#sorry i just think shadow deserves better than to be bundled with one of the most nothing sonic games of all time

[antirepurp]

something something we could have gotten shadow the hedgehog 2 but imagine releasing a game that tries to innovate and try something new and bold instead of nostalgia baiting and ReReleasing a 13-year-old game

[chaithetics]

Very Own, Personal Venus

Pairing: Abel Morales x plus size f (afab) reader Word count: 2.4K Warning/note: 18 + MDNI, fluff, established relationship, oral (f receiving). A/N: Not proofread, I hope you all enjoy it! I was hoping to get this out a lot sooner than what I did, so oops! Plus size, midsize, chubby, curvy girlies are absolute beauties, you/we deserve more love. No physical description mentioned other than reader being plus size! I hope everyone who reads this enjoys it but especially you! Please validate me and this fic, comments, reblogs and asks very much appreciated🫶 Tagging with much appreciation @steven-grants-world x Gif by @flawless-v1ctory

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It was a late night at the start of a cool winter when Abel’s car pulled into the driveway and he came home from a long day. Due to the temperature, he’d spent most of the day when at meetings and driving bundled up in his signature, large, caramel coat. 

When Abel stepped inside, it was much warmer, it was perfectly cosy and he quickly took his coat off and hung it on the coat rack then he immediately took his shoes off and placed them in the shoe rack by the door. You weren’t downstairs which didn’t surprise him, it was late and he knew you’d be wrapped up like a gift in bed, either sleeping or reading. 

Abel walked upstairs to your bedroom, the door was open and a light was on, he leaned against the doorway. Abel’s eyes immediately landed on you, the way that your body is laid out in bed and on display, he can’t help but bite on the inside of his cheek as he thinks about how you look like an antique piece of art depicting a goddess treasured in some museum as he takes in the soft waves of your body. His own personal Venus. 

Abel lets out a low, little whistle as he steps out of the shadow of his day that hangs from the doorframe and walks further into the light of where you are in the bed. You hear the whistle and his footsteps against the floor, you start to turn over to look up and face him. 

You blink tiredly for a minute as your eyes focus on his approaching figure and you give him a small smile, staying in the comfortable bed that is just perfectly cosy with all the blankets and covers. You move your arm up so you can rest your head a bit on it as you try to wake yourself up more.

“It’s late…” You whisper as he moves to sit on the bed. 

‘I know baby, I’m sorry.” He says as he caresses your forehead gently while looking at you. 

You’re happy to see him, you miss him during the day and you’ve certainly been missing him more lately with the late nights he’s been working over the last week trying to make everything happen for another deal and the endless issues that an entrepreneur like him is constantly grappling with. 

Abel’s met with your kind smile, as you look up at him. You’re too kind for him, too perfect. It’s the thoughts that come to his mind as he looks at your gorgeous smile and how that makes your plump cheeks look. He caresses your face for a moment, his fingers dancing over the full cheeks and he tilts his head down to place a gentle, grateful kiss there. 

As he does that, you place a hand into his hair, the gelled back hair, neat and short enough, styled so that his natural curls aren’t springing free, much to your dismay. But he’s still perfectly handsome like this. 

You place your other hand to his shoulder and caress it softly with a tired sigh. He’s wearing one of his turtlenecks again and he looks so goddamn good. He knows you love that item of clothing on him, you don’t know what it is but it just is some universal thing that makes every look look better and Abel just pulls them off so well. No matter what colour, fabric, or where they are brought from, they all seem to be tailor-made for his body in the sexiest way possible. Your cheeks heat up a little as you think about how good he looks. You had the most handsome and softly spoken husband in the world.

“How was your day though?” You ask as you watch his face. There’s a tired look there but there’s a smile on his lips which grows each time his eyes look at you and he hears your voice. It’s the best sound in the world to him, especially after a long day. 

“It was okay, it’s better now that I’m here with you.” He whispers which makes you smile. He’s always so sweet, a mouth of sugar. 

Abel’s hand moves down from your cheek as he caresses your neck and then your shoulder, you can’t help but watch his face as the most peaceful expression takes over him as his hand travels further down your body. He ends up caressing your upper arm as his fingers run along the visible stretch marks on your skin, up and down, over and over. It’s a gentle, affectionate touch. He lets out a little peaceful hum. 

He looks completely content and you can’t help but feel the same feeling, an easiness in your bones, as you look at him and breathe slowly as he does too. You’re sure that if you pressed your head against his warm chest and listened to his heart you’d find that you’re both so peaceful and in sync that your hearts would be beating together in time. 

“Is it gonna be a quieter day tomorrow?” You ask as you relax more, feeling your body sink further into the mattress as his hand continues, you can tell that Abel is completely focused on you as he does this. He blinks slowly for a moment, his warm brown eyes had been focusing on where he’d been caressing you and they focus again on your sweet face. He gives a little nod. “Yeah, it should be. I should be home for a late dinner at least, honey.” He says softly in his dreamy voice, it’s becoming a bit breathier. Your eyes then widen, you’d put leftovers in the fridge for him but he might’ve just come straight to bed and not eaten at all. You knew he usually had lunch but it’s been quite a while since then so you tilt your head as you look at his face. “Have you not eaten? Abel! There’s leftovers in the refrigerator, do you want me to heat it up for you? A snack? Oh Abel…” “I’m fine, I’ve eaten today. Might just have a little snack.” He says as he tilts his head to look at you with a growing smirk on his adoring face. 

He moves the silk of your nightgown up to your stomach, exposing your thighs and intimate areas. Abel moves down your body sprinkling some kisses along your neck and full breasts and stomach. He gets down to between your thick thighs and smiles widely. It’s the most animated he’s looked since being home and you can’t help but smile back as your cheeks heat up at this sight. 

“I just need something sweet before bed.” He whispers against the sensitive skin of your thighs, it draws a sharp gasp from you and you feel your fingers start to instinctively search for a corner of a sheet or pillow to grip onto in preparation of what’s to come. His fingers dance along the softness of your thighs. “Can I have a sweet treat, beautiful?” Abel asks in a voice that’s soft and feels musical, you can feel each breath of his words. 

Your cheeks heat up more and you bite your lip, it takes a couple of seconds for your brain to connect to whatever part of your nervous system it needs to to say the ‘yes’ aloud and not just think it. You finally say it and give a quick, frantic nod. 

Abel’s hands expertly run around the soft thighs that he loves, he’s done this a million times and will do it at least another million times more. He peppers on kisses up and down your thighs, you squirm slightly at the feeling of his lips and hot breath. He knows just how to turn you on perfectly and immediately. 

His eyes were closed for a moment as he kissed your thighs and his ran up to your vulva. He ran his fingers around, not getting anywhere near your hole or bundle of nerves as he teased you, he wouldn’t call it that though. He’d say he was building up anticipation. He did that for a moment before he palmed you, you let out a gasp at that and gripped the pillow next to you. You knew what was coming next. 

Abel’s finger circled your sensitive bundle of nerves three times, you couldn’t help but let out a moan. He was kissing your inner thigh now as he moved his fingers and he started to dip one into your hole, it was barely in but he was teasing you nonetheless, starting to work you up. You felt your breath become a little shaky as your cheeks heated, you bucked your hips up, trying to get more contact with his fingers, needing to swallow him up more. 

You gasped, letting out a giggle as you felt his smirk against your thigh at that somatic ask for more. He smiled more and did as he knew you wanted, he started to move his finger in deeper as you eagerly swallowed his digit up with each movement. You smiled and let out a moan as he did that. 

Abel kept kissing your thighs as that happened, he was licking them gently, perfectly content to take his time with you laid out, looking so ethereal with pleasure painted all over your face. When you were like this, it was like a  renaissance painting just for his eyes. 

His fingers pump in quicker, and he adds another finger in which you can’t help but whine at. You dig another fingers  into the pillow next to you and let out a moan as your eyes shut tightly. The feeling of pleasure becomes so much more overwhelming with the extra digit and quicker pace. 

It’s now that his mouth moves up and you feel his nose lightly nudge your clitoris and you gasp out, you can’t help but let out a louder moan at that. Abel’s mouth starts to devour you up, he licks through your folds, kissing along your slit and he starts to slowly lick around your bundle of nerves. “Tastes so good, you always taste so good for me.” He whispers against your clitoris and you can’t help but gasp out and slightly shake at that, the feeling of his words, what they do the fire in your loins and what the feeling of his breath does to those sensitive nerves. 

Abel quickly goes back to licking your beautiful cunt, he’s lapping up like it’s the sweetest treat he’s ever had, like it’s his only source of water and it’s the hottest day in history. You just taste that good to him. He keeps lapping your juices up, pulling out the most amazing noises out of you. 

One of your hands is still tightly gripping onto the pillow but the other quickly moves to his head of perfect hair. You scratch at his scalp, trying to keep it light, despite the fact that with how good he’s making you feel and how overwhelming it is, it would be so easy to scratch harder. You start to tug on his hair as you whine out. His two fingers are still pumping in and out of you at a delicious pace and you can feel his fingers reaching the perfect spot inside. 

But it’s what his mouth is doing that is really driving you wild, he’s still lapping through your folds, savouring every last drop of your juices as you whine under him. His hand that isn’t pumping you, is now up holding onto your left breast and squeezing it gently. His eyes are closed now as he treasures this moment, the feeling of your perfect body and how sweet you taste. Abel starts to suck on your clitoris and that’s when you cry out. You try to bite your lip, it feels so damn good and you know you’re close. He keeps pumping his fingers in and out at the same pace, he knows better than to change it up moments away from the finishing line. He keeps licking and sucking on your clitoris, he moans and hums against it as he sucks the release out of you. 

Your hand tightens in his ear as you feel your eyes roll back as the feeling overwhelms your whole body. You release, whining out over the high of your orgasm as Abel mouth and tongue slow down in order to help you ride it out and not overstimulate you. You pant and close your eyes, letting go of the pillow you were gripping and holding it to your forehead. You look down at Abel and he’s still between your thighs, looking up at you. He slowly and gently licks up your release and then sprinkles gentle kisses across your thighs. 

“You’re so perfect, so beautiful for me.” He whispers as he looks at you adoringly. Your cheeks heat up again and you smile tiredly at him.

You’re saying it all with your eyes, you love him, you’re grateful for him. He’s the only one who can make you feel that good. And he feels exactly the same, and he says it all with his eyes too as he looks up at you. 

Abel is looking more tired now though, you’re both absolutely exhausted and ready for sleep now. You’ve had another amazing release because of his handiwork and he got his sweet treat that he needed so badly before bed. 

He smiles tiredly at you and moves his body slowly back up. He kisses your hip one last time, then your soft stomach, making sure to sprinkle it in affectionate kisses as he then lands to your neck for a long, sweet kiss. Abel then rests his head against your chest, he caresses your arm softly as your legs tangle together and you start to play with his hair as you close your eyes, feeling content. Both of your breathing settles, back to normal and then start to slow down as tangled up, you both drift off to sleep. You feel him give your chest one last kiss before he tilts his head, closes his eyes and falls into a peaceful slumber. One he could only have with you.

[princess-tulip-writes]

Sharing is caring • Mor x reader x Azriel

“Is she always this much of a whore?” Mor chuckled to her friend and your mate, Azriel, as she watched you wiggle your ass for her fingers.

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” He replied, amused by how easily you seemed to adjust to someone new to play with.

His pride was hurt slightly, but he’d figure that out later. Right now his attention was one you, and the way your pussy lips glistened with sweet, sweet wetness.

“Is that so?” Mor purred to herself before leaning over the bed and placing her lips to your ear. “Would I be surprised by the slutty things you’ve done, dove?”

Azriel watched from behind, admiring to way your pussy clenched around nothing as the older female cooed filth at you, snaking her hand down your arched back and stopping on your ass, grabbing a handful to expel a moan from your pretty lips.

The sound of your whimper made Mor’s velvet lips upturn into a feline grin, and she palmed your ass once more, earning another soft whine from you.

“Such a nice ass, baby.” She moaned. “You like it when I play with it, gorgeous?”

Before you could response, your mate answered for you.

“She likes any kind of attention. Like I told you, she’s a fucking whore.”

The blonde rolled her eyes at his tone toward her. She moved your hair to the side before peppering open mouthed kisses to the hot skin.

“Isn’t that right, bunny?” He asked you, his voice softer.

Mor made note to the soft spot he had for you, and planned to use it to her advantage tonight. Watching the shadowsinger break because of you would be very entertaining to watch.

“Y-yes, sir.” You stuttered out, your whole body tingling from the special attention from the bombshell leached to you.

Azriel tilted his head and quirked a brow, unsatisfied with your answer apparently.

“Tell us what you are.”

You swallowed thickly, you mind blank from the way Mor sucked hickies on your sensitive neck, gathering the words on your tongue nervously as his gaze darkened. Pissing him off was not in your plans for the night.

“A whore. I’m a whore, sir.”

The sensational suckling halted, as you almost let out a whine from the loss of contact but you knew better. Azriel would jump at the chance of spanking the ungrateful out of you, especially now.

“Just ‘sir’? What about me?” Mor pouted to you, a cute jut of her bottom lip adoring her face to farther make you melt— it worked.

“I-I’m a whore, ma’am. I’m sorry for forget-oh!”

Without warning, the hand that had been groping your ass cheek, slipped between your plush thighs and pressed to your clit gently, her long nails grazing your sensitive folds.

“Do you really think she deserves that, Mor?”

Her hazel eyes snapped from your gasping face to the spymaster in the corner, sending him a deep glare his way for being so cruel. Maybe she was wrong about the soft spot after all… or maybe he’s just a prick.

“It’s my turn to play with her, I’ll give her whatever I see fit.”

Her gaze switched back to you before her fingers rolled softly over your bundle of nerves, smiling in delight as your arms gave out under you and your ass arched higher in the air.

“And if you criticize my rules again,” she shot him another glare, one more harsh and violent than the last. “You will leave. Got that, Azriel?”

Your mate scoffed but mumbled an agreement anyway, grumbling to his shadows about how unfair this was, you were his mate. But, nonetheless, he backed down and enjoyed the show.

“Good. Now shut up and watch as I make our pretty princess cum.”

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Great Hunt! Chapter 46: To Come Out of the Shadow

Sometimes I don't have anything cute to say. This post has spoilers for the entire Wheel of Time series, probably. Sometimes I say that and it's not true, but better safe than sorry.

This chapter has the dagger icon because... It's about how tempting it is to justify our worse impulses as good rather than actually being good? It sure isn't because the dagger shows up, or Fain for that matter.

Shifting her bundle nervously, Elayne peered toward the noise of shouts, one street over, where the golden hawk clutching lightning rippled in the wind. “What is happening?”

Elayne and Min, Rand's actual soulmates, get no opportunity to see him at all. Just Egwene.

She used the a’dam to keep Seta close by her side, so if the damane sensed the ability to channel in one of them, she would think it was Seta.

The Seanchan do have more powerful channelers than the main region does of course, but I suspect that if it weren't for the way that the Seanchan have so utterly crushed people's keeping an eye out for things, Nynaeve's plan here wouldn't really work. Even by Seanchan standards, she and Elayne should be rather noteworthy channelers.

Near the back of the house, Min took a narrow stairs that spiraled upwards. Nynaeve pushed Seta up it ahead of her, all the way to the fourth floor. The ceilings were low, there, the halls empty and silent except for the soft sounds of weeping. Weeping seemed to fit the air of the chilly halls.

This place existed before the Seanchan arrived. I wonder who built it with the fourth floor in such a way here. Usually servants are the downstairs folk, not the upstairs ones.

Her voice hardened so that Nynaeve barely recognized it. “I’d like to put her in a pot of boiling water.” Seta had her eyes squeezed shut, and her hands clutched her skirts; she was trembling.

You can hardly blame Egwene for thinking such things, despite Elayne's shock. She'd be wrong to do it, technically. But you can't blame her for the desire.

The collar sprang open and fell away from Egwene’s throat. With an expression of wonder, Egwene touched her neck.

It's so understated for how wonderful it is.

“I have thought about it a great deal,” Egwene said. “Thinking was all I could do when they left me alone up here. Sul’dam claim they develop an affinity after a few years. Most of them can tell when a woman is channeling whether they’re leashed to her or not. I wasn’t sure, but Seta proves it.”

I never appreciated how clever Egwene was for working out the whole mystery before Seta proved it. Under the circumstances, working out anything makes you one of the great minds of your time.

“I know she is horrible,” Elayne said, “but I feel as if I should help her somehow. She could be one of our sisters, only the Seanchan have twisted it all.”

This foreshadows the fact that Seta will someday be an Aes Sedai and that she'll be going to Seanchan to start untwisting it. Funny ol' wheel, isn't it?

