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yanderejustforyou · 12 days ago

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Day 2 ❄️ Little lie

Summary:

"No," he said, his voice a soft promise, a promise laced with something darker. "I'm here because you lie to yourself about what you need."

Day 2 ❄️ Little lie

The icy winds howled outside the small, dimly lit room, rattling the windowpanes with an ominous promise of the blizzards still raging within the streets. The air felt charged with an electric tension, the sort that made even the bravest hearts hesitate. But inside, cocooned from the harsh reality of the weather, the warmth of the fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows against the dark, worn walls. Oz reclined back on the plush, deep burgundy velvet couch, a rich glass of amber scotch cradled in his hand. He lifted it to his lips, savoring the warmth as it slid down his throat, his eyes transfixed on the flames dancing lazily, their soft, hypnotic movements drawing him into a reverie filled with heat and longing.

Across the room, Victor—Vic, as Oz insisted on calling him—stood near the large windows, his silhouette a stark, dark, imposing figure looming against the faint glow of the streetlights outside. The swirling snowflakes caught the light, illuminating a world blanketed in white, but Vic’s shadow remained a formidable presence amidst the winter's cloak. He embodied a sense of distant power, unreachable yet hauntingly near, adding to the intoxicating complexity that fueled Oz’s desire. This magnetic pull between them drove Oz wild; it was a dangerous rhythm, punctuated by the thrill of their unspoken connection, that lingered in the air whenever Vic was near.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Oz’s voice broke the silence, an inviting lilt dancing through the stillness. He leaned forward slightly, studying Vic’s posture and the way his muscles tensed even from afar.

Vic didn’t turn around as he stood, focused on the snow-laden streets outside. He never did when Oz spoke like that—when his words slid out like a subtle tease, an invitation that made the air crackle with untold possibilities. But Oz didn’t mind; he knew better than anyone that Vic’s silence was not distance; it was merely another layer of their intricate game, played out in glances and charged words.

“I’m thinking,” Vic finally answered, his voice smooth like velvet but cold as the relentless snowstorm outside.

Oz raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, intrigued. “Thinking? About what?”

Without any warning, Vic turned, those sharp, penetrating eyes locking onto Oz’s with an intensity that sent a shiver racing down his spine. The atmosphere shifted, the room feeling as if it had dropped a few degrees as Vic moved toward him, slow and deliberate, each step echoing slightly through the heavy silence. There was an understated power in his stance as he stopped just in front of the couch, towering over Oz, the intensity of his stare igniting something deep within him, making Oz’s pulse quicken with both fear and raw anticipation.

“You,” Vic said softly, his voice barely rising above the crackling of the fire, and yet the weight of that single word hung heavy in the air between them. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

Oz’s heart skipped, the usual cool facade slipping for just a moment , revealing an exhilarating vulnerability. He took a long, measured sip from his glass, his eyes never leaving Vic’s unwavering gaze. “Oh? And what about me?” His voice remained casual, though the undercurrent of tension threaded through his words, a flicker of something deeper and more dangerous igniting between them.

With a calculated movement, Vic bent down, closing the distance until his face was just inches away from Oz’s. The warmth of his breath contrasted starkly with the chilling intensity that radiated from his very being. “I was thinking,” he said, leaning in tantalizingly closer, brushing against the barrier separating them, “how much you lie.”

A flicker of doubt passed over Oz’s features, but it was fleeting—just enough for Vic to notice. He thrived on this; he relished how the balance of control teetered precariously between them, how effortlessly he could keep Oz on edge, allured yet uncertain.

“A little lie?” Oz asked in a whisper, soft and teasing, his fingers curling more tightly around the glass as if it were the only lifeline amidst a growing storm.

“You lie to yourself,” Vic’s voice dropped, taking on a deeper, more primal growl as he reached forward, his hand brushing lightly over Oz’s jaw. The touch was electric, igniting flames of desire that he couldn’t ignore. “You say you don’t want this, but you crave it. You crave me.”

Oz’s breath momentarily caught in his throat, his lips parting slightly as the air thickened with unyielding tension. His heart thundered in his chest, thumping loudly in his ears as he briefly wondered if Vic could hear it—could feel it. “You think I’m lying?” Oz whispered back, his voice low, thick with a mix of defiance and smoldering desire. “Is that why you’re still here?”

Vic’s lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile, the sort that sent chills cascading down Oz’s spine, awakening every nerve ending. “No,” he replied, his voice a soft promise—a promise laced with something darker and more compelling. “I’m here because you lie to yourself about what you truly need.”

At that moment, the space between them evaporated as Vic closed the distance entirely, his lips capturing Oz’s in a kiss that was a tempest of heat and dominance. Oz melted into it, his hand instinctively reaching up to tangle in Vic’s hair, urging him closer, coaxing him deeper into their shared storm.

Vic pulled back just as Oz began to lose himself completely in the delicious chaos of their connection, leaving him breathless, heart racing. “You lie,” Vic repeated, his voice rough yet tender, almost affectionate in its timbre . “But I’m starting to think… maybe I like your little lies.”

Oz’s lips parted in surprised intrigue, his mind racing with possibilities. Was Vic simply toying with him, or was this something altogether more profound? The ambiguity made his pulse race even faster , yet it didn’t matter—certainly not at this moment, not with Vic standing before him, those piercing eyes smoldering with a mix of danger and captivating beauty.

In a surge of defiance, he leaned in again, pulling Vic’s lips back to his in a fierce kiss, daring to challenge the boundaries that defined their precarious equilibrium —a silent confrontation that spoke far louder than words ever could.

Notes:

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this story, feel free to leave a comment or share your thoughts. I’m always open to taking requests for any ship or prompt, so don’t hesitate to reach out with your ideas. I love creating more dark, twisted, and romantic tales for you all!

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edwinmills01 · 2 years ago

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drwcn · 4 years ago

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I loved your fem lwj take on things. How would thibgs go if WWX was the lady? Other than ppl assuming she stood up for the Wens bcs she jad feelings for WN ( and that Yuan was hers)

Heyyy friend, I think I’ve seen a couple of girl!wwx fics floating around in ao3 so i certainly won’t be the first :P.

Also I completely misread your ask initially, I thought you were asking me what I think would happen if A-Yuan was WWX’s kid, and I was like oh?? But then I realize wait... I can make it worse.

Today, I decided that my mortal soul doesn’t matter, so here we go. Let’s see how accursed I can make this idea:

[1]

It started with Jiang Cheng. Jiang Wanyin had set out for the Burial Mount with the explicit goal of throttling speaking with Wei Wuxian, but what greeted him at the entrance of the “Demon Subduing Palace” — more of a cave than anything really — was not his martial sister, but Wen Ning. Well, what had once been Wen Ning.

Black veins ran across his pale, ashen face, down his equally ashen neck , and into the major veins beneath his clavicles covered by the collars of his black threadbare robes. Lifeless eyes, white as his skin, stared into a void the living could not see. There were talismans littering his body, and Jiang Cheng knew that when he spoke to this fierce corpse, he was not speaking to the young Wen boy, but to his mistress who controlled him with her demonic cultivation.

Wei Wuxian refused to face him. Refused him explanation. Refused him closure.

“Er-jie!” Jiang Cheng screamed into the stony expressionless face of Wen Qionglin. “If you continue to protect them, then I can’t protect you!!”

There was no response.

Suddenly, just as Jiang Cheng was about to kick and fight his way into the cave, Wen Ning thrusted out his right fist, and in his grasp was a piece of purple silk. Jiang Cheng unfolded the silk, vaguely recognizing that it had been cut from someone’s robe, and saw what was wrapped within was a slip of parchment.

割袍断义*, the paper read. Tell the world that I, Wei Wuxian, first disciple of Yunmeng Jiang has forever defected (Note: 割袍断义- to rip one's robe as a sign of repudiating a sworn brotherhood (idiom)).

With this, there was nothing left to say. Hurt and furious, Jiang Wanyin threw the piece of parchment onto the dirt ground, grinded his heel down on it, and left the Burial Mount without ever having drawn Sandu.

Inside the cave, Wen Qing held Wei Wuxian’s hand. “Why won’t you just tell him? He’s your brother; he can help you, you can —”

Wei Wuxian’s mile long stare seemed to be gazing at something — someone — very far away. Slowly, she placed her other palm over her belly, which horrifically was already starting to round out. “Nobody can help me now, Qing-jie.”

“I can,” said Wen Qing, blunt as ever. “I can make it go away, if you want.”

“No.” A droplet of tear escaped pass long lashes. “No.”

[2]

It continued with Jiang Cheng.

On a snowy night, the first winter after Wei Wuxian escaped with the Wen remnants to the Burial Mount, Jiang Cheng was rudely awakened from his slumber by a less-than-stealthy intruder breaking and entering into his bed chamber.

Zidian whipped through the air, lighting the room with her eerie violet glow, before the intruder could think to take one more step. It was a man, judging from his silhouette colliding against the wall and the pained groan he made in response. The very next second, the tail of Zidian coiled tightly around his neck and dragged him across the floor towards beneath Jiang Cheng’s waiting foot.

The Sect Master of Yunmeng Jiang summoned Sandu, ready to deliver the final strike, but just as his blade sailed towards the intruder’s chest, a pale arm jutted upwards, blocking Sandu’s descent and revealing a pale hand holding a … a...

Even in the dark, Jiang Cheng immediately recognized the mahogany comb.

“Jiang — ! Zongzhu —!” The man croaked out urgently, throat still stomped on by Jiang Cheng’s foot. It was - it was Wen Ning?!

Jiang Cheng looked him over. He was pale, yes, but his eyes appeared human. His hair was brushed and haphazardly done up in a farmer’s top knot. He was wearing farmer’s clothing too, probably more inconspicuous for travel than his Ghost General getup.

“Jiang-zongzhu! P—please!!”

No, impossible.

“Wei — Wei-guniang—”

Jiang Cheng lifted his foot and dragged Wen Ning up in a split second. “What’s wrong with Wei Wuxian?!” Wen Ning coughed and shook his head desperately. “No time to explain. My sister asked me to fetch you. Please, you have to come! Wei-guniang’s life is in danger! If you won’t come, I’ll...I’ll have to go to Gusu, and I don’t know if - if -”

Jiang Cheng followed Wen Ning.

For speed, they travelled by sword, but even so, dawn was breaking by the time they arrived. The crowd of Burial Mount’s villagers huddling anxiously outside of the Demon Subduing Palace parted for them upon their arrival. Jiang Cheng took a moment to gather himself and square his shoulders. Whatever it was; he was ready.

He was wrong. None of the dozens of scenario he had agonized over on the flight here could have prepared him for what awaited him inside.

Wen Qing, pale and drenched in sweat, was near complete spiritual collapse, and without Wen Qing’s spiritual energy sustaining her, the single tenuous thread by which Wei Wuxian’s life hung on would have undoubtedly snapped under the toil and devastation her body had been put through.

There was so much blood, so, so much blood everywhere, and amidst the blood, there was a baby.

Fuck.

Jiang Cheng transfused his sister half of his total spiritual reserve over the course of a day, while an exhausted but unrelenting Wen Qing worked diligently under blood-soaked sheets.

Then at dusk, when the storm finally passed, Jiang Cheng sat at the mouth of the cave with a tiny, perfect little human — a girl, a niece! — in his arms and cursed Lan Wangji’s name.

Wen Qing was extremely clear with them: 孩子要是留在这里，养不活。

If the newborn was left to be raised at the Burial Mount, she would not live. And so, because parting was inevitable from the start, Wei Wuxian adamantly refused to hold or nurse the child. Her child.

I can’t. If I do, I won’t be able to let her go. Those dark eyes burned with more than just the delirium of her childbed fever. For once, Jiang Cheng could not find it in himself to argue.

Thus, he took his niece home and named her Jiang Yan 江曕. The name was not his doing. His foolish, misguided, stubborn sister had stroked her daughter’s soft, baby cheek and whispered it to her as a farewell gift.

Yan - to be bathed in daylight. In the end, when given a choice, Wei Wuxian still opted for her child to walk on broad sunny road.

It made Jiang Cheng wonder why, then, she would choose the dark twisted path for herself instead.

[3]

It ended with Jiang Cheng.

The truth was simple: Jiang Wanyin killed his shijie Wei Wuxian. He did. He meant to.

He killed her. But that did not mean he wanted her dead.

In one day, he had lost both of his sisters, leaving two orphans in their wake. Jiang Cheng could not ignore the cruel irony of their fate: one’s father murdered by his aunt, and other’s mother murdered by her uncle.

This was the kind of tragedy fairytales were made of, and if there were anything left in him to shed tears over it, he would. Standing amongst Nevernight’s carnage, he could not dredge up even a single drop of tear.

Jiang Cheng didn’t know how he could return home to Lotus Pier to face that cherub face, always so happy, so sweet, so utterly untainted by the world. She had her mother’s smile. Yan'er was starting to learn how to speak. Her first words were da-da.

Da-da. Die-die. Father.

He was standing beside her father now.

Lan Wangji. Devastated. Destroyed. …Deceived.

Jiang Cheng hated him so much, so fucking much that for one insane second, he thought about telling Lan Wangji the truth just to see what would happen. Maybe he would run Jiang Cheng through with his Bichen - that would be a relief now, wouldn’t it? - or maybe he would jump after Wei Wuxian.

Truly, if he knew, he would. Jump, that is. Jiang Cheng was almost entirely sure. Oh the utter melodrama that would inspire indeed!

But then...

Wei Ying birthed you a daughter, a lovely, perfect, blessed little girl, and she carried that secret to her grave. I may be damned by my actions, but you, who have done nothing for her and taken everything, why should you deserve something as sacred as the truth?

Jiang Cheng turned away.

He was acutely aware that one day Jiang Yan may very well be the literal death of him. After all — 杀母之仇不共戴天 — one cannot tolerate living under the same sky as the murderer of one’s mother.

Be that as it may, he would raise Jiang Yan well, just as he promised. Unlike his sister, he would not break his word. Jiang Yan was of Lotus Pier, of Yunmeng, like her mother and grandfather before her. That for him, was enough.

Jiang Cheng clutched Sandu and gripped Zidian. Whatever his fate, he already made peace with it, and the rest was inconsequential.

One day, he may die, but today he lives, and so as long as he lives, Jiang Yan and all of Yunmeng Jiang will be protected . So as long as he lives, they will flourish.

[...and in between]

On the streets of Yiling, Lan Wangji tilted his head inquisitively at Wei Wuxian and the little boy at her side and asked, “This child, he...”

In response, Wei Wuxian patted her chest in a self-declarative kind of way and announced, “Oh this child, I birthed him!”

He stared at her in shell-shocked silence, his mind racing with panicked thoughts of but that’s impossible — that was just once — even if — the boy is too old to be —

“怎么，蓝湛，不要我们娘儿俩了？” What, Lan Zhan, you don’t want the child and I?

“Wei— Wei Ying—”

Then of course, she had laughed, and Lan Wangji thought no more of it.

Just a joke. A silly joke.

