful, and oh so very unexpected. Its a noise more beautiful than music, more beautiful than the sound of children’s laughter- always his , finally heard by another. Geralt looks horrified, cat-like eyes wide and filled with something akin to fear, but nothing like the unadulterated horror written across your face; sun-coloured skin turning red with embarrassment, lips parted wide but slowly contorting into a grimace, eyes wide but watering.  

Jaskier forces himself up and towards you, while Geralt steps back, saying your name softly and apologetically,

“I am so sorry-"

“Little Miss-"  

“I'm going to the stream to wash!” You say loudly, side-stepping around Jaskier to make a beeline into the thicket of trees, where a stream was hidden. Without any thought, Jaskier groans and looks up at the Witcher, eyes narrowed into accusatory slits.  

“So much for those Witcher senses of yours.” It’s a ridiculous thing to be annoyed about. Geralt does not have any feelings for you beyond the platonic, and Jaskier knows that, knows full well that Geralt wouldn’t do something like that to you, least of all in front of your lover and a man far too willing to write humiliating songs about Geralt.  

“It was an accident.” All stoicism has returned to Geralt’s voice, despite the still apologetic look written across his features. “She’s going to hate me. She sounded so pained.”  

That almost made the Bard splutter with laughter. Moans like that are many things but not pained, at least not in a way that isn’t seen as pleasurable. Somehow, he manages to keep the laughter down and instead claps a hand to the taller man's shoulder.  

“I doubt she hates you. Missy is a resilient little thing.” He tries to sound comforting, but some humour seeps through, making Geralt turn and squint at him.  

“This isnt funny, Bard.”  

“I’m well aware.” Jaskier nods. “I'm going to check on her though. To make sure she hasn’t drowned herself.”  

“Don’t joke.”  

“I’m not.” He trills as he walks along the step-worn path to the trees.  

The stream is a pathetic little thing really, barely a foot in width and surrounded on all sides by the thickest section of trees which almost blocked out all light. It was easy to believe it was around dusk, but it couldn’t be much later than midday, the shade made it appear so much later than it was. And there was you, hunched over by the reeds and moss, scooping up water and splashing it in your face and onto the gash still trickling blood to try to clean it. Even in spite of the shadows, your flushed cheeks are still clear to him and he stops to take you in.  

He’s had many lovers. Too many to list really, but not one of them holds a candle to you. Every girl before you was perfectly primped and polished, in fine clothes with perfect hair and made up faces, and they were beautiful but artificially so. Made that way by clothes and corsets and cosmetics. You though, you’re something else. Beautiful with the sun in your eyes, unkempt hair and rumpled clothes. Indescribably perfect cast half in fire-light, with bags beneath your eyes and blood across your cheek. Sonnet worthy while drunk and stumbling, singing out of tune to his ever songs. Godly in the dark, mouth open and back arching towards him as you stumble headfirst into climax. He loves you. He loves you, and it’s the first time he thinks he has ever really loved anyone: more than infatuation, more than lust, but actual love. Love that makes his head muddled and heart sore. He doesn’t deserve you. Wants you, needs you, but will never deserve you. Reckless, wild and brilliant you, willing to leave a life behind to fight monsters. A fool. Beautiful little fool, selfless and-

“I can feel you staring at me.”

“Hard not to stare at a goddess. Careful, I hear some gods will drown pretty things like you out of jealousy.”  

“Fool.” You say softly, but there’s a chuckle in your voice so he comes closer to you, stepping behind you to twist your hair away from your throat to press a kiss to the crook of your neck.  

“Your fool.” He breathes out shallowly, letting his chin rest on your shoulder while his arms wind about your waist. “Are you alright, Dear Heart?”  

“Embarrassed, I suppose. My pride will recover though, Dandy.” The lightness of your words combined with your stiff posture makes sure Jaskier knows you’re lying.  

“Little Miss-"

“Geralt must be embarrassed as well. I should have apologised to him before-"

“You moaned.” He cuts you off, making you shut up, stiffening even more. “And you may try to deny it, but I know that noise. I might just be the only person who knows that noise.”

“Jaskier.” It sounds like a warning, but he doesn’t care.  

“If it’s because it was Geralt, I understand.” He says softly, feelings coming out unbidden. “I understand, of course, and I love you but I understand if I’m in the way.”  

“I liked it. Be... being hit. Not Geralt.” You whisper.  

It truly is a day of surprises. Jaskier can feel the grin slip onto his face and his hands move from your stomach to your hips to begin tickling.  

“Is that so?” He asks softly, revelling in your choked-out laughter and how you lean back against him. “My Little Miss wants to be spanked. Well, darling, you should have told me earlier.”  

“I didn’t know it was a thing!” You argue between laughs. Jaskier so often forgets that you were a virgin before he got his hands on you, so of course you hadn’t known. His tickling doesn’t stop as he pulls you backward, rolling you onto the ground and climbing on top of you to continue his assault.  

“Would you like a lesson in masochism, Dear Heart?” He teases, head tilting to the side as he looks down at you.  

“Maso-what?”  

“The pleasures of pain.” He explains, and watches how your face turns pink once more. “Oh, she does!”  

“Stop taunting me!” You argue, thrashing beneath him but not with any intensity.  

“Taunting? Never. I’m just trying to work out if I need to rent two rooms when we next go into town.” He too easily grabs at your arm when you reach up to swat at Jaskier. “For your lessons, I mean.”  

“You... weren't joking?” You ask lightly and he shakes his head.

“I never joke about teaching My Muse about what brings her pleasure.” He says lightly, climbing off of you to sit by your side. “If you want me to.”  

“You Wouldn’t mind?” You ask incredulously, drawing out a chuckle from the bard.  

“Darling-heart, don’t be a fool, of course I wouldn’t. You know how I like pleasing you, and having you know what pleases you pleases me. Besides, it’s hardly my first dalliance into sadomasochism; there was a countess I used to know who couldn’t achieve orgasm unless tied up, with wax melted on her and at least three people watching her-"  

“Jaskier.” You say softly, and he stops.  

“Sorry. What I mean is, liking someone slapping your perfect bottom isn’t something to be embarrassed by, darling. Alright?”  

“Alright. Thank you, Jaskier.”  

“No need to thank me, Dear Heart.”  

It takes weeks for Jaskier's plan to come to fruition. Weeks of traveling and camping in the woods until the three of you are able to find a town in need of a Witcher and his services. It’s a simple job, just a few drowners, but the pay is good and there is a very decent inn more than willing to accommodate all of you, and with two rooms none the less- which is far easier to negotiate while the two of you are off to do what you do. The inn-keep is a pleasant, portly man in his middle forties who seems to appreciate Jaskier's way with words, and is more than willing to forgo payment on the rooms in return for a show- and who is Jaskier to disagree with a deal such as that?  

His friendly demeanour is welcome too, means the Bard actually has someone to talk to while he awaits your return- but that plan dies a death when the job takes significantly longer than he expects. Normally, it only takes a few hours for something like this, but the sun is set and his songs just coming to an end when you finally return.  

The crowds, cider-drunk and rowdy had sang along to every song they knew, and sang over these they didn't- but that was fine. Drinking songs were always nice to hear, but their song dies when the door to the inn-cum-tavern opens and you pad in, followed closely by Geralt. Both drenched from tip to toe and scowling, hair stringy and clothes dark with saturation. That explains a fair bit and even with how upset you look, Jaskier grins, grip on the lute loosening and stage persona rolling off of him. Wet and angry as the two of you are, the sight of you is enough to make the crowd let out a loud, drunken cheer before beginning an enthusiastic if out of tune rendition of Toss a Coin. For once, the Bard is uninterested in joining in and instead opens his arms wide for you, it takes less than a minute for you to run to him and wind your arms around his middle while the people mill around Geralt to interrogate him about monsters and the like. Jaskier sighs and presses a kiss to your forehead.  

“You had me worried.”  

“Almost drowned. But I’m fine.” You say apologetically against his jerkin. “Tired though.”  

“I’ve booked our room. And I think my performance is over.” He says soothing, fingers carding through your wet hair. “Come on, Darling-heart.” He offers a hand, though it takes you a moment or so to reluctantly pull back from him you take it and follow him up to your rented room.  

The room is tiny, little more than a box room with just a bed and small table but it’s clean and that is more than enough for you. Before even a minute can pass, you release Jaskier's hand to flop down onto the bed, moaning when you sink down into the mattress.  

“Comfortable?” He asks playfully and you hum in agreement.  

“I got you wet.” You reply after a minute and Jaskier chuckles.  

“I don’t mind, now wait here. I’ve something to sort out for you.” The door clicks as he slips out of the room and you’re alone in the room, just you and the tingling sensation running through your body and making your brain feel as if a mist has descended over it, yet you don’t even realise it until the door opens once more and you lift your head up to look at the noise. It’s a girl, looking about fourteen or so, carrying two large buckets to the archway across from the bed which you had not even noticed, and in your drunken haze you consider why she would be taking buckets to another room through yours. Jaskier follows after her, buckets hanging from each hand and you notice how steam is billowing from the buckets until he disappears beyond the doorway. Confusion comforts your mouth into a frown, so instead of giving it much thought you let yourself sink back into the mattress, deciding it not worthy of a second thought. Water crashing against water echoes from the other room as your eyelids grow heavy and slip shut. Someone had told you once that the sound of water is enough to drive even an insomniac to sleep, you believe them in this moment, the sound of water is so relaxing to your dazed mind that you don’t question why you can hear it at all, so you simply shut your eyes and listen. You have no idea how long you lay there, listening and breathing, it could be seconds or millennia.

“Are you awake, Dear Heart?”  

“hmm?”  

“Come on, I ordered you a bath, you need it.” A bath. You smile and he grins at you. “Now, darling. Come along. You'll soak the sheets through.”  

“I'll soak you through.” You retort tiredly, rolling off of the bed and toeing off your boots before following him into the bath's room. He watches as you walk through and is upon you within seconds, unlacing your corset and unlacing your chemise before you can move your fingers to do it for yourself. “Julian, I know you find me attractive but stripping me?”

“I don’t want you dying of cold.” He chides playfully, kissing the exposed akin of your shoulder as he pulls off the blouse. “Forgive me for loving you.”  

“I love you.” You say softly and untie your trousers, pulling them and your underwear off in a single movement. He smiles at the sight and presses a hand to your lower back once you step out of the sopping fabric.  

“I know, muse. Now in.” He says encouraging you into the bath, turning to fiddle with a few vials of scented oils. “Rose, Lavender or honeysuckle?”  

“Lavender. It smells like you.” You say softly and sink into the water, letting out a loud moan when the heat overtakes you. He turns back to you with a smile and pours a little of the oil into the water.  

“Oh, you like the smell of me?” He teases and moves around towards you.  

“Of course, I do.”  

He smiles at that and sinks down to his knees behind the tub at your back and picks up a rag, soaking it in the water and then moving it up to rub at your shoulders and the knobbles of your spine. The sweet floral smell is carried on the steam coming from the water, sweet and familiar and made all the better by the contented noises that come from you. He likes you like this, all pliant and sleepy and willing to let him help without complaint, it makes him feel useful in ways he never can on hunts. You shoulder so much, act so brave and mature and it’s so nice to see you just let him take control and look after you. He hums a little tune as he washes your back and feels your back move as you chuckle.  

“Tickles.” You say, giggly and more awake than before. “What song is that?”  

“It’s something my mother used to sing.” He says gently, scooping up some water with his hands and pouring it over your head before working out some of the tangles in your hair. “I don’t think it has a name.”  

“It’s pretty.” You hum, head tilting into his hands like a kitten. “Why aren’t you in here with me?”  

“I got the bath to warm you up, Silly Little Miss. I’m warm.” He says with a sigh and pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck.  

“I want to touch you." You whine, twisting around to face him.  

“There's time for that later, Dear Heart. “ He shakes his head affectionately and kisses the tip of your nose. “I have plans for you tonight.”  

“Oh?” You ask, leaning up on your knees and allowing your breasts to lean against the lip of the tub. It’s a trick, trying to lure him in, and he knows it, but gods above it’s tempting. Far too much willpower is exerted to not reach out and take them into his hands. A siren, sent to toy with his heart and mind. He sighs and leans in to kiss you gently.  

“You remember a few weeks ago? When Geralt slap-"  

“Yes!” You interrupt quickly and he rolls his eyes, reaching up to smooth your hair down.  

“And you said you liked the feeling?”  

“I remember, Jaskier.”  

He smiles and rubs his thumb across your cupid’s bow.  

“Well. We have the room to ourselves, so I thought that we could experiment with that."

You blink at him owlishly before squinting at him. It would almost be enough to worry him, but he knows you too well to think you’re angry- you’re confused, but still very relaxed.  

“Experiment.”  

“Yes.”

“With you... hitting me.”  

“With you letting me dominate you, spank you, and make you feel good.” He clarifies. It sounds foolish, and far too perverse when laid out so candidly to someone not well versed with this. You nod sagely.

“...And if I ask you to stop them you will.”  

“Of course I will.” He says seriously and rests his hands on your shoulders, leaning in so you are eye to eye. “This is for your enjoyment, if you say stop, this stops. Just like always.” You smile and close the gap between his lips and your own. It’s soft and lazy, with no indication of proceeding any further than just chastely kissing, his hands still on your shoulders and your hands creeping up into his hair. It’s perfect, always is, and not for the first time, Jaskier considers that he could spend the rest of forever just kissing you and never be bored. Still, all too soon he pulls away, fetching a towel while you heave yourself out of the tub waiting for the bard and the towel. Even though you reach for it, Jaskier ignores your outstretched arms and instead swaddles you in it himself, drying you.  

“I can do it myself!”

“You can, but you won't.” He says firmly, rubbing your skin. Beneath the soft fabric, he can feel you start to struggle which makes him hum and swat at your arse. It’s not enough to hurt, especially through the towel, but it serves as a good warning for who is in charge tonight. Dominance is nothing new for him, but he isn’t dominant with you. You were a virgin when he met you, all sex had to be approached with kid-gloved hands, even now that you are confident with it Jaskier has never felt any need to try and guide you towards that sort of thing. Submission, he had assumed, would be a difficult thing for you; you spend so much time fighting and fending for yourself during fights, asking you to hand over control never seemed to be a good idea. Control keeps you safe but you trust him. Trust him enough to give him control. It’s enough to rush to his head, that level of trust. Of course, it’s flattering when anyone allows him control, but it means so much more when someone who loves him, someone who is so dangerous would allow themselves to be vulnerable. He loves you, has since the second he clapped eyes on you, but this is more than love now, this is adoration. “Now, be a good girl and don’t argue.” Seldom does Jaskier have a need to be stern, so you doing as he says is to be expected. You go limp, eyes wide as he towels you dry. “There’s my good Little Miss.” He says once he finishes, folding the cloth while you stand stock still, pupils blown wide.  

“Good.” You repeat back to him, starry-eyed and blushing, so he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth before nodding.  

“Well, you are my Good Little Miss, aren’t you?” He asks gently, watching the enthusiastic nod he gets in response with a smile. “I know.” He says with an air of finality, turning away from you and heading back into the bedchambers to sit on the bed. It takes a few seconds of silent sitting for you to finally walk to the doorway. You’re naked as the day you were born, wet hair hanging in snakelike tendrils around your face, skin glowing gold from the warm light of the fire reflecting off of the still damp flesh. You’re beautiful. Too beautiful, comfortable in your skin and his looking at you, pale criss-crossing of scars running across the planes of your body like gold holding formerly broken ceramics together. How Jaskier has ever gotten a chance to lay his hands on you is beyond him, why a bard such as himself can even look at you, never mind touch or kiss you. A goddess, battle-hardened and wise, intoxicating and intense but oh so soft and kind.

“You’re staring.” You laugh, leaning against the door frame and smiling at him.  

“Yes. Yes I am.” Jaskier says simply and beckons you closer, which you do with a slight swing of your hips that he is entirely sure isn’t purposeful. You settle beside him, looking at him with a look somewhere between reverence and fear- like he's simultaneously the most beautiful and awful thing you’ve ever seen. He hates how much he likes it, the power it feels like he possesses in this moment. You look so small and defenceless, and he is too aware of how large he is by comparison. Usually, Jaskier feels slight- especially in comparison to Geralt and his hulking mass of muscle and manliness- but he’s suddenly far more aware of how big his hands are compared to your own, how he almost dwarfs you in height. You aren’t dainty, and he knows how much damage you can do with little to no effort, but you look so now.  

You lean in to him slowly and tilt your head, taking him in before smiling with a raised eyebrow. Well? Your face seems to scream. I'm waiting. It’s all the encouragement he needs to put his hand between your shoulder blades and push your torso over his lap unceremoniously. Every jutting bone, every knobble of spine, outline of rib exposed when you let out a noise of mild confusion, but rest there with your stomach over his thighs. His fingertips, calloused from lute strings but still soft from the warm water, trail down your back slowly; his skin is colder than yours, leaving goose pimples in his wake as he moves towards the rounded flesh of your arse.  

Pink and pert, the flesh juts out from the dip at the base of your spine, like a peach. Jaskier loves it. Loves all arses really. There is something so strangely enticing about them, likely the fact they’re so often covered that seeing them seems taboo in a way that seeing tits isn’t. Every inch of your skin that he gets to see is a luxury not afforded to others, and while his hands finally reach the plump skin, he had been moving towards he kisses your back, gripping one cheek firmly while rubbing soft circles into the other. A moan, airy and musical comes from you spurring Jaskier in his ministrations: shifting the cheek to the side, revealing a hole he had never paid much mind to at all, only to release his hold and watch as it bounces back into place. The jiggle is hypnotic, he thinks to himself wordlessly as he repeats the act on the opposite cheek, earning another moan from you in response.  

“Jask.” You whine out and he hums in confirmation, feeling you push yourself back against his hand. “Don't tease.” He chuckles. Teasing is hardly what he'd call it. No, this is isn’t teasing, teasing is something gentler than this. This is preparation. He can hardly just start spanking you, especially when you've never done it before, but the whining makes him smirk. “Jask, if you don’t hurry, I’ll go to bed.” You insist and try to push yourself off of him, so he presses down on the middle of your back and brings his hand down on your arse harshly.  

The sharp sound of skin-on-skin rings through the air, followed by a gasp. A tingle ran across his palm, and he snicks at the sensation.  

“I thought you were my good girl, not a brat, Missy.” He says, voice low and on the verge of a growl. “I told you, I am in control tonight. Not you.”  

Brat. You shiver at that, going still, and he smirks, grabbing the cheek he had just struck before tugging at it. He releases it before sliding his hand up your thigh.  

“I. I can be good.” You whisper meekly. That isn’t enough though and he swats at the cheek once more, lighter this time.  

“You will be good.” He corrects you, leaning in close to your ear and catching sight of your red cheeks and misty eyes. “I know you will be, won’t you Darling?” You nod quickly and he smirks. “That's my Princess.”  

At that, your posture loosens and you relax against him. Praise. That’s good to know. Lazily, he rubs a circle against the curve of skin before striking it once more.  