Before anyone else could move, Egwene snatched the pitcher from her washstand and smashed it into Renna’s midriff. The pitcher shattered, and the sul’dam lost all her breath in a gurgling gasp and doubled over.

Violence may not be the answer, but I feel like this is one of those tests where certain wrong answers can still get you partial credit, you know?

“I know,” Nynaeve said gently. She smoothed Egwene’s hair. “It is all right to hate them, Egwene. It is. They deserve it. But it isn’t all right to let them make you like they are.”

Nynaeve is right, though sadly I think the Seanchan have had a more permanent influence on Egwene than we could have hoped.

“Perhaps they do,” Nynaeve said, “and perhaps he would. But men often mistake revenge and killing for justice. They seldom have the stomach for justice.”

Have I said lately that Nynaeve is the best? Because she is.

“Perhaps, if you are very quiet, you will be left alone here long enough to manage to remove the collars. The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, and it may be that you’ve done enough good to counterbalance the evil you have done, enough that you will be allowed to remove them. If not, you will be found, eventually. And I think whoever finds you will ask a great many questions before they remove those collars. I think perhaps you will learn at first hand the life you have given to other women. That is justice,” she added, to the others.

Renna and Seta don't seem like the sort of people who've done much good at all, but they must have done something nice before this book considering all that does end up happening.

They were still halfway down the street from the women, but they marched with a grim, implacable step, and it seemed to Nynaeve that every eye was fixed on her. That’s ridiculous. I can’t see their eyes inside those helmets, and if anybody had given an alarm, it would be behind us. She stopped anyway.

It is very hard to be rational when your emotions are in full swing, so I don't blame Nynaeve here at all.

“I will not go back,” Egwene said grimly. “I’ll die first. Let me show them what they’ve taught me.” To Nynaeve’s eye, a golden nimbus suddenly seemed to surround her.

Egwene on the other h-

No, of course I'm kidding. I'd say she clearly has PTSD only I'm not sure that "five minutes since the trauma ended" is sufficiently post. It might just be TSD at this point.

With a roar like thunder, the street under the first ranks of Seanchan erupted, dirt and cobblestones and armored men thrown aside like spray from a fountain. Still glowing, Egwene spun to stare up the street, and the thunderous roar was repeated. Dirt rained down on the women.

Say what you will about the Oaths, they really are a blessing for having prevented three thousand years of this crap.

If Domon doesn’t have that ship waiting, I’ll. . . . Light, let us all reach it safely.

Nynaeve very clearly demonstrates her anger to surrender pipeline right here, right after grabbing the Source. As best as I can figure, her block must be about how her personality requires her to work herself up into an insensate state before she can do something as passive as total surrender.

“I did give my word,” Domon said. He wrenched the axe from Cole’s hand and threw it clattering onto the deck. “I did give my word.”

Rather unfortunate that the gals won't be making it then.

With a creak of saddles the long line of white-cloaked men moved slowly toward Falme.

I don't have anything to say about Bornhald's POV (Byar leaving right on schedule means this whole thing coulda been skipped; frankly same with Domon) so lemme just add "Fuck Whitecloaks."

“Close?” Ingtar said. “The Horn of Valere must be saved, Rand.” Despite the Seanchan, despite the lightning and strange explosions down in the town proper, he seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts.

Well, that's Darkfriends for you. Always thinking of themselves when they could be thinking of someone else.

“A pale little man you didn’t seem to really notice even when you were looking at him. Take him inside Fal Dara, I was told, inside the fortress. I did not want to, but I had to do it. You understand? I had to. I never knew what he intended until he shot that arrow. I still don’t know if it was meant for the Amyrlin, or for you.”

Aren't Gray Men delightful? And Ingtar shows he's not as oblivious to everything else going on as Rand might hope.

“It seemed the only way. We would be destroyed for nothing, defending people who do not even know, or care. It seemed logical. Why should we be destroyed for them, when we could make our own peace? Better the Shadow, I thought, than useless oblivion, like Caralain, or Hardan, or. . . . It seemed so logical, then.”

And so Ingtar's logic destroyed him. Really a shame, how similar he is to Ishamael's fall, that he's going so soon and that the narrative won't really touch much on the parallels. Ah well. He's a better man than Ishamael is at least.

“I think. . . . I think wanting to is enough. I think all you have to do is stop being . . . one of them.”

Rand's got a point. People try to obsess about cosmic justice and karma and all that but really all that stuff seems to accomplish is getting people stuck in their ways.

“There has to be a price, Rand. There is always a price. Perhaps I can pay it here.”

Of course, Ingtar's probably right too. The Wheel is a creature of balance above all else.

“The Light shine on you, Lord Ingtar of House Shinowa, and may you shelter in the palm of the Creator’s hand.” He touched Ingtar’s shoulder. “The last embrace of the mother welcome you home.” Hurin gasped.

Hurin, unlike Ingtar, definitely doesn't know anymore than he lets on, which makes thinking about everything that's happened so far from his perspective so much more hilarious. By this point it's a real gonzo plot from his eyes. That's probably why he doesn't stick around.

But yeah. Ingtar can die without regret at least. In a way he's almost lucky, getting to miss everything that's about to go down.

Next time: Rand vs. Crazy Eyes, round 2!

[atlabeth]

everything happens for a reason part one - zuko x fem!reader

I am not your concern 

masterlist | part 2 

summary: as a servant in the fire nation, you’ve learned that life is often unfair. but as you venture through a tumultuous relationship with a certain prince, you come to learn a very tricky lesson: everything happens for a reason.

a/n: im so excited about this guys you dont even know. i have so much planned and i hope you all love it as much as i do - just for reference, in this first chapter y/n is 9 and zuko is 10

wc: 2.3k

warning(s): mentions of a raid, reader and zuko both being little shits lmao

chapter title comes from not your concern by the hush sound! 

Y/N sprawled out on the grass and sighed contentedly as the sun shined down on her and her mother. Today was easier than most as they had been given the day off, an occasion that was rare in the royal palace. She closed her eyes and breathed in the fresh scent aerating their surroundings. Her senses were blessed with a mix of sea salt and fire lilies, an ever present reminder of the two worlds she walked in.

“Y/N,” her mother chided as she glanced down at her daughter from her sewing. “You shouldn’t lay in the grass like that. You know how hard those stains are to get out; I don’t need even more work on my plate.”

“Yes, mother,” she sighed as she sat up with mock exasperation. “I just feel like I should take advantage of this! We spend all day inside, and now that we’re out here you’re worried about things like stained clothes.” Y/N pushed herself to her feet and spread her arms out as she spun in a small circle. “Life is short, and I already spend all of it sewing and healing. Don’t you think I deserve some grass stains?”

“Did you find your way into the poetry books again?” she joked. “Of course I think you should have fun, but you know how things are here. I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

She continued to twirl, the soft breeze a welcome sensation on her skin. “I know, I know, but you don’t need to worry! I can—”

“Dear, watch where you’re going!”

Her mother’s warning didn’t reach her in time, a fact that became known to Y/N as she collided into the boy in front of her. A small gasp escaped her as recognition filled her now wide eyes.

“Prince Zuko!” she exclaimed, nervous hands finding their positions as she bowed. “Please forgive me for the accident, I didn’t realize you were there.”

Y/N had never spoken to the young prince directly — she mainly shadowed her mother while she did her work around the palace or honed her healing abilities under the watchful eye of Rika, their most skilled healer — but she knew enough to understand that she was to never disrespect the royal family in any way.

“Don’t worry,” he said with a small smile, alleviating the tension that had built up in her shoulders. “I’m sorry too, I wasn’t paying attention either. I actually came here for some help.” As she straightened her back, she noticed the bundle of fabric he was holding. “Are you Kura?”

“Oh, no. That’s my mother.” She pointed behind her where her mother greeted the prince with a respectful nod and smile of her own. “Did you come to get something fixed? She’s the best seamstress in all of the Four Nations.”

“My daughter flatters me,” Kura chucked. “What is it that you require, Prince Zuko?”

“She’s right, actually.” He held up the bundle of cloth which Y/N now recognized as one of the many outfits he owned. She didn’t consider herself a jealous person, but the prince’s extensive wardrobe was an exception to that rule. She had one set uniform for her work supplied by the Fire Nation, and a threadbare set for everything else that her mother had bought for her after saving up what little copper they had to spare. Y/N didn’t mind it too much as she was able to practice her sewing whenever the seams broke, but she was sure that her handiwork made up more of the outfit than the original by now.

“I tore one of the sleeves while I was training with Azula,” Zuko expressed with a frown. “I showed it to my mother, and she said that Kura would be able to fix it. I had to go through every single servant to find you, so I really hope you can. ”

Kura set her current project down and took the cloth from the prince, examining it with the skillful eye of a seamstress before meeting his eyes with another smile. “Of course, dear. I should have it ready for you by tomorrow; my daughter will deliver it to your quarters around midday.”

“Do it well,” he demanded. “I can’t focus on my training if my clothes are falling apart.”

“Hey!” she spoke up, scowling as she crossed her arms. It was like every shred of sense Y/N had disappeared the moment he talked down to her mother. “This is our day off, so you should be thankful that my mother is taking time out of her day to do this for you. Be nicer to her.”

“Y/N!” her mother scolded, her tone frantically apologetic as she turned back to the prince. “Please, forgive my daughter. She speaks her mind far too often, she doesn’t mean any disrespect.”

“No, you’re right.” A thoughtful expression found its way onto the young boy’s features, his eyes trained on her own displeasure. “My father always talks that way to the servants and I guess it came off on me. I’m sorry. It’s not nice.”

“Apology accepted,” Y/N said reluctantly.

“Thank you for your help. I’ll make sure to tell all my friends about your work.” The young prince smiled and walked off, though not without a curious second glance at the girl who righted his wrong.

As soon as the prince was out of range, Kura began to berate her daughter. “Y/N, by now you have to understand that under no circumstances may you ever speak to a member of the royal family like that! Do you know what kind of punishment you could’ve gotten if anyone else was around to hear that?”

She sighed and settled back on the ground, plucking a blade of grass from the ground. “I know, mother, but he needs to learn manners, prince or not!”

“That’s not how it works here. Our job is to serve the royal family without question. Sometimes they say mean things, but we can’t do anything about it. Apologies are not yours to demand or accept.”

“That’s not fair,” she mumbled as she wrapped the strand of grass around her finger. “Back home I could say whatever I wanted.”

“I know, honey, I know. But we’re not at home anymore, so the rules there don’t apply. We have to follow the rules that are put in place here. Can you promise that you’ll do that for me?”

“Yes, mother.” It was a phrase that seemed to always be at the tip of her tongue now that constant apologies were littered throughout her days, usually accompanied by a sigh.

“I miss home,” The murmured sentiment was almost too soft for Kura to hear and her heart sank. Her daughter’s gaze was trained on the ground, idle fingers tapping against her legs, and she put a momentary pause to her sewing with a sigh.

“Dear, don’t you have a healing session today with Rika?”

“You know I don’t,” she grumbled. “It’s my day off, which no one seems to remember.”

“Y/N.” Kura’s voice was more firm and she now understood that it wasn’t so much a suggestion as a demand. “I think you should pay Rika a visit.”

She heaved an exasperated sigh and stood up in a far more exaggerated gesture than necessary. “Alright. I’ll see you later tonight, mother.” And as Y/N began her walk back to the palace, a sour feeling brewed in her chest.

Kura watched on, unable to prevent the fear that permeated her thoughts. They were fortunate that the young prince was generous, but along with his mother they might’ve been the only two who shared those views in the royal family. She hated having to constantly admonish her daughter — the girl was too young to constantly live in fear, especially having already been through so much — but in the Fire Nation they couldn’t afford to do anything less. A spitfire girl like her daughter was constantly treading on thin ice, and it was all she could do to keep her safe.

Kura feared the day when she wasn’t there to protect her.

-

After a short walk that consisted of muttering things to herself and taking her anger out on the pebbles unfortunate enough to be in her path, Y/N found herself back at the palace. She let herself into a side entrance meant only for servants and set on her way to the infirmary when she collided with someone else — an apology was already on the tip of her tongue when she recognized it was Prince Zuko once more. She truly had rotten luck.

Y/N shot quick glances around to ensure that they were alone, then lowered her voice just for extra security. “My mom says I’m not supposed to talk to you like this, but I don’t care. Just because you’re the prince doesn’t mean you can just go around bumping into people!” she whispered angrily.

“But— you were the one who bumped into me the first time!”

She could feel her face heat up from embarrassment and she crossed her arms. “Just— whatever! Do you want something or do you just like popping up in places you're not supposed to be?”

“I guess I just wanted to talk to you,” Zuko shrugged. “I’ve never really seen you around before, and you’re interesting.”

Y/N scrutinized him trying to find out if he was tricking her somehow, but after staring at him for a solid ten seconds she finally caved. “Fine,” she said, already beginning to walk. “But you’d better make it fast. I have to get to a healing session.”

He took a few quick steps to catch up to her and frowned. “I’m the prince. Technically I could order you to stop and you would have to listen.”

“Yeah, well when it’s just the two of us, you’re just another boy. I don’t have time to talk to boys for hours.”

His brows creased for a moment as he thought about it, then ultimately shrugged once more. “Okay. You said you were going to a healing session- does that mean you’re a waterbender?”

She nodded, and Zuko waited for her to explain further. He heaved a sigh, realizing that he was going to have to carry this conversation. “Well.. what’s a waterbender doing in the Fire Nation?”

She fixed him with a puzzled look. “I’m a servant. That’s why I’m here.”

“I know that,” he frowned. “But most of the servants here are from the Fire Nation, and there are hardly any around your age. I’m just trying to get to know you better.”

Y/N sighed heavily — she now knew that the child prince of the Fire Nation had zero sense of boundaries, and if she wanted to get him off her back she had to answer to his satisfaction. “My mother is a waterbender from the Northern Tribe. She left home when she was young to travel the world and help who she could with her healing, and eventually she fell in love with an earthbender. That was my father — they ended up marrying and settling down in his village where they had me a few years later. Last month, my village was raided by the Fire Nation, and my mother and I were captured after they discovered we were waterbenders. And now I’m here, being annoyed by a prince.”

Zuko frowned once more — it seemed if he continued hanging out with this girl the expression would be stuck permanently on his face — and he suddenly felt ashamed for pushing. “I’m really sorry,” he muttered. “I had no idea.”

She heaved another sigh and shook her head. “Yeah, well they probably keep a lot of the bad things they do from you. It’s easier to send raids to destroy families when your children don’t know.”

“What happened to your father?” he questioned.

Y/N’s body stiffened, and she had never been more thankful to see the infirmary door. “Save your questions for next time,” she grumbled.

Zuko’s eyes lit up, her earlier stumble going unnoticed, and a small smile found its way across his lips. “There’s gonna be a next time?”

She managed to cover up her own growing smile with an ambivalent shrug. “As long as you don’t bump into me again.” Y/N opened the door and gave him a polite parting nod before disappearing inside.

“Good afternoon, Master Rika,” she said with a small bow. “I know this is unexpected, but my mother insisted that I come here to—”

“Let me guess,” the older woman interrupted with a raised brow. “Kura got tired of you and sent you here to annoy me instead?”

Y/N chuckled and rolled her eyes good-naturedly as she pushed the sleeves of her tunic up to her elbows. “When have I ever annoyed you?”

“That’s a question you don’t want me to answer,” she joked as she rummaged through the closet to get supplies. “Besides, what was that smile for? Meet a boy on your day off? A girl?”

Her eyes widened momentarily and she felt the heat rush to her cheeks intensely. “I don’t ask you about your life while we heal, you shouldn’t ask about mine!”

Zuko, who had been eavesdropping by the door in an extremely un-covert fashion, felt an even bigger smile. The girl was prickly as a cactus, but he found himself strangely drawn to her — not in spite of it, but because of it. He was so used to anyone he talked to outside of his immediate family and friends bending at the knee to fulfill his every will, and it was exhausting at times. But this girl — Y/N, as he had learned — was the complete opposite.

He started to walk away, sure that he was late for some kind of session of his own. Zuko found himself thinking of the glimpse of a smile he got, already finding himself scheming up ways to make it return.

And despite her request, he was almost certain he would try to bump into her again.

[widowsofchaos]

Could you do the prompt #60?

❝ mine

summary: Wanda isn’t too fond with how close a certain Captain is to you. pairing: Wanda Maximoff x black!reader warnings: fluff, jealous Wanda, a smidge of jealousy, and smut. Filthy use of the Slovakian language. Palm kissing aka my weakness. ao3 // requested from this prompt list a/n: Wanda is my wife, your honor. Hope I did my lover justice. Carol Danvers cameo. requested prompt 60: “Pay attention to me.” 2k words. Sorry for this late request, writer’s block is a menace. No beta, all mistakes are my own. do not repost my works

It was late into the night, and Wanda’s spirits were more alive --- and enraged.

