#or if you shoot his barrel (which is hard) and his tracks and he lets you do all of that and THEN you go around him to shoot his side

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (3 - The Neighbor)

Chapter Summary: Agnes sees the perfect opportunity to stir up some trouble while Wanda deals with her jealousy toward your work assistant, Geraldine. Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 2.8k+ | Chapter Tags/Warnings: None

A/N: I really have nothing to say except that I enjoyed writing Agatha in this chapter // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The team has been at a standstill, figuring out who’s behind this, or how to communicate with anyone trapped inside the town. Every drone they've sent in morphs into something entirely different, thwarting their efforts to gather any useful intel. The people sent underground to scout a safe route through have gone dark, their communication cut off. No one else volunteered to attempt approaching the perimeter after that.

The broadcasts they've been tracking are erratic, cutting out for hours with no warning, making it hard to keep a consistent eye on the town's odd behaviors. But it's during one of these quiet periods when something clicks in Darcy's mind.

“I think I have something,” Darcy blurts out to Jimmy. They’ve been scraping the bottom of the barrel, running out of faces to identify from the snippets of life in Westview they caught on screen. 

“Yeah?” Jimmy gives her a tired look, only half-listening. He can't remember the last time he managed more than an hour of uninterrupted sleep. Even if he could find the time to rest, the bizarre situation they're in won't let his mind relax. 

Darcy sighs and leads him outside the tent.

“So, you’ve seen that radio on Wanda’s kitchen counter, right?”

Jimmy only nods.

Darcy continues, “The next time she’s washing dishes, or whatever—which by my count—happens about once an episode, barf, we’ll shoot a signal to that little guy.” She leads him to a set of computers set up behind a pickup truck. Jimmy doesn’t understand what’s going on with these systems, but he’s hoping Darcy really is onto something.

“This transmitter will mimic the frequency of the broadcast,” she pauses to catch her breath in the cold and to give him time to catch up with her science. “And if my theory is right, it will allow us to speak to her.”

She cuts off any chance for Jimmy to comment and assures him, “This is definitely going to work.”

–

The annual Westview Harvest Festival is in full swing. The town square is packed with booths overflowing with baked goods and fresh fall produce. A small stage is set up for the local band playing tunes from the 70s, while kids dart around in all directions, their faces painted with fanciful designs. Billy and Tommy are with their preschool teachers, who are keeping them and other children their age occupied with arts and crafts that involve tumbleweeds—a material no one seems to think is entirely safe for five-year-olds to play with.

In hindsight, it’s the ideal setting for introductions and mingling. However, everyone here already knows each other—everyone, that is, except for Wanda. She makes an effort to blend in, but apart from a few interactions with the planning committee, which weren’t particularly fruitful, she often remains secluded at home. This makes you, the only one in the household who heads out daily for work, the more socially connected of the two. It’s both amusing and slightly anxiety-inducing to watch you interact with the townsfolk who are essentially strangers to you and to Wanda, if only you knew. You and Wanda never had the opportunity to live a normal life, to settle in a typical city, surrounded by neighbors who could have become integral to the life you might have built together. 

Seeing you interact with these people, she’s realizing it’s harder than she thought to share you with others. Or maybe she’s just as selfish as she’s always been, never really outgrowing it. When you were both part of the Avengers, it was like living in a bubble, surrounded by only a few familiar faces every day. Now, outside that controlled environment, it’s challenging her expectations and stirring up feelings she thought she had under control.

It becomes particularly tough when she sees Geraldine heading towards you, sporting that perpetual, dazzling smile full of perfect white teeth. Wanda's fingers curl into a fist, tiny wisps of red energy leaking from them. You quickly cover her hand with yours, and the effect is immediate—she relaxes slightly, letting you intertwine your fingers with hers, anchoring herself by your side where she feels secure.

“It's so nice to see you outside of the office, just being one of us for a change,” Geraldine says, though she seems to be wearing the same uniform as at work. Not that you're judging, but it does make you wonder why she hasn't changed.

“Definitely beats being stuck behind a desk,” you reply, your attention briefly wandering. Only then do you notice that Wanda has subtly withdrawn her hand from yours, now exploring a booth with homemade apple cider. You hadn't even noticed the exact moment she let go.

“Hello, Wanda!” Geraldine greets her warmly. 

Wanda musters a tight-lipped smile that’s convincing enough, as Geraldine appears quite taken with it. Just then, Geraldine spots Agnes standing a little away from the crowd, lingering behind Wanda with a look that borders on suspicion or disdain. 

Geraldine steps up to her while Wanda continues to busy herself with whatever else is being showcased in the booth. “Hi, I'm Geraldine. Isn’t this a wonderful evening?” She extends her hand to Agnes.

Agnes eyes the offered hand but doesn’t accept it. Instead, she sizes up Geraldine with a quick once-over and nods, foregoing any introductions. Geraldine's smile falters briefly, but she quickly shakes off the slight, tossing a brisk, “See you around, Y/N!” over her shoulder as she heads back to her table.

You wave back and let out a sigh, relieved that you’ve just sidestepped what could have been the most awkward moment of your life. Wanda’s jealousy towards Geraldine seems more serious than you’d realized. You know Wanda can be possessive; it's just been a long time since it's manifested this way. But then, it's also been a while since you've both been in a crowd of strangers like this. Since…

Since when, exactly?

“Y/N, honey?” Wanda’s voice snaps you out of your fog.

You blink. “Hm?”

“I’m thirsty.”

Just like that, you’ve forgotten about your lapse of memory, replaced by a desire to tend to your wife's needs.

“I’ll get us some refreshments. What would you like?” you ask.

“Just some water, please.”

“Water here, too,” Agnes calls out, unsolicited. 

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. It's great that Wanda's making friends in the neighborhood, but did it really have to be Agnes O’Connor? Ever since you and Wanda moved into this quiet suburb, Agnes has made it her personal mission to be involved in every aspect of your lives. You can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it than the apparent nosiness of your neighbor.

As you head over to get the drinks, Agnes sidles up to Wanda, her eyes gleaming with an opportunity to stir some pot. 

“Geraldine seems quite taken with your wife.”

It’s not like Wanda doesn’t know what Agnes’s doing, but she finds herself nodding in agreement anyway. Your new assistant does appear smitten with you, and while Wanda gets the appeal—you are, undeniably, crush-worthy—she can't say she's thrilled about it.

“Y/N is her boss,” Wanda murmurs, more to herself than to Agnes.

“Oh, honey,” Agnes laughs condescendingly. “Do you even go to the movies? That's how the steamiest affairs start, you know.”

Wanda bristles at the sound of that endearment from someone other than you. But she keeps herself together—barely. 

“I trust her,” Wanda forces out.

As you're getting drinks, Geraldine joins you, picking up a soda herself. She lets out a light laugh at a joke from the bartender, and you find yourself chuckling too, oblivious to the piercing look your wife is drilling into your back.

Meanwhile, Agnes sees her opening and swoops in, linking her arm through Wanda's with a bit more force than necessary. 

“Of course, you trust her, dear,” she murmurs right by Wanda's ear. “But do you trust her?” She points subtly with her chin towards Geraldine, her lips pursed. “You know what they say, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer…”

Wanda's shoulders tense, her entire frame stiffening. As you return with the drinks, Agnes steps away, leaving Wanda visibly shaken, like she’s teetering on the edge of a panic attack.

“Everything okay?” you ask, handing her a drink. You've noticed before how Wanda's demeanor changes around Agnes; she’s clearly a source of stress for her. It’s going to be a difficult conversation, but it might be time to tell Wanda what you really think about the neighbor.

Wanda takes the water you offer, her fingers trembling slightly as she does. For a moment, she appears distant, disengaged, as if her mind is elsewhere. Then, with a sudden shift, she flashes you one of those smiles that sends a shiver down your spine.

“I'm fine,” she declares, a little too brightly. Then, seemingly out of the blue, she asks, “Is Geraldine here with someone?”

You stop short, realizing you really don't know much about Geraldine beyond work. “I didn’t see her with anyone,” you say.

Wanda nods thoughtfully. Her next suggestion catches you by surprise. 

“Maybe you should invite her over to our table.”

Did you hear that correctly? Had Wanda just done a complete 180 regarding your assistant and was now interested in getting to know her? You shoot a suspicious glance at Agnes. Had she said something to Wanda to change her mind?

“Are you sure?” you ask, puzzled by her abrupt change of heart.

“I am,” Wanda affirms. “It might be nice to make a new friend.”

–

Back at the response camp, Darcy and Jimmy are huddled around the small, grainy television, waiting for the moment Wanda’s in her kitchen so they can send a message through her radio device. However, the usual domestic scenes are conspicuously absent, replaced by static and sporadic cuts to the ongoing Harvest Festival.

“Come on, come on,” Darcy mutters under her breath, shoving her glasses back up her nose. They've been slipping a lot lately, probably because she's been hunching over her work more than usual these past few days.

“It's this festival,” Jimmy says, squinting at the screen. “I think the whole town's out there tonight. I don’t think we’re going to get the chance.”

Their attempts to contact anyone inside the Hex are dwindling, and Hayward's interest leans more towards studying the energy barrier encasing the town rather than resolving the anomaly itself. His latest directive to launch another drone into the barrier feels like a brute force attempt to crack the problem. Jimmy thinks it’s a waste of time—and resources.

“Yeah, and you know what’s worse?” Darcy grumbles. “I have a bad feeling about Agnes. Every time she's around, things just seem to... escalate.”

As they watch, the screen cuts to a shot of Agnes at the festival, linking arms with Wanda, whispering something that makes Wanda’s expression tighten. “See, what did I tell you?” Darcy exclaims, pointing at the screen. “Who’s this Agnes again in real life?” she asks.

Jimmy swivels in his chair, his gaze sweeping across the expansive pinboard filled with photos of Westview residents. Agnes’s face is not among them. 

“No idea,” he says flatly. He had already run a search in the database, but it came back empty.

“So, we've identified Y/N, Monica, and Agnes as outsiders in Westview,” Darcy explains, tallying them off on her fingers. 

“That’s correct,” Jimmy confirms.

“And then there’s Wanda’s sons. But again… we haven’t seen any other children in the show besides the twins.”

Jimmy thinks about it for a while. It had never really occurred to him before. “Maybe they’re bound to show up at some point?”

“Smells fishy to me,” Darcy huffs. Her thoughts circle back to Agnes. “How do you think Agnes ended up here?” she asks, their list of unanswered questions growing daily.

Jimmy shrugs. “She could’ve just been visiting.”

Darcy considers it. It's a possibility, but somehow, it doesn't feel quite right—too simple, too convenient for someone as vibrant and prickly as the character Agnes portrays.

–

It's as if Wanda's animosity toward Geraldine just magically went away. 

They’ve been chatting for almost an hour. Initially, Wanda made sure to include you in the conversation, but as time passed, she and Geraldine started connecting over topics that didn’t involve you as much. Feeling somewhat left out but also at ease that the problem between your wife and your secretary has apparently resolved itself, you decide to check out the festival booths.

This is where Agnes finds the perfect opportunity to get you alone. She starts her approach—to your surprise and discomfort—by acknowledging the elephant in the room.

“I know you don’t like me very much,” she says with a knowing smile. “Maybe we can change that tonight?”

You eye her with suspicion, easily seeing through her blatant attempts to flirt her way into your good graces.

“How exactly are we going to do that?” you ask, crossing your arms in front of you.

Agnes simply laughs off the cool reception you’ve given her. If anything, she revels in it. 

“By getting to know each other, obviously,” she says.

“Right.”

She takes your elbow, and you swear she can feel you recoil at her closeness, yet she doesn’t seem to care. She urges you forward, dictating the pace. Her grip is unexpectedly firm, as if to say you have no choice but to listen—like leaving isn't an option.

With you literally in her grasp, Agnes sets her plans into motion. “So, how did you and Wanda meet?” she asks.

You deliver the narrative precisely as it plays out in your memory, exactly as Wanda implanted it in your mind. “We grew up next to each other. Best friends since we were kids.” 

“How cute,” she says, in that smooth, supercilious tone that usually makes your skin crawl. But this time, with the memories of Wanda filling your head, you hardly notice.

“Yeah, I remember when I first saw her,” you continue, gazing into the distance as if the scene you speak of is right there before your eyes. “It was almost Halloween, and my mom had baked a pumpkin pie to welcome them to the neighborhood. She sent me to deliver it. Wanda answered the door.”

“Love at first sight?”

“More like the opposite,” you say, throwing Agnes a good-natured smile, something you’ve never done before. “She couldn’t stand me, and I felt the same way.”

“Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” Agnes drawls before accompanying it with a short chuckle. “Who knows? Maybe there’s hope for us yet. You might end up not hating me so much after all.”

“Maybe…” you say, the smile reaching your eyes this time.

“Good, good,” Agnes says. “I can’t think of anything more romantic than growing up with the person you’ll be with for the rest of your life. Almost like it’s… sketched out, no?”

You nod at her, not sure where she’s going with this, but you appreciate the sentiment. You consider yourself lucky to have known Wanda most of your life. 

“So, you've lived in Westview your whole life?” Agnes asks.

“Yes,” you nod without hesitation.

“And you've only ever been to Westview?”

“No, of course not,” you laugh, ready to list off places you've been, but suddenly, you can't name any. The cities and trips that should come easily to your tongue just... don't materialize.

Not a single one.

Agnes watches you struggle with a blank expression. A second later, she begins throwing out suggestions, as if trying to help. 

“Canada?" 

You shake your head. 

“California?” 

Another shake.

“New York?”

No. This time, your eyes sting with the frustration of trying to pull something from the haze, realizing there’s nothing there. 

Have you really never been anywhere but Westview?

“Eastview, maybe?” she offers with a bit of sarcasm as she names the town next door.

“I—”

“How strange,” Agnes muses, driving home the final nail in the coffin of your crumbling peace.

You jerk your arm away from her grip and take a few instinctive steps back. “I need to pick up the twins,” you blurt out, seizing the first excuse that comes to mind. “We should be heading out soon.”

Without waiting for her reply, you start walking away, driven by a sudden, intense need to be with your boys, with Wanda. To hold them close, to find some stability. Because right now, you’re petrified by a fear you cannot name. 

“I heard Australia’s amazing this time of year!” Agnes calls after you.

The idea of not having been anywhere but Westview—it’s possible, right? Some people spend their entire lives in one place. But if this feeling—the one that's been gnawing at you lately—is real, if the world outside of Westview is truly non-existent, then what does that say about your life here?

What does it say about you?

[lorddeathofmurdermountain]

Heya guys I just need to vent because a Redditor was arguing with me and couldn't handle someone disagreeing with him so said something infuriatingly dumb and blocked me so I'm just gonna post my mini rant here so I don't explode. Also a rant/explanation in the tags bc why not.

Okay here goes

Oh boo fucking hoo let me throw some words at you, pretend like you're the bad guy because "hurr Durr I saw your profile", make up the idea that I never complained about anything else (which is false) and then block me so that I can't actually argue with you. Nice strawmanning technique all in all.

Idgaf that the IS-3 was *developed* but a few years after the Tiger, it's still broken as shit. And what does the time frame of its development have to do with the balance of the game? Because if that's what we're going for, then the 76 Jumbo, being ALSO made in 1944 just like the IS-3 should *obviously* be a 7.0 and not 6.3, right? RIGHT? And since the 75 Jumbo is just the same tank but with a smaller gun it should OBVIOUSLY go up from 5.3 to 6.0 at least.

I'm being an asshole because *you* are being pretentious and *I* don't feel like pretending either of us is better. I know you won't see it, but I do hope you have a second account, because people like you tend to have one, so you can see this and continue to seethe at the idea that not everyone agrees with you.