In time, he would come to realize his mistake.

~~~

[A/N]: I’m not even a little bit sorry.

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librarian-stacks · 3 years ago

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17 Days of 17

Day 6: dino+pink+growth

a/n: please do not repost/edit/steal this drabble. it is fluff. i tried something different.

————————————————————————

You stir slightly in the bed, one arm stretching across the mattress to find the space next to you open. You groan, your eyes still closed, as you continue to reach for the body that’s not there. It takes you a moment before you realize through your sleepy haze that Chan wasn’t in the bed with you. You push yourself up on one arm, rubbing your eyes with your other hand, and call out for him.

There is a slight movement near your window, and you blink, trying to focus your eyes on the soft silhouette sitting on the sill. “Oh, I’m sorry. Go back to sleep, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to wake you,” he replies in a stage whisper from his spot.

You shake your head and crawl out from under the comforter, padding barefoot across the carpet to him. “You didn’t. I just woke up,” you explain as you wrap your arms around him. “Why are you awake?”

He smiles crookedly and slides an arm around your waist, leaning his head against your chest. “Couldn’t sleep,” he says simply as he refocuses on the sky outside.

You both fall silent for a moment, watching the sky tinge pink and orange with the impending sunrise. Your eyes close as you rest your head against Chan’s, your fingers threading through his hair at the back of his head.

“You ever think about the past? Like, where you were and how much you’ve grown over the years?”

You furrow your brow and lift your head, looking down at Chan as he stares out the window. “I don’t know, sometimes. Is that why you’re awake?” you ask softly, rubbing his back lightly.

He smiles and tips his head back to look up at you. “I’m just thinking about how much has changed over the past couple of years. Meeting you, moving in together, your promotion, family stuff… me getting a permanent teaching job at the studio.” He sighs and rests his head against your chest again, closing his eyes. “I don’t know. It’s been a lot. We’ve both come really far, and I’m proud of it,” he adds, linking his hands at your waist.

You can’t help but smile at his words and you rest your chin on the top of his head, your gaze fixed to the sky. “Yeah. I wouldn’t have changed a single moment,” you whisper.

#17daysof17 #17 days of 17 #lee chan #lee chan fluff #dino #dino fluff #seventeen #seventeen fluff #svt #svt fluff

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sserpente · 5 years ago

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A/N: I was writing this while my cat kept attacking me because she wanted to play. I don’t know if it made any impact on the story but I guess we’ll see. 😅

Words: 2154 Warnings: fluff (+ there are NO spoilers for TROS in this Imagine!)

Your lungs were burning, accompanied by a stinging pain in your chest. A broken rib, probably, maybe even two. You had been reckless. No, you had been distracted. Distracted by the man you loved more than yourself.

You were so close to him now—and while your heart knew exactly what it wanted, your mind kept sending shockwaves of adrenaline through your entire body.

Danger. Threat. Flight.

You hadn’t seen Ben’s face since he departed to train as a Jedi with his uncle Luke—and Leia had forbidden you joined the Resistance on any risky missions anywhere near the First Order. You were not Force sensitive, never had been. But they took you in when you had had nothing left and you had given back to them your services and your loyalty—your support to fight for a better world.

Your personal political views remained indifferent as long as you got to live, preferably not in poverty. But the Resistance, back then operating under a different name, of course, had given you something else. Someone else. They had given you Ben—right until Luke’s godforsaken Jedi camp had ripped him from your grasp cruelly, had him drift away from you until he was out of reach both physically and mentally.

He had a new name now, new motivations—and he had done terrible things which shocked you to the very bottom of your heart and yet… yet you could never stop loving him. Perhaps this was the reason you were here now, on the Finalizer, bruised, beaten and defeated.

Your weapons had long been taken from you. You were helpless. And Kylo Ren was your only hope.

“Bring her to my quarters for an interrogation, and keep her restrained. Her strength is not to be underestimated.” The voice you heard behind you was somewhat… distorted, no, modulated—most likely, it belonged to one of the Knights of Ren… did Kylo wear one too, a mask? How would you recognise him if he did? What if this voice, what if it was him… You swallowed thickly. Focus. Interrogation. If you fought back too much, they would pry your mind open like a nut, pushing you straight into the depths of madness.

You didn’t know anything. Nothing about Leia’s plans and not even if they still resided in the same location. You were on your own now. You had left after the destruction of the Jedi camp, when Ben had become someone you did not recognise—yet.

My quarters… you repeated the words in your mind, pure terror spreading in your veins like a nasty disease. Could it be?

The Stormtroopers followed the order immediately. Grabbing you by your upper arms and practically lifting your feet off the ground, they dragged you through the cold and empty hallways almost effortlessly.

You did not resist—you would save your strength for later—for when you truly needed it to fight all the torture they were about to inflict on you.

Handcuffed to almost utter helplessness, you were shoved into some dark living space, discarded like an old piece of furniture; the metal doors sliding shut behind you and darkness swallowing you whole before you could even turn. Idiots.

Standing there in the corner in complete blackness, with your heart in your mouth and the blood singing in your ears, you waited. You knew enough about strangling people. Your restraints posed the perfect tool for that.

But it stayed silent for a while. No footsteps, no voices, nothing. Then, finally, just when you had almost given up and begun to think your captor might have forgotten about you, the metal doors flew open once again.

The small beam of light falling onto the ground of the dark living quarters before the only exit route was cut off again were enough for you to make out a tall silhouette—and attack it.

With a belligerent scream, you stormed forward, aiming for the figure’s neck—but found your limbs paralysed by an invisible Force only the fraction of a second after, before the metal around your wrists could even touch your enemy.

The man in front of you chuckled darkly—a terrifying sound through the voice modulator inside the mask he was wearing. You froze, regardless of what the Force was doing to your body, eyes widening as a suspicion rose within you. This chuckle… it sounded familiar.

As cool as you please, he reached up, gloved hands swiftly fiddling with the clasps of his mask, revealing…

“Ben.” You choked out when your eyes met. You had found him. He was alive. He was safe. He was well. “Ben…” You repeated, voice breaking pathetically. Instantly, the Force released your limbs but you did not move an inch.

“Ben is dead,” he spat.

“What? I see him. I see him right in front of me!” Kylo turned up his mouth, a touch of anger radiating off of him. Once more, you felt the Force on your body, this time wrapping around your neck tightly. He didn’t even blink as he lifted you off your feet and pulled you towards him without lifting a finger, your body—tiny and downright petite compared to his—colliding with his chest and knocking all air from your lungs.

You howled in pain, your stricken ribs complaining upon the harsh impact. Kylo hesitated, a frown decorating his face for no longer than a split second before he seemed to recollect himself.

“Where is the Resistance?” He asked with a tilt of his head, ignoring your prior response coldly. At this point, you were shaking. You longed to jump into his arms and hold him tightly, but feared his reaction. Would he push you away? Laugh at you? Kill you? No, you figured. Ben would never hurt you.

“I… I don’t know. I left them after what happened at… the… the Jedi camp. I’ve been looking for you ever since.” Kylo Ren’s eyebrows rose slightly.

“And now that you’ve found me, what will you do?” He responded coolly, a hint of mockery swinging in his voice. You fell silent. Ben knew you well, he always had. Truth was, you had not had a plan. All you had wanted was to find the man you loved.

“I presume the Resistance still cares about your whereabouts,” he continued then, seemingly unfazed. “What will they do once they learn the First Order has you in its grip?” Kylo Ren stretched out his hand, gloved fingers kneading the thin air as you felt the Force pulling your mind apart like thin threads being torn from a silken fabric—looking for any kind of information about the Resistance which might be useful to him.

You failed to resist, knowing it would make the inevitable pain a lot more bearable. You had not lied. And you had never kept secrets from Ben.

“You really have no idea.” He concluded almost softly, absentmindedly pulling away again. He gnashed his teeth, staring you intently in the eye for a few agonising seconds. You slowly nodded.

Kylo Ren already knew what you did not dare to speak out loud—that you had come to see him regardless of the consequences which might result in the downfall of the Resistance. For just a brief moment, his composed and repellent façade crumbled. Glimpses of cracks proving to you he was unwilling to yield to his true emotions. He clenched his gloved fists, his right eye twitching once.

Without another word, he hurried to put his mask back on, then he stormed outside, illuminating the dark quarters with the artificial light from the vast hallways for a third time.

“Send a message to the Resistance,” you heard his modulated voice say to the Stormtroopers standing guard outside, “Tell General Organa we have one of her… fugitives on board. (Y/N) (Y/L/N)’s survival in return for the exact coordinates of their remaining ships.”

Your chest was heaving, tears streaming down your face. Grief and relief mixed in your heart, poisoning you with a deadly potion singeing you from the inside out—it was a pain much worse than the physical injuries of your body the two medical droids were treating. Ben must have sent them to his quarters after realising you were hurt. Nothing was broken, yet the contusions felt equally antagonising. The droids had stripped you and more or less forced you down on the black and uncomfortable sofa, with only your sports bra remaining to take care of the dark bruises.

They utterly ignored your heart-breaking sobs rippling through Kylo Ren’s empty quarters. At least, the lights had been switched on by now, allowing you a few curious glances around.

The decoration was sparse. There was a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, a double bed with pitch black bed sheets, a dark and tiled hallway leading to a separate refreshing area and a mysterious metal door—you did not need to try for the knob to know it would be locked.

Ben’s signature was all over the room—it felt like his aura lingered despite his absence, reminding you with every passing second of the man you had lost. He could have taken you to General Hux, could have the Stormtroopers take care of accommodating you—and he could have you killed without so much as a simple blink. He had not. You were here. Right here in his quarters where you were safe. Safe from all the threats on board the Finalizer, safe from the proponents of the First Order. Safe from anyone except from him.

Kylo Ren returned, presumably, late at night. He found you curled up on the hard seating furniture, your almost naked back turned to him. He could sense you were still awake. Your thoughts were racing through your mind, one toppling over the next.

Your lips were still shaking—as were your limbs. His quarters were almost unusually chilly, dark and uninviting. Wearing no more than a pair of tight trousers and your sports bra did not exactly help this predicament. Holding your breath, you listened. What was he doing? You could hear the rustling of fabric, bed sheets being pulled back for the owner of the soft mattress to lie down on it and rest and lastly, the sound of a light switch. Once again, you found yourself in complete darkness.

One thing was for sure—Kylo Ren would never admit he was unsure of what to do with you. Killing you was no option. He would never forgive himself. Leaving you with Hux or the Stormtroopers? You were his.

Gnashing his teeth, he ripped his eyes back open all the while listening to your clattering teeth. Were you really his? You loved him, he knew this, he could sense it—always could have. And you were here. Here in his quarters. You could have been killed for just attempting to come here and even that had not stopped you from finding him. For Heaven’s sake—he was the Supreme Leader. If he wished to keep you with him, it would be his decision alone.

“B-Ben.” He suddenly heard you mumble.

Silence. Indignantly, he squeezed his eyes shut. Would sleep come to him tonight? He would need his energy. If his mother still cared about you as much as she had before he left her, tomorrow might result in yet another draining battle.

“Ben.” You said again, louder and more vehemently this time.

Again, he did not respond. You swallowed thickly, biting your lower lip so hard you could taste blood.

“Fine,” you spat. “Kylo.”

As if on cue, he turned in bed, facing you in the utter darkness of his quarters. You had a feeling he could still see every inch of you, his brown eyes boring through you like sharp daggers or the hot blade of his lightsabre.

“What is it?”

“I’m freezing. Please… can you give me a blanket?”

“I don’t have any spare blankets.” His dark voice rumbled through the blackness around you. Fearing that this would be his final word, you took a deep and shaky breath. But then, suddenly, the bed sheets rustled again. “Come.”

What? Did he mean… his bed?

Still trembling, you stood from the uncomfortable sofa, wondering what he would do if you approached him. But Kylo said nothing. Not when you lied down in his warm bed. Not when he covered you with his blanket. Not when he wrapped an arm around your middle and pulled your cold body against his warm chest, his heavy breathing brushing hot air against the back of your neck.

“Kylo…” You whispered. He held you even closer in response—there was no need for him to see you to notice how your eyes had filled with salty tears again.

What was he doing? Was he Kylo Ren or was he Ben Solo? But perhaps it did not matter. He was, after all, the man you loved.

Check out my blog to find more Imagines and take a glimpse at my first (to be) published novel! Also, if you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate so much if you supported me on Kofi! ko-fi.com/sserpente ♥

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dingoat · 3 years ago

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The Boy in the Temple

[Guess I’m in some sort of writing zone? This came out of absolutely nowhere and features a whole lot of Sithy business that I don’t normally go anywhere near and a character that’s still waiting to be properly defined and backstory for the worst boy rather than the best girl, hahaha. Sometimes when the plot bunnies strike you’ve just gotta run with it, and apparently I just did for nearly 2k words.]

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It was the last thing the Sith expected to encounter scurrying about the edges of the Dark Temple, a furious little presence of cold rage and purpose completely untainted by the madness that otherwise permeated the area. Even more surprising to discover was that the being was not only a perfectly ordinary human, but young and Force-blind to boot.

Immediately curious, he shifted the focus of his hunt to the boy instead, a wave of his hand directing his bogwing to tighten her wings and wheel higher into the soft drizzle of the sky, a perfectly unassuming silhouette against the Temple’s stone peaks. Dropping back a comfortable distance, the Sith allowed the Force to do all his work for him, observing the boy’s passage under arches and over jutting walls, stealthy as a hunting cat. He was… very plainly here for a reason, driven by something that ran deep and swirled passionately at his core. Intensely focused, but with a sort of callous disregard for his own self; the boy didn’t know if he would come away from this excursion alive, and didn’t quite seem to care.

He carried things, things that no regular human boy should be carrying, a scroll and a blade that glittered so brightly through the Force with ancient energy and carefully honed power that the Sith could read the engravings on the knife and almost make out the strokes of ink on the carefully rolled parchment. The boy treated them with care; unrolling the map only for brief consultations and guarding it against the rain with his body. He picked his way around a curved section of wall, textured with glyphs carved in glossy obsidian, ran his fingers along the scored stone until he found what he was after.

Then he uttered words that no regular human boy should know, and the stone shifted.

The Sith’s curiosity deepend exponentially.

He raised his hand and seized the stone, forcing the doorway to remain open even after the boy had slipped inside. He sensed the way the boy waited, first impatient, clearly expecting it to close, then no longer caring as he pressed on inside. The Sith followed, summoning his pet down to ground level to perch by the carved wall, swiftly weaving threads of the Force between the bogwing and the doorway and forming an easy anchor that he could access to let himself out again from the inside.

If it proved necessary. You never really could tell, with places like this.

The boy moved on, down a winding passageway with only a small handful of forks, pausing only once to consult his map, and being very sparing with his use of a small electronic torch to light his way. All the while, anger flowed from him, cold white anger stemming from a whorl of grief that filled the whole of him, making plain the shape of his body through the Force. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen years, lean and fit but still gangly with youth, and yet there was so much tension in his shoulders, in the clench of his jaw. If the boy knew anything of what slithered along the walls or crawled over his head, he gave no indication that he was bothered; he was either not remotely squeamish, or utterly oblivious.

The Sith was certainly not bothered, as he felt something with far too many legs crawl across his chest and carry on its way as he took a moment to lean against the wall, waiting for the boy to fuss his way over a selection of doorways.

The Sith didn’t bother to follow him into the chamber that eventually yawned in front of him; his vision through the Force let him know all he needed about the ancient text inscribed across the walls, the smooth stone chalice that sat on an ornate pedestal in front of the towering altar that took up most of the room, crowned with a shimmering obelisk. He also knew, plain as day, that the boy now trembled with something new. Nerves. Anticipation. And was that… a delicious little glimmer of hope?

He had wondered, at one point, if this were some new Intelligence recruit, set on some impossible training task. But that thought was cast aside as he realised this boy’s mission was intensely personal, and terribly private.

He judged that the boy must be a terribly resourceful individual, to have gained possession of the artifacts he held. Particularly the knife, which he now brandished, brimming with tension, over his outstretched left hand.