Anxiety and adrenaline bleeds through her witchy fingers, sparks zap dully at the tips, clutching her cup of liquor tightly.

Downs a hefty sip, a hiss, her lips snarling as the firewater trickles and burns down her throat --- Samogon, or how you cheekily teased, “Mother Russia’s own moonshine. Ruthless just like her children --- I mean look at Natalia, she puts vodka in her cereal.” A tiny smirk curls at her lips, your faint laugh lulls her in the memory.

A familiar giggle catches her ears once more --- melodic, soothes her ears, but Wanda scowls, knowing exactly what’s making you laugh. Her knuckles strain white, gawking over her shoulder, peeking eyes glow dangerously crimson red.

The party is amidst bustling with drunk melding bodies, great food, endless playlist of music --- ever so luxurious --- as every party Stark throws; regardless it being a private party among friends.

Across from the bar, near the lounge couches, you seated with your silhouette legs crossed, your head tilted back, tipsy giggles slipping from your lips; seated next to you was a certain Captain.

Oh no --- not Captain America, he was busy cuddling with his lovers, how he slurs lovingly ‘my Bucky, my Sammy.’ Steve and Bucky two fingers deep in Asgardian Ale, with Sam edging deep in whiskey. All three sharing kisses in the far corner, ready to sneak back to their room for late night loving.

Shamelessly undressing you with her eyes was Captain Danvers herself, her arm slung over your shoulders, deep in casual conversation with you. Simple maxi dress, adorning your hips, softly encasing your figure, low cut that amples your breasts --- and Carol was eating it up.

To the outsider’s eye, it would be seen as friendly banter, tipsy chuckles -- but Wanda knew better. Her eyes flicker to her wedding ring --- sparkling red --- the same one that twinkles on your marital finger.

She clicks her tongue --- Wanda indeed knows better. The friendship between Carol and yourself is fairly a new one, naturally gravitating towards Carol, how curious and intrigued you get to meet another inhuman besides Wanda and yourself.

No surprise how natural conversation flows between the Captain and yourself --- everyone you meet gravitates to you like a magnet, treating one as if they were an old friend.

You look delicious --- as always. Beauty that makes anyone double-glance, delicate yet intimidating. That glow, you carry a shine, an essence, a force of nature, but it’s so much more. Beneath the surface, radiates comfort, you can break any stoic façade with that wattage smile. Wanda and yourself match, a perfect yin-yang, one and the same, and Wanda loves it.

Both of you can feel it, see it, taste it.

Clever fingers, clever lips, clever tongue. Clever small hands carving Wanda’s hardened façade, in the quiet, warm and intense moments in time, where Wanda can be vulnerable, finally shed waterfalls over her losses, let her rant and rage without judging eyes --- where she can lay her heart in your hands, and she knew, you handle with care.

Because you know her, understand her. Able to simmer her down, know where her emotions stem from the deepest crevices of her spirit.

The endless drinks were nice, but Wanda rather be with you, somewhere else. She rather prefers to be in your shared quarters, with the babies, eating sugar snaps, and watching tv. A cozy night-in, and finally would tuck Billy and Tommy in their cribs; sneak away to bed, caress and cradle each other till succumbing in deep slumber.

But --- you convinced Wanda, thinking tonight’s party was a good reprieve, to relax with friends, and drink till merry, without the stresses of motherhood. Now, she battles another stress, another grievance.

Green-eyed monster rearing its head --- jealousy.

‘She’s full of shit.’ A sultry Slovakian spite lingers in your mind --- only in your mind, a sharp side-eye, you glance to see Wanda, nursing her drink --- halting your pinched fingers from twirling your flute.

Slightly puckering your lips, restraining a grin splitting from ear to ear, you coyly titled your head at Carol, who was complimenting the tattoo that adorns your shoulder-blade. How slyly Carol’s fingertips trace the tatted lines, feigning curiosity.

‘Her hands all over you, fucking kurva.’

‘Pay attention to me.’

A dull clank of a glass against the counter could be heard. A breathy chuckles escapes from your nose, as you can feel Wanda’s eyes burning holes in the back of your skull, and no doubt, dying to literally burn holes in Carol’s blonde dome. “I think I’m gonna hit the hay, my head feels light.” A polite excuse without offending Carol from your erupt leave.

“Awh, already? It’s not even late, grandma.” Carol teases, as she presses the rim of her beer against her lips --- her fifth one tonight --- tangy flavor of Budweiser weighing on her tongue, fueling her mischief. “Who are you calling grandma, I wasn’t the one born in the sixties.” A few strings of chuckles, you graciously depart from Carol, as she wiggles her slender fingers goodbye.

Waltzing to the bar, your hips swaying, placing the flute on the counter; sitting next to a stewing witch. Elegantly perching your elbows on the marbled bar, your nails flicker delicately as your wrists bent against your chest, coyly swinging gently on the bar stool. Slyly peeking from the corner of your eye, you catch Wanda staring at you.

Tenderly covering her glass with your palm, tugging it out of Wanda’s palm, and gliding it away. “Let’s go to bed.” You slither, eyes glassy --- the champagne bubbling light in your head, skin tingling and aching for Wanda’s touch; your eyes rover over her figure, curves snug in a velvet maxi dress.

Auburn hair coils in slick waves, draped over her smooth shoulders. Leaning in, you can smell the liquor wafting from her slick lips, Wanda tsks, cheekily leaning towards you; her fingers sought out to your thigh, gripping the flesh.

Lips now hairs away, “Oh --- now I exist?” Wanda sneers, sultry, her accent weaving out in a hiss. “Don’t be like that.” You tsk, smoothly gliding off the stool, your fingers sliding against Wanda’s open palm, interlocking softly. Wanda murmurs, be like what? As she pouts, gazing at your heart-shaped lips.

“Now, is my wife going to bed with me or is she going to hex the Captain?” The pad of your thumb caressing Wanda’s finger, trying to tame the witch. “I prefer hexing her, and then ravishing you on the glass table for her to see --- želá si, aby ochutnala vašu kundu, vašu šťavnatú ako sladkú broskyňu.”

Filthily whispering in her native tongue, her fingers curving, and bending graciously as carmine magic emits. The warmth of her breath beats against your cupid-bow, ever so close to your lips; tantalizing, more intoxicating than any ale in all the realms.

Wanda pulls away, earning a whine from you, she hushes your lips by the tip of her oval nail, “Behave till we get back to our room.” With no other word, Wanda snags your wrist in her grip, dragging you out of the party into the dark hallway.

Scattering feet wander through the compound halls, only clicks of heels echo and pierce through the silence. Dancing shadows linger on the walls, breathy moans, wet lips. Wanda’s palm glides and grips the curve of your neck, pinning you against the wall --- just a mere inches away from your apartment door. “I can’t wait any longer.” Wanda growls low in her throat, her antsy hands.

Slithering fingers slip under the hem of your bunched up dress, feathery fingers chilled at the tips from the glassed liquor caress the skin of your inner thigh. Earning a silky hiss through your teeth, as Wanda’s lips parts open upon yours as if breathing in your essence; as her fingers dove beneath the fabric of your thong. Soaking her left handed fingers between your velvety lips, your fingers cling onto Wanda’s hips, sneakily massaging her soft ass through the smooth fabric, bundling up her cheeks. Groping, and squishing.

“Do you feel it?” Wanda asks, dripping with lust, a dull spark zaps at your clit, jolting you with a whimper, teasingly Wanda left your throbbing clit to toy with your clenching hole, but she doesn’t slip inside you. Yearning for her to touch you more, plunge and curl to the point of delirious pleasure. Delightful swell swirls in your heart, a flicker in Wanda’s eyes --- something you couldn’t quite pin.

All she can see is Carol’s hands touching you, touching what is hers, Carol’s slithering eyes roaming your breasts, and curves. It wasn’t your fault, no --- you were just being a good friend, engaging in conversation --- but she felt abandoned. As if Carol swooped you away, like a thief in the night. Stealing a treasure that didn’t belong to her nor deserve it.

You’re her wife --- you are hers, just as she is yours.

“I need to feel all of you.” A mess of words, gasping breaths, as Wanda happily snuck her two fingers inside your spongy walls, fluttering, and quivering thighs. Thrusting with no hesitation, your hips crash against the palm of her hand, tangling tight as a tether, curling fingers beckoning in a salacious curve. Pulling you close, her fingers digging in your hip-bone, breasts to breasts, melting against the wall, kissing you, your mouth, your cheeks, the slope of your nose --- delicately pecking your shut lids.

The palm that cradled your hip, traveled the terrain of your waist, and glided upon the arch of your spine, traveled between the shoulder blades, her touch eliciting sensitivity on her bare flesh, and cupping the nape of your neck. Fondling your neck, as her lips never wavered from your face, remaining as she continued her shower of kisses, as she fucked your cunt with vigor --- unrelenting, your wetness echoing with unabashed squelching.

A wet spot formed the dead center of Wanda’s panties --- just the sounds of you can make her cum on the spot. Sticky against her peach-fuzz, your legs sliding against hers, as her fingers continue with no interruption. Wanda’s wet panties stick to the skin of your thigh, humping with desperation, the sensation of syrupy cotton and heated bare skin nearly drove Wanda to the brink of endless bliss.

“She can’t have you ---” Wanda groans, her pupils almost rolling to the back of her skull, as the lips of her cunt split and ride even harder against your knee. Nearly gliding down the wall pavement, clinging onto each other in a loving embrace, “---she can never have you.” Wanda whispers in the shell of your ear, her teeth graces sharply the line of your jaw, her tongue licks a wet glide, sucking and nibbling on your pulse-point, marking her territory.

As one palm cups Wanda’s ass, guiding her as she unravels on your thigh, a hand leaves to her shoulder blade, your fingers flicker with her straps, pulling it over Wanda’s shoulders, and with a frenzied impulse, tug the fabric down --- Wanda’s milky breast spills out, still swollen with breast milk.

Pink areolas hardened by the cool air, your moist tongue peaks from your lips, and the tip flickers against the dripping nipple. Leaning your head down on Wanda’s chest, suckling greedily --- nearly her whole tit was engulfed in your mouth, sloppily slurping.

A shriek nearly bubbles at Wanda’s throat, cradling your head in her arm tenderly, kissing your temple, her nose inhaling your scent --- always emanate a tender scent of crushed roses; as your chin drips with milk. “Mine, you’re mine.” Wanda wispily moans, as you drank from her tit, saliva coating the corners of your mouth. Moaning at the taste on your tongue, satisfying your carnal palate --- the vibration sending a shimmer up the crevices of Wanda’s spine.

Sweat beads at your brow, as sweat drenches Wanda’s baby hairs clinging onto her temple, mouthing ‘love me, love me’, her fingers pulling the threads of silk from the jewel between your legs, now drenched. Two gardens watering, the petals of tulips bloom. Your thigh now slippery, grinding her clit hard, slow thrusts --- riding out, edging herself; refusing to cum without you.

As if you were a fragile china doll, shakily Wanda’s spidery fingers brush against heated skin, sweeping the arch of your neck, dancing down on smooth brown shoulders, downward to the line of your fore-arm.

Leisurely slowing down her fingers that rested inside your moist caravan, sinuous fingers kiss the skin and daintily hold your wrist, pulling away from her bum. Lifting, and lightly twisting upward to bare your exposed wrist; you halt, hesitantly your eyes peer up at Wanda. Cheeks dewey, and dusted pink.

Lips part from Wanda’s sodden breast, a string of saliva connects from your bottom lip; as if time ceased still, bringing your wrist to her lips, her eyes never leaving yours. A breath hitches in your throat, open mouthed kisses trail up, lovingly your fingers cup her soft cheek, her lips plush at the cusp of your palm. Wanda’s eyes are two moons, hauntingly beautiful, makes your spirit want to create a temple in blind faith in the name of love, yearning to worship; the waves of love coils off of each other.

Hot breath is a hymn, cascades against your hand, slow and soft kisses --- a tingle at your fingers. A simple gesture yet holds no bounds of adoration, deeply into each other eyes. Wanda’s fingers lock with yours, her wet lips part against the pad of your thumb, her teeth nip, her tongue lick ever so faintly; sucking the finger between her lips.

Erotically Wanda’s hips began its tirade once more, her soaked fingers flourish inside you with no mercy --- she knows, oh she knows. You’re close, oh so close, close, close to the edge --- you know Wanda’s close too, by the way her breath pitches ever so higher; just dying to fall over in Wanda’s arms, fevered. Bury inside each other, this unspoken waltz, not needing to verbalize --- it’s there, not always having to be feverish hot fucking, but it can be passionate, desperate, and warm.

To dive deep inside each other, crawl under the skin, and rest there as a love nest.

Foreheads touch, nose to nose, eyes fall into the depths of each other, a mess of entangled limbs --- a splash of kaleidoscope bursts before your eyes, mouths smashing to dull the shrills; cumming hard on Wanda’s fingers dragging it out, as her fingers dragged out, agonizingly so.

A sheen of wetness crashes and coats your thigh as a balm --- witnessing the motion embody each of your faces with each ripple of your orgasms. Memorizing every expression, any twitch, lips shaped in Os, never tearing your eyes away from each other, because you both wanted to --- such beauty.

The smell of Wanda is intoxicating, makes you dizzy, love-drunk, and adored. Resting your bodies on each other, raspy giggles flow, face leaning on face, caressing cheek to cheek, as Wanda nestles her hands on your face. A daze of happiness, the stresses of a green-foaming monster now a faded memory, cuddling each other in a tight hug, just airy laughs muffled in your chests. Just leaning against the wall, full length of your bodies pressed, braced as if being one.

A faint cry of the twins breaks the haze, ever so sync the boys wail for their mothers --- just like clockwork, it must be 2 am; time to feed the hungry bellies of your babies, just like their mama feasted on their mother. Slipping back into reality, fixing each other’s disheveled clothes back to somewhat back to being decent. Frizzy hairs springs in all directions, sheens of sweat now coat your skins, but a sense of relief drapes upon you two.

As Wanda leans her hand on the wall, resting your head on her stretched arm, head tilted as you soothe Wanda’s cheek, watching her, the greenery of her irises shine bright at your glassy brown orbs, as if a fire that can’t be smothered.

Making the butterflies erupt in her chest, making Wanda feel seen in so many ways that she never had before. En pointe, standing tall to kiss Wanda’s lips, light and sweet, resting your head in the crock of her shoulder. Lashes flutter as Wanda holds you to her bodice, with your heart swelling, you whisper to her.

“I will never leave you. Wherever you go, I’ll follow.”

[starshipsofstarlord]

Online dating

darcy lewis x reader / masterlist

summary; darcy decides to try a dating app, least to say, the guy isn’t anything like his picture. and thus she ditches him, and finds someone else in a hot second / warnings; the oc guys in this fic are dicks, homophobia, darcy being bae, swearing, mentions of sex and cheating, mentions of joy x reader.

he was a polar opposite to what he had portrayed his online self to be, screw the internet! this date was truly tragic, darcy had plenty of things that she could be better using her time for, rather than sitting opposite this oaf, that was licking his unappealing lips, and staring at the waitress when he thought that she didn’t notice.

“huh?” the scientific doctor pulled her phone out, ushering a puzzled expression on her face as she stared at the blank screen. she of course recognised that no one was making any attempts to contact her, but he didn’t know that. “one second.” she held her finger up, bringing the phone to her ear as she blabbered into the speaker that was inherently catching nothing that she was saying.

“slow down jane.” darcy falsely ushered, using her hands to exaggerate the conversation in her head. she put the phone down, a facade of panic elaborating behind her spectacle adorned eyes as she grabbed her belongings in a frenzy, standing upright and out of her seat. “im so sorry, my friend has just hit some guy with her car and she needs some moral support. tonight is going to have to be cut extremely short.”

short was a relief, but the hopeful expression on this dude’s face wasn’t. perhaps it was cruel to leave this guy hanging, and well, she couldn’t blame him for wanting more, she sent him an awkward smile as he began to speak. “we should do this again some time - properly.” darcy wasn’t dumb, she noticed how his eyes sped to the side as the curvy waitress walked by.

“sure...” no, definitely not. darcy was well aware that she was wasting her time with this moron, she didn’t need a man, let alone a dweeb of one. a quick wave was all she bade him as she exited the coffee shop, only to become engrossed in a scene erupting on the local streets. there was a woman, flinging shirts, and a bra within the bundle that looked as though it was not her size, what was she thinking, clearly it wasn’t, at said example of figurative masculinity.