[boysborntodie]

Details from The Outsiders you may have forgotten or missed

-Cherry doesn't appear after the hearing (her not waving Ponyboy is just a movie thing)

-Ponyboy fucking hates people with green eyes so bad and gets pissed when someone points out he also has green eyes

-Steve always combs his hair into complicated swirls

-The Greasers always play football together

-Soda is one of the only Greasers who never gets drunk

-He also doesn't smoke unless something is bothering him or he wants to look tuff

-Darry, on the other hand, never smokes because it would affect his perfect body which he is very proud of

-Darry is also proud of being smart and sensible

-Ponyboy is the heaviest smoker out of the Curtis family

-Johnny started smoking at 9 and Steve at 11

-Johnny would've run away from Tulsa if it weren't for the gang

-Soda gives killer massages

-Ponyboy's razor wasn't working while he had to dissect a frog so he just took out his knife

-Darry goes skiing with some of his old friends sometimes

-Cherry and Marcia barrel race often and are pretty good at it

-Soda used to ride in rodeos but after breaking a ligament, his dad made him quit

-Sometimes Soda and Steve let Ponyboy help them fix the cars at the DX

-Johnny is the most law-abiding of the gang, and didn't even carry a knife until the Socs jumped him

-Cherry has an older brother

-Ponyboy used to have a yeller cur dog

-Johnny's scar his from his temple to his cheekbone (it's huge and also hard to look at)

-Two-Bit is great at doing impressions

-Two-Bit often raises one eyebrow, and the gang associate the gesture with him

-Dally and the Curtis mother got along well before she died

-Ponyboy is a scarily good liar

-Ponyboy notes that while he sees Johnny as a scared puppy, he actually looks rather hardened and cold to a stranger

-Johnny's skin is lighter under his bangs

-When at the church, Johnny puts his jean jacket over Ponyboy while he went out to get groceries

-Steve, Dally and Two-Bit wouldn't have thought of buying soap at a grocery store

-Ponyboy calls himself a Pepsi addict

-Dally hardly ever cuts his hair

-Johnny loves drag races

-The Curtis Dad took the brothers out hunting often in the country

-Ponyboy has the best aim but hates shooting

-Dally heard of the old church from a cousin

-Ponyboy is the youngest person on the track team but still one of the fastest

-Darry was the closest to their dad

-Steve once called Darry 'all brawn ans no brains' which made Darry made because it reminded him of the fact he didn't go to college

-Darry will suddenly pick up a random Greasers and swings them around

-The Curtis Dad used to call Soda 'Pepsi-Cola'

-The Shepard gang and the Curtis gang have fought seriously on at least on occasion (but it's nothing compared to the rumble)

-The Curtis brothers stayed at the hospital all night for Johnny and Dally until a doctor forced them to leave

-Johnny has a clean police record

-Ponyboy chews his fingernails when nervous

-Johnny often sleeps at Two-Bit's house

-The Curtis brothers all have huge appetites

-Darry always checks Ponyboy's Math homework for mistakes

-Johnny looks like his mother; having the same black hair, dark eyes and tiny built/height

-Soda did actually try really hard to stay in school but he kept failing

-Darry and Ponyboy both enjoyed school and athletics while Soda isn't into either

-The only thing Dally did honestly was jockeying

-Johnny really good at poker (or Ponyboy is really bad)

-The only time Johnny has been confident and not scared in his life, was when rescuing the kids in the church

-Johnny actually gets hurt because he pushed Ponyboy out first of the church

-Sodapop loves attention and was good with the reporters

-Sodapop has a crazy sweet tooth

-The Curtis brothers all love chocolate

-Darry never locks the front door in case one of the gang need a place to stay

-Ponyboy once found Tim Shepard sitting on their couch reading the newspaper

-Ponyboy thinks that Two-Bit wouldn't have gone inside the church if he was there

-Two Bit wished that the one hurt was anybody but Johnny and that the gang would have still been able to get along had it been anyone else

-Darry once took an aerobatics course and taught all the Greasers everything he knew

-Soda and Two-Bit were doing aerobatics and then got arrested for disturbing the peace

-The Curtis gang are noted to be better at fighting than the Shepard gang

-Tim Shepard looked like a model from the magazines Ponyboy reads

-Ponyboy notes that sweat ran down Dally's face when Johnny died, but it was probably tears

-Cherry drives a Sting Ray

-Curly once slipped off a telephone poll and broke his arm

-Johny's a good listener and all the members of the gang often go to tell him about their day or their problems

-Johnny says in his letter that the lives of kids were worth more than his

[lemissingmask]

[ID: Sketch of Redemption-era Eliot Spencer lying on the floor on his back with his back arched and neck muscles tensed, grimacing as a collar around his neck lights up, giving him an electric shock. End ID]

-

Day 8: alt. Electrocution

Eliot being tortured with a shock collar as a cheeky little bonus for Day 8

Ficlet below the cut

“Move and we shoot.”

The voice was nearly as cold as the barrel of the gun pressed against Harry’s head.

Eliot froze.

He was several metres away, where he had guided the fight to keep Harry out of it.

And now he was too far away to get to him, to do his thing and make this guy with a gun go away.

“Frank,” Eliot didn’t growl, but his voice was hard and even more threatening than this Frank guy with a gun’s was, “Let ‘im go.”

“You don’t get to make demands here, Spencer,” Frank replied, “Now stay still.  You know I won’t hesitate.”

Eliot glared, but he obeyed, staying perfectly motionless with his eyes on Harry.

Of the four other goons who had attacked them, two were unconscious, and one had blood pouring liberally from his nose. The remaining one, apparently following some signal from this Frank guy, moved closer to Eliot, smirking when his adversary did nothing but glare.

"Right ear," Frank said, "Comm unit. Take it out and smash it."

The gun shoved against Harry's head.

"You too, Wilson."

Harry slowly raised his hand, extracted the earbud and held it out. Frank took it, dropped it, and stamped, presumably crushing the comm as thoroughly as the other hitter had crushed Eliot's a short distance away.

"Phone," Frank demanded, and as he accepted Harry's phone, instructed his colleague, "Check him for phone and weapons. Spencer usually has a knife or two stashed somewhere."

And Eliot did.

As Harry watched, still held in place by the gun to his head, the other hitter retrieved a pocket knife, a multitool and too throwing knives from Eliot, as well as his phone. He tossed all this away, shot the phone with a loud crack that made Harry jump and Frank laugh.

By now, one of the others had woken up and the nosebleed of the other guy had been stemmed enough for him to get involved, which he did with evident relish.

"Get the collar on him," Frank ordered, the hand not holding the gun coming to grip Harry's arm, twisting it up behind him, "Watch closely, Wilson. This is the fun bit."

As if Harry had a choice but to watch.

Eliot remained fixed in place, his attention on Frank and Harry, as two of the other men roughly fixed a rigid collar around his neck, yanking his hair out the way and making a point of briefly choking him as they pulled the contraption on. And, it was a contraption. Not just a collar. There was a box on one side of it with a little red light.

Smacking Eliot unnecessarily on the back of the head as they finished, the other hitters stepped back, one pulled out his phone, and then, suddenly, Eliot tensed, teeth gritting, and dropped to his knees, as the collar light turned blue.

Harry instinctively made a move like he might run forward, try to help, but the grip on his arm grew tighter and more painful and the gun knocked against his head.

"Shock collar," Frank said with a smile as the light turned red and Eliot was left breathing heavily on the floor, "Made special just for Spencer."

The light went on again, longer, bringing Eliot all the way to the floor.

"Do exactly as your told, or we'll see how long it takes for that thing to kill him."

With those words, the gun was removed, but almost immediately, there was darkness. A rough, imperfect, darkness. A bag thrown over his head, and two strong forms on either side were half-dragging Harry away.

Out of the building, into a vehicle, the same guys who had been dragging him pressed close on either side.

They didn't drive for very long - not more than an hour, but long enough and with enough turns that it wouldn't be easy for the others to track them from their last location. And they had to be on the way by now. Hardison and Breanna would have used the earbud GPS before they were destroyed, or maybe be tracking their phones.

There would be a Brick and Basil truck en route to where they had just been, and hopefully soon after to wherever they were going now.

When they finally stopped, Harry was manhandled once more, bringing him across a hard floor, into another building, an elevator, and then, at last, into a wooden chair.

The bag was whipped off, and across from him, behind a large, fake mahogany desk, was a man he knew perfectly well.

"Austin," Harry greeted, adopting the false pleasantry he always did with clients, "I'd love to say it was a pleasure, but..."

He nodded to the goons stood either side, taking that motion as a chance to look for Eliot.

Not in this room. A small office with two doors, the desk, some chairs, a mini fridge, and a large conference TV screen.

A bit of a downgrade from this former client's upmarket business address with its tropical fish tank and wet bar.

"Harry Wilson," the man smiled coldly, "You're a hard man to find."

Harry shrugged noncommittally, "What do you want, Austin?"

"I need you to do a job for me. I have a certain legal matter that needs taking care of, and the lawyer I had hired is, quite frankly, not worth the air he breaths. I need you to make an airtight case for me and present it in court," he pushed a pile of documents across the desk, "Everything you need is here. You have three days. This office..."

"No," Harry cut him off. He had worked for this guy before. He had helped him cover his tracks after he destroyed the lives of several of his workers and interns, leading to the suicide of one. This man was one of the long list of regrets burdening Harry's mind. He was two bullet points on the redemption list.

Harry would not work for him again.

"I expected you may say that," Austin stood, walked around the desk towards the screen. The goons rotated Harry's chair, forcing him to turn to watch.

"That's why I have invested in this incentive."

He used a small remote to turn the screen on, and after a second of blackness, a video feed was displayed, showing Eliot with his hands handcuffed to a metal loop fixed to the floor. It looked like a basement, but it was difficult to tell.

Austin pulled out his phone, and a few seconds later, that collar glowed blue again, electrocuting Eliot as he knelt chained to the floor.

And not just a short warning. It didn't stop. Austin wasn't going to stop unless-

"Okay!" Harry yelled, and the collar turned red, leaving Eliot unmoving on the floor, "Okay. I'll do it."

Austin smiled, "Good man. Now, as I was saying, those are the files. There's paper, pens and so on in the desk drawers. Water and food in the fridge. Bathroom through that door. You have three days."

He moved towards the door, the goons following.

"Oh, and if you fail to deliver..."

On the screen, Eliot was subjected to another shock, his body tensing, but nothing more. Harry wasn't even sure he was conscious.

"These gentlemen," Austin nodded to the goons, "Will wait outside. Their colleagues will be with Spencer."

He left, the door was locked, and the screen was left turned on, Eliot still not moving.

Harry spent about an hour searching the office and bathroom for anything that could be useful to escape. Weapons, air vent...anything.

But, predictably, there was nothing. And, even if there had been something, if Harry made an attempt, there were still those other hitters with Eliot, and no way Harry could get there in time to save him.

Harry was just going to have to play along for now. Get to work, start building a case...as a last resort, he would do what Austin asked. He would pull out all the past evil lawyer tricks, hopefully then get Eliot and himself back to safety, and Leverage could deal with the aftermath.

But that was a worst case.

Hardison, Breanna, Parker and Sophie would definitely find them before that. They had three days, and a collective set of skills beyond anything Harry had known or imagined before meeting them.

Three days was more than enough time for Leverage to track people down.

Harry kept this in mind as he spent the first day, working at the case, trying to ignore the itching of his conscience.

There was one moment, towards the end of that day, that robbed Harry of all his forced focus.

He hadn’t expected to see Eliot being treated well, but without cause - Harry had been doing as he had been told - two of the hitters from before had entered the room to amuse themselves.

Harry had no way to contact anyone. He couldn’t get to Austin to convince him to make them stop, refusing to work unless they did. But he didn’t really have the leverage. They were hurting Eliot, but not killing him, and it was within Austin’s power to let them do so.

Harry watched until the hitters disappeared from view and Eliot was left unconscious on the floor, blood pooling beneath his head from the repeated blows they’d delivered to his face.

And, facing the screen so he could see when Eliot woke up, Harry turned on the desk lamp and resumed the arduous task of figuring out how to help the rich and powerful crush those they had wronged.

He had no awareness of falling asleep. At some point, near midnight, he lay his head on his arms, just to try and let his eyes rest…just a bit.

He woke to a hand on his shoulder, a whispered voice in his ear.

“Harry.”

It was Eliot, crouched beside his chair, watching him with evident concern.

The collar was still on, and in places it was shining with blood that seemed to come from Eliot's lip and cheek. The handcuffs were on, but the chain between them broken, links draping on Harry’s shoulder.

"Harry," he repeated as Harry was still registering the situation and deciding whether or not it was a dream, "You alright?"

The hand on his arm was very real. Strong and familiar. And Harry probably couldn't accurately dream the fine details of the collar that he could see now up close.

Harry broke into a smile, "Better now. You're a good person to be kidnapped with."

That drew a small laugh from the hitter, his teeth showing bloody, "Ain't my first rodeo. You good to go?”

Harry nodded and quickly began gathering up all the documents on the case - it could come in handy later.

“What’s that?” Eliot nodded to the folder.

“The reason we’re here,” Harry replied, “And better off in our hands than his.”

“Former client?”

Harry wasn’t sure how Eliot knew, but they didn’t really have time to get into that, so he just nodded and followed Eliot towards the door.

"We have an exit?"

"We're gonna make one."

"What about..."

The collar.

Eliot had stood and moved to the door already, was looking out into the corridor.

"Looks like only some of the guards can set it off," Eliot replied quietly, "Took out the four who grabbed us. Hopefully we don' run into any others, but if we do..."

He paused, looking back at Harry.

"If we do an' I'm incapacitated, you gotta run."

"I can't just leave..."

"Yeah you can," Eliot tapped his arm and moved towards the door, not allowing any further arguments.

Harry followed closely, trusting Eliot to know when to freeze and when to move, and they managed to get into a stairwell without meeting any guards. Their luck ended there, but only for a moment or two. Only for as long as it took for Eliot to disarm and knock out the three guards they met as they moved down ten flights of stairs, and out into a carport.

No one there. Cameras, but no people, and no cars.

"What now?" Harry whispered, "You know where we are?"

"No. We gotta get somewhere crowded. Somewhere with people," Eliot replied, "We can lift a phone an' call the others."

"I don't think we need to," Harry smiled as he saw a familiar set of headlights approaching from the other direction. Eliot turned and broke into his own smile, bloody toothed, but just as relieved as Harry's.

As if summoned by willpower alone, a Brick and Basil truck stopped just outside the building. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if there had been some sort of planned dramatic entrance that culminated in such a welcome and timely appearance.

But they didn’t exit immediately in a dramatic, heroic manner. They were still inside the truck, probably planning their entrance, hadn't seen Harry and Eliot, based on the various screams, gasps, and almost punch that were thrown their way when Eliot opened the back doors.

"And here we busted our asses trying to get here quick as hell," Hardison complained teasingly, grabbing Eliot into a hug as they entered, "Coulda stayed in bed."

"Everyone okay?" Sophie asked, looking them both over, "Breanna? Can we get whatever that is off Eliot?"

"On it..." she immediately began inspecting the collar, while Parker picked the handcuffs, muttering something about more lock picking practice, and keeping hold of Eliot's hand for longer than necessary.

Harry was grateful for the cup of coffee Sophie produced and shoved into his hands, ushering him into the front with her so Hardison could set off driving, getting them the hell out of there.

"Who took you?" she asked.

"Former client," Harry said, drinking the coffee down more quickly than he should, "Wanted me to do a case for him, and used Eliot as leverage."

"Someone we need to take out?" Hardison asked.

Harry considered.

The court case would probably lead to twenty five years in jail if Austin lost...the man was practically already taken out as it was. Provided he lost the case. Harry knew who the prosecution team were, he knew the case, he had more than enough information in the folder alone…

Harry smiled, "I think I will take him out myself."

And he would make sure the team, especially Eliot, were at the trial. After all, they needed The Gloat.

-

[vrilgothic]

Excerpt from an interview with Ted Kaczynski (aka Unabomber) in which he recounts his day to day life in the forest:

BVD (the interviewer): What was an average day like for you in Lincoln?

TJK (Ted Kaczynski): That’s a very difficult question to answer because I don’t know that there was an average day. My activities varied so much according to the season and according to the tasks I had before me on a given day. But I will describe a representative day��

TJK: …Well, let’s take a day in January, and let’s suppose I wake up about 3:00 a.m. to find that snow is falling. I start a fire in my stove and put a pot of water on. When the water comes to a boil I dump a certain quantity of rolled oats into it and stir them for a few minutes until they are cooked. Then I take the pot off the stove, add a couple of spoonfuls of sugar and some milk—made from powdered milk.

While the oats are cooling I eat a piece of cold boiled rabbit meat.

Afterward I eat the oats. I sit for a few minutes before the open door of the stove watching the fire burn down, then I take my clothes off again, get back into bed, and go to sleep. When I wake up, the sky is just starting to get light. I get out of bed and dress myself quickly because it’s cold in the cabin. By the time I’m dressed there’s a little more light and I can see that it’s no longer snowing and the sky is clear. Because of the fresh snow it should be a good day for rabbit hunting. So I take my old, beat-up, single-shot 22 down from the hooks on the wall. I put my little wooden cartridge-box, containing 16 cartridges, in my pocket, with a couple of books of matches wrapped in plastic bags and a sheath knife on my belt in case I have to build a fire in an emergency. Then I put on my snowshoes and take off. First there’s a hard climb to get up on top of the ridge, and then a level walk of a mile or so to get to the open forest of lodgepole pines where I want to hunt. A little way into the pines I find the tracks of a snowshoe hare. I follow the trail around and around through its tangled meanderings for about an hour. Then suddenly I see the black eye and the black-tipped ears of an otherwise white snowshoe hare. It’s usually the eye and the black-tipped ears you notice first. The bunny is watching me from behind the tangled branches and green needles of a recently-fallen pine tree. The rabbis is about 40 feet away, but it’s alert and watching me, so I won’t try to get closer. However, I have to maneuver for an angle to shoot from, so that I can have a clear shot through the tangle of branches—even a slender twig can deflect a .22 bullet enough to cause a miss. To get that clear shot I have to lie down in the snow in an odd position and use my knee as a rest for the rifle barrel. I line up the sights on the rabbit’s head, at a point just behind the eye…hold steady…ping! The rabbit is clipped through the head.