The Sith tipped his head thoughtfully, listening as the boy spoke, his lips and tongue rapidly forming unfamiliar words, a little clunky with his lack of true grasp of the language, but still… impressive. Very impressive, for such a superficially ordinary little being.

The Sith decided he’d seen enough, and pulled himself to his feet, stepping forward while clearing his throat before the blade managed to nick the boy’s skin.

The boy startled with a shout, and the ancient blade clattered to the ground. Yet his shock was rapidly replaced with blind fury, and after a split second of sizing up the Sith he launched, recklessly, ferociously, fists raised.

The Sith let him come almost within arm’s reach before twitching his fingers and catching up the boy around the throat, lifting him into the air without actually laying a hand on him.

“Who are you?” The boy shouted through his struggles, deliciously furious. “You’re not meant to be here, what are you doing here?”

The Sith couldn’t help but laugh. “I think of the two of us, it’s the one with his legs dangling in the air that has less claim to any right to be here. Who are you, skulking about a cursed temple with stolen items? I have to assume you have some idea of what you were about to do, but truly, do you have any idea what you were about to do?”

The indignation that soared through the boy was delightful.

“Leave me alone! I don’t care what you think, just leave me alone. I know what I’m doing.”

The Sith sifted gently through the Force and tutted softly. “You don’t care, do you? You’re not afraid of me. You’re not afraid of losing your own life here, are you?”

The boy glowered, and somehow came across decades older than he aught. But his silence stretched long, simmering with grief.

The Sith observed him thoughtfully. “You won’t succeed. Whoever it is you’re trying to bring back…”

The boy shouted again, something that was almost a wild animal snarl, and thrashed savagely in the constricting grip of the Force. He twisted and bucked, utterly heedless of the pressure around his throat, he kicked out and so very, very nearly clipped the Sith across the chin.

“A more volatile being than I might choose to kill you know, just for that. Or perhaps for your trespass, or your blatant theft.”

“So do it then,” the boy spat back with an acid tone, flushed with absolute disregard for his precarious situation, and an impressive wall guarding his thoughts, for one unable to manipulate the Force.

But it did little to protect against someone as skilled as the Sith. Pressing through that barrier was as easy as drawing breath, and the image that the boy held in his mind was breathtaking in its contrast to the ferocity and willfulness he projected outward. “She’s young, isn’t she? Younger than you. Or is that… oh, I see. That’s as old as she ever reached, isn’t it?”

The boy shrieked a wordless rage, jolting so savagely against the Sith’s grasp that he almost considered letting go just to see how far the boy would go. It seemed a pity, almost, that such a vibrant being should have to suffer a complete inability to perceive the lifeblood of the universe. That a boy filled with such passion and fury should be blind to his true shape in the world.

He waited until the tantrum died down before speaking again. He was in no hurry.

“Your little ritual would have attracted the attention of spirits quite happy to claim you and use you, with no intention of delivering what you seek.”

“So why don’t you help me instead? Why don’t you do something decent with your stupid magic, what the kriff is even the point of being able to do what you people can do if you don’t-” his words were cut short with a sharp choking sound and a gasp for air.

The Sith saw little value in even entertaining the boy’s sad little fantasy. But what he did enjoy was the boy’s spirit. His fury and his cunning, his resourcefulness and courage. What a useful life, this boy could have. What a career.

He summoned the blade to his free hand, pocketing it before gently prying the scroll from the boy’s belt. “You will leave this temple, and you will turn your thoughts away from this absurd ritual. You want nothing to do with the stuffy old dead beings that would rather turn your mind than deliver a glimpse of your lost sister.” He spoke the words with a sliver of influential pressure, but the boy’s manner remained fierce; no fog came to his mind to absorb the suggestion. It was unsurprising, really, that the boy was far too strong willed for a simple mind trick; so be it. The words would be offered as plain advice. “And one day, you’ll be grateful that I spared your life, and gave you the opportunity to find a way to seek out true compensation for those who brought her to harm. There is a great deal of solace to be found in artful vengeance. Death comes to us all, boy, there’s no need to invite it early.”

The boy seemed to be taking in what he said, and had calmed his struggles somewhat. But the moment the Sith let his feet touch the ground again, he launched once more, utterly foolish but still, in his own way, admirable.

The Sith flicked his hand and sent the boy crashing against the far wall of the chamber. “You possess the sort of tenacity and ruthlessness that could get you far in the Empire. I’m curious to see where this will take you in life.”

And what you might be able to deliver when I decide to cash in on the debt you now owe me.

He smiled to himself as he turned and left the boy to find his own way out. If he was truly resourceful, he’d find a way, and if not… then perhaps the loss would not be so great after all.

---

Some decades later, Keeper took in the caller ID on his buzzing comm, and permitted himself a long sigh before responding.

“Intelligence headquarters, how are we able to serve?”

The voice on the other end was young, fresh, and a little bit nervous. An assistant of some sort, then, or an apprentice? “My Lord requests the presence of your Watcher Five at his earliest convenience, sir.”

“Watcher Five is currently on a rather well deserved leave of absence. I can arrange a meeting for him on his return, unless the matter is of some urgency? Might I request the nature of the appointment?”

A pause. “My Lord wishes to collect on a debt owed to him.”

Keeper drew his lips tight. He had a bad feeling about this. “I will be sure to inform the Watcher. If there is anything else we may be able to do…?”

“That is all. My Lord looks forward to the Watcher’s return.”

Keeper stared at his comm for a short while after the call ended, feeling an uncomfortable coldness in his guts. And then he began to dial out, suspecting that this might just be a matter that Five would appreciate some time to prepare for.

#dingoat writes #swtor fic #sith #MYSTERY SITH that is hahaha #and a wee little #watcher five #guest appearance by #keeper

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tendertenebrosity · 4 years ago

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Part 6 of Illiam and Helis’ story. Masterpost is here.

This piece carries on directly from the last one ; they really should be read together. Enjoy!

Taglist: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @doglover82; @top-hat-aye; @burtlederp; @just-a-raccoon-with-wifi @thesleepysnapdragon

Illiam’s breath puffed into mist as he climbed the stairs, feet unerring on the familiar steps in the darkness.

When the weather allowed it, you could see for a long way from de Graer castle’s outer walls - craggy hills straggling into the distance, patchworked with farmland and the spreading darkness of forest, along with the huddled roofs and rising threads of smoke of the nearest town. All of it laid out in the moonlight like a rumpled quilt in dark gray and silver.

But Illiam didn’t head in that direction. He turned instead to walk the inner walls.

The air was chill against the exposed skin of his face and hands. It was late; so late that it would soon be early. The only people other than Illiam up at this hour were the guards, stationed silent and still along the walls. They knew better than to disturb Illiam, so he strode past them unacknowledged.

He slowed to a stop once he was no longer in view of any of the soldiers, to look over the inner side of the wall and down into the castle ward. A few smoky torches were lit. Illiam knew that, with his father’s return, it would have been like a kicked ants’ nest this afternoon, bustling with the activity of soldiers returning, supplies and equipment being unloaded, horses led to stables, wounded being treated and nobility ordering everybody around.

But that had been hours ago. Now the place was silent, and empty.

Or almost empty.

Outside the soldier’s barracks, up against a scarred wooden wall, a figure was standing. No, not standing - hanging from his wrists, the chains looped over an iron spike too high for his feet to reach the ground. The head hung down, chin against chest so that Illiam couldn’t see the face, only curly hair matted with blood. The green and grey of the Crestmead uniform was stained a dull, ugly brown with more blood - as were the hands that curled uselessly above the shackles, and the bare feet that hung against the wall.

Illiam propped one elbow up on the wooden barrier that stood between him and the twenty-foot drop down into the ward. Helis’ companion, the Southerner academic. What had they called him? Reed.

He was still alive - the figure’s breathing was laboured, so much that Illiam could easily see his chest heaving from here. He wasn’t sure if the man might be crying, or struggling to breathe past internal injuries, or if it was just that difficult to get air in that position.

Illiam stood there, leaning against the wall even though the wind up here snatched away warmth through his clothing, drummed his fingers on the wood, and watched the prisoner struggling for breath. He had seen scenes like this before. Not closely, but more often than he would have preferred.

Often enough to know how this would go. Oh, their story made perfect sense; a lot more sense than Crestmead choosing to send the most useless spies imaginable to Rosdan because they had somehow caught wind of his father’s invasion plans. It was just extremely bad luck that they’d been there at that time.

Reed from Crestmead was exactly what he and Helis said he was - Illiam could see that. His father probably saw it by now, too. But it didn’t matter. Reed would probably live until morning, be questioned again, continue giving his father’s men nothing because there was nothing to give, and eventually once they were satisfied with that he’d die.

It might be a while.

There had been no need to tell Helis that, he told himself, absently picking at a fleck of blood under one nail. They were a soft, fragile creature of the South, where those in power weren’t allowed to do such things - Illiam suspected this past few days had already exposed them to more violence than they’d ever seen in their cosseted little life. It would be cruelty with no purpose to tell them about the scene in front of Illiam.

They weren’t hardened to such things. Like Illiam was.

Illiam let his head drop into his hands, trying to breathe slowly and deliberately. His work finished and Helis taken away to his quarters, Illiam should have retired to bed himself. Heaven knew, he was tired enough. And there was so much to do tomorrow.

He doubted Helis was going to speed anything up - quite the opposite, they’d already cost him a day’s work, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Illiam also doubted his father had bought any of his arguments about wanting an assistant. It was a thin justification - Illiam had always worked alone, had achieved his greatest successes alone, didn’t even really know how he would go about integrating another person into his process. But it had been the only thing that he could think of.

Hard to say what the Duke thought Illiam’s reasons were for wanting Helis; but he had not been impressed. Illiam had lost some of his father’s respect. Doubtless he thought Illiam was giving free rein to some stupid, petty, emotional impulse.

And is he wrong? Illiam asked himself sarcastically. He curled his hands into fists against his temples. What on earth and heaven possessed you? There must have been a subtler way, a smarter way, you could have gone about this, but no! You couldn’t take five minutes to think this through! No, of course not, you had to act on the first harebrained idea that jumped into your head. And now you have a backlog of work, another reason for Father to doubt you, an assistant who hates you, and another damn responsibility!

The whole situation was ridiculous and Illiam fully deserved his father’s contempt. Illiam hadn’t thought about his classmates from the Academy of Magic in months. And why should he have? It had been years ago, and it wasn’t as if he’d left anybody heartbroken by his departure. Quite the opposite - they had all despised him, every last one of his Southern classmates, and the feeling was mutual. He’d left them behind long ago and they didn’t matter.

They saw me as an enemy from the beginning. No matter the diplomacy, the pretty lies and the wishful thinking, my classmates never trusted me. And they were quite wise in that, weren’t they? All he’d ever wanted or needed from that place was knowledge. Why should he care what happened to any of them?

If it had been literally anybody else, he told himself savagely, if it had been Joss or Remy or Diamand or anybody else from that class, he wouldn’t have done it. Maybe when he’d heard the familiar voice he’d have wandered over to see if it really was them, but he wouldn’t have lifted a finger to stop what was happening.

But it hadn’t been Joss or Remy. It had been Helis. Placid little Helis, with their soft brown eyes and dainty white wings. The least military person Illiam could think of. The last person he would have expected to see. What the hell were they doing in that forest? Crestmead shouldn’t have sent them, of all people, anywhere near Toralda. What had they been expecting?

Illiam sighed heavily and stood upright. He lifted his gaze to the sky; the view was spoiled a little by the torches in the ward that he’d been looking at, but the stars were still visible. That was what he’d come out here to find, wasn’t it?

He stared out across the dark and the cold, and tried unsuccessfully to calm himself down enough to go back inside and get some sleep. Standing up here in the wind ranting to himself about Crestmead Academy and his own stupidity wasn’t achieving anything. What was done was done, and he’d achieved all he could tonight. It should have been easy, to fill his thoughts with the calm of the stars and the snow and the silence. Usually, it was. He should go inside and to bed.

It was past midnight; aside from the silhouettes of guards against the night sky on the opposite wall, there was nobody in sight. The castle slept.

And down there in the ward, alone in the cold… the Southerner fought for each breath. Illiam’s gaze found him again, but he already knew he would still be there. Still breathing raggedly, on and on, suffering with no purpose and no end in sight. Illiam knew he was there, and would continue to know it alone in his bedroom.

Illiam leaned forward, concentrating. His fingers fell still against the railing as he formed the shape of the spell in his mind’s eye. No need for anything more complicated, no hand gestures or sketched symbols.

The spell arced invisibly across the courtyard, and found its mark. The ragged figure hanging from the wall jerked, silently, unnoticed - and fell still. No longer moved by that awful, laboured, painful breathing.

Illiam brushed away nonexistent dirt from his hands, let his lip curl in disgust, and turned away.

There. Never let it be said that Illiam de Graer’s a liar.

He’s an impetuous idiot and a sentimental fool.

But he’s not a liar.

#Illiam #Helis #Villain POV #non-binary whumpee #aftermath of torture #character death tw #fantasy whump #self-loathing #self-deprecation #references to torture #stress position #mercy killing #self-delusion #yeah sure Illiam #you never tell lies

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the-sympathetic-villain · 4 years ago

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The Stowaway’s Heart - Chapter 2

AO3 | Previous | Next | Masterpost

Description: Virgil is rescued by selkies after being abandoned at sea and brought back to their pod to recover. Virgil's poor, gay heart may just explode from how attractive they all are.

Pairings: Analogical, Platonic Logince (There may be more as I go along!)

Word Count: 5148

Chapter Warnings: Swearing, Sensory overload, Dehydration, Anxiety, Fainting (Let me know if I need to add anything!)

Author’s note: I thought this chapter was going to go up like a week after the first, but I wrote it, edited twice, lost 3 hours of editing before deciding to scrap it and start over. But I’m much happier with it now <3 With any luck, Chapter 3 will not take as long!

Shadows shifted slowly around Virgil as he floated through the empty void surrounding him. The distant noise of his own vague thoughts echoed in his mind, gone before he could even process them. He listened to the murmuring of his own being as the gentle noise nearly lulled himself into a deep, deep sleep. He leaned into the comforting warmth of darkness, letting it surround him as he drifted further and further into oblivion.

Am I dead?

The single coherent thought shattered the illusion around him. He suddenly felt himself fading away. Groggily, Virgil dug into the depths his mind, manically searching for any recognition of what had happened to him. The effort only seemed to make him dizzier. Resisting only seemed to cause him to slip away faster. Any feeling of safety fell away as a surge of panic seized his being. Manically, he clung to each thought passing through his mind, feeling them slip away from him. The world turned upside down on him and he faltered, desperately hoping for the spinning in his head to cease. He felt the energy leaving his body as he resisted and the hazy darkness around him threatened to consume him.

Fuck. I'm definitely fucking dead.

His mind edged closer to despair, but even as the thought crossed his mind, his certainty faltered. A gentle tingle started to move across his body and feeling returned to the tips of his fingers. He shuddered as the gentle tingling turn to the burning of pins and needles piercing his skin. The prickling sensation crept its way slowly up his arm, across his chest, spreading to his limbs as feeling returned to his body. Virgil sucked in a sudden breath as he was forcefully pulled back to awareness. He felt his chest rise and fall as he took rapid, wheezing breaths and his muscles went limp with exhaustion.

Fine. Not dead.

The bitter thought was short-lived as the sound of moving papers near his feet sent another wave of adrenaline surging through his body..

I'm not alone.

The realization sent chills surging up his spine. Virgil tried to open his eyes, his breath catching in his throat as he realized that they were sealed shut. A fresh wave of fear crashed through him as the sound of footsteps approached him. Manically, Virgil pushed himself backwards, yelping in pain as his head smashed against the stone wall behind him. He groaned, baring his teeth at whoever was closing in on him.

“Be still, dear one. I give you my word that no harm will come to you while you are in my care.”

Virgil froze, confused. His initial distrust wavered as the soft tone of the voice above him lulled him into a sense of security. His burst of energy faded and he sunk back into the soft pillow beneath him, too exhausted to be defiant.

“Good." The stranger paused. "Forgive me for not immediately announcing my presence. You stirred a few times since you arrived here, but you were not fully awake before.”

Virgil felt the weight of the bed shift as the stranger sat down beside him. Virgil’s skin tingled as a soft hand brushed his hair from his face.