“I'm going to hit you ten times, and I want you to count them out loud for me. Can you do that for me?” He asks gently and you nod instantly. “I need you to use your words, Darling.”  

“I. I can do that.” You say, tilting your head to look at him with a sweet smile. Jaskier smiles back at you, then brings his hand back down with a hard slap.  

“One!” You say loudly, jolting forward and dragging your stomach across his crotch. He’s been so invested in planning and preparing that he hasn’t even noticed the hardness developing between his legs until it’s rubbed against. The moans from the bath had been enough to make him half hard, but seeing you like this, lips parted and the skin of your bottom turning an inviting shade of pink, it’s enough to have him fully hard.  

“Two!” You shout out after his hand lands hard against your rear before two more swats come in quick succession.  

“Three! Four!” The numbers are more moans than words, loud and needy. In the back of his mind, Jaskier wonders if the drunks downstairs are still singing and making noise, shouting and swearing, or if they too can hear the moans of pleasure. It’s sick, but he wants them to hear. Wants them to hear the pretty song that you’re moaning out, to look at you in the morning as you shift uncomfortably in your seat and know how you loved every second of it, see him smirk and know exactly who drew every noise from you.  

He’s a bard. He knows how to make noises, but these might just be the prettiest ones yet. A hand rubs at the pinking skin and then, quickly as it comes it's gone and brought down, this time to the space where arse meets thigh.

“Five!”  

He could listen to you moan all day. Sex, or at least sex while travelling, is normally a quiet affair. Quiet murmurs of affirmation, whispered begs and pleas, it’s not enough. Jaskier loves sex, loves the intimacy that comes from being as close to someone as humanly possible, but more so than the enjoyment of sex, Jaskier loves the theatrics of sex. Sex is like performing. Doing all possible to please an enthusiastic audience, listening to the sounds of enjoyment as it builds and crescendos, fingers moving faster, doing his best to not make a fool of himself.  

“Six!”  

Slap!

“Seven!”  

He can’t help himself from hoping that this won't be a one-time occurrence. For a few stolen moments you can hand over control to him and give the both of you what you need.  

“Eight!” Your stomach rubs against his cock once more and he chokes back a moan. You'll be the death of him. Ruin him entirely. It isn’t enough that he loves you, isn’t enough that you are the most beautiful person he could dream up, no you have to do things like this. Unintentionally ideal. Perfection given human form.  

“Nine!”  

His hand comes down one final time and you scream out a broken, “Ten!”, and Jaskier heaves out a sigh, rubbing the red skin as gently as he can to soothe you when you begin to tremble. Calloused fingertips slide softly across the abused flesh.  

“Oh Darling. My good girl. My good, brave little miss.” He coos sweetly, gently guiding you up to sit on his lap, one hand still running the skin while the other threads itself in the hair at the nape of your neck. “You did so well.” Gently, he presses his forehead against your own, staring into tear filled eyes. “Oh, Dear Heart, did you not like it?” Worry washes over him suddenly. He should have reminded you that you could say no once more, that he wouldn’t be disappointed.  

“Kiss me.” You breathe back against his lips and he sighs softly, hand shifting to your jaw to tug you into a chaste kiss. You tremble against his lap, but kiss back far more forcefully than he had kissed you. Gentle but seeking, tongue pushing between his lips to make its way into his mouth. He smirks slightly, but doesn’t open his mouth, feeling you rock against his lap- sweet nectar between your legs dripping through the fabric of his trousers while shaking fingers toy with the lacing of his doublet.  

“Darling-"  

“You're wearing far too much.” You whine pulling back to stare at him. “Take it off.”  

“Take what off?”  

“Everything.” One word has never held so much weight. He could look at you like this for always, so soft and desperate and wanting- it makes his heart beat faster and his cock jumps against the heat of your core. He wants to strip himself, rid himself of the offensive articles and just let you take from him all that he has, but he holds your jaw gently instead, using the warm skin as a means to ground himself once more.  

“Ask nicely.”  

“Jaskier.” You say with a slight scowl, but he narrows his eyes and tilts his head, trying not to laugh at your intent look. “Please. Please strip.”  

“I think you can ask nicer than that, Dear Heart.”  

“Julian, please take off your clothes. Please.” You ask softly and trail your hands along the chemise beneath his half-unlaced jerkin. “Please, Dandy? I want to touch you- can I?”  

The pet name brings a soft smile to his face, hands moving to your hips to shift you onto the bed before undoing the rest of his jacket and shucking it off, to toss it to the side. Ducking down, he peppers a few feverish kisses to your thighs, toying with the ties of his chemise while you tug it over his head. Needy and half frenzied is unlike you, but he can’t say that it isn’t perfection. Shy, unsure sex has been too common, the occasional rushed shag when you two can spare a few seconds less frequent, but this magically manic need is sweet. Jaskier is a performer; performers preen under the watchful eye of attentive audience, need the knowledge of a job well done, which he normally gets from you in the form of moans and frantic rutting. This enthusiasm is perfection, especially while his face is so close to your cunt that he can smell the arousal dripping from it.

Nudity can wait, The Bard smirks, grips your thighs in a vice-like grip and widens the distance between them so he can get his mouth on your sex, tongue gathering slick and relishing that sweet, musky taste. Sweeter than any fruit, more addictive than any wine. Jaskier’s lips find your clit, that bud of nerves that might as well contain every breathless moan that you can fit in your body, and sucks, tongue flicking across it with the moans and curses that such an act wrings from you. Nose buried in the curls that cover your mount, cornflower eyes look up to take you in, writhing in ecstasy, breasts quivering with every stuttered breath. He knew that he had missed something while spanking you’d but it falls into place now. Your face.

Every emotion flit across it, as clear to read as sheet music to him. You have an expressive face at the best of times, but it only seems heightened by sex. He knows many men prefer not to face their lovers and, hell, in his more adventurous days had preferred it himself, but seeing how you feel written across your features is part of the joy of sex. It had taken a while to convince you to stop silencing yourself during intimacy, that those moans are his and hard earned, but those expressions mean even more. Miniscule twitches of the brows and lips that let him know that you enjoy what he is doing, he loves them. Loves you. Those noises are meaningless without that face, pink and contorted with pleasure. That face. He could stare at it all day.

He doesn’t miss Lettenhove, not for a minute, but he does miss paintings. Portraits, moments trapped in time, forever perfect. He wants a painting of moments like this; nothing pornographic, just your face, with not a care for anything but pleasure. To see him through those nights when hunting takes too long and he's long asleep by the time you return. A little painting to have with him always.  

“Jaskier-" You whimper, fingers curled into his hair and tugging. “Please. Please.”  

He hums softly and slaps your thigh, revelling in the sweet little gasp that comes from you before a gush of fluid hits his lips. The Bard pulls back and blinks in shock. You’re shaking, twisting in the blankets as he just breathes you in. Squirted. You just squirted on him. He was half convinced that such a thing was just A rumour but... you did it.  

Blinking rapidly, Jaskier stares up at you awestruck and starry-eyed, trying desperately not to spill into his trousers.  

Oh yes. This is going to be a regular occurrence.  

[glitterbootsharry]

chapter five

taglist

“I fuckin’ ‘ate Harry,” Daphne sips on her endless mimosa- the orange liquid sloshing against the clear glass as Daphne emphasizes her words with her hand, sunglasses hiding the dark circles that seemed to appear overnight on the very dull grey Wednesday mid-morning. Her fork scraped over the white china, trying to push the food around so it looked like Daphne actually ate something. Eliza’s face furrowed, in disbelief, as she leaned on the outdoor table with her elbows.

“Why? You loved him so much you moved in right away and he-” Eliza’s protest was cut short with Daphne sighing dramatically.

“He’s full of ‘imself and he won’t apologize to me for what happened last week, piece of shit,” Daphne’s eyes roll as her croissant nearly fell off her plate. She huffs as she picks her bread up and feverishly begins to chew as a passing car honks the horn. “He literally....”

“Took you on a date with Alex and his new girl and what? Did he not kiss you goodnight? Offer a good shag?” Eliza was trying to hide her ever growing smile- she tapped on her empty glass with her coffin nails waiting for a refill. The fact that Daphne was this upset over a double date was hilarious to the brunette.

“Gross. Never will kiss Harry, but no. He’s been a complete arsehole ever since I saw him with... Stephen.”

“So? He was laughing with the bloke at work. It’s not like-“

“Eliza Jane Harrington, he was seen canoodling with the enemy. It gets worse; just let me finish.”

☕︎︎

Harry hears the faint knock on the front door when his eyes open. Normally, he’s a sound sleeper- only the smell of food or the loud blaring of a weather alert pulling him from his slumber. But with Daphne gently moaning with her mouth slightly agape, Harry slept lightly in case she needed anything.

He rolled out of bed hoping the creaking of his body and bed wouldn’t wake Daphne. He closes the white door softly before scoffing at the absurd amount of knocks that whoever is doing. He opens the door to find Alex in a state.

“I need you mate, I really do,” Alex’s worried voice carries over the white flat as he walks through the entryway, not giving Harry a proper hello. Harry closes the door, sighing as he curses at the universe for waking him early on a Sunday. “I really cocked it up with this girl. I actually asked her out on a date.”

“Oh no, the world is in shambles. You’ve completely lost the plot, mate. I dunno what to tell you,” Harry crosses his arms as Alex shuffles across the floor.

“I mean I like her, I really do, but I actually asked her out. Proper. On a date,” Alex looks up to his friend with a look that worries Harry for a second. He had a plan.

“You could come with. Yeah, make it a double?” Alex’s voice was now excited as he nearly screamed in place. Harry steps forward with a stern look on his face. He motions with his head at his closed bedroom door.

“Quiet, or you’ll wake Daphne.”

“Are you joking mate? Daphne’s in there?” Alex was at a loss for words as he pointed with his hand at Harry’s closed bedroom door. Harry’s finger finds his mouth and shushes his friend back to a library safe tone in fear of waking Daphne. “What about Amelia?”

“Mate...” Harry’s voice broke flat as his face scrunched together. “Really? Nothing’s going on between us. She... We watched a movie and she got scared. It’s not the first time.”

“Not the first time?!” Alex’s voice raised again before he spoke more quietly after Harry gave him a stern look only Alex knew that he was driving into dangerous waters. “You mean to tell me that your beautiful, sexy flatmate has spent the night in your bed and you didn’t get a leg over?”

“No, and if you don’t drop it now, I’ll shove my foot so far up your arse when I bend me toes, I’ll tickle your brain.”

“Drop what?” Daphne stood at the opened doorway yawning. She rubbed her eyes adjusting to the bright light coming from the main room’s windows.The low murmurs woke her to an empty bedroom. She had outstretched to find Harry only he wasn’t there. Her hair was frizzy and tangled from her tossing in the middle of the night- vivid nightmares keeping her awake as Harry softly snored from sleeping on his naked torso. Her chestnut eyes were red and puffy, laying out evidence of a terrible night’s sleep.

“Alex was just...” Harry couldn’t find any words. He watched as Daphne walked closer to them in a shirt Daphne didn’t wear to bed. She was wearing his. It was a bit tight across the chest, but she looked ravishing.

“Asking Harry to a double date next Friday. I have a girl that I want to take her out, and I thought it would be less weird if someone else was there,” Alex smiled at Harry before drawing his attention to Daphne’s hardened nipples. Harry punches Alex in the arm when he notices.

“Oh that would be fun. Amelia going with you?” Daphne’s raspy voice creaks through the room. This always happened to her when she would cry herself to sleep.

“No she’s out of town then. Ya know, work,” Harry sheepishly rubs the back of his neck. “Which we need to get ready for.”

“It’s Sunday, Harry. No one’s working,” Daphne rolls her eyes as she tugs on the grey hem hoping it would magically cover more of her torso.

“What about you Daph? You in? We’re going to the National Gallery and mini golfing.”

“What an odd combination,” Daphne laughs at Alex. “Sure as long as Harry here is ready to be dominated at mini golf.” Daphne kisses Alex on the cheek and rests her hand on Harry’s chest- his heart beating fast. He prays that she can’t feel the dern muscle pumping against his skin. She looks up at him and smiles softly before letting her hand cascade slowly across his chest and down his arm.

Daphne stops short of her bedroom door and listens to the rest of the conversation that she had been eavesdropping on.

“I’m tellin’ you mate she’s got the hots for ya,” Alex’s voice is beginning to fade as Daphne assumes Harry is shoving him out the door. Daphne’s heart twists as she comes to an all sudden realization. She had been staring at Harry for far too long this morning.

“Yeah, you bloody wanker, and I’m the King of England.”

☕︎︎

Vera was nice. Beautiful, as if she had stepped out of a photoshoot or off the runway, Daphne couldn’t decide between the two, but the one thing that annoyed Daphne was the obnoxious laugh that carried throughout the entire building. Daphne swore she would hear the tune of laughter in her nightmares until days to come. It wasn’t a small laugh, no- it was a wide laugh that was in your face over the smallest of things. Alex made a corny joke, one like Harry would make, and while Daphne and Harry chuckled, Vera laughed from her belly with her mouth wide open as if she was in a comedy club.

Daphne counted the few peaceful moments of the evening as a reminder that the agonizing pain was to be over with soon. In the National Gallery, the two pairs went off on their own. Daphne found herself wondering over to the marble statues, listening to the recorded facts of each piece that hummed in the ear set. She had always wondered how much beauty could be formed from a block of materialized rock.

-ONE-

“It’s fascinating how the artist can make the sheer gown look real,” Harry whispers, leaning over to Daphne’s free ear. She jumped feeling quite startled as Harry pulled her back to reality. She imagined each chisel, each precise stroke that went behind every curve and point of the artwork. One wrong move and everything was over. When she looked up at Harry, his quiet smile ceasing to end, her heart pummeled inside itself. She hoped it was still from the scare.

“Yeah, I would love to see David in Florence. Michelangelo really was something else in the art world. And DiVinci. These are just....breathtaking,” Daphne smiled as she nudged Harry in the side with her elbow after his “Oh, we’re not talking about the Ninja Turtle?” joke. “How’s Miss Laugh and Mister Funny?” Harry looks around the room as if he’s lost something before turning to Daphne. He searches behind the tall naked woman before calling out Alex and Vera’s names.

“You haven’t heard them? Maybe someone kidnapped them?” Harry asks as his smile grows. “Or maybe they were escorted out due to disturbing the paintings.”

The small laughter between the two of them filled the open room. Daphne clutched Harry’s elbow, the tan block sweater burning into his skin as she looked up at him. Her brown eyes were growing dark and he wondered what it would be like to hear her laughter in his darkened bedroom in the lull of early morning when both were too awake to sleep, only running on hysteria. Daphne begins to walk to another statue across the way and wonders if there were ever any technology to capture the sound of laughter and make it into a painting, she would be willing to bet pounds that Harry’s laughter would sit next to the statue of David.

Harry hummed quietly as he followed Daphne through the statues. He took in, silently and stealthily, Daphne’s beauty. Her blonde hair was in a high pony, swaying the air around her as she walked. She wore the purple cashmere sweater that kept the cold November air at bay from her body with her black ripped skinny jeans. When Daphne walked out in those jeans with only her black lace brassiere on, Harry cleared his throat as he looked anywhere but in Daphne’s direction.

“As if you haven’t seen a naked woman before, Haz,” Daphne laughed as she took her cup of tea back to her bedroom.

“Won’t your knees get cold?” Harry called out after Daphne, only before she closed the door- the image of her raven torso tattoo burning in his mind.

“Not as cold as your heart,” Daphne yelled, a smile growing on her face.

“Should I be offended?” Harry laughed to himself.

Harry stands behind Daphne- close enough to smell her rich perfume. He thinks about wrapping his hands around her waist, pulling her head against his shoulder to kiss her. Shouldn’t he have these thoughts about Amelia?

Across the open hallway was a tall blonde man watching Daphne. His blue eyes followed her when she looked up at the looming statues with appreciation and love. Harry could see the wanting in his eyes, and it made his stomach churn. Anger tinged his soul as gingerly grasped Daphne’s hand- her cool skin setting a fire against his warm skin.

“Don’t look now, but some bugger is staring at you,” Harry whispered as he pulled Daphne into his embrace. Her honey eyes search his green ones, trying to understand what Harry was exactly doing. “Don’t want you chatting some boy up on our date.”

-TWO-

“You totally cheated,” Harry huffed as Daphne’s golf ball rings inside the white hole.

“You can’t cheat at mini-golf, Harry. ‘S not possible.” Daphne walked over to the small hole and grabbed her purple ball before shifting her weight to one hip as she waited for Harry to put his own. “Oh my God, is that Elton John?”

Harry looks up to where Daphne is looking as he hits the green ball only for it to miss the hole entirely.

“I swear to God, Daphne, I hate you,” Harry sighed, a fine line forming across his face where his lips were. He hated losing almost as much as saying he was sorry.

“Yeah well, get over it,” Daphne smiled. The one thing that really had been eating at Daphne was building the courage to confront Harry about a certain moment that happened earlier in the week. She had gone to take Harry’s forgotten packed lunch when the lift doors opened to Harry laughing loudly at a tall brunette man whose back was turned to her.

She waltzed across the room, not really caring at the moment since she herself was running late as it was, mind you, that she didn’t have time to carry Harry’s lunch across town to him. She extended her hand out, giving Harry’s cold leftovers to him and when she turned to leave, her heart sank.

She should have known who it was before she walked over to Harry- the slight build of the back, the deep voice that carried through her, the intense glare she had gotten from him.

“Stephen,” she hissed, not caring who was around. “How’s the slag from accounting? Still working out for you, yeah?” Daphne gave Harry a eat-shit-and-die look before turning to leave. “See you at home, Harry.”

Daphne yawned as Harry’s face furrowed in anger. She purposely made him miss so that she could win, but the smile that was plastered on her face when Harry straightened himself made the anger of losing melt away.

“Do you want some hot cocoa?” Daphne asked as Harry lined himself with the ball, solely concentrating on his game. “My treat.”

“Yeah sure, but please don’t leave me for long. I don’t know if I could stand it,” Harry motions his head over to the obstacle hole next to the pair. Vera was being coached by Alex, his body hovering against hers as they swung the club in the air for practice and her laugh stifling the air. “Still don’t know how she’s made it this long without playing.”

“It’s been a long twenty-eight years, I’ll tell you that,” Daphne chirps before handing Harry her club before leaving the faux grass. The giant plastic elephant’s trunk swung open barely missing Daphne’s head, Harry laughed and she gave him the middle finger.

“In your dreams, darling,” Harry called out into the cold night air as he watched his roommate walk to the queue.

“Two hot chocolates please,” Daphne ordered, her hair flying in the night air. The smell of pretzels and fired hot dogs fill her nose and she’s reminded of the circus.

“£3.50,” Daphne handed her card and the lady quickly swiped it through the card reader. “Receipt?”

“No thanks,” Daphne smiled. Looking back at Harry, he’s waiting as patiently as he can with his wait on his hip and his hand on the opposite for Alex and Vera to move to another hole. She laughs at the thoughts Harry could possibly be thinking.