Such a shot ordinarily kills the rabbit instantly, but the animal’s hind legs usually kick violently for a few seconds so that it bounces around in the snow. When the rabbit stops kicking I walk up to it and see that it’s quite dead. I say aloud “Thank you, Grandfather Rabbit”– Grandfather Rabbit is a kind of demigod I’ve invented who is the tutelary spirit of all the snowshoe rabbits. I stand for a few minutes looking around at the pure-white snow and the sunlight filtering through the pine trees. I take in the silence and the solitude. It’s good to be here. Occasionally I’ve found snowmobile tracks along the crest of the main ridge, but in these woods where I am now, once the big-game hunting season is over, in all my years in this country I’ve never seen a human footprint other than my own. I take one of the noosed cords out of my pocket. For convenience in carrying I put the noose around the rabbit’s neck and wrap the other end of the cord around my mittened hand. Then I go looking for the trail of another rabbit.

When I have three rabbits I head home. On arriving there I’ve been out some six or seven hours. My first task is to peel off the skins of the rabbits and remove their guts. Their livers, hearts, kidneys, brains, and some assorted scraps I put in a tin can. I hang the carcasses up under the shelter, then run down to my root cellar to fetch some potatoes and a couple of parsnips. When these have been washed and other chores performed—splitting some wood maybe, or collecting snow to melt for drinking water—I put the pot on the boil, and at the appropriate time add some dried wild greens, the parsnips, the potatoes, and the livers and other internal organs of the rabbits. By the time it’s all cooked, the sky is getting dark. I eat my stew by the light of my kerosene lamp. Or, if I want to economize, maybe I open the door of the stove and eat by the light of the fire. I finish off with a half a handful of raisins. I’m tired but at peace. I sit for a while in front of the open door of the stove gazing at the fire. I may read a little. More likely I’ll just lie on my bed for a time watching the firelight flicker on the walls. When I get sleepy I take off my clothes, get under the blankets, and go to sleep.

BVD: I envy you, too … While work, that does sound wonderful.

Freedom and autonomy. No time clock to punch, whether literal or figurative. But let me shift topic. You just mentioned sleep. Was your bed, or bunk, comfortable?

TJK: Well, it was comfortable enough for me.

[spider-bren]

Shot in the mouth | Clement Mansell x Male Reader

Pairing: Clement Mansell x Male Reader

Tags/Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Gun Play, Cumming on hands, Hand jobs, Gun in mouth, Licking cum off fingers

Summary: Clement enticed you by playing with his gun. He asks to play a game with you which you can't resist.

Author's Notes: Bro I got possessed so idk myself with this prompt. @bawdabaw asked for Clem x M!reader and I just kinda got the brainrot. God, if you have me the chance I'd write 25k for this man. I NEED him. I could write entire plots for reader/oc x clem. But this is the first I wrote for him and I had to cut it short bc I didn't expect to write this much. It's more than I usually write for prompts that's for sure. Might turn into a full fic if you'd let me lmao enjoy!! :)

Clement sat cross legged on the couch flipping through the news channels. He was still in just his underwear, a gun placed loosely in his hand resting on his bare thigh. You eyed the gun as Clement lazily brought it against his underwear and absently rubbed it there. It wasn't meant to arouse surely, but you felt it flare heat into your gut all the same. The end of the gun massaged his apparently itchy balls and you tried extremely hard not to want to drop to your knees to fix the problem Clement was having. 

You could remember it so well. The weight of Clement heavy on your tongue. The pulse and throb as Clement dragged his cock in and out of your mouth. You enjoyed the ache in your jaw and the way the head of his cock scraped the back of your throat. You loved it–got hard for it. You wanted Clement to bruise your insides. You wanted to choke until you passed out. Wanted Clement to rip into your hair so hard it pulled at the roots as you swallowed down. Desperate to hear him moan how good you were and how you were his beautiful boy. 

Clement liked rough play. He liked to play and tease you all day. He arrived at your work unannounced and complimented you, sprewing charm until you ducked into the bathroom to fuck you agaisnt the cubible door. You didn't mind too much about his reputation. The darker side of Clement enticed you all the same. Whether he had killed with the gun currently in his hand didn't matter. All that mattered was that he had you. Right here and now. 

"You staring, baby?" He drawled. He lifted up the gun pretending to shoot you. He made a sound like a gun going off and then twirled it like a seasoned cowboy. "Why don't you come over here?" 

You shakily walked to sit on the couch next to him. Anticipation flooded heat into you, your cock already getting hard again. Not two hours ago he had fucked you in all positions on the bed. Now you needed him again. Was even ready to beg for it. He circled his arm around you on the back of the couch. His scent was intoxicating, sweat and cologne mingled together. You couldn't help yourself from kissing his neck. You licked a strip down his neck to his gleaming collarbones. He hummed appreciatively. 

"What do you wanna do?" He asked. "You wanna play a game?" 

You nodded. "Yeah. Let's do that. What type of game?" 

"I will use my gun to trail down your body and you have to try not to make a sound. Alright?" 

You agreed, head dizzy. Clement used the barrel of the gun to run down your bare shoulders. You were just in a pair of plain shorts, your chest exposed for him to play with. He ran the flat of the gun over your collarbones making you shiver. The metal was cool on your heated skin. The blue of his eyes were intense as he tracked every little response to him. 

He dropped further down your body over your pectoral muscles and pressed the tip end of the gun over your already pebbled nipples. You gasped, hating how you were so sensitive. He pulled his mouth into a smirk, his eyes ablaze. 

"Didn't know you were interested in this?" He remarked, moving towards your stomach now. He pushed the gun over the patch of the hairs that littered your abdomen. It tickled but felt incredibly erotic. 

"I'm not," you said back. "I just…I dunno. I like it when you do this." 

"I can tell," he teased, eyeing the bulge in your pants. 

The end of the gun dipped into your shorts, running along the band of it. You gasped. Your hips automatically sought more and lifted up. He laughed at you. 

"My little boy is all worked up." He tsked. "All for me and this here gun." He pulled the gun out from your pants and placed it straight over your dick, massaging and rubbing. "I want you to rut against the gun and get yourself off like the little whore you are." 

A moan slipped past your lips. "Bu–but–" 

"Ah, ah. Do it. You know you want to. How about you take your shorts off. I wanna see how wet you are." 

You obediently did as he asked, impossible not to. This was Clement Mansell. He always got what he wanted in the end. 

You peeled off your sticky shorts and saw how you had messed in your underwear. Your underwear was nearly soaked through. A large wet patch was there in the front. Clement pressed the barrel over your underwear, putting pressure right on the head that was leaking profusely now. You shuddered all over. Your hips rolled on their own accord up into his hand which held the gun firmly in place. 

"Such a good boy doing this filthy deed with me. What would your co-workers say? Do they know how slutty you are?" You whimpered. "Don't worry, baby. Clement's got you." 

Clement switched hands. The hand holding the gun was suddenly pushing open your mouth, sliding onto your tongue. You bit down on metal and swallowed around the barrel. His other hand massaged your cock, your cum messing all over him. You moaned and arched off the couch. 

"Sshhh," he hushed. "I did say you shouldn't make a sound." 

You never thought having a gun in your mouth was arousing but Clement proved a lot of things were hot as long as he was the one doing it. You could barely focus, eyes shut and body spasming. It was the hottest thing you ever experienced. His hand was perfect on you. It slipped inside and circled your cock, stroking it as he coaxed you to climax with his words. Drool dribbled down your chin as he kept the gun inside your mouth. 

"There you go. Cum for me." 

You tried hard not to choke on the gun as you came in white hot ribbons into Clement's hand. He pulled the gun from mouth, wiping it on his leg. His fingers were wet and gleamed with your cum. He smiled and cooed at you to lick his fingers clean. You sucked his fingers into your mouth, licking all of your spunk off of him. He praised you for doing a good job then turned back to watching the TV. 

[ace-malarky]

Peace

In which Calia sees a means to escape and maybe paint herself as a hero but mostly. escape by any means necessary