“I tried to offer you water, but you...um, hissed at me. It was an unexpected response, given what I know of humans. I would have expected that kind of reaction would be more characteristic of someone of my species than of yours.”

That voice…

The stranger chuckled softly and the gentle laugh struck a nerve in his brain, sending his memories rushing back. Images of being caught by the ship's crew and thrown in the brig of the ship flashed through his mind. He inhaled sharply as the sounds of screaming reverberated loudly in his mind. Virgil shivered violently as his last memory came back.

I was hanging on by a bare thread.

Too weak to move.

I should have died.

He swallowed, nearly choking on his swollen tongue as he recognized the stranger's voice.

The man from the boat…

He actually rescued me.

Virgil barely had barely had time to process the thought when a cool hand came to rest on his forehead, sending chills down his spine. His initial shock faded quickly and he relaxed, leaning into the stranger's hand as his cool touch soothed Virgil's burning face.

Logan. His name was Logan.

“You are still abnormally warm. It would be best if you could drink something." The stranger's hand moved to the side of his cheek. "Do you think you could hold water down, if I assist you?”

Virgil opened his mouth but his voice was weak, and he barely managed to push out a raspy breath.

“Do not try to speak, love.” Logan paused. “Can you nod for me, if this is an acceptable arrangement?”

Virgil managed a small nod as he leaned back into the pillow behind his head. He felt Logan's hand move down from his cheek to his jaw, tilting his head upright.

“Give me a moment. I will return shortly.”

The bed shifted as Logan moved away from him. Virgil listened, tracking Logan's movement as he walked to the far side of the room. His attempt at focusing was short-lived as his mind subconsciously started to drift as he listened to the shuffling sounds of Logan as moved about the room. He yawned nearly drifting to sleep at the sound of the pouring water.

Time seemed to blur around Virgil and he couldn't be sure when how much time had passed when he realized the pouring had stopped. Virgil tipped his head up, listening intently, but he couldn’t hear the sounds of Logan moving at all. A pit of dread settled into his stomach as the silence continued. Dread gradually turned to panic as time passed

He left me…

I won't make it on my own…

I can't—

A groan had barely escaped Virgil’s lips when a loud, metallic crash broke the silence. A whimper escaped him as his eyes unwillingly peeled open in shock. Opening his eyes felt like dragging hot sand across his pupils, and he immediately clenched them shut. The burning sensation persisted even as his eyelids closed, but the thankfully the pain seemed to be muted.

“I apologize. I—" Logan's usually silky tone held an unexpected edge of anxiety.

Virgil curled in pain as the sound of Logan clearing the mess echoed loudly in his ears. The sounds seemed to reverberate in his head, growing in volume with each passing minute. Virgil moaned, reaching his hands up to his ears. He weakly pressed his wrists against his ears, trying to drown out the unbearable noise. Barely registering that Logan seemed to have set whatever he'd been clearing down, a wave of nausea washed over him as Logan dropped down next to him. He bit back the urge to gag from the unexpected movement and started to shake as his heightened senses threatened to overwhelm him.

Virgil flinched as hands touched his cheeks. Instinctively, he tried to pull away as shivers swept down his body at Logan's touch, but Logan held his face steady. Logan's thumbs came to rest on Virgil's temples and his fingers teased at the edge of his hair as he guided Virgil's face upright.

“Give me your pain, love.”

Virgil barely had time to process Logan's words before a wave of relief surged out from his temples, washing down his body to the tips of his limbs. He sighed gratefully as the pain evaporated out of his body and his senses dulled back to normal. He inhaled sharply as his chest opened up and his wheezy breathing became regular once more.

Logan moaned softly next to him and Virgil felt his grip on his face slacken. Exhaustion was apparent in his voice when he finally spoke again. “Be at peace, dear one. Please, forgive me for my momentary distraction. I did not intend to cause you harm—”

Virgil heard Logan pause as he cracked open his eyes. Logan’s blurry silhouette was barely visible against the bright light behind him, and after only a moment, the burning sensation forced his eyes shut again.

“Hold still and do not open your eyes, dear one.”

Virgil stifled a moan as Logan’s thumb brushed his cheek, sending pleasant tingles across his face as Logan examined his eyes. Logan turned away from him and Virgil listened carefully as Logan shifted objects around off to the side of the bed. With a final splash and dripping sounds of water, he felt the chill of a wet cloth being laid across his eyes. Virgil quivered gently as the chill eased the inflammation in his eyes.

“Your eyes were not ready to open. You must be patient, and let your eyes rest.” Logan paused for a moment before sighing. “I understand you are anxious to see where you are, but please, trust me a little longer. You will be able to see for yourself soon.”

Virgil swallowed, disappointed. His face clenched as he bit back the urge to gag on his own tongue, but he nodded tensely at Logan.

“Thank you.” Logan's words were quiet, and for a moment he fell silent. Virgil couldn’t even hear Logan's breathing as he sat next to him on the bed. When he finally spoke again, the exhaustion in the undertones of his voice was even more apparent. Virgil felt a pang of guilt in his stomach, realizing how far Logan had pushed himself to save him.

“May I lift you into a better position for you to drink safely?”

Virgil nodded weakly as his body went limp. He felt a hand on his arm. Logan moved slowly, slipping his hands around Virgil's shoulders and underneath his knees. He paused briefly, allowing Virgil a moment to adjust in his grip before attempting to lift him.

A gasp escaped Virgil’s lips as Logan lifted him off the bed, gently edging him closer to the head of the bed. Logan carefully lowered Virgil down on the bed with him, slowly resting Virgil’s upper body on his leg and supporting Virgil’s neck in the crook of his arm. There was a brief pause and Virgil felt Logan turn his head to look over at him.

“Are you comfortable enough, love?”

Virgil couldn’t help the shivers that gently made their way down his body as he felt Logan’s breath on his neck. He nodded, leaning into the coolness of Logan’s arm as Logan leaned over to the side of the bed. After Logan shifted back, Virgil felt a cup at his lips. He leaned forward, eagerly downing the water. Relief washed over him as the cool liquid eased the dull ache in his throat. Logan allowed him to drink longer than he expected, but still, he had to stifle a pitiful whine as he felt the cup leave his lips.

Logan laughed softly, clearly noticing Virgil's displeasure. “I do not mean to disappoint you, love.”

“Logan…” Virgil felt like he was choking as he squeezed out Logan’s name out, but he was beginning to resent his forced silence.

“You... remembered my name?” Logan's voice was soft with shock.

Virgil nodded. His voice was barely more than a wheezy breath, but forced himself to continue to speak.. “More… please…”

Logan hesitated but his resolution quickly weakened. “Very well. I suppose a bit more will not hurt you, as long as you are certain you are not going to make yourself ill.”

Virgil nodded, leaning his head tiredly into Logan’s chest. A moment later, the cup was at Virgil’s lips once more, and he sipped slowly at the water, savoring the coolness of the liquid as it eased his scratchy throat. Virgil willingly stopped drinking before the cup was pulled from him. Satisfied, he leaned back comfortably into Logan’s cool body.

“Where am I?” Virgil’s voice was stronger, though his voice was still gravely and rough.

“Somewhere safe, dear one.” Logan took a breath. “It is an island a good distance off the mainland, but you would not know its name.”

“Why do you…keep calling me that?” Virgil winced, almost overextending his voice.

Logan paused, confused by the question. “You are referring to when I call you ‘dear one'?”

Virgil nodded.

“I hope I have not offended you by doing so.” Logan's voice seemed almost anxious as he spoke.

Taken aback, Virgil shook his head slowly.

“Good. I do not want you to feel that I am taking advantage of your vulnerable position in my care.” Logan paused. “I do not wish to cause you discomfort.”

Virgil 's hand instinctively closed around a handful of Logan’s shirt and he felt Logan stare down at his hand, quiet as he considered Virgil’s question.

“I must admit referring to you as such simply felt natural to me. I was not entirely aware I was doing so until you asked.”

“You don’t even know me.” Virgil grumbled tiredly.

Logan shrugged. “Perhaps not, but admittedly I'm not well-practiced in concealing my feelings. I care about you.”

“Why?”

Logan turned down to look at him. "Why not?"

"You don't even know me." He growled again. "I could be a killer."

Logan was quiet for a moment. "Are you?"

"No." He mumbled tiredly.

"I imagine you would not be surprised if I hated you on sight. So, why is it so hard to imagine that I might care about you instead?"

“Why did you save me?”

“Why would I have left you to die, if I had the capacity to help?”

“You don't know me.” Virgil repeated bitterly, uncomfortable with Logan's pity.

Logan was silent as Virgil anxiously awaited his response. He heard Logan sigh tiredly. “Even after all this time, humans still find ways to confound me.”

“Humans? What—” Virgil whispered, but his voice was weak and Logan continued as if he hadn't heard him.

“Why would I have to know for you to be worth saving?” Virgil could almost feel Logan’s eyes burning into him. His voice held an uncharacteristic harsh edge but Virgil couldn't stop himself

“Your friend didn't think I was worth the effort.” He spat out without thinking.

Logan paused in shock before slowly turned his head away from Virgil. He was silent for a long time and Virgil started to shift nervously, realizing he probably shouldn’t have intentionally antagonized the only person who seemed willing to keep him alive. He opened his mouth to apologize but Logan spoke first.

“I do not blame you for judging Roman so harshly, but you should know, his hesitancy to act had little to do with you. Roman has people he is responsible for protecting and his thoughts were with them.” Logan paused. Virgil was surprised at his sudden apologetic tone. “His hesitancy still does not diminish the value of your life, love.”

Virgil was quiet, unsure of how to process what Logan was saying.

“Do you have a name, love?”

Virgil hesitated.

“You are not obligated to share.” Logan yawned. “I only ask so I have a proper way to refer to you.”

“My name is Virgil,” He muttered into Logan’s chest.

“Virgil,” Logan said his name slowly, almost like he was savoring the sound on his lips. “Okay, Virgil. Are you ready to open your eyes?”

Virgil nodded nervously. He felt Logan slip out from underneath him and lay him gently back on the pillow behind him.

“I must ask that you do not open your eyes right away. Give me a moment before you try.” Logan said as he peeled back the wet cloth from Virgil’s eyes.

Virgil heard a soft splash of water and felt Logan dab gently at his eyes, wiping away the excess buildup on his eyelids, until the felt almost normal again. The burning had subsided nearly entirely as they'd talked .

“You can open them now, Virgil.”

Virgil blinked, looking up at Logan. He could barely distinguish Logan's golden brown hair and blue shirt from rest of the blurry colors around him. He grumbled with disappointment as he tried to blink the haze away.

“Be patient, love. Your vision will clear soon." Logan chuckled softly, leaning closer. “May I have permission to touch your neck? I would like to be sure that your pulse is regular.”

Virgil grunted his affirmation, barely distracted from his attempts to blink his vision clear. His focus broke as Logan's hand brushed his jaw before coming to rest on his neck, sending a pleasant shiver down his body. Virgil felt his cheeks start to burn, embarrassed by his body's reaction to Logan's touch, but Logan seemed not to notice. His mind seemed occupied as he held his fingers to Virgil's neck. Virgil looked up blinking gently as Logan looked down at him.

“If the question is not too distressing…” Logan paused. “May I ask what happened to the ship you were on? The upper deck was in quite a state when we finally dared to board.”

Virgil closed his eyes, clenching his jaw. “I don't know.”

Logan paused, confused. “You know nothing of what happened?”

“I assume the ship was boarded, but by who or why, I don't know anything. The screaming and yelling woke me from my sleep that night, but I was trapped in my cell below deck.” Virgil felt himself grinding his teeth for moment before he forced himself to stop. “I couldn't do anything but sit there and listen to the screaming, until—”

"Until what, love?" Logan asked cautiously.

"Until two of them found their way down to where I was being kept." Virgil felt numb at the memory. "They almost took me with them."

Virgil's intonation seemed to give Logan pause. "Would that not have been better than being left in your cell?"

"No," Virgil's voice dropped as he sifted through the unpleasant memories. "They cornered me, talking about what they could do with me. Easy money was all that was on their minds. Being left to die was a mercy compared to what could have happened. Fortunately, it seems I wasn't worth the effort."

Logan hesitated, staring down at his hand on Virgil's neck, unsure if he wanted to continue. “Why were you being kept in a cell, Virgil?”

“I got caught stowing away on the ship.” Virgil relaxed, relieved at the distraction from the memories playing back in his head.

“I am unfamiliar with that particular phrase.” Logan said uncertainly.

Virgil shrugged. “I snuck on the ship without paying for passage and I got caught hiding in their supplies.”

Logan was quiet for so long that Virgil finally opened his eyes to look up at him, squinting through blurry vision. When Logan finally spoke, his voice quivered with barely concealed anger. “That small of an offense warrants imprisonment?”

Virgil shrugged uncomfortably. “I didn't pay them and I was on their ship.”

A low, guttural growl sent a chill down Virgil’s spine. Logan’s voice had a rough edge as he fumed. “You humans' greed is so great that a few lost coins is reason enough to take someone's freedom? That is an abhorrent practice.”

Virgil shuddered at the anger in Logan's voice, shrinking back into the pillows but Logan seem to have forgotten he was there. Logan's breath was ragged as he raged. Virgil blinked wildly, suddenly uncomfortable being blinded. He sighed with relief as his vision finally came into focus and he was able to look up at Logan.

Oh no…

Virgil swallowed and his heart started to pound in his chest.

He's really pretty…

He held his breath as his gaze drifted from Logan’s soft looking hair down his sharp jawline. Virgil paused to stare at his icy, grey eyes. They looked volatile, like the clouds over the ocean as a storm approaches. He shivered, pulling his attention away from Logan's eyes, letting his gaze drop further. The top of Logan’s blue, silk shirt was open, exposing the top of his chest. He groaned throwing his head back into the pillow, his heart racing in his chest as he took in Logan's appearance.

What is wrong with me—

Virgil flinched as Logan's head spun down to him, but when he peeked his eyes open to look up him. A soft concern filled Logan’s eyes. All sense of danger disappeared as Logan leaned over him apologetically.

“Oh, love. I am sorry.” Logan's voice quivered. “My anger was not intended for you. I did not mean to distress you.”

Oh fuck. Those eyes—

“Not distressed...” Virgil squeaked out, nervously cutting off his own thought.

Logan looked down at him confused. “Your vocal tone and increased rate of your heartbeat lead me to believe otherwise.”

Virgil’s gaze flicked down to Logan’s fingers in his neck.

Fuck. I guess lying is off the table.

“I'm not scared.” Virgil whispered desperately as he clenched his eyes shut, trying to slow his heartbeat.

Logan paused, confused at Virgil’s words. “Well, that statement was at least more truthful than the last.”

Fuck.

Logan continued, trying to make sense of Virgil’s reaction. “The rate of your heart slowed as you closed your eyes—”

Fuck.

Logan was silent for a long time, before Virgil had the courage to peek up at him. His bravery faltered as he noticed Logan looking down at him with an annoyingly, coy smile.

“You were finally able to see me clearly.” Logan laughed quietly. “Am I right, Virgil?”

The edges of Virgil’s vision blurred as his breathing became ragged. There was no use in denying anything. He desperately tried to catch his breath, unable to calm himself.

I'm going to faint.

Who does that?

Who actually faints over finding someone attract—

A pleasant tingling shot down his body as Logan’s hand gently moved from Virgil’s neck to his jaw, guiding his face up to look into Logan’s eyes. Virgil nearly lost himself looking into Logan’s eyes as he leaned in close to Virgil’s ear, inches from his neck.

“Tell me, Virgil.”

Virgil moaned at the feeling of Logan’s breath on his neck.

“Do you like what you see?”

All meaningful thought left Virgil’s mind as he listened to Logan's silky voice in his ear. His breath caught in his throat as darkness crossed his vision and he fainted back into the pillow.

Logan chuckled softly to himself, reaching up to brush away the hair that had fallen into Virgil's eyes. Perhaps that hadn't been the most gentle way to put his guest to sleep, but it was certainly the most entertaining. He leaned back from Virgil, watching him as he snored peacefully. Logan sighed, smiling as he checked Virgil’s vital signs one last time before reluctantly standing to leave.

“Sleep well, Virgil. I will return to you soon.”

A deep hum echoed in Logan's ears as he turned to the door, drowned out only by loud, metallic creaking of the door. He cast a soft look over his shoulder at Virgil as he slipped out into the network of tunnels running underneath the island. He paused as the the door slammed shut behind him. Reaching into his pocket, Logan pulled out a heavy, metal key. He looked down at it in his hand for a moment, feeling a pang of guilt as he slipped in the lock, turning it until he felt the lock click shut. Locking his guest in his room felt unnecessary, especially given that Virgil couldn't even sit up without assistance, but it was a necessary precaution. He sighed, reminding himself that this was a temporary solution.

He turned to leave, pressing his wrist against his ear. The previously dull hum in his head was becoming insistent. He had been kept away from his pelt much longer than he had intended and it was calling to him. Logan increased his pace, winding his way deeper into the island. He breathed heavily. The call of his pelt seemed to resonate with the stone walls around him, reverberating back at him with even greater force. Logan could feel himself fading as he turned the last corner. He was barely aware of the dim, amber light flickering in the doorway as he approached. His body shook as he stopped in the doorway. His eyes glazed over as the call of his pelt consumed him. Logan felt himself disappearing from his body as the world seemed to fall away from him.

“Logan?!”

The panicked voice barely registered in his mind as he disappeared deeper in his mind, overwhelmed by the call of his pelt. Vaguely, he felt hands on his arms.

“Hold on, Lo. I've got you.”

An eternity seemed to pass as Logan stood there. Unable to even feel if the hands were still touching him, he ached for his pelt, feeling like a stranger in his own skin. A voice spoke next to him, but the words were muddled, unintelligible among the noise in his head.