“Be a minute, love.”

Daphne watches her flatmate from afar, wondering what life would be if she hadn’t responded to the advertisement those months ago.

Bland. Desolate. You’d be living with your parents again.

“Here you go, love. Enjoy.” The counter lady places the hot cups on the counter and when Daphne turns to be with Harry again after gently picking the scolding hot cups, they’re suddenly on a stranger.

She couldn’t stop herself from turning and crashing into a tall handsome man who looked out of place. In a land of mini-golf, he looked as if he belonged on the Master’s grass.

“So sorry, I should have looked,” Daphne mumbled out of her mouth as she tried to dry off the spilled milk with the few napkins she grabbed. “Let me pay for cleaning,” she looked up at the man who, for someone who just had hot chocolate spilled on them, was calm and almost laughing.

“Honestly, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have been standing so close.” Daphne continued to pat the growing spot to soak up as much of the liquid as she can. “Don’t worry about cleaning, it’s an old shirt anyways. Name’s Matt.”

He extends his hand and when Daphne finally stops patting him down, she shakes his hand. His face, Daphne came to the conclusion, was chiseled from God himself. He took extra time with this Matt. High cheekbones, structure jaw that she could see herself sitting on, blue ocean eyes that she could get lost in.

Still holding his hand, Daphne finds herself feeling small. “Daphne. Daphne Rose Jones. I’m a Sagittarius.” Matt laughs as he tousles his dirty blonde hair with his free hand. His smile stretches across his face. “Matt Jerome Barr. I have no clue what sign I am.”

“Guess we would need to research it then,” Daphne felt her face get hot from embarrassment. Did she really just say that?

“I guess so,” Matt’s voice hummed low as he finally lets go of Daphne’s hand. “You with anyone here, love?”

“Yeah, just my roommate. He’s over there with his friend and girly friend thing,” Daphne looks over to Harry who is now watching Daphne interact with a tall bloke.

“You live with a guy? He’s gay?” Matt asks, his brow quirking up.

“No. He’s got a girl. She isn’t here- on business. But yeah totally straight.”

“Interesting.” Matt wanted nothing more than to run his hands through Daphne’s hair.

“That’s not the only interesting thing here,” Daphne purred, her honey eyes going completely black. “I’m winning at mini-golf.”

“That is very interesting. How about you and I go a couple of rounds later? Say next Friday?” Matt asks, his hands toying with Daphne’s.

☕︎︎

“What was that all about?” Harry asks as Daphne hands him his cup. He sips slowly, letting the hot liquid soothe his throat.

“Spilled the drinks on him. Had to apologize properly,” Daphne’s eyes darted down to the faux grass, “and then he asked me out next Friday.”

“Next Friday? We were going to do the naked painting thing,” Harry’s smile crooks in a corner as Daphne laughs. She makes her stance at her ball before once again getting a hole in one.

“We’ll always have the naked painting thing.” Daphne kisses Harry on the cheek and he feels his heart breaking one piece at a time.

####

taglist: @starboyhaz

[sharkbait-writes]

Know I’m gonna get you

Fox-Week, day #2 High-Speed Chase/Animal Transformation

Title from Take A Chance On Me by Abba

(the title has absolutely nothing to do with the story)

@loving-fox-hours

For once Fox was enjoying his patrol.

Even if it was traffic duty and raining like Coruscant had never had a single rain day before.

Nothing hectic had happened yet, rush hour was over and he was stationed at a quiet corner, which made his patrol rather dull. However, it was night. The city was lit up all around him and the music from a bar a block away could be heard all the way over to him. It made his boring duty a little more interesting, if nothing happened, at least he could enjoy a stress-free night.

And by the looks of it, the night would certainly be enjoyable.

A group of drunk friends were stumbling their way home, one of them smashed a glass on the ground and the rest laughed obnoxiously. One couple was screaming at each other, while being ignored by another one walking by them. There was a man bent over, vomiting into an alley, but quickly pulled himself together again when he was done and speed-walked to his home.

Well, by the looks of that, his night might not be that enjoyable.

Fox heaved a heavy sigh and rolled his eyes, his forearms sliding further down the handles of his speeder bike. Eventually, both of his arms were hanging over the handles, his chest leaning against them. With a groan he let his head hang down. Rain still falling out of buckets onto his own.

This was going to be a long night.

There was a lull. No people were walking on the streets and no vehicles sped by. Only the rain and the music from the bar a block down was audible. It was quieter than Fox was used to on Coruscant.

It was also perfect to sneak a little bit of much needed sleep in.

Or to hear a motor of another bike coming his way, too fast and not stopping.

The same time Fox opened his eyes to look in the direction the sound was coming from, his comm crackled to life and the distressed voice of a shiny came through.

“Commander Fox! Commander Fox! Can you hear me? A rogue rodian is coming your way! They’re transporting two small crates of spice and murdered for them!”

His answer was ready the moment everything was explained to him.

“I can hear him, he’s coming closer. I’ll take chase. You follow us higher up and meet us as soon as we’re in the open!”

He couldn’t hear the answer, as he started his motor and the rodian sped right by the corner at that moment.

Fortunately for Fox, it seemed he hadn’t been noticed yet. He let the rodian come closer, waiting for the perfect moment to get in between them and their freedom.

When the moment came, he sped forward, right into the rodian’s line.

But the rodian had better instincts than expected and steered out of the way in the last second.

Quickly, Fox turned around and drove after them.

Although the rodian was fast and their distance got longer and longer, Fox knew the streets of Coruscant better. And his bike is quite new, great for using it in a high-speed chase for the first time.

He accelerated, the bright lights and passing people blurring together.

The rodian took lefts and rights, speeding into narrower streets and jumping onto pavements or walls and blasting their way through if needed.

The alley they were in right now was getting narrower and the light at the end bigger.

The moment they were out of the alley, a wide street greeted them with a lot of people. The rodian took a sharp right, speeding away, but it took Fox by surprise.

Stepping on the brakes hard and tearing his grips to the side, Fox came to an abrupt halt while tilted to the side, almost nocking a few pedestrians over. Immediately he shoved his grips forward and sped after the rodian again, this time hovering higher up, just in time to see them turning left and upwards.

Decision made up in less than a second, Fox accelerated again and sped full power towards the rodian, the distance between them growing smaller.

The shiny that commed him had been following them the entire time. Them and their group watching concerningly and hearts stopping every time something happened.

Suddenly, the rodian turned around on their seat and shot at Fox. At first missing spectacularly, but the shots got distressingly better.

Fox maneuvered around all of them, but it seemed that soon he would have to search for a different tactic than to just barge straight forward.

Why he even did it, was beyond him. Probably the lack of sleep making him more reckless.

Moving out of the way of one shot that would have hit him straight in the face, he didn’t see the next one and got hit in the shoulder.

Fox cried out and breathed hard, his eyes tearing up. Momentarily distracted, he would have been hit again, this time in the chest, if it weren’t for his instincts. Tearing his handles to the side, he avoided the fatal hit and sped up again.

His shoulder hurting wasn’t good, but he had to live with it anyway. Wasn’t the first time he got injured. Gritting his teeth together and taking a deep breath, he ignored the pain.

The rogue rodian went up higher, speeding along walls and jumping from roof to roof of skyscrapers.

It seemed they were getting closer to the industrial district, the buildings getting shorter and wider, further apart, less people around at night.

Suddenly a bright light shone on the rodian. It came from the control ship the shiny and their crew used. The beam of light was kept steadily on the rogue, less than a second after the rodian themselves.

Fox had had a stressful month and it was only two weeks in. There was a new batch of shinies and he had to fill out a lot of unnecessary flimsiwork. Additionally, he got screamed at by his boss about something that wasn’t even his fault and not his responsibility to look after. Neither his nor anyone else’s of the Coruscant Guard.

So, what if he was sleep deprived and more reckless than normally?

He already broke some traffic rules, what are a few more?

Speeding up, Fox took a sharp right and jumped on a roof. From there he jumped off it and landed on a crane, speeding the whole length of it down until the end.  

He accelerated again and lightly stood up. The moment he jumped off the crane, he used his own body to help lift himself off and tilted his speeder mid-air, flying in a big arch through the air.

There was a hole in the wall were a window was supposed to be and he flew through it, landing hard. His wheels wobbled, but he straightened them just as quickly.

The light tracking the rodian came from over him, shining through the windows of the apartment, blurring his surroundings together with his speed.

He sped through the apartment and took a quick look down at the rodian, who had sped down to the ground in the meantime, driving along the barely lit one-way road that led to a big warehouse.

Fox accelerated again toward the end of the apartment, crashing through a window, sending hundreds of small shards down a few hundred feet. He hit the last roof of the buildings, sped up to the edge.

Fox leaned forward, his eyes only focused on the rodian and nothing else.

He jumped off the roof.

The fall was long and the wind was strong. His grip on the handles almost breaking his fingers and his legs squeezing together uncomfortably hard and shaking along with his arms, the pain in his shoulder burning.

Fox tilted his speeder to the side, falling sideways through the air, the front wheel higher than his head and shaking. He flew through the light beam, the rodian noticing the shadow suddenly appearing and making them turn around to see what the reason was. Their eyes widened in disbelieve, but just as quickly scrunched together in rage and they levelled their blaster at Fox again, shooting at him until their blaster was empty.

The shots were missing him -barely.

But the ground was still coming closer.

The rogue rodian stopped immediately once they saw how close to the end of the road they were, their bike squeaking as it slithered across the wet street.

Fox turned around while still in the air, front wheel still higher up than anything else, but if he landed correctly, he would be face-to-face with the rodian.

If he landed correctly.

He might have forgotten that he literally jumped off a building while driving a speeder and would land it on a wet ground from all the rain.

He could have thought that through a little better.

But too late for that.

Fox stood up lightly on his bike, his knees bent and weight carefully distributed to where it was supposed to be.

The back wheel hit the ground first, hard and slithered backwards, not even a second later the front wheel joined it.

He sat down hard on the seat, his left leg shaking on the ground as it helped to come to a stop, his wet gloves creaking as he squeezed the life out of the breaks.

The speeder was almost on its side as it came to a stand still a few metres further away, the side of it scratched up from where it met the ground and wheels smoking.

Fox was breathing hard and the leg he used to help was shaking out of control, his shoulder was numb at this point and his entire body was cold and too tense to be healthy. And yet, the moment he came to a stop, his left hand immediately went to his blaster.

He sat up straight in his seat, blaster turned on the rodian.

The ship, the shiny and their crew used, was still in the air, light still beamed up on the rodian, but the edges glowed off Fox, making his armour shine in the dark and rainy night.

The ship didn’t move.

Neither did Fox or the rodian.

Slowly, the rodian held up their hands and got off their bike, getting to their knees in front of it.

Fox, however, didn’t trust himself to not break down to the floor the moment he got of his speeder, which was why he didn’t move a muscle until the ship started to land.

The moment the ship touched the ground, Coruscant Guards swarmed out of it toward the rodian and their commander.

Making sure the others could take care of the rogue rodian, Fox let himself be manhandled off his speeder and be sat on the wet ground.

He didn’t really get what happened after that, only that a medic was fretting over him and asked him questions he didn’t answer, while he lost his consciousness, and a shiny that never let go of his hand.

Fox never figured out that someone made a video of the chase and gave it to all their vode in the Coruscant Guard, who immediately send it to their vode in other battalions.

Fox never figured out how proud of him his batchmates were or how cool his vode’ika thought he was.

Fox never figured out how he was the talk of the next few weeks.

At least, until he woke up a few days later in the medbay with a lot of vode wanting to talk to him.

Translation:

vode – siblings, (u know,,, the clones????)

vode’ika – younger sibling

[rambling-at-midnight]

Protection: Part 9

“Is the guard George Wallace already off my property?” Tom barks into his phone, the hand he’s using to drive white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Harrison taps his fingers anxiously on his thigh, eyes darting from his friend’s eyes to the steering wheel.

“Yes, sir,” his head of security stutters. “Why, sir? He said you sent him to pick your parents up from the airport—”

Tom hangs up angrily and slams his hand on the dash, not caring when his phone skids to a stop in front of Harrison, who picks it up and pockets it. “Idiot!” He’s going to kill every one of the guards that had been working his gate for not checking thoroughly enough—could they not have seen his girl in the car with the guard?

“Mate, it’s okay,” Harrison tries to calm his boss. “All our cars have trackers. He can’t get far.”

“He knows perfectly well it’s got a tracker,” Tom growls. “He’s going to ditch it as soon as possible.” Without any other outlet, he lashes out at his best friend: “Why didn’t you insist on taking her to the kitchen? If she was acting weird, you should have stuck with her!”

“I was trying to make sure the guard didn’t shoot either of us!” Harrison protests. “I’m a distraction for Y/N if she wanted to escape, everyone knows keeping track of yourself in a hostage situation is hard enough without worrying about someone else—”

“Yeah, think about it that way instead of thinking that you abandoned her while she was getting kidnapped because you were scared of getting shot,” the mobster boss growls. God, he should have talked with you a minute longer, should have tried harder for forgiveness, and then maybe all of this wouldn’t be happening. One more second of you and you’d be safe. One more second.

“That’s not fair.”

“This life isn’t fair, Harrison! You’re the second most privileged person in England because of the life you lead, and you have the audacity to complain? You don’t see me complaining.”

“Oh, so only the least privileged person in the world is allowed to complain?” Haz snaps back, folding his arms. “And you complain all the time about Y/N and how she doesn’t even notice you, how she’s literally too perfect, how she’s a distraction. You’re just being angry and a hypocrite.”

What Tom doesn’t talk about is the anxiety churning in his stomach at why Wallace took you. He used to work for you and your father, so he might be taking you out of concern for your wellbeing, or he’s still working for the Y/L/N family.

Not that Tom’s any better. He’s just a wealthier jailer.

Tom clenches his jaw and shoves those thoughts out of his mind. He wants you gone, he wants you out, and this is the easiest way to do it. Besides, your living relatives have a claim on you until you get married or turn sixty, as per the Y/L/N family rules—or at least they would, if Tom didn’t have the contract signed by your father.

He can feel his breakfast rising up his throat. If he gets there too late, you’ll either know everything or be dead.

He doesn’t know which he’d prefer.

Harrison calls another security man to activate cameras to watch the car and takes a deep breath. There goes one favor. Normally Tom would be angry about using favors for such a trivial task, but this isn’t really a trivial task. This is Y/N Y/L/N. “We’re gaining on them,” Harrison says, now focusing intently on the location the tracker is transmitting on one of his many phones. “Nearly there.”

Tom grits his teeth and jerks the steering wheel to the right, vaguely registering the car’s wheels skidding on the semi-wet concrete.

“Don’t stop,” Harrison orders. “We’re going to cut them off.” He starts to clamber into the backseat behind Tom. “We’ll hit on the passenger side, so we should make it out okay. Hopefully Wallace dies upon impact—hopefully for him, anyways… Wait, they’re slowing down now.”

“Do you know why?” Tom growls.

Harrison puts the phone connected to the security guard’s phone on speakerphone. “What’s going on in the car?” he barks.

“I can’t quite see—”

“Try harder.” Tom orders. Or else doesn’t need to be spoken.

“I can see they’re… wrestling? And now the girl’s got a knife and he’s got a knife.”

“Is he pointing it at her?” Harrison asks, exchanging glances with Tom. Y/N’s tough. She can take a bullet anywhere except the fatal areas. A bullet in her head will be an instant kill and if he hits any vital organs, she’d have minutes.

“No, sir,” the guard responds. “They’re just talking. Now he’s driving faster. The girl has blood on her right pant leg, and she’s sitting on the left side of the car.”

Tom’s jaw clenches even tighter. Loving someone is 1% love, 99% shit feelings, especially when the one he loves is a master assassin with a price on her head, and he hates it. Why couldn’t he have gotten attached to the girls that want him? Why did he have to fall in love with the one girl that gets into more trouble than any of his men combined?

“You know she can handle herself,” Harrison tries in vain to soothe him.

Tom rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Not if she gets shot somewhere fatal.”

“That won’t happen,” Haz says confidently, and tries to believe it. “At least when we hit the car there’s less of a chance she gets hurt.”

“This is probably going to sound ridiculously unbelievable when I tell you this,” he sighs and then waits a long time to say anything else.

As quietly as you can, you peer over his shoulder, holding your breath so he isn’t alerted to what you’re doing. You’re trying to grab your dagger. You can’t see it, but you can see the light glinting off it, which lets you know it’s in his lap somewhere.

Which is really going to be awkward when you grab it.

“I’ve seen a lot more than you’re giving me credit for,” you say dryly, craning your neck in a vain attempt to see your target so you don’t grab the poor man in less desirable areas. “I’ve seen boys sleep with their stepmothers, men shoot their daughters—first hand— and people sacrifice others to whatever weird gods they believe in. I’ve seen cannibalism. Trust me, whatever’s going on here, I’ve seen worse.” Been through worse. “Can I get in the passenger seat? It’s cramped back here.”

Wallace cranes his neck to look at you before nodding. You start to clamber over the seat, eyes on the lookout for a glint of metal, and when you see it, your hand strikes out like a rattlesnake before you retract just as quickly, gripping the metal so hard it’s going to leave marks on your skin. A sharp sting of pain makes you gasp, not having prepared for it, and you look down quickly. You’d grabbed the blade part of the knife, not the hilt, and it had left a long but extremely shallow cut on your palm. You wipe your hand on your pants, relieved with the cut doesn’t bleed more. It just stings, like a long papercut.

“Give that back,” Wallace says quickly, his knuckles going white on the steering wheel as he grips it tighter. He looks you in the eyes with the mirror, his eyes scared and angry. He slows the car down slightly, making sure no one is behind you two, and you hear the gun cocking before he drapes his hand on the passenger seat’s headrest, giving you an up-close-and-personal view of what’ll happen if you try anything.

“You have your protection, I have mine,” you say simply, gesturing with the knife at the gun.

“Won’t stab you. Pinky promise.”

He frowns at that, a little concerned and a whole lot confused, because ‘adults’ think that they’re too old for pinky promises. No one is too old for pinky promises. Especially not you, because you get to cut someone’s pinky off if they break their promise. Wallace knows not to argue with you, though, and he sighs frustratedly before speeding back up. You slide across the back seat behind him so if he decides to try and shoot you, he has a harder shot.

“One more second,” Haz murmurs and braces himself. Tom turns the corner sharply, eyes narrowed with determination, the engine of the car roaring. Harrison can just make out the guard’s eyes widening with panic for a split second before he’s out of view.

“The girl moved to the right side!” the guard reports through the phone.

Tom and Harrison both panic, Tom jerking the wheel to the left. With a horrific screeching and crunching of metal and Harrison getting whiplash, the car whips all the way around, hitting Wallace’s car in the process. He can only hope he hit the front of the car instead of the back, and that you realized what was going on and scrambled to the right side of the backseat, maybe even got out of the car.

Harrison clutches whatever he can as the car pitches back and forth before finally settling. Immediately, he leaps out of the car, cocking his gun and approaching the crushed stolen car. The left side of it is entirely crushed in from the force of Tom’s angry driving and the glass shattered.

