#the bruising takes a bit to fade though and leaves him really stiff and sore to start with

[fowlblue]

More Consequences fic scribbling! Equally messy but have another Spiro.

Jon's in pretty poor shape when he first gets picked up by Butler- lots of small injuries that take some time to fade. It only adds to his initial defensiveness, but hey, he’s been through it. Having to accept the help of your enemy is a lot for a proud man like him.

(for those who haven't read the fic and don't have context- this is an AU where post-TEC, Phonetix's CEO- my OC Valentine- takes Jon hostage when the man still refuses to hand his company over. Bad thing happen there until Butler crosses his path and takes some pity on him... hurt/comfort and eventual shippenings ensue!)

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Spit-Roast Psychiatrist [Part 3][18+]

<- Part 2 [male reader]  <- Part 2 [female reader] | Part 4 [female reader] -> Part 4 [male reader] ->

Frederick Chilton x Reader x Bryan Kneef

No plot, just fluff. For @thatesqcrush​’s summer bingo: aftercare square.

Warnings: NSFW, immediate aftermath of threesome, cuddling, insecurity, feelings

1,800 words

Bryan Kneef was the type of ruthless lawyer who stood up for the man and stuck it to the little guy. Vulgar, shameless, and tenacious, his name made opposing counsel tremble, and for good reason. He would do anything to win, and would just as soon bribe you, throw you under a bus, or fuck you.

And this man, having just fucked you and Dr. Frederick Chilton raw, was casually humming as he brought clean towels from the bathroom.

“Eyes closed,” he said—a tone that did not allow for argument, but soft, wearing a look of tender concentration on his brow.

Chilton closed his eyes, and he dabbed the warm, wet terrycloth to his cum-spattered face, clearing the stinging release from the area of danger before handing the towel to you to finish the job.

“This one’s dry.” Bryan pointed to a second towel he placed down beside you, then busied himself filling glasses of water from the sink.

As the partner doling out the most punishment, he took responsibility for taking care of everyone.

You guided Chilton to the couch, laying down a towel to catch the slick coating your thighs. He let out a stiff groan as he sank down, his bruised knees protesting, and you continued wiping down his face, stained with your, Bryan’s, and his own release. Some was stuck in his thick brown hair that would need an extra shampooing, some flecked his bare stomach, and swipes transferred from his hands painted his arms and chest. You let him wipe up his own stomach. He was sensitive about the long, raised scar there, which, while it had long ago healed physically, produced a different pain than the kind he got off on. The place he had been brutally violated was the one place treated with dignity.

Bryan returned with the water insisting everyone hydrate. Then he joined you on the couch, sitting beside Chilton, and pulling him down onto his broad, soft chest. Chilton curled his legs over your lap, and you tipped over his back, partially spooning him as he rested on Bryan. You trailed your hand over his back, stroking down the outside of his thigh, and he sighed as Bryan ran his fingers through his sweat-matted hair.

“You did very well,” Bryan cooed. “Our good little fuck toy.”

Chilton’s muscles went rigid. He turned his face down into Bryan’s greying chest hair to hide the color rising on his cheeks, though there was no hiding the blotchy red on a pale, naked doctor. Degradation was one thing, but praise? Praise was another entirely. He relished the safe feeling of being nestled between your two warm bodies as he came down from the adrenaline, but being told he was good triggered a squirmy, hot feeling in his stomach.

He was relieved when Bryan moved on and asked, “How do you feel? Anything hurt?”

Business. Professional. Checking on him physically, he could handle. Chilton shook his head and murmured something meant to be more intelligible than what came out, but managed to convey that he was fine—fucked brainless and boneless, but fine.

Bryan didn’t stay long. 

That was the deal. While you were playing at Chilton being a toy for the two of you to use, in reality, Bryan was the one you brought in to have fun with. He had no intention of overstaying his welcome. After a quick shower, his clothes were back on—a sharp navy suit hiding any hint of the unprofessional purpose for which he had visited your hotel room—and he was making a quick goodbye.

“You’re sure you don’t want to stay? There’s plenty of room.”

Bryan’s pink lips curved up slightly, the corners lost in his neatly trimmed beard. “Nah, I have a deposition in the morning. Boring shit, but—” He shrugged.

Chilton had managed to change into a loose-fitting t-shirt, though his eyes were heavy-lidded, and his chatty nature was subdued. His hair was tousled and wet from the shower, making it appear almost black. 

“Good luck tomorrow,” Bryan said to him jovially, with a pat on the shoulder. “This was fun. Next time you’re in Chicago, let’s meet at my place. I have a lot more toys.”

He ran two fingers under your chin with the promise of pleasure to come, stepping into your space. Your nostrils quivered as you involuntarily sniffed him.

Then he turned to Chilton, whose hand was glued to your waist. Bryan narrowed his eyes slightly in consideration, and kissed him on the mouth. Lips colliding with a hungry snarl, their teeth clashed, and his beard battled Chilton’s coat of stubble to see who would leave a burn on the other’s chin. When he pulled back, Chilton’s green eyes gaped unblinking at him like a deer caught in the headlights of a swingers’ cruise.

Bryan smirked, and was gone.

* * *

The VIP hotel suite had a separate bedroom—a sweeping space decorated with modern black and white marble in crisp lines, a king-sized bed dressed in white linens and a fluffy black throw blanket. It opened into a master bathroom with a standing spa tub which you would certainly enjoy later when the soreness set in. For now, you and Frederick stumbled in to the privacy of the room and fell onto the vast bed together.

He let out a long, grateful moan as he stretched out on the clean sheets. It was rare to see him look so comfortable, with towel-dried hair curling into messy ringlets in every direction. Your heart fluttered at this perfectly unwound Chilton. There was the faintest hint of a bruise where Bryan’s fingers had dug in below his jaw, but it would be easy enough to hide with makeup if it wasn’t faded by the next day.

You kissed him gently on the bruise, and then curled an arm over his chest and settled against his side. His thumb found the back of your hand and traced small, wandering circles.

“So… did you like it?”

He nodded speechlessly.

“That’s good. I was worried it went too far.”

“That was the idea,” he replied.

A frown tugged at the affectionate smile your lips wanted to make, wrestled with it for control, and finally overpowered it in its sullen grip. You weren’t good enough on your own, in other words. You weren’t strong enough, not harsh enough to satisfy Dr. Chilton’s masochistic lust to be dominated.

Still, you wouldn’t ruin a lovely night by letting on that it bothered you.

“Yes, it was. And you took it so well,” you purred, savoring the feeling of his chest hair between your splayed fingers as you thoughtfully stroked his chest. “I think you really enjoyed yourself.”

He smiled dreamily, closing his eyes and reliving the memories. Your gentle palm was so warm, lulling him to sleep with its slow, meandering journey. His hand rested over yours, accompanying it like a passenger.

“Did you?” he asked.

Your hand stopped.

One of his deep green eyes cracked open.

“I did,” you said. “I wasn’t sure at first, but Bryan was so easy to work with. So magnetic. It was empowering having him there. Making you our willing slave that I had total control over.” A shiver ran straight to your over-worked sex remembering Chilton on his knees between you. How hard he worked to get you off. The way he looked at you with worship, even as tears burned down his face. No need to mention how it made you feel inadequate.

Frederick was quiet for a time, lost somewhere, too. Then a tiny voice came from his pillow. “Did you… like Bryan’s cock more than mine?”

“What?”

“Am I unsatisfactory by comparison? Do I not make you feel as good?”

“Frederick… this is why I didn’t want to do this.” Apparently Bryan made everyone feel inadequate.

“Oh.” His chin bobbed with a stiff inhale, and he looked away as if that was your answer.

“That stuff about him fucking me better… Those were just mean things we said to emasculate you—because you wanted us to!”

“It does not make it less true.”

“Well, it’s not,” you retorted stubbornly. “I love you.”

His cheeks flamed again. All of your emphasis on you, as in not Bryan. Not anyone else. The squirming, uncomfortable feeling in his belly returned, and he had to look away before you noticed how emotional he was getting. God. Why was being told he was a dickless fuckdoll so much easier than hearing that he was loved, when he desperately wanted to be loved? Thank god the psychiatric analyses he published were about someone else’s issues.

“We could do this more often,” he said in a light tone to put you at ease, skimming past his rather pathetic outburst of insecurity. “I liked him, too.”

“That is a monster cock he’s packing. I’m going to need a week to recover!” you laughed.

“As will I.”

“Oh! Should I bring you a cold pack? Or the vitamin E oil?”

“Worry about it tomorrow?” He held your wrist to prevent you from springing into action-mode. “I just want you to hold me.”

You lay back on the impressive modern bedspread and enjoyed the feeling of closeness. Frederick’s hand on your back, the quiet rhythm of his breath. You thought about sinking into a bath tomorrow, letting it ease your muscles and tender entrance. Frederick would want to wash his hair again before the Chicago Psychiatric Convention tomorrow to make sure all of the cum was gone, and to fix the results of letting it dry naturally. You anticipated waking up next to the cutest little cowlick. Maybe sending him off with a blowjob if there was time. 

But a dark thought kept nipping at the soft corners of the moment, tugging it out of focus with sharp needle teeth. Replaying the titillating scene from earlier, the pest only grew, preventing you from enjoying what should have been an arousing memory. The longer you ignored it, the harder it bit. 

Finally, you sighed, “Did you like him more than me?”

Startled, Frederick raised a brow and laughed. “He was quite impressive.”

When your face failed to show any sign of mirth, he realized you might have needed as much reassurance as he did. (Though he could not account for why. You were perfect.) He dropped his teasing, narrow-eyed, carefully-considering-it look.

“But I am rather fond of you.”

His lips met yours softly, with just the faintest brush of thin skin, melding slowly as you let out a contented noise that vibrated against him. Your fingers brushed through his messy hair, soothing over the scalp where you’d yanked before. The contrast made his skin tingle with goosebumps.

“Nothing could ever replace you,” he whispered reverently against your lips. “Nothing.”

A soft sob you hadn’t realized was threatening to break free broke, and you quelled it with another kiss, deeper this time. Not urgent, but needy, your tongue delving into his mouth, capturing the lingering taste of Bryan Kneef. Two gorgeous men to fuck. How did you get so lucky? You felt even luckier knowing that whatever happened with Bryan, you and Frederick had each other. 

Always.

“So,” you spoke in a low voice as your lips parted, “are you nice and relaxed for your panel tomorrow?”

“Am I ready to stand up in front of a room filled with hundreds of bitter academic rivals and defend my results, while they all wait to pick them apart, hoping to humiliate me with a question I had not accounted for? Is that what you mean?”

“...Yes?”

“My nerves are much calmer now.” He melted into the pillow with a sated smile. “Thank you.”