The haze in his mind broke as his soft pelt brushed against his skin as it was pushed into his chest. Gently, he felt the world come back to him, and he wrapped his arms tightly around the grey, spotted fur burying his face in its warmth. Arms wrapped around his shoulders as his awareness of his surroundings gradually returned to him. The grating sounds around him fell silent and he felt whole once more.

“I hate this feeling, Roman.” Logan murmured into Roman’s chest as he relaxed.

“I know, Logan. Please, forgive me. I'm so sorry I have to ask this of you."

Logan pulled out of Roman's grip and looked up at him. He noticed Roman’s own dark brown pelt was wrapped around his neck as his pitiful eyes looked down at Logan. He smiled appreciatively up at Roman but his tone was serious. “I made this decision, Roman. You do not need to ask for my forgiveness. Any responsibility for my current state lies solely on my own shoulders.”

Roman stared down him sympathetically. “Regardless, Lo. You're family and I hate seeing you suffer, especially for the sake of some human.”

“His life is no less valuable than mine, Roman.” Logan said tiredly.

“If I thought he believed the same about you, I'd agree with you, but humans never do.” Roman exhaled bitterly.

“Virgil is different. He barely seems to think his life is worth my time, let alone worth more than my own life.” Logan glanced up to see a skeptical look on Roman’s face.

“Virgil?”

“The human.” Logan corrected himself. He hung his head at the serious look in Roman's eyes.

“Don't get attached, Logan. He's not staying. As soon as he's well, he will leave.” Roman voice was empathetic but firm.

Logan took a deep breath, crossing his arms nervously in front of him. He hung his head lower. His voice was barely a whisper. “I connected with him, Roman.”

A heavy silence hung between them. When Roman finally spoke, Logan shuddered at the edge in his voice. “You what?”

“I connected with him, Roman.” Logan’s voice was stronger, though he couldn't help as his voice quivered at the end of his sentence.

“You already have—” Roman yelled, but Logan cut him off.

“I know.” Logan spat out. "I did not ask for this, Roman."

“That’s not even possible. He's human, Lo.”

“It is an unlikely occurrence, but not impossible, Roman.” Logan muttered, unable to meet Roman’s gaze. His stomach twisted with guilt for defying Roman’s authority, even if he did so unwillingly.

“Logan, you don't know what you're saying—"

Logan head shot up to Roman, anger burning in his eyes as he interrupted him. “Are you suggesting I do not know what a soul connection feels like, Roman?”

“No. Of course not, Logan." Roman’s face immediately softened. "I'm just... surprised. Does he know?”

“I do not believe Virgil knows about the existence of soul connections.” Logan looked away guiltily.

“I wasn't referring to the human, Logan.” Roman said flatly.

“No, Roman. I have not seen him since we returned from the ship.” Logan looked down at his feet. “I am planning on going him after I leave here.”

“You'll tell him tonight. Won't you?”

“Yes, Roman.” Logan said bitterly. “I am aching to tell him. You know I would not deceive him.”

“I know, Logan.” Roman stepped forward, gently pulling Logan into another hug. “I don't mean to interrogate you. I trust you. This whole situation just makes me nervous. We still don't even know this human's role in what happened to that ship.”

“Virgil is not responsible. He was imprisoned where we found him the entire time the ship was attacked." Logan yawned, leaning into Roman's chest.

“Lo, your willingness to trust people is endearing,” Roman sighed, looking down at him. “But this human could simply be lying to you.”

Logan shook his head. “I was checking his heartbeat, when I asked. I would have been able to tell if he was lying. It was steady the entire time he talked about it, and given how he reacted to other things I said to him, I believe it is a safe assumption that he is not practiced in concealing his emotions.”

Roman raised an eyebrow at him. “Did the human know what you were doing?”

Logan shook his head, barely looking up.

“You’re a bastard, Logan.” Roman couldn’t help cracking a smile as he released Logan.

“I have been called worse.” Logan smirked tiredly at him and shrugged as he swayed tiredly. “I honestly doubt he would have refused if I had told him what I was doing, but this way the results are more compelling.”

Roman nodded absently. “They aren't absolute though, Lo. You still need to be cautious. Even if he wasn't responsible for that ship, he could still be dangerous, especially if he got a hold of one of our pelts.”

“Virgil is not a danger to us.” Logan barely managed to stifle a yawn as he spoke.

“I know you mean well, but trusting the wrong person has gotten you in trouble before, Lo." Roman sighed sympathetically. "All I'm asking is that you keep your guard up.”

“I will, Roman.” Logan smiled weakly at him.

“Good.” Roman put a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to the door. “Now, go get some rest. You’ve done enough for today.”

Logan nodded, letting Roman lead him out. He turned his head back over his shoulder at Roman. A small appreciative smile crossed his face. “Thank you, Roman. For allowing me to save him.”

Roman laughed, giving him one last gentle push out the door. “Don't worry about it, Lo. I'm here to look out for you. Regardless of whether I approve of your decisions or not.”

Logan nodded, smiling tiredly as he wrapped his pelt around his shoulders and made his way out into the network of caves. He yawned loudly, looking forward to some long overdue rest.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfiction #ts #ts virgil #ts logan #analogical #platonic logince #The Stowaway's Heart #villain writes

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longing-and-heartache-and-lust · 3 years ago

Text

the drug, the dark, the light, the flame, Ch.VIII

[previous] [next] [Ao3]

A brand new chapter of my work for this year’s @geraskierbigbang in collaboration with the incredible @gen-syz-art as my artist ✨

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The ride back into the town is lost behind a haze of pain.

The wounds on Geralt’s thigh are still bleeding even as he dismounts Roach and makes his way towards the inn, his head spinning with blood loss and the remaining effects of his elixirs.

The innkeeper and the guests all gasp at the sight of him but with his stomach somewhere in his throat, Geralt couldn’t care less.

He stumbles through the door of his room and all but collapses onto the bed, his hands refusing to work properly as he gets himself out of his armour.

Once he finally gets proper access to his thigh, he winces. There are four deep, ragged tears in the flesh, all of them still bleeding, and if it wasn’t for Geralt’s slow heartbeat, he would’ve been dead already. Swallow helped with keeping him conscious and strong enough to walk but with wounds like this, it wasn’t enough.

Breathing heavily, Geralt drags himself to the water basin in the corner of the room and brings it with him back to the edge of the bed, soaking a rag that had once been a shirt in the water and pressing it to his thigh. The light fabric turns red immediately.

He has to stitch the wounds if he doesn’t want the scars taking up the entire expanse of his thigh, and it takes him everything he’s got to reach into one of his bags and find needle and thread there. His hands are still shaking but he’s got enough experience to know his way around.

Having wiped off as much blood as he can, he sets the dirty rag aside and casts another Quen over himself, groaning at the dizziness that it brings. He’s barely got enough energy for Signs, but without them, he will bleed out before as much as half the stitches are in place.

As the wounds close, bit by bit, Geralt feels both better and worse.

His head no longer spins as bad as it did before, and the nausea subsides, but it takes him all the self-control he’s got not to close his eyes for too long, for he knows that if he does, he will immediately pass out.

Mercifully, it doesn’t last long.

He gets all four wounds stitched and bandaged even before the sky behind the windows starts lightening with the first rays of the sun.

Soon - way too soon - he’s going to have to be up in the saddle again, making his way back towards Tretogor, but right now he can allow himself to rest, and as soon as his head hits the pillow, he slips into unconsciousness, exhausted and hurt.

***

The next day, he’s back on the Path.

After paying the promised two hundred crowns, Jorund did suggest that Geralt stay for another few days, until his wounds healed a little more, but Geralt knew that he’s saying that through clenched teeth. The werewolf could’ve killed his wife and children, and Geralt made sure that that’s not going to happen, that’s true, but regardless, he was still a witcher. Nobody wants witchers in their town.

No, Geralt wasn’t going to stay any longer than absolutely necessary.

His leg still hurt, making it hard to walk, but he’d had far worse, so after sleeping through the entire night and early morning, he collects his pay and leaves.

And though he hates to admit it, every time he thinks about going back to the mansion, seeing Jaskier again, something deep in his chest flutters with anticipation, almost the same way that it does in the late autumn, when he turns Roach towards Kaer Morhen.

It almost feels like coming home, he thinks and then immediately chases that thought away.

***

The journey that took him nine days the first time now lasts only a little short of two weeks.

The pain keeps him up at night and slows him down during the day, making Geralt stop Roach more often just to try and breathe through it, taking the edge off. He’s forced to keep her at a slow gait, as well, because every time he flexes his muscles to lift himself up from the saddle, the pain gets paralyzing.

For the first few days, he doesn’t let himself think about this journey as of the one that will take him back to the mansion, back to Jaskier. He knows from the very start that will not be able to leave it behind, will not be able to break his promise, but for some time, he stubbornly doesn’t acknowledge it.

By the end of the ninth day, though - the day he would’ve already been there, had it not been for his thighs - he finds himself annoyed with still being on the Path.

There is a pull of impatience somewhere in his chest, and though he manages to ignore it during the entire day, when he stops for the night and is left alone with his thoughts, he’s powerless against it.

He falls asleep thinking of what it would feel like to have Jaskier in his arms, in one of those enormous beds in the mansion.

And so when he finally sees the familiar silhouette of the estate three days later, he has to bite his lip not to urge Roach into a faster gait.

The sun has almost completely set, and the golden light has now changed into the blue-green one that makes it almost impossible to tell whether it’s twilight or the very break of dawn. Geralt loves this time of the day, when the air gets pleasantly colder and his senses heighten. He can almost forget about the pain.

Before he can as much as dismount, Asra and Lucio come running from somewhere behind the mansion, having picked up his scent. They bark a greeting at him, their long tails wagging from side to side. The purple collars are a sharp contrast to their white fur, almost glowing in the pale light.

Just as they make it to the gates, the main door of the mansion opens, and Arthur steps out.

“Master Witcher,” he says, coming closer and inclining his head politely. “You are much expected.”

Geralt mirrors his gesture and gets down from the saddle, trying not to wince at the pain that the first step brings. It’s not nearly as bad as it used to be, and he can force himself not to limp if he really wants to, but it’s going to take another couple of weeks for the wounds to fully heal.

“Master Julian is in the main library,” Arthur says, opening the gates and taking Roach’s reins from Geralt. “He will be delighted to see you.”

Unsure of what to say, Geralt just nods and thanks the majordomo as he turns to take Roach towards the stables. Trying not to think of the pain in his thigh, Geralt crosses the garden towards the main door, Asra and Lucio close at his side. He tugs his gloves off and pets them on the heads, fingers drowning in the soft fur.

He knocks, because just entering seems like the most impolite thing he can think of, and once the door opens, he’s immediately hit with the now-familiar scent of dried herbs and vanilla. Without even realising, he takes in a deeper breath, letting it fill his lungs.

“You’re here,” Jaskier smiles, so impossibly bright, his cornflower-blue eyes shining, voice barely above a whisper, like he doesn’t quite believe it.

But then his arms are around Geralt’s neck as Jaskier pulls him into a tight embrace, their chests pressed together close enough for Geralt to feel the quickened beat of the younger man’s heart.

“I promised, didn’t I?” he says, unable to hold back his own smile and wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s back, the warmth of his body sending little sparks up the witcher’s spine.

Jaskier doesn’t let go for a few long, torturously good seconds, and when he does take a step back, his hands slip down Geralt’s shoulders and arms, until he catches the witcher’s fingers with his own and pulls him into the hallway.

Geralt lets himself be led willingly, his every sense narrowed down to the feeling of Jaskier’s fingers where they are pressed against his own.

It takes the edge off the burning pain in his thigh, dulls it, makes him let his guard down, and by the time he realises that he’s limping again, it’s way too late. Jaskier’s smile immediately turns into a frown, his thin brows knitting together.

“You’re hurt,” he says, and it’s not a question.

Geralt tries to brush it off, though he already knows that it’s no use.

“It’s nothing,” he says. “A scratch.”

Jaskier’s frown deepens, and he gestures at Asra and Lucio, sniffing at the witcher’s thigh with heightened interest, with a move of his head.

“They smell blood on you,” Jaskier says, clicking his tongue at the dogs when they poke their noses at Geralt’s leg. “Sit down.”

Geralt’s not entirely sure whether that’s addressed to him or the dogs, and he falters for a minute, but then Jaskier gives him an expecting look, and he does as he’s told, though with little enthusiasm. Though he tries not to, he still winces as he sits down.

“Tell me what it really is,” Jaskier says.

Geralt sighs but obeys.

“I got a werewolf contract near Gelibol,” he says. “He scraped me with his claws.”

Jaskier folds his arms over his chest and gives Geralt a dismissive look, clearly unimpressed.

“He scraped you,” he repeats mockingly. “If it’s a scratch, like you keep saying, how come it’s not healed yet?”

Fuck, Geralt thinks, God damn his witcher knowledge.

He shrugs, but says nothing. Jaskier rolls his eyes and sits down next to him.

“Will you let me help you?” he asks, softer.

Geralt almost considers it, thinks about the feeling of Jaskier’s hands on his skin again, but then the image of having to undress flashes through his mind, and Geralt clenches his jaw until it hurts to keep control of his body and prevent blood from spilling over his cheeks.

There are limits even to his heart.

“I’m just tired,” he says, meeting Jaskier’s impossibly-blue eyes. “It’s nothing serious.”

He can tell that Jaskier doesn’t believe a word but after a few long seconds of him waiting for the witcher to break under his gaze, he gives in. Geralt, however, has to pay for that, because while Jaskier contemplates whether or not he should let him go, he bites on his lower lip, and it’s the single most distracting thing Geralt has ever seen.

“Well,” Jaskier finally says, clicking his tongue. “In that case, I think you should get some proper rest. It’s a bit late for dinner but the cooks are still in the kitchen, I’ll ask them to make something nice for you. And while they’ll be on that, how about a bath, hm?”

A bath is a luxury that Geralt hasn't had since the night before the hunt. He craves the relaxation that only hot water can bring, and his wounds are healed enough for it not to cause too much bleeding.

Despite all that, he says:

“I can’t ask you to--”

“You’re not asking,” Jaskier retorts, cutting him off, but the irritation in his voice is pretend. “I’m offering.”

Geralt is hyper-aware of how close Jaskier is to him, of the scent of his skin and his hair, of the warmth radiating off of him. Feeling like he’s jumping off a cliff and into a lake of cold water, Geralt shifts just enough for their knees to touch. Just like the impact of diving into freezing water, it takes his breath away.

Jaskier’s eyes dart up to meet his for a second, sparkling like the stars. His lips are bitten red and parted just enough for something deep in Geralt’s chest to catch ablaze.

“They’ve missed you,” Jaskier says, nodding towards the dogs that refuse to leave the witcher’s side, poking at him with their wet noses and licking his hand when he reaches out to pet them.

Before Geralt can think about what he’s about to say, the words already leave his lips:

“Have you?”

Jaskier cocks a brow at him, clearly amused.

“Maybe I have,” he murmurs teasingly, his knee brushing over Geralt’s. “Why, Witcher? Would you want me to?”

Gods, Geralt wants to kiss him.

And he can’t deny that the thought of Jaskier missing him stirs something in his chest, makes the possessive little side of him purr in satisfaction. If Jaskier missed him, it means he’d thought about him, and that resonates through the witcher’s entire body in an internal shiver.

“It’s been a month,” Geralt says, controlling his breathing carefully. “Maybe I do enjoy the idea of you thinking of me every now and then.”

Saying that out loud seems to require much more courage than fighting werewolves on a full moon, and Geralt’s heart skips a beat, but the way Jaskier’s lips curl up in a pleased little grin is an inspiring reward.

“Well, my darling,” he murmurs, and the endearment goes straight to Geralt’s heart. “In that case, you will be pleased to know that I have thought about you. Especially in that little library upstairs.”

Geralt thinks back on that morning, on them hiding from the cold of the thunderstorm together, on the way Jaskier gasped at the feeling of Yrden binding his wrists, if only for a second. Geralt still thinks that using the Sign like that was too brave of a decision on his part but he can’t forget the way Jaskier’s heart rate picked up in response.

Before he can come up with an answer, though, Jaskier already gets up, his fingers brushing down Geralt’s thigh as he does so.

“And now that you know that,” he smiles, running his hands through the fur on Asra’s neck. “You can go and enjoy that bath.”

Geralt bites back a disheartened little sound, though only just.

“Are you going to be here later?” he asks, standing up and ignoring the stab of pain in his thigh. “Or should I look for you somewhere else?”

Jaskier shakes his head.

“You should rest. I’ll have the dinner brought up to your room. And if you don’t fall asleep right after you’re done with that bath, I’ll come sit with you, if you want.”

Your room, echoes through Geralt’s mind.

“Bring the dogs,” he smiles.

***

The bath really does work wonders on him.

By the time Geralt is done with his dinner, it’s already full of steaming-hot water, and when a housekeeper asks him what kind of oils and salts he’d like, Geralt just blinks at him for a moment or two, feeling a little overwhelmed by the selection. The housekeeper then quickly goes over every single phial and jar - Geralt counts twenty-seven - telling him about properties and benefits, and in the end, the witcher decides to go with eucalyptus and sage, for he is assured that they help relieve headaches and clean the airways.

After the housekeeper leaves, having bid Geralt goodnight, it still takes the witcher a minute or two of just taking in his surroundings before finally stripping off his armour and clothes and getting into the wide tub.