(bleeds into Pirate's Dancer as a bit of set up)

~~~

 Calia doubted that she has ever known what peace was like. She’s never been in a battle, never used her sword for anything more than practice, never heard the roar of cannons across the sea. There weren’t any true battles, not like the ones she’s been taught of, or hears when a ship came back into port with its crew worse for wear.

 But she’s never known peace, and she’s not sure if she can blame Elfionn or her sister for it this time.

 Her father’s roar ripped through the fortress. Calia tumbled from her perch and grabbed up her sword, heart rate rising as she whirled about.

 There were birds squawking about the outside of the tower, startled out of their rest as much as she had been.

 There was no one else in the room with her, which – on the one hand, was finally time to herself. On the other, it meant that she didn’t know where Myrtle was, which meant that she’s possibly in danger.

 Calia ran from the room, sword held before her to clear the way.

 The servants have emptied out of the corridors, as they always do when her father roared. There was no one between her and the stairs, her and the door.

 There was someone between her and the courtyard.

 Sayr caught her with his spear haft as she barrelled through and she almost dropped her sword. “Sorry, Calia. It’s not – wise, right now. He received a letter.”

 There were very few letters that could do this to her father; he was pacing back and forth, one hand clenched around his sword and one tightened into a fist. His normally dark face was even darker, thunder clouds drawing across a restless sea.

 “Is someone contesting his rule?” she asked.

 Sayr hesitated. “Yes,” he said eventually. “But it should not come to war.”

 Calia nodded. “Have you seen Myrtle?”

 Sayr frowned. “She is not with you?”

 “No,” she replied, tightening her hand on the hilt of her sword. “I will find her.” She flicked a glance to her father. “Don’t let him know.”

 Sayr nodded.

 Calia turned away, already thinking through the many places on the island that Myrtle was likely to be.

 “Calia.” Her father’s rumbling voice stopped her in her tracks.

 “Yes, father.” She turned back towards him.

 Sayr still stood partially between them, and didn’t seem willing to move.

 Her father beckoned her forward with his sword. “Leave us.” His tone didn’t leave any space for an argument.

 Sayr dipped his head. “Captain,” he murmured. He shot Calia a warning look as he passed her.

 Calia took a steadying breath, shifted her grip on her sword, and walked forward to meet her father.

 “These upstarts presume too much,” he said. “My mother was too lenient with them.”

 It was the Nightgales then, Calia knew. She should have known in any case, when there were no other signs of a raid; they were the only thing guaranteed to send her father into this much of a rage.

 “What are they asking?” Calia asked, when her father said nothing else.

 “They wish–” he scoffed and thrust a crumpled scroll at her.

 Calia fumbled the letter and had to slide her sword into her belt to smooth it out with both hands so she could read it.

 The writing was spidery, slanted and thin and spiky. It took her a moment to be able to read it, and then she skimmed through it.

 “They want – they want to be left?” Calia’s voice rose, understanding in a beat why her father was so incensed. “Not even to pay tribute, to acknowledge you? Even with their link to Magicen, they presume much.”

 “My mother should have shot that upstart as she was ordered.”

 “She was ordered to shoot the Nightgale captain?” Calia asked. Her father rarely spoke of their history.

 “By her father, when he was king.” He nodded grimly. “He knew that she would only cause trouble for us from the moment she appeared. And now look – she has swallowed a clan and seeks to put herself above all.” He glared at the letter so hard that Calia feared it might catch fire.

 “What – what would you like to do?” Calia asked carefully. “They must be brought to heel.”

 “I would scour them from the sea,” her father spat. “I would wipe them out, if it wouldn’t cause another war.”

 “There is no telling that it would.” Calia was thinking, tapping her fingers against the letter. “What if – she has grandchildren? Or someone in her line of my age?”

 “Two grandsons, two granddaughters.” Her father watched her. “I doubt they will turn on her.”

 Calia didn’t think of how he’d turned on his own mother, how he’d all but imprisoned her to one island. She didn’t think of her mother, gone who knew where. “No. But if you were to propose an alliance – to help legitimise them in the eyes of the rest of the sea – and grandmother might approve.” She frowned. “If one of them is unattached.”

 “They wouldn’t dare refuse.” Her father bristled. “Not knowing what I will do otherwise. And that would bring them under heel.”

 “And should their captain meet with an accident – so much can happen at sea.” Calia was proud of how smooth she kept her voice.

 A slow smile curled across her father’s face as he grasped what she was saying, a sight so foreign that Calia couldn’t help but stare.

 He clapped her shoulder and let out a laugh. “That’s my daughter! You’ll do me proud yet.”

 “You’ll propose it?” Calia tried not to flinch under her father’s hand. She passed back the letter.

 “Where’s Sayr? He will help me prepare and word this.” He turned away, roaring Sayr’s name.

 Sayr stepped through the archway. “My king?”

 “Come, come, Calia has given us an excellent plan to put in motion.” He squeezed her shoulder.

 Calia gave Sayr a smile she hoped was reassuring. “I will leave you to finalise the details.” She didn’t phrase it as a question, but couldn’t help the edge of her request break into her voice.

 Her father nodded.

 Calia fled the courtyard at a steady walk, breaking into a run when she was out of sight.

 It was to keep the peace. It was to stop a war. But she would finally leave the island, finally escape her father–

 “Calia!” Myrtle slammed into her. “Where have you been? We heard father roar.”

 “With father. He received a letter.”

 “Is grandmother alright?”

 “Are you alright?” Elfionn asked, following Myrtle.

 “Yes. Yes, I’m… we have a plan to deal with the Nightgales. I’ve got a part in it.”

 “What do you mean?” Elfionn frowned. “You’ve – are they coming here?”

 “No – well, I suppose they ought, but better. I’m getting onto their ship.”

 “You–”

 “You’re leaving me?” Myrtle asked.

 “Yes, but I have to, it’s to make sure the peace is kept. Father is counting on me.”

 “But we had a plan.” Myrtle drew back.

 “I’m sure your sister knows what she’s doing,” Elfionn said, her voice carefully level.

 “Yes,” Calia said. “I do.”

 Myrtle pulled herself free and fled the corridor.

 “Wait, Myrtle–” Calia reached for her, but she was out of reach. “It’s to keep the peace.”

 “Of course,” Elfionn said. “That’s important.”

 “Yes.” Calia frowned, not quite liking Elfionn’s tone. “You’ll look after her?”

 “Of course. Just – make sure you come back for her.”

 Calia nodded. “Once I have prevented a war.”

[maximum-lol]

You were silent a lot of the time as of recent, not that you were ever the biggest conversationalist- you either couldn't keep track of what anyone was talking about or you'd completely scare them off by barrelling through it with the most vile shit- which was, at the time, mostly by accident. As you got older you stopped talking as much unless it was to your moirail, somehow everyone was too stupid to understand you and too up their own ass for you to pay attention to, you found yourself between a rock and a hard place. An incredible, unbelievably powerful psionic, with the most dogshit control on basically any part of his body. Everything got better when you started carrying around your rail. She lead you around like a horse. She let you know every right move to make. Your life fucking sucked before her.

You were silent for a different reason now, though. It was by choice, not by habit. A time is now arriving that will be labeled as "after her", and the closer you get, the more guilt you feel. It won't just be a break up, the "after her" won't just be a shitty story you tell your coworkers over some sparking charging station, she'll literally cease to exist. You remember the first time you had that realization, sometime in your fifth or sixth sweep. "A ship can't feel guilt. There's no guilt when there's nothing but wires." It felt like a blessing at the time, you found the perfect scapegoat. Of course! You wouldn't have to worry about it, you had been planning this far longer than you've even known Folykl, it's been your destiny since day one. But you inch closer and closer to your dream day, and you grow less and less excited.

Training starts in one week, and after that, you'll be moving to a bootcamp for psions to start flight training, and then you'll likely be assigned a fleet. Trizza's main battleship, you assume. And..... Folykl will be culled, and if not culled, then starved. You knew it deep in your soul, you were the ONLY one who could give her what she needs. Not just because you were ~all great and mighty.~ But because you needed her just as much. You weren't just strong, you were overpowered. Like a chemical reactor had exploded in the squishy spongy material of your pan and was a constant garbage fire shooting flames and fuel out in every direction. The pack on your back wasn't just for her, it was to catch and store any extra electricity that might fry the entire rest of your body. It was the best part about your fantasy, finally having a body that can withhold all of you, a body that was as powerful as you knew you were supposed to be.

Her shallow breaths, her greasy hair, all it does is make your pumper hurt. Your words got caught up in your throat, you couldn't look reality in the face anymore. Sometimes, there were times she could pull you out of your own head. Ground you for a second, and have a serious conversation. But nowadays you keep the door to your head locked, the only think you'd be willing to let in are a couple skull-fucking tentacles, ensuring you'd never think about this shit again. Its easier to feel when shes asleep, or close to it, like now. You can wade through your own thoughts without immediately diving under them and drowning in the process. God, you can't leave her, you can't let that happen. You'd kill for her, you'd die for her. You'd do anything for her, and she knows that. You're just not sure if you CAN defy fate for her. How could you? Its all you were. It's all you are. You were never really a troll anyway, just a piece to a ship, your body never wanted to be a troll anyways. It was always too squishy, too limp, seizing under its power. She had to understand that. Trizza had to be willing to let her on. He could bend the rules, as long as he stayed positive. You can really do anything if you have enough belief. He's done it plenty of times before, buldozing through with blind faith. He can do it again.

You smush your face against her forehead, giving her a kiss thats somehow both sloppy and dry against her greasy forehead. It'll be fine. It has to be.

[thomasshelbydrabbles]

The Spy (2/?)

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Adeline Taylor (OC)

Warnings: period typical sexism, series typical violence, period typical views of PTSD, period typical racism, blood and gore, angst, sexual situations

Summary: Adeline has some unexpected visitors as she mentally prepares herself for a trip she'd rather not take to a place she swore she'd never return to.

**Note: This is a series, so you should read The School Teacher and The Messenger first if you want to understand everything.*

Word Count: 2939

A/N: Let me know if you want added to the tag list!

Folkestone, 1923

Adeline moved swiftly through the streets. The rain had been steadily falling for the last few days, and while she typically would have been quite upset by the weather, she found it both matched her mood perfectly, and brought a slight smile to her face. Of course, it only delayed the inevitable, but the perk was watching George become increasingly annoyed over things not even he could control. Stepping into a puddle, she cursed under her breath before ducking down an alley. The footsteps she’d been paying close attention to continued on before pausing. Moving to the corner, she pulled her revolver from her bag. When the man came to a stop, she grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him against the wall. Finger poised over the trigger, she pressed the barrel to his chest. 

“Why the fuck are you following me?” 

“You’re a hard woman to find, Miss Taylor.” 

Startled by the familiar voice, she jerked the gun away and stepped back. Blinking up she took in his face, the cut of his suit, the peaked cap on his head. Impossible. 

“New question,” Adeline grit through her teeth. “The fuck are you doing here Michael?” 

“Needed to see you.” 

Adeline shook her head. Fucking Shelby’s. They’d get themselves killed. All her work, her planning, her dealing with George and fucking France. Damn them all. 

“I don’t remember any part of my message indicating you should come find me.” 

Michael grinned. It was cocky and reminded her of Tommy so acutely it made her chest ache. 

“It was a terrible message. Isaiah thought so as well. He’s waiting for us back at the hotel.” 

She blinked. This had to be a dream. Something designed by George just to torture her further. She had to be dreaming. Instead of pinching herself, she reached forward and pinched Michael. 

“Ow!” 

He rubbed his arm, glared at her. Still, Adeline could only stare. Maybe it wasn’t a dream. Which could only mean Michael was actually stood in front of her with Isaiah waiting somewhere nearby. Somewhere George could find them. 

“Were you followed?” 

“‘Course not.” 

Adeline narrowed her eyes. She could see the changes in the boy. His posture, the way his eyes constantly moved around the alley, checking the main road. Somewhere in the months since she’d seen them last, he’d shed the last of his childhood naivete. She could still see a bit of the boy around his eyes, but they’d taken an edge since she’d last looked into them. 

She wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. Catching him off guard, she felt him stiffen before he returned her embrace. His nose was cold where it tucked into her neck, but she didn’t care. She had a piece of home in her arms. It felt a small bit like hope. It felt like a noose tightening around her neck. Still. She’d not trade it. 

“Come on,” Michael said as he pulled back. “Enough of that. Isaiah’s gonna be upset.”

Adeline smiled. “Worry he’ll be jealous?”

Michael shook his head. “Nah, he lost the bet. He figured you’d slap me soon as you knew it was me.” He paused. “Or shoot me.” 

Adeline laughed. “Close wager there. I wouldn’t have taken the odds.” 

“Tommy would’ve.” 

At the mention of him, Adeline’s mood sobered. She felt tears burn her eyes, but she fought them back. Keeping him safe meant keeping him away. 

“Let’s get back to the hotel,” Michael suggested. “I didn’t come just to prove I could track you down.” 

“How did you find me?” 

It had been nagging the back of her mind. If it’d been Tommy or Arthur, even John she wouldn’t have wondered at the how of it all, but Michael? Isaiah? They were good, smart lads, but they lacked the experience. Ah. 

“Fucking Alfie.” 

Michael sighed. “Now that’s me lost a bet.” 

“Never bet with Alfie. He only bets when he already knows the winner. You’re too used to Tommy who - granted wins more often than he loses, but - Tommy’s a gambler. Alfie’s not.” 

“I’ll remember that.” 

“Tell me where you’re staying. I’ll meet you there. We can’t be seen together, and it’s easier if we go separately.” 

“I don’t like this,” Michael said. “I don’t like you like this.” 

“The fuck do you know about me being like this?”

“You’re scared.” 

Adeline took a deep breath through her nose. She might just slap him yet. “Of course I’m fuckin’ scared. You’re here not up in Birmingham where you should be, where you’re safe, well, safer.”

“Alfie thought it was worth the risk. Rather insistent about it, actually.” 

“Fuck Alfie. It’s not his decision to make.” 

“He didn’t exactly have to twist me arm. I wanted to come find you as soon as Isaiah got your message. Fuckin’ IRA bloke comin’ into the Garrison. Got himself escorted out. ‘Course it was me and Isaiah doing the escortin’, and now that I know you sent him it all makes sense.” 

“He’s a good man.” 

“He’s a fuckin’ bastard.” 

“Aye.” 

“You need better friends.” 

There was the boy, the one who grew up in a village. She smiled. “Not about good friends or bad friends. In this life, it’s about useful friends.” 

“Then you’re bloody brilliant at making friends.” 

“Unfortunately, I’m just as good at making enemies. Which is why it’s fuckin’ dangerous for you to have come here. Now tell me where you and the other idiot are staying.” 

“We’re staying with a friend of Alfie’s, near the harbor.” 

Adeline nodded. “Go. I’ll be ‘round later tonight.” 

After dark, she found where they were staying. Given that Alfie had sent them, she should have known the person he’d trust them to stay with was one of his men. She smiled as he greeted her with a kiss to the cheek. 

“Good to see you, Henry.” 

“Come in out of the rain,” he replied. “The lads have supper waiting for you on the table. I’ll leave you to your business, but do come see me before you go. I’ll be in the back room.” 

She found the boys in the kitchen sitting around a small table. Isaiah looked older, too. It felt as though she’d been gone years rather than months. Had everyone aged like this? Would Finn be recognizable? As if she didn’t already have enough reasons to kill George. 

“Miss Taylor!” 

“Isaiah.” 

“I know I’m not meant to be here, neither is he, but - ”

“No, you’re not. I expect this type of foolishness from him,” Adeline said with a gesture towards Michael. “He’s a fuckin’ Shelby isn’t he? All full of idiotic ideas, those Shelby’s. But you. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. You’re meant to keep them from making a mess of things, yet here you are with him being a fool.” 

“Yes, Miss Taylor.” 

Seeing the contrite look on her face Adeline almost felt bad for her outburst. Then she saw George’s face in her mind. The anger on his face when she’d left that pub in London. It’d been stupidly risky to send the message. She’d done it for what? Sentiment? Feelings? She was just as big a fool as they were.

“No,” Michael said, tone hard. He moved to stand in front of Isaiah. Arms crossed against his chest, he glared down at her. “Fuck that. I’ll not have him apologizin’ to you for coming here to find you. What the fuck did you expect when you sent us that message? Just expect us to shrug if off, say that’s nice and let you go on your way?” 

She wanted to be angry. She wanted him to be wrong. Instead, she felt immensely proud of him. Standing in front of her, confronting her about the choices she’d made. The way she’d dealt with one of his friends, with a fellow Blinder. Christ. She hadn’t meant to feel like this. 

“Aye. I started all of this. I had no business sending you that message. Can’t blame you for comin’ to find me. And, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t damn happy to see you both.”

She caught the glance Michael sent Isaiah. 

“Thanks, Miss Taylor.”

“None of that,” Adeline said. She stood and walked past Michael to where Isaiah stood. She placed her hand on his shoulder. “It’s time I started treating you boys like men. That means no more of this ‘Miss Taylor’ nonsense. Call me Adeline like the rest of them.” 

Michael snorted. “Tommy and me mum are the only ones who call you Adeline.” 

“Aye, I suppose they are.” 

They settled around the table and ate in companionable silence. She kept looking at them, couldn’t tear her eyes away. Part of her feared that if she glanced away, if she lost focus for a minute, they’d be snatched away from her - or worse. She dared not close her eyes. Knew exactly what horrors she’d see if she did. One day, she’d repay George for all of this. Just as she’d promised Campbell. 

“Now, tell me what it is that’s so bloody important it’s got you making foolish decisions.” 

“Tommy’s in trouble,” Michael said. 

Adeline pinched the bridge of her nose. She should have grabbed a bottle of whiskey on her way here. Isaiah held out a pack of cigarettes to her. She smiled as she placed one between her lips for him to light. As the smoke filled her lungs, she forced her shoulders to relax. 

“What trouble has he gotten himself into this time?” 

“After the Darby, when you didn’t come back, when we had no word from you, he…”

“He locked himself in that bloody house and drank himself near to death,” Isaiah finished. 

Adeline squeezed her eyes closed as her heart clenched. Leave it to Thomas Shelby to respond the exact opposite way than she anticipated. She’d expected that he’d be angry, but pretend to be unbothered. Part of her expected him to take up with Lizzie again, just to take the edge off. She hadn’t decided yet if she’d have forgiven him for it or not. Now, it didn’t matter. 

“When mum managed to sober him up, he went quiet. Locked himself in the office. Then he disappeared.” 

A man like Thomas Shelby didn’t just disappear . 

“Where’d he go?” 

“Thought maybe he’d gone out to the country. Esme figured he’d go wandering, get himself lost whatever the fuck that means. Found out later, he’d gone down to London. Not even Alfie had been able to stop him.” 

“Stop him?” 

Michael nodded. He pulled a cigarette of his own, lit it. “Stop him from fucking marching into Churchill’s office and demanding his help in finding you.” 

“Fucking hell.” 

Adeline didn’t exactly know which emotion to catch onto first. The whole thing was absurd. Thomas Shelby was a fool. 

“Is he in prison?” 

She could manage a jailbreak without George knowing about it. There were still resources at her disposal, markers she could call. No one need ever know she was involved. 