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

Tags: 

@beccabarba / @itsjustmyfantasyroom / @thatesqcrush / @dianilaws / @permanentlydizzy / @mrsrafaelbarba / @madamsnape921 / @astrangegirlsmind / @neely1177 / @onerestein / @dreamlover31 / @isvvc-pvscvl  / @shroomiehomie / @storiesofsvu / @welcometothemxdhouse / @feedthemadness-sweetie / @law-nerd105 / @amelia-song-pond / @michael-rooker / @xecq / @madpanda75 / @alwaysachorusgirl / @bananas-pajamas / @leanor-min / @mad-girl-without-a-box / @katierpblogg / @worldofvixen / @sassyada​

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Good as Gold pt. 7

[part six] | [part eight] [prostitute!Jaskier masterpost]

Geralt doesn't get far from Hagge before the shame and guilt catch up with him and he realizes he's just left Jaskier there without so much as an explanation. Fuck. He should have known this couldn't last long before he'd inevitably fuck it up. He wants to turn in the opposite direction, head west and get as far as he can from Hagge and never return. There are other Witchers who can take care of problems in the area, there's no reason Geralt need ever come back.

Only he knows he can't leave Jaskier like that. He owes him an explanation at least after Jaskier was so kind to him when no one else was. But he can't go back right now, Jaskier would surely have him thrown out and then he'd never get a chance to apologize. So, grumpy and angry and wracked with guilt, Geralt heads for Ban Gleán.

He picks up a contract for a werewolf to keep his mind off of things and to work out some of the excess energy. The hunt doesn't go exactly as anticipated and as he turns back toward Hagge, his purse slightly heavier than before, his whole body aches.

By the time he's bathed and clean, it's getting late and Geralt is no less stiff than when he departed Ban Gleán three days prior - if anything, he feels worse. But he made a promise to himself and now that the anger has drained from him, replaced only with simmering guilt, he's determined to keep that promise. As he approaches the brothel, a woman scoffs at him and he wonders if she saw him leaving last time or if she saw Jaskier afterward. The one woman who acknowledges him inside is no more kind and Geralt braces himself for the worst.

Geralt did a lot of stupid things the last time he was here and he wouldn't blame any of them for telling him to leave - not least of all for the marks he left on Jaskier's back. Jaskier will probably turn him away, even if the others don't.

But by some miracle, he runs into Jaskier in the hall upstairs and he seems, for lack of a better word, relieved to see Geralt again. A small smile crosses his lips and he reaches out tentatively, brushing a hand down Geralt's forearm.

"Hey," he says softly, "I wasn't sure you'd be coming back. Certainly not this soon. Is something wrong?"

"Can we talk in your room?" Geralt asks, expecting to be turned down for somewhere more public, somewhere with witnesses. Jaskier just clasps his hand and turns toward his room.

Once inside, he shuts the door behind him and when his back is turned, Geralt can see the remnants of his work. The bruises are smaller now, faded, but still there and shame wars with something like pride inside him, but he pushes both feelings aside, reaching out to brush his fingers over the darkened skin.

"I'm sorry," he says, frowning at Jaskier's shoulders. "I got carried away last time, I shouldn't have-"

Jaskier turns, taking both his hands and setting them on his shoulders, pushing closer against Geralt's chest. "I know," he says quietly, "that I said no marks, but I liked it. I like looking in the glass and seeing them. Reminds me of you." Geralt scoffs and turns away, but Jaskier leans in, nosing under his jaw. "Last time was incredibly hot, Gealt, though I get the feeling you weren't feeling exactly yourself."

"No. I shouldn't have... I could have hurt you."

"Oh, darling, I've had so much worse."

"That doesn't make it okay," Geralt grumbles.

"Sure, you marked me up a bit," Jaskier shrugs, "but honestly, I wanted you to. If I didn't, I would have stopped you. But you didn't do anything I told you not to and you felt amazing. So why don't we just forget about last time, hm?" He plants his hands on Geralt's chest, pushing him slightly backward, but Geralt winces as the unusual movement and Jaskier stops.

"Are you okay?" he asks and when Geralt just grumbles, his hands drop back to his sides. "What's wrong, Geralt?"

"Just a little stiff. Jaskier, I shouldn't stay, I betrayed your trust-"

"You did no such thing," Jaskier insists. "I'm not going to send you away like this, you're clearly in pain. Come," he says, taking Geralt's hands again and leading him toward the bed.

He sits him down and when Geralt shuts his eyes, he doesn't sense any hesitation, Jaskier's scent is as sharp and bright as usual, though maybe tinged with a hint of worry. No fear. No disgust. So he lets it play out, lets Jaskier remove his boots and shirt and when he's standing between his knees looking down at him, Geralt realizes Jaskier isn't upset with him. If anything, he's worried about his well being. It doesn't make any sense, but Jaskier is insistent.

Jaskier climbs onto the bed behind him, settling behind him and he runs his hands up Geralt's back, brushing lightly against his skin. His fingertips press into the tense muscle in his shoulders and Geralt lets out a shut-off groan, shifting under the touch.

"Okay?" Jaskier asks and he nods. "Your shoulders are like rocks," Jaskier comments, "what happened?"

"Hunt," Geralt mumbles, "had to lure out a werewolf."

"And that's why your shoulders are so tense?" Jaskier asks skeptically.

"Didn't have a lot of space to move around."

"For how long?"

"A while," Geralt shrugs and instantly regrets the motion, wincing at the stiffness in his muscles. "Hard to keep track of time while you're just sitting there."

"Gods, Geralt, you need to take better care of yourself."

Geralt just hums doubtfully at him but Jaskier ignores it, continuing his ministrations. His hands are soft, but manage to find every knot, working it out with something like practiced ease and Geralt melts under his touch. None of the massage techniques he's picked up over the years quite compare to this - not even the ones he learned at Kaer Morhen. Most of those were intended to be self-administered, for times when stiffness and sore limbs were simply not an option. None of them involved soft hands and delicate touches, knowing exactly where each muscle needs to be worked to ease the tension. Geralt wants to ask where he learned this, but he doubts he'd like the answer and after last time, he doesn't need any reminders of Jaskier's other bedmates.

"You're-" he stutters as Jaskier's fingers slide around the back of his neck, pressing in near the base of his skull "-very good at this."

"Feels good?"

"Mm."

"Good. Are you planning on staying tonight, gorgeous?"

"Wasn't really, no." After what he did, he doesn’t deserve it.

"That's a shame." Jaskier hums and lets his hands drop back to Geralt's shoulders. "Though," he adds thoughtfully, "I can't very well send you off like this. "Lie on your stomach for me, darling, I'll be right back."

He slips from the bed and Geralt watches after him until Jaskier looks back over his shoulder and gives him a look. Geralt just grumbles softly to himself and readjusts to lie on his front. He settles into the sheets, resting his arms along his sides and he shuts his eyes. Geralt lets himself take in the scents and sounds of the room; he's gotten particularly good at blocking out the sounds of other people fucking around them, narrowing his attention to Jaskier and Jaskier only. But tonight he's having a harder time of it and the woman in the room next to them is making no attempt to be quiet. Geralt wants to bang on the wall and tell them to shut up because his head aches and he's grouchy, but Jaskier returns just in time, holding a small bottle of oil - one Geralt recognizes to be his favourite because it's only lightly scented and surprisingly pleasant. Jaskier doesn't mention it, but Geralt is sure he picked it specifically for him.

"How are your legs?" he asks, pressing his palm up the backside of Geralt's thigh.

"Sore."

"Gonna need you out of these then," Jaskier says, smoothing up his leg again. When Geralt grunts in response, Jaskier climbs up over him, reaching under him to get his trousers undone before tugging them down and discarding them with the rest of his clothes. A wave of heat rolls, unbidden, up Geralt’s spine.

"Neat trick," he mumbles into the pillow.

"I'm very good at getting men out of their clothes. Now, are you comfortable like this?"

"Yes."

"Good." Jaskier climbs up over him and it's not until he sits back that Geralt realizes he's naked too, the soft brush of Jaskier's leg hair ticking against his thighs. A bolt of arousal zips up in his spine and Geralt inhales slowly, forcing his body to relax.

But Jaskier is done with his shoulders apparently, and his hands wrap around one thigh, squeezing and pushing right up to the swell of his ass before pulling away entirely. And Geralt groans at the loss before he can get himself under control. There's a soft huff of breath from above him, ever so faint and very self-satisfied. Geralt decides not to mention it. But Jaskier keeps squeezing and rubbing and he always knows exactly where to press and Geralt's control can only hold so long.

"Tell me about your hunt," Jaskier says and when did he get that close to his ear?

To his credit, Geralt tries. But thinking and keeping control of his body are both difficult right now and his control slips further, stuttering out a moan as he tries to describe the trap he set for the werewolf. He stumbles through the rest of the story and Jaskier hums along with him. His hands are soothing and the stiffness eases from Geralt’s muscles, but it does nothing to keep him from getting hard under his touch.

And Jaskier realizes, the bastard, and leans into it. He slips up over the curve of Geralt's ass, squeezing hard before drawing away, then he does it again. Geralt's heart thuds against his ribs, his breath comes in short bursts and he buries his face in the pillow to keep from moaning out loud. But the cushion smells like Jaskier and combined with the thick scent of his own arousal, it just makes it harder to concentrate on anything but the pulsing need flowing through him.

"Jaskier," he chokes, but just as he does, one warm slick finger presses between his cheeks, circling his hole and this time the moan drops from his lips unhindered.

"You can tell me to stop any time, darling." The thing is, he doesn’t want him to stop. But he doesn’t deserve this. And he shouldn't let Jaskier continue because he came here to apologize, but this feels too good and he's so relaxed and Jaskier just knows what to do to get him riled up.

He gives up on talking, pressing his face back into the cushion, stifling another moan as Jaskier's finger slips into him. He presses deeper, thrusting lightly in and out and Geralt has to struggle to keep from pushing his hips up. When Jaskier presses a second finger against him, Geralt's breath catches and he spreads his thighs a little wider, hoping it will encourage him - and it does. Jaskier gets both fingers into him, fucking him steadily without hesitation and Geralt's body goes limp under him.

He shifts and even the ache in his back doesn't stop him from rocking his hips back onto Jaskier's fingers. His cock catches on the sheets on the down thrust and he lets out a needy whine that he almost doesn't recognize as his own. Under him, his cock aches to be touched, the soft bedding only doing so much to satisfy his need and Jaskier is relentless.