Tom scrambles to that side, frantically trying to wrench the car door off its hinges and ignoring the metal and glass that scratches at his palms.

Harrison swears softly when he sees the guard’s bleeding form. A large shard of glass is embedded deeply in his temple and he’s bleeding vigorously. If he’s not dead yet, he will be in seconds.

You glare up at Tom when he pulls the last twisted piece of metal off of you. You have a cut on your cheek that’s shedding blood, you’d bitten through your lip because of the force of the crash, and your arm got pulled out of its socket, but apart from that you’re fine.

“You couldn’t have thought of a less violent way to help me?” you mutter.

Tom lets out a breath of relief and sits heavily on the ground, pulling you to him so he can hold you as tightly as possible. “Did he say anything?” he asks, anxiety suddenly churning in his stomach.

“Hmm?” You wipe your cheek, surprised when it comes away red. You hadn’t noticed it getting cut. “What do you mean?”

“Did he say why he took you?”

You shrug listlessly, slouching against the boy you’ve kinda-sorta fallen in love with. “I guess he knew you guys kidnapped me and wanted to save me. He used to work for my dad. He said you were going to do something to me…” You trail off. “You’re not going to make me do some suicide mission or something, right?”

You don’t know. The writhing snakes in his stomach settle for a moment before Tom scoffs, lying. “That would be stupid,” he says, squeezing tighter, and recoils away when you let out a hiss of pain.

“Dislocated my shoulder,” you hiss, flexing your hand. You want to touch it but that would just make the pain worse.

Tom offers, “I can put it back for you if you want.”

You nod and shuffle around until your shoulder is in front of him.

“Three… two… one.”

Later, when Harrison is driving the two of you home and Tom’s holding you in the backseat, he studies the curve of your cheeks and the way your eyelashes flutter against them, the way your skin glows in the streetlights’ gleam.

He really does love you. He might even tell you.

@littlemarvelqueen @musical-whovian @lemirabitur @childofcrystals @bubbles1642

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @cats4stiles!

Dear cats4stiles, I hope this fluff is fluffy enough!

*****

The Cat Story

“Turns out my dad's allergic to cats, who knew, right?” Stiles says as soon as Derek opens the door. He steps around Derek to enter the loft, arm and shoulder brushing against Derek's and leaving a pleasantly distracting warmth behind. There's something weird about his scent, something new, and it throws Derek off enough that it takes him a moment to process what Stiles has said. Not that it made any sense as a greeting to begin with, but over the years he's grown accustomed to the non sequiturs.

As Derek turns to find Stiles sprawled comfortably across the couch-- a sight which fills Derek with a contentment he tries to ignore-- his inquiry of “And this is important because?” is cut short when he notices the source of the change in Stiles’ scent. There's a small kitten, barely big enough to be weaned and clearly enamored with Stiles, batting her tiny white and orange paws at Stiles’ long fingers as they wiggle in front of her. After a few seconds of daydreaming about those fingers, Derek shakes his head slightly to chase the thoughts away; now is not the time for thinking about how Stiles’ fingers would feel on his skin, or what it would be like to weave his own between them.

“That's a cat,” Derek says, wincing at the absurdity of the statement the second it's out of his mouth.

Stiles snorts. “Very good, Der, glad you're paying attention,” he teases, his voice softer than usual, presumably in deference to the cat, who Stiles can't seem to stop smiling at.

He tries to keep his responding laugh annoyed, but he knows it comes out fond instead. Stiles knows it too, because he tears his attention away from the kitten to smile at Derek.

Clearing his throat to break the tension he's pretty sure only he's feeling, Derek says “I meant, why do you have a cat? In my house, specifically.”

Stiles looks at him again, rolling his eyes slightly, as though the answer is obvious. “Because dad is allergic. I thought you were keeping up?”

Derek sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment. He may possibly be a little bit in love with Stiles, but no one could irritate him quite so efficiently.

“That answers literally zero of my questions, Stiles. And why'd you get a cat in the first place if your dad's allergic?”

“First of all,” Stiles sighs, fondly exasperated, “I didn’t know he was allergic until he came home from work this morning and started sneezing. Secondly,” he continues, cradling the kitten to his chest so he can sit up without dislodging her from where she’s fallen asleep, tiny purrs coming from her tiny body. “Secondly, I didn’t get her on purpose. Someone left her in a box in the parking lot on campus. Like a heartless monster, just abandoned her,” Stiles defends, a frown between his brows as his anger for the faceless abandonner of kittens leaks into his words and his fingers began absently scratching between the kitten’s ears. “Scott and Deaton checked her out, but they’re all out of foster homes for cats right now, and I couldn’t just leave her because she made the saddest little sound when I even mentioned it. So I obviously had to adopt her. But then, The Great Stilinski Sneeze Attack happened.” He’s still petting the cat, cooing at her when she wiggles her nose in her sleep. “And C, I’m here because I have something to give you. A present, even,” Stiles says with too much casualness, his scent spiking with nerves in a way that meant he was being less than straight-forward as opposed to being anxious.

Oh. Oh no.

“Stiles.”

“Derek.”

“Stiles, no.”

“But Der! Look at her!” Stiles says, cradling the kitten in his hands and presenting her to Derek like an offering. The kitten wakes up then, blinking her big green eyes sleepily at Derek and unleashing a squeaky yawn as she cocks her head to the side, studying Derek’s face from where Stiles is holding her mere inches away from his nose. “She needs a safe home, big guy. She can’t fend for herself out there in the great big world!”

Derek narrows his eyes at Stiles, who is looking at him with a shockingly accurate imitation of what Stiles would call Scott’s puppy dog face; Derek pretends he’s unaffected, but the kitten takes that moment to reach out with one tiny striped paw and bat at the tip of Derek’s nose. Stiles absolutely cackles as Derek reaches up to brush away the tickly sensation, shooting a shocked glance at the little ball of fluff that is now trying valiantly to escape the cage of Stiles’ hands and climb onto Derek’s face. “See! She loves you already!” Stiles crows triumphantly. Derek doesn’t have it in him to pretend that he’s actually going to fight him on it; he knew he was keeping the cat the second Stiles had flopped down onto his couch and snuggled up with her like it was something he did all the time. Dammit.

“Here,” Stiles says, gently shoving the cat into Derek’s chest, “Hold her a second while I go get her stuff from my car!” And just like that, Stiles is running out the door and Derek is staring at the cat--his cat, apparently--with what he can feel is an incredulous expression.

“Well, hi Cat. Welcome home?”

She mewls at him before nuzzling against his chin. He takes it as assent and moves to fall gracelessly into his favorite overstuffed chair to wait for Stiles to return.

When Stiles comes clamoring back up the stairs, he has a truly startling amount of stuff in his arms; Derek can only stare at him in mild terror for a long moment. “What is- haven’t you only had Cat for like, two days?”

Stiles looks sheepish when he shrugs as best he can with an armload and a half of cat-care and entertainment. He looks like a walking pet store. “I mean, she needed a litter box, and Scott said kittens need special food to help them grow,” he shuffles his burden slightly to indicate the box and a bag full of food, and Derek belatedly springs up to take some of the stuff, the kitten tucked against him carefully with his free hand. Stiles sighs in relief as Derek takes two of the heaviest bags,. Derek leads him into an empty corner of the room to start setting up and unpacking. “Plus, she has a lot of energy--when she’s not sleeping--so I got some toys, and I figured it’d help her brain development if she had a variety. But if the little balls with the bells inside drive your wolfy senses nuts, I can bring them to Deaton.”

Derek can’t help a fond smile and eye-roll as Stiles talks, he was clearly very excited about having a pet (and clearly also already diving into research about feline development). The disappointment he clearly feels at not being able to keep the cat is obvious, and before he can think about it, Derek is saying “You can come see her anytime, you know. You do have a key, and she’s your cat.”

With a grin that makes Derek feel like a king for having caused it, Stiles says “Thanks,” in a soft, awed kind of way, and Derek is hit with a wave of contentment that almost knocks him over. They stare at each other for a perfect moment, broken only by an excited squeak from Cat. When they turn away from each other to investigate the cause, both wear a heated flush that they tacitly ignore.

“So,” Derek clears his throat to ask, “What’s her name, anyway? We can’t just keep calling her ‘Cat’.”

Stiles snorts, and Derek pretends the inelegant sound is off-putting. “Tiger, obviously. I was gonna go with Pumpkin, but I figured most of my favorite people are wolves, so I stuck with the theme.” Derek thinks that Stiles’ eyes flickered to him when he mentioned his favorite people, but he probably imagined it. He can’t dwell long, because he cat--Tiger--demands attention, and neither of them can really deny her.

Before either of them notice, the day has passed in a pleasant flurry of playing with the kitten, and watching her sleep.

*****

Stiles starts coming over to visit. A lot. Derek’s place always smells like Stiles, and it’s as wonderful as it is maddening.

Tiger has quickly established herself as the Alpha of the house, and Stiles finds it endlessly entertaining to watch Derek coo at her and give into her demands for affection with half-hearted grumbles and a soft curve at the corners of his mouth. It makes it hard to keep his feelings for Derek from spilling all over, but he would give up a lot to see more moments where Derek absently scratches Tiger’s ears while he reads, or when he lets himself in to find Tiger curled up on Derek’s chest when he’s fallen asleep on the couch.

*****

Tiger is a troublemaker. She hides socks, she likes to bat at the your heels when they’re on the floor, and she shreds paper like she’s getting paid for it. More specifically, she shreds Stiles’ papers. For his thesis.

“Der-ek! Your cat ate half of my article on forensic psychology! Again!”

He’s staring menacingly at Tiger where she’s curled around a small pile of destroyed paper, her tail flicking slowly back and forth as she rubs her cheek against a strip of paper that has curled around her paw with a pleased expression on her face. Derek tries very hard not to laugh. He does not entirely succeed, because Stiles shoots him a glare that should probably cause him actual pain.

“Why is she only my cat when she’s destroying your stuff?”

“Who knows what you tell her about me when I’m not home! She’s targeting me, Derek!” Derek freezes in place at hearing Stiles call his place home, and a warm, bright feeling fills his chest, joining a pleased rumble that he hopes Stiles can’t hear. Tiger does, though, and she pads quickly over to Derek to try to climb his leg, a loud purr echoing his.

Stiles’ annoyance melts away when Derek scoops Tiger up and holds her with one arm, petting her with his free hand. “I only tell her true stories when you’re not here,” he tries to joke, but it lands too sincerely. “We’ll make it up to you by ordering your favorite take-out from that Thai place on Birch.”

“Extra peanut sauce?”

“Of course; gotta have extra peanut sauce.” Tiger meows.

*****

Tiger is a daredevil. It’s nerve wracking.

She jumps from stupidly high places, wriggles her way into the tiniest spaces, and climbs on top of things she has no right to be able to balance on.

Mostly, she has the balance of, well, of a cat, and it’s not a problem. But on one particular day, she leaps onto the counter and knocks Stiles’ mug of hot coffee down to shatter on the floor, gets spooked by the sound and by Derek’s yelp, and fumbles her dismount, landing in the middle of the puddle of coffee and ceramic shards.

They work seamlessly to bundle her up and get her in the car, arriving at the emergency vet in record time. The reception desk is empty, and Stiles yells “Excuse me? Our cat needs help, please!” His voice is a little shaky, which should be ridiculous after all they’ve been through--that a cat that might have a minor cut on her paw should make Stiles feel frightened--but only makes Derek’s love for him rush to the surface. He puts a palm on Stiles’ back and rubs soothing circles there, gratified when he feels the tension leave Stiles’ frame.

A friendly looking woman with cartoon dogs wearing capes on her scrubs rushes out from behind the reception area, already offering reassurance as she asks for their information. When she asks “And Tiger is both of yours?” Derek can feel Stiles tense up, can smell his embarrassment even above all the other scents in the office.

Before Stiles can back-track, Derek says simply, “Yes, she’s ours,” and is immensely gratified when Stiles relaxes into the gentle press of his hand and looks at him with something like hope.

The nurse smiles at them warmly and says “Right this way, gentlemen, we’ll get Tiger patched up in no time,” before leading them into a small exam room. Less than forty minutes later, Tiger has had a small piece of ceramic removes from the pad of her foot, and is sporting a small bandage and a cone around her tiny head. The cone is orange, at Stiles’ request, because “It’s funny! She’s Tiger, but now she looks like a lion! Come on, you know it’s funny.”

Derek has to admit it is.

When they’re settled in back at Derek’s, Tiger napping on her oversized cushion, Stiles and Derek sit quietly on the couch pretending to watch a movie that may or might not be about vampires; they’re close enough to feel each other’s warmth, but not quite touching. They haven't spoken about anything but Tiger all afternoon, and the weight of what they both almost said at the vet is pushing in on them from all sides.

With a deep breath, Derek moves his hand an inch or so, so that it lays against the side of Stiles’, and is beyond relieved when Stiles loops his pinkie around Derek’s own. “So,” Derek breathes out uncertainly, equally afraid to speak as to stay silent. Stiles though, Stiles has always been good at reading him, so he just lets himself lean over so that his head rests on Derek’s shoulder as he threads their fingers together.

The smile in his voice is audible when he replies with a quiet “Yeah.” They wordlessly rearrange themselves so that they can settle in to watch the movie. Stiles lays against Derek’s chest, and raises their joined hands to his lips to place a kiss on Derek’s knuckles. The kiss Derek presses into Stiles’ temple is shaped like a smile.

Before they can speak more--or kiss more--Tiger jumps onto the couch and claims Stiles’ stomach for the remainder of her nap. Stiles makes an annoyed sound, and Derek cuts him off with “She’s your cat.”

“Nope, ours,” Stiles argues happily. They both laugh softly, and hold each other a little tighter. When Derek hums his agreement, Stiles turns his face toward Derek’s, and they meet in a perfect, (mostly) chaste kiss.

Tiger purrs in her sleep.

Later, they leave her to her cushion and close the bedroom door.

[iamwhelmed]

Win One, Have Two: Chapter 8

Hey guys! Just a quick note to let you know that school has started up again for me, and so has an increased workload. I’m concerned about how I’m going to manage my time, but I care a whole lot about this fanfic, and I want you guys to know that, even if I have to skip an update or two until next break, I’m going to do my very best to keep the chapters coming!

On AO3

On Fanfiction.net

“Come on, Red. Give me something to work with, here.”

Isaac bit down on both his lips, a nervous tick, one Hardy picked up on. He was watching him from across the training mat, legs bent, hands at the defensive, and if the grin itching to grow on his face got any bigger, Isaac might have felt somewhat unsettled-- ya know, unless he could use his powers, which he wasn’t about to, especially when this sparring match was going unsupervised.

He’d woken that morning to Hardy shoving his face into the smooth fabric of his nighty, nose jabbing into his stomach uncomfortably close to his belly-button, and an empty space where Clara usually laid at his other side. Her imprint was there, but the arm she’d usually taken governance of was free and belonging entirely to him for the morning. He’d roused Hardy from his beauty sleep and they’d wandered around for a bit, aimlessly. Miss Rose, her mug of coffee, and her cryptic-looking book of the day were also missing from her usual spot at the kitchen counter, and Crawford had locked himself in the library (actually, it might have been an office? Which was worse. He couldn’t tell with the mess of books and loose leaf papers everywhere). The dojo was theirs for the time being, and after they’d scarfed down whatever they could find in the pantry (Hardy took to a package of mini cookies, and Isaac found some rice cakes), Hardy had all but gripped him by the scruff of his shirt and tugged him to the designated sparring floor.

“Just show me what you’ve got!”

“You don’t wanna see what I’ve got.”

Hardy’s demeanor shifted, relaxed, smirk shifting to a toothed purr. His eyebrows raised and fell. “Oh yes I do.”

What? They were talking about sparring, right? Why did he-- oh. His cheeks flushed. “S-sh-shut up! Don’t s-say things like that! Wh-what are you even--?”

“Well maybe I’d shut up if you’d squared up!”

Isaac closed his eyes, stood silent and still and simply breathed. He’d seen Isabel do it in the past, a few times, when a mission got tough, when she had to focus on her drive and not her bloodlust. He took that memory, let it flash before his closed eyes like a guide. He could see her body freeze, tense, fists clench as her aura crackled between the gaps in her fingers. Like fire, like flame, it’d consumed her hands, her arms, acting less like the colorful gas it was, more like a spirit at the edge of unbridled power. He opened his eyes.

Hardy was smiling, like a friend, like they weren’t getting ready to duke it out, then tensed as he had before, clenched hands raised in the defensive. “Now we’re talking. Hit me.” His deep emerald aura circled around his shoulders, but it wasn’t concentrated, not that way Isaac’s was.

He leapt at Hardy, one fist raised, let a small surge of energy collect at the flat of his fist. He was fast-- Hardy was just faster. Isaac blinked and he was gone. Wait, what? His punch fell limp through the air, hit nothing where he should have hit something. His brain didn’t catch up until a small tap to the back of his head sent him stumbling a few feet forward. Isaac squeaked, and twisted around on his heel, shifting his other foot to catch his fall. He raised one hand to his head and set his eyes on Hardy, who was snickering at him from where he’d once stood, hands in his pockets. He looked innocent. “Hey! Was that really necessary?”

“What? It was a love tap!” Hardy winked.

Isaac bit down on what would have probably been an undignified sound, pink cheeks flaring red. “It was an insult to injury!”

Hardy shrugged, then raised one hand to wave him closer. Once more.

Isaac took the invitation and lunged again. This time, he’d focus on watching Hardy, not hitting him. He readied his fist as before, steadying the stream of lightning itching at the tips of his curled fingers. He threw the punch, Hardy ducked, but this time Isaac was prepared to follow. “Gotcha!” He grinned, following Hardy’s step to the side with his other fist-- might not have been quite as powered as the fake-out, but still enough to land a good hit.

Hardy gripped that fist in one hand.

Isaac’s eyes widened, and he raised his knee to Hardy’s side, only to find himself latched on both sides of his body. Their noses brushed. Hardy was grinning at him, wincing all the same, but grinning. Too close, too close, too close--! Isaac, calm down. He’s having a hard time holding you, right? You can break out of this. “Hey, Red.”

“Stop” Isaac’s nose twitched “calling me that!”

“Would you prefer Strawberry?”

“Shut up!”

His other fist wasn’t powered up anymore, wasn’t cracking with electricity, but his aura still collected there, still flared, and Hardy only had two hands-- he just needed to swing. He took his other hand and aimed for the stomach. Don’t dodge! Isaac kept his eyes on Hardy, squinting but never blinking as his other fist came upon its target. Hardy blinked and looked down, not soon enough, and hissed when Isaac’s punch landed-- but he could have been more hurt. I’m weaker for some reason. Why? Their eyes met, and before Isaac knew it, his back was to the floor, and Hardy had a knee at his chest, towering over him. “I’m impressed you managed to land a hit on me.” Isaac tried to move his wrists, but found both pinned by Hardy’s hands. All at once, he was reminded that a fist-fight with Hardy was probably the equivalent of a fist-fight with Ed-- he had more raw power, but they were trained, molded. He was somehow still learning. “You use electricity, huh? That’s pretty cool.”