Michael blew a stream of smoke past his lips. “Not that simple.” 

Adeline stood from the table. She snubbed the remnants of her cigarette against the door jam before she began to pace next to the table. Three steps. Stop. Pivot. Three steps. Stop. Pivot. 

“He’s working for Churchill.” 

“Fuck.” 

Her hands closed into fists at her sides. She was stuck here with George on her way to fucking France when she needed to be on the first train back up to London to assassinate Winston Churchill and save Tommy from his own foolishness. Because no one got to kill him, not yet. Not until she’s slapped some common sense back into his addled brain. 

“What exactly is it Mister Churchill has Tommy doing?” 

“Russians. Red versus white. All of it unofficial.” 

Fuck. Messier than she’d thought. 

“And in return Churchill promised to find me, did he?”

Michael snorted. “He promised to try .” 

Adeline’s laugh sounded like nails on glass. How had things spiraled out of control so quickly? 

“Churchill won’t find me. And if by some miracle he managed to find me, it wouldn’t matter. I can’t be found. Not by Tommy and not by Alfie.” 

“You finally gonna tell us why you’ve not come home yet? How the hell you ended up all the way down here?” Isaiah asked. 

She looked at them, saw the determination in their gaze. For the first time in years she didn’t honestly know which outcome would be worse. Keeping them protected from it, keeping it secret hadn’t worked because George wasn’t fucking dead. Now that he was alive, did it matter if they knew? Alfie’s voice sounded in her ear, reminding her that she couldn't do it all alone. She couldn't be responsible for the risks others were willing to take for her anymore than they could be responsible for her. 

“Aye. I’ll tell you, but you have to be sure you want to know. It’s dangerous information. Far beyond the Peaky Blinders, beyond Birmingham. Tommy knows most of it. Alfie knows more.”

She watched Michael’s face work through what she’d said. Noticed how his eyes narrowed on her, his shoulders tensed, preparing for something. Good lad. 

“None of that Michael Gray. It’s not what you’re thinking. Alfie knows more because I’ve known him longer. Known him since we survived France together, then Belgium.” 

She motioned for Isaiah to come closer. Reaching into her purse she pulled out some bills and placed them into his hands.

“Run down to the closest pub. Buy as many bottles of whiskey as they’ll sell.” 

He nodded. She didn’t look at Michael while they waited for Isaiah to return. She sat by the fire and smoked three more cigarettes. Attempting to gather her thoughts, to order them, to decide what to tell - what information they needed, what information could wait proved difficult. Since being taken away, everything had felt tilted, as though the world had been moved twenty degrees to the right. Even George had noticed she seemed a bit out of step. 

When Isaiah returned, he had four bottles of whiskey. Adeline nodded. Now was the time to remember who she was, to remember that George was not a man to be trifled with, but he was still a man. One she could defeat because it was the only way to keep the boys sitting in front of her safe. Killing George, finding his weak point and pressing would be her way back to Tommy. To do that, she needed to be smart. She needed to keep herself twelve steps ahead, anticipate George’s endgame. 

She spent the rest of the night drinking, smoking, and telling the boys what they needed to know about France, about Belgium, and about fucking George Bergmann. 

“Now,” Adeline said around a yawn. “He has us catching a ferry to Calais in a couple of days before we take the train to Russia. It can’t be a coincidence that Churchill has Tommy working with the Russians and George has us going to Russia.”

“Does George work for Churchill?” Michael asked. 

“No,” Adeline said. “‘Least not directly. Works for a bloke that goes by the code name C. My best estimation is he’s a high ranking military man, not peerage.” 

“Do they know about you?” Isaiah asked. “Like, do they know you’re bein’ forced to work for George?” 

“Doubt they know about me specifically. George likes to keep his cards close, but even if they did know about me, it wouldn’t help. I’m just another piece on the board.” 

She drained the last of the whiskey in her glass. Between them, they’d polished off all the bottles Isaiah had brought with him.

“I know this is gonna be hard, especially for you Michael, but this only works one way. Tommy can’t know. He can’t even suspect that you lot are in communication with me. Go through Alfie. Think of an excuse, you’re a clever lad. Until I’ve figured out a way to neutralize George, Tommy can’t know.” 

“Think he can’t handle it?” 

“I think Tommy went to Churchill when he got himself sort of sober enough to have a coherent thought. I think Tommy would walk directly into the bullet standing between me and him. I’ll not have that on my conscience. Not when I can stop it.” 

“And you think Alfie won’t do the same?” Michael asked.

Adeline wasn’t sure she liked the accusation in his tone. Becoming a man under the wing of the Peaky Blinders had given him some posturing, for damn sure, but she’d not be taken to task by a boy she found in the country. A boy she’d taught to fight. 

“You’ll watch your tone, man or not, when you speak to me. I know Alfie won’t do the same because he knows George. He has a unique understanding of how dangerous this all is. Not sayin’ he won’t want to do something foolish. But, he knows better than Tommy what’s at stake here. Remember me telling you that Alfie only gambles when he knows the outcome? That applies to all parts of his life. He’ll only move when he knows the game’s already stacked in his favor.” 

She watched Michael closely. Knew Alfie would call her ten types of a fool for this. Here she was telling the boys not to be risky, not to gamble when the stakes were this high…and here she was doing exactly as she’d instructed them not to do. Polly was right about her…she and Tommy were too damn similar, and one day that might get them all killed.

Part 3

Master List

Tag List: @stevie75

[salty-rey]

Come Back | Bad Batch Fan Fic

Pairing: Crosshair x Reader

Words: 1748 words

Warnings: Angst. Reader gets hurt, mention of blood

A/N: I gave you romance with Fives last time. Now, time for some PAIN!!! I told yall I wanted to make a Bad Batch fan fic, I just didn’t expect my first one to be like this. 

Pretty short, I wanted to write it down before I lose any inspiration, and I have to get back to my finals. 

Hope you guys like! 

(gif courtesy of @clxnewxrs​ )

- - - - - - -

This plan has gone to crap!

It was supposed to be simple. Get into the command center, retrieve the necessary intel, and get out. Something you’ve done many times before. Piece of cake! 

But last time you remembered, you did not have a child following you around. Omega insists on coming along, even going against Hunter’s orders. Because of her disregard of orders, she had tripped an alarm, alerting the guards to your position. But you couldn’t blame her. Even if she didn’t came along, something wasn’t going to go according to plan. She’s not a soldier and wasn’t trained like you and the rest of the Bad Batch. There were some tasks or missions that were fine for the young clone to come along, but this mission was more dangerous. 

One good reason why; Crosshair had finally tracked you down.

The Batch had split up during the mission, aiming to complete your objectives. Before you can all regroup, that is when Crosshair and his Elite Squad Trooper caught up to the group. And you had the unfortunate case of protecting Omega from the sniper, who was now standing in front of you. With the only exit blocked by your former comrade, the only way to escape was to shoot your way out or leap out an 80 storied building. 

“Crosshair, please! Don’t do this,” you pleaded, body shielding Omega as the young girl cowered behind you.

“I can bring you back alive,” The grey-haired clone spoke, raising his handheld blaster to your chest without hesitation. “Or in a body bag. Your choice, Freckles.”

You tense, staring down the barrel of the blaster, wondering for a second if it was put on lethal or stun mode. You felt Omega gripping your arm, sparing a glance at the child before looking back at Crosshair. His eyes held no remorse. There was no more warmth in those honey-brown eyes. Your heart shattered at the sight of him, your fists clenching to keep yourself composed. 

“This isn’t you, Crosshair. That damn chip is manipulating you!” You snapped, keeping your stance and hoping to buy some time for Hunter and the others to assist you. 

“You would have never shot Wrecker before, no matter how much he annoyed you. And you would never point a gun at me. Come back to us. We can find a way to free you from that chip. We know it’s not your fault, and we don’t blame you for your actions. Please,” you begged, your voice breaking a little as you reached your hand towards him. 

The clone stared hard at your hand, his shoulders tensed before locking eyes with yours. He can see the desperation in them, unshed tears causing your eyes to glisten. This was a familiar sight. Not too long ago, when all of you were imprisoned back on Kamino, you had the same expression. 

Crosshair was being taken away from the rest of the group for unknown reasons. Hunter, in his attempt to keep everyone together, received a harsh hit on his gut. The sergeant doubled over in pain, but no one dare moved to aid him as blasters were pointed at everyone. The clone shook his head at the sight of his sergeant before standing up. As he took one step forward, he felt a tug, keeping him in place. Looking back, he saw you gripping his hand with all the strength you have. 

You were looking up at him, silently begging him not to go. The corner of your eyes shedding small tears, your hand squeezing his ever so tighter. 

“Let’s go!” The clone guard exclaimed, his patience wearing thin. 

Crosshair felt something foreign in him, telling him to obey. He knows that he should stay. He knows that he should fight against these mindless regs. He’s not like them. He belongs here with his brothers, and with you. 

But, fighting the regs unarmed will just cause unnecessary casualties. And he can’t stand the idea of having his brothers’ blood on his hands. Especially a kid that is apparently a little sister. And you. 

The thought of losing you caused him to shiver in fear. An emotion that he rarely felt, until you joined the team. 

The sniper looked back at you once more, squeezing your hand in return. He gave you a reassuring look that was also apologetic and sorrowful. 

You knew that there was no getting out of this. That there was no way in saving him. With a heavy sob, you let go of his hand, allowing him to be taken by the guards. 

His hands were now trembling, causing the blaster to become unsteady. “Crosshair?” You said with uncertainty. The sniper’s eyes snapped back at you, having lost focus for a few seconds. 

“So, you miss me? How sweet,” he sneered, but his hands continued to shake. 

You relaxed your posture for a second, pulling your hand back before pressing it against your chest, right over your heart. “I have. So very much.”

Something must have snapped inside of the clone because his eyes became unfocused, and his hands were trembling harder. He was in pain, his free hand gripping the side of his head, eyes squeezing shut as the blaster fell from his hand. You watched as Crosshair internally fought against the inhibitor chip, hope slowly rising inside of you. 

As you slowly approached him, you failed to hear the thundering sound of boots approaching you. The only indication that you got was hearing Omega gasping before shouting, “Look out!”

The moment you spotted the Elite Squad Trooper raising his blaster, you felt the searing hot pain piercing your side, and a blood-curling scream echoed throughout the room. You fell to your knees, clutching your left side, where the blaster shot hit you. 

Luckily, you were wearing the specialized armor that the Bad Batch wear, so the blast wasn’t able to pierce the other side. But you can feel blood pooling out, and if you don’t get any aid soon, you’re going to die. 

Before the trooper can shoot you again, he let out a shout of pain as Crosshair’s fist collided with his buckethead before punching his gut. “I told you to stun the woman and to shoot the men!” He snarled before kicking the hunched-over trooper. 

As Crosshair’s attention was on the reg, Omega rushed to your side. Panting heavily, you grabbed a tool from your utility belt and wrapped an arm around the girl’s midsection. “Hold on...tight...and whatever...you do...don’t let go.”

“What are you---whoa!” Omega cried out as you picked her up and charged at the window. The girl screamed when your shoulder crashed into the window, both of you plummeting over the edge. Neither Crosshair nor the troopers reacted quick enough to catch you, watching the both of you fall to what appears to be your death. 

You reached out your arm, pointing your modified grappling gun, and pulled the trigger. The claw-like end soar shot through the air, piercing the closes building, secured in place. The pair of you swing through the cold night air, Omega’s arms and legs wrapped around your neck and waist. 

Before you could crash into another building, you released the trigger, the grapple unhooking from your end. You rolled onto the rooftop of a building, shielding Omega in the progress. Wincing, you got back on your feet, still holding onto the child, and continued to run away, troopers now shooting at you. 

“Tech! I need a pickup, NOW!” You exclaimed into your communicator. 

“We’re reaching your location!” His voice came through, and without another second to waste, you heard the engines of the Havoc Marauder. The ramp was open and both Hunter and Wrecker were there. 

Despite the searing pain, your adrenaline forced you to pick up the pace. Blaster shots were flying past you, and if you move any slower, you were going to get hit again. But you weren’t scared of being hit by the Elite Squad trooper again. No. You were afraid of a certain sniper. Deep down though, you had hope that he wasn’t going to pull the trigger on you. He had several chances to do so, but he didn’t. 

“Jump!” Hunter shouted as you reached the edge of the building. Mustering whatever strength you had left, you leaped from the edge, Omega’s arms reaching towards the Sergeant and larger clone. You collapsed into their arms, letting them pull you both inside as blasters were now hitting your ship. 

“She’s been shot!” Omega cried. Hunter and Wrecker saw your bleeding side, and with a nod from their leader, Wrecker picked you up as carefully as possible and carried you to your cot. “Echo, get over here now!” Hunter shouted before grabbing whatever medical items that they need.

Your armor was removed and Wrecker ripped the fabric of your blacks to expose your wound, allowing the boys to stop the bleeding. You cried out in pain, legs kicking and your hand gripping the first thing that came into contact, which was Hunter’s hand. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” Echo reassured as they pierced a needle into your wound before spraying it with bacta. Omega stood at the doorway, hands covering her mouth, silently crying as the boys managed to stop the bleeding. Despite being their combat medic, the Bad Batch knew a good amount of medical aid before you arrived, but learned more when you became part of their team. 

“I can’t believe Crosshair shot her!” Wrecker growled as Echo placed a bacta patch to help quicken the healing progress. 

“I don’t want to believe either. But he shot you, didn’t he?” Echo countered.

“He...he didn’t shot me,” you groaned, your hand squeezing Hunter’s. 

“Whoa whoa whoa, no more talking. You need your rest, Freckles,” the Sergeant said, using his free hand to gently wipe off any sweat forming on your forehead. 

You ignored Hunter’s order and took in a deep breath before continuing. “It was a...trooper. Crosshair said...only to stun me and Omega...” You then looked back at Hunter, body feeling weak and vision getting blurry. “He’s still in there...fighting to come back....we can’t lose hope.” You managed to say that last bit before darkness consumed you. You slumped against the pillow, a familiar scent comforting you as you slept. 

The group watched you sleep, ensuring that you were okay before relaxing. Hunter slowly slipping his hand from your grasp before covering you with a blanket, Crosshair’s scent continued to engulf you. 

“We will bring him home. I promise.”

[heliads]

Heartbeats (Part One)

 Based on this request: “Jesper x reader where she was in the first army and grew up with mal and Alina, but then when stuff goes down in the fold she ends up in ketterdam (maybe she’s grisha too) and teams up with the crows but her and Jesper end up falling for each other?”

masterlist / part two

As you look around you, taking in the sight of swirling darkness as far as the sky stretches, the screeches of volcra, and the cries of the wounded, you can’t help but wonder one thing: how did you get here? Even a year or so ago, you were still listed among the soldiers of the First Army, a tracker just like your friend Mal. Before that, you were simply another hapless orphan at Keramzin. How did you go from that to this?

Then again, it’s precisely because of your sunny little bubble at Keramzin that you’re out here trying to shoot literal volcra with a gun- namely, because of your friendships with Alina Starkov and Malyen Oretsev. You’d met Alina and Mal at the orphanage, arriving around a year or so after they’d arrived. A lesser child would have felt stilted that you’d never quite be as close to them because they’d known each other first, but you didn’t mind. What you had was good, as good as it could get when you felt so utterly lonely in the world.

Life at Keramzin has been preserved in your mind as something in between the gilding glow of nostalgia and the darkening regret of someone who wishes for nothing more than to go back to those treasured days of youth when nothing ever quite mattered. What had it been like, running the wooden paneled floors of the orphanage, tearing through the high grass of the meadow as you ran from bullies and Ana Kuya for the thousandth time since your arrival there? Certainly, it had to be better than life as a First Army soldier, or life now that you’ve made an enemy of the Black General.

You had an option to leave the orphanage if you had wanted to, you know that. Grisha searchers had arrived at Keramzin on their yearly journeys, with living amplifiers present to see which of the ungrateful little urchins might have a spark of the Small Science residing in their veins. Mal had gone first- he was always the bravest. He had shown no signs, and neither had Alina when she followed him, although you noticed the way she gripped a shattered piece of pottery in her hands so the pain would distract her body from giving off any signs of anything.

You know you weren’t supposed to witness the gesture, that Alina herself had no idea whether she was a Grisha at all, but it’s not as if you didn’t do the same. Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that you’d slathered a little paraffin on your wrists after you’d read the hack in an old book, and that you specifically made sure to be tested by the oldest and most wizened Grisha there, hoping that her failing eyesight would look past anything lurking in your heart and head. Even then, you might have known that there was something not quite right with you, something that could end with you being taken far away to Os Alta.

However, you didn’t want that, not at all. You’d felt accepted with Mal and Alina, and life with them at the orphanage was as close to home as you’d felt since the war had torn apart your previous life. You had no idea what could possibly be worthwhile in the Ravkan capital city, and so you made sure that no one would see you as anything other than an otkazat’sya, someone to be overlooked and disregarded.

You didn’t have an obvious gift, or you might have had you not done everything in your reach to disguise your stranger abilities. There were just times when you swear you could hear someone’s heart beating loudly in their chests, even from across the room, or when you seemed to sense someone approaching because you could hear the thunder of their blood through their veins. Mal said that you weren’t going crazy, that he could hear the heartbeats too, but you’re not sure whether or not that truly let you off the hook. He’d always been a little too good at finding animals, tracking down beasts and people alike, to fully reassure you of your normalcy.

Your fears were confirmed when you were older and your newly twisted ankle had suddenly healed itself before your eyes. You had been groaning over your latest injury, placing your fingers across the bones as if you could do anything to save it, when it suddenly mended itself. Just like that, with naught but a flash of heat and pricking to show that anything happened. You had glanced around furtively, making sure nobody had seen, but you knew. That was enough, that you knew. You had a secret to keep now, one you’d have to keep for the rest of your life.

You’d heard what the books and stories said of the Grisha. Witches, people said of them, demons and witches and monsters. They were called every name and curse and then some. You didn’t know where your life would lead you, but you were certain that you would not find it as one of the Second Army’s little red-clad soldiers. So, you accepted a place as a tracker in the First Army when your time came to be conscripted, and you did your best to pretend that it never existed.