He fucks into him steadily, never once changing speed, until Geralt is rutting into the mattress and Jaskier's cock sits hard and wet against the back of his thigh. Then he pulls out and Geralt nearly whimpers with the loss, but Jaskier draws up over him, straddling his thighs to reach his shoulders. And Geralt moans as that hot, wet head slides against his hole. His own cock throbs beneath him and he very nearly asks Jaskier to just fuck him, but then Jaskier climbs off of him and rolls him onto his back.

For a moment, nothing happens and Geralt looks up to find Jaskier just looking at him like he's appraising him.

"Stunning," he concludes and without another word, gets back to work, massaging the front of Geralt's thighs. He smoothes his hands up his chest and Geralt just groans in frustration, fisting his hands in the sheets as Jaskier's fingers brush against his nipples.

Pleasure zips through him and it's all he can do to keep still with Jaskier's hands mapping out his stomach and chest. And when his hands slip lower it's worse; just barely there brushes against his cock, light enough that Geralt might not even notice it if he wasn't aching for any little touch. And just when he thinks he can't take it any longer, when he's about to wrap a hand around himself, Jaskier stops him.

He slips his hands around Geralt's fists, gently unfurling his fingers before pushing his arms up above his head and running his hands back down. Geralt stays in place, curious to see where Jaskier is going with this as Jaskier's hands run down his arms and he bends to kiss his chest. He's mumbling something, too muffled for Geralt to quite understand though he can feel the way his lips move against his skin. Then he's moving on, winding his tongue around a nipple and Geralt presses into the touch as a jolt goes straight through his cock.

Jaskier takes his time after that, licking and sucking until both his nipples are swollen and red and Geralt's cock drips constantly against his hip. When Jaskier finally works his way lower, Geralt is so aroused he can barely keep still. Each brush of Jaskier's lips has him twitching, each time his hair brushes his skin. And when he finally slides his lips around the head of his cock, Geralt lets out a choked-off moan that he's sure they'll hear all the way down the hall.

But Jaskier is unconcerned about how loud he is or who will hear them, winding his tongue around him and dipping it into the slit. His hand wraps around where his mouth doesn't reach and he squeezes firmly, pressing his thumb up along the underside of him.

Jaskier works over him with ease, bobbing quickly in his lap and taking him down further than Geralt would have thought comfortable. It's when he bumps against the back of Jaskier's throat that he really has to steady himself because Jaskier doesn't stop there, doesn't stop until the muscles in his throat contract around him.

Geralt groans, groping blindly until his hand finds Jaskier, cupping the back of his head and tangling his fingers in his hair. He doesn't push, but Jaskier doesn't give him a chance even if he wanted to, sinking down obscenely before sliding back up his entire length and repeating the process. In his life, Geralt can't count the number of mouths he's had wrapped around his cock, but none of them were able to take him like this - most of them were afraid to try once they saw the size of him. But Jaskier seems to see him as a challenge of sorts and for the first time, Geralt is happy to have someone experiment on him.

Jaskier pulls off of him with a wet sound and Geralt tips his head to look at him. He's flushed a pretty shade of pink, his lips slick and swollen and Geralt struggles to come up with a word to describe him other than beautiful. His cock throbs as if to remind him that he's ignoring it, but Geralt's attention is temporarily diverted despite the heat that creeps under his skin and spreads through his entire body.

He presses his fingertips into Jaskier's scalp and he shuts his eyes, pressing up into the touch. The resulting moan is soft and low and Geralt can't help doing it again. Jaskier's eyes drop shut, but a smile creeps onto his face.

"I know you said you come here to talk," he says and Geralt can't get over how rough his voice is, "but I would very much like to fuck you right now."

"Fuck, yes."

Jaskier's eyes snap up to his and when Geralt doesn't look away or retract his permission, Jaskier dips down, running his tongue along the arch of Geralt's hip bone before drawing up over him. He pushes his knees under Geralt's thighs, pressing in until their cocks slot together in delicious friction that has Geralt tugging Jaskier closer. Jaskier presses his lips to the bolt of Geralt's jaw, reaching down with one arm to lift Geralt's leg over his hip and he groans against him as the motion presses them together.

He nips at Geralt's jaw, groaning with each little shift in their position, then he gets down to his neck and Geralt tips his head back with a stuttered sigh. He's never thought much about places on his body that are sensitive, not at least outside his nipples, his cock, or his ass, but Jaskier sucks on that one spot under his jaw and he feels it all the way through him. And it's so fucking good, like a tingling that spreads slowly before overtaking him completely. And Jaskier seems to know this because he always pays special attention to his neck and throat, kissing and sucking at the skin like it's all he could ever want.

Geralt rocks his hips slowly, happy enough to let Jaskier bring them together with each of his movements. It's soft and Geralt wonders if this is what it feels like for people who fuck just to be close to each other. Something twists in his chest, but he quickly dismisses it, assuring himself it's a byproduct of his exhaustion and the way Jaskier hums against his skin.

Jaskier shifts above him, tilting to one side as he adjusts himself, pressing his cock against Geralt's rim and giving a few short thrusts before pushing in. It's a little tight, a little dry, but it keeps Geralt's mind from wandering where it shouldn't and he's almost disappointed when Jaskier reaches for the oil again. Almost.

It eases the intrusion, allows Jaskier to fuck him more easily, but it eases the bite and without that, Geralt feels like he's floating. They slip easily against each other, both of them now slick with the oil covering Geralt's skin and it's pushing the boundaries of too much. Geralt doesn't get softness or tenderness and he's never quite sure what to do with a compliment or even a simple thank you, so Jaskier's insistent tenderness creeps under his skin and makes it crawl. Geralt wants him to fuck him hard, without hesitation; quick and hard and impersonal, but a much more needy part of him doesn't want this to stop.

Jaskier seems to realize something's up and he traces a line down Geralt's neck with his lips, thrusting just lightly as he lifts his mouth from his skin.

"Okay?" he breathes.

"You don't have to be so careful with me," Geralt mumbles, carefully avoiding eye contact. Jaskier's lips find his skin again.

"I know, darling, and next time I'll fuck you so hard you can't walk straight, but you're sore." He noses at the underside of Geralt's jaw with a soft, pleased sound. "You could barely stand up when you came in here, I'm not going to risk hurting you just because I can't keep my hands off you."

Geralt wants to protest, to tell Jaskier's he's fine, that he wants this, but at that moment, Jaskier moves back over him, sliding deeper and the words die on Geralt's lips. He groans softly, winding his free hand around Jaskier's waist and grinding up against his stomach.

"That's it, gorgeous, let me feel you."

"Why do you call me that?" Geralt rumbles, turning to press his nose into Jaskier's hair.

"Gorgeous?" he asks, "because you are. Just look at you-" he runs a hand over Geralt's chest as if to prove his point. "Your eyes and your body and-" he huffs a soft laugh against Geralt's skin, reaching down to curl around him "-your cock. Do you know who I usually see? Old men who can barely get it up anymore.”

A wave of jealousy surges through him but Geralt shuts his eyes and pushes it away, focusing on Jaskier’s body against his own.

"I'm much older than them," he breathes, much of his effect lost by the breathlessness of his voice.

"And much more beautiful." Jaskier's lips press against his neck again, moving down to leave a little wet trail of kisses down his chest as far as he can reach. "I could spend a month describing all of your lovely features and still find myself wanting for more time."

Geralt's body heats under the praise, but he finds that coming from Jaskier, it's surprisingly welcome. He rocks back onto him, pressing his leg a little tighter around him, and Jaskier moans.

"Fuck," he whispers, "you feel so good wrapped around my cock like that. Gods, how do you do this to me?" Jaskier shifts, snapping his hips hard and Geralt is helpless to do anything but hold onto him as pleasure rips through him.

He realizes with a start that Jaskier must be close because his thrusts become quicker, less controlled and the words mumbled into his skin become muddled. Every little movement has Geralt fucking up into Jaskier's hand and his grip just gets tighter as he gets closer.

Jaskier's thrusts get quicker until he's snapping his hips, grinding up against that spot inside him with every thrust. Geralt comes almost unexpectedly, wrapping himself around Jaskier as he ruts into him.

"Yeah," Jaskier pants, "that's it beautiful, come on. Fuck, you're so fucking good for me-" Geralt doesn't hear anything else through the rush in his ears and then he's coming hard, hips stuttering as he presses himself into Jaskier's stomach.

Jaskier continues, back arched and panting and Geralt holds him through it.

"Geralt," he huffs, "ah, fuck, Geralt-" he snaps forward, burying himself deep and gasping and grunting into Geralt's neck as his hips continue to twitch.

Jaskier stays inside him until Geralt's oversensitive, twitching at every little movement. His fingers are still tangled in Jaskier's hair, Jaskier's head tucked into his shoulder and Geralt can feel exhaustion creeping up on him.

"I'd like to come with you some time," Jaskier murmurs and the confession is enough to jolt Geralt back to wakefulness, "to see what you do. I could help when you have to sit in small spaces for a long time."

"Wouldn't let you," Geralt mumbles.

"What? Help?"

"Come with me. It's too dangerous, you'd get hurt, or worse."

"I can take care of myself."

"Not against a monster," Geralt counters. "Besides, I wouldn't take anyone with me unarmed."

"I could get a sword."

He scoffs. "Not a sword."

"Then what? I've never used a bow before."

"And you've used a sword?" Geralt asks, quirking an eyebrow at him.

"I've used a rapier."

"It's not the same."

Jaskier pouts at him, but he falls silent, apparently considering this. He's quiet for so long that Geralt nearly drifts off, even sticky and slippery as he is, but then Jaskier pipes up again.

"If you were to stop all of this, to give it up, where would you settle?"

"I wouldn't," Geralt says without hesitation, "Witchers don't settle down. We can't have families, so we continue on the Path until, inevitably, we die."

Jaskier screws up his face at that, pushing himself up and out of Geralt's arms. "That's a terrible outlook to have."

"It's true for us. I've never known a Witcher to live a happy life."

Jaskier falls silent, but Geralt can practically feel his mind working. He shuts his eyes, but there’s a sudden spike of sadness and when he opens his eyes, Jaskier leans up, looking down at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “about last time. I didn’t mean for it to be like that. Anise came to me and asked me to change rooms and I’d barely finished setting up when I heard you were here. I didn’t have time to bathe properly like I normally do. I should have sent you away, asked you to come back later. I was too eager to see you and I didn’t think it would be a problem.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt huffs, stiffening at the reminder. “I was the one who overreacted.”

“Just… don’t think that I did it on purpose. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Geralt doesn’t respond and Jaskier pulls out, settling himself next to Geralt on the mattress. He cuddles closer, draping one leg over Geralt’s and sliding his fingers around the side of his neck. “Are you really alone all the time? Do you ever take wives, at least? Husbands?"