“Hardy,” he cringed at the strain in his voice. “You’re a- a jerk. H-has anyone… told you that?”

He chuckled. “All the time.”

Then he paused, brows furrowed, and glanced down at his knee, still lodged into Isaac’s abdomen. “Hey, dude?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you… like, in pain?”

“A great amount, yes.”

“Ah.”

The color drained from Hardy’s face, once wide-toothed, playful grin falling. He moved his leg. Isaac glanced down, trying to see exactly what had caused such a sudden change-- well, blood would certainly do that.

Oh. Oh crap. Blood!

Isaac gaped, body freezing as deep red soaked his shirt, seeping through the seams, dieing the blue stripes an even deeper purple. Hardy’s knee was covered in it, bend of his jeans soaked. Of course he’d been feeling weak earlier… he still hadn’t healed completely. Hardy screeched and jumped up, hands at either side of his head, apologizing and apologizing, eyes wide, moving as if his body had frozen and was thawing under the heat of panic. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I completely forgot about your stitches! Ah!”

Isaac would have sat up, would have told him that, while he was annoyed, he didn’t blame him for forgetting, but his abdomen felt like it was tearing itself apart, which it literally, probably, was. He grunted and raised both arms to cover it, stop the bleeding. It wasn’t as bad as it was when it was fresh, but it sure hurt plenty, more likes a dull knife dragging across his open wound and less like a chainsaw just there all the time.

“What’s all of this racket?”

“Crawford!” Hardy was practically leaping up and down in his frenzy. “I-Isaac! Help Isaac! I didn’t realize--!”

There was a heavy, gruff sigh, and then heavier footsteps against the polished wood of the living room, then the sound of sticky steps as Crawford stepped onto the mat. Isaac yelped as he was hoisted-- yes, hoisted-- over a very broad shoulder, right where the wound was. “Ow!”

“Stop complainin’ or I’ll give you somethin’ to complain about.”

Isaac’s face continued to contort following every degree of pain he was feeling, but he fell silent, crossing his arms indignantly, painfully-- honestly it wasn’t worth the effort, but he did it anyway. Crawford took to the staircase, stopping only to give Hardy a look. What look? Isaac didn’t know. He couldn’t very well see, but Hardy definitely knew the look, and was scared of the look, and snapped into gear with almost military-like rigidness. “Y’lall need to be more careful next time, ya hear me?”

“Yes! Yes sir!”

Crawford was surprisingly good with his hands, for a man of his size and-- Isaac glanced at the size of his bicep-- clear strength. But he handled Isaac’s stitches with kit hands, and on top of it, had him patched up in seconds.  For as painful an injury as it was, for as painful as it was to be reopened, Isaac had been anticipating fix-up to be more straining. Well, that wasn’t to say there was no pain involved, and Crawford had to threaten him a good handful of times, with all the twitching and hissing and jumping he was doing, but it was still not as bad as he’d been expecting it to be. He turned his eyes to the glass-doored cabinet, where Crawford was busying himself scrummaging through the collection of first-aid products. “Clara made a few mistakes the last time she changed your bandages. She used t’ make ‘em too tight, now they’re too dang loose.”

Isaac glanced down at his wound, now open to the world with his blood-soaked shirt discarded somewhere to the side. The stitches were swollen, two lumps of flesh sewn together across the length of his abdomen. It made him uncomfortable looking at it, but morbid curiosity took precedence over disgust. He raised one finger to the blue string weaving in and out of his skin like a hemline, wincing when the feather touch stung.

“Well don’t touch ‘em, ya idiot.”

Isaac smiled awkwardly, apologetically, and Crawford waved him off as he approached the bed, bandages in one hand. “Lift.” Isaac raised his arms, and Crawford bent forward to run the gauze of the wound. It was definitely tighter than when Clara did it, and more uncomfortable, but he could breath, so he wouldn’t complain.

“Where are Miss Rose and Clara?”

“Out picking herbs. I’m gonna teach Clara how t’ make some temp’rary remedies.”

“Wait, you’re the medic?” Crawford cocked an eyebrow, and Isaac laughed-- another nervous tick. “I mean, I guess I just assumed--”

“-- it was Rose? I get that, what with all that nurture bull she pushes,” Crawford tightened the last round of the gauze, reaching to the side for some tape to hold it in place. “But you’d be wrong. She’s a bookworm, not much’ve a field operative.”

“And you are?”

He tapped the scar over his eye, straight down the top lid to the bottom, almost the length of his nose. “One ‘f the best.”

Isaac frowned, reaching up to touch the bandage over his right eye, fingers brushing the edge at the side of his ear. Crawford pulled away and got to cleaning up the mess of the bloodied bandages that’d been tossed to the floor in haste. He was so tense all the time, so on-guard, at least he looked like it. In his time at the boarding school, he’d felt he’d gotten to know everyone, at least to a reasonable degree. He trusted them not to slaughter him in his sleep, and he ate dinner every night with little to no intrusive thoughts about the possibility of the poison and its potential mask as the onion powder dusted over his plate. But Crawford-- Crawford was still a mystery. He kept to himself, kept away from the kids, and scarcely interacted with even Miss Rose. The few times he’d seen him around the school, Crawford was either brooding over a beer in the library (office), preparing dinner with a knife far too sharp to not incite just a bit of fear, or scowling at the occasional sparring match, when Miss Rose had to take a call and wasn’t available. “I just didn’t expect the guy who looks like he stepped straight out of an Old Wild West movie to be the team medic.”

“I learned outta necessity.” Crawford tossed the bloodied bandages in the trash, then twisted the sink on and got to washing his hands, pumping the soap twice.

Isaac frowned. “You’ve been through a lot, huh?”

“You will too, by the time the world’s through with ya.” Isaac turned to the floor, eyeing his hands, running along every scratch, every bite mark, every bit of dry skin that was healing. He’d seen more war, more pain and more power than he’d ever witnessed before in the month he’d been away from home. The spirits in Mayview, they were tame for the most part. Things were quiet. Sure, there was the occasional problem child, but outside the barrier, things were so much worse. He’d been attacked in his sleep by a creature that could shapeshift from one huge claw to a drooling eye with a mouth. He’d seen spirits three times his size swallowed whole and digested like bite-size chocolate bars. And then the monsters-- the one that took that gash out of his stomach, left him bleeding in a city park, nearly made him blind in one eye… he grimaced.

Then, there was a hand at his head, ruffling the spike and mussing his hair until he looked like an unkempt toddler. He blinked, and Crawford was giving him an old-fashioned, country-man grin, having somehow lit a cigar in the time Isaac had been contemplating that sting of fear in his chest. “Just do yourself a favor…” Isaac’s brows furrowed. Crawford’s grin widened. “Make sure the world ain’t done with ya today, or the next if ya can help it!”

He’d lost track of time, lost track of how long he’d been there. A week? He’d stopped counting after Day 14. His wounds were healing… somewhat. His stitches had started to look less like two conjoined clumps and more like blended skin with the tattoo of a string running along pale white. He’d still have to resist pulling on it sometimes, and when he didn’t, Clara would hit him for it. His eye was still bandaged, but Crawford said he’d be clear to remove it in the next week. His food poisoning had long since passed, and he was enjoying the benefit of eating actual meals again-- his muscles and bones had been fading, but he was as healthy and thick at the waistline as he used to be. It helped that Crawford was a good cook.

Miss Rose had trained him a few times, one-on-one; after the sparring incident with Hardy, and a good scolding (complete with parental pointing finger), she elected herself as his partner instead (“Since you kids don’t know how to hold back, yet…”). She was an odd woman, spent most of her time with them instead of musing over spectral artifacts, which was, as he’d understood it, her actual job. Instead, when the three of them managed to wake up in the morning, and somehow manage to carry themselves out of bed after that, Miss Rose was always waiting with some kind of activity for the day-- cryptic-ancient-language translation, spectral shot practice, backyard track running, sprinting, and hurdling, to name a few. And at the end of each day, she’d ride them to brush their teeth and wash their faces. Isaac objected to this the first night, after all, he and Clara were thirteen, and Hardy was sixteen, surely they could manage so much on their own. Miss Rose then gestured avidly to Hardy, and informed him that she’d once thought that, too. With a smile, of course, but Hardy still grew red at his nose and swatted at her.

Hardy was a huge flirt, quick to tease him and poke him and squeeze him half to death if he so happened to feel like it, but he was cool, and nice, and he’d apologized profusely for breaking his wound open. When they were bored, with little else to do, they’d often times lay around on the living room couch, Isaac watching the latest episode of the animes he’d come to miss dearly in his time as a runaway-- felt weird to think that, to acknowledge that was truly what he was, that he matched its definition-- and Hardy lounging back with his feet in Isaac’s lap and his head in Clara’s lap (assuming she didn’t have medical training to attend to) with a magazine in his hands. Not surprisingly, those car-themed magazines had belonged to him.

Clara was a little more like Miss Rose, but not quite. She was headstrong and nosy like their mentor, but she was also bubbly, and a tad ditzy-- she was smart, and just as Hardy was, touchy-feely. When they hung around together, when Hardy was off doing something probably stupid and dangerous, like seeing how many times he could ride the rail down the spiral staircase, he and Clara found time to lay around on their phones together in their joint bedroom. He’d scroll through some fanart and she’d ask him about the show. He’d go for tens or twenties of minutes, just talking avidly about his favorite shows, about the K-Dramas he’d gotten himself invested in somehow. She’d nod along, ask him to repeat names and characters, show her pictures, show her clips. In turn, he’d ask her about her interests, and oddly enough-- she loved superheroes. She had a few favorites, but they were kind of unknown, heroes he’d never really heard of before, but he never told her that. She’d site her favorite comic issues and hand him some of the volumes she owned, stacked not neatly, but organized, on a bookshelf on the wall opposing the bed. She’d watch him read the first few pages until, inevitably, they’d hear a:

THUMP. “Ow!”

Followed by Crawford yelling or Miss Rose nagging. Then, it was usually dinner time.

He liked it. He liked the flow he was in. He like the people around him. He was happy here. But, as he’d always remind himself-- he didn’t leave Mayview to be happy. He was on a mission, he had a purpose. This was a punishment, and as it was he shouldn’t have dwindled there as long as he already had. There were spirits to help, ghosts to cheer up-- he cringed… monsters to take down. There wasn’t a night that went by that he didn’t dream about it, that he didn’t see the way Spender’s face dropped, or the clench of Dimitri’s teeth, or the uncharacteristic frown on Ed’s lips. He heard Isabel yelling at him, knew everything she was saying was right-- about him being a traitor, about him being hopeless, about the fact that he should have been in that cell with them, that he’d nearly gotten them all killed or worse. He deserved to be an outcast. He deserved to be shunned and cast away. He deserved to meet the bloody end of a monster’s claw.

And then he’d feel Max.

He’d feel his finger jabbing at his chest, smell the metal on him and the rust and the hydrogen peroxide below his band-aids. He’d see his narrowed eyes, the danger in them, the anger and hatred and disgust-- everything he knew he’d practically asked for.

“I’ve never cared less about a person in my life. You think you can read me the way everyone else can read you? We’re not even friends.” Isaac cringed every time. “We never were.”

He was there to suffer. He was there to spend however long he lived pushing himself to the very limit, to make up for all the pain and fear he’d caused. Because even if the club didn’t care about him… he wanted what was best for them.

There was humming, soft, sweet, and yet it wasn’t shy. Isaac paused, peeking around the corner. On the other side of the open door, Clara swayed around the room, folding their freshly-cleaned bedsheets with a lack of grace, and she made it look fun. She was certainly the source of the humming, if the music blaring from her small radio was any indication. He took a moment to process the soft rhythm, the fuzziness of the sound, then felt like a total idiot for not having recognized it sooner. Once Upon a Dream. A took a cautious step into the room, careful not to scare her, because he had a feeling a scared Clara was not a fun Clara to deal with, and he still didn’t know what powers she did or did not have. He coughed into his hand, figuring that was polite and unshocking as any greeting could be, and she turned to him, surprised.

Then, a moment later, she grinned at him, and gripped him by the wrists.

He inhaled sharply and she swung him around in a tight circle, and when he opened his eyes, only then realizing they’d been shut, she’d wrapped two ends of the bedsheet around his throat, like a cape. “Wait--! What--?” She ignored him and his unvoiced question, and instead took to setting one his hands at her waist, then took his other hand in the one she hadn’t set at his shoulder. It was like this that they began to sway.

“I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream~!”

“Wait, why are you leading?”

“Because you obviously don’t know how!”

He snorted, then laughed, and that laugh grew even louder, more obnoxious, and Clara danced him around the bedroom. One moment, they were at a corner near the windowseat and the parted curtains, and the next they were adjacent, by the door to the small bathroom the three of them begrudgingly shared. She was quick, and through all of his laughter, it was hard to keep up. He tried to breath, had to struggle to get a word out. “H-hey, I s-still have stitches, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, and they’re pretty much healed, hush.”

The song carried on, and so did they, twisting and turning around the room, ends of the bedsheet flying with every to and fro, with every step they’d take. Clara fell into a fit of giggles not long after he’d stopped, and then he was right back where he was before, breathless.

The next note, Clara let go of his hand, and for a moment he thought the song was over. But the next, his hand was in another, more callous. He jumped back as Hardy took Clara’s place, gratuitously. He took one look at Isaac’s cape and smiled. “Fancy meeting you here, Prince…?”

“You know my name, you dork.”

“That’s an awfully long name, my lord.”

Isaac groaned and Hardy took the lead where Clara left it, moving faster, but rougher, across the bedroom floor. “Why am I always the one being lead?”

“Because you don’t know how to lead.”

“Where did you learn ballroom dancing?”

“Well,” Hardy snickered. “Maybe I don’t know ballroom dancing--” With a flick of his wrist, Isaac twirled to the side, only one hand latched dangerously to Hardy’s. “--But I know the tango!”

Isaac shook his head clear, laughing to himself.

Max. He had to blink thrice. When he opened his eyes, for a moment, just one fantastic, single moment, it was his hand he was holding. He could feel the tips of his fingers brushing like love against the palm of his hand, touch the square of his wrist. The face, oh he missed that face-- the downturn of his cap and the upturn of his lip when he smiled, when he was happy. He was momentarily breathless, watching the world around him spin as Max tugged him in, caught him in a turn, took him closer-- he could have memorized that pale blue in his eyes.

And then his outstretched hands fell to Hardy’s chest, and he was lost again.

Hardy took one look at him and snorted. “What, did I spin you too hard?”

Isaac batted his eyes-- er, tried to clear his head. “Wh-what? No, why’d you ask?” He took a step back, retracting his hands slowly, so no feelings were hurt. That was unreal. He almost felt stupid, guilty, like he’d been fooled twice and went back for a third round. But he hadn’t. There was nothing there but a memory, or some rose-colored version of it, anyway. He just couldn’t seem to shake how naive, how silly he felt. He must have been-- silly, that is. He was dwindling where he shouldn’t have been.

“You’re red, like, super red, man.”

Clara tittered and pressed a finger to his cheek, which he swatted away with one hand, two when she pressed harder. “You’re so cute! You look like ya ate a handful of beets!”

“Maybe I did!”

“I certainly hope not, we need those for dinner tonight. Otherwise we’d have to use you. Chop you up and throw you in some stew, how’s that sound.”

“Awful.”

“Yeah, well so does eating a handful of raw beets, but apparently you did that.”

The cafe was perfect for a writer, really, so it wasn’t a wonder how Suzy found it. Quaint little place atop a small body of water outside the patio. The tables were small, and round, and metal with a clear glass piece set perfectly within its melded edges. Condensation had begun to leave a small circle of wet around the bottom of his cup, filled halfway with iced tea before a waiter came over and refilled him for him. He was mostly done with his cinnamon roll, but Suzy was yet to touch her salad; this was funny, funny as in odd, considering it’d been her idea to come to her favorite little cafe.

She sat across from him, elbows on the table as she stabbed at salad with her fork. She’d been quiet, for a while now, and it wasn’t just for the duration of their meal. She’d been this way, or the opposite end (louder, more rambunctious, bossier than usual), for a good month now, or a little over. Collin scowled, leaning back in his chair because he knew some explanation was coming, probably. Sure enough, she turned her gaze to him, big eyes looking tired, and dull. Not her, not like her at all. Her lips parted, and he fixed his attention on her-- she had to have his full attention. Anything less, and he’d be sorry. He was sure of it. This was Suzy.

“Hey, Collin?”

“Hmm?” It was coming, the big reveal, the reason she’d been even bossier than normal--

“It’s been two weeks.” She frowned, and looked back to her salad, stabbing, perhaps with more vehemence, at a cherry tomato that’d earlier escaped the wrath of her fork’s pointed ends. “They still haven’t found him.”

Collin sighed. Guess he’d underestimated her tendency to project. Well, if nobody else is gonna sit her down and ask, guess it’s up to me… per usual. He leaned forward, crossing his arms over the table. With one hand, he set his plate and cup to the side. “Hey, Suzy? Ya wanna just tell me what’s actually bothering you?”

She blinked, and for a moment, when their eyes met, she looked scared. But in the next she had covered it up with that look of hers-- the nasty one, the one that scared anybody but him, him and Dimitri. He had a feeling that the salad would have cowered, had it been sentient. “That is what’s bothering me!”

“I mean, yeah, it’s one thing, but it’s not what’s bothering you the most.”

Her hand paused amidst the brutal stabbing of a helpless carrot, coming to a rest at the side of the plate. She was silent again, and that always unnerved him, more than anything. He kept an eye on her, watched the way her hair fell into her face, how she didn’t reach up to fold it behind her ear like always. She looked to him, and frowned, and set both her hands in her lap. The tips of her ears turned red, and though her face read serious, it wasn’t intentionally threatening. In fact, she looked almost… Collin leaned further in. “You are never to repeat what I’m about to say to anybody, do you understand me?”

He raised one hand. “Journalist’s integrity.” Suzy’s cheek blew up. He smiled. “My honor.”

The red of her ears spread to her nose, but she snorted, and smiled, and he knew he’d given her reassurance. Soon enough, she sobered up, she frowned again, and her eyes fell to the hands she’d clasped together in her lap. “It’s Dimitri. I… miss him.” He hummed, brows furrowing, but he nodded for her to go on. “Ever since we found out he was a spectral, it just feels like,” she grew quiet. “It just feels like we never really knew him, you know? Like our entire” she waved one hand around, realized she was stalling, and set it back in her lap “thing was a lie.”

He squinted. “Our friendship?”

“Yeah!”

Collin sighed, and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Oh, Suzy.”

“I mean, the proof is in the pudding! He’s out having adventures with the activity club all the time now!” Her hands parted to wave around frantically; he might have been embarassed had he not been so used to being publicly humiliated-- by Suzy. “He never drops by alone, ya know? It’s like, I don’t know. It’s like he never really let us get to know him to begin with so,” her eyes grew dim again, fingers clutching and kneading one napkin that lay unused between them. “So how could I expect him to, ya know… remember us?”