Hot water envelops him like the softest of blankets, and Geralt fails to bite back a low moan of satisfaction.

Some part of him still thinks that he shouldn’t be here, like this is too much and he should’ve found a way to turn down the offer, but that part is quickly silenced by the low thrum of pleasure through his entire body. It fills him with thrilling anticipation to know that after he gets out of the water, he will be able to slip right under the soft fur or blankets, the bed already familiar enough for him to feel comfortable on more levels than just physically.

He thinks of Jaskier’s offer to join him - not in bed, he has to remind himself - and that fuels his anticipation even more.

It’s already dark outside, moonlight shining in through the window at the far end of the room, but Geralt allows himself not to track how much time has passed. He washes his hair that might or might not be getting a little too long, checks the healing wounds on his thigh, making sure they don’t bleed too much from the hot water, and stays in the tub until the pads of his fingers become wrinkly with moisture. Frog fingers, as Lambert tends to call them.

Chuckling at his memories, Geralt finally steps out of the tub, reaching for the provided towels to wrap one of them around his hips and ruffle his wet hair with the other. His entire body feels relaxed and pliant, like hot wax, the pain in his thigh subsiding at last, and by the time he slips into the freshly made bed, it’s like those two weeks on the Path never really happened.

A few minutes later, there’s a knock on the door.

He must know every step taken within the mansion, Geralt thinks.

“It’s open,” he says.

The door handle turns, and the first thing he sees are two long white noses. Asra and Lucio slip into the room even before the door is fully open, and make their way to Geralt, their claws a comforting little tap-tap-tap against the polished wooden floor.

Jaskier follows them with a look of fond exasperation on his face.

“Why, Witcher, don’t you look lovely,” he smiles, settling down into a chair next to the bed. “The dinner was to your liking, I hope?”

Geralt thinks back on the wine-baked pheasant and roasted vegetables. It might very well be the best meal he’d had in his entire life.

“Exceedingly,” he nods. “Thank you.”

Seemingly against his will, his eyes travel across Jaskier’s entire figure. He’s not wearing the matching breeches and doublet that he’d had on earlier in the evening, opting instead for a slightly oversized shirt and loose trousers of light cream colour, an already familiar dressing gown over them. The voluminous silk bell-sleeves flow down the armrest of the chair like water.

There’s something new mixed into his scent, something heady and sweet, like pomegranate, and it doesn’t take Geralt long to guess that it’s one of the bath salts or oils.

Just like him, Jaskier had already taken his bath, and somehow the informality, the quiet intimacy of seeing him like this sends a little shiver down Geralt’s back.

“Are your wounds looking any better?” Jaskier enquiries, clicking his tongue at Asra when she attempts to jump up onto the bed. “Oh, these dogs just get untamable whenever you’re around. They think that if they are allowed to sleep with me in bed, they’re allowed to sleep in any bed they like.”

Geralt chuckles, watching Asra settle down by the fireplace with Lucio, instead. They curl up together, dark eyes closing peacefully.

“There’s barely any blood now,” he says, answering Jaskier’s question. “As I’ve said, it’s nothing serious.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes, giving Geralt a look that lets him know that he’s not buying it.

“Have you bandaged them?”

Geralt hasn’t. Mostly because he doesn’t see a point in it, given that the wounds are not fresh, but also because searching through his bags for a clean strip of fabric seemed like too much work after a long bath.

His silence tells Jaskier all he needs to know.

“Then I’m afraid I must insist I do it myself,” he says.

As Jaskier gets up to make his way across the room and disappears behind the bathroom door where, Geralt assumes, the bandages can be found, he is suddenly hyper-aware of only wearing a shirt and smallclothes.

He knows he shouldn’t react like that, for it’s just his body and he’s not even naked, but there’s just something about having Jaskier this close while he’s playing all those little games with him, that almost feels overwhelming. And it doesn’t help at all that Geralt isn’t used to being taken care of, even if it’s just someone bandaging his wounds.

But Jaskier is already back in the room, a roll of light-coloured cloth in his hand, and it’s too late to say anything.

“Come on,” he urges, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Let me see.”

Pointedly ignoring the way the air suddenly feels hotter, Geralt complies, lifting one of the edges of the fur blanket and granting Jaskier access to his wounded thigh. All the stitches are still in place, holding the edges of the cuts together, but Jaskier still goes a little pale, sucking in a breath.

“Scratches, Geralt?” he says, flicking his eyes up to meet Geralt’s.

Geralt holds his gaze but doesn’t have anything to say in his defence. Jaskier, though, doesn’t really seem to be waiting for an answer, moving closer and unwrapping the bandage in his hands. He keeps his eyes on the healing wounds as he wraps the first layer of soft cloth around them.

His fingers are warm where they brush over Geralt’s skin, sending shivers down the witcher’s back, and slowly, Jaskier’s frown fades.

“Gods, Witcher,” he says, fighting back a smile now that he’s sure that the wounds won’t re-open. “You do know that there are easier ways to get me to touch you, don’t you? You need to stop getting yourself hurt.”

Geralt suddenly feels like all the blood he’s got in his body rushes to his cheeks. He prays to all the gods he knows that it won’t be noticeable in the light of the fireplace.

“It’s not--” he starts but can’t quite find the words.

“It’s not what?” Jaskier murmurs, teasing, his knuckles brushing over the inside of the witcher’s thigh almost accidentally as he tucks the ends of the bandage under one of the layers.

It would be so easy to just catch his wrist and tug him into a kiss. Pull him down onto the pillows, lick into his mouth to see if he tastes as sweet as he smells.

Geralt can almost feel it, and he has to bite his lip to stop himself from reaching out. But those thoughts, somehow, give him enough courage to play by Jaskier’s rules.

He takes in a breath, regaining his composure.

“Well,” he says, very aware of Jaskier’s hand still resting on his thigh even though the bandage is secured. “It’s not me that insists on helping, is it? So maybe you’re the one looking for excuses to touch me.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows jump up in surprise but the grin on his lips only grows wider.

“Is that what you think, Witcher?” he asks, bracing his other hand against the bed to lean in closer.

All Geralt has to do is surge forward, and his lips will be on Jaskier’s.

“Is that not how it is?” he says, answering a question with a question.

He holds Jaskier’s gaze even as the younger man brushes his fingers along the inner side of his tight again, unapologetically deliberate this time, and Geralt can feel a spasm of lust somewhere low in his abdomen as a response.

His hips are still covered with the blanket, but if Geralt had a little less control over his body, he would’ve already been half-hard.

“I would tell you,” Jaskier says breathily, his voice barely above a whisper. “Or maybe even show you--”

He leans in even closer, until Geralt can feel his breath on his lips, and tips the witcher’s chin up with a knuckle of one finger. This close, his scent fills Geralt’s lungs from wall to wall, leaving no room for anything else, and it’s more than enough for the witcher to give in, to give himself over to whatever this can lead to.

Jaskier lets go of his thigh and runs his palm over Geralt’s chest, tilting his head just enough for their lips to slot together perfectly if one of them was to close in the remaining distance.

“Show you just how I could touch you if you wanted,” Jaskier breathes, the pad of his thumb brushing over Geralt’s lower lip. “But I’m afraid, you’re still hurt.”

And before Geralt can stop him, he breaks away, laughing, leaving Geralt with nothing.

The fire in Geralt’s chest flares up, and he has to take in a very deep breath to clear his head. Oh, the things he would do if he only could. But he’s not about to lose this little game by breaking this fast. If Jaskier wants to test his self-control, well, he can’t say no to his host, can he?

“Well,” he murmurs, making himself look as unaffected as possible and reaching out to take Jaskier’s hand, bringing it up to his lips and leaving a kiss on his knuckles. “With your hands, I’m sure I will be healed in no time at all.”

Jaskier’s eyes sparkle as he watches the witcher, and it makes the disenchantment fade into nothing in a matter of seconds.

Geralt runs his thumb over the younger man’s fingers, not quite letting go.

He knows that it’s over now, but that doesn’t have to mean that there needs to be a distance between them again. It can just be something a little more… non-provocative.

Maybe it’s the rush of adrenaline that hasn’t yet worn off, or maybe it’s Jaskier’s scent still making Geralt feel lightheaded, but he pats the empty space beside him, lifting his arm in both a conciliatory and an inviting gesture.

“Come?” he offers.

Jaskier only hesitates a moment, more pretend than genuine, before climbing up onto the bed with both his knees and slipping under one of the furs, making himself comfortable in Geralt’s arms. There are two layers of blankets separating them but Geralt can't find it in him to mind it too much.

He wraps his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders and pulls him a little closer, more than happy to let him rest his head against his chest. He can’t quite remember when was the last time that he’d held someone in his arms like this.

“Tell me about that werewolf hunt?” Jaskier asks after a moment, finding Geralt’s other hand to press the pads of their fingers together.

He seems warm and comfortable, like he could stay like this for a while, let Geralt enjoy it, and, well, if all Geralt needs to do for that is tell him about his last contract, he’s more than willing to.

“If you fall asleep, I don’t know which bedroom to carry you to,” he warns, because when Jaskier was giving him a tour of the mansion, he didn’t mention which rooms were his.

Jaskier huffs a laugh.

“If I fall asleep, you can just keep me here.”

That sounds very… tempting.

Geralt had never considered himself too much of a storyteller but, to his surprise, once he starts talking, the words flow easily. Jaskier listens to him with the same fascinated attention as one might pay to a particularly imaginative bedtime story, and somehow, Geralt finds comfort in it.

One story bleeds into the other, and before he really knows it, he tells him about two more werewolf hunts that he remembers especially well.

Jaskier listens to him without interrupting, rubbing little circles into the witcher’s palm or following the lines of his fingers, and though he doesn’t fall asleep, after some time he doesn’t seem entirely awake, either.

It’s well into the night that Geralt finally grows tired of talking, and though he doesn’t want to let Jaskier go, keeping him close seems too intimate, on the verge of overstepping, so despite himself, Geralt runs his hand down his shoulder, getting the younger man’s attention.

“It’s late,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. “You should go to bed, you’re barely awake.”

Jaskier takes in a long, deep breath, propping himself up on one elbow and rubbing at his eyes sleepily.

“You’re right,” he says, just as quiet. “A little longer, and I would’ve dozed off right here.”

Geralt doesn’t stop him as Jaskier pulls back and slips out of the bed, calling for his dogs softly to wake them up.

“I will see you when we decide to wake up,” Jaskier smiles, his hand already on the door handle. “Goodnight, Geralt.”

Geralt echoes back and when the door behind Jaskier closes, he finally feels how tired he is. And the perspective of sleeping for as long as he wants, nestled comfortably among pillows and cushions, seems very attractive.

He stretches with a low rumble, and turns to his side, pulling the furs up over his shoulders. One of them still holds Jaskier’s scent, and before he can stop himself, Geralt pulls in closer to his face.

Falling asleep, he can almost imagine Jaskier next to him.

#geraskier #the witcher #geraskier big bang #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the drug the dark the light the flame #my writing #calton writes

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raleighcarrera · 4 years ago

Text

bruised

ride or die | colt kaneko x mc (ellie wheeler)

colt and ellie bump into each other in a bar.

happy epilogue day, @rodappreciationweek!

tags: @choicesarehard ; @lovehugsandcandy ; @pixeljazzy ; @beccadavenport ; @zigtheeortega

~3.9k words | E (18+)

everything grinds to a sudden, startling halt when her roommate, mia, leans in close in the crowded, noisy bar and says, “hey -- don’t look now, but that guy over there looks a lot like the dude from your prom photo.”

it’s the second semester of her junior year at langston, which means they’re rapidly approaching the three-year anniversary of that day. she’s just turned twenty-one, so she and mia can finally drink legally at the bars in new york near langston’s campus that never carded them, anyway.

ellie finished her last midterm this morning. the day had been filled with promise when she’d left the lecture hall, springtime sunny with the weekend stretched out ahead of her.

now it’s after midnight, and there’s only the inevitability of this interaction waiting, in direct contrast to the optimism she’d felt earlier.

she turns her head and catches sight of that familiar profile immediately, the one she’d know anywhere. she’s certain she’d recognize the back of his head in times square on new year’s eve.

ellie turns away before colt has the chance to notice she’s staring, and wets her lips. shakily, she answers, “it is him.”

mia’s eyebrows jump to her hairline. “what? are you sure?”

as sure as she’s ever been of anything. she tips her head back and finishes the watered-down cranberry vodka in her hands in one last swallow, holding out her empty plastic cup. mia takes it from her wordlessly, dropping her own drink into it, doubling-up.

“i’m going to go say ‘hi,’” ellie murmurs calmly -- far more calmly than she feels. “are you alright over here for a few minutes?”

“yes,” mia answers, her brow furrowing as her lips turn down into a frown, “but are you sure you want to...”

her voice fades into the music playing in the bar and the cacophony of conversations that swallow it up when ellie steps away, out into the crowd.

colt’s drinking alone, near the bar at the front of the room. he notices her as soon as she pushes through the throng of people that’d been in the way between them and hones his dark gaze on her steadily while she approaches.

ellie can feel her hands clench into fists at her sides when, from behind his glass of something brown, he looks her up and down slowly, his eyes lingering lazily on her bare legs.

“what the hell are you doing here?” she demands, hoping her voice sounds a little more angry and a little less panicked. frantic. nervous. spiraling out of control.

colt lifts the cup in his hands. his answer is just as sharp as ever -- too defensive, a challenge she can’t resist. “drinking. it’s a bar.”

“a college bar,” ellie bites back, effortlessly taking the bait, “at my college. and you live two-thousand miles away.”

he blinks indifferently back at her. “what’s your point?”

“my point is that if you’re here to check up on me, you have some nerve --”

because he hasn’t called. he hasn’t texted. he hasn’t even tried.

“ellie, there are over one-million people on the island of manhattan.” blind rage boils up inside of her, threatening to pour steam from her ears as a smirk starts to form behind the lip of his cup. “how could i possibly know you’d be here?”

“that’s what i’m asking you!” she practically shouts back, though fortunately the bar’s loud enough to cover her. not that she cares at all if she’s causing a scene -- it’s the least he deserves. “what are you doing in new york?”

colt watches her silently, obviously unafraid to let himself look. he’s never been like her, in that regard; she’d be too embarrassed to be caught staring at him, cataloging the ways he’s changed over the last few years, but he’s unashamed, and looks his fill until her face feels hot with something other than outrage.

“working,” he says finally, reaching around to leave his cup on the bar behind his back. “i had meetings in the area. i didn’t realize you owned everything above one-hundred and tenth street and west of the park.”

ellie’s eyes narrow in on the twitch of his fingers where his hands rest casually on his thighs. he’s rattled. not as rattled as she is, but not as unaffected as he’s acting -- like he knew there was a chance this might happen but that he was still ill-prepared for it.

she can’t believe how long it’s been.

so much has changed, yet so much is still the same -- colt is still wearing that beat-up leather jacket; he’s still clean-shaven and tense with a tightness in his jaw that betrays an axe to grind with someone or something. she can see flashes of the same temper in the danger underlying each of his words, can read barely restrained fury in the line of his broad shoulders.

he still looks at her with the same intensity he always had, like he and he alone can stare directly down into her soul and see everything she is or ever will be all at once.

“you could’ve called me if you knew you’d be by campus,” she says, because at least that much is true. with everything she wants to say to him -- it’s a start. it’s what’s weighing most heavily on her mind. why hasn’t he called her?

colt leans back against the bar. “would you have picked up?”

it’s an unfair question, because he doesn’t even know how many times she’s tried to call him. the number she has for him is out-of-service -- long since turned off -- yet she still uses it, whenever the city feels too big and lonely, or she hears screeching tires, or she yearns for someone to talk to who just gets it, who knows and understands her completely and totally...

or when she misses him so terribly she would give anything to hear his voice, even just one last time.

“yes.” the answer doesn’t come freely; ellie has to force the word up. it costs her everything to admit as much. it feels like a big revelation. it’s been three years, after all -- she should be a different person, by now. she shouldn’t still want this.

especially not as much as she does.

but she's not different at all, so of course she still wants.

colt finally shifts his gaze away from her to scan the room. ellie watches him do so quietly, though her breath catches audibly when his eyes pause on the restroom in the back of the bar, behind the throng of students in the space. she twists over her shoulder to look at it, too -- there’s no line.

when she wheels back around, the smile on his face is sinister.

“come on,” he orders, like he can read her mind, sliding his fingers over her wrist before he strides purposefully toward the bathroom.

the ghost of his touch makes her shiver. part of her wants desperately to be able to defy him, to dig her heels in and stay where she is or take the opportunity to slip away behind his back, to grab mia and get the hell out of here.

but she follows colt helplessly, her eyes trained on his silhouette even when he finally stops at their destination, holding the door open for her with a grin.

it clatters shut behind him, loudly, and she squints at colt and the sharp line of his jaw, now illuminated by the suddenly bright fluorescent light, his expression a harsh contrast to how soft he’d seemed out in the dim ambiance of the bar.