"My brother," Geralt starts, considering how much is acceptable to say, "has a partner. Of sorts."

"Do they live together?"

"No."

"Then what's the point if they’re still alone?" Jaskier rises up over him, looking down expectantly. He sounds pained and Geralt sighs softly.

He reaches up, brushing the damp hair from Jaskier's forehead. "I know it's hard for you to understand," he says, "it's not hard for humans to find people to love them. Even the most awful humans live their lives surrounded by others, but it's different for us. They may not see each other all the time, or even often, but in their darkest moments, they have someone to think of, someone to help them push through. Any relationship a Witcher has is going to be far different than human partnerships."

As Jaskier settles back against him, Geralt runs his fingers through his hair, relieved that he seems to be finished with this conversation.

"But what about you?" Jaskier asks, "in your darkest moments, who do you have to think of?" Geralt's breath catches and he freezes for a moment.

"No one," he says because he can't admit to Jaskier that the last time he was in trouble, the last time he really thought it might be the end, he thought of him.

[bashfulgnome]

Converge

Hi everyone! It’s been a long time since I’ve posted a new fic, as I’ve been very busy for this past year. But I’m back and I’ve finally finished something that’s been in the works for many months. I hope you all enjoy!

Warning for moderately-graphic descriptions of injury, and very mild innuendo.

“Two o'clock!”

One blast and the creature dropped from the sky, screeching in a puddle of its own innards.

He didn’t know why, but they stood back-to-back, taking a last stand against a swarm of cy-bugs on a windy, barren patch of land beyond the perimeter check radius. He didn’t know how he was managing to hold up such a large rifle either, but he did know he had to keep firing on the horde if the two of them had any hope of getting back to base. The fifty or so remaining insects circled above them in a continuous wave, blotting out the hazy dappled sunlight and strafing the fire aimed their way, while a few cyclically broke from the mass to divebomb the pair Galaga-style.

His fingers locked stiff against the weapon and he ignored the soreness in his joints. Letting up, even for a moment, wasn’t a chance he was willing to take; not when they were fully depending on each other for their mutual safety.

She held up well—as would be expected—although he wondered how she could see through her helmet with her sweat-soaked hair all plastered against her face. Nothing seemed to bother her in the heat of battle, and she was as determined to protect him as much as he was for her.

Their tactical formation allowed them to rotate in the opposite direction of their enemy. Leaning back against each other, both feeling their partner’s movements and working with the coordination of one mind, they placed measured footfalls in an inverted tango as they fought together. The state of flow allowed them to pick off multiple bugs per second, pausing only for verbal warnings. After a couple minutes of their practiced teamwork, only the smaller and injured members of the swarm remained.

For all the effectiveness of their strategy, the spinning, insects droning, vision swirling, weapons thundering, and buffeting of the wind chipped away at his bearings. He remembered what she had always told her troops—"stare at ‘em flyin’ in circles too long and the ground’ll come up to meet you"—and in his disorientation he failed to notice a cy-bug with a partially-smashed wing landing perpendicular to his and his lady’s field of vision. Only as it squealed and clattered towards them did he realize too late that it was aiming for her weapon.

Unable to turn sharply without sweeping his partner down with him, he shoved backwards, nudging her out of the way of the bug, and falling into its path himself. It was no surprise to him that the monster was not picky; he would do nicely as a consolation prize. Without hesitation it sunk its teeth into his leg armor with a sickening series of pops and pulled him off his feet, causing him to hit the ground hard enough to dislodge his rifle from his grasp. Before he could retrieve it, his captor attempted to drag him into the air, but lacked the leverage and strength to gain more than a few feet of altitude with him in tow. A voice foreign in its tone and volume screamed out from within him,

“Tam! Run!”

Unarmed, he could only push and pull against the creature’s mandibles in an attempt to stay upright, let alone injure it enough to make it release him. Either way Tamora was safe. There had only been three other bugs remaining; he could hear her yelling out and gunning down the last of them behind him. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing to do, he reasoned, but he shook off his helmet to get a better view of his enemy. He wouldn’t be needing the headgear for long anyway, provided his plan worked out.

He punched the insect in the eyes—breaking one of them—and flailed around to keep his leg out of the churning metal spikes, trying to buy her as much time to get away as he could. The furious shocks of pain gave way to numbness from the pressure. Clenching his eyes shut, he rocked back and forth in the hopes of disorienting his attacker. The buzzing only grew louder and his struggles more desperate as the bug’s patience wore thin—

CRUNCH.

Was…that his leg?  

The monster suddenly buckled in midair and sunk to the ground with a screeching howl of agony that burned his ears, green blood pouring out from around its neck and eye sockets.

He chanced a peek and found himself in no different condition than a few seconds ago. But the bug was much less fortunate.

He fully opened his eyes and saw Tamora on its back, knife drawn in between the plates of the steel exoskeleton, furiously sawing away at the cords connecting its head to the rest of its body as the creature scrabbled around in a futile attempt to grab her.

“Stay with me, soldier!” she shouted, between dodging the sharp edges of broken wings flailing at her. “They’re at their worst when they know it’s over!”

With each snap of a cut cable, they descended farther until he felt the ground give him a light slap on the back of his head. By the time Tamora reached the last wire, her blade had dulled from the heavy use and only cut partway through. Not wanting to waste any time, she flipped up the face visor of her helmet, bit into the frayed cord like a predator delivering the killing blow, and tore it the rest of the way apart with her teeth. With a hot spark and a fading groan, the light finally went out of the bug’s cracked eye lenses and the whirling blades slowed to a stop.

She rolled off the creature’s back and landed facedown on the ground with a heavy sigh of relief, pulling her helmet off onto the cool, dusty ground scarred with scrap metal. He reached out from his nearby spot and gently brushed her hair out of her face.

A new, intense sort of affection for her crackled to life and swelled in his chest as they caught their breath together. Here in the glow of the last bug’s postmortem electrical sizzling, he felt closer to her than he ever had, grateful that she had come back to get him, and he wasn’t sure exactly what he felt with how she took down that monster—proud? Awed? Lovely confusion swirled together all over itself, and the only way he knew how to express it right then and there was to clear a spot on her cheek for a kiss.

She chuckled, still facedown—a sharp exhale that told him she was smiling even with her face hidden in the ashy soil—and gave his shoulder plate a friendly half-punch.

He propped himself up on his uninjured leg and pulled himself into some semblance of an upright posture, leaning heavily to one side. The adrenaline had clearly worn off; pins and needles roiled inside his skin. His groaning at the sudden sensation returning to his limb caught her attention, and he extended a hand to help her up when she raised her head to take a look. Pulling her up he seemed to see her at eye level, face-to-face, but somehow it just made sense in all his disorientation.

He glanced her up and down with a questioning look.

“I’m good,” she grunted, and slung both of their firearms over her back with one helmet balanced upon each of them. Her rote work machinations froze when her eyes drifted to his injury.

“What the hell is that?”

His heavy armor had fortunately prevented his leg from being snapped in half, but the attack had caused the plates to buckle inward across the entire space from his knee to his ankle. The razor-sharp edges scratched open the undersuit and the nearly-black bruises left beneath it; he looked as though he’d tried to fatally shin-kick a stack of plate glass covered in concrete. Bending the leg only made his nerves scream in protest, and he had to wait for the chill to pass through his spine before he could answer.

He took a breath to speak, and his voice came out nearly unrecognizable. He couldn’t tell if he’d hit his head too hard or taken a shock from the severed wire, but he felt disconnected from his own speech.

“I’m okay…it’s just some cuts,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Doesn’t even look like it really broke the skin!”

No sooner did he speak than a trickle of blood ran down the cracks in his armor and pooled on the dirt around his foot. The wounds were so sensitive that he could practically feel the little stream dribbling over and into them on its way down. Or was that the leftover panic-sweat pouring down his legs now that he was standing? He couldn’t tell.

Tamora raised an eyebrow. “You’re not walking on that, babe, it’s gonna tear itself apart and you’ll bleed out. C'mere and lean over.”

“Hon, you’re already holding both weapons—”

“—Up you go.”

Minding his leg, she hoisted him across her shoulders in a fireman’s carry and headed off. With the greater-than-usual effort she required to haul him up, he wondered if she was injured too. The thought made him want to clip through the ground.

Close together as they were, with a better look at her face he found a red streak tracing the outline of the visor from her lower lip to the middle of her right cheek. She dismissed his stare with a grunt.

“Don’t worry about it, just a little zap. Once it’s done tingling it’ll heal up and fade.”

“'Don’t worry about it’? Tam, you could’ve gotten electrocuted! Why’d you go to all that trouble?”

“You were too close to it,” she stated matter-of-factly. “I couldn’t shoot it without hitting you or blowin’ shrapnel all over your leg, and if I tried to break the wires by twisting its neck then its teeth would’ve gotten pushed into you even deeper.”

“No I mean…why? And for what? I wasn’t even supposed to be on this mission and I could’ve gotten you killed! You could’ve just come back for me later! You know how fast the backups roll out when it’s something like this—”

“You really think I’d leave you there when there’d be nothing but a pile of warm guts to come back to if I’d waited any longer?!” she barked in exasperation. “Oughtta know by now that I love you. After throwing yourself in front of that thing for me, I wasn’t gonna sit there and let you pay the whole tab yourself.”

That feeling tumbled through him again and he found himself getting dizzy trying to follow it.

“You…you really are a dynamite gal…”

His chest went cold and intense dissociation fogged his mind, numbing his limbs again. The feeling pulled him down, falling further out of consciousness, at once both in awe of her and furious with himself for saying those words out loud.

But she didn’t react. Not negatively at least. She patted him on his bottom and tried to hide a smile, shaking her head. The raging heat of battle in her eyes had smoldered to glowing embers of affection, and she turned to press her lips to his in a soft, unhurried kiss.

“You’re welcome…”

—

In an instant Felix found himself in total darkness, warm and silent. The rhythmic rise and fall of pressure against his back and the weight of a long arm draped over his body brought him back into clarity—he lay with Tamora in her cot in Hero’s Duty, under the cozy quilt he’d brought her from home to make his fiancée’s living space more comfortable. She slept peacefully, and the bedside clock read 3:28 AM.

His head clearer, he pulled back the blanket to inspect his leg and found it to be completely unharmed. He couldn’t have fixed it with his hammer, he’d have remembered that…and he remembered that he’d stayed the night in his special lady’s quarters since she needed to work late for a perimeter check. It must’ve been a dream.

Yet although it didn’t feel real, exactly, it felt…detailed. Not quite a nightmare, but he still trembled from the intensity of the experience—combat and dissociation alike—leaving him in an uneasy state. He felt its approach rumbling in the distance, a delayed sort of dread amalgamated from a hundred different dredged-up feelings and memories whose size he couldn’t judge from his current vantage point.