Perhaps he was momentarily delirious, or maybe she’d simply driven him insane. He’d even entertained the idea that somebody slipped something into his always-dutifully-full iced tea when he wasn’t looking. Whatever happened, it was a lapse in sanity, and he’d do well to avoid another such situation.

He reached over and took her hand in his own, in surprise, she dropped the napkin. Her wide blue eyes were on him, watching him, he felt it, he knew it, so he glanced away, coughed into his free hand. Mayview wasn’t supposed to be getting hotter, was it? They were riding the tail end of fall! How funny that, right then, he felt he needed a fan. “You’re overthinking it.”

“Huh?” Her voice was so small right then, so innocent-sounding, so unlike her. It made his entire body shiver.

“Spectral or no, Dimitri is Dimitri. I’m sure he’s just spending some time catching up with them, so don’t worry about it, okay?”

Why would he even say that. He had no clue. He’d thought the same thing, wondered how Dimitri was doing, how he was doing-- if he planned on ever coming back. They ran into each other often enough, but Isabel (and sometimes Max) were always close behind, like a clique. Suzy was right, he hardly ever came around anymore. Lunchtime (with Isabel and Max) was about the extent of their interactions. Who was he to tell her what was going on in Dimitri Danger’s head? Nobody! Nobody knew! The guy was a legend wrapped up in mystery, all laced together with a pretty bow tied in cryptic knots. He was lying to her! Straight up deceiving her! And for what?

Suzy squeezed his hand, then pulled back, setting the backs of her wrists at the edge of the table, fingers curling in. He hesitated to move his own, fingers twitching, then hiding in his palm.

“If that were true, wouldn’t he… try to stop by the clubroom once in awhile?”

What was he supposed to say? He agreed with her. She was right. For once in Suzy’s life, she was right, logic exceeded stubbornness, and it couldn’t have chosen a worse time.

He fell silent, words left him. All he could do was sit there and mourn with her.

Evening had fallen over the boarding school before he knew it, and sometimes, evenings meant laying back on the windowseat, feet splayed over Clara’s lap while Hardy’s head leaned against the side of his leg. He could hardly read a word of the book Miss Rose lent him (about mediums, mainly, and some other basics he hadn’t caught onto before) in the light of the setting sun, but it was relaxing-- he could fall asleep under an orange hue forever. Clara was taking a quiz, one of the bad ones from the preteen magazines she kept asking Miss Rose for when she went food-shopping. Hardy well--

Isaac winced as the bulky end of the yo-yo came around to smack him in the face. He hissed and glared over the side at Hardy, who was waving an apology and giving him the best sorry-looking face he could probably muster.

Yes. He was too content.

He had to remind himself-- he didn’t deserve this, he didn’t deserve this. And nobody around him knew what he had done. Sometimes he thought about telling them, and that daydream brought him fear, fear and somehow relief. He could never really understand that part. Maybe it was the burden of keeping a secret, not that he’d been trying, things just happened. Something told him that wasn’t it, though. Maybe he wanted to be outcased, punished, kicked out on the street like he’d planned all along.

He knew he deserved it.

But at the same time, why’d he have to tell them when he could just leave? What good would it do? They’d know they’d nursed a traitor back to health. They’d know they’d saved a person who should have been wiped from the world because he couldn’t tend to his own wounds-- natural selection. No, there really wasn’t a reason to tell them, no reason to burden them with that guilt. He’d just have to wait until his wounds were healed, sneak away in the dark. Teenagers did it all the time in the movies, how bad could it be?

“Ah! Hardy!”

“Sorry!” Clara raised her foot where his yo-yo had nailed her, right at the ball, and gave him a swift, scolding kick to the head. “Ow!”

“Don’t be sorry. Be better!”

“Okay, okay!”

Isaac exhaled through his nose and smiled. Well, maybe I’ll stick around a little longer.

Three knocks, solid and authoritative, came from the front door. Each of them perked up, heads twisting to the bedroom door, which sat ajar. Clara readjusted her glasses. “Well, that’s odd. Nobody visits us unless they’re, ya know, Cousinhood, and we have a secret knock.”

“Well,” Hardy shrugged, sticking his yo-yo in the back pocket of his jeans. “They might be new?”

No, I doubt it. If they’re as secretive as the Consortium was… Isaac frowned and leaned behind Clara, reaching to move the blinds she’d been snuggling under so he could see. “Hey! What the--?”

“Sorry.”

Just a little bit further, a little further, until-- there! He pressed his face to the class, hoping to catch a glimpse of the front door. Who could it be? Some guy who got lost in the woods, maybe? An angry squirrel throwing nuts? He finally got the right angle, could finally see just who was, quite angrily, pounding on the front door to what should have been a small private boarding school.

He wasn’t expecting to see Mister Spender.

He gasped and fell backwards, sliding from the windowseat with no grace. Hardy and Clara watched him with mild interest, mild concern, and he scurried away from the window, climbing to the bedroom door on all fours. Crap, crap, crap, crap! How? How was he here? He did he find him? No, calm down, Isaac. Maybe he’s not here for you. Maybe this is something entirely different. Still. There was a chance, a chance Mister Spender could see him, that he’d want to drag him home-- but he couldn’t go yet. He had to hide.

He came to sit at the top of the staircase, back pressed to the wall just before the second floor ended and the walk to the first floor began. Hopefully Mister Spender couldn’t see the top of the staircase from the front door…

“Isaac?”

“AH!”

He jumped, then covered his mouth with both hands. Clara tilted her head at him, and Hardy moved closer. They’d taken to huddling beside him, pressing their hands to the wall to keep them steady in their crouched positions. Hardy’s nose brushed his hands where they covered his big, unhelpful mouth, so he inched back. “What’s going on?”

He gestured for them to be quiet, and lay low, so they copied him and took to wall-clinging. Isaac glanced around the corner to find see Miss Rose looking out through the peephole, where she undoubtedly was seeing his old history teacher. Isaac swallowed hard. “That guy knocking on the door is Mister Spender, somebody from the Consortium!”

“And why is that a problem?” Clara kept her voice low, even if she didn’t understand, and right then, he couldn’t have been more thankful.

“Because,” he squeezed his hands tight and grinded his teeth. “If he sees me, if Miss Rose tells him I’m here, he’s gonna take me back to Mayview, and--and--!” From down below, he could hear the sound of the door opening, and the high-pitch of a woman’s greeting voice.

To say Rose was surprised to see a Consortium agent behind the door was inaccurate. To say she was surprised to see one so soon, on the other hand…

With the way the kid had been talking, for how long he’d been away from home with no Consortium interference, she hadn’t anticipated a visit for another five months, a year if she was pushing it. For a moment she doubted he was one, an agent. After all, they were in a home in the middle of the woods, in the middle of nowhere, perhaps he’d gotten himself lost and was in need of assistance? Well, it hadn’t happened before, but there was a first time for everything.

She glanced him over again; no, this man was different. He was nervous, lips drawn between his teeth, not relieved, not smiling to find someone else. His clothes were too clean, shirt too tucked in the waist of his pants, shoes and pants unmuddied from the slip and fall terrain. No, he’d entered the woods and known exactly where he was going.

Rose cocked an eyebrow, set her hands at her hips, like he was an old friend, like she didn’t know why he was here. “Hello!”

He was glaring at her, but she could tell he was keeping himself level, struggling to, anyway. She could expect a civil conversation, but beneath that was an anger, a righteous anger she’d known scarcely. She straightened up; it was unsettling, but she was no wallflower.

He took a deep breath, but she watched his fists clench at his sides. “Good evening, my name is Richard Spender.” He either didn’t think the Cousinhood knew who he was, or was playing dumb to avoid immediate conflict. She knew who him by name, but by name alone. He was Mayview’s Defender, its own stubborn hero. Anything else, well, anyone in her line of friends had yet to meet him. As always, she’d be the first, she might have felt honored had she taken a moment to let that sink in. Something was important enough that the legend had come to her directly, important enough he’d willingly left his beloved city. Perhaps this visit wasn’t what she thought it’d be. He paused a moment, probably just nervous. Rose didn’t blame him, relations were tight. She crossed her arms, showed him she was listening, so he continued. “A few months ago, one of my students went missing.”

His students? I don’t recall Richard Spender being named a spectral master. Oh. Oh, of course. That made so much sense! That’s why Isaac knew him by name! That’s why he was here, personally. Her eyes widened, but she rid her face of it. Letting an opposing agent read you, it was a mistake, one she couldn’t help but notice he was still making. Either way, the focus of the visit was exactly what she thought it would be.

“My, how unfortunate.”

His eyes narrowed behind his shades, and she gave him a smile. “Yes… you see, the authorities tracked him to the Michitan City area, where he left a trail.” Yeah. Of blood. “But soon after, he somehow disappeared.”

“Get to the point. We both know there’s something you’re not saying.”

Spender blinked, seemingly taken aback. He was an odd man; for someone with so much power, he was gentle, and came off weak. He recovered in a moment, shook himself straight, and she watched him grow stiffer than before. “My… colleagues and I, we traced him to Catriona Barrett’s old residence, which I am aware was confiscated after your people recovered an artifact on the premises.” She straightened up, well aware of where this was going. “If my assumptions are correct, and my student wandered onto Cousinhood property…”

“You think we have your kid.”

His voice lowered, dangerously; the real Richard Spender stood before her. “And he needs to come back home.”

[austerre-moved]

PREEMPTIVE MEME, GO: 💔

Hate Meme - [ ACCEPTING ]:

                                  the visible impact of her enraged exclamation is brief, although visible, much to his displeasure… the widening of his eyes, the small ‘ o ‘ of his lips, the tensing of his broad shoulders, and the faint twitch of his fingers— it’s as if someone has, literally, taken a freshly sharpened blade and DRIVEN it, DEEPLY, through his heart. a moment of heavy vulnerability that he finds himself almost incapable of overcoming, and for a second too long, he fears he just might not.                  it matters not whether she means the words she has all but shoved at him——– ‘tis the fact she felt so overcome by hatred, in that short moment, that she felt inclined to say it at ALL ( hatred for HIM, at that ). far from a perfect couple, and well aware of their faults, neither dared tried to trick anyone knowledgeable of their otherwise secret relationship that they were anything BUT imperfect. it was likely they possessed majority of the world’s stubbornness just between the two of them, and that spoke little of their habits of stabbing the other where it hurt most, whenever they got into these not-so-little ‘ spats. ‘ she knew what to use against him to inflict vengeful pain, as did he— god cards above, to any bystander, they were probably the most incompatible couple to date.                                  still, though, their faults aside, there was more happiness to be had than anger and resentment towards one another. heated as their arguments could get, it took but a day or two of cooling off before they were pressed against one another yet again, apologizing for the pointlessness of their disagreement, and the verbal weapons they had used against the one they claimed to love and support. not all had a picture perfect ending, some left forgotten in favor of moving on, some sparking ADDITIONAL arguments that seemed to branch off into smaller, less relevant bickering matches——– even then, however, neither of them had EVER said something so damaging as the words that had escaped from betwixt her painted lips.

                                 disbelief replaces shock, which then eases, impressively quickly, into anger. the expression that mars his sharp features is not the one he saves only for her. the softness to his gaze, shown only when she is near ( and sometimes, when she doesn’t notice he is admiring her from afar, amidst a train of deep thought oft sparked by his realization that he can only count his blessings on one hand— her, being one of very few ), is absent, now, replaced by aversion. ‘tis not the deep seated antipathy he feels for most other people, of course - nay, he still loves her, ALWAYS will; but in that very moment, he seems incapable of recognizing her as one of the people, out of TWO, that he would drop any and everything for, without hesitation or regret.          — not only incapable, but mayhap a bit UNWILLING to even try, out of some heartless need to get back at her for going too fucking far.                     “ fine, then. “ the calmness of his tone is almost odd, in that he had expected himself to bark something equally as harrowing back at her, per routine. he wouldn’t even bother entertaining her with a response, knowing she often said things, solely to rouse a specific reaction from him— and, more often than not, it worked. this time, though… this time, he wouldn’t give her that satisfaction, glaring at her as he would an incompetent employee before turning his back to her. if there was one thing he knew natalie hated about him, besides his unhealthy habit of working too hard, or his inability to dedicate his attention to something else ( ideally, her ) besides the wide screen of his work computer, or his blatant lack of care for anything that involved his OWN well-being, strangely enough, it was his childish habit of running away from things, from them, from HER, when he couldn’t feel bothered to face things, them, HER… head on. he had never done it purposely, usually unaware that he was beginning to shut down and ease back into his protective shell— ah, but there was a first time for everything, was there not?              actively, he was CHOOSING to turn a blind eye to this entire, emotionally draining disaster, and her presence as a whole. instead of his poorly crafted defense mechanism butting its unwelcome head in where it didn’t belong, he was calling upon it as a revenge tactic, KNOWINGLY toying with natalie’s emotions in an unforgivable way that, perhaps in the near future, he would feel genuinely guilty for doing. she hated being ignored, hated being shoved to the side and deemed unworthy of his attention and affection, as most others were.how, then, after having gotten so used to being his special little princess with the fiery hair and personality to match, would she react to him coupling her with the rest of the society? a shame, he wouldn’t be there to witness the results himself, given he fully intended on leaving her without so much as an explanation as to where he was going. she was hardly a match for him, when it came to strength, an advantage he used fully as he began to walk away, her nails just barely catching the sleeve of his shirt in her pitiful attempt to cease his departure.

                                “ don’t wait up. “               “ don’t w— are you SERIOUS right now?! you COWARD! “                       ‘ coward. ‘ that seemed to be her favorite word to throw at him, when he did things like this, and he had never said anything to discredit her insult. running away was, essentially, a showing of cowardice, and in any other situation, he’d have been prepared with an equally damaging retort. she wouldn’t even be getting THAT, today, as he tore himself from her barely secure grasp, clenched fists shoving their way deep into the depths of his overcoat’s pockets. “ everytime, it’s the same thing with you! we can’t even have a civilized conversation, because YOU want to run off and hide behind your electronic WIFE whenever things start to look bleak! you may as well marry the cursed thing, because at least IT can’t talk back when you’re being absolutely, undeniably INSUFFERABLE! “                    she advances again, just as he’s about to part through the door, but a simple wave of his hand signals for security— HIS security, namely, to interfere. she’s feisty, as they’ll well aware, and it’s not without a struggle that they hold her back from their boss. two grown ass, specially trained men, grunting and sweating in an attempt to hold back a woman almost half their size and body weight. one’s pair of shades goes clanking to the ground, losing in a one-sided battle against her well placed kicks, the other guard suffering a scratch to the flesh, a gift from her nails and the anger that’s driving her to fight intensely against their attempts to subdue her, WITHOUT causing harm unto her, in return. they know it would be their heads on a stake, were natalie to get hurt by their hands; cold and ruthless as he tended to be, their boss DID still care immensely for his girlfriend.                  if she manages to break free, he is left unaware, as he ducks into a transport vehicle to be whisked away to an unknown location ( unknown to all, save for him and mokuba ). the location is not too far off from the estate itself, but a short drive down a dirt pathway that looked otherwise impressive from the road itself. at the end, rested a small building, perhaps the size of a standard cabin in the woods, with bland looking architecture that struck no amount of intrigue to anyone unaware of the contents that rested inside. essentially, it was a square structure surrounded in smoothed over wood, with a KaibaCorp issued door serving as the entryway, that, without the proper passcode, was impossible to gain access to. seeing as the tucked away building served as a temporary ‘getaway’ of sorts, it had gone through a number of different passcodes over the years, usually information that next to nobody knew about him.                now, though, as he tapped away at the keycode module posted nearest the sleek door, ‘ p r i n c e s s, ‘ his so-called getaway seemed to already foretell of a painful night spent in solitude, where the initially sought rest and relaxation would be terribly elusive. the interior, designed to reflect his work office, to some extent, contains everything he needs to survive for a time. his desk sits across the room, a monitor resting atop the mahogany surface, ready and operational for whatever work he would decide to busy himself with. a refrigerator, cabinets, stove, and sink rest several feet away, stocked with non perishables and necessary cooking utensils in the event he needs to feed himself, and, of course, a bed, for when his body throws in the rare white flag. he hadn’t needed to utilize the small living area for a number of months, having gotten quite used to using natalie as a means of a proper, healthy escape from the woes of reality, but alas…                                  he couldn’t go to her, ABOUT her. not this time.

                                   the chair creaked as he settled into it, fingers gliding across the touchpad to rouse the monitor to life. a solid couple of hours passed, at his desk, files brought to completion and smaller tasks checked off the list— nothing big, which he would focus on tomorrow at work when more resources and on deck hands were readily available to him. it wasn’t until his phone buzzed within the pocket of his pants that he remembered there was a life, and PEOPLE, outside of this solitary confinement he’d willingly thrusted himself into, and for a split second, he hoped it was natalie texting him, to see where he was.        [ Text from - Mokuba ]: big bro, what happened between you and nat? did you upset her again?                  ——– of course, because she couldn’t bear the thought of him, or anything to DO with him, right now. he considered responding to the youth, solely to ask how she was doing, but hardened his resolve not to give in so soon.        [ Text to - Mokuba ]: Why do you always assume I’M the one in the wrong?                     because he usually was. because he’d driven her to hate him. because there were a multitude of things wrong with him that he couldn’t seem to right, no matter how much he tried.he couldn’t even remember what had jumpstarted the damn argument, at this point, or, at what wrong word or accusation, it had escalated to this severe of a level. the rewind and play over of the events that had transpired earlier offered him no amount of closure, instead, stressing him out further as he realized, perhaps too quickly, that it had, ultimately, been him in the wrong, and he had pushed her around, cut her where it hurt most, and been his usual, monstrous self yet again.            what if she DID truly hate him? what if he returned from his immature game of hide and don’t seek to find she had left? what if he attempted to chase her, only for her to slip from his watchful eye, unforgiving in her endeavor to drop him from her life, and find someone with whom she could be HAPPIER? it certainly wasn’t a hard thing to do ( hell, even jonouchi could probably treat her better, and the thought itself was sickening… to think that DOG was better than him at ANYTHING besides being an idiot ).                                    the very real possibility of her calling it quits slammed against him like a truck, slender fingers gripping the fabric that rested over his heart. a wide open space, clean air, and nothing but the hum of his computer, and he still felt like he couldn’t breathe— gods, he hadn’t had one of these since…

                                  “ shit… “ THIS was why he hated getting attached to people, often making himself seem completely and utterly intolerable for the sole purpose of pushing them away. he’d have turned to her right now, ran to her when his chest felt tight and constricting, his head pounding and his hands trembling— but, she wasn’t here, nor was the tall, glass vial of poison he’d submitted to before she’d sauntered into the picture unexpectedly. his choice to run away was backfiring against him, as he realized she probably wouldn’t respond to him if he messaged her to come here, forcing him to desperately text mokuba in hopes that he would be able to, somehow, remedy this situation.        [ Text to - Mokuba ]: Mokuba, I need you to go get Nat.                 already, he was preparing a response to the expected ‘ why, ‘ and cursing himself for not having given more of an immediate explanation from the get go. hands clutched at clumps of hershey strands in an attempt to stable themselves, but the longer mokuba took the respond, the more he found himself unable to calm. he loved her, couldn’t live WITHOUT her… not after finally convincing himself that she was the one he would, without even a second thought, spend the rest of his life with. they were stuck with each other - MADE for each other, weren’t they? she couldn’t leave… not because of him, or something he had said or did. he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her as a result of his own mistakes that he had failed to make up for right then and there, knowing what he was doing was only giving her more reasons to, as she had so loudly informed him earlier, ‘ hate him. ‘                 sitting wasn’t working, nor were his apparent attempts to tear the hair from his scalp. he stood from his chair, rolling it back just enough to slowly walk away from it, and towards the wall in the far corner, phone in hand and, more notably, inbox currently empty. his back pressed to the cool surface of the interior wall, working in unison with his slender legs to ease him down to the floor in a semi-comfortable position, where nothing could obstruct him, or his view of the door. the faint buzz of his cellular device worked to ease his nerves somewhat, even more-so when mokuba asked of his whereabouts.                     only the boy and a few, select security guards and drivers knew of the location of the professional outhouse, and he needed only describe it in small detail before the raven haired child registered exactly where his brother was located.       [ Text from - Mokuba ]: are you okay?                    nevermind that— was natalie on her way? mokuba was aware of his elder brother’s spontaneous anxiety attacks, usually a product of something having gone wrong, or the sudden remembrance of a traumatic event from their childhood. those had been somewhat quelled by mokuba’s quick work, in making sure his brother was calmly brought back to reality, his anxious state never questioned or downplayed, but rather, treated as a delicate situation. afterwards, unbeknownst to his poor sibling, he would drown himself in mind and body numbing substances to forget he’d ever been so weak ( in his definition of the word ), and he would be fine, again, for a time— in a sense.                                    this, however, was not something mokuba could solve, and the youth, intelligent and aware as ever, was knowledgeable of this. he fetched natalie as requested, explaining to her what was going on in a way that seto would approve of, for he couldn’t remember if the redhead had ever witnessed the powerful man amidst one of his anxiety spells. 