the sound from outside cuts off into a dull whisper in the background.

now they’re alone.

the look in colt’s eyes is as calculating as ever, like he’s still trying to work out just what makes her tick. it’s like there’s every option in the world waiting before him, and all he has to do is decide which play he wants to run.

she can practically see the moment he makes up his mind.

it’s just after she deliberately steps back and hops up onto the ledge of the sink, leaning over in the cramped space of the bathroom to pointedly thumb the lock on the door.

he moves in a flash, accepting the invitation for what it is and crowding in against her, so that she gasps when he pushes between her legs and her head thumps back against the mirror behind her in surprise.

it hurts, but that’s the least of her problems, because colt’s lips have found her neck and he remembers exactly where to take them to elicit a response, scraping his teeth along the column of her throat mercilessly as he works his way to that spot that still makes her shudder.

then she aches all over, distracting from the way her head is throbbing where it’d smacked against the mirror, because he’s triggering a muscle memory for a muscle she hasn’t exercised in a long time.

colt pulls at her top, and she draws in a quick breath, her grip on the sticky sink counter white-knuckled where her hands are clutching it on either side of her thighs. he holds her wide-eyed gaze as his hips roll forward once, slowly and forcefully, letting her feel him against her even through all the denim in their way.

her lips part, something hesitating on her tongue. it’s impossible to get out with him staring at her like that, like this is something more to him than just the heat of the moment. his fingers stroke slowly over the bare skin of her stomach, beneath her top.

“do you want this?”

ellie nods.

“say it.” there’s that thread of danger in his voice again, lurking just beneath the command. her eyes flash, but colt continues to stare at her, waiting.

“i want this,” she huffs, already frustrated by the attitude she’s not used to, anymore -- not like she was.

she had imagined their next meeting -- because she’d always been certain there would be a next meeting -- thousands of times. of course, in some of the scenarios, he’d been a total asshole, like he is being or even worse, but in most of them she’d pictured something softer. in most of her dreams he was happy to see her. in her favorite ones, he told her he missed her, held her close and promised not to let her go again.

but that was only a fantasy, and an unattainable one, at that.

this is something more realistic, something she should have expected. he hastens to get her shorts undone and it’s not what she’s been hoping for but it still feels right, in a way, like they sealed their fate and signed up to meet again in this gross bar bathroom three years ago when they had their last goodbye.

ellie helps him pull them down to her ankles, letting them dangle off of one foot. then she rushes to get his jeans open, too, all on her own since his hands are otherwise occupied working their way over her body, pushing her shirt and her bra up with one hand while the other yanks her thong to the side.

it’d been hot in the bathroom before they started this but now she’s sweating, her hands clumsy when they fumble for his arms where he’s still wearing his fucking jacket. “colt,” she breathes, his name both a prayer and a curse at the same time. ellie stares in fascination at the way he screws his eyes shut in response, then repeats herself. “colt.”

his fingers nudge between her legs, as practiced as ever. he’s always had a remarkable talent for making her shake and this time is no different; it only takes a few swipes of his thumb against her clit before ellie is moaning, directly into his ear where she scrambles to tug him in closer.

colt stares at her the whole time he touches her, his expression unreadable. she used to pride herself on being able to analyze even the slightest shifts of his face, but looking at him now is like meeting him for the first time all over again -- he may as well be a stranger, with how well he’s managed to close himself off to her.

ellie lifts a hand to his hair and draws him into a kiss before he can stop her. if he’s going to make her do this his way, then she’s going to take something for herself, too.

except that he makes a sound into her mouth that makes her hips jerk, an answering whimper slipping unbidden from her lips. colt pauses, twisting his wrist, then kisses her back harder, as though the last measure of his restraint has finally snapped.

she’s helpless to do anything but let the fire of his kiss consume her, so she does. she melts in his arms and colt devours her, easily, the movement of his hand between his legs not even faltering for a second while his mouth relentlessly pulls groans from her, keeping her present -- reminding her that she’s here, with him, and that they’re doing this -- that there’s no going back, now.

that was how every moment with colt felt. every day was a new leap off a new cliff. a new opportunity for her to tumble to pieces, if she misstepped.

and she misses walking that particular tightrope more than she could ever say.

ellie comes apart with a gasp of his name, her thighs trembling beneath his iron-clad grip, her body confused by the dichotomy of how his touch feels almost like a reprimand when her heart is so full of love for him, still.

colt pulls back to look at her once she’s caught her breath and lifts his other hand to her flushed face, softly brushing her hair out of her eyes.

his stare continues to be inscrutable, despite how desperately she wants to know what he’s thinking.

she licks her lips, dipping her fingers back into the open front of his jeans. “colt,” she murmurs, “please.”

he stills like she’s hit him, then kisses her again, just as frantically as before.

their hips slot together perfectly, as seamless as the last time. it’s been almost three years and she can’t help but wonder about all he’s done in between the bookends of these encounters, where he’s been since the last time they did this and tonight.

she wonders if it feels as good to him as it does to her -- so good it doesn’t even matter what he’s done since she last left him, so good she nearly sobs with relief when he finally presses his cock all the way inside, so good she’d happily be the first on the sign-up sheet to have ill-advised unprotected sex with her ex-almost-something in the college bar she’ll never be able to revisit without blushing a thousand times over again.

what it comes down to, she thinks, when his first forceful thrust rattles the sink beneath her, is that colt has always known something about her she had never wanted to confront: that there is nothing else satisfying out there for her but him and this, this thing she’s been running from and constantly second-guessing.

no matter how much distance she puts between herself and her past, there will always be the inevitability of wondering if she’s made the right decision.

the next buck of his hips wipes her brain blank, fortunately, saving her from agonizing over the argument she’s had with herself thousands of times before and pulling her violently back to the present, where colt is acting like he has something to prove, her face still tenderly cupped in his right hand.

“oh, god,” ellie groans, her gasps rhythmically timed to the movement of his hips, “oh, fuck.”

colt’s face tips into the side of her neck, his panting breaths hot on her skin. “christ, ellie.” the sound of his voice is a low mumble she has to strain to hear, certain she won’t want to miss a word of what he’s saying, even when remembering it later tonight will feel like torture. “you sound so...”

it’s more words than she’s able to string together. her brain is a jumbled mess of expletives she doesn’t usually indulge in and colt, colt, colt, her body trembling under his touch as she holds onto him tightly. “good?” she questions. she has to know.

“perfect,” colt moans emphatically, his lips brushing against the dip of her throat with each syllable. “you feel even better.”

they both exhale when the words make her squeeze around him, though colt’s breath sounds like it’s punched out of his chest. he sounds as torn apart as she feels, so she can’t not look at him any longer, the shift between them as they fall easily back into their old habits practically palpable.

ellie lifts his face parallel to hers, sighing sweetly when he tilts their foreheads together. any animosity that had been between them falls away as their eyes lock. she can tell by the look on his face that he sees the naked adoration in her gaze, and revels in the open affection he offers her in turn.

colt’s movements slow to a dirty, groan-inducing grind, and she whimpers into his mouth when his lips brush hers softly to match them.

her nails rake through his hair, and then again when the scratch of them makes him grunt and press forward forcefully.

“colt,” she whispers, “please don’t -- don’t -- god, don’t ever stop.”

he squeezes her hip, his grip hardly tight enough for the bruises she’s been hoping for. “i won’t,” colt promises. “never, ellie.”

that’s the only thing she wants -- to live in this strange, secluded moment with colt forever, to know that she won’t have to be alone again once it ends.

because it has to end.

he swears loudly when he comes, the same as he did the other times they did this. he kisses her through the hiccuping shivers of her own orgasm and keeps kissing her, long after she’s settled again, so severely that it makes it impossible for her to catch her breath.

colt’s the first to break the silence between them, his eyes dark pools of intense vulnerability where they’re trained on her face. “come home with me.”

she swallows. “colt...”

“ellie.” he looks as lost as he had three years ago, and just as emotional. how can she possibly be expected to deny him? “think about it, before you say ‘no.’”

“all i do is think about it,” she admits, held captive by the pain on his face. “if there was a way to make it work --”

“we’ll find one.” his voice is suddenly fierce, insistent. “fuck, ellie. we tried it your way, and it sucks, right? we can try --”

“colt.” he cuts off with a clench of his jaw, holding perfectly still between her spread legs. “i have to stay here.”

then he blinks, and his carefully crafted mask of coolness slips back into place, putting a distance between them that has nothing to do with the way they’re still joined at the hips.

he nods.

they redress quietly, keeping their hands to themselves. ellie slides off the sink and onto her feet with a wince, reaching out for colt’s wrist as soon as his jeans are done up again.

“will you call me?” she shifts around in his field of vision until he looks at her, frowning when colt only sighs as an answer. “please,” she begs, “the number i have for you is off. i hate not being able to reach you.”

he chews on his response for what feels like forever, seemingly weighing his options in his mind. as they’ve gotten older, there’s a restraint to him that hadn’t been there the last time they were together, like he’s trying to decide how much of an asshole he wants to be where before he might’ve just gone full-throttle colt and leaned into it completely without hesitation.

“you can’t just ask me to wait around forever,” he says finally, an edge to his voice that makes her shiver.

“i’m only asking you to call me.”

ellie drops his wrist, leaning back against the locked door behind her.

the eventual sigh he gives is resigned. “alright. i’ll call you.”

neither of them make any move to open the door. after a moment, colt’s palm presses to the wood beside her head and he leans down to kiss her one last time, gentle and finite and searching.

she loops her arms around his waist, fisting the fabric of his jacket to keep him close. ellie kisses him back until her lungs are burning, until her mouth feels as raw as her nerves, until she knows, with certainty, that she’ll never, ever be ready to say ‘goodbye’ to him.

they break apart, and she clears her throat, softly smoothing his jacket back into place. “i really miss you, you know.”

colt’s hand hovers next to her cheek, then pushes her hair behind her ear. “i miss you every fucking day.”

she won’t be able to stop wondering if she’s made the right decision anytime soon.

he’s the one to reach behind her and undo the lock on the door, turning the knob at her side slowly. colt’s lips twist into a little grin when she stumbles as the wood she’d been leaning on shifts, spilling the sound from the bar and the weight of reality back onto the both of them all at once, before she’s ready for it.

they wander into the crowd together. mia’s waiting for her in the same spot ellie had left her in, and waves her over with wide eyes.

ellie’s able to catch colt’s eye one last time before he disappears. he nods at her, something like warmth jumping back into his gaze. the quirk of his mouth is a little easier to read, now that they seem to be at a closer understanding. she smiles back at him.

with the ghost of his fingers skimming over her wrist one last time, he’s gone.

ellie walks back over to her roommate as if in a daze. “i feel like a need a hazmat suit to just look at you,” mia sighs, scrunching up her nose. “tell me you did not have sex in the bathroom.”

“i didn’t have sex in the bathroom,” she parrots back obligingly, biting down on the inside of her cheek to stifle a smile when mia answers with a roll of her eyes. “are you ready to get out of here? i’m exhausted.”

“oh, i’ll bet.”

ellie bumps her shoulder into mia’s as they head back down the block to their dorm, tilting her chin up to look at the moon.

colt’s still here, in the city, somewhere. maybe he’s even thinking about her, like she’s thinking about him.

her phone buzzes from where it’s stuffed in her back pocket. the text message displayed on the screen, from an unknown number she doesn’t recognize, makes her chest feel tight. her heart slams against her ribcage at just the sight of it.

let me know when you’re free to talk, it says, and i’ll give you a call.

#rodaw #colt kaneko #colt kaneko x mc #ellie wheeler #colt kaneko x ellie wheeler #myfic #long post #ns*w #lemon #you'd think i'd be tired of them by now lmao #choices rod #i kind of really like this one i hope you guys like it too !!#ride or die

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loruleanheart · 4 years ago

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Desired Fate, Chapter 9

Read on FF.net

Read on AO3

Astor stood at what had been the entrance to the Yiga Hideout. Along the way, he’d passed piles of debris where there had once been a network of walls built along the canyon of Karusa Valley. The entrance itself, which had once been neatly cut into the rock, was now an angry burning hole. There wasn’t anyone in sight, the hideout was not only destroyed but desolate and abandoned.

The princess’s warning briefly crossed Astor’s thoughts. Astor’s blank expression changed into a haunting sneer, almost smiling in a deranged way.

Well played, Your Highness…. Only a minor setback… Although, I wonder if any of those banana worshiping degenerates are still alive...

Astor vanished and reappeared near his own hideout in the Gerudo Highlands. Some ways off he spotted two familiar silhouettes sitting on the edge of the canyon. Of course, the two most useless members of the Yiga Clan had retreated, the prophet mused.

Still, Astor approached the two apprehensively, knowing he was sure to get an earful.

Kohga and Sooga took notice as the Hylian neared, the two imposing figures being clearly irate as they stood.

“Why didn’t you tell us we’d get walloped? I would expect you to warn us that the Gerudo Chief is going to come trampling into our hideout to attack my men! Why were you conveniently missing today of all days?” Kohga shouted, exasperated.

Astor was smiling inside, where they can’t see it, but maintained a straight face.

Sooga was the one to approach Astor, towering over the much smaller man, and that's when Astor knew he’d overplayed his hand. He tensed as Sooga grabbed him by the collar of his robes and lifted him, Astor’s feet barely making contact with the ground.

“I’m afraid we cannot overlook this failure, ‘seer’.”

“Can’t do it!” Kohga chimed in.

Astor gave Sooga a dismissive smirk, already knowing what to say to retake control of the situation. “Fate decides all… Even this defeat. As you well know, if you decide to turn against me you will make an enemy of Calamity Ganon.”

“You slimy -” Kohga began, but before he could finish his sentence, Sooga’s fist collided with Astor’s face. The seer collapsed to the ground, looking up at Sooga in disbelief.

Kohga cheered, “Yeah! Knock his raggedy ass out! How dare he try to use our devotion to Lord Ganon against us. Thinks he’s chosen or something? You’re not special!”

Sooga leaned down, taking Astor by the collar again. Astor weakly held a hand out in an attempt to defend himself, but it was of little use against a man twice his size.

“The Yiga Clan has served Lord Ganon for nearly 10,000 years. You can’t turn Calamity Ganon against us, especially if we kill you first.” Sooga slammed Astor’s head against the ground, followed by a swift roundhouse kick in the ribs.

Astor gasped for air. The wind had been knocked out of him twice. He could barely breathe.

“You deserve whatever Lord Ganon has in store for you in the next realm...” Sooga drew one of his blades at his hip.

The prophet was in too much pain to move, let alone summon his orb.

“C-calamity Ganon... Avenge me…” Astor closed his eyes.

A blinding light consumed the three men and the two Yiga disappeared into puffs of smoke, scrolls featuring the inverted eye raining down in their retreat. Astor shielded himself from the light, lying prostrate on the ground, lacking the strength to rise and a little bit fearful of the presence he could sense was the antithesis of Calamity Ganon.

“Prophet of Doom, your fate is in my hands.” Hylia entreated him gently.

Astor remained very still. She came to stand in front of him, but still, he didn’t look up to meet her gaze. The goddess perceived his confusion and fear of her.

“You’re wondering why I’ve come… I’ve seen your ultimate fate, Prophet of Doom, and I know you will call out to me when confronted with the reality of Calamity Ganon’s betrayal. But it will be too late for you. And, as proof that my words are true, already you are questioning why the Calamity would allow you to endure such humiliation.”

Astor finally answered the goddess, his voice weak and wavering with defeat. “Calamity Ganon is… going to betray me? That cannot be…” If he had any confidence left after being beaten down so horribly, then her words had ripped that away as well.

Hylia knew he believed her, but his denial and grief were so great. “Your gift of foresight is no match for mine.” The goddess reiterated.

“The grand fate I thought I had was all a lie…? Am I really just a nobody? Put me out of my misery then… I have no desire to continue an existence where I have no purpose.”

“You’re still a young man, Astor. You can still have a meaningful life.”

Astor scoffed trying to hide his tears. “The goddess is apparently dumb and blind. If Calamity Ganon is to betray me, then I have no reason to be...”

Hylia sensed his anger at her. She had revealed a truth he wasn’t ready to confront, but she knew it had to be said if he was to be saved from his terrible fate.