If this was anything remotely close to how Tammy’s episodes felt, he couldn’t imagine how she ever got any sleep. He sat up, clapped his hands against his face, and reached for a cup of water sitting on the nightstand.

The movement caused Tamora’s arm to slide off Felix and onto the bed. Her hand landed on a warm patch of the sheet and she felt around for him, finding a slightly damp, shaky arm. He froze at the sudden touch mid-sip, then sighed in relief. She released her light grip and stroked his arm with the back of her hand.

“I’m sorry, honeybadger,” he whispered. “Did I wake you up?”

His own voice didn’t startle him this time, a thought he never figured he’d have.

“It’s all right,” she groaned. “What was it about?”

“What was what about?”

“The dream.”

“How—?”

“I know what those weird ones feel like,” she replied, without a trace of doubt. “You’re all cold-sweating and confused.”

Felix only continued shivering and put down the cup, not trusting his hands to keep it steady anymore. It embarrassed him that a dream like that—one that wasn’t even horrible—affected him so much. He tried to reply but the wave of that odd negative feeling sideswiped him, and he reached for the small bedside trashbin. His coughs produced nothing but dry heaving.

“Take it easy! C'mon, here you go.” Tamora rubbed his back until the coughing subsided, then tipped up the cup to his lips for him to finish the drink.

It didn’t take him long to quiet down, but he still shivered and sweat, clinging to her as though he feared he’d fall. She placed him back under the covers and pressed her palms firmly against his shoulders. He put his hands over hers and squeezed them.

“More?”

He nodded.

She carefully lowered herself onto him, trying to avoid restricting his movement too much. His heartbeat buzzed and thumped against her own chest and made him vibrate erratically beneath her. For an 8-bit this rapid pulse was normal, even without a heightened emotional state—but with how bizarre it felt to her, she could never stop herself from worrying.

“You’re safe, babe. The dream’s over. Can you hear me? You’re gonna be fine,” she whispered, one hand combing through his hair in a gentle rhythm.

The warm pressure of her blanketing him brought Felix reassurance. He took a deep breath and inhaled that sweet intermingling of faint napalm, strawberry shampoo, and her natural scent that he knew so well. The rest of the dread barreled safely past him like a freight train running on a parallel track. Little by little the quivering faded and his breathing evened out until he could focus on the outline of her face hovering above his own.

The illumination from the clock let him see her just clearly enough to make out her concern.

“Thank you, darlin’. I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as yours get.”

“Doesn’t matter. How’re you feelin’?”

“Tam—”

She pressed a quick kiss against his lips to settle him down. “C'mon. Whatever it was, it was bad for you. Are you okay?”

“Now I am. I-I think. But…”

The events of the dream kept repeating in his mind. Calm as he was for the moment, they still played loudly enough to compete with the only sound in the room.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

His voice came in a hushed squeak. “…Am I holdin’ you back?”

She blinked. “From what?”

“I don’t know…I just feel like no matter what I do, I could never measure up. You’re strong, and smart, and brave, and…well, gosh, you’re more gorgeous than a sunset on the beach…I love you more than anything but I’m not…enough. You deserve the best of everythin’ and that’s more than I can be.”

She leaned in closer and brushed a finger along his cheek.

“Felix, if I had to live up to everything you’re holdin’ yourself to, we’d be toast from the start. You’re more than enough for me.”

His cheeks flushed with heat and he averted his eyes. Suspecting that their conversational position was flustering her little guy, Tamora laid down next to him.

“If all this is moving too fast for you, we can put it on hold, I get it. There’s no rush. We can keep going like this without the formalities if the whole contract thing is too much.”

“Tamora Jean, I don’t ever wanna make you get to thinkin’ I don’t want this. I’ve never doubted lovin’ you for a second, a-and I’ve wanted to be married to you for…"—he clasped a hand over his chest and giggled to himself—”…a real long time now. I’m just worried about you. You’re the one gettin’ the bad end of the deal…and I just— I can’t go off bein’ selfish about it. I don’t want you to regret this.“

"The hell are you talking about?” The words came out in a growl, louder than she intended. She propped herself up on one elbow and leaned in close enough that he could feel the tempo of her breathing change.

Rattled, he couldn’t muster an answer. Seconds dragged by and Tamora drew back.

“I’m sorry.” She sighed. “Here you are, all shaken up already and I’m sittin’ here scaring you even more.”

“No I understand, it’s okay—”

“It’s not okay, I’m making it worse.” She groaned again and rubbed the heel of one hand against her eyes. “You know how I am, hearing you talk about yourself like that. Comes with the territory. But— this isn’t a physical threat, is it? Nobody I need to straighten out for you?”

“No ma'am.”

She ran a hand through her hair and grumbled. “If I was any good at fightin’ that abstract stuff then you wouldn’t be on the other end of this all the time…” She shook her head. “Y'know what, give it to me anyway. I owe you.”

“…Well, I’m the only person you’ve been with since you’ve gotten here. What if…what if there’s someone better for you out there and I’m keeping you from finding them? I’m not…” He made a vague hand gesture, as though trying to measure the air. “…useful. I’m not even good-lookin’. I don’t know why you would settle for me.”

“Where’s this coming from all of a sudden?”

“You’ve seen 'em, Tammy. They yell awfully rude things at you in the station and they only stop when you challenge 'em back. They look at us together and holler out at you no matter what I tell them 'cause they think I’m a joke.”

“Who cares what those knuckle-draggers think? They’re just upset that someone smaller than they are got to lay hands on a pair of knockers before they did.”

She knew it was inevitable, but she still couldn’t stifle a laugh when he flushed bright red.

“If they had any potential to be good partners they wouldn’t be huddled up in empty outlets and hootin’ at people. They can scream all they want, I’m the one who scored the most premium-grade husband material in the whole arcade by pure dumb luck.”

“Aww, c'mon Tammy…” Felix giggled and hid his face in his hands.

“I don’t waste my time with slobs, troglodytes, cowards, womanizers, manchildren, or anyone who puts on a nice act then turns into a monster as soon as they hear a 'no’. You’re none of those things, not by a long shot. Say the word and I’ll gladly knock down anyone who tells you you’re not good enough for me.”

Felix smiled and tentatively reached for Tamora’s hand. She felt a hesitancy in the motion and saw the same in his smile, almost as if he wasn’t giving himself permission to accept the compliment.

“Hey.” She whispered and scooted closer to him, her tone dropping from hard authoritarian to gentle coaxing. “You lifted me out of the Nesquiksand, remember?”

His face fell and he looked away, mumbling in response.

“What?”

“I pulled my shoulder…I pretended I was okay and then fixed it when you turned around to go to the shuttle! I didn’t want you to think I was weak!”

“Oh, Felix…”

“You looked so gosh-darn impressed with me and I didn’t wanna make you feel bad or let you down…and then I did anyway, when we were flyin’…I never wanna hurt you like that again.”

Tamora gave his hand a squeeze, making him look up at her.

“We had to work together to get outta there. Didn’t exactly escape my notice that we’ve got a size difference goin’ on—why’d you think I wouldn’t be impressed that you held on that whole time?” She nudged him with grin. “Wouldn’t have been surprised if I knew that lift gave you an injury.”

She kissed his fingertips.

“And quit worryin’ about that anymore. You couldn’t’ve known about those damn words then, and you know full well now. Hope you’ll always be lucky enough that you never have to fully understand this.”

“But—” He sighed. “But that’s the thing, Tammy. There’s so much I don’t know. I’m…” He shook his head. “I have no background on this. I’m too simple. W-what if I can’t learn it all, and I keep ending up hurtin’ you?”

She counted off her fingers. “Remember when I snapped at you for not knowing what a cy-bug was? Or when I jumped your bones too hard and accidentally clipped you through the headboard of the bed onto the floor? Or when I thought you were being attacked in Game Central because I didn’t realize that’s just the way Zangief gives hugs? I’m the one who’s gotta make sure I don’t stomp all over you and the others.”

A shy yet satisfied grin broke across his face at the mention of the second item, but the third elicited a mischievous laugh. “He invited you to Open Tournament Night. Ralph saw the whole scuffle 'n was afraid of you for a week.”

“See? You’re far from hurting me. If I’m being honest— y’ know, you might not realize it, but you take care of me every day. PTSD doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t care whether you’ve come to terms with what happened…or didn’t happen. You’ve always been patient with me through everything, and you’re gonna be the best partner I could ever ask for. You already are.”

“I know you mean it. I’m not doubtin’ you, Tammy. But…you know how you say that sometimes, your mind sorta…it doesn’t wanna let you believe?”

He waited for a response, but she only put a hand on his shoulder and nodded for him to continue.

“I shouldn’t say it, bein’ so lucky, but…thirty years of folks cozyin’ up all over you makes you wonder if anyone really means it, or if anyone’s gonna really feel some kind of way about you if they weren’t programmed to. And with everything else goin’ on, and the dream…it kinda just stacks up.”

The silence was agonizingly long but neither of them could break it. For all that a shared experience would do for their mutual understanding, she hoped with all of her being that nothing had happened to drag him anywhere near the same disgusting place of night terrors, self-doubt, and mistrust from which she’d spent her post-programming life clawing her way out. No question she was ready to do whatever was needed to pull him back into the safety he’d always provided for her. But the thought of seeing her illness mirrored in him and knowing she couldn’t protect him from it in the first place horrified her.

It took another minute for her to trust her voice, if only as a whisper.

“You ready to tell me about the dream?”

“Are you okay to hear it?”

“Of course, darling. C'mere.” Tamora scooped Felix closer and he tucked his head under her chin in that familiar way they fit together. The uncomfortable feelings of the dream still knocked around in his conscious mind but the grounding touch made it significantly easier to bear.

“Well, we were back-to-back in the middle of this big battle. There were cy-bugs swirlin’ around everywhere and we couldn’t escape. One of 'em got its wing broken and tried to sneak up on you.”

He felt her breath hitch for a moment.

“Are you sure you’re feelin’ up to this, honeyb—”

“Keep— keep going,” she stammered. “I’m fine, just…kinda surprised me.”

He kissed the underside of her jaw before continuing.

“I kinda panicked and pushed you outta the way. It grabbed me by the leg, I dropped my gun, and then it tried to take off with me. It didn’t get too far on account of its wing, but it chewed up my leg really bad and I tried to fight it by hand.”

He blushed profusely and nuzzled against her neck. “And then…you jumped on the bug and cut all its wires, but one of 'em was stubborn so you broke it with your teeth…”

“And I decapitated it? Then we had a moment and I picked you up?”