                                 “ h-hey, can you go… see seto? “                   “ can’t. he ran off, and i’m not going to chase after him again, only for him to sick his guard dogs on me a second time— no offense, minoru. “           “ none taken, miss. arrington. “                           mokuba stood there, conflicted as to how to go about this. on one hand, it was obvious seto had done something major to piss natalie off, especially if it had ended in him using his guards against her ( and, more importantly, the very same ones he oft tasked with protecting HER, too ). on the other— well, it was his brother, and every second that passed would only lead him to wearing himself out more and more.                  “ he’s, um… h-he’s not doin’ too well. i think he’s afraid you’re gonna leave him, or somethin’, ‘cuz you told him you hated him earlier. you’re not… you’re not leaving, are you, sis? you can’t leave seto, o-or me! we… we love you, ya know… “she recognized what he was doing, despite knowing there was a very real tinge of fear laced deeply within his innocent tone. he was using his good standing with her against her, his large eyes brimming with tears and drilling into her very core with guilt— seto, she could allow herself to be pissed at for as long as she desired, but mokuba… kid was as crafty as his older sibling, genuine tears or not.             “ i’m not leaving, mokuba. i would never, unless seto physically MADE me leave. “relief embraces the boy, and he visibly relaxes, knowing his brother would never forcefully cut natalie from his life. she had become too valuable of a person to them both, having practically earned her place as a kaiba, already. their little family, odd and small as it was, would be incomplete without her, a fact all three of them knew, and dared not argue.                            “ there’s this place hidden a few miles away from the main estate that he goes to when he needs a break. he doesn’t go there much anymore, but… just tell mr. endo to take you there; he’ll know where it is. “                    she turned to begin the journey to the limo, fishing out her cellular device just as it buzzed to life.                  [ Text from - Mokuba ]: i almost forgot. the keycode for the place is your nickname. not nat, but the one seto calls you                               ——– so even he used his significant other’s names and nicknames as private passwords to important things. and here, she thought he wasn’t the type to do ‘ sappy couple things. ‘ cute… she had to wonder if there was anything else among his various electronic devices that he’d incorporated a part of her, or their relationship, into.mushy ‘ un-seto-esque, but strangely seto-esque ‘ things aside, the drive was, indeed, surprisingly short. naturally, she questioned why the brunet hadn’t told her of this spot earlier, before realizing this was the location he ran off to during their previous big fights— right, because telling her where he was going was horribly counterproductive, especially when he was seeking to get AWAY from her. “ here you are, miss arrington, “ the driver stated, depositing her in front of the small structure, before turning around to head back to the mansion. she hesitated to key in the code, perhaps fearing he had changed it as a consequence of his anger towards her— yet, low and behold, just as mokuba had promised, the gadget dinged to confirm she had keyed it in properly, whirring momentarily before a faint ‘ CLICK ‘ signaled that the door was open.

                                 the billionaire barely registered her entry, his back loosely pressed against the wall still, head hanging in the palms of his sweaty hands. one leg remained fully extended, whilst the other had bent, knee pointed upwards toward the slanted ceiling for no specific reason, other than to keep it from locking amidst his unwillingness to move otherwise. “ seto? “ she called out, and he responded with naught else but a gesture for her to approach, chest rising and falling rapidly as he attempted, and failed, to secure a steady, rhythmic intake of air. his inhales were too sporadic and sharp, sounding more like dehydrated heaves, and such did not even begin to speak of how heavy his chest felt, as if a bundle of weights had been settled right above his lungs.                “ hey, breathe… “ gently, she tugged at his leg, urging it forward and extending it in the same fashion as its opposite. she waited to see if he would deny her, before settling atop his lap, pulling his hands off and away from his hair, her thumbs stroking the tops of his hands and she sought out his eyes— the very ones that purposely evaded her gaze. “ look at me - i’m here. breathe, seto… “                         exhausted blues slipped shut, disregarded in favor of focusing on his other senses. the feeling of her body against his was comforting enough, as usual, as was her scent. even better, as she settled his hands atop her legs, opting to smooth her own fingers through his hair to further calm him, and eventually, bring him down to a manageable level.             “ there you go… you’re fine, now. your mind became your own enemy again. “                            he was silent, slipping his eyes up to finally meet hers, before pulling her as close to him as possible. she looked as if she had been crying earlier— probably had been, given their exchange hadn’t necessarily been of the most pleasant variety. he hated the thought of being the reason for her to shed a single tear, besides one borne of happiness, and squeezed her smaller form as a silent, initial apology.                      although his breathing was still slightly labored, it was deescalating to a point where he trusted himself to speak again, without risking precious air or exerting himself. “ i’m… sorry. this whole situation, i shouldn’t have… it… i… “ a pause, as he shifted his face against her, fighting back the worsening lump that had begun to set up shop in the back of his throat. “… you don’t actually… “                                  “ no, seto. “ she was quick to answer him, anticipating his reluctant question. “ you did upset me earlier, and i know we’re known for saying things we don’t mean in the heat of the moment, but… that… was taking it too far. i don’t hate you— could never. you know that, right? “

                                  “ … sometimes, i think you’re a fool for falling in love with me. it wouldn’t surprise me if, one day, you did realize you hate me, and you just up and left me… “            wouldn’t surprise him, but it would certainly hurt him beyond a repairable level. how does one recover from losing the first and ONLY love of his or her life?                     never— there was no bouncing back from that, especially when he was already someone who was viewed in such a negative light.                  “ i come back to you everytime, don’t i?” she urges his face from her shoulder, her index tilting his head up by way of the sharp curvature of his chin. “ even when you’re being downright terrible, i haven’t once left, nor have you left me when i’ve been petty and tactless. if that isn’t proof that our separate stubbornness has seeped into our relationship and our bond, then… “ she falls off, planting a kiss to his lips, her nails still raking gently against his scalp. he was breathing normally now, as she had noticed. good… “ … perhaps you’re not as observant as you believe yourself to be, elbows. “he considered this, silently, searching for some hint of jest in her marvelous brown eyes. he found none, though, but even as his search came to an end, he continued to stare— APPRECIATING what he had, and foolishly assumed he had lost. he leaned in to capture her lips at the precise moment she leaned in to capture his own, his arms snaking around her body to keep her rooted there, as if she had any intentions of moving to begin with. “ you’ll stay, won’t you? “         “ thought i made it obvious i was… ? “                “ i meant tonight, in here… with me, but… that’s nice to hear, too, princess. please, don’t ever leave me - because i know you like to hear that, yourself. “

[milenadaniels]

Part 2 in the series + sequel to Momentary Reprieves.

Hit the Read More to read on Tumblr instead!

Months of researching, weeks of putting a plan together (admittedly longer than he usually had), 3 days of springing into action, and a scant 9 minutes in and out of the building where Derek was kept. It was a long time to live with such a poignant sense of urgency driving your every step, setting the rhythm of your heartbeats, manipulating your neurochemical responses. Insomnia, hyperfocus, surges of adrenaline - those side effects had served him well, especially on the two-hour car ride out of Dodge, as it were, on about three hours of sleep in the past two days. Derek, as always, had been utterly useless in that capacity, having opted to pass out due to his injuries pretty much as soon as the wheels crunched over gravel.

He woke up briefly to assist Stiles in hauling his nearly dead weight into the nondescript motel room in some suitably unknown town near the national forest, but he was out moments after hitting the mattress. Having been bloody, dirty, and very still, Stiles had stopped the car about 20 minutes out, when he felt relatively sure they weren’t being followed, to make sure Derek hadn’t actually died, and with a bit of poking and prodding, he determined they were fine to continue. Now, in the motel room, he enacted part two of the poking and the prodding (as well as he could given the immovable 200 pounds of werewolf he was dealing with). What wounds Stiles could see - and there were a nausea-inducing ton of them - were healing well enough, and he was fairly sure Derek was just sleeping it off.

So. That was it then. Derek in trouble, Derek saved. FBI and SWAT evaded. Good job, team. Time for a well deserved snack break and nap.

If only his racing mind would allow for something like that.

With an irate sigh, Stiles threw himself on the other double bed and slid his phone out of his pocket. He could really use Scott right now, or Lydia, or even Malia. But he hadn’t called them two months ago. He hadn’t called when he had a plan. He just...never called. What would he say now? “Hey guys, you’ll never guess what just happened two months ago…”

They’d made a promise, all of them, that they’d call him if ever there was trouble brewing in Beacon Hills. And they hadn’t called. They did call to catch up at least once a week but reports were that everything was calm back in the epicentre of hell. So, what? Stiles would call back home to let everyone know he found the supernatural drama all on his own without the need for a cursed town? He would rope them into leaving almost certain death to come risk it in fucking Virginia instead? Besides, there was a non-negligible chance their response would be “Damn, that sucks for Derek. It’s not your problem, though?” and somehow Stiles knew he wouldn’t react well to that. So really, better all around that he had gone it alone. And it worked out! Mostly. He just didn’t really know where to go from here. Which is why he really needed to talk to Scott. But...wash, rinse, and repeat.

Grumbling with frustration, Stiles rubbed the edge of his phone roughly against his brow and then lobbed it at the end of the bed. He picked up the old school tv remote instead. Sleep could wait. He wouldn’t be able to sleep with the paranoia that Derek could stop breathing at any moment anyway.

Stiles woke up half-choking on a breath that didn’t know if it was coming or going. Despite the rude awakening, and the annoyance that he hadn’t been able to stay awake after all, he felt a bit more grounded. Less on edge. Out of habit (because he did manage to check at least 4 times before he conked out), he turned his head to the left and focused in on the line of Derek’s ribcage.

In and out, right on schedule. That was something.

The sun had barely been peeking over the horizon by the time they’d gotten into this motel room, but it looked to be high in the sky now. He should probably close those drapes better, but the sun didn’t seem to be bothering the rock that was Derek’s body any so who cared.

Having gotten (some of) the rest he needed, Stiles’ stomach reminded him about the snacking half of his recuperation formula. His phone confirmed it was mid-afternoon, so Derek had been sleeping for at least seven or so hours, counting the two in the car. Did that mean that he’d be likely to wake up soon - and would therefore freak out if he woke up to find Stiles gone for takeout - or did it mean he’d be out another twelve hours while Stiles slowly starved to death on the neighbouring bed?

Stiles was nothing if not solutions-oriented, and 32 minutes later, he was opening the motel door exactly four inches wide and obscuring any views of the room with his body while both he and the pizza delivery guy tried to pretend everything in this very sketchy situation was fine. It all worked out. Some toppings went askew when he tipped the box over to fit in the gap but mostly a success.

Halfway through the large pizza and two episodes of a MASH marathon, the sheets of Derek’s bed rustled. Hesitantly, Stiles transferred the pizza box from his lap onto the small table and took his feet off the other chair, letting his own settle back on all four legs.

“Derek?”

Nothing.

“You waking up?” he whispered.

In response, Derek let out a sound between a gasp and a cry. Stiles was on his feet instantly but stopped a foot short of the bed. It was never a good idea to startle a half-aware werewolf.

“Derek? You back with me, dude?”

Derek’s eyes were screwed shut and his brows were drawn close together. He seemed to be trying to move up his elbow on the bed to prop himself up.

“Hey, you don’t need to get up. Just waking up is a win, trust me.”

Derek didn’t acknowledge him. One moment he was gasping in pain, the next he’d taken a large breath and forced his arm out to shove himself into a sitting position at the edge of the bed. Well, it would have been a sitting position if he hadn’t immediately curled down over his knees.

Without conscious thought, Stiles threw out his hands to catch his shoulders. Unfortunately, just-waking-up-Derek did not take kindly to people in his space. Fortunately , he was too weak for his shove to really hurt and the other bed was kind enough to catch him.

“Okay. Gotcha. Sorry, no touchies. Probably got way too many touchies in the last while.” He winced at his lack of tact but he felt an irrational urge to ramble. “You doing okay? Good nap? Any immediate pains we need to address? How’s your stomach? You said it hurt when...earlier.”

Derek was very obviously tuning him out. To be fair, he was such an ashen colour that Stiles was reminded of the first time he become familiar with wolfsbane. Derek had been that exact shade right at the end when he demanded his arm be cut off. Actually, now that he thought about it...

“Hey,” Stiles tried again, his voice losing its comedic edge. “I know there’s a lot to process, but there are healing puncture wounds on your arms.” It took several seconds, but Derek absently looked down at his sleeve covered arms, so at least they were in the ballpark of being on the same page. “I saw them when I got you out of there. Did they inject you with wolfsbane? I’m not seeing any conspicuous black veins but I don’t know what else they would have given you. I’ve got some with me if we need to burn it.”

Derek, having had his fill of looking at bloodied and dirty sleeves, rested his elbows on his knees and let his head hang.

“Hey, come on,” Stiles pestered. “This is important. Literally life-or-death import-”

Derek shook his head.

“No? No, you weren’t injected with wolfsbane?”

Derek paused, then shook his head again with more confidence. He coughed twice to clear his throat, then lifted his wrists.

“It was in the cuffs.” His voice sounded like he’d gargled glass. Which, given the deep burn marks on his neck, was probably entirely justified.

“Can it poison you that way?”

Derek shook his head again.

“So what did they inject you with? Can you tell if it’s still in your system?”

Derek’s brow furrowed. He looked over at Stiles, who followed his gaze down to his hands.

“It’s out of my system,” Derek said with a sigh Stiles couldn’t interpret. There were so many follow-up questions begging to be asked, but Stiles didn’t want to overwhelm him now that he was responsive.

“Three cheers for the werewolf metabolism!” He tried to muster up some actual cheer but, given the topic, his enthusiasm couldn’t quite get there. Instead, he looked over to the pizza forgotten on the table. “You’re probably star-”

Without warning, Derek shot up to his feet and Stiles instinctively leaned back to make some room between the beds. That is, of course, until Derek realized being vertical had not been a good idea and his knees started to buckle.

With a grunted “why do you always have to make everything more difficult?”, Stiles jumped up and threw an arm around Derek’s waist to try to keep him from falling, but when he tried to guide him back down to the bed, Derek found some reserves of strength and fought to stay up.

“What are you doing?” Stiles snapped.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Derek ground out like he had no idea his face was a mask of pain. Like it was normal to wake up from a torture coma to just get back up and shrug it off for a pee break.

“And it doesn’t occur to you that I am literally a foot away? And, like a normal person, you could say ‘Hey Stiles, buddy, mind giving me a hand across the room?’ instead of faceplanting into what has to be very suspect motel carpeting? Has it not occurred to you yet that stubbornly doing things on your own does not achieve the best results?” Stiles pushed himself away as far as he could while still supporting him so Derek could see his face. “What is wrong with you? Genuine question. You are beat half to hell, I can’t even guess the other half of whatever they did to you because no one has ever faulted psychopaths of not being creative, and I’m standing right the fuck here. Offering help.”

“Stiles,” Derek bit.

“What?” He fired back.

“Mind giving me a hand across the room?” He asked, nonchalantly.

Fucking Derek Hale. Stiles sucked on his teeth for half a second and bit down the rest of what could have turned into a tirade.

“No, Derek,” he replied in kind. “I don’t mind giving you a hand across the room.”

The two of them now working together, they shuffled around the second bed and got to the bathroom without incident. Just when Stiles was mustering up the objectivity to offer to help him relieve himself, Derek swung out of Stiles’ grip, levered himself into the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

“Oh that’s just...super,” Stiles griped, gnashing his teeth and curling his hands into fists instead of throwing middle fingers at the door. Okay, he threw one. It’s not like werewolves have x-ray vision.

With a disgruntled sigh, he sat back down on the bed and waited. There was silence for an almost worryingly long time, but then Derek was moving again, and Stiles tried not to listen but what are you gonna do. Actually - he turned the tv back up, MASH was still going. Silence fell again in the bathroom. Then, the sound of the shower curtain screeching against the metal rod as it was pulled back.

“Are you serious right now.”

The shower turned on.

“Dude, you can barely stand!” he yelled at the door.

The shower stayed on.

“Fine, break your fucking neck. Why not? See if I care!”

The shower curtain screeched again as it was closed.

Stiles went back to gnashing his teeth and resolved not to listen. Derek could slip and crash and get knocked out and Stiles wouldn’t budge from this fucking bed. Fuck him. He was a werewolf, he’d survive a broken neck. Not like he was going to drown in 2 inches of water. Unless he fell on his face maybe.

Someone was getting upset on MASH, but he didn’t know why. They started yelling and Stiles reflexively turned the volume down a couple bars. Derek had been in there ten minutes at least. No falls yet. But Stiles wasn’t about to make the mistake of thinking it would turn out fine.

Turning back to MASH, he found himself annoyed just looking at the characters. He didn’t know what was happening and he didn’t care. Instead of trying to focus, he got off the bed and pulled the second duffel onto the table - pointedly ignoring the first duffel emblazoned with the yellow “FBI” lettering on the side - and pulled out what he needed.