“screw you durkus!” any guy named ‘durkus’ was basically a label confirming that he was a dick. “i don’t need you, nor the next man! i am a well established woman who has done more for this country than you could ever know, you’re dust beneath my feet, a pathetic layer of residue that i want nothing more to brush off.” perhaps she was being harsh, but it sounded like he deserved it.

from the red lipstick, that the woman was not at all sporting, from the random bra that she had flung at her partner, it was a safe bet to assume that he had cheated on her. darcy plodded closer, listening whimsically in, and realising that her life was pretty calm, there were no longer asguardians or dark elves infiltrating her life, nor the work that she had attained to field in.

she had only recently earned herself the title of doctor, and it was frustrating that people would assume that she opted for a profession in a hospital room, or they would forget the professional endorsement all together, and address her as ‘miss lewis’. she was no one’s puppet, she had scaled herself up the ladder of her career to be where she was now, but another thing that she was alongside such a wave of potential was a feminist.

this dick was shouting in the streets, calling her inexplicable names such as a ‘whore’, and a ‘two faced bitch’. having the ability to hear the insults brew anger in her stomach, she couldn’t just stand there. “what are you going to do, turn into a complete lesbian?” now that was the last straw, it had darcy marching over, and promptly she shoved the guy, making him drop all the items that were grasped in the basket of his arms.

a flabbergasted ���huh’ was riveted from him, and it made darcy smirk as she attuned his attention towards her; the stranger that had gotten involved in his public display of disrespect and homophobia. “how about you watch your damned mouth before i make sure you can’t open it again. and whilst you’re at it, get some new shirts, you’re not a model, unless you’re the kind that are put on prison pamphlets.”

“who the fuck are you?” he spat his saliva on the ground by darcy’s feet, establishing her with the information that her first impression of this dick had been correct. women just knew with this kind of thing, they could sense trouble from a mile away. “you know what, keep that crazy bitch. maybe you can help her store her katanas, and go on double dates with danny rand and his plus one. rather you than me.”

“don’t ask.” the woman shook her head, tired of the drama that durkus always seemed to bring. she had enough trouble, involving work and extracurricular night time activities, without him adding to them. darcy presented her with a sweet smile, picking up the box of random bits and bobs that was on the floor. “that’s just work stuff, i’m moving offices and as i came to collect some things from our apartment, and i found him- well let’s just say he wasn’t alone.”

“that was pretty easy to pick up on. how’d you not realise that you were dating a total sleaze?” she was blunt with her enquiry, though the woman shrugged, a guilty expression cowering upon your features, like an ashamed shadow. a small, attractive smile graced her lips, secrets hidden beneath the span of the expression.

“oh, i knew. i just had to pretend to be happy, so that my ex, or well now, my other ex joy would stop chastising me, claiming that i haven’t got over her. she’s so up her own ass sometimes and it drives me- shit, i’m sorry, you don’t know me, nor do you need to hear about my problems.” the y/h/c haired woman shook her head, stretching her hand out to miss lewis. “i’m y/n, thanks a bunch for helping me out back there.”

darcy accepted her handshake, completing the action as she smiled. “i’m darcy.” this woman didn’t need to know about her doctor title, in fact, darcy was keen on knowing everything about her instead. “so’d how you meet him?” referring to the person that had most recently became y/n’s ex. y/n was relieved that darcy had shown up, she was sure she’d have used her martial art training for more than composition; she’d have kicked durkus’ flat ass.

“on a dating app.” it was a normal answer, she wouldn’t share the intel that before that she had saved his ass whilst wearing a black hood, stopping him from getting mugged in the dead of night. perhaps she should have saved someone else that particular late evening. darcy couldn’t help but let a small laugh out, finding both their circumstances quite amusing. she was sure a similar situation would have unfolded if she had decided to regularly see the date that she ditched.

“online dating man, it sucks, am i right?” it had quite the reputation, for the two of them especially. “maybe we should just date each other.” she joked, though she was being partially serious. it felt right, they had bumped randomly into one another’s faulted situations on the same day, it almost felt like fate, though that subject was too cheesy to say aloud.

“well doctor lewis, i would not at all mind going on a date with you.” darcy frowned at the title that she had been called, pointing at the side of the woman’s jacket, that had a recyclable label stuck upon the material. “so you majored in science, if i am correct?” finally, someone got it! she could get used to that.

y/n did not appear as a deity nor a creature from another realm, she was normal. or so as far as the eye could tell, in fact, she did not suspect a thing from this woman, much less to be a defender of the earth that worked in a small and less know league than the avengers, yet still roamed the us to protect its people.

darcy though had won this battle for her though, giving her a moment of peace from fighting, and had idly sent durkus on his route far away. y/n could get used to not being the hero all the time, more so if this doctor was her knight in shining armour.

[the-darklings]

Heyyy, I honestly love your writing and was wondering can we have more Clara x reader, please??

what if I told you I have an entire E-rated mini-series half done for clara x reader set in an original world???

but yes, always, always yes for her.

pairing: clara (v) x f!reader

wc: 1.3k+

verse: coa; post the hunt, pre-john's wedding

notes: reader is part of the continental staff

“You’re back.”

Words slip past your lips without you meaning to say them; more of a strained exclamation of surprise than a casual greeting.

The woman halts in her tracks (is she limping?) and rotates her neck. Lips pressed in a bloodless line, the Vipress’ wan expression slices into you like a dull knife. Her chestnut hair hangs limp and soggy with water around her face. Her jaw rigid and her body tense.

Dark eyes squint at you, scanning, and you note the way her deft fingers twitch against her thigh, fighting back an impulse to reach for a weapon. You heard about the Hunt. Heard about all the awful things she was put through before eventually settling with Camorra. There were rumours about their protection being extended towards her. Some say she slept her way into it, namely through Santino D’Antonio who you have to admit has an intense interest in her. Others say she agreed to be Giovanni’s spy, others believed it was all a ploy by Viggo Tarasov to unleash a snake inside the Italian ranks.

Truth is you don’t believe any rumours you’ve heard about her. You recall a woman who used to shadow John Wick with a grin sharper than her blades. But she never struck you as conniving or cruel. She’d been… kind. Kinder than most people you’ve dealt with. In such subtle, unexpected ways. Gratitude few extend for those beneath them, inquiring about your day, or idle conversation. You often wondered if she was lonely. As lonely as you. If that’s why she was so kind.

Everyone wears a mask, but the Vipress always allowed you to see more. Or used to.

A permanent cloud of restless misery seems to hang over her since her ill-fated trip to Tokyo—another pool of rumours swirling around that particular event—and you can’t recall seeing a single smile since.

You miss it. Crinkled eyes and scrunched nose. Rare but potent joy. Infectious in its intensity. She…

Swallowing, you venture closer, risking a soft, “Are you injured?”

Her black clothes drip with water but you don’t comment on the steadily growing pool of water beneath her feet. Her expression doesn’t so much as shift. Stony and untrusting.

“Is Winston in?”

Rough words, her voice scratchy with tension. Her eyes scan briefly behind you, anticipating a danger she shouldn’t. You doubt Winston would ever allow anyone to disobey the Continental rules, much less when in relation to her.

“No, he…” you trail off, still staring at her. “He has your room key. I’m afraid you can’t get in until he returns. You need a change of clothes. I have some spares if you like? You’ll catch a cold otherwise. You’re soaked to the bone.”

A mirthless, half-smile crosses her face, twisting her expression into a pained grimace you hate. She doesn’t suit it. When was she bled of her fiery, snarky humour you always admired? Found secretly hilarious?

“Figures,” she mutters under her breath, glancing behind herself. An empty hallway greets her but you note how her shoulders loosen slightly, forcing a soft sigh out of her lungs. “Sure. I appreciate it.”

Giving her a weak smile, you gesture for her to follow after you. You count to five before her light footsteps register behind you. Your skin tingles as you walk, feeling her intent stare at the back of your neck. Your heels make it even harder to keep an even gait but you succeed. Charon taught you better than that.

Spine straight, you walk proudly ahead, one of the deadliest women in this city trailing after you. Questions bubble in your chest, tingling your tongue but you bite your cheek to keep them locked away. Vipress looks no better than a caged animal right now—the last thing you want to do is add to her troubled, exhausted state.

It’s not long before you reach the staff wing, unlocking the spare laundry room connecting with your new office. Your heels click while you move across the space, pulling out a new pair of jeans, a jumper and undergarments. Simple, standard clothes Continental provides free of charge to its patrons in case their previous clothes are destroyed beyond repair.

You can’t hear her while you shuffle around, but you certainly feel her presence. Prey is always aware of predators even if they can’t see them.

“You’re no longer working in housekeeping,” she speaks suddenly, a question there.

You nearly jump out of your skin, tightening your hold on the bundle of garments in your hands. Inhaling deeply, you turn to her with a slight smile, a little frail around the edges but present all the same.

The assassin leans against the wall opposite to you, bright fluorescent illuminating her features, giving her a near gaunt appearance. When did she lose so much weight? Her usually soft freckles stand stark against her too pale skin.

“I got a raise,” you tell her, pride colouring your voice and you move in her direction with a shy smile. “Just last week.”

Her eyebrows quirk, searching over your new attire of tailored dress pants, white shirt and polished heels.

“I told you, didn’t I?” she says after a pause, and you falter under her piercing stare.

Yes. Yes, she did. She told you repeatedly it’s only a matter of time before you get a raise. She thought you were a great worker and oftentimes joked about putting in a good word to Winston about you. You always wrote off her words as nothing more than jokes, meaningless conversations you have with someone when you want to be polite. John Wick certainly never got involved in your banter. His dark eyes unfailingly trailed after her smiles and laughs instead.

You could understand his appreciation, his secret hoarding of those rare instances. He wanted something—someone—he couldn’t afford to have. Couldn’t permit himself to reach for.

Staring at the Vipress you think you understand him better than you would care to admit.

She’s beautiful in a way a wild flame is beautiful. Get too close and you know you will suffer for it. But you want to.

God, you really do. Crave her in secret because… well. What are you? What can you give to a woman like her? When she holds the interest of so many above your stature. The things they say she did during the Hunt. People who are dead because of her.

She’s one of the most horrible people alive.

Yet her smiles are more blinding than the sun, and you selfishly want every single one of them.

“Yes, you did,” you agree weakly, holding out the bundle of clothes to her.

Her hands are cold when they touch yours but a tingle rushes up your spine all the same. Electric current hums under your skin when her guarded eyes do another searching sweep over your expression.

“You know my sizes?”

Your heart quivers in your chest, unsure how to proceed. Does she think you stranger, wrong, to have remembered such a thing?

“I… your laundry,” you splutter, then exhale, calming yourself to give her a steadier, “When you lived here. The dry cleaner. I… sorry, I realise this might be uncomfortable for you.”

Her hazel eyes drag over you again, hard and unyielding. Your breaths slow when she takes a few steps closer—close enough for you to scent the flowers, herbs and soil that forever seem to cling to her smooth skin. You’ve never wanted to nuzzle into someone’s neck more, feel their warmth beneath your lips. Taste and savour the exquisite familiarity of someone’s very being.

“My sizes have changed,” she says and you tell yourself you imagined the slight smile you glimpse for a split second. “But you’re welcome to learn them again.”

She brushes past you—flowers and poison and death—and you force yourself to breath, ignoring the heat crawling up your neck.

an: she. that's it - that's the message. but thank you so much for asking for her!!! I think Clara deserves a soft sapphic romance, as a treat.

[tessiete]

Ahhh!! so many good ones! but 5. I like 5 ❤️❤️❤️❤️

OBVIOUSLY Obitine 😏

SO, first of all, number 8 was taken by someone else. And secondly, I...I didn't quite do the whumping that you wanted. I shall - someday. But hopefully you will accept this offering in light of our wild discord conversations tonight. I love you, I miss you, I can't believe you went to bed when I TOLD YOU NOT TO!

Divine

Her head is heavy. Though the room is cool, her skin feels flushed and warm. She thinks she’d kick away the blanket, if she could. If she only could free one foot, perhaps she’d feel better. But the thought is gone before she can gather the strength to try. She feels too warm, but she is even more tired than that. Exhausted, really. It would be so easy to fall asleep. Her eyes are already closed, her hands already loose and soft at her sides. She feels the bed dip, and feels his shadow brush against her fingertips, as he leans close to whisper in her ear.

“Can you stay awake for me?” he asks.

She hums her agreement. She will try. But she is tired.

The gentle stroke of a finger crosses her cheekbone, and her eyelashes flutter against his knuckles.

“I am awake,” she murmurs.

“A little longer,” he vows. “Only a little longer, please, and then I promise, you can rest.”

It takes all her strength to turn her head towards him, the pillow supporting her neck and urging her towards unconsciousness.

“I don’t have to listen to you, you know.”

He laughs. It is a different laugh than she has ever heard from him, something quiet, and scared, and fleeting. It tumbles round his chest, high and wet, like a haabral fawn newborn staggering clumsily to its feet.

“You don’t,” he acknowledges. “You never have. But I’m asking all the same.”

“Don’t fret, my love,” she says, stretching out her fingertips and reaching for his hand. “I will not leave you to face this thing alone.”

He reaches back, and wraps her hand in his. She can feel it trembling, even through her own fatigue, and malaise. She shifts, wanting him closer but pain catches deep in her abdomen, and she cannot help the thin little moan which escapes her. It probably causes him more hurt than her. She knows much has been done to ease her suffering, while he has remained close, attentive, and sober.

“Be still,” he soothes, his anxious hands now at her face, and then her neck, then ghosting over her shoulders, and arms, and hips. He offers comfort, but fears he’s only capable of injury, uncertain where he might touch her without deepening her agony. Silly man, she thinks. She is not made of glass, and he can cause no greater harm than he already has.

“I’m fine,” she says. The words are thick, and gummy on her tongue. “I’m quite alright.”

And for a moment, she thinks he believes her. She hopes. But then he speaks again.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“It is far too late for that,” she replies, quickly, for she has been sparring with him for long enough to have words prepared for his every foolish apology.

But he is insistent. His voice is quiet as though afraid his confession may be overheard by some less merciful god than her. And he goes on.

“I am sorry I was not there for you,” he says. “The first time. I am sorry that you suffered alone. I cannot - I cannot imagine. And I do not think I have the right to try.”

“Do or do not,” she murmurs, half asleep though she fights it. “Someone said that once. I say, do not. For it is past, and I do not begrudge you your choices. You always have followed your heart.”

He sighs. His hand crests her brow, and pushes her sweat-soaked hair away from her face to tuck it behind her ear.

“I do not deserve you,” he says.

She smiles, and turns her cheek to his palm.

“What a silly thought,” she says, slipping further into delirium. “Gifts are not meant for the deserving. They’re for the beloved.

He leans close. She feels the rasp of his beard scrape the shell of her ear, and he whispers a secret.

“I love you,” he says.

She presses her hand to his thigh. “I know.”

With the little strength she has left, she meets his gaze so that he can read her heart, bared openly between them. That is why her eyes are open when the door to her medroom slides open, and Padme slips in.

“Obi-Wan,” she says. She speaks his name gently, afraid to startle him from his perch.

He reaches for her hand again, and she squeezes his fingers, grounding him, and keeping him from flight. Padme approaches her bed, her smile soft, compassionate. She shares a look with Satine that speaks of understanding, of fear abated, and a promise of care. In her arms, there is a bundle of cloth, and an impossibly fragile creature.

“Would you like to meet your son?” she asks. Her arms adjust so that the bundle takes form, and Obi-Wan can see the tiny pink face of his second child.

“A boy?” he asks.

Padme nods. And she grins. Her smile is wide, and white, and seems brighter than any of the sterile walls or fluorescent glowpanels of this private medroom. Satine’s own mouth curves upward, as Obi-Wan’s hand slips from hers, and his body pulls away as he leans forward to accept this most precious gift.

She watches, the scene blurred with tears and gilded with golden lashes, as Obi-Wan’s expression turns from fear, to confusion, to astonishment and awe.

“A boy,” he says again, as though he needs to make it certain. And just to be doubly sure, he tells it to Padme, too. “I have another son!”

Padme nods, and smiles, smoothing the blankets, and tucking them into the crook of Obi-Wan’s elbow.

“Everyone’s waiting to see you,” she says. “I had to fight them off to reach you first. They’re asking about a name.”

“Mav'ani,” Satine whispers. “Forgiveness.”

“Satine -” Obi-Wan says, looking at her with such reverence she has to close her eyes to its force.

“You have always had my heart” she says, thinking of her first son, named for the willing sacrifice of love. “Now you can carry my forgiveness, too.”

[queenmuzz]

Happy Mother's Day

I'm terribly sorry, this is supposed to be a happy day between mothers and their children, but you know how I am... Note: Set Between DMC4 and DMC5

Nero’s legs wobbled with numbness as he cautiously got off the bike, making sure that the motorcycle wouldn’t tip. He really didn’t want to bring it back to Lady with a ding in it. But when she had offered it to him to borrow, he couldn’t resist taking it for a spin. The vehicle was a beaut, lovingly taken care of, and...very, VERY fast. How that waif of a woman was able to hold on for dear life, he had no idea.