Felix looked up and nodded. “I really…it made me feel so close to you. Then I said something I shouldn’t have, but you were okay with it.”

Tamora only stared at him.

To most, her expression would be nearly inscrutable. When she and Felix had first started dating, some of her men had told him that reading her was like reading a bear—between her severe resting facial expression and gruff voice you never knew for sure what she was thinking or feeling unless she was very obviously angry.

But Felix had noticed it in her eyes. The rest of her face could be carved from stone, but fear, sadness, hesitancy, worry, joy, serenity—it always came right through, clear as day.

This time, it was some combination of shock and…nervousness? Carefully, he moved a few strands of hair away from her cheek and rested his hand along her jawline. He could feel the clenched-up tension and massaged his fingers into the space just below her ear.

“That’s what I mean, sugarplum, how this all flared up and got me to thinkin’ about everything else I said—even in my dreams, I’m slowin’ you down.”

“…That was Brad.”

It was Felix’s turn to freeze. “Wh-…what do you mean?”

“That wasn’t just a dream, that’s one of our memories. He came with me on patrol and we got separated from our vehicle by a cy-bug ambush. Saved each other and I carried him back to the jeep.”

A hundred little pieces all clicked together somewhere down in Felix’s assembly language. The explanation made sense only on some visceral level but he couldn’t get inside it. He figured he must have had one strange look on his face, since Tamora quirked a bit of a smile and continued.

“They had to knock him out and pull all the little metal shards out of his leg so he wouldn’t get an infection, flushed the whole thing out with some kinda high-grade antiseptic. He was hobblin’ around for weeks afterward.”

She looked off in the general direction of the little mess of portraits that congregated on her desk. The four of them goofing off in Sugar Rush, a candid photo Ralph took of Felix sharing a pie with her on the back steps of the apartments during Litwak’s lunch break, Vanellope standing on the woman’s shoulders to help hang a wreath while Felix visibly squealed in the background.

Among them stood an old programmed-in snapshot taken by Kohut—Brad and Tamora in civilian clothes, with him laying across a beat-up couch and trying to hide his bandaged leg behind her. She sat upright in front of him on the edge of the cushion, and they both looked like they had just finished laughing after Kohut cracked a joke.

“We got engaged a month later. He said he wanted to do it right after I sawed that bug’s head off but he couldn’t bend his knee well enough yet.”

Felix felt his chest twisting inside, an uncomfortable mingling of relief and shame. It wasn’t something he had done on purpose, but something he was exposed to against anyone’s will, and of course it was something he knew he wasn’t supposed to see. He’d promised Tamora that he wouldn’t press her for stories when she wasn’t ready, and yet here she was feeling she had to explain herself to him anyway. He was lifted out of his thoughts by Tamora leaning in, somehow seeming both curious and satisfied.

“Felix, you…somehow you were accessing his memories in your sleep?”

“Aw Tammy I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have seen all those private things. Nobody should’ve.”

“No, I…I’m glad you did.” She smiled and rubbed circles against his back. “It sounds like you felt what he felt. That’s better than I coulda done telling you, and to be honest I was gonna bring it up one of these days anyway. There’s nobody I’d trust more to hear it.”

He hugged her a little tighter, taking a chance and loosening his grip on the guilt. To his surprise he could feel it pulling away of its own accord.

“As far as I know, you saw an unused cutscene. But why you were in it…I have no idea.” She shrugged. “Maybe it’s just a TobiKomi thing.”

She was pretty relieved herself, that in spite of all her fears he hadn’t developed an illness. He’d always been very sensitive, and getting a peek at a relatively tame part of her history firsthand was a far better outcome than almost anything else he could’ve seen.

“Are we close to where it happened? Maybe the game got confused with me bein’ here for too long when I shouldn’t be.”

She shook her head.

“The players don’t see the whole story. There’s a lot more to that guy than a few cutscenes the devs chose to keep visible in this game—the arcade version, at least. What you saw doesn’t have an event trigger in this game and only I know about it. There must be one hell of a coding oversight someplace if it just played in your head out of nowhere, but it makes me wonder…”

Maybe it was delusion, she thought. Maybe it was just a coping mechanism, or a reaction to having so many memories rooted in this hellhole of a game. But she always felt that some little spark of Brad still lived—if that was the right word—in Hero’s Duty. The idea of him benevolently haunting the place was a small, private comfort to her. That wherever he was, if he was anywhere at all, he would choose to stick around and maybe even help them out from time to time.

Felix felt her smile and kiss the top of his head. A deep sense of peace seemed to flow from their point of contact and wash over him.

“If you don’t mind me askin’…what was he like?”

She took a deep breath, sighed, and snorted out a half-chuckle at the handful of pleasant and bittersweet memories she hadn’t allowed herself to touch since she’d been plugged in.

“Heh. Well naturally, he took his job seriously, but he wasn’t just some big stoic macho guy. You saw he needed a hand too. Had a lot of hard feelings over his own work causing so much trouble and it kept him up at night too. He was the only one left when we got here.”

That hit Felix hard. Tamora had told him before that Brad didn’t mean for the cy-bugs to be what they’d become, but he’d never considered how much it would’ve gnawed at the inventor’s conscience.

“Sometimes he’d cry if I got hurt, and just sit there apologizing while he patched me up. If it was him, he’d make dark jokes about it. We both did that…comparing scars, who had a gorier injury, all that. When we had to camp out he’d put my sleeping bag on top of his so I wouldn’t be on the ground. 'Course bein’ on top of someone’s bones was pretty uncomfortable too but he meant well.”

The tangled cords of the dream straightened out a bit more. She was right—he’d felt what Brad did, even to the point of it shaking his code and splitting his mental state where they diverged in action or feelings—but it didn’t shock him anymore. There’d been fewer differences than he thought.

“He was a great guy…but he’s really lucky that I didn’t meet you first.”

He gasped, so quietly that she barely heard him. “Tammy…you really mean it?”

He needed tenderness. The thought finally blindsided her, and she couldn’t believe it was so obvious. All the calculated reasoning certainly helped to an extent, but sealing the deal required him to be understood on an emotional level. She needed to be as open with him as he always was with her.

Normally that was easier said than done, with her nature. But something about this early morning atmosphere made her see him the way he saw her. She commanded his full attention. The way he gazed so earnestly up at her, with one arm around her and the other tucked in close to his chest, the muted, dim light in the room…it was her turn to be rendered speechless and start her thoughts from scratch. He was unbearably cute, and in turn he made her feel like the strongest, most attractive sprite in existence. In less-serious circumstances she would’ve gone right ahead and asked if he was ready for her to indulge her own physical feelings for him, but that would have to wait. They both needed this first.

She pulled him away slightly and placed him at her eye level with a firm nod. “I want you to understand more than anything that you are not some second-best backup option. I am not settling for anything. I never have and never will. I wasn’t with him because he was big or strong. I was with him because he was a loving partner, a trusted ally, and a good listener who took the time to understand me. In my line of work…” She shook her head. “I didn’t think I’d ever get someone like that, but I got it twice. If you ever think I don’t value what you bring to this, I want you to remember what you did when the bugs backed us up to the Sugar Rush exit. Remember how you stayed up all night to talk me down from an episode. I haven’t forgotten.”

Several times he attempted to choke out a response. He settled for a soft affirmative whimper.

“You’ve had to prove yourself in real, unscripted situations you were never trained for, unarmed, with limited resources, and you still made it through. After that first night terror when I half-woke up disoriented…and screaming…and kicked you onto the floor, I was afraid I’d scared you off and that was that.”

Her expression faltered a moment before breaking into a gentle smile.

“But you never left. You just…you saw what you were getting into and didn’t go running in the other direction. You cared— still care enough to stick around, and learn, and help…you never made me feel ashamed of being what I am. Don’t delude yourself into thinking I’m doing this on a whim. I don’t take this stuff lightly and I would never be going into marriage again if I still had any doubts about you.”

Felix felt as though he could melt under that steel-blue gaze; between being curled up against her and trying to absorb the meaning of everything she’d said, he could swear his heart was about to combust. Needless to say, no words came out. He got the sense that her airing of these feelings did as much for her own health as for his. Even if he didn’t feel as though he’d been overclocked…what could he say?

“After everything, I have to accept that he’s only ever been a ghost, like it or not. Both of us were scripted into doing what we had to do for the game’s story. Used to think I’d never stop blaming myself just like he did over the bugs, and I know the PTSD still won’t ever just get up and book it, but everything’s different now. You’ve given— aww, c’mere.” He whimpered into her shoulder and she pulled him back up to her face, her inflection gentler this time.

“You’ve given me more than any backstory could. All those therapeutic knitting circle meetings that Clyde kept goin’ on about, walks in Niceland tryin’ to avoid Gene, skeet shootin’ over in Duck Hunt for a change of scenery— y'know…that wouldn’t help nearly as much if I wasn’t comin’ home to an adorable handyman rarin’ to tell me all about what Norwood’s new kittens were up to, or sittin’ there enthralled by my fiftieth story about a player hitting three bugs with one round.”

Felix was a complete mess. Tears soaked his hands that he clamped over his nose and mouth. He leaked the occasional choked sob, trying desperately not to interrupt her with his various emotional noises.

Tamora knew he couldn’t hold it in much longer.

“I’m not a Nicelander. I’m not saying all of this because I was programmed to, or because I don’t know any different. It’s messy, and maybe I don’t have much of a point, but…I’m telling you this because you’re my beautiful little man and I love you to pieces.”

She leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“And don’t you dare try to tell me otherwise.”

A high-pitched, single-channel whine rattled out of him for a few long seconds and Tamora briefly worried that she had crashed him. But immediately afterwards he pressed himself against her and peppered her face with kisses—while she tried to keep up—as though it was the last thing he’d ever do in his life.

Felix was many things but eloquent wasn’t usually one of them. The thought of Tamora trusting him enough to be so vulnerable—to a degree he’d never seen from her before, not even in private—left him speechless. He couldn’t help but feel they’d each broken a barrier for the other, as his insecurity and self-doubt were no longer stifling. He wouldn’t have been able to find the words for a response even if he could form them at the moment; he only hoped he’d given her a clear enough message with everything else he had in him.

“FELIX! Breathe!”

She gave him a few hard thumps on his back and he realized for the first time that he had been straining for air.

“Tha…thank y-you,” he finally sputtered out.

“Are you all right?” she asked, not hiding a trace of amusement as he began to quiet down.

“Now I am…gosh, Tamora, that was beautiful…I…I really—thank you, I needed that a whole lot,” he sniffled. His voice escalated in pitch. “I love you so much…!”

“Aww, c'mere Shortstack…Love you too. Feel better?” Tamora placed him on her chest and pulled the covers up, letting him play with one of her hands.