“Hey, ingrate,” he called through the bathroom door. “If you survive, there’s clean clothes at the door for you.”

No response.

Stiles rolled his eyes and dug out his phone. Now would be a great time to text Scott an update, or an all-caps rant. Instead, he googled keywords about the FBI op to see if they’d reported anything yet.

They had.

With a heavy heart, Stiles clicked on the headline that read “FBI Uncover Paramilitary Operation in VA”. Quickly, he scanned the text and, much like at a Nicholas Sparks movie, he could have wept by the end. According to the article, the FBI had been pursuing a suspect out of North Carolina and across state lines into Virginia, but had instead found a militia of unknown origin and affiliation (good luck investigating their wolf fetish). The Bureau didn’t believe Derek was part of the militia, and there was no mention of an errant FBI intern having made off with their suspect, though Stiles had doubted they’d easily admit to that. It only said that Derek continued to be a person of interest. That was huge. Stiles hadn’t been with the FBI long but there was a significant importance placed on nomenclature and if they were treating him as a “person of interest”, it meant he’d been officially downgraded from “suspect”. Small mercies.

Stiles was so engrossed in trying to find other sources to make sure that writer hadn’t just paraphrased that he didn’t hear the shower turn off or the door open until it was closed again with a soft click.

So, Derek survived the shower then. Bully for him. Stiles sighed guiltily, then realized with great annoyance that he’d been spending the past half day sighing almost constantly - in relief, in irritation, with pure fatigue. He’d become long-suffering. That thought made him snort, which was a nice change of pace.

The door to the bathroom opened again and there was Derek, leaning against the doorframe, still mostly damp and disheveled. The marks at his wrists and neck were healing quickly, but they were still a garish red against his otherwise pale skin. Otherwise, however, he looked like a brand new person. His skin was free from the dust and dried blood, his hair no long slicked flat with sweat, and his fifth-day-in-a-horror-movie clothes were replaced with the provided soft navy blue henley and dark gray sweatpants.

“Feel better?” Stiles asked pointedly, not able to keep the snit out of his voice.

Derek didn’t react to his attitude, he just nodded and said, “yeah, lots” in such a tone of relief that, just like that, most of Stiles’ irritation faded.

“Good. That’s good.”

Derek tugged on the hem of the shirt with a shadow of a grin. “It fits, this time.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not one of mine so that’s a given, and Wal-Mart doesn’t size things in ‘absolutely ridiculous’ so I just got some extra larges and hoped for the best.”

The smile on Derek’s face moved out of the shadows and inched its way into the bright light. It warmed Stiles and made him feel...squirmy.

“You hungry?” When Derek looked torn between a laugh and crying, he asked, “Were they - Did they even feed you?”

Derek huffed a dark laugh. “Not that I remember. But I don’t...know...how long I was there so I don’t know.”

“About six weeks.”

“Huh,” Derek replied, looking and sounding soul-weary all of a sudden. “Then they probably did at some point or I would have lost a lot more weight.”

Stiles nodded. “Well I’ve got pizza here though it’s gotten pretty cold. But if you haven’t eaten in a while, it would probably be best to start slow.”

Derek shrugged against the door jamb. He made no indications of wanting to sit down so Stiles didn’t offer. Instead, he went back to the duffel on the table and pulled out some honey packets and squeezed by Derek to fill the carafe of the coffee machine at the sink. He dumped the water in the tank and turned it on with an empty filter. When the water had boiled, Derek watched as Stiles emptied some into a mug along with three packets of honey.

“You do realize I’m a wolf, not a deer.”

“You do realize people who’ve been starved for a long time can die if they just jump into a buffet? This is the thing mostly likely to not shock your system if your stomach is too far gone.”

Derek wasn’t convinced and he tried to protest again. “You do realize I’m a werewolf and not a human. I’ve lost maybe ten pounds. They probably had an IV feeding me.”

“That’s not how that works. Your body have been given nutrients but your stomach hasn’t done anything in a long time and it’s gonna need an adjustment period. Can you please just sit your ass down and drink your honey water? If you can manage that, I’ll give you full reign on the pizza.”

Derek finally sat down at the table. The first few mouthfuls were spaced well apart, and by the look on his face, you could have sworn he was drinking mud. When he got tired of trying to force it, Derek just held the warm mug in his hands and sat back.

“How did you find me?”

Stiles smirked. “I told you, magic.”

Derek looked confused.

“I said that on the ride here, you were in and out. But yeah, coincidence and google-fu mostly. Magic.”

“You’re alone,” Derek remarked.

“Yeah,” Stiles admitted. “Not because the others didn’t want to come or anything. I just, haven’t gotten around to involving them yet.”

“Good.”

Stiles couldn’t help but smile at that. So predictable.

“How did you get...involved?” Derek asked.

He could have explained the lead-up - his internship, his classes, his petitioning the instructors to focus on the Hale case - but that wasn’t ready for public consumption yet.

Stiles shrugged. “You know me. Always at the wrong place at the right time.” Whether he accepted that answer at face value or just didn’t feel like pushing, Derek nodded. “Better question is, how the hell did you?” It had been nagging at him for weeks now. The FBI had plenty of information from the time Derek was accused of murder but nothing about what got him to that point in time. And though he’d shoved it to the back of his mind throughout the search and through the op, he found that the question refused to stay dormant any longer. He needed answers. So when Derek shrugged as if he was going to brush the question off too, a spike of annoyance sliced through Stiles.

“No, seriously, what happened? You... evolved , you drove off into the sunset with the girl, supposedly to leave all this shit behind you. Next thing we know, despite not hearing from you in ages, she comes back alone, and then I find you captured and being tortured. Again.”

Derek frowned lightly. “Braeden went back?”

“Who cares!”

The frown stayed in place and was followed by a careless shrug. “We were on the road a bit, but she was chasing down leads on a case so we went our own ways.”

“I know that, we saw her . It’s you who stayed MIA.”

“Just a second ago you were talking like it was a good thing I left.”

“It was!”

“But I was supposed to go back?”

“No,” Stiles insisted vehemently.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Then I don’t know what you’re angry about.”

“I’m not angry,” he said, “I’m just…”

“...disappointed,” they said at the same time, a silly, wry smile growing on both their faces. The tension dissipated and Derek went back to attempting to drink his honey water. But Stiles remained contemplative. Despite his assurance to the contrary, there was an anger roiling inside him but he couldn’t quite tease it apart or name it. There was disappointment, not in the stern way a parent would be disappointed, but not having Derek around...it had been disappointing. He’d run into that feeling so many times around Scott, at school, at the preserve. Any number of things would remind him of Derek - a nice car, a particular shade of blue, someone playing chess, someone with his same initials carved on a library shelf. And each time he’d be struck with a strange...loneliness. But alongside that loneliness had come a sense of peace and contentment, and he’d used that feeling to get through so many of the hard moments in the past years, but now, nothing he did could call it up.

“You were supposed to be safe,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the dormant coffee machine. “You were supposed to...I don’t know, buy a farm or a ranch or a cabin by the sea. Maybe get a dog or something. A cat. You seem like a weird cat person. I don’t know. But that’s what you were supposed to do.” He could heard himself getting louder but he couldn’t pull himself back. “You were supposed to have a fucking vegetable garden and your biggest problem should have been something like porch repairs! Sock darning! For fuck’s sake, Derek, you were supposed to be okay!”

Derek frowned down at his mug, looking a little shell-shocked. “I didn’t exactly go looking for trouble.”

“You don’t need to, you’re a fucking magnet for it,” Stiles lamented, rubbing his hands over his face. “But that’s not the point.”

“Then what’s the point, Stiles? What do you want to hear?” Derek threw back. “They found me. They always find me. I outran them as long as I could. But it’s never far enough.” And wasn’t that just fucking heartbreaking. “What the hell do you want from me?”

“I want you to be safe .”

“You’ve said that, but it doesn’t seem to be up to me now, does it?” Derek all but yelled, his eyes wide and helplessly angry. “Trust me, I would like nothing better than to kick back in a hammock for a day. I would love to get a fucking cat! I would give up actual years of my life to - fuck - to have a shitty studio apartment in the middle of nowhere where no one knew my name and I wasn’t sure to get maimed at least once a month.” Stiles’ throat was closing around unshed tears, but Derek still wasn’t getting it. “You think I wouldn’t? But I can’t have that. I can’t.”

“Then you come home,” Stiles ground out wobbily, finally looking up to catch Derek’s gaze and jabbing a finger into the tabletop to emphasize his point. “I...if you were out there somewhere, living a peaceful life, then fine. Beacon Hills is literally the mouth of hell, it’s unsafe, it’s a nightmare not all of us survived. But you didn’t escape that, it chased you down, and you were on the run for months and not once did you call. Not once did you come back and ask for help.”

“Is that what this is?” Derek asked tiredly. “You’re pissed I didn’t call for backup?”

“No!” Stiles yelled, throwing himself out of his suddenly too-restrictive chair to stand. “I’m pissed you weren’t ours .”

If Derek hadn’t looked punched out before, he certainly did now.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, pacing and biting on his lips to try to keep the tears of frustration, exhaustion, and grief at bay. “Do you have any idea what the past year has been like? We found out that you can get a were-anything if you really set your mind to it. A douchebag kid from our childhoods came back and infiltrated the pack. You would have hated him. You would have - Oh and I killed a guy. All on my own. Look, ma, no possession!” Derek got up from the table, so Stiles paced in the opposite direction and took the opportunity to wipe a couple traitorous tears away. “And there was that time I was fucking wiped out of existence. Scott, Lydia, my dad forgot me completely. Did you? Hm? Did you wake up one day and suddenl-”

He reached the end of the room and turned back to find Derek not six inches away from him and looking wretched.

“I didn’t,” Derek said with conviction. “I didn’t forget you. Whatever...happened, it didn’t reach this far.”

Stiles bit down on his trembling lips and nods. “It’s been hard.” He huffed a sad laugh. “It’s always been hard. God knows the whole...being possessed thing was no walk in the park. You getting aged down was just... But it was harder, without you. There were so many times I wanted to just walk into the loft and ask you about something, or walk into a fight and see you beside us. So many times I thought, you would have been quicker. You’d have figured things out faster. Fought harder. But you weren’t there and I was so okay with that. Really, I was.” Stiles’ eyes are too wide, pleading with Derek to believe him. “I was okay with that because I thought you’d escaped it all and I wasn’t about to drag you back into the mess of tragedy and chaos that is Beacon Hills. I thought you were free from that nightmare finally. But you weren’t. You weren’t fucking free of it at all. It wasn’t any better out here past the sunset. So why didn’t you come back? To us?”

Stiles had never felt this raw, this exposed - by the end he was speaking in a hushed whisper - but that was the question. The one that had rested in the back of his mind, biding its time, building on any resentment, the implied rejection, the loneliness it could find until now, when it finally had its desired audience. And Stiles felt like shit for even putting it out there. Derek’s eyes were as glassy as his felt. He looked gutted. In the wake of weeks of torture, it was Stiles who was going to break him. Stiles almost wished that he could take the last five minutes back, but that wouldn’t solve anything.

Instead, he closed those scant six inches of distance and wrapped his arms around Derek like he could leech all the pain he’d caused out of him. He expected, after a speech like that, for this to be a very one-sided hug but in a matter of seconds, Derek’s arms were coming up and encircling Stiles, grasping tighter and tighter until they had to breathe in complementary rhythms because there simply wasn’t room for both of them to breathe in together.

“I would have come back if you asked,” Derek murmured into his neck.

“I didn’t want you to,” Stiles replied softly, laying his head down Derek’s shoulder, being mindful of the neck burns. “I wanted you to be-”

“-safe, yeah, I got that part,” Derek finished wryly. A chuckle surprised its way out of Stiles and jostled them apart, but they didn’t go far. Stiles could see a small wet patch on Derek’s shirt, but he knew he had a similar patch on his own shoulder. Neither of them mentioned it. “I wanted that for you too.”

Stiles nodded, smiling gently. “We’re full of great intentions.”

“Not so much at communicating though.”

That got an honest-to-god laugh out of Stiles. “No, that we are not. Where would the fun be in that?”

“In a vegetable patch with a cat, apparently.”

Stiles laughed again and smiled fondly. “God, I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

They stayed in their bubble for a few more comfortable moments, and Stiles thought if he just closed that distance again, he could fall into Derek’s arms and not leave until the sun went down and came back up. But the mission wasn’t over yet, and he didn’t have the luxury of just...giving in. So with a deep breath - one that made him feel lighter than he had in a while - he gestured towards the table.

“You still need to eat something of actual substance,” he reminded them. “You don’t seem in a hurry to upchuck that honey so the pizza might be okay. Or we can order something else now that you’re awake. Salad. Sandwich. Do they deliver steak? Whatever you want.”

Derek interrupted his ramble by taking one of his hands. The touch was uncertain and light, and it sent waves of gentle electricity from Stiles’ palm to his chest. There was no way Derek couldn’t hear the uptick in his heartbeat.

“Stiles,” Derek began, looking equal parts earnest and lost for words. Stiles squeezed around his hand, feeling Derek’s squeeze back immediately. Then, he shook his head lightly and said simply, heartfeltly, “Thank you.”

Stiles ducked his head and smiled. “Anytime,” he said. “Anywhere.”

A reckless promise, maybe, but it was turning out to be his one constant truth in life. And he was okay with that.

[spxdergwens]

THIS IS YOUR CLEAN SLATE —

“Oh, hell—” 

Gwen was usually smoother than this. At least, that was what she liked to think. Falling onto the rooftop, she landed on her side, rolling over in the gravel that lined the floor, feeling her arms and legs get bruised—even though she knew that it would heal up in a matter of minutes, that didn’t stop it from hurting right then. 

Lying on her back for a moment, she let out a low groan, her headphones still in her ears. “Dad? Dad, are you still there?” Nothing. The line must have gotten cut off when she fell, but it didn’t bother her too much. He knew what she was doing. She’d call him back later.

Sitting up with another soft groan, she reached a white gloved hand up to her head, her fingertips sliding against her mask as she looked around, trying to figure out where she was. She didn’t recognize this part of the city—but she had her phone, she was sure she could figure it out, right? Standing up slowly, she winced, feeling sore all over after getting into a fight with fucking—Matt Murderdock of all people. 

Reaching a hand up to her ribs, she rested her palm flat against her side, waiting for the pain to subside and her bruised ribs to heal over already. She tilted her head, looking down at the street. Now, this place definitely looked different—but she just figured she was on the north side of the city, the part of New York she hadn’t properly explored yet, and that was fine. She could make her way home. 

Taking a deep breath, she stepped off the ledge of the roof, stretching out an arm and watching the webbing shoot out from the gauntlet on her wrist, her white hood fluttering in the wind as she swung across the street. She swung down the street quickly, going quite a few blocks before she stopped, landing lightly on a fire escape to catch her breath. The further she went, the more confused she got—which didn’t make any sense. Maybe it’d be easier to just find a subway station dressed in her civilian clothes. 

Taking her backpack off her shoulders, she quickly changed into jeans and a hoodie, running her hand through her short hair to mess it up and make it look less like it had just been squeezed under a tight mask for the last few hours. Unceremoniously shoving her suit into her backpack, she zipped it up before putting in her headphones and turning on her music. 

That’s weird. Her phone was showing that she had no service, but that didn’t make sense in the city like this. There were cell towers everywhere, and there wasn’t a single place in New York where Gwen hadn’t gotten service. Gwen shook her head. Something must have happened to it when she landed on the roof. 

What was more concerning was that her watch, the one that let her travel between dimensions—it wasn’t glowing. Not like it normally did. She tapped it a few times with her finger, but there was still nothing. A frown dragged across her features, but again, she was sure it could all be fine. She’d just take it to Reed later, and he could fix it. Hell, the kid had made an entire interdimensional portal on his own. Fixing a watch should be nothing. 

Jumping down from the fire escape, she started walking, looking for a bus stop or a subway station, her transit pass shoved into the back pocket of her jeans. At first, nothing seemed off. It seemed like a normal street. But then—something about it was different. 

There were palm trees—where the fuck did you find palm trees in New York?  A frown tugged down at the corners of her lips, and catching sight of a display behind glass that was playing the news, she immediately went over there to at least try and figure out what the hell was going on.

Tugging her headphones from her ears, she tilted her head, her eyes growing wide at the news. 

20-YEAR-OLD COLLEGE STUDENT BRUTALLY SLAIN BY GREEN GOBLIN

Above the headline? A picture of her.

That wasn’t right. She shook her head—this had to be a separate dimension, a separate city. Gwen immediately started tapping her watch again—work, dammit, work! It didn’t light up. When she pressed the buttons, nothing happened. She started to hyperventilate, and she forced herself to calm down, trying to make herself take slow, deep breaths. 

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. With shaking hands, she tugged her headphones out of her phone, trying frantically to call her dad, but without any service, nothing happened. Looking back up at the screen, the newscaster was showing pictures now. Pictures of herself from this world, a version of herself that was wildly different—but still had that same smile. The same face. The same ambition. The same drive. 

She was dead. Dead. 

Gwen stumbled backwards, her jaw dropped and her eyes wide. Looking around to make sure no one had seen her, she lifted the hood of her sweatshirt up to cover her face enough that no one passing by would catch sight of the dead girl. What the hell was she supposed to do? It wasn’t like she could just go see the people she would usually rely on in this situation, they all thought she was dead. Her hands shook and she struggled to breathe, and in the absence of another option—

She ran. 

She went to the funeral. Her own funeral. The her of this earth. It was surreal, to say the least—would her funeral back home look like this?

Probably not. Gwen had spent too much time pulling away from the people she cared about. This girl—because Gwen couldn’t think of this Gwen as herself, no, they were different people—had so many people. The funeral seemed to be packed, full of people she didn’t know and probably couldn’t know, either. 

She watched from afar, her phone out and carefully taking pictures, making sure to catch the faces of everyone there. Faces of people she absolutely had to avoid. God, where was Reed when she needed him? If he was here, it would have been so easy to just get the watch fixed and go home. It had been days now. 

Her dad had to be worried sick. What about Fisk? He was probably wreaking absolute havoc on the city, and Castle was probably smug as all hell, thinking that Spider-Woman was gone forever. She had to go home. She had to. For now, however, she was stuck here, and there was nothing she could do about that.

All she could do was try to make the best of the literal worst situation there was. 

After the funeral was over, hours later, when everyone had finally left, she dropped down from where she had been watching. She pressed her lips together, running her fingertips over the headstone. 

Gwendolyne Maxine Stacy. Beloved daughter, sister, and friend. August 1st, 1996—May 8th, 2017. 

Whoa. 

Gwen felt sort of nauseous looking at it. She pulled her hand back from the gravestone, fighting the urge to cry. Jesus, why am I crying? She didn’t know why she was crying—she didn’t know this girl. This wasn’t her earth. She let out a deep sigh, blinking back tears before they could escape onto her cheeks. 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Why, she didn’t know—but she just needed to say it. 

Looking back up at the stone, at her name engraved there, she pushed her hair out of her face again. Her lower lip trembled. 

“I’m so goddamn sorry this happened to you.”