However, it’s kind of hard to ignore now, when every sense in your body is suddenly flung into high alert. It’s as if there’s a voice in your head, calling out to you- if you wanted, I could save you. If you used your power now, you could save your life and the lives of your friends. You can hear it now, can’t you? The beat of a volcra heart before it swoops, as if there’s a human organ trapped within the masses of shadows and claws. That’s partially why your gunshots are so accurate, isn’t it? You’re sensing the beasts. You’re using your gift.

A shout of praise comes from the ship behind you as you nail one particularly good shot. “Nice one, tracker!” You stifle a groan as you turn around to find yourself face to face with a familiar Ketterdam crook: the sharpshooter from earlier, Jesper Fahey. You stare at him incredulously. “We’re busy trying not to die, aren’t we? Why bother with a compliment at a time like this?” He just grins, unflappable as always even in the middle of a battle against fearsome shadow monsters. “Talent respects talent, love. I thought you were good.”

You roll your eyes and purposefully take a shot behind him, although you can’t help but feel a little disappointed when Jesper doesn’t flinch despite the bullet rattling through the space only a few feet away from him. Then again, if you thought you’d startle the cheekily grinning boy in front of you with a mere bullet, you’d doubt you really met him at all. Judging from your first experience with him, at least, it’ll take more than a gunshot to really make an impression.

You had first crossed paths with the Barrel canal rats a week or so ago, when you were searching for Alina after she had run away from Os Alta. You and Mal had been the trackers assigned to finding her mystical stag in the first place, so you were aware of the fact that she was on the loose and were determined to find her before the Black General did. You still shudder to think of that night, when you’d first seen the stag- Mal had led you and two friends through the Fjerdan wilderness, but on the night you’d finally found the beast, you yourselves had been discovered by Fjerdan patrols.

Now your two friends are dead, and Mal is still grimacing from bullet wounds sustained during the fight. He doesn’t ask how you’re still alive, and you made sure he didn’t notice the fact that you accidentally used your Grisha powers during the Fjerdan attack. You hadn’t meant to do it, not at all, but in the middle of the blood-streaked snow you had felt something deep within your chest. You couldn’t explain it, not with words at least, but it was there nonetheless. You were watching your friends die around you, and, desperate for some way to save yourself, flung out a hand towards shapes moving in the shadows of the trees.

You had felt something, like your hand was closing around a string, and tugged sharply. At the exact same time, one of the Fjerdans came sprawling out of the trees, a mess of arms and legs as the blond man struggled to regain control over his heart. Seconds later, he was dead, with no bullet wounds in sight. You had pretended that you had shot the patrol, just to keep Mal off of your back, but you’re still shaken by the fact that your power had sprung to you so easily. It’s a terrible gift, to take away life so brutally, and you can’t deny that you’re a little afraid of it yourself.

Regardless, you and Mal had found the stag, made the journey to Os Alta to inform General Kirigan, and been notified that Alina was kidnapped by Kerch thieves. Mal had pulled you aside almost immediately, saying something about how he swore he could find her but he didn’t want to alert the rest of the Second Army men. You heard the slight change in his tone when he spoke of the Grisha, and you held your tongue just in case, once again silencing the little voice in your head that almost wanted him to know, just so Mal would address you with the same reverence and fear.

However, you didn’t want to go with Mal. Not yet, at least. He could go track down Alina with the grace of a thousand trackers, be able to tell footsteps from fallen boughs and rabbits from rocks, but you could hear heartbeats rattling out from the trees. You knew you could find Alina if you truly wanted to, but you didn’t want Mal there to question why you weren’t looking at the ground but staring out at the horizon as if you could hear something he couldn’t. Mal could always hear things, that’s how he was. If you were listening to a song that wasn’t playing his tune as well, he would have questions that you’re not sure you could answer.

So, you split up, and traversed the land around Tsibeya and Ryevost in search of your missing friend. You ended up finding her first, if only by an hour or so. You’d lived by Alina’s side for so long and so many years that her heartbeat was practically ingrained into your skull, and when you caught a brief snippet of it on the roads near Ryevost, you knew you had found your Sun Summoner.

You weren’t sure whether you truly believed the rumors that Alina had been kidnapped by the Kerch or not, but when you stumbled upon the scene and saw Alina surrounded by a trio of people dressed in dark clothes with weapons drawn, you knew something had to be up. You had moved quickly, with the efficiency of a soldier with your First Army training, and pressed the barrel of your gun against one of the boys’ heads within the second.

You weren’t sure why you picked the boy you did, why the boy with the dark hair and the ever-present smirk, but you can’t help but smile wryly at the memory. You’d addressed him coldly. “Step away from her. Now.” The boy had clicked his tongue, speaking without fear despite the fact that there was a gun pressed against his skull. “You know, you really shouldn’t do that. Having the gun so close to me just means that I can do this.”

You had to give credit to Jesper- he moved fast. He was quick, likely from life on the streets of the Barrel, and a lesser soldier would have fallen prey to his attack within the second. However, you weren’t a lesser soldier, and you had the advantage of hearing his heartbeat uptake the moment he started moving. So, when Jesper Fahey whips around to grab your gun and force you to the ground, you’re expecting it. That’s why you take advantage of his momentum to slam into his side, knocking him to the ground and sending his twin revolvers skittering across the soil.

You’re not quite sure what you were expecting from Jesper at that moment- a look of fear or resignation? Maybe you weren’t expecting a reaction at all. However, when he looked up at you for a second longer and then started laughing, you were almost as startled as if he’d continued his attack. “Fantastic move. Who are you?” You stared at him, almost forgetting his two companions, whose hands have now directed weapons to you instead of towards Alina. You casually nod your head towards the woods, and Alina, understanding, begins to slip away while her captors’ backs are turned.

“None of your business. Why are you laughing?” Jesper, as you have later learned, just sits up casually, as if he couldn’t care less about the barrel of a gun being pointed his way. “Because I think it’s excellent that you anticipated my attack that way. I’m going to have to remember that one and use it later.” He’s standing up now, practically brushing your gun aside. You’re not particularly moved by this- you don’t care if he attacks you, just that Alina can get away in time. What matters more to a band of crooks- the Sun Saint, or some other girl?

So, noting that you’re now one against three and you don’t really care for using your Grisha abilities right now, you tuck your gun away into the standard issue holster on your First Army tracker drabs and grin back at him. The smile feels almost as hard to fake as when you’ve been standing in your regiments for hours when higher-ranking officials come to visit and see how all the little toy soldiers are doing.

“Well, I’m glad to be an influential figure. I’ll be off, then.” It’s now that the trio whip around and notice that Alina is gone. The other boy, the one with the dark leather gloves, curses softly. You start to slip away as well, but the sharpshooter isn’t willing to let you go so easily. “Wait a second, my dearest influence. If we lose both you and your friend, it won’t be so good for us.” You flash him an irritated look. “You don’t need me, and I couldn’t care less what’s good for you.”

The girl nods to the sharpshooter. “She’s right, Jesper. I’m not killing more people than I have to.” You gesture towards the girl. “Exactly, dearest Jesper. I’m just going to go. I would say that it’s been a delight talking with you, except that it hasn’t.” You’re kind of hoping for a negative reaction, but Jesper just smirks back at you. “Enchanting, of course. I hope to see you again.” You roll your eyes and start walking away, although you can hear Jesper talking to his friends as you leave. They’re chiding him for flirting with you, as this is evidently something he does often. You let out a huff of breath, bothered, then do your best to find Alina. Hopefully, you can find her and get out of here, and most importantly, never see this all-too-cocky boy known as Jesper ever again.

However, that didn’t exactly happen. No, you’re still stuck on a sand skiff in the middle of the Shadow Fold, being attacked by Grisha Heartrenders, volcra, and the Black General alike, and if that wasn’t enough, Jesper is here too. He’s fighting by your side now, as if trying his hardest to annoy you by being as close as possible, and won’t let up the opportunity to exchange a witty retort or irritating grin whenever he can. Honestly, you’re hoping to win this fight soon, because if you have to spend another moment with Jesper Fahey, you might as well shoot him too.

grishaverse tag list: i heartrender you @underc0vercryptid​, @darlinggbrekker​, @cameronsails​, @aleksanderwh0r3​, @story-scribbler​

[professorspork]

If you're accepting non-superhell prompts, I'd love to see a conversation between Nora and Emerald! I've been REALLY loving these microfics, I've subscribed to you on Ao3, I'll read whatever else you write

[Gahhh that’s so nice you’re so nice!! thanks for being patient on this one, finding my Nora took some doing]

It’s occurring to Emerald that she’s never had a close female friend before.

You say that like you’ve ever had any friends before, the voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Mercury needles her, but she brushes it aside. Like—okay, yeah, she’ll concede the point when it comes to Cinder. In hindsight, whatever they’d had going on between them may have been... super intense... but it probably had never been friendship, in the usual definition. But she and Mercury were friends, no matter what the judgy little shitstain version of him who lives in her head has to say about it. They’d always gotten along. Told each other stuff. It’s not like there’s more to it than that, right?

It had always been like that. Been—instinctive somehow, with guys. Before Cinder, on the street, it was always the men who’d been easiest to manipulate; who would empty their pockets for a smile and a sob story. And then she and Merc had been two sides of the same coin for so long, and then... well, Hazel’d liked her enough to die for her, apparently. (Which—that’s a door that she keeps closed, thanks. She shuts it firmly again, now.) Oscar seems fond of her, in a sweet, uncomplicated sort of way that she really doesn’t know what to do with, seeing as he shares headspace with like a trillion year old man and the idea that anything to do with that kid could be “uncomplicated” is batshit. Ren vouched for her once, and then again, and now he keeps doing it, like it’s habit, like she should just be used to the fact that people are going to have her back, to ask her if she’s eaten, to turn to her with a raised eyebrow in conversation like her opinion would be constructive.

Anyway.

Now that she’s noticed the pattern, it seems like the kind of thing she should probably… work on, or whatever. And Nora seems like an obvious place for Emerald to start. They’ve been thrown in together a lot, lately, Emerald and Oscar expected to fill in the gaps of what’s left of the old JNPR by default. Not that they’ve ever really had a conversation about it—Emerald can’t think of the last time Nora said two words to her that weren’t combat warnings like “more Grimm coming” or “on your left,” but. That’s probably just because things have been tense. She remembers Nora being friendly, on the whole of it. Off-puttingly friendly, even, back at Beacon.

How hard could it be?

The answer, it turns out, is absurdly hard. Nora’s barely ever in the temporary barracks they’re all living out of, instead always checking on the refugees, going on supply runs over esoteric requests, volunteering for extra patrols. Emerald used to find that kind of dogged do-goodery gag-inducing, but now that she’s been the helping hand herself a few times, she’s starting to see the appeal. The way people look at you when you’ve been of service, it’s—nice. Really nice. But Nora works utterly thankless jobs, the kind most people don’t even notice, let alone appreciate. And when they have their insufferably long leadership meetings and they’re talking about distribution of resources or whatever, Nora’s a fierce debater—jumping in to advocate for the people from Mantle sometimes even before May can. As far as Emerald can tell, she does this stuff just because... she believes in it. Because it’s the right thing to do, and someone has to.

She can’t imagine what it would feel like, to have the attention of someone like that turned on her. She’s craved it from the wrong people for so long, but now that she has her pick of options... she’s letting herself actually want the right kind, for once. She thinks.

Which is all to say that largely through no fault of her own, Emerald unexpectedly finds herself sitting with a profound, fervent desire for Nora Valkyrie to think she’s cool.

She hates that.

-

Fighting with Nora is easy.

(—er. Alongside. Fighting alongside Nora is easy. Emerald’s done fighting with these people. Very done.)

It’s weird, because Emerald’s finding working with a full team to be a real adjustment. When battles get big enough to merit it, she’s used to keeping to the sidelines to use her Semblance for nefarious purposes, or, in a jam, used to having Mercury’s six—literally, because all the forward momentum from his feet-first style always left his back wide open. Figuring out where to put herself so that Oscar can use her shoulder as a fulcrum as he dodges, or trying to aim for the Grimm Ren isn’t already shooting (ugh)—it’s taking work.

But somehow, it’s not work for Nora. Nora seems to anticipate with perfect ease how Emerald will move or what she’ll be doing; Nora bobs and weaves around their ragtag little band with her war hammer like it’s breathing.

It doesn’t bother Emerald until it does, and she means to bring it up casually but there’s never a good time. So it just… stews, and stews, until she can’t keep it bottled up anymore.

Which means that instead of the earnest question she intends it to be, it comes out like this:

“Okay, seriously? It’s creepy how you do that.”

It’s just the two of them, plus the handful of dweeby Atlesian tech-types they’re escorting back from their foray installing some fancy hydro-filtration modules on the outskirts of the camp. And it’s not like Emerald had felt outmatched by the half-dozen Ravagers that had decided they looked like lunch—she can shoot Ravagers in her sleep, at this point—but still. The way Nora had moved around her, it was like they’d been fighting side by side for years.

Nora just cocks her head to the side. “Do what?” she asks, like she hadn’t just basically read Emerald’s mind in front of the water nerds.

Emerald does a complicated gesture with her hands, wrist over wrist, and then flicking two fingers—trying to evoke the way Nora had flipped over Emerald’s back and then kicked off, just trusting Emerald would reel her back in with a chain in midair before a Grimm could fly away with her sorry ass. “That.”

“Oh!” Nora laughs and rubs at the back of her neck, looking sheepish. “It’s nothing. I guess it’s just not a big deal for me? Like—I was there when Ren built StormFlower. The cables are newish, but we practiced so much back in Atlas… I dunno. It’s just reflex, when your weapons are so similar. Fighting with you, it’s almost like fighting with him. I don’t even have to think about it.”

Nora swallows, then, and makes a face Emerald can’t interpret—disappointed, maybe, or ashamed. Which: good. She probably should be, taking things for granted like that.

“Well—just—” Emerald’s not even sure what she wants to say. Ask, next time? Don’t? “You shouldn’t make assumptions. I’m not your boyfriend, okay?”

The venom she puts behind the word is directed more at herself than Nora—frustrated, again, that she’s put herself in the position of wanting so desperately to be liked.

Pathetic.

Nora just nods, looking glum.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, cheeks pulling in a bitter smile. “You’d think I’d be able to keep that one straight, huh?”

She says it with such pointed irony that for a second Emerald wonders if she’d gotten it wrong somehow, but like—Nora and Ren are a thing, right? That’s—everyone knows that.

“Hey, what—?”

“Let’s just go,” Nora says, and Emerald automatically falls into line behind her.

They make the rest of the walk back in silence.

-

Sometimes at night, when she can’t sleep, Emerald likes to climb up to the roof of the barracks and look out over the refugee camp.

It’s—peaceful, is all. A good reminder of where she is; how far she’s come. The night sky in Vacuo has more stars than she’s ever seen, and being able to watch over all these people who have somehow become her responsibility… well.

A part of her will always be standing on the rooftop at Beacon, looking down on pure chaos as a queasy, frightened sensation twists in her gut and its noxious voice whispers you did this, you did this, you did this. What did you think was going to happen, you stupid little girl? You don’t get to feel sorry for it now.

But she does.

Weird how the only thing that’s helped is actually doing something about it.

She hears a scuffling noise over her shoulder, and she’s got Thief’s Respite drawn and ready before she can even really register what she’s heard. She relaxes when she sees it’s Nora at the other end of the barrels, unarmed and hands raised—a funny little smile on her face, like yeah, fair enough, I should have known better than to try and sneak up.

“Just me,” she says, unnecessarily.

Emerald holsters her guns. “Can I help you?” she asks, and—what is it about her voice, that makes sentences that would be nice if any other human said them come out straight-up hostile?

Nora shrugs, hands dropping to her sides. “I was hoping we could talk; I figured you’d come up here if I waited long enough.”

Well, see—what kind of lesson is she supposed to take from that? She’s been hoping for Nora to talk to her for weeks, and acting like a bitch is the thing that gets her what she wants? Good guys are supposed to know better.

And there’s the way she said it, too. Like everyone knows Emerald comes up here to brood; like it’s a big open secret. The knowledge sits uncomfortably in her stomach, makes her feel watched. Even now, even here, she can’t get a moment alone. Not really.

“What, so you’re spying on me now?”

Nora’s eyes narrow. “I have a pretty bad track record when it comes to losing people. Makes a girl want to put in a little hustle when it comes to keeping tabs on her friends.”

And Emerald would snark at that, or maybe apologize, or something, only—

Nora thinks they’re friends?

“Well, take a seat, I guess,” she mumbles, scooching to the side as though she needs to make room on the massive, empty roof.

Nora walks over and joins Emerald on the asphalt, letting her legs dangle over the edge. Seemingly unsure of where to start, she stares at her hands. Emerald stares too, but her eyes can’t help but wander—tracing the way scars, silvery in the moonlight, spiderweb up Nora’s bare wrists and forearms to fetter her shoulders, clavicle, neck. Like cracks in a pane of glass, right before it shatters.

(Only that’s not it at all, is it? It’s not a sign of weakness, but a warning of strength. I care this much, her scars announce to the word. You wanna try me?

Hazel’s arms always looked like that.)

Emerald doesn’t want to be the one to break the silence, sure that whatever she’d say would be incredibly stupid.

Luckily, Nora has no such qualms, and opens with: “I really admire you, you know?”

Emerald stares, jaw slack, certain she’s heard wrong. “I—what?” She’d say something defensive, like yeah right or you don’t have to make fun of me, only Nora’s eyes are so wide and so guileless they don’t leave any room for argument.

“I mean it,” Nora adds. “I know we don’t know all that much about each other, but… here’s what I do know: I can’t remember a time I saw you without Mercury right behind. Just like me’n Ren. And the way you fought for Cinder…” Nora smiles a sad, private little smile. “You don’t fight like that unless it’s personal; unless someone means something to you. Just like me’n Ren. And now you’re here. All on your own. And you didn’t have to be. That’s—don’t you think that’s crazy brave? I sure do.”

Of course she fucking doesn’t. Crazy brave would have been walking away the first, tenth, hundredth time she had a flash of panic about what she was doing. Or, better yet, doing something about it. Crazy brave is taking thirty thousand volts to get to your friends; it’s flooding your veins with pure crystalline power and saying Go, I’m doing what Gretchen would have done, it’s—

She closes that door.

“It’s not like I really had a choice,” she sighs, dodging the question.

“Oh, you know that’s not true,” Nora scoffs dismissively, tilting sideways to nudge Emerald with her shoulder.

And Emerald jolts, because—look, it’s not like no one touches her. They have to manhandle each other all the time in battle, and… and Oscar gives her high fives sometimes, which makes her embarrassingly pleased. But what Nora’s offering now, that kind of buddy-buddy casual contact…