“Mmhmm…”

“Good. Me too.” she sighed and caught her own breath. “Well, that was something, huh? Haven’t had a night this educational since Markowski set off his own landmine on the way back from the day’s last game.”

“I just wish I didn’t have to wake you up. ’M sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” She tightened her one-armed hug around his waist. “Lost count of how many times I’ve woken you up with my night terrors.”

He massaged her hand between his own and she felt a contented frisson rumble through him. “Suppose all I have to worry about now is that I don’t go and faint right there when you come down the aisle.”

“Well, if we can get my best team locked and loaded to fend off any cy-bug attacks, then we can account for that too. Anyone holds it against you and they’ll regret showin’ up. But I’m gettin’ the feeling you’re gonna be fine.”

He beamed. “I’ll do my best! That’s a promise.”

“I know,” she laughed. “Sweet smokeless ballistics, do I know.”

They lay peacefully tucked into each other for a time neither of them bothered to measure—even looking at the clock was too much of an unwanted distraction. But as circumstance would have it, sleep wouldn’t come. Something in both their subconscious minds wouldn’t let them release this moment without some last bit of closure.

“Are you awake?” Felix whispered.

“Yeah.”

“I know I ought to, but I can’t get back to sleep,” he chuckled. “I think I’m enjoying this too much.”

“…I’ve got an idea— well, I’ve had an idea all night…if you’re up for it.”

He turned around and scooted up to face her. “Did you want me to go heat up some milk for you? I’ve got some tea for m'self and—oh!”

Tamora flipped him over onto his back. She nibbled her way up from the side of his neck to his opposite ear, and her nose brushed against his.

“We’ll get to sleep better, warm up the room, and give the troops an early wake-up call. How’d you like your sergeant to show you how satisfied she is with your performance?”

The low, rough purr of her voice alone gave Felix the message loud and clear. She ran one hand down the length of his entire body, doting on the soft contour of his face with a soft pinch, all the way down to those short-but-powerful legs of his. He involuntarily let out a quiet moan at the familiar touch; it was the same sensation of loving reassurance he always tried to communicate to her when tracing her scars and nuzzling into her muscles.

He finally nodded and wrapped an arm around her neck, burying his fingers in her hair with one hand and caressing down her shoulder with the other. Even if this was a treat she intended for him, he wasn’t about to leave satisfied until Tammy was, too. At ease and with confidence boosted, he was ready for whatever they’d tackle together.

“Sounds like a mighty fine plan to me…”

—

Tagging some of my WIR buddies: @ask-icancraft-it @ashleybenlove @sgtcalhouns @coneygoil @kittysfigurines24 @fix-it-feesh @sadboy-tristan @firebreathingfist @make-it-mavis @datamining-your-heart @nijimarii @scarfboyxiv @pixlexic-president

Let me know if you would like your name added to the tags for future fics!

[tiredcowpoke]

TITLE: Blank Spots [2] PAIRING: (Somewhat pre-established) Arthur Morgan/Fem!Reader, could be seen as an OC.  REQUEST: Unprompted. BLURB: After waking up at the base of a steep incline and nearly freezing to death, you stumble upon a group of strangers who swear up and down that they know you.  WARNINGS: Some creative license for amnesia. Mentions of hypothermia/exposure, head injury. NOTE: Here is the second part to this! Thank you all for the warm response to this, I’m personally having a lot of fun writing this. I feel this chapter is a little slow but hopefully it holds up to expectations. 

“She’s delirious.” 

Susan’s voice was firm, edging along the line of dismissive, as you had left your words hanging in the air before placing your head back down and promptly passing out. She stood to her feet from where she had been crouched next to your body, turning to glance toward Hosea who met her gaze with a questioning look, his brow tight. However, neither of them looked as confused as Arthur did, who remained where he had crouched down in front of you, almost staring holes into the floor beside your head. 

“Trekkin’ through all that snow and that nasty bump on her head? She’s probably just confused,” she continued, pausing to let out a slow sigh that escaped in a light mist from her mouth. This wasn’t the best place to nurse you back to health from almost freezing to death, it was a task alone making sure John didn’t meet the same fate on top of his injuries. 

“Micah’d swore she fell off some cliff edge that night Dutch rode out with us lookin’ for supplies,” Arthur commented, rising up from his place on the floor, “Said there was no way she survived that. Now I’m thinkin’ the bastard didn’t even bother to check.” 

“It was a terrible storm,” Hosea commented around a sigh, “Still is. Might’ve been no way to check, unfortunate as it is that she had to drag herself back here like she did.” 

“If she even knows where she is, who she’s with…” Arthur muttered, Hosea placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“It’s been a long day,” Susan returned, “Let her rest and get warm, I’m sure she’ll be fine by mornin’ and won’t be talkin’ such nonsense.” 

“Sure.” He didn’t sound too convinced. 

“I think you should go back and get some rest, Arthur,” Hosea said, patting the shoulder he had his hand on before dropping it back to his side, “Nothin’ we can do for her now but let her sleep next to the fire.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her tonight,” Susan said with a nod, crossing her arms. Arthur really wasn’t too keen on leaving you alone, not after thinking you dead for a day. Not after this, and what you had just said. There was also the genuine confusion that had sat in your expression as you stated that you had no idea who any of them were, along with that wound on your forehead. It didn’t bode well. However, they were still stuck up in the snow and he already knew what Dutch would have to say in light of this. 

“Thank you,” Arthur muttered, giving her a soft nod before he turned to walk with Hosea back outside toward the building he was staying in with him, Dutch, and Molly. 

                                                          ***

You felt like you were in and out for quite some time. Things would pop into existence in your otherwise dreamless sleep, bits of conversation that you weren’t sure were dreams or actually part of what was going on around you. Some movement, too, being carried, which had switched into a memory of your uncle carrying you back to the house as a kid at some point. It felt like it was faded around the edges, lacking in detail. There were a couple lucid thoughts that came into everything, remembering staring up at that vast white sky. Though, eventually, things started to be more solid, less fleeting, as you could feel the comforting warmth of the blankets around you. However, with that eventually came the starts of the aches and pains. It started in your legs and back, dull aches that kept pulling you further away from the comforting embrace of sleep. 

It was that pain moving toward your head, breaking out above your left eye and blossoming across your forehead and down into your jaw. It felt like someone was squeezing the sides of your head until eventually you woke with a low groan, taking in a small breath before your eyes cracked open. The room was bright from what you could see through the fabric of the blanket that had been secured around your head, and you could slowly start to feel that your stomach was very empty, making you a little queasy. It was hard to tell where you were for a few moments, though the memory of that fireplace and dirty floor seemed to come back into focus. The concerned faces. 

What the hell was happening? 

Slowly, you managed to shift your limbs, legs stiff and the motion of shifting one over the cot had you gritting your teeth slightly. The room seemed to sway lightly as you sat up, hands gripping into the fabric of the blanket around your shoulders. The room you were sleeping in was...bad, to say the least. You could feel the cold air from outside leaking in around your legs and feet from the holes in the walls, the floor itself littered with debris. The place itself seemed quiet, outside of some light creaking. You could see a broken bedside drawer, and another empty cot with the worn blanket and pillow. 

Though, a chair with a small pile of clothing caught your eye. It took a moment before you could recognize the outfit from when you had last woke, remembering the stiff and frozen gloves that sat on top of it all. Gingerly, you shifted a hand down to rest against your stomach, now just very much aware that you had been stripped down to your undergarments. 

“What in the hell…?” you whispered, letting out a soft grunt as you stood up on slightly wobbling legs from the lack of use and the quick coil of panic that was sitting in your gut. “Where the hell am I?” 

You shut your eyes tightly a moment, despite the throbbing in your head, as you tried to calm yourself and figure out what to do. Last night...the day before...you had woken up in the cold and had...wandered your way into a camp. That had to be where you were, but who were the people who found you? Why did they take your clothes off? 

Some stirring from outside caused your eyes to snap back open, a quick greeting and voice outside causing you to take a couple steps back into the room as you looked around yourself for something to defend yourself with. Unless you were looking to give the owner of the approaching footfalls some splinters, there wasn’t much. So, you took a breath in, feeling your expression tighten as you saw the door to the room pushed open. 

An older woman poked her head in, her own eyes widening as she noticed you standing between the two beds. 

“Well, it’s good to see you’re able to stand…” she commented, “How are you feelin’, miss?” 

“...W-Why am I undressed?” Great first question to start with. 

“I had to take your clothes off,” she remarked, “As the snow started to melt, they were gettin’ wet and Mr. Smith pointed out that it could make things all the worse with how cold things have been ‘round here. There’s no need for alarm.” 

“I...I see,” you muttered, shifting a bit on your feet as you blinked heavily, “I...I’m sorry, thank you for your help. What’s your name?” 

The woman blinked almost owlishly at you for a moment before she let out a soft huff. 

“Susan Grimshaw,” she stated, “Are you still leanin’ into all that?” 

“Into what?” 

“Not rememberin’ us.” 

You let out a humorless huff. “No offense, Miss Grimshaw, but I have no idea who you are.”

There was a moment where she seemed like she might scold you like this was some game you were playing, yet as she stood there and met your serious gaze, her brow seemed to furrow some. With a slow exhale, she shifted to place a hand against your clothing in the chair. 

“...Well, regardless, you’re awake. These are your clothes, we let them dry by a fire so you could wear them once you were done restin’. Dutch and Hosea are outside, so I would get dressed and go talk to them.” 

Dutch and Hosea, like I have any idea who those two are…

You gave her a soft nod before she was stepping out, closing the door behind her. A slow breath escaped your lungs after a moment, your mind racing and stomach twisting. Even with some interaction, you still had more questions than answers. You dropped the blanket back on the cot you had been sleeping on, the cold air immediately pulling a shiver from you. You knew from the pain in your limbs that you were probably bruised to hell in places, but you didn’t want to look in the moment, pulling the clothes back on. They were a little cool to the touch from the air in the room, but they weren’t the frozen pieces of fabric you could remember wearing before you had apparently passed out on that floor. As you finished shouldering on your jacket, the belt shifted and fell onto the floor with a dull thud. There was a gun resting in the holster, a frown crossing your face. 

“This mine…?” you muttered to yourself, bending down to pick it up. You weren’t a stranger to guns, your uncle had been keen to make sure you knew how to use one but you couldn’t remember really getting one of your own. Still, it was with the pile of clothes. You set it back down on the chair, pausing a moment to press your hand against your forehead. You felt some fabric under your fingers, causing you to pause as you tugged on it lightly. 

Bandages? Well, at least some makeshift form of them. 