“I wouldn’t spare you just to leave you without a purpose. I know all about you, Prophet of Doom. You’ve had unfortunate circumstances, but you are not inconsequential. You were a veiled birth. This was a sign of your gift, but it was viewed with suspicion, and you were abandoned. I willed that you be found. You grew up in an orphanage where you went unnoticed. They sent you away at 15 years of age. You managed to make a living with fortune-telling using a Sheikah relic you recovered. People would come to you with all sorts of questions that concerned important matters in their lives, people wanting to know the identity of their soulmate, a look at their unborn child, whatever they wanted to know could be seen in that orb. You were the same age my current descendant is now that you gathered the courage to look upon your own future. But there was nothing. You threw that orb across the room and wept. Your heart darkened and you turned to Calamity Ganon. You suffered much and you wanted to bring Hyrule to its knees. You invested yourself in serving the Calamity with such intensity it greatly diminished your desire for anything else. But, that’s what you wanted. Anything to not have to remember that you’d always be alone. You abandoned me long ago, but… even the princess’s faith in me hangs by a thread.”

Astor tensed at the mention of the princess, knowing the goddess could read him so easily, but there was nothing he could hide from her. It was all kind of amusing to Hylia.

“You… You’re the one that’s been meddling with my visions? Why are you doing this? Why would you bend fate itself to spare me? What’s wrong with you? Go mind that wretched girl who bears your blood and leave me be.”

“I’m helping her by helping you. You have the gift of prophecy, which my current descendant is sadly lacking as my lineage is weakening.”

“I’m well aware…” Astor said irritated. And then, fearful of what the goddess might read his thoughts he lashed out. “Your lineage can rot… The only intention I have towards that girl is to ensure she never unlocks that awful power.” The prophet said, defensively.

A soft smile crossed the goddess’s lips as she knelt to whisper in his ear, and what she said frightened him so badly he, at last, gathered the strength to raise his voice and try to stand and confront her face to face, but Astor could only lift his head and raise an arm to try to summon his orb. “Hear me, Calamity Ganon, rain down your destruction on this… this…”

Hylia’s blue eyes regarded him with pity. The resemblance to the princess was uncanny, though the goddess’s appearance could only be described as otherworldly and ageless. She began to fade away. “There is no destruction, Astor. There is only…”

The goddess’s voice faded out as Astor finally lost all ability to remain conscious.

#Astor #Age of Calamity #Hyrule Warriors: Age of Calamity #HWAOC #Zelast #Astor used manipulation #it wasn't very effective

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sweater-daddiesdumbdork · 5 years ago

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“Just a Few Days”

Summary- Bucky x Y/N. Bucky hadnt been home for long, but is sent back out on a mission. You and him decide on how to spend his time home once he gets back. Written for @the--sad--hatter The Weird and The Wonderful- writing challenge. Congrats babes on your milestone! Prompt is written in bold. Smut. Written in the same verse as Changes

Word Count- 3.1k

“You really think you can pin me Barnes?” You taunted the super soldier while the two of you circled the mat, giving him a taunting grin. His movements were almost cat like, slinking along on pads of his bare feet, his hands flexed in a relaxed manner at his side. He knew, you werent easy to catch. Flexible and quick as you were, this morning in the early hours of dawn you managed to pin him easily in the bed. Kisses raining down from your sweet lips to travel down his body as you wrapped your hands around his erection. You had smirked at him then in a similar way you were now.

His sweat pants hid the tensing of muscles, preparing his move. “As long as I stay away from that pretty mouth of yours I can.” You smirk, recalling the blow job you given this morning. Bucky could see you were distracted at his words and he reached for a grasp. Your hand coming up to block his hold and jab out with one of your own, twisting around to his back, you scramble onto his shoulders, a move Nat so nicely shared with you, his head clasped between your thighs, you throw your weight forward, the two of you falling forward. You promptly slap the ground with your arms, and move into a roll. Bucky, prepared for it rolled as well and landed back on his feet to your back.

“You had no problem with my mouth this morning” You huff out and still in the midst of sparring, he wraps his arm around your neck and slams you back to his chest, chuckling near your ear. “I would say my biggest weakness Doll. And check” Hes taunting you again, knowing you always hesitated attacking him. This is your chance to escape or relent the match to him, and you fall back to the age old tried and true. Your foot slamming down in the instep of his leg, and elbow sharply jarring back into his abdomen.

An oof backed him up, and you spun around to see Bucky grinning at you and rubbing where your elbow clipped him. “Damn good Y/N, I was hoping you would break loose.” You blush at the compliment, and move over to him, placing your hand where you got him. “Im sorry, I know you say to attack fully, but I still feel guilty about it.Doesnt hurt right?” Silly question you know, but still....

“I know you do Doll, and no. More of a surprise then anything, ive had worst.” His arm slung over your shoulder and he kissed your forehead just as Sam entered the ring, carrying a tablet with him. You get a sinking feeling, you know what it means.

“You two call that foreplay? take it to your room.” Sam joked and Bucky muttered a “shut up Wilson, what you got?”

“Listen I know you just got back, but this is an in and out case, and Steve figured you would want in on this one.” You glance over the details, a hydra base, an old one. From the notes it claimed Bucky might have been associated with its operation back in the day and might still be in semi activity now. Your hand rubs against his back when you feel him stiffen at your side, knowing he just saw the same information you had. “How long will we be gone?” you noted a hint of weariness in his voice, hesitation.

“Couple days, few at best. Were gonna be headed out in an hour.”

Of course they were.

Little later, you and Bucky are getting ready for your goodbyes, so soon, you hated it since he had just gotten back. “Hey Doll, just a couple days. When I get back, Im taking a few weeks, screw ‘em all. Me and you will get out of here. Wherever we want to go.” Bucky did his best to bring a smile back to your face.

You brighten much to his relief at the suggestion, nodding” I would really like that.” a mischievous glint shines in your eyes and you lower your voice in a tease as you glance over his shoulder to where Steve is getting on the jet. “Can we just go on the road without telling anyone and call Steve to tell him were MIA for a while?”

Bucky laughs and nods, tilting your chin up to place a teasing deep kiss goodbye on it. “We can although Steve rather likes rebellion. You might get a better reaction out of Tony. I will see you in a few days doll, I love you.”

“Love you to Sargent, I will see you when you come home.”

He turned to walk away, a glance over his shoulder showed you flashing him a smile and a little wave, the lights behind you shimmering around your form in a silhouette. It would be one of the moments he would think back on later. Sam said its just a couple days.

Turns out Sam is a god damn liar.

What was one base turned into following leads to others still functioning. Flushing them out, chasing another lead, it had been weeks at this point, and to say Bucky wasnt kicking himself for jumping back into it all so soon would be an understatement. At about the third week mark, he had enough of being around the rest of the team on the jet, and set out to camp in the run down base. Setting up his site, he was soon joined by Steve and Sam.

“I dont remember giving yall permission to take up in my space.” Bucky growled, kicking open his sleeping mat, and wishing sorely that it was your bed, with your soft words filling his mind and warm body wrapped around his. Not these two fuckers who thought that this was home as they made themselves all cozy as fuck. Yea, he was in a bad mood. “And you said this was just gonna be for a couple days.” he growled slightly at Sam, who was unaffected by Buckys mood.

“You know how these things go Buck.” Steve said from where he was patching his suit, his large fingers nimble as he threaded the needle and dragged his suit in his lap. “But it will just be a few more days I think. Have you called Y/N today?” HIs friend never looked up from his mending and Bucky went from pissed off to resigned, digging into his gear to find the stark phone Tony gave all of you. “No... but I am.”

Leaving the two of them behind, he stepped out into the night, glancing at the time. It would be mid afternoon for you, you would be busy training recruits with Barton and Romanoff, or in the field, unlike him though, closer to home. How he wished he was there now, he missed you terribly. Regardless, he would leave you a voice message, knowing that it would cheer you up.

“Hey Doll, I miss you like fucking crazy babygirl. I hope things are better at home then here. I cant go into much details, but they basically just have us chasing leads. Steve did say just a few more days...” He snorted a bit, and brushed his hand through his hair in frustration. “Anyways, be sure to have your bag packed, cause the minute I land, were leaving. Well, maybe two. I mean a man has needs after all, and I have missed your sweet lips of yours. Those killer thighs wrapped around me to. Okay... Love you always Beautiful.” Hanging up, he sighed and tilted his head up to look at the full silver moon, making him think of you once more. You loved those aesthetic pictures, the way the stars shimmered around the giant orb, it made him recall looking back at you waving goodbye. Your braid laying over your shoulder and you kept that upbeat look on your face, the lights, they shimmered around you and it made his chest ache for you all over again. Lifting his phone, he snapped a picture.

Over the next week, his message and the picture was what you fell back to, making you smile when you found yourself missing him. Often during the busy meetings where you were busy helping set up recruit schedules, moments training when you wondered what move would he be using on the person in the ring, to lonely nights fading into mornings, where you laid there, trying to find sleep and missing his heavy body enveloping yours in that protective hold of his. This particular night, you were laying in a half slumber when you heard it. The front door click, and then Buckys rough voice remarking on the softer side in case you were sleeping.

“Son of a bitch keys and this dumb ass lock always sticking.”

You hear his voice and grab his henley you discarded on the floor to yank on and race down the hallway to your front room, he dropped his bag on the floor and held open his arms to you that left you giving a squeal of excitement, jumping into his arms. “You bastard I missed you!” you rush your words, wrapping your arm around his neck and kissing him fiercely.

“I couldnt tell” He growled as his hands slid along your bare ass, and squeezed firmly, arching his brows at your naked behind. You grin and nip at his lips, rolling your hips against him in a tease. “I knew you were coming home.”

“Uh huh, sure you did. Its hot your just wearing my shirt. But I want that off in two fucking seconds while you get that cute little ass of yours back to the bedroom.” Releasing you, you fall to the balls of your feet, sprinting back towards the bedroom while discarding the henley, hopping on the bed. Bucky sauntered to the room, shedding clothing as he went along,kicking off boots, yanking off a shirt, ripping pants off his legs. When he entered the bedroom, there you were, kneeling so pretty in the center of the bed, biting the tip of your finger as you watched him, while palming your breasts, teasing yourself just for him. He lastly yanked off his boxers and sure enough, he was aching to have you pinned underneath him, you could tell from the way his erection throbbed.

You beckoned him forward, not that he needed any encouraging as he hovered over you and pushed you back, hard kisses swelling your lips, tongue claiming your mouth and moans he ripped from you. Oh yes, this is what you been missing, his hand tight at your waist as it slid you back to stretch beneath him. Your hands wrapped around his sides to dig into his back and legs bending to grasp his waist between your knees. “You miss me sweet girl?” He asked between nips and kisses down your neck, slipping his hand between your thighs to slip through your slick, and find that sweet little trigger that as soon as he circled around it had you wriggling. It made you want more, and to chase a rush.

“As much as you missed me Sargent” You whine out, rolling your hips up to press into his erection, rocking back and forth against him. His eyes glowered almost dangerously at you, his pupils blown in his arousal, and then his fingers turned a little harder, a little quicker, just to make you tense and wriggle underneath him all pretty like you were. “Your right Doll I have missed you, missed feeling you clutch around me because your so fucking needy for my cock.” He fingers stretched your wet channel, and you cried out his name in a breathless moan, nodding in agreement. “Yes Bucky, fuck yes please. Fuck me... “

He bit on her shoulder in a bruising kiss, and shifted himself to better line up to you.”Since your looking pretty here asking me...” Grasping himself, he slicked his cock between your folds, pressing against your entrance to feel you stretch around him, both of you moaning at the sensation, mouths opened against one another, not in a kiss, but gasps shared. Your nails are driving Bucky wild as they dig almost painfully into his back just to feel you holding on. Shifting your legs to fold over him, you tighten him to sink in further, bottom himself fully in you. “Fuck Doll... this is a perfect home coming.”

You hum underneath him in agreement, pressing your face now into his shoulder and his first thrust to claim you made you whimper his name in that needy way, that urged him to continue, rolling hips to touch you everywhere and you rolled back to meet him. Bucky pulled away enough to ease you away from his shoulder and chained kisses down your collarbone and plumped a breast so that he could claim a nipple that was a tight little bud, the warmth moisture of his mouth making you arch into his mouth, sucking in more and pulling the sensitive skin from his mouth. He was marking you across your breasts, and you were sure at your neck when he claimed that flesh again, tipping your head back into the pillow to give him more room.

“Make sure everyone can see Im yours Sargent.” You pant out, knowing that everyone would see his kisses all over your skin, and what kind of homecoming it was. Shameless you were, letting everyone know that Bucky owned you. His growl vibrated through you, making you giggle softly and then gasp when his next thrust hit you just right, and he lifted his head, eyes shining bright to see your ruined face, jaw popped open, your eyes squeezed shut and crying out when he did it again. Once he felt you start to unravel, he never slowed aiming for that spot, that sweetness that left you crying his name over and over, clutching him as if there was nothing else you were capable of. Just ride it all out.

Bucky grasped your jaw and gave a light shake,to make you look at him. “Your eyes open, I want to see you cum for me.” Your lids flutter open further to try and follow his request, eyes rolling up as you start flexing harder around him. “Thats right Doll, dont keep holding back.” He groaned, licking over your lips, sucking your bottom lip and tangle his tongue around yours. Pining your hips in place to give hard quick thrusts, chasing the start of your orgasm with his own, and your bodies slammed together to rock, you were soft, and he was hard, the two of them folding together in a tangle of limbs. Bucky rolled you two over so you clutched to his chest, milking his cock for everything, and hiding your face in his shoulder, shaking. He jerked a few more slow pumps into you while riding out his own and his hands loosened there hold on your hips, sliding up your side with one hand and down to cup your ass, and keep you pressed in close.

His touch was soothing for you, and you hummed against his shoulder, lifting away enough to look down at him, kissing his lips softly with a grin. “Ahhh, well that was nice. So when you headed out on your next mission?” You teased and he growled, flipping the two of you back over, his kiss less urgent and fierce, this time it was teasing while he dragged down your body. “Your my next mission.”

You were his next mission, several more times that night until early morning.

You happened to waken first, and lifted your head to see his head tipped back and soft snores showed just how tired he was, so you were gentle to shift to the edge of the bed, preparing to get up and make coffee when his arm snaked out, catching you around your hips, sliding you back. Bucky had shifted down enough in bed to nuzzle his head in the softness of your chest, your fingers easing to brush through his hair, and watch him. “Im just going to make us some coffee Sarge.” and he inhaled deeply against your skin, finally lifting his head. “Just a few more minutes here, then I will let you go.”

You werent going to say no to that, and you remained where you were, gentle still as your fingers kept sliding through his hair, spiking it further from the bed head he already had. Finally he shifted into a sit, and went to the bathroom, groaning as he rubbed his face on the way there. Taking that as your cue, you rolled up out of bed to go make that coffee, putting on his shirt once more and a pair of sleep bottoms. Picking up the clothing he had lost through the front room and hallway on your way to the kitchen.You then ditch the pile on the couch, making your way towards the coffee pot, humming happily to yourself.

He finished and put on clean boxers before going to find his clothes from the night before, digging out his phone to check messages. “Hey you are all set to head out later right Doll?” He called as he wandered towards the kitchen where you were nowhere to be found. Looking around, he saw that the back door was halpf open, figuring you went for the fresh air, he stepped out to see you leaning against the railing, watching the sun ease up through the line of pine trees that edged the compound. Bucky went up behind you, and wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin against your shoulder watching as well.

“The world seemed to shimmer at the edges.” You lean back into his chest lightly. “Just as the sun came up, its been a while since ive seen that.” Your head tips up and kisses the side of Buckys face, and his hands rub along your hips, tipping to return the gesture, rubbing his chin against your neck and shoulder. It had been a while, but you were his world, and for him, you were always that shimmering outline waving him back home.

“You said something about heading out Buck?”

“Yea Doll.” He smiled happily “Later today, were sneaking out and hitting the road.”

“Lets just go get that coffee, shower, and Im all set to go.”

Sure enough later that day, your leaning against Buckys shoulder and holding up your phone, snapping a picture of you and Bucky, your hair hair whipping around from the open windows, both of you wearing sunglassws with open road showing in the in the background. You sent it to Steve who responded back with a simple text. ‘Dont do anything I wouldnt do you two.’

Telling Bucky, he grinned and put his foot down harder on the gas pedal, putting miles between them and responsibilities.

@p8tn0lish @what-is-your-plan-today @official-and-unstable-satan @that-damn-girl @jtargaryen18 @stardancerluv

#fluffybucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #marvel #soft and fluffy #writing challenge #ambers writing #sweater writes #sebastian stan #sam wilson #steve rogers #smut #bucky smut #soft smut

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