After he had steadied himself, he looked at his destination and frowned, looked down at the paper in his hand, and looked back up. The address was a match, but this place, right smack in the middle of downtown Redgrave, looked like a dump. A decrepit skeleton of what had once been a magnificent manor that looked abandoned for decades. Even though it looked like a prime location for a demon hang out, Lady had insisted that Dante wasn’t on a job. Nero had gotten the feeling she really wanted him to find the elder demon hunter.

Confused, and more than a little curious, he passed through the broken down wrought iron gate towards the house.

The overgrowth was tall and suffocating, but Nero noticed, just before what had been the entrance, a new path going to the left had been created, freshly trampled grass going around the corner. Nero didn’t see any other sign of disturbance, so this is probably where Dante had gone. So, he trudged along, wondering why of all places the man would have come here.

He pulled around the corner, and instantly came to a stop. Unlike the rest of the property, this area here had been recently maintained, the grass recently shorn (Nero had a sneaking suspicion it was Rebellion’s doing) A large oak tree, with bright green newborn leaves, cast a lovely dappled shadow upon the ground. And beneath the aged trunk was Dante, his back to Nero, facing a pair of granite stones. It took a few moments for Nero to realize...not stones… gravestones.

“Lady,” Dante didn’t turn around, “I told you that I didn’t need you here. I’m fine…” Nero caught the scent of flowers, specifically roses fluttering in the breeze. The young man awkwardly coughed, startling the man in red.

“Sheesh!” Dante rapidly turned around, revealing that the scent came from a bouquet of red roses in his hand. Well, nearly all red. In the middle of the bundle, was a single blue rose. “Didn’t expect to see you here kid! Heard Lady’s bike rumbling down the street, so I thought she was sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.” “Yeah,” Nero said, scratching the bridge of his nose. Had Lady used him as a tool to get to Dante? “You weren’t in the office when I came by, but Lady let me use her bike, and gave me directions to...this place.” He didn’t know the significance of this area, but it was probably very important to Dante.

“Did she eh...?” he murmured, slightly annoyed, slightly resigned for some reason.

“Yeah, Kyrie told me I needed to get out of Fortuna, to take a break from rebuilding Fortuna. And the only place on the Mainland that I knew about, was your place.” That was partially the truth. Nero had also wanted to ask if Dante would be interested in a business idea that Nero had come up with: A mobile franchise using the Devil May Cry name, centered in Fortuna, but he had the feeling that this was not the time nor place to bring up business matters.

Dante chuckled, and looked down at the roses he was holding. “I guess Lady didn’t tell you why I was here.”

“Nah, and I didn’t ask.”

“Welp,” Dante rolled his shoulders, the joints popping. “Might as well get this over with. You know what day today is?”

Nero was perplexed. It was just another Sunday in May. He shrugged.

“Ah, maybe they don’t do it in Fortuna. Here, today is Mother’s Day. Where kids and adults spend time with, and thank the women that raised them, and well… I’m visiting my mom.”

Nero felt the pieces of the puzzle falling in the place. Fortuna’s version of Mother’s Day was during the autumn, and Nero hadn’t really cared much about it, considering his background. But to Dante, the day was more significant.

Suddenly, he felt the yank on his sleeve, and before he knew it, Dante had dragged him towards one of the gravestones, the one that was older, and slightly more worn. It was simple, no words on it, but there was flowering climbing roses carved along the edges. The one stone beside it was similar, but newer, and there were no roses, just intertwined climbing thorny stems.

“Hey Mom, I’d like to introduce you to that kid I was telling you about. This,” he pushed the boy further in front of the stone proudly, “is Nero.” He stood there, partly awkward and partly proud at the thought Dante had talked to his mom about him. Dante hadn’t mentioned his mom much, but Trish had helpfully filled in the blanks when Nero had asked why Dante had a pic of her on his desk.

“Oh, that’s not me...that’s Eva, Dante’s mother. It’s complicated, but I was created by Mundus to look like her, to lure him into a trap many years ago. She was very important to him, and while I don’t quite understand it, I know that she loved him dearly she loved the bot-”

She’d been interrupted by Dante coming in the office, and Nero hadn’t pried further.

Nero tried to come up with some words “Uh...hi.. It’s nice to meet you.” God he sounded like an idiot.

Thankfully, Dante swooped back in. “She was a wonderful woman. You’d think she was soft and demure, but the moment you pissed her off, she was as hard as steel. I can still feel her pulling on my ear when she caught me sneaking into the cookie jar before supper.” He chuckled and winced as he rubbed his earlobe, “A fantastic cook, a wonderful violinist and… an irreplaceable mom.” Dante’s voice trailed off, and for a moment all that could be heard was the rustling of the wind through the grass. Strange, despite never meeting her, with no connection to this family, Nero had a feeling he...belonged here.

“She would have adored you…” Dante murmured softly, startling Nero. He turned to find the older man with a wistful, almost melancholy look on his face.

“Huh?”

Instantly, that softness, that rare glimpse of something seldom seen, was locked up behind a steel grin. Dante laughed. “It’s nothin, just me talking without thinking. So, what about you? You’re on the Mainland now, best time to talk about your mom.” Dante must have seen his sudden scowl, and placed his hands up in surrender, realizing this was a sore spot. “Doesn’t have to be your blood mom. Can be any woman that helped you grow up!”

“Well,” Nero mused, “There was Cecilia, Kyrie’s mom,” he explained, “she was a heck of a woman. When Kyrie brought me home after I’d gotten into a scrap with the other kids at school, when they took my lunch, after she made sure I was okay, she gave me a ham and cheese sandwich on two pieces of fresh bread. She was a baker by trade, you see. And every day after that, when school was day, Kyrie would bring me to her, and Cecilia wouldn’t let leave until I couldn’t eat another bite. She was always looking out for me afterwards. Making sure I got my school work done, mended my clothes, and then when the Orphanage didn’t have clothes my size, she got Credo to get me measured up so she could get me several sets of clothes. But most of all…” he continued, trying to figure out why his eyes were getting all watery. Must be from the newly cut grass. “Unlike the rest of the island, she never judged me, never made me feel like I didn’t belong. I…” he took a deep breath, “I would have been proud to be called her son-in-law. But she never got the chance to see Kyrie and me grow up, to become a couple… Maybe if I had been there when the demon attack...” he trailed off, feeling a bit lost and alone. He couldn’t feel the same pain as Kyrie or Credo had, but there was pain nonetheless. He was surprised by a firm hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see the older man giving a smile of sympathy.

“I kinda feel where you’re coming from. My mom, she died in an attack too…she died protecting me from demons.” That smile vanished as Dante looked down at the gravestone...not this mother’s, the one beside it. “Our positions should have been switched” he murmured softly, grief on his face, “things would have been so much different, so much better...” Nero was perplexed. Was Dante wishing he had died so his mom had lived?

“Well, if she’s even half the mom you claim her to be, she’d probably be happy that you’re alive, strong enough to protect yourself, and others….” Nero tried to say what he was feeling, and it seemed to be what came from his heart. It seemed to do the trick, because Dante had perked up, and that mask of a grin was nowhere to be seen.

“You’re a good kid, Nero.” Dante said, and rubbed Nero’s head, laughing at the halfhearted scowl that earned. Dante looked up at the sky, the noon sun shining happily down. “Welp, I’m famished.... How bout we get our asses- I mean butts, sorry mom, back to the office and order some pizza. I’m pretty sure Lady owes me a couple boxes of them, for what she’s done…” Dante glared at her bike, barely visible from their location. Nero didn’t quite understand, but he’d never turn down free food.

“You go ahead, bring that bike back to her, tell her I’ll be there a bit later, just have to do a…” Dante looked down at the pair of graves. “A few more things to spruce up the place.”

Nero nodded. Obviously, Dante deserved some privacy, this was his mother’s resting place, so he turned to leave, his stomach already growling at the thought of pizza. He slightly worried he was turning out like the old man. Next thing he knew, he’d be having questionable tastes in fashion, and have a penchant for shooting old men in the head without explaining beforehand that the guy was trying to take over the world. Strange, he thought as he got on the bike, and looked back at the manor. It didn’t look as decrepit and creepy as before. Instead of a carcass of a house, it was a dignified memorial of happy times long since gone. A place that seemed to welcome him to return as often as he’d like. As he drove off, he remembered that he’d forgotten, in all the emotional unloading, to ask about the other gravestone….

------

When the sound of Lady’s engine had finally faded away, Dante let out a breath that he’d been holding in for longer than he thought. Damn Lady, trying to get him to break down and tell the kid the truth. Well, there had been a few close calls, a few words slipped out, but that façade had been maintained, with the kid none the wiser.

He looked down at the bouquet in his hands, and then at the grave before him. “He’s a great kid, like I said.” He sighed, “I know you’re probably disappointed at me for not being truthful, you were always a big stickler for ‘Honesty’ but…” he pulled out the single blue rose out of the bouquet, and spun it between his fingers. “Bad stuff happens to us Spardas. You, me…” he placed that blue rose before the newer gravestone, “Vergil.... I just don’t want that to happen to him. The less he knows...the better. He deserves the stability that we never got...” He placed the roses down, and knelt down, eye level to the grave.

“I hope, wherever you are, that you’re at peace, and that he’s with you, so you can tell him what I never could, that he was loved just as much as you loved me….” His forehead touched the cool stone, and a few drops of water splashed onto the crimson blooms.

“Happy Mother’s Day”

[lilhawkeye3]

Find Your Way Back Home- Ch 3

Riyo Chuchi x Commander Wolffe, Riyo Chuchi x Commander Fox

Rating: T |||| Word Count: 1.9k |||| Set Post Order 66 |||| AO3 Link

previous • next

Riyo gripped the kitchen countertop tighter than anything in her whole life. The loud pounding of her heartbeat in her ears threatened to drown out the pounding of her heart as she sought a tether point in her whirlwind of emotions.

She couldn’t do this.

How could she do this? The ghosts she’d left on Coruscant were now seeking shelter in her bedroom.

She’d looked at Wolffe laid out on her bed, and some sick part of her expected him to be Fox. She used to bandage her lover’s wounds on their bed in her old apartment. What had she done to deserve this cosmic taunt?

“Riyo?”

Riyo’s hands flew to her mouth to hold in her startled shriek at Ahsoka’s appearance just to her left. Her friend’s lips twisted into an apologetic smile, and she patiently waited for Riyo to come down from her sudden rush of adrenaline. Her rusty hand cupped Riyo’s elbow to help ground her.

“I’m so sorry,” Riyo murmured, blinking rapidly to hide her brimming tears before she met Ahsoka’s gaze.

The Togruta’s eyes were sad as she searched for the right words, despite them both knowing nothing would ease Riyo’s pain. “You see him.”

Riyo tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a gasp for air after so long underwater. “How can I not?” Her tears stubbornly refused to fall now, despite clamoring at the floodgates only moments ago. “I can’t… I can’t focus on this right now.”

“You can’t go back in there right now either,” Ahsoka calmly pointed out. “Wolffe needs to heal.”

And so grew her guilt. “I know.” She needed to do something to keep her hands and mind busy. “I’ll get some more juvan ready so I can make a cold pack and show Rex what to do. You’ll both need to know how for when you go back.” She tried to ignore the predatory way Ahsoka’s eyes followed her around the kitchen as she gathered supplies.

“I find that talking helps sometimes,” Ahsoka quietly suggested, once Riyo stood back at the sink with her items gathered around.

“I’m not sure I remember how to do that after so long on my own,” Riyo muttered, grabbing a bundle of leaves from a jar more harshly than they deserved.

“No time better than the present.”

Riyo paused to stare calculatingly at her friend. She wasn’t lying about not knowing if she’d be able to speak of her nightmares after so long bottling it all in. “I propose a trade.”

One of Ahsoka’s painted brows rose in interest. “A trade.”

“I will tell you if you update me on your… situation.” She’d tiptoed around the circumstances of her guests’ arrival– and unlikely survival– for the past few days.

“Alright, deal.”

Riyo’s hands hovered uncertainly as she tries to steady her breathing before she begins. Where to even start? She’d tried so hard to forget that night six months ago. Now she had to relive it in full.

“I… I was home for the night.” Riyo doesn’t even recognize her voice with how vacant it sounds. “Everything was normal, even when I got a call from Co– Thire.” She didn’t want to relegate them to their titles. Those men– her friends– were worth much more than that. “He’d call sometimes if Fox was too busy to come home.”

Breathe in, one, two, three, breathe out.

“There’s– there was a code phrase Fox had me agree to. Dusk is falling soon. If one of us used it in a communication, we knew it was from the other.” Her hands began to shake as she ground the juvan up. “Thire said it to me that night. He said I had to flee Coruscant while I still could, before I was marked as a traitor by the Chancellor. That Fox needed to know I was safe, because… because he didn’t think he was coming home.”

“Oh, Riyo…”

Riyo tried to laugh but she choked on her voice. “No, no it’s fine. Please don’t feel sorry for me, not after–”

Not after what you’ve lost. It hangs in the air like a shadow, chilling the two women to the bone.

She could feel Ahsoka’s eyes on her for a long moment before she conceded. “Alright. So you fled Coruscant?”

Riyo nodded. “Yes. I waited for him, but… then I gathered those I could and had a trusted pilot shuttle us off. It wasn’t just those from my office, though. There were several other members from Pantora’s allies that we also safely evacuated. It was beneficial in the long run, since the number of hyperspace jumps we needed to make ensured that we weren’t followed.”

“That was wise of you,” Ahsoka confirmed. “You most likely had been tailed. The Empire has been interrogating anyone they view even as having a potential to be rebellious.”

Riyo dipped her head in a gentle nod. “And I never was one of the Cha– Emperor’s greedy followers,” she added.

Her friend’s lips quirked up in a humorless smile. “No, you weren’t.”

“Anyways, I timed my resignation to autosend sometime during our flight, and I contacted Bail, who gave us directions to follow. That’s all there really is to tell,” Riyo sheepishly shrugged, relieved to be finished and able to turn her attention back to the juvan leaves she’d laid out. They needed to be diced and then ground with water into a paste that could be either frozen and saved, or wrapped in a damp cloth and held to the wound.

“So, my turn then?” Ahsoka asked, faux-cheer evident in her voice but appreciated.

Riyo nodded, thankful for something else to focus on. She beckoned her over though, waiting until the Togruta was looking over her shoulder. “Just make sure to watch how I do it, so you’ll be able to on your own. The leaves have to be separated carefully, or you’ll negate the medicinal qualities.”

Ahsoka observed quietly as Riyo worked, nodding along to each specific task that Riyo pointed out. It was quite simple, but an untrained eye would still mess it up. It was nice to have someone at her side. She’d been so used to being alone.

“We agreed on a trade?” Ahsoka prompted, once Riyo stepped aside and handed the knife over for her to try. “Would you still like to hear what we’ve seen?”

Riyo bit the inside of her cheek to try and keep herself afloat in the surge of stress that threatens to sweep her away. “Yes, please.”

Ahsoka nodded sharply, and then the knife made its first clean slice. “We were on our way back from Mandalore after apprehending Darth Maul– the Sith Zabrak,” she elaborated for Riyo’s sake. “And an order went out to all the clone troopers, everywhere in the galaxy: execute Order 66, to kill the Jedi.” Her fingers clenched around the knife handle to the point that Riyo thought it’d snap. “Somehow Rex… he fought it long enough to warn me to find a file about Fives, an ARC trooper that–”

Riyo could feel the blood drain from her face at the mention of that name, one she’d long forgotten. “I remember. Fox… he shot him, to protect the Emperor.” It felt like lifetimes ago.

In a twisted sense, it was. It’d been during Fox’s lifetime, when he still came home to her every night.

Ahsoka hummed in agreement. “Right. Well, Fives had told Rex that the clones all had control chips in their heads, and that a damaged chip had caused another trooper to shoot a Jedi. No one believed him.” Her shoulders drooped. “I was able to capture Rex and take the chip out of his head, and he was back to normal. I… I let Maul out of his cell though as a distraction, and he damaged the ship so it crashed into a moon. We lost the whole battalion,” she finished in a whisper, head bowed.

“Oh, Ahsoka,” Riyo gasped. She wasn’t sure how a hug would be received, so she placed a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

Ahsoka’s eyes were teary when she looked up. “Thank you, but please don’t be for me. I took a risk, and it was Rex’s brothers that paid the consequences.” She shrugged half-heartedly. “I’m glad we found Wolffe. There have been other clones that escaped, but Wolffe was always one of his closest brothers.”

A small smile slipped onto her face unbidden. “I’m glad for the both of them as well. How did you find Com– Wolffe, though? You all barely made it here,” she pointed out.