… it’s been a while, is all.

“So, why did you want to talk to me?” Emerald asks, overwhelmed and suddenly desperate to find a way to get this conversation over with. She feels like she’s sprinted five miles; like she’s had the crap kicked out of her and she has to go somewhere to lick her wounds. Too much, too fast.

Nora laughs—a chuffing, cynical noise that doesn’t sound at all like her. “Looking for pointers? See, I’m trying this thing where I do things on my own, but I just—I suck at it. Like today; you saw. Even when I’m not with Ren, all I do is… is act exactly the same way I do when I’m with Ren. Like I literally don’t know how to exist without him, whether he’s actually there or not. And I know that’s not fair to anyone; I didn’t mean to treat you like—” She shakes her head, biting her lip. “You’re not just some stand-in. It’s not you at all. I’m just—broken, or something. One trick pony.”

“No, hey—”

“But you figured it out,” she barrels on, which is good, because Emerald doesn’t actually have a clue what she would have said there. “You don’t have anyone and somehow you’re just, like—good to go!” Nora says it cheerily, like it’s a compliment, but has the grace to balk a little when she hears how it sounds. “…sorry. That’s—sorry.”

Emerald shrugs, drawing her knees to her chest and resting her chin there. She feels like an idiot; building it up for weeks like spending time with Nora would solve all her problems when, surprise surprise, Nora’s just as fucked up as she is.

“Hate to disappoint you, but I don’t have any hot tips,” she mutters into the crooks of her elbows. “I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. Like—you want to know the really sad part? I was just following your lead.”

“My…?” Nora can’t even finish repeating it, which: Emerald can’t blame her. It’s so dumb. “Huh?”

“Come on. You know.”

“I don’t,” Nora says, voice thick with exhaustion. Like she’s sick of herself. “Ask anyone—I’m not the brains of the operation.”

Hearing Nora talk about herself that way makes Emerald’s chest feel tight; like her ribs have locked in place so her lungs can’t expand. She doesn’t know how to explain it; not without sounding like a starry-eyed fangirl or a moron with a crush and that’s not what this—it’s only that—

She chooses to start a different way.

“You wanna know why I switched sides? Like, really why?”

Nora softens, and reaches out to touch the back of Emerald’s left hand, where it dangles over her knee. “Sure,” she says, but Emerald barely hears it; it’s taking all of her concentration not to clench her fist or pull away in response.

“I overheard Oscar—or, Ozpin, I guess, I don’t know—talking to Hazel about Salem, about her goals. And… listen. No one joins under Salem because they’re trying to kill the world, okay? I mean, no one but Tyrian, anyway. We were all just trying to… find ways to get by. And when Cinder found me, she—” Emerald swallows, hard. This cuts too deep, too close. It’s not something she can just say. “I wasn’t trying to be some big villain, or something. I was just—looking out for the people who were looking out for me. And why wouldn’t I? No one else ever seemed to think I was worth it.”

“Of course you are,” Nora cuts in, quiet but vehement. “Everyone is.”

“See, the worst part is that you mean that when you say it,” Emerald grumbles, scrubbing at her face until smears of color kaleidoscope behind her closed eyes. “I figured people like you didn’t exist, and then Cinder and Merc were glad to prove me right, and—I let them. You know? And maybe if I’d just held out a little longer…”

“You’re not the only one here who’s ashamed of her past. Harriet tried to blow up Mantle, like, a month ago.”

“That’s not—forget that. I’m talking about you. Nora.” It’s the first time she’s ever said her name like that—addressing her, in conversation. It feels… astonishingly intimate, for so small a thing. Emerald powers past it. “Every day, I see you do something ridiculous, like double back on a patrol because you forgot you promised some kid a candy bar, or something, and that—matters. To me. It’s so stupid, but it’s not, because… argh! I want—it’s—” She tries to get her mouth to form the words, that’s the kind of person I want to be, but they stop in her throat.

Still, Nora seems to get the message. Her eyes seem suspiciously shiny for a moment—but when she blinks, it’s gone. “I… thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Emerald grumbles. Saying it like she means it: seriously. Don’t mention it.

“I understand what you mean, though. For years, the only person who looked out for me was Ren. And if he’d said…” Nora trails off, then, cocking her head to the side as she works through something. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing, just. I remembered something. I was about to say that if Ren told me the only way for us to get by was a life of crime, or something, I would’ve taken his word for it, but—the opposite happened. We decided to enroll at Beacon. And that wasn’t his idea; it was mine. I always wanted to be a Huntress. To… to be the one strong enough to help people, instead of always needing the help. He wasn’t sure if we would make it, but I was. We were together, right? How could we lose?” She chuckles, a little, shaking her head at herself. “Get a load of that. He followed me.”

They smile at each other, then. Like they’ve figured out something profound. Maybe Nora has; Emerald hopes so.

“I’m glad you’re here, Emerald,” Nora says, and—there it is again. The frisson of electricity that comes with being referred to by name.

Of course, then Emerald ruins it by blurting out:

“Of course you are, all your other friends are dead.”

Which—“Fuck!” she sputters, because she didn’t mean to say that. What is wrong with her? “Sorry! Sorry.”

Nora only grins at her, feral and incisive. “Yeah, well. Yours are evil, so. Pick your poison. At least I’m proud of mine.”

Touché.

“Still glad I’m here?” Emerald jeers, because her first instinct is still to press on the bruise to see how much it hurts.

Nora laughs, and gets to her feet. “Believe it or not, yes. If putting your foot in your mouth was all it took to get booted from Hero Club, I’d have been kicked out a long time ago.” She reaches down to offer Emerald a hand; Emerald takes it, letting Nora pull her to standing. “Now go and get some rest, huh? None of us can ever sleep when you’re up here thinking so loud.”

“That an order?”

“Advice. Friends give it, from time to time.”

And—yeah. Maybe they do. 

[latetaektalk]

(he)art thief | jjk [i, preview]

“jungkook is charming, kind, smart, and funny. jungkook is the guy to fall in love with. he is perfect in every sense, except that he is also a member of a notorious heist group and only getting close to you to steal from you. but what does he do when he starts to fall for you? who does he choose? his brothers or you?

genre: heist! AU, thief! jungkook, art curator daughter! oc, ocean’s! AU, fluff, angst, sexual themes/implied smut (in later chapters)

pairing: jungkook x female reader

estimated word count: 35 to 40k

warnings: cursing/swearing, a bit of alcohol consumption

a/n: this is loosely based off the ocean’s film! to be added to the taglist, shoot me an ask/message! also, gureum is jungkook’s dog! and thank you to movie club for helping me come up with this amazing title!!

coming sunday, may 30th 2021  

Jungkook avoids playgrounds.

Does so because when he was at the tender age of just seven, he fell off a swing. He ended up in the hospital (his first but not last visit); seven stitches, his mother told him, but he could swear it was a million.

Needless to say, Jungkook has been avoiding playgrounds like the plague ever since.

But here he is, in the middle of one, dog leash in his hand, and heart pounding in his chest so violently it might just explode.

A mob of boys runs past him, all of them no older than six—which means that, for the most part at least, they’re harmless—but still, Jungkook flinches. It’s embarrassing, even more so because Gureum turns and stares at him. If one of them should flinch, it should be Gureum, with him being a dog and Jungkook a full grown adult, but God, today is just not his day. He’s stressed! Out of it! Nervous! A wreck-

“Did you just flinch?”

Jungkook feels his heart drop. Fuck, he thought he walked out of sight!

“No, I didn’t, Tae,” he hisses, pressing the earpiece further into his ear.

“You flinched! We can still see you- ah, okay, not anymore. But we saw that-”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I definitely did not flinch-”

“Denying it is pointless. We all saw it. Back me up here, Jimin.”

“You definitely flinched.”

Jungkook stops dead in his tracks, is about to walk back to the car and tell them that they must be hallucinating because he definitely did not flinch when-

“Can you see her already, Kook?” Namjoon asks and for a moment, Jungkook forgot why he is here, you.

He looks around himself, and it doesn’t take him long to find you, sitting on a bench, under a big tree, soft shadows dancing on your skin.

“Yeah, I-I see her,” Jungkook says under his breath.

“Okay, good. I’m gonna need you to focus up then,” Namjoon continues, and Jungkook nods like Namjoon could see him.

“Yeah, if you screw this up, it’s your fault if we end up in jail-”

“Tae!” Namjoon warns, and judging from the ‘ow’ that follows, someone punched him. Jungkook’s guess is Jimin.

“What? I’m just saying-”

“I knew I shouldn’t have let you come,” Namjoon mumbles and runs a hand down his face. “Hey, Kook, don’t listen to Tae, yeah? He’s just messing with you.”

“Yeah… I know,” Jungkook mutters, and he means it. He really does know that Taehyung is messing with him, but there’s a part of him that takes it to heart, that is worried sick about how he’s going to fuck this up and be the reason for why they all end up in jail.

“Don’t worry, Kook,” Jimin cuts in, taking the phone from Namjoon. “We’ve got your back. All you have to do is repeat after me, say what I say. You’ve got this. Remember what I taught you?”

“Always smile and laugh and never talk about yourself. Keep the conversation about the other person because people love talking about themselves,” Jungkook repeats, and looks at you again, heart heavy in his chest.

He shouldn’t feel like this, wishes he wouldn’t. But he can’t help it. This isn’t how he imagined he’d meet you. Jungkook thought he’d meet you at some fancy event, sipping expensive champagne, or at some luxury clothing store maxing out your parents’ credit card—after all, your mother is a world famous art curator. But instead you spend your time at playgrounds, babysitting.

There’s actually no reason for Jungkook to be this nervous. Jimin did practise with him this exact scenario, but he can’t help but think that with a flute in his hands and some alcohol buzzing through his system, he’d feel more comfortable. But here he is, in the middle of a sea of children.

“Kook, do you copy?”

“What? Sorry, I wasn’t…” Jungkook pauses. He shouldn’t admit that he wasn’t listening.

“Get your head in the game, please,” Namjoon tells him over the earpiece.

“Sorry, you’re right. I’m here,” Jungkook says and starts to walk again even though he still feels fucking lost as a goddamn adult at a playground. Gureum follows him when he tugs on the dog leash.

“Okay, good. Just- just try your best,” Namjoon says, voice a bit muffled. “You’ve got this.”

Jungkook could swear that there’s a waiver to his words.

“Don’t worry. We’re here,” Taehyung tells him before Jungkook can think about it too much, distracting him from the quiver he heard.

He stops behind a tree, close enough for Gureum to spot you, but not close enough for you to spot them. His knees crack when he kneels down to stroke Gureum’s ear.

“Hey, Gureum? I’m gonna unleash you in a second and then I’m gonna need you to run towards,” Jungkook points as discreetly as possible to you, “her, yeah? Just like we practised? Remember? Remember how you ran towards Seok and Yoongi? Do it exactly like that again, okay? If you do, I’ll get you your favourite treat.”

Gureum doesn’t run away instantly when Jungkook unclips him because he’s trained, but when he points at you and whistles, he’s gone.

You react surprisingly calm to a dog barreling towards you, barely flinching. You lean down and greet Gureum.

“Approaching target now,” Jungkook mumbles quietly and can only faintly register how Namjoon tells Taehyung to be quiet from now on, all of his attention on the mission now.

With the leash in his hand, Jungkook jogs towards you, heaving extra hard to sell the act of a dog-owner-who-has-been-chasing-his-dog-for-the-last-ten-minutes to you.

You look up to him when he stops in front of you, eyeing him. Jungkook stands there, bend over, his hands on his knees, breathing like he’s struggling to catch his breath.

“Uh…. hi,” you start, brows pinched together.

Jungkook puts on his most charming smile, ignoring his thumping heart to the best of his abilities.

“Hi.”

“Oh, we’re starting- okay, showtime: I’m sorry, are you okay? My dog- he just ran and I couldn’t stop him. I’m so sorry,” Jimin says in his ear.

“I-I’m so sorry.” There’s a quiver to Jungkook’s voice, and it isn’t on purpose. “Are you okay? He just ran and I-”

“It’s fine,” you tell him with a small smile, still petting Gureum who has clearly taken a liking to you. During practise with Seokjin and Yoongi, Gureum always ran back to Jungkook, but now he’s staying at your feet, relishing in your pets. “Is that your dog?”

“Yes, yes, it is. I’m so sorry. I just unleashed him for a second, but then he ran away and I couldn’t catch up with him. Are you okay?”

“Yes, and I’m so sorry. I just unleashed him for a moment, thinking it was okay, but-”

“Can you prove it?” you interrupt and Jungkook pauses. “I mean that it’s your dog. It’s just that he isn’t really reacting to you, you know?”

Jimin’s response comes a bit late. “Oh, yes, I can. His name’s Gureum and he is- what’s the breed of your dog again? I don’t remember. If you look at his collar, you’ll see I’m telling the truth.”

“Oh, yeah, I can,” Jungkook smiles, wiping the non existent sweat from his temple. “His name’s Gureum and he’s a white Maltese dog. If you look at his collar, you’ll see that I’m not lying.”

You actually look at the collar and part of Jungkook is offended that you don’t just believe him. Does he look like a liar to you? “Actually, I have pictures too-”

“No, no, it’s fine. I believe you,” you say before gesturing for Gureum to go back to Jungkook. He does, but somewhat reluctantly and Jungkook doesn’t know how to interpret this.

“Ask her if she’s okay again.”

“Are you really okay?” Jungkook says and offers you a smile the way Jimin taught him to. “I really am sorry about-”

“It’s fine,” you tell him and wave him off. “Nothing happened. Don’t worry about it. Just leash your dog.”

And then, you turn away from him. Jungkook stands there awkwardly for another moment before kneeling down to Gureum, absentmindedly petting him, mind filled with questions because what now? How does he communicate to the others that you turned away from him? That the conversation has ended and he has no idea how to start it again?

“What’s going on Kook? Is she smiling-”

“Ah, Gureum, no,” Jungkook cuts in. “Don’t turn away- I can’t leash you if you do that. Don’t turn away.”

“Oh, shit, she turned away, huh?”

“What now, Jimin?”

“Shush, Joon. Let me think, yeah?”

Jungkook fiddles with the leash like he has a problem clipping it, hoping that maybe you’re going to offer him your help. You don’t. And why would you? He’s an adult after all.

Before Jimin can come up with anything though, the solution to the problem presents itself. It comes in the form of a girl running and tripping right next to Jungkook and him catching her just in time before she can faceplant in the dirt and scrape her knees open.

“Oh, hey, careful here!” Jungkook brings the girl back up on her two feet. She stares at him with big eyes, and he recognises her from the pictures. It’s Siyeon, the seven year old girl you babysit regularly, the reason why you’re spending your afternoon at a playground today. ”You okay?”

“Kook, what’s happening right now?” Namjoon asks.

Siyeon looks at you, and you’re already kneeling beside her, fixing her hair.

“Siyeon, I told you not to run. See, you almost fell now!” You say it the same way a mother would, less strict though. “If he hadn’t caught you, you would have hurt yourself, wouldn’t you have? Now, what do you say?”

“T-thank you,” Siyeon mumbles, and Jungkook isn’t sure if she’s staring at her hands because she’s embarrassed or just about to cry.

“Who’s that? Who are you talking to? Who’s he talking to?”

“Was that a kid?”

“Are you okay?” Jungkook asks Siyeon, ignoring Namjoon and Taehyung to the best of his abilities.

“Y-yes, thank you.” She won’t look at him.

Jungkook smiles. “Well, I’m happy that you didn’t get hurt there.”

“Kook, answer please. Do you need help?”

“Should we interfere?”

Jungkook’s about to snap. Does it seriously sound like he needs help? He’s talking to a seven year old, for fuck’s sake! Sure, he didn’t practise this scenario, but God, he was capable of improvising!

“Thank you. She’s really clumsy,” you say to Jungkook.

“Ah, don’t worry about it. I’m like that too. After all, I let,” he looks down at Gureum and finishes his sentence by gesturing to him and then you. You laugh.

And that’s when Siyeon seems to notice Gureum for the first time, eyes growing big at his sight like she has never seen a dog before. A chance.

“His name’s Gureum. You wanna-”

“Do you think we should go over there? See if he’s okay?”

And with that, Jungkook snaps. Yoongi is going to give him an earful for destroying his oh so precious equipment, but he can’t do this any longer with Jimin, Namjoon and Taehyung in his ear. So in one smooth movement, Jungkook digs out the earpiece and crushes it between his fingers, hiding it in his hand.

“Sorry, a fly, I think,” Jungkook says, swatting at his ear, and before you can think about it, he moves on. “Do you wanna pet Gureum, S- Is it okay if I call you Siyeon?”

Siyeon stares at Jungkook like he can’t believe he just asked her that. It’s probably the first time an adult has asked her for permission to call her by her name, and she seems to appreciate it immensely because she beams at him and gives him a huge nod.

“Okay, Siyeon, do you maybe wanna pet Gureum? He doesn’t bite, I promise.” Jungkook can feel your eyes on him. He’s doing it, charming you!

Siyeon turns to you.

“Can I-?”

You hum. “If Gureum is okay with it-”

Siyeon kneels down. “Hello, Mr Gureum. Sir, can I please pet you?”

Jungkook melts, and so do you.

Receiving no response from Gureum, Siyeon looks back up to you. Jungkook quickly takes his paw and waves. “Hello, Mrs Siyeon, if you promise not to hurt me, you can pet me. I like it especially if humans pet me at the back of my head. Just, please, be nice to me.”

In all of the years he has had Gureum, Jungkook has never tried to imagine what his voice would sound like, but he knows for a fact that he doesn’t sound like a chain smoker. It’s a questionable choice, but he doesn’t regret it. Because not only does it make Siyeon laugh, it also elicits a chuckle from you.

You look at him with a grin. “I don’t think I’ve introduced myself yet, have I?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Jungkook says, and you two rise to your feet when Siyeon starts to pet Gureum and he doesn’t bite her.

“Well,” you stretch out your hand, “I’m Y/N.”

Jungkook swallows the ‘I know’ that wants to slip him and takes your hand. He has to stop himself from bursting with pride, only allowing his smile to grow into a blinding grin.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he says, and he means it. It’s really nice to meet you. “I’m Jungkook.”

coming sunday, may 30th 2021

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Take Me, I’m Yours

(the highest voted options on the poll were ‘Geralt rescues Jaskier from trouble’ and ‘Jaskier riles the Captain up in public’ so I teamed up with the ever-marvelous, stupendously talented @limrx to bring you this Swashbuckling AU oneshot/art piece featuring a horribly jealous Geralt and a frisky, flirty Jaskier)

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

“Do you think he likes me back?” Jaskier asked. He leaned over the ship’s railing to look more closely at the dolphin following behind them. Lambert didn’t think he’d fall overboard but it would be kind of funny if he did. The strange young nobleman did have a way of always landing on his feet, though. 

“I know he does.”

“Well how come he hasn’t told me anything about it, then?” 

“You’ve met the Captain, right? About this tall, long white hair, weird yellow eyes, emotionally incompetant?” 

“You have a good point. Should I just confront him about it?”

“Yeah, sure.” Lambert rolled his eyes before shooting Jaskier a pointed look. “If you want to send your ransom note back to Lettenhove the following morning.”

“Fuck. I just want to kiss him, Lambert. Regularly. I want to know if he snores or not. I want to lay on the deck beneath the stars and talk to him like we’re friends and not just pirate and pseudo-pirate-captive. I really want to see what his ass looks like under those godsforsaken trousers, Lambert, it’s killing me not knowing.”

“You’re more insatiable than a siren during the rainy season,” the second mate teased. “But with fewer teeth.”

“Shut up.”

“Are you going ashore when we lay anchor?”

“Am I allowed?”

“I assume you’ll be allowed. You’re practically part of the crew. You’ve been aboard for nearly two weeks and you’ve pulled your fair share of the weight, if not moreso.”

“Why thank you, Lambert. I appreciate you noticing.”

“Of course, Jaskier. You may be an utter fool and a fop to boot, but at least you’re a hard worker.”

“Asshole.”

“Mhm.”

They both watched the dolphins for a minute in silence before Jaskier’s face split into the most heinous and dastardly grin. It filled Lambert with an unmistakable sense of fear and worry. “I have a brilliant idea. I know how to get Geralt to admit his feelings.”

“No, absolutely not. I am not getting roped into this, you horrible little minx. Don’t give me that look! I won’t help you this time!”

“But Lamby-bert,” Jaskier whined. “If he has someone to take all his frustrations out on in bed then I’m sure it’ll be easier to negotiate for higher shares next time we take a vessel.”

Lambert did not miss the fact that Jaskier said ‘we’ when referring to the crew. The second mate knew the little nobleman was here to stay; it had been clear that Jaskier would be sticking around from the moment Geralt first laid eyes (and hands) on him. The Captain hadn’t stopped looking out for the lad since. Lambert wasn’t even going to think about that singular flirty kiss atop the mainmast nearly a week and a half ago. Geralt had been pining after the acrobatic little idiot ever since and making absolutely no move to flirt back. It was driving the crew absolutely crazy. “Alright, you devilish siren. I’m in.”

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

Jaskier cleaned up nice.

And he deserved to clean up nice. He’d worked hard to put this outfit together. Billy had lent him a pair of dark blue breeches in return for Jaskier’s help with mending the mainsail. The shirt he was wearing was half a size too big, which was exactly big enough for the neckline to plunge even lower than he usually wore it. This way it revealed more of his toned (and rather hirsute) chest. He’d borrowed it from Starkey, who was the same height as him but who had much broader shoulders.

The Captain was going to absolutely die when he saw Jaskier.

He whistled a rather naughty shanty as he exited the bunk room and made his way towards the gangplank where Starkey, Lambert, and Eskel were waiting for him. He spun in a quick circle, arms out to show off his clothes. Lambert and Starkey whistled appreciatively and Eskel hid his face in the palm of his hand. “Ready, boys?”

“Absolutely not,” Starkey smiled. The first mate standing next to him tilted his head back to look at the sky, sighing deeply.

“Are you sure about this? What if the Captain tries to kill Lambert?”

“He won’t be killing anyone. Hopefully. If he does run his sword through anyone, it will most likely be me,” Jaskier joked. “Now, this is my first time drinking with real pirates. Anything I should know?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Eskel suggested. Lambert bit back a laugh and Starkey snorted.

“Impossible.”

“Well then, let’s go.”

The four men made their way down onto the docks and through the sparse crowd of sailors and merchants still mingling in the evening light. Starkey led them to a decent tavern and found a vacant corner table, which gave them an excellent view of the door.

Geralt and Starkey had spent the morning selling their stolen cargo to various merchants, shopkeepers, and artisans. The Captain had divided up the gold between his crew according to their various contracts and Jaskier, more as a jest than anything else, was given two crowns as well. “For not dying,” Geralt had intoned seriously. The men were amused but Jaskier’s face had gone bright red with embarrassment. The young noble had talked them out of trouble with the Skelligan patrols twice last week and Geralt was repaying him with public humiliation? Lambert knew that the Captain’s earlier actions were about to make this evening a lot more entertaining (if slightly uncomfortable) and he was ready to get this show on the road. He flung an arm around Jaskier’s waist and ordered them all a round of ales.

“So everyone knows what the general goal here is, right?” Jaskier clarified.

“Yes,” Eskel nodded. “You’re using Geralt’s jealous nature to make him act on his less than subtle feelings for you.”

“Correct. Wonderful.”

Lambert squeezed the noble’s hip through his borrowed pants and Jaskier huffed indignantly in reply. Starkey chuckled softly at their antics and winked at the barmaid when she brought them their drinks. “Can’t wait, really. It’s been so boring lately and the last two ships we took didn’t even fight back. This is drama. This is entertainment!”

“Shut up, Starkey,” Jaskier pouted. He leaned back into Lambert’s embrace and gulped down half his ale.

“Slow down, kid,” the first mate teased. “Or you will be drunk when he gets here and your plan won’t work.”

“I need to get the pink in my cheeks or I’ll look suspicious,” Jaskier argued. “One ale should do it without getting me tipsy. Maybe two if it’s weak.”

“Method actors,” Lambert rolled his eyes.

Jaskier was sipping slowly at his second ale and the other three pirates were on their fourth or fifth when Geralt finally came barreling through the tavern door. “There you are!” Eskel shouted, waving the Captain over. Nobody missed the barely-hidden glare Geralt aimed at Lambert’s arm where it rested against the nobleman’s lower back.

“Captain,” the second mate nodded.

“Lambert. Eskel. Starkey.” Geralt greeted them all in turn.

“Heyyyy,” Jaskier whined, leaning forward against the edge of the table and pouting. “What about me, sir?”

“You.”

“Rude,” the brunette huffed. Lambert ran a lazy hand up and down his spine and Jaskier watched as Geralt’s eyes narrowed into slits. He sighed sadly and melodramatically into his mug and nodded once in the second mate’s direction. “Thank you, darling. At least someone in this crew likes me.”

Starkey saw Geralt’s eyelid twitch and slid Eskel two crowns under the table to settle their bet. He thought the vein on their Captain’s throat would show up before the eyelid went, but it must have been the first mate’s lucky night this time around. “Hey Eskel, let’s see if any of the lovely ladies here want to dance with us, eh?”

“You coming, Captain?” Eskel asked. “Seems like Jaskier and Lambert are a bit busy.”

“Yes, Geralt,” Jaskier egged him on. The Captain had a white-knuckled grip on the handle of his mug. The noble took a long swig of ale and licked a bit of foam from his lip when he was finished, noting the way Geralt’s eyes locked onto his mouth. “Why not go dance with a pretty lady. Certainly nobody else has your attention.”

The pirate Captain finally snapped. He slammed his mug down and reached around the table to grab Jaskier around the waist. He hauled him out of the second mate’s grip and onto his feet. “Captain, what are yo-”

“Yer coming with me, siren,” Geralt snarled. Lambert relinquished the nobleman with very little fuss, winking at Jaskier as the pirate Captain swung him up and over his broad shoulder. The young man flashed all three of his co-conspirators a thumbs up as he was carried out of the tavern like a sack of potatoes.

“A little rude to Lambert, don’t you think, sir?” he asked, resting his elbow against Geralt’s shoulder blade and settling his chin onto his hand. He crossed his ankles to make it easier for the pirate to balance his weight comfortably. “But they’ll be happy to know that our little plan worked out.”

Geralt stopped in his tracks but did not set his captive down. “Your what?”

“Our plan,” Jaskier explained as if bored. “To get you to finally do something about all this sexual tension between us. I kissed you on the mouth for fuck’s sake.”

“I thought it was an accident.”

“Oh, and saving you from hanging at the hands of some Skelligan officers, was that an accident? Not sending a ransom note last time we stopped for water and not turning you in for the reward in Novigrad, were those accidents too? There is a hefty bounty on your head, White Wolf, and I could be living independently in a castle somewhere right now except that I happen to find you endlessly attractive and fascinating.”

“Hmm.” Geralt resumed walking. Jaskier noticed with a smirk that his pace had picked up quite a bit. As if he was suddenly in a hurry to be somewhere.

“Hum dismissively all you like, sir, but you’re still carrying me back to your cabin to ravish me senseless, are you not?”

“Ravish may be the wrong word for what I’d like to do to you, but you do look rather tempting.”

“Thank you. I put a lot of effort into this ensemble.”

“You’re a calculating little nymph, aren’t you?”

“No, of course not. I only managed to secure a bunk aboard the Kaer Morhen and wrap its infamous captain around my finger in less than a month. I am but a silly nobleman with excellent dexterity and a penchant for climbing.”

“Lambert was right to call you a minx.”

“He does love that nickname.”

“It’s not an endearment.”

“Whatever.” The ground shifted and Jaskier knew they were making their way up the gangplank and back onto the ship. This was the part he’d been waiting for! Geralt kicked in his cabin door and stepped inside, turning to close and lock it behind them. Jaskier wriggled impatiently. “Set me down!”

“Hmm, no. I rather like the view from here.”

“Excuse me?”

Geralt gave him a gentle smack on the ass, almost a pat really, and huffed out a laugh at Jaskier’s offended noise. “You’ve been an awful lot of trouble for a nobleman and a captive.”

“I’m barely a captive, Geralt. Give it up already.”

“You haven’t signed the book.” He set Jaskier back on his feet and looped his arms around the younger man’s waist to pull him close. “You’re still a captive until you swear on the book and sign your name next to the others. Then you’ll be part of my crew.”

“I have yet to negotiate for my shares,” the brunette stated. He tilted his chin back, baring his neck slightly and offering Geralt his ale-damp lips. “Ten crowns after every capture and I get to sleep in here with you. That sounds fair.”

“You’re a good worker. Seven crowns, you can sleep in here with me, and you can borrow my bandannas whenever you want.”

“Even the red one?”

“Especially the red one.”

Jaskier’s soft pink mouth brushed against the pirate’s as he murmured his answer: “Deal.”

Geralt’s lips crashed against Jaskier’s with the strength of a wave hitting the side of his ship in a maelstrom. The Captain’s mouth was so warm and his lips moved against the younger man’s with almost frightening determination. As if he was trying to prove himself. His arms were strong around the nobleman’s lower back and his white hair brushed deliciously against the skin of Jaskier’s neck.

“You’ve bewitched me, body and soul.”

“Oh, Geralt,” the younger man sighed, opening his mouth to let the other in. I never thought the word ‘plunder’ could apply to kissing but here I stand, corrected by experience yet again. The White Wolf of the Seven Seas pulled away, made breathless by a young and foolish nobleman in search of adventure.

“I’m not a siren, you know. Not even a little. My family’s estate is landlocked.”

Geralt’s fingers rose from his waist and brushed against his cheekbone reverently. Those amber eyes, so cold and focused when he shouted orders or intimidated a merchant captain, were looking down at Jaskier with such devoted tenderness. The ex-noble felt his heart fill anew and double in size. There wasn’t enough room in his body to hold all of this feeling.

“Kiss me again, Captain. Take me to bed.”

“You’re too good at tempting me. You must be evil.”

“I assure you,” Jaskier smirked, ripping Geralt’s shirt over his head in one smooth movement. “I am.”

[mmvalentine]

Hey. Can you write a canon divergence where feyre runs into Issac when she visits her family in acomf and jealous Rhys👀

A little 'fresh mating bond' feysand? Oh yes. Yes I can.

We're All Just Animals

We arrived in the human world a day before the meeting with the mortal queens. Now that we were mated, Rhys was voicing a new interest in the village where I grew up, and wanted to spend a day walking around my old town. More importantly, we wanted time to walk around with each other in a place where we didn't get stopped every other minute to be congratulated by doting citizens. With the bond so fresh we... weren't always up for being around other people for extended periods of time and avoided being caught in casual conversations.

So there we were, wandering the market place like newlyweds. At home, I had put a stop to Rhys buying me lavish gowns and precious jewels. Leave the hoarding to Amren, I always said. But here I let him spoil me with trinkets from local vendors: wooden rings, pressed flowers, and spun sugar in the shapes of birds.

To our great satisfaction, no one approached us. No one knew who we were or wanted to make small talk. I supposed I looked very different now to what I used to- where I had been a pale, dirty starveling last I lived here, I was now fae with decadent meals every day and months of Illyrain training. If I walked past nineteen year old me, I'm sure she wouldn't recognise me.

But Isaac Hale did.

"Feyre?" he called.

"Isaac!" I beamed. Since Rhys and I had been mated, it felt like everything delighted me. Despite the looming tensions with Hybern, I was just so deliriously happy, and the feeling was as intoxicating as it was unfamiliar.

Isaac? Rhys echoed in my mind. He knew exactly who Isaac was.

"How are you?" I asked him. "Where's your lovely wife?"

"I'm good. She's at home," Isaac said, rubbing the back of his neck and trying to not stare too hard at me. I remembered how it felt to be dazzled by the beauty of the fae, and I felt a little sorry for him.

"I'm supposed to be bringing home a bag of salt and a few other spices," Isaac said. "Should we walk together?"

Ice crackled into my veins, starting where Rhys's hand held mine and shooting through my arm to my heart. I glanced at him, and if his grip hadn't turned vice-like, you couldn't tell that he was bothered at all.

The mating bond was a strange thing. The ever calm, ever suave Rhys I knew was consumed by the possessive instincts of evolutions past, and I wondered in the last few days where his reasonable self had gone to. I was all too aware of his absolute intolerance of males around me- even his own brothers, sometimes.

"Sure," I said, smiling beatifically at Isaac.

Then again, maybe the mating bond did strange things to me, too.

We turned and strolled down the street together, and as we did, Rhys's hand slipped from mind and slid round my waist instead. Tugged me into his side, and dug a little too hard into my flesh.

"So," he said, his voice perfectly light. "Isaac is it?"

"Yes," Isaac blinked, as if only now becoming aware of Rhys. My smile grew slightly wider, while Rhys beside me only got colder. I couldn't deny the rush I felt when Rhys got like this. When I could make Rhys like this. "I'm an... old friend of Feyre's."

"Funny," Rhys said casually. "I'd never heard of you."

Liar, I shot at Rhys. His talons scraped against the shield of my mind, found purchase and latched on. I shivered.

Isaac chuckled good-naturedly. "Ah, well, I suppose that makes sense, given... ah, our relationship." Wrong answer.

The talons twitched tighter, and the edges of my vision blurred for a second. I swatted at them, and they loosened again.

"It's been a long time," Isaac said quickly, noting the way Rhys and I walked together, the way Rhys was holding on to me.

"Too long," I purred. "We were going to stop by the tavern for a drink, if you'd like to join us." Rhys stopped dead in his tracks.

Feyre, he murmured, dangerously low.

"That would be lovely," Isaac said, and only noticed a second too late that Rhys's expression had lost all pretense at civility and was now openly hostile.

Rhys, I mimicked.

"Fantastic," Rhys said, eyes sparking. "Lead the way then." He gestured dramatically out in front and Isaac, now wildly uncertain, glanced at me before walking ahead of us.

What are you doing? I asked Rhys.

Going for a drink with your ex-lover, apparently, Rhys replied. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

He's an old friend, I reasoned. Don't kill him.

Rhys's eyes slid sideways to mine. Feyre I know you what you're doing.

I blinked innocently back at him. I don't know what you're talking about.

I pried his talons off my mind primly, and they sulked away.

I hadn't been to the local tavern since leaving the human world. It was dark and dingy just like I remembered- although my fae nose now picked up scents that I really didn't need amplified.

There were tall barrels dotted around the room that stood in as tables, and in the centre of the space were a couple of worn couches. We picked up our mugs of ale and sat down on one of the latter. I had Rhys on my left, and I leaned my back against his shoulder as I turned to Isaac. Isaac set his drink on the low table, and sat down on my other side. Moved a little further away when a low warning growl emanating from Rhys as soon as his backside hit the cushion.

"How are your sisters?" Isaac asked, now clearly uncomfortable. Rhys's arms slid around my middle, and his chin rested on my shoulder.

"They're doing well," I told him. "They're much more comfortable since my father's trade has picked up."

"Yes, I've been glad to see your family's good fortune return," Isaac said. He reached for his mug, which happened to be near my knee. Rhys's teeth snapped loudly next to my ear, and I slapped his thigh lightly.

"Behave," I said mildly. I reached up and stroked his hair without looking at him, and he moved his head to touch his nose to my palm.

Isaac, on the other hand, was looking at Rhys with wide eyes and had snatched his hand back so fast you'd think the tankard was on fire. Without a drink, he rubbed his hands together awkwardly. I picked up my own mug, and slid Isaac's across to him at the same time. The taste was sawdust on my lips now, but Isaac drank his down quickly.

"See the Archerons often, do you Isaac?" Rhys asked lightly. He was now circling his nails on my knee, and they were just a bit too sharp. I could feel it all the way up my legs. A craving for more, more, more of Rhys's touch stoked in my belly. Isaac blanched a little at how Rhys's mood seemed to be lurching.

"Uh, no, but the family is well known around town, of course."

Dear gods, I thought. His hands are actually shaking around his ale.

Rhys saw this too, and his gaze went straight to them.

"I see," was all he said, and then he pulled me right into his lap. I would have objected, it was far too intimate for this public setting. But then his hands squeezed on my hips and I realised he was hard beneath me, and all thoughts emptied out of my head. I shifted my hips automatically.

Isaac tipped back the rest of his ale, and stood hurriedly.

"Well," he said. "It has been a pleasure seeing you again, Feyre."

I held out my hand and he touched my fingers. Rhys went deathly still around me, and as soon as Isaac turned to leave Rhys was up and walking me roughly across the floor. Down the hall toward the staircase that led up to the rooms, where the shadows were dense and we were away from the main room. Then he spun me roughly and pushed me toward the wall, where my hands caught me and my breath came fast. Rhys threw up a shield so hard it cracked the beam on the ceiling, and then he had his lips on the back of my neck and his hands pushing up my skirts.

"Mine," Rhys snarled in my ear. His nails raked up the backs of my thighs and I gasped at the sensation. "You're fucking mine." And then with no further preamble he yanked my hips back toward him and sank himself inside me.

I cried out with the sudden movement, and then a wild little laugh escaped me.

"Oh so you think it's funny, do you?" Rhys asked, and started fucking me with his hands tight on my hips.

"A little," I said breathlessly. "Are you jealous of a young mortal man?"

"No," Rhys growled, and one of his hands landed on the wall next to mine, bracing as his pace increased. "No I'm not jealous of that boy."

"Then what's- oh, mmm what's wrong?"

"What's wrong is you're my mate and no one, fucking no one gets to touch you but me." He punctuated his sentence with sharp thrusts of his hips. I arched my back to get him deeper, and his teeth gripped my neck at the junction of my shoulder.

"Well make me yours then," I said, and the words set Rhys off into a frenzy. His hands slid over my chest and squeezed my breasts on top my clothes, and he was fucking me so hard I could barely breathe.

"You wanna be mine?" Rhys panted. "Fuck me back." I moaned and tried to keep up with the hurtling pace he had set. "That's it," Rhys said. "Fuck me back and come on my cock."

Indeed the pleasure was piling fast now, and I gloried in this unhinged, savage version of Rhys that so rarely got let out. Now, mating bond in hand, I had its collar on the end of my leash and I loved it.

My head fell back against Rhys's shoulder and caught my ear lobe between his teeth. My hand reached for my clit, but Rhys stopped me and put both my hands firmly on the wall in front of me. Then his own fingers slid between my thighs and his tongue continued under my ear in time with his hand.

"Come on my cock Feyre," he said roughly. "Do it. Do it now."

And my body knew who it was answering to. My climax stuttered out of me and I spasmed in the cage of his arms. Rhys tightened around me as he fell into release too, and we were shaking and shuddering and coming apart against the dull wood of the tavern.

Rhys rested his forehead on the top of my shoulder while we caught our breath, and then he cleaned us up with a wave. The sounds of the crowd floated back in as the shield protecting us dissolved, and Rhys grinned against my beck as he hugged me once more into his chest.

"Such a wicked, cruel mate," he purred. I turned my head to kiss him, far too pleased with myself, before walking back out in front of him.

I ran straight into a man with as much ale on his breath as was left in his mug.

"Oh hello sweetheart," he said.

And Rhys stepped up behind me and gave such a feral growl that the man backed away very fast.

"Home," he gritted out, and I kissed him hard on the mouth as he winnowed.

****

It occurs to me that I could also have done a whole bit about Rhys reading Isaac's memories of Feyre in the barn, but also it's 11.24pm you get what you get 😂

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