The Togruta sighed. “You know Bail’s been coordinating a lot recently. We were sent out on a mission to try and contact a defector from the Empire. They’re a medic, and they’ve been treating several troopers sent to them for abnormal behavior. We arrived to get them out, and Wolffe was their latest patient, but they were being watched.” She stopped talking to peer at her work cautiously. “Is this correct?”

She stepped out of the way so Riyo could observe her work. “This is very good for anyone’s first try,” Riyo praised her. “Now we just need to grind it with some water to get a thick enough paste.”

Ahsoka waited for Riyo to set up the next step before continuing. “We had the freed men escort the medic onto our waiting ship, but we couldn’t take Wolffe back to base because of his chip. I followed their instructions to try and deactivate it, but we had to leave in a hurry. It took us a few days and several firefights before we lost them well enough to get here.”

“Had no idea you’d gotten that good with a blaster, either.”

Riyo bit back a shriek as Rex’s voice piped up from behind them. Good thing she’d been using the mortar and not a knife, otherwise she might’ve cut herself. At least he had the decency to send her an apologetic smile once she whirled around to face him.

“Gee thanks, Rex,” Ahsoka huffed, reaching out to playfully slap his chest. The two of them shared a grin, and Riyo decided to study the wooden floor beneath her feet until they snapped out of it. She wouldn’t dare disrupt their small moment of joy.

“I came out to let you know Wolffe is asleep again,” Rex finally explained his presence after he shook himself free of their little bubble. “We spoke some, but he tired quickly.”

That was good. He clearly was suffering from some form of head injury, so any amount of time Wolffe was able to be awake and coherent was a step in the right direction.

“Alright, that’s wonderful news. We should be able to apply this compress despite that.” Riyo picked up the bowl of ground javun and gestured at a clean cloth folded on the counter top. “Would you grab that and come with me? I’ll show you what to do, so you know how in the future.”

A quiet grief crept up her spine with each step she took back towards Wolffe’s room. He needed her help. She could pull herself together for him.

Riyo entered the room alone and took the seat beside Wolffe’s still form. Rex would be along in a minute.

Until then, she studied the still man’s face, finding and cataloguing each unique feature of him and hoping it wouldn’t come back to haunt her like before.

[blackjacktheboss]

20 pls p.s. been following u for five years!! ty for bringing so much to the fandom u singlehandedly brought my love for pjo back to life

by 20 i meant angst 20 btw but ill be thankful for anything lmao

It is one in the morning when Annabeth’s phone begins to buzz incessantly on her night stand. With her face still buried in her pillow she blindly reaches for it, feeling around the small table until her hand grabs hold of it. She groans as she turns just enough for one eye to break free of her pillow, opening it half way as the harsh blue light from her phone shines in her face.

Luke flashes across the screen and Annabeth’s heart jumps in her chest. She shoots up out of bed, wincing as she turns to look over her shoulder, hoping she hasn’t disturbed her boyfriend’s sleep. His breathing is still slow and steady, so she carefully gets up and walks to the bathroom, closing the door behind her and turning on the lights.

“Hello?” she says into the phone as her eyes adjust to the harsh brightness. She sits on the side of the tub and speaks again. “Luke, are you there?”

“Annabeth, you answered,” he says, his words coming through a little slurred.

“You’re drunk,” she says, as she tries to rub the sleep from her eyes.

“I need you.”

Annabeth looks up at the ceiling, begging for strength from any benevolent force that may exist. “What happened?”

“I got… I got a little drunk and things got out of hand.”

“Out of hand how?”

“I’m sitting with the police outside of Dakota’s downtown. They say they’ll let me go with a warning if you can come pick me up right now.”

She sighs and stands. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“You’re the best, Annabeth. Love you,” he says.

And before she can respond, the line goes dead. She opens the door, nearly jumping out of her skin as she sees Percy sitting up in bed.

“Fuck, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” he says, his voice flat. “Who was on the phone?”

Annabeth bites her bottom lip nervously but answers. “It was Luke. He got into some trouble and needs me to go pick him up.”

“Doesn’t he have any other friends he can call?”

“I guess not,” she says as she walks towards the dresser.

“He’s using you, Annabeth,” Percy says with a measured anger. “How long is it gonna take you to see that?”

“That’s not fair,” she says as she grabs jeans and begins to pull them on. “You don’t know what he was like before. He’s just going through a hard time.”

“Everyone’s twenties are a hard time, Annabeth. That’s hardly a reason to treat you the way he does. Don’t go.”

Annabeth pulls a shirt over her head, avoiding eye contact with Percy. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“No, that’s Luke’s job, right?”

Annabeth looks at him then, completely taken aback. “You’re being an asshole.”

“I’m the asshole?” he asks, incredulous. “Luke is the one who can call at any hour of the night, tell you to jump and all you have to say to him is how high, but I’m the asshole?”

“Right now, yes,” she says, her adrenaline pumping through her veins.

Percy sits down on the edge of the bed, defeated, as he watches Annabeth pull on a pair of socks. “I can’t do this anymore,” he says, his head bowed.

“I know, fighting sucks, but we can talk about this more tomorrow.”

He looks up at her. “No, Annabeth, I mean I can’t do this anymore.”

Annabeth’s heart stops. “Percy-”

“I love you. More than I ever thought I could love another person but I… I can’t be your second choice. I thought I could, but… I can’t. I won’t.”

“You’re not,” she says as her heart begins to break. She sits sideways on the bed next to him, the desperation in her voice obvious. “Percy, please look at me. You are not my second choice.”

“Then don’t go,” he says barely louder than a whisper. “Stay here with me.”

Annabeth’s breath stutters. “I can’t just leave him,” she says, surprising even herself.

Percy looks down at his hands and nods to himself slowly. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

Annabeth puts her hands on his, but he doesn’t grab them back. “Percy, please, let’s just talk about this tomorrow. Please.”

“There’s no point,” he says, his voice cracking. “I deserve someone who can pick me without hesitating, and it took me until just now to realize that as bad as I want you to be, you’re not that person.”

“Percy,” she says, her lungs giving out on her.

Percy can’t look at her. “I wanna build a life with you, Annabeth. I wanna marry you and I want you to be the mother of my kids. I want you to design us the perfect house. I want it all. But we can’t have that if you’re always chasing after Luke’s ghost. Whoever he was to you is gone, and all that’s left is a shell of a person who only knows how to take. So I’ll ask you one more time: Please don’t go.”

Her phone buzzes in her pocket and just as a reflex, she pulls her hands from Percy’s to take it out to look at.

Luke: you’re my best frend i love yo so mch

A second later, the phone buzzes again in her hand.

Luke: if you hurry we can do shot togethr!!

“Percy, I’m all he has,” she says sadly as she stares at the screen.

“Then at least you’ll have each other.”

“Don’t do this,” she says, her voice full of raw emotion.

“I’m done. We’re done.”

Annabeth can only shake her head as tears begin to fall down her cheeks. “P- Please,” she stutters.

“You’d better get going,” he says, standing from the edge of the bed. “I’d hate for you to keep him waiting.”

Shakily, Annabeth stands and pulls a sweatshirt on before gathering her keys and wallet. Percy simply stands with his arms crossed, looking down at his feet as she moves about the room. She’s not sure how she’s moving, since it feels as though the world is crumbling around her, but she does it. Without another word, she walks past Percy, out of the apartment and down to the street where she catches a cab. It’s only a fifteen minute ride but she feels every piece of her broken heart clattering around her chest as they go.

“I’m sorry but can you take me back to where you picked me up?” she asks.

Annabeth looks at the bar front, the truth of Percy’s words settling in. She quickly spots Luke through a window, who is cheersing with some stranger and throwing back a shot.

“But we just got here,” the cab driver says.

There are no cops anywhere, and she wonders if there ever had been.

“I know, but I realized this isn’t where I should be.”

“Whatever, lady,” the driver scoffs as he pulls back into the road.

She pulls out her phone again and opens up Luke’s contact. She stares at the name, reminisces on the years they have been in each other’s lives, and under the red light of a traffic stop, Annabeth realizes that all she and Luke have is the past. It has dragged them down like a weight, keeping them tied to each other without any true benefit. But Annabeth wants more than a bundle of memories. She wants a future, and the only person she can have that with is Percy.

The image of Percy’s face is in her mind as she blocks Luke’s number. The thought of how he seems to always smell of a fresh ocean breeze is what she thinks of as she pays the cab driver and stares up at the apartment building. It’s the dream of both his physical and emotional warmth that pulls her towards the front door and into the dark apartment.

“Percy?” she says into the darkness.

But there is no answer, just deafening silence and shadows that watch Annabeth crawl back into bed alone, wishing she had had the courage to stay.

[celestialvoid-fanfiction]

The Fae

Geralt takes a contract to hunt down a fae, but he was not ready for what he found.

For @loveyprophet​ - Happy Birthday!

 Dusk was creeping in, the light of the day dwindling as the sun sank towards the horizon.

The steady beat of Roach’s hooves against the old worn track slowed as they approached the small village. The old wooden houses were coloured by the dust and mud that ran through the centre of the town and lit by the flickering light of the lanterns that hung by the doors.

The town was quiet—not filled with the usual sounds of laughter and talk from the tavern.

Geralt pulled back on the reigns, slowing Roach more as they made their through the town.

“Witcher!” a man called out.

Geralt was almost taken aback by the tone of the man’s voice; he was so used to the word being shouted with viciousness and disgust, not relief or excitement.

A man stepped into the light of the balcony of the inn—a stocky man with long greying beard and an apron that had been dirtied from a day’s work.

“I have a contract for you, if you choose to take it?” the inn keeper proposed.

Geralt nodded briskly.

“There’s a fae that’s been terrorising out village. I’m willing to pay if you will get rid of it.”

“I will not take your coin,” Geralt said, dismounting Roach and reaching back up to help Ciri down from the saddle. “You can pay me by putting me and my ward up for a few nights.”

“It’s a deal,” the inn keeper replied.

“I shall begin hunting at dawn,” Geralt promised, walking Roach over to a nearby wooden bench and tying his reigns to the post.

He dug into one of the pouches on Roach’s saddle, pulling out a handful of oats and feeding them to him.

Roach ate the oats and farewelled Geralt with a snort.

Geralt stepped over to Ciri’s side, gently setting his hand on her shoulder and guiding her towards the door.

“I’ll see you to your rooms,” the inn keeper said, leading the way into the building.

The man walked them upstairs and into a room. It was sparsely furnished—two beds standing side by side and a fireplace on the far wall.

The inn keeper lit the fire, nodding politely as he excused himself from the room.

Ciri sat down on the bed by the fire, holding her hands out as the flames warmed her chilled fingers.

“Can I come with you tomorrow?” Ciri asked.

“No,” Geralt answered shortly.

Ciri spun around to face him. “Why not?”

“Fae are dangerous creatures,” he explained. “Some believe them to be demons, others think they’re demoted angles or spirits of the dead. Whatever the case; they’re devious, cunning, powerful, and dangerous. I will not put you in danger.”

Ciri bowed her head, turning back to the fire. “I want to be able to help you. I want to be able to fight.”

“Then I’ll train you,” Geralt offered. “But first, you need to bathe and you need sleep.”

Ciri pulled her boots off and turned to see Geralt preparing a bath for her.

“Very well.”

------------------------- 

 Geralt lifted the tankard to his lips, gulping down the cool, fresh water.

“Something struck me last night. There was a bard who came through town a few days ago. He was a little odd, but he spent the evening playing music in the tavern the night of the last sighting—the night before last. The strange part is he didn’t stay the night in the inn,” the inn keeper explained. “He’s most likely camping out in the woods. He might have seen something; if you find him, he might be able to help you.”

Geralt nodded.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, setting down the tankard and tossing a coin across the bar.

“You do not need to pay,” the inn keeper said, sliding the coin back across the counter. “Meals and drink are counted towards your say; it’s the least I can offer for your service.”

Geralt nodded briskly, returning the coin to his coin pouch.

He glanced towards the staircase.

“I’ll keep her safe,” the inn keeper promised.

“Thank you,” Geralt said, stepping back from the counter. He turned and made his way out into the street.

Even during the day, the town was quiet. Market stalls were set up along the streets; fruit stalls, stands stacked with bundles of cloth, fine silks and tailored clothes, and merchants who talked quietly among themselves. Yellow straw was strewn across the ground, tousled by the unsettling breeze that rolled through the streets, bringing with it a familiar smell: soft musk and the floral scent of buttercups and roses—a smell he had not encountered since the mountain.

Geralt felt a spike of fear drive itself through his heart.

The inn keeper had mentioned a bard, but Geralt hadn’t thought it’d be his bard.

He drew in a steady breath, making his way down the dusty track that led out the back of the town and into the woods and walking in the direction that the inn keeper had said the creature had flown in.

The dry husks of leaves crackled beneath his feet, the rich smell of sweet petrichor filling his lungs as they walked along the muddy train and further into the woods. The trees towered over him, beams of light shining through the canopy.

Crystal-like droplets of dew gathered on the wavering blades of grass and delicate flowers grew along the edge of the path, filling the undergrowth with bursts of colour: white, purple, yellow, and blue.

He was surrounded by towering trees and thick shrubs, full of autumn tones of brown, gold and red, and lingering black shadows. Dense foliage hung overhead, enclosing the space, shutting out the sky and filtering the sunlight. Thin streams of light filtered through the leaves, scattering glimpses of light across the forest floor.

The sweet aroma of musk, roses and buttercups seemed to grow stronger, mingling with the smells of the forest. As he walked deeper into the forest, he was met with the bitter smell of ashes and charred wood. Further up the past he stumbled upon a campsite; a small pile for locks stacked in the centre of the clearing, blackened by fire and surrounded by grey ash.

Beside the small campfire lay a bedroll.

There was no blood, no odd smells—just Jaskier’s earthy scent.

The blanket of leaves on the forest floor was disturbed, a trail leading through the shadows of the trees and towards another clearing.

Geralt’s foot falls were silent as he moved through the shadows towards the other clearing.

The breeze brought with it the sound of music; a soft melody of strumming strings.

Geralt slowed as he approached, listening to the sweet voice as the creature hummed along to the melody.

They sat on the moss-covered stump of a fallen tree with their back turned to Geralt. The radiant sunlight played across his pale skin. The soft breeze blew through the tousled mess of his dark hair. He’s dressed in a golden brown jacket, decorated with brown lace and gold embroidery; unbuttoned and hanging open to expose a white dress shirt.

The streams of sunlight seemed to sparkle as it danced around him.

Their wings rested against their back, gleaming as they caught the light. They were like fine lace—translucent and covered in swirls of golden patterns like fine embroidery or ornate filigree.

He held onto a mahogany lute, strumming at the strings as he began to sing the words to the familiar tune.

“The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool.

Better stay out of sight

I’m weak my love, and I am wanting.”

Geralt listened, his heart aching as he couldn’t help but say his name.

“Jaskier.”

The fae stopped singing, the sounds of the forest falling silent around them. He didn’t turn around to face Geralt—he didn’t need to; Geralt knew who he was.

“I know you’d find me one day,” Jaskier said, his voice saddened and quiet. “I had assumed it would happen later than this, but it looks like destiny is set on cursing you with my presence.”

Geralt grunted.

He wanted to say sorry, he wanted to say that he wanted Jaskier back in his life, but the words couldn’t come out. He wasn’t ready for this.

He had thought up a million ways to apologise to the bard; a million scenarios, ranging from those that ended in passionate kisses to those that ended with punches and bloodshed. But he wasn’t prepared for this.

“Well, Witcher,” Jaskier said, shaking Geralt from his thoughts. “How is this going to go? I imagine you’re here for a contract, so what is it they want: my head, my wings? I hope my death will at least bring you a large sum.”

Geralt was taken aback. Did Jaskier really think Geralt could ever hurt him? He’d never say it out loud, but the bard was his friend. But the words rang in his head: “If life could give me one blessing it would be to take you off my hands.”

He had hurt him in the worst possible way.

“I’m not here for a contract,” Geralt replied.

Jaskier turned to face him.

Geralt lost himself in his eyes; the same azure blue eye that were as bright as the sky above.

But there was something about him; without the glamour to hide his power, he seemed even more beautiful; radiant.

“So, you’re here for a personal kill? To kill a fae and gloat of your victory I know that it’s a high praise for a Witcher to bag such a kill.”

Geralt felt his heart drop.

It hurt that Jaskier would think so little of him, that he’d assume the worst in him. Granted, he did deserve the sharp retorts and the anger that dwelled beneath those pools of blue; he had every right to feel hurt after what Geralt had said.

Geralt shook his head. “I could never harm you… not like that. You are no monster or something to hunt for sport.”

Jaskier tilted his head slightly, looking at Geralt with curiosity.

“Then what are you heard for.”

Geralt let out a measured breath. He took a step closer to Jaskier, then another, until he stood beside him, meeting his gaze.

Geralt looked deep into his eyes as he said, “I’m here to beg for forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness for what?”

Geralt hesitates—words were never one of his strengths; neither was emotion. He had Jaskier for that.

He drew in a deep breath.

“For hurting you,” he said. “For blaming you for things that were never in your control. For taking my anger out on you unjustly. For… For everything.”

Jaskier’s bottom lip quivered, his breathing shallow as his eyes began to glisten with tears.

“But, most of all, for not realising how much you truly mean to me. For not realising that I took you – and everything you did for me – for granted.”

Tears threatened to spill over as Jaskier desperately tried to hold them back. All the hurt—all the heartache he had held for months—fading away as he settled into the familiar warm feeling he felt in Geralt’s presence.

A tear fell past his lashes, glistening in the sunlight as it caressed the pale skin of his cheek.

Geralt slowly reached up with his hand, Cupping Jaskier’s cheek as he gently brushed away the tear with the ball of his thumb.

Neither of them knows who leant in first, but it didn’t matter; what mattered was what they felt when their lips met.

It was indescribable; a mix of passion and tenderness that made them feel complete.

One of Jaskier’s hands glided up Geralt’s arm, up his bicep and across his shoulder blade. His other hand ran up the nape of Geralt’s neck, lacing his fingers through his long, silver hair.

Geralit sighed in return, craning his neck as he deepened the kiss.

He drew back slowly, resting his forehead against Jaskier’s as he drew in ragged breaths.

Jaskier tilted his chin, bringing their lips together again.

They lost themselves in the kiss, letting the world slip away as they melted into each other’s embrace.

After a while, Geralt finally returned to his senses.

“How did you manage to hide this for so long?”

“I used a glamour to disguise myself,” Jaskier admitted.

“But I would have sensed it,” Geralt replied.

“It was strong enough to hide effectively, but weak enough that you – or any other Witchers – wouldn’t pick up on it,” Jaskier admitted.

Geralt nodded He’d never say it, but he was impressed.

“Why?”

“Why did I hide among humans?” Jaskier reiterated, trying to extract Geralt’s question. “Because I wanted a chance to fit in.”

He met Geralt’s gaze.

“And I found one.”

Geralt lifted his brow questioningly.

“With you,” Jaskier replied. “I’ve never felt like I belonged until I met you. I’m just sorry my presence brought you so much chaos and misfortune.”

“You are not to blame,” Geralt said, his voice soft but firm.

Jaskier’s met his gaze with a pained look. “I heard Cintra burnt.”

“The child is safe,” Geralt replied. “She’s in town, waiting for me to return.”

A look of relief passed over Jaskier’s face.

“You’re welcome to return with me,” Geralt said, a hint of pleading in his voice.

Jaskier blinked in surprise. “Are you sure you’d want me? I only ever bring you bad luck.”

“Bad luck follows me no matter what,” Geralt replied. “And I’ve never been more sure.”

Within the blink of an eye, Jaskier’s wings disappeared; the glamour returning his image to what Geralt had remembered.

  -------------------------

 “Witcher,” the inn keeper greeted him as he returned to the town.

“The fae has been banished,” Geralt lied.

“Thank you,” man said with a sigh of relief. “You and the girl are welcome to stay a few more nights.”

Geralt nodded.

Geralt made his way upstairs to the room, Jaskier following after him. He pushed open the door and stepped into the room.

“You’re back!” Ciri called out, her voice a mix of delight and relief. She ran to Geralt’s side and threw her arms around his waist.

He tried to hide his soft smile as he hugged her back. He stepped back, turning slightly so that Ciri could see the man that walked in.

“Ciri, this is Jaskier,” Geralt introduced. “He’s… a friend.”

Jaskier’s eyes softened as he looked at the young girl.

“You’re just as beautiful as your mother,” he said softly.

Ciri smiled, but there was a sad note to it.

“Will you stay with us?” she asked.

Jaskier looked up at Geralt.

The Witcher met his gaze, his orange eyes somewhat pleading.

Jaskier couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah,” he answered. “I will.”

[platypanthewriter]

Rollerskates

For the Harringrove April prompt month!  What if someone else encountered the mindflayer...I don’t know what this is, have some silly horror I guess

Hawkins was the worst.  Billy knew this--he’d known from the time they drove through the two-street town, he’d guessed when his dad praised the damn place and its down home American values--but he’d never guessed some sludgemonster would try to drag him into the ironworks, and he’d definitely never guessed whatever the fuck it was, it would send spies.

He glowered over from his lifeguard station at the row of rats outside the chainlink fence of the pool.  They were brave, knowing, somehow, that he couldn’t take his eyes off the pool for more than a few seconds to hose them down.  Billy glared back at them every few seconds--these huge rats, lined up like bowling pins, staring.  He’d started carrying a notebook to jot things down, not because he thought a goddamned soul would believe him, but to check that at least if he was hallucinating, it was consistent.

A kid hollered, splashing, and he yanked his gaze back to the pool.  

Sometimes they switched, he was fairly sure, watching them with binoculars.  There was a light grey one that hadn’t been there before, and a really fat one he was sure he’d have remembered.  He counted them, and made a note.  They were spying on him in shifts, because it was goddamn Hawkins, and the rats--and the steelworks, apparently--were possessed.

He was vaguely tempted to go back, or ask around town if the old factory was haunted, but every time he thought about it, he broke out in a cold sweat.

Every time he left the pool--every time he went anywhere--he could hear the soft squeaks of the mice, and the dragging sound of their piper.  She looked younger than Max, with overalls and rattling dark braids, but she swooped around on her rollerskates, playing her recorder, and the rats obeyed her.

Billy’d tried chasing her, once, but he could hardly catch up to rollerskates, and she skated backwards away, staring him in the eye.  He chased her two blocks, then rolled after her in his car, as she looped through driveways and through garages, an endless maze of shortcuts where he couldn’t follow, and he finally realized she was leading him back to the Steelworks.  He spun the wheel, leaving skid marks on the road as he sped back home, and laid awake, with his pillow over his head, listening to the rats in the walls.

After a week of the dragging sound of rollerskates in the street outside at night, the sounds of the off-key recorder warbling over the fence at the pool, and the gnawing rats in the walls, he tried cornering Max.  She just squinted at him, blinking slowly with huge dark circles under her eyes, and suggested blearily that he stop leaving food in his room.

“They’re not normal rats,” he hissed at her, and she stopped, glared at him, and then shook her head and walked off.  

 It wasn’t just Billy, either.  The front page of the Sunday paper--read in Neil Hargrove’s voice, because he wasn’t letting anybody else read it, even though he was taking forever settling himself--was about a guy running around Main Street with a shotgun, screaming about rats and rollerskates.  He’d finally tried to shoot the cops trying to get him to drop the gun, and been hit by a car, and when it revealed he was already under investigation for burning crosses in a local family’s yard, even Neil hissed.  His autopsy revealed his toes and fingers had been gnawed on by rats.

“What a nice town,” Max said dryly.  

There was an interview on TV with a guy’s wife--she’d called the police because her husband had stormed out in the middle of the night, screaming about rats.  She had bruises all up the left side of her face, and something deep in Billy shivered as he wondered about the darkness around her wrists, whether her husband had left bruises there too.  She flinched away from the reporter every time he moved, and he lowered his voice, grimacing.  

“We’d been fighting,” she whispered, and Susan put her hands over her mouth, glancing at Billy.  “We kept hearing rollerskates,” said the woman on he news, crying.  “I-I hope he didn’t hurt that little girl.”

Neil Hargrove stared out the window for hours that night, between glaring at Billy, and putting out poison for the rats.  

 Billy went to get in his car that night, and there were rats, rats on his seats and dashboard, and he yelled, slammed the door, and walked out to where there were people, stalking as fast as he could down the street.  He realized he was walking away from home, but he didn’t want to stop, so he just headed wherever he saw a group of people.  He elbowed his way into a crowd of people loitering around the drug store, and came face to face with Steve Harrington and his loud, curly-haired shadow.  

They stared at him, their mouths sucked in on soda straws, but Billy was on his last nerve.  “You fucking grew up here,” he hissed, stepping closer, “--right?  What the fuck, Harrington.  What the shit is with these goddamn rats?!  Why do they want me to go to the Steelworks--who the goddamn is the shitbird on roller skates—”

Harrington just blinked his big stupid cow eyes and frowned, but his sidekick said “Wait, what?  The Steelworks?”

“The fucking Steelworks,” Billy repeated, his eyes flicking between them as they exchanged an obvious glance.  

“That makes sense,” the kid said, digging out a map, and Billy growled.

“What fucking makes sense,” he asked, through his teeth, as Harrington leaned in to see the map, slurping his soda.  

“Lot of sightings around there,” the kid said, glaring up at Billy.  

“Sightings of what,” Billy hissed, and Harrington shot him a glower.

They didn’t really answer, but they let him follow them to a payphone, and Harrington called the sheriff.

“You can’t call the police on rats,” Billy bit out, feeling like a moron, kind of, for not trying it himself.  

“Shut your face,” Harrington told him, and then proceeded to ask for the sheriff himself, and Billy couldn’t help himself, craning over Steve’s shoulder.  

“My car’s full of rats, my walls’re full of rats, I never stop hearing the roller skates—” he yelled at the phone, and Harrington elbowed him off.

“Maybe you shouldn’t’ve been such a shithead to Lucas Sinclair,” the kid said, sounding pleased.

“Fuck you,” Billy spat back, pretending his voice hadn’t cracked.  “Who the fuck even is Lucas Sinclair?!”

“Sir,” Harrington said.  “Uh, Hopper.  Billy Hargrove thinks it’s out at the Steelworks.  Yeah.  Oh, um.”  He turned to frown at Billy.  “Are you sure you don’t need--we can help, we’ve—” he sighed.  “...I guess we can keep an eye on him.”

“I mean, do we need to?” the kid asked.  “The rats can have him, far as I’m—”

“We’ll make sure nothing happens to him,” Harrington gritted out.  “As long as he lets us.”

Billy snarled at him, but he let them bundle him into Harrington’s car, and curled up on Harrington’s couch, while Harrington himself stalked around his house shooting the occasional glare in Billy’s direction.  

“...was Lucas Sinclair the kid...that night,” Billy asked hoarsely.  “Max’s friend.”

“Yeah,” Harrington said, sarcastically.  “Nice how it only goes after the shittiest people, right?”

“Fuck,” Billy whispered, swallowing.  “Fuck.”

 After a while, Harrington sank down on the couch next to him, and Billy flinched, then tried to pretend he hadn’t, growling.  “They’ll take care of it tonight,” Steve told him, sighing.  “With flamethrowers.”

“Holy shit,” Billy said, staring at him.  

 It was true--Billy woke up the next morning on Harrington’s couch, thanked him awkwardly, and went home to find his father had left during the night, chasing a girl on roller skates.  

He didn’t return.

But, as Harrington had said, there were no more rats.  Billy still saw the girl, occasionally, her glare pointed, but she didn’t come near.  He considered trying to apologize to Lucas Sinclair, and finally asked Max, reluctantly, whether she thought the kid would even want to hear it.

“What,” she said, flatly.

“Maybe I should just stay away,” Billy muttered, as they maneuvered around each other, doing the dishes.  Billy couldn’t quite get over the thought that everybody had acted like the three people taken hadn’t deserved to live, and the rats had not been outside Billy’s house for his father.  Neil had deserved better, Billy couldn’t help thinking--he’d been right about Billy, after all--but on the other hand, he’d definitely charged out trying to murder a little girl on roller skates with his bare hands, so Billy felt a little bit vindicated, after all the things he’d muttered about his dad.

When he saw the little girl again, he yelled out, “D’you think your brother would want me to say sorry?!”, and she skated to a stop, turning to glare at him.

“Would you mean it?” she hollered back, her hands cupped, and Billy nodded.

“I’ll tell him,” she shouted back, and skated off.  

Max started bringing Lucas around, after that, and Billy always got them whatever takeout they wanted, and stayed the hell away.  Lucas nodded to him, after a while, and Billy’s spine loosened.

 Billy nodded to Harrington, too, when he saw him, and after a while, Harrington started nodding back, until Billy let the uneasy squirm in his guts every time they met eyes guilt him into saying, “Sorry.”

“What,” said Harrington, looking weirded out.  The mall was barely open, and he glanced around, like he might need backup.

“Sorry for that night,” Billy said.  “And--and for...helping me.  Sorry I ended up your problem.”

Harrington just stared back at him.  He laughed, though, when he found Billy in his driveway, grimly cleaning rat shit out of every surface of his Camaro.  

 The little girl just made him buy her ice cream, which he was fine with--she’d hop in his car, and they’d drive over to buy ice cream from Steve Harrington.

“I wasn’t possessed, god,” she groaned.  “I was doing God’s work.”

“It promised you ice cream, didn’t it,” Steve asked, raising his eyebrows, and she sighed.

“I was possessed by capitalism,” she sighed dramatically.

After Steve got off work, he climbed in Billy’s car, and they’d drive out to the quarry and talk.  Billy watched him the way he had at first--stupid Steve Harrington, with his stupid hair, and his stupid fucking smile--until he’d realize Harrington was talking again, and Billy was missing it, again.

“The hell d’you keep staring at,” Steve asked, laughing, and Billy groaned, rubbing his face, but Harrington didn’t seem pissed, so Billy just kept running up whenever he saw him, and Harrington started putting an arm aorund his shoulders.  The like, sixteenth time Billy almost forgot himself and kissed him, watching Steve’s lips from inches away, Steve smiled, a little crookedly, and pulled him back as he stepped away.  They stared at each other, and then Billy scrambled away, swearing and kicking at rocks.

Billy had his first gay kiss in the ice cream shop, with the scary little rollerskater wolf-whistling, and Harrington’s chocolate-sticky fingers in his hair.  It tasted like waffle cones.

The other Harringrove April prompts I’ve done

[janekfan]

Heart(ache)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26199034

“You, you, you want to say something, Martin, so just say it!”

“I won’t, not while we’re both upset.” Martin gestured tiredly, somehow keeping his temper even as Jon flickered lightning quick between all of his emotions seemingly at once. “Not when you’re like this.” Like this, was pacing the length of the sitting room, shaking top to toe, each and every muscle stretched taut as a bow string. He felt out of control, like a war was waging inside his chest and there was no space, no way out.

“I didn’t.”

He hadn’t.

Because Martin had to bodily intercept him and drag him away from the child harboring the fear he practically tasted on the recycled air in the market. But he hadn’t. He, he wouldn’t.

But he would, wouldn’t he. When his tentative control over the horror roiling just under his skin snapped. When he ate, and ate, and ate up their fears and haunted their dreams until the empty, desolate abyss inside him stopped hurting.

“I know. But it was a close thing and I’m. I’m tired, Jon.” He pinched his nose, glasses riding up on his forehead. “A child, Jon. A child.”

Logically. The part of Jon that still existed logically knew this wasn’t easy on Martin. Knew it was impossible. Knew that this hunger was taking advantage of the man he’d been before this and exacerbating all the worst parts of himself.

And he let it. Some days.

Because it was easier.

It had always been easier to be alone.

Trust Martin to keep coming back and Jon to keep letting him; craving him like a drug, the only one that could quell the ravenous voice whispering in his ear all those seductive, cloying promises of freedom and power and Knowledge of all things.

But Martin would never be able to understand how deep the dark went and how much of it was Jon himself and it was shameful that he couldn’t tell where he ended and the Eye began and Martin could never understand. Wonderful, beautiful Martin asked how he could help and Jon didn’t know because nothing helped except that which he tried so hard not to take.

God. He was tired of being a burden.

Tired of being helpless.

Tired of losing bits and pieces to that covetous pit.

And he was just so angry.

Static filled his head and he realized he was holding it in both hands, tugging at his greying hair and Martin was still talking but he didn’t understand what he was saying. Could only pick up on the displeased nature of his tone.

Martin was upset. Jon made him upset.

He couldn’t breathe.

“Jon.” And he didn’t deserve the concern in his voice.

“You were going to say something. Before. Please.” Jon couldn’t feel his hands. His arms were numb.

“Not now.” But he needed it now. He needed to know so he could fix this.

“Martin--” He was turning away. Leaving. He was leaving.

“No, Jon.” He could. Fix. He could fix this. He just needed to Know. If he Knew he could fix this. Then Martin wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t leave if he could just fix what he broke. He just needed to Know.

“Tell me!” Despite the desperate fracture in his voice, the compulsion was like a physical blow and Jon grieved it the instant he spoke but the damage was already done. Dangerous satisfaction that didn’t belong to him flooded his mouth with salt.

Time slowed.

Jon watched (because that was all he ever did) in horror as Martin struggled against the Eye’s power, his power, before his answer erupted from his throat like a gout of acid.

“I hate that you’re like this!” Martin clapped both hands over his mouth, hurt, and confusion, and disappointment welling up in his eyes as Jon turned tail and ran into the night.

There were no shortage of places to hide in the highlands and quick as he could, Jon wedged himself, trembling fit to shake apart, under the shadows of a fallen stone wall before the hysterical sob fighting to break free wrenched itself painfully from the dead center of his chest.

And once it was set free there was no way to stop, not even when he became light headed from the lack of air, not when he knocked his head against the stones with his frantic rocking back and forth, curled up as small as he could get. He couldn’t stop crying, hyperventilating between his knees, the mocking laughter of his god echoing in the hollows of his mind.

It’s over.

Over.

I’m alone.

I’m alone.

I can’t do this alone.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Hard, Job bit into the skin between his thumb and index finger, muffing himself with the bite and begging the pain, this new pain, this different pain, to cut through the noise taking up all his spaces, stealing away his control and he’s had so little of it lately. This time he slotted a knuckle between his teeth until he tasted blood.

Again.

Again.

Until his paralyzed lungs heaved in a great breath and dizzied him with it.

Until the panting slowed.

Again.

Until each hand was covered in healing, bruising, bleeding marks of his own making.

Until he could think again.

Until the shame blossomed in him and he cried anew, cutting the edge of his pinky on an incisor. Anything to stop feeling for just one moment. He sank in on himself, making himself somehow smaller amongst the rubble boxing him in, resting his hot, hot forehead against the chilly stone. He could feel the cold seeping in, could see his breath on each exhale and took to counting each plume until the only thing he was left with was an aching exhaustion down deep in his string-and-stick bones.

Sodding blighter.

You never stop when you should. Always pushing.

Always needing more than someone gave. Never grateful for what he was given. Selfish. Martin would realize sooner or later, that Jon needed more than he had any right.

And now.

Martin, sweet, kind, beautiful Martin, would let him down gently. Explain that he hadn’t known how much of himself Jon would try and take. That he hadn’t known the depths of his greed and couldn’t allow Jon to use him up. He would be sorry.

And then he would leave.

And the idea that Jon found a certain comfort in the familiar order of these things, knew what to expect, was sickest of all.

Tears slipped down his cheeks, dripped off his chin, and Jon didn’t know whether the furious shuddering was from the temperature or the residual shock of his panic attack. As he continued to calm, the Eye flickered and danced along to the thrum of the insect song all around him, identifying each species, genus, family, order, latin name, who discovered each one and when; the list was infinite. Jon let it have its fun, blinking slowly, wondering absently who’s dreams he’d lurk through if he just fell asleep right here.

He was contemplating that very thing when he heard Martin’s voice calling out and Jon knew if he stayed still he wouldn’t be found and considered doing just that, not knowing how he could ever face him again after what he’d done. The beam of a torch swept over the wall and Jon heard quiet cursing as Martin tripped and almost lost his footing.

He would hurt himself stumbling around out here in the dark looking for Jon so scrubbing his face free of any tears, he stood on unsteady legs, limping forward filled to bursting with regret and shame.

“Martin.”

“Oh, Christ, Jon.” He whirled, hand clutched over a pounding heart no doubt and watched him scan him up and down, expression forcibly neutral and more tears rolled down his cheeks. Wordlessly, Martin bundled him up in his coat and warmth engulfed him as he was led back to the cabin by the hand settled against the small of his back.

He was sat in a chair in the tiny kitchen and Martin made no motion to take his coat so he hunched himself up inside it to watch him putter around preparing tea. Jon knew better than to interrupt. Could tell he was angry by the clipped movements, his stiff shoulders. He swallowed, pushing down the panic. Martin had every right to be mad. To yell at him. To hurt him if he needed to. It wasn’t fair to manipulate him with more tears.

He would be patient. He would wait. Because Martin needed him to wait and he didn’t wait last time.

Jumping when the mug was set in front of him, Jon waited until Martin settled across from him, watching his body language, noticing how he wouldn’t meet his eyes. Noticed how he relaxed after the first sip.

“I’m--”

“Drink your tea, please, Jon.” Terse, but not unkind. Until now, Jon had kept his hands hidden in the long sleeves. The bites were healing. Quickly. They weren’t gone. And Martin would see if he reached for the porcelain in front of him.

Would he be mad?

“Breathe, Jon.” How? When he’d ruined the only thing good he had and that knowing was crushing him like he’d been crushed in the Buried. “You’re freezing, love.” Jon’s eyes went wide in surprise, welled up. Spilled over. “Drink your tea.” Softly, like he was coaxing a cornered animal. Ashamed, he looked down at the surface of the worn table speckled with his tears, and reached out his hands, closing his eyes at the sharp intake of breath. He couldn’t look. Too afraid of what he’d see and I don’t need to Know, thank you very much, please, stop.

The first swallow began to thaw him from the inside, out, and it was made just how he liked it and suddenly he was crying so hard he could barely finish, gasping like a fish out of water for just a whisper of air, sore from the effort. He was strung out, a wreck, scarcely keeping it together, not keeping it together. And suddenly he was being pressed against Martin’s chest, one hand gently holding his head in place, the other running up and down his back as he fought himself for permission to breathe.

This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He hurt Martin.

And again, he made it all about him.

It was always about him.

“Let’s get these washed up, okay?”

Savlon and plasters applied, Martin settled them both on the couch, tugging Jon against him and pulling a blanket over the both of them.

“I’m so, so, s’s’sorry.” Martin sighed heavily, carding fingers through Jon’s hair when he tensed up at the sound.

“I know.”

“H’how can I--?”

“I’m sorry, too. I was so scared for that child.”

“I kn’know.” Jon pushed away so he could look at Martin. “I’ll do better. I won’t. I won’t go into the village.” Just please, please don't leave me here alone. Martin pressed a kiss against his forehead.

“You’re doing your best.” While falling so, so short.

“Do you.” Jon licked dry lips. “You hate--”

“I don’t hate you, darling.” Jon buried his face in Martin’s jumper. “I hate seeing you struggling because I can’t help you.”

“You do help.” Muffled by the soft yarn. “You’re the only thing that does help and I. I.”

“Made a mistake. And you hurt me. But, Jon? It doesn’t mean I’m leaving.” The relief was heady, overwhelming. “Next time, because there will be one, that’s just how this all works. Next time you need to listen when I tell you I need some time.” Jon nodded. “Good. Well, that’s a start then.”

“That’s it?”

“For now.” Martin hugged him tightly. Jon tentatively returned it. “We’re tired--don’t argue with me. And we have time to figure this out together, love.”

And Jon breathed.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

4 and/or 49 for the micro story prompts, for Adiran and/or Riin? :D

Thank you for the prompt! It took me a while to think of something but it is finally here! For context, this scene takes place before the tournament, but after Adiran’s older brother has returned to the palace. Adiran was a bit more of a mess than usual for that frame of time, and wanted nothing more than to get away from it all, even if only for a while...

4. one chance AND 49. nightfall

Most evenings, Adiran spent his time in quiet reflection. And by quiet reflection, he meant locking himself in his chambers with a bottle of something that wouldn’t be missed and the shelve of books Leisha had been collecting for him ever since he’d been limited to the palace grounds. Normally, that would be enough to get him by until dawn, when he’d wake with a throbbing headache and just enough regret to make the morning miserable. 

But things weren’t normal anymore. It wasn’t enough.

Nothing ever seemed like enough.

It was almost like sleepwalking, the way he ‘woke up’ from his usual routine to find himself cloaked and standing in the shade of one of the pines in the eastern garden. It was just past nightfall. Almost time.

Adiran could feel his heart hammering in his chest. Mindlessly, he pressed a hand over it, as though to still it. Smother it. Divider - do something with it, because he just realised he hadn’t even figured out what he was going to say, or how he was going to convince him, or---

“Adiran? Is that---”

“ ---Shhh! Idiot - shut up.”

As far as winning Riin over went, opening with a hissed insult probably wasn’t the wisest move. But with his heart in his skull and his hands damp with sweat, finesse was so far from Adiran’s grasp that it might as well have sprouted wings and flown across The Pale. Instead, he grabbed Riin by the sleeve and pulled him out of the torchlit path, into the shadow of one of the trees.

The branches were so low that Riin had to duck slightly just to clear them. To his credit, he hardly seemed fazed by Adiran’s sudden appearance. At least, not in the way Adiran had expected. Instead of getting angry or irritated by the interruption to his routine, Riin’s surprise melted away almost instantly. Instead, a familiar expression replaced it. One Adiran really didn’t need right now.

“What are you... are you alright? Adiran, did something happen?”

And there it was, right on schedule. The guilt. Adiran felt it like a knife to the gut. He could see Riin not-so-subtly trying to get a better look at him, squinting in the dark. “No, I’m... nothing’s wrong.” After having spent so much of the past three years with him, he could sense the man’s desire to push back the hood of his cloak. Reveal whatever ugly mark lay beneath it. Pre-emptively, Adiran reached out and grasped him by the wrists, his voice urgent. “I’m serious, Riin. It’s not what you’re thinking, okay?”

Riin searched his eyes for a moment, not resisting the makeshift restraint, but clearly skeptical. And who could blame him? It was more than a little strange for Adiran to ambush him on his usual trip out into the city. For years, he’d gone every half-turn, reliable as Valcretian clockwork. And he went alone. “Then maybe,” Riin said eventually, “you can help me out, and tell me what I should be thinking.”

Stomach lurching, Adiran released him and stepped back, almost running into the trunk of the tree in his haste. “Fuck. Right. I’m just -- I mean, I just want to...” Flustered, his eyes darted quickly to the palace, the wall, the unmanned side-gate. Focus. Damn it, he only had one chance at this. Convincing him. He couldn’t afford to screw it up.

It seemed he already was, because concern was all but etched into the lines of Riin’s face. “Adiran, I know you said not to worry, but you’re really starting to---”

--- “Take me.” The words rushed out of him before he even had a chance to check their credentials, but at the stunned look on Riin’s face, the rest hurried to catch up. “With you! Take me with you. To the city. Wherever it is you’re going. I don’t care. Just... take me too.”

The initial shock of what sounded like a very different kind of proposition was frozen on Riin’s face for a moment, his eyes wide, lips parted in what could have conceivably been the beginnings of a smile. A laugh. Disbelief. Something like that. But, after a few beats, the expression slowly faded, leaving the two of them standing there in the growing dark, nothing but the sound of trickling water and stirring insects dared share their company.

It just so happened that any silence, no matter how small, was too much for Adiran to bear right now.

“Forget it,” he snapped suddenly. Hands sweating. Chest aching. He had to get out of here. “Look, just forget I said anything. This was...” Stupid. So utterly, completely, fucking stupid. Standing there now, faced with the reality of what he was asking, a thousand uncomfortable truths seemed to crash down on his head. Riin’s contract was with his father. Not him. He shouldn’t have come here - shouldn’t have said anything at all, yet alone asked him to defy the King because... what? Because he felt like he was losing his mind? Felt pathetic? Felt utterly, crushingly lonely?

So fucking what.

“This was a mistake, okay?”Adiran continued, already bundling his cloak around him like a useless shell. “I know you can’t. I get it. I’ll just...” Mid-sentence, Adiran made what he assumed would be a fatal mistake. He looked up. Met Riin’s gaze, and found him...

... smiling?

“Oh - are you finished? If you need a little longer to, ah...” Wrinkling his nose, Riin made a vague gesture - a little like throwing something up, if Adiran was to be perfectly honest. Regardless, it was startling enough to stem his flood of words before he drowned in them. “I can wait, is what I’m saying,” Riin elaborated quickly, eyes glittering in the dim light. “It’s better you do this here, rather than down there in some tavern. There’s no need for awkward explanations when it’s just the two of us under a tree.”

Rather than down in some... wait... was he...?

“Wait... are you serious? Riin, if you’re caught doing this...” He should be elated! This was what he wanted, right? But instead, Adiran found himself shaking his head, some wordless instinct still trying to drag him back inside. Back to his chambers. Back to another night alone, where it was quiet and cold but safe. Honestly, he didn’t know what would happen if they were discovered defying the King’s orders. He doubted his father would sever his contract with a Kyriin - especially not so close to its successful completion. Worst case scenario, he’d probably end Riin’s duty as his training partner, and return him to loitering at his side like some miserable Crownsguard. But even that... “Damn it. I shouldn’t have asked. We both know I’m a selfish prick, so just do me a favour and forget I was even here.”

“Mmm, yes. How selfish of you, to be this worried about my well-being. You truly are your father’s son.” Even in jest, they both cringed slightly at the remark. “Sorry, I... what I mean is... it has been three years, hasn’t it? Has the King even told you when he plans to put an end to this?”

Sighing tightly, Adiran shook his head. “You know him about as well as I do. He doesn’t let things go.”

“You have already been punished more than enough for what happened.”

“Somehow, I doubt he’d agree.” A familiar sick feeling stirred in his stomach. “Riin, my father killed a man - hanged him in the square - just to send me a message. Just to make a point. This...” Swallowing, Adiran felt his gaze being pulled back towards the palace. “This is nothing. Not compared to that. I shouldn’t be out here.”

How could he possibly complain? He was alive. Breathing. That was more than could be said for others who had crossed the Talveran King.

Suddenly, there was a weight on his shoulder. Warm. Steady. It drew him back to the garden. Back to the tree and the trickling water and the cicadas. “You are not to blame for what your father did, Adiran.” Riin squeezed gently, leaning forward to catch his gaze. “And believe me, you are far from the first person to find themselves in a drunken brawl. Neither you or the other man deserve what happened. What is still happening.”

“But I---”

“Did you kill him? The man you fought.”

Adiran looked away. “I might as well have.”

“No - look at me.” Clenching his jaw, Adiran resisted for a moment, wishing they weren’t having this damned conversation, before finally giving in just to get it over with. “Good,” Riin said. “Now, did you order the hanging?”

“What? Of course not!”

“Then what did you demand?”

“Demand?“

“As compensation for your injuries.”

“Divider’s Own, Riin - nothing! We were drunk, and yeah, we acted like a couple of assholes. But I... I figured the city guard was just going to hold him until he sobered up. I didn’t even know I’d been recognised---”

Another squeeze, firmer this time. Adiran broke off, realising he was breathing hard. Too hard. Hard enough to have been mid-sprint. Nodding rapidly, he squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to calm down. Tried to focus on Riin’s unnatural warmth. His hand on his shoulder. His voice, softer now, as he spoke again. “Adiran... I’m taking you with me tonight. Okay? In truth, I’ve wanted to for a long time.” Something brushed gently against his jaw - the back of a finger? - prompting Adiran to raise his chin and reopen his eyes. “Listen to me. You need this. I’m glad you’re here.”

What more could possibly be said? To deny the truth was pointless. And with those amber eyes staring straight through him, how could he even begin to try?

“Why?” was all he managed instead, and the answer was delivered with a frown. Not of anger, but genuine confusion.

“Why am I glad?”

“No, I mean... why?” Realising, with the help of Riin’s flat stare, that he was being far from helpful, Adiran grunted and forced himself to try again. “You... you know the risks. Why would you agree to this at all?”

To his surprise, Riin relaxed. It wasn’t quite the reaction Adiran had expected; after all, it wasn’t exactly an easy question. But when Riin’s smile returned, warm and soft and reassuring, it suddenly seemed like it was.

“Because you asked me to.”

That was it? Just because he asked? Divider’s Own, that wasn’t a reason! Not a real one.

Was it?

As the silence lingered, Riin eventually arched one dark brow, something akin to amusement in his eyes. “Do you... need some other reason?”

Fuck, he was infuriating sometimes. Completely insufferable. Folding his arms across his chest, Adiran snorted and looked away, doing his best to reassert some kind of control over the mess he’d created. “I mean, it’d probably make me feel better about losing my shit before, yeah.”

Sometimes it was strange, how much Riin appreciated unfiltered honesty. Surprised, he started to laugh, then caught himself, glancing around gingerly, making sure he hadn’t given them away. “Well,” he continued more conservatively, turning back, “it’s a nice evening, and we’ve got a fair walk to where I planned to go tonight. We should head out.” Smiling, he slid his hand from Adiran’s shoulder to his back, applying just enough pressure to coax him gently towards the side gate. “I’ll try to come up with something better along the way.”

“Uh-huh. You’d better.” Adiran rolled his eyes, but they both knew his heart wasn’t in it. Not really. Because what better reason - what better words than the five Riin had already given - could possibly be said?

No, Adiran decided as they slipped through the gate and he found himself free of the palace for the first time in three years. To deny the truth really was pointless.