“Christ…” you whispered, rubbing the sore side of your jaw. With some hesitation, you eventually approached the door and pushed it open to step outside. The building opened up to an equally as run down main area where a couple tables littered with debris and cabinets sat. There were two chairs in front of a fireplace, two men talking among themselves before you had stepped out into the open. You could recognize one of them from the other night, the older man who had been pointing a gun at you before helping you walk into one of the other buildings. 

...Mr. Matthews. Right. 

“Well, our own camp’s sleeping beauty finally woke up,” the unfamiliar man stated, raising from his chair with a small grin tossed your way. His tone was somewhat light, almost teasing, but you didn’t know what reason he had to be so familiar. 

“How long have I been sleeping?” you asked, your brow furrowing. 

“A day,” Mr. Matthews stated, “Are...Do you remember what happened?” 

“Somewhat,” you returned, pausing as the other man approached you, “I’m just...really confused on what is happening.” 

“We are trying to survive and escape his frozen hell, that’s what we’re doin’.” You felt the other man place a hand between your shoulder blades, leading you over toward the fireplace where they were sitting. “Now I’m thinkin’ you was doin’ just that as well.”

“Do you remember what happened to you?” Mr. Matthews asked as you were led toward the vacant chair, welcoming the chance to sit as you gave your still tired legs a rest. 

“Yeah, a bit,” you stated with a soft nod, “Where am I?” 

“An abandoned minin’ town in the mountains,” he replied, “You don’t remember comin’ up here?” 

“Not at all.” 

“...Huh.” 

“You have no idea who any of us are?” the other man asked, crossing his arms. 

“No, I-I’ve been trying to say that all along here…” you returned with some frustration leaking into your own. You watched as Mr. Matthews rubbed at his face, the other man looking over your face a moment before letting out a quick breath. 

“Well this is somethin’, ain’t it?” he muttered. 

“What do you remember?” Mr. Matthews asked, glancing back toward you. 

“I…” you blinked, letting out a sigh through your nose as you tried to keep yourself calm, “I remember...standing outside of my uncle’s home. We were...arguing about something, but I don’t know what. It was hot, dusty. I know I grew up in Tumbleweed, I remember that pretty well. Outside of that...I just woke up at the base of a cliff edge out here, freezing, until I stumbled across this place…” 

“You don’t remember anythin’ about ridin’ with us?” the other man asked, letting his arms fall to his side as he looked at you with a tight expression. 

“No, I...I didn’t even know I did.” 

“That wound on her head, I mean…” Mr. Matthews started, turning to look up at the other man as he ran a hand over his face a moment, brushing his mustache in thought. 

“Can…” you started, feeling the tightness in your gut, “Can somebody just...please tell me what’s going on?” 

In that moment, the door to the building opened, causing you to jump as attention was pulled away from you as another man stepped in. He was clad in a heavy blue coat, black hat resting on his head as he blew into his gloved hands. Though, his eyebrows rose some upon glancing toward where you were sitting. He was that man from the other night, the one who had been crouched down in front of you, looking at you with that concerned expression. Arthur, his name was? 

“Everythin’ okay?” he asked, stepping further into the room once the door had been shut behind him. 

“Depends…” 

“We was just talkin’,” Mr. Matthews started, “Seems like all she’s said the other night is still true.”

There was some tightening of the expression on Arthur’s face, a deep set frown as he seemed to be looking you over intently. You could feel the bubble of panic you had shoved down in the room before starting to surface again. There was a tightness to your gut, your head starting to pound a little more at the sensation. 

“Please,” you snapped, “Please, can somebody just...tell me what the hell is going on here?” 

“...We don’t rightly know,” Mr. Matthews started, causing you to let out another slow breath through your nose as you blinked heavily against the pain in your head, “You...Well, we thought you had died during that snowstorm. Least...that’s what we were told.” 

“You...all seem to know me,” you said, more of a statement than a question, “It’s just...the strangest damn thing.” 

“Well, you did run with us,” the man nearest to you stated, “My name’s Dutch van der Linde, you have no recollection of that?” 

“No. No...Dutch, I don’t.” 

“I’m Hosea Matthews.” Hosea shifted, gesturing a hand toward Arthur. “That there’s Arthur Morgan, you two was...romantically involved. You remember any of that?” 

“I...no. I…” you let out a soft huff, “I’ve never met any of you before in my life.” 

It was almost laughable, in a terrible way. 

You, somehow, seemed to have some rather detailed past with these people, yet you couldn’t even remember their faces or names. It was distressing--how much did you really know? It had you curling your hands in your lap, heart pounding away in your chest. You had been riding with them? You had no memory of that happening. You were involved with Arthur? You had no memory of how you met, when you decided to get into that with him. A part of you almost wanted to accuse them all of playing some sort of game with you, to knock it off. Yet, they all seemed as serious about knowing you as you were about not knowing them. 

“This...is a chance,” Dutch stated, moving about slightly to come to stand between the three of you, “The fact that you survived at all is damn near a miracle. That you made it back to us.” 

“I think you’ll have to forgive her and Arthur for not feeling the same way,” Hosea spoke up, his tone tight. 

“...My head is killing me,” you muttered, your voice smaller than you were expecting, “I just...don’t think I can handle this right now.”

“You should rest,” Hosea stated, “Maybe you’ll be able to remember things a little clearer after you’ve been able to fully heal. You can keep sleeping in Arthur’s room here.” 

Great. Still, you just offered a small nod before gathering yourself back up to a stand to pass by them to wander back into the room. Much as you were confused out of your mind about everything you had just learned, there was a part of you that felt bad more so for Arthur. You weren’t too sure what your relationship with him was, what was involved in it, but a part of you did want to apologize. It wasn’t hard to see the hurt that touched his expression at you stating you had no idea who he was, but it was an apology you really didn’t have the words for. 

There was the light prickling of tears in your eyes once the door to the room was shut behind you, your body aching and there was still the ever present feeling of exhaustion. Yet, whatever strength you had managed to gather had brought more confusion in light of it, and you couldn’t help but wish you had just remained asleep. 

You let out a soft sigh as you sat yourself down on the cot, shutting your eyes a moment. You could hear Dutch and Arthur’s voices somewhat through the door. 

“We need this train, and I need you strong and focused, son.”

“‘Course, Dutch…”

[bookshelfdreams]

(Part 2 to this; morning after)

You wake up with the all-too familiar feeling of having received a thorough ass-kicking the day before. Everything hurts. Your head aches, your shoulder is a nightmare and your ribs are not ready to do anything more drastic than lie in bed all day. You feel stiff and sore all over, and that is before you open your eyes and realize that you are not home. Right. Solaris. You came to him and he helped you, for whatever reason.

You sit up, slowly. You still feel a little dizzy, but not nearly as much as last night. Getting up is still a challenge, your left arm is mostly useless, which throws off your balance. But once you stand it isn't so bad, and you make it to the hallway in one piece. You find the bathroom on the first try – all the doors are open. So it wasn't a trust thing. You refuse to feel guilty for your thoughts from last night.

Once you are inside you close the door and lock it. As much as you appreciate Solaris' help you do not want him to know the full extend of your injuries. He's seen the worst of it already, he does not need to know how weak you truly are.

Your face is not as bad as you expected. There's an impressive bruise forming on the right side of your forehead, centred around a cut that disappears into your hairline. You have bled all over yourself, but Solaris cleaned away the worst of it last night. There's still some blood clinging to your eyebrows and of course your hair is a nightmare but that will have to wait until you can find some place to shower.

You pull up your shirt enough to inspect your ribs. Faint blue bruises spread over the right side that will become a lot more colourful over the next few days. You take a breath. Ouch. They are reasonably solid when you feel them tough, and you decide to believe there is nothing broken.

Bruises and scrapes on your arms and the unmistakable marks of too-tight handcuffs around your wrists. Those will fade fast, hopefully.

You do not check your legs. You know there will be more bruises, but you walked across the whole city yesterday and if something had been seriously wrong you would not have been able to do that, so you leave it.

When you come back out, Solaris is just coming down the stairs.

“Oh”, he sounds genuinely surprised. “You're still here.”

“Um.” This is awkward. “Yeah, I'll be out of your hair in a minute, but there's-”

“No, no!” Is that a – is he smiling? Genuinely smiling, at you, a villain (or Rogue, he’d probably prefer that), standing barefoot in his hallway. “I thought you would have left in the night, but – I kinda hoped you wouldn't.” And yeah, definitely smiling, a little awkwardly. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got beat up and then slept on a couch”, you say, because why not be honest.

And Solaris. Chuckles. Like you made a joke.

Unbelievable.

The dude will find a villain bleeding on his doorstep, bandage their wounds and befriend them in the morning.

You can’t deal with this. There are more important things to talk about, anyway.

“You know, I didn't just randomly get my ass kicked last night.”

Solaris looks at you, thoughtful now, the smile vanished from his face.

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

“Yesterday”, you start. “In the morning – well, it was still night, really. A bunch of people broke into my place. I thought they were your boys, at first.”

Now it's Solaris' turn to raise an eyebrow. “My boys?”

“Police. Special forces, whatever – thought you'd finally done the strategic thing, tried to smoke me out.” Literally. You had woken up choking on smoke. There had been a fire in the stairway. You put it out, sucking the oxygen right out of it, dispelled the smoke. Your neighbours weren't hurt, but that hadn't been the intention of the arsonists anyway. All they had wanted was for you to reveal yourself.

“Wasn't the case, obviously. There were – I don't know, maybe 5? They wore all black, body armour, helmets, the whole thing, but no uniforms, you know? Had their faces covered, as well. They tried to take me in.” They had come at you from behind, as you were still trying to cough the smoke out of your lungs, stunned you, beat your head against the floor. Kicked you a bit, for good measure. Pretty effective, you have to admit. Your powers require you to concentrate and giving you a concussion is a good way to prevent that.

“How did you get away?” Solaris asks, disbelief in his voice. Fair. You knew you could hardly expect him to trust you, not when he is an Official, a hero. In his world, as long as you stay on the right side of the law, nothing bad happens to you, and human rights are a thing that exists.

“They used normal handcuffs on me.” You smile a little. “Their van had standard issue locks as well.” Telekinesis is your power, which they must have known. You have no idea why they would have been so stupid. Did they think hitting you over the head would leave you unable to pick a lock? Please. This trick was one of the first you learned, you could do it with your eyes closed, half asleep, bleeding out.

“And they just let you walk out?”

“They didn't expect me to get free. I jumped out.” Luckily the van hadn't been that fast. Luckily you had fallen asleep on the couch, still dressed. Luckily you had thrown on your leather jacket before running outside to deal with the fire.

“You jumped out of a moving vehicle?”

You shrug, one-sided. “Wasn't fun, but there also wasn't anything else I could have done.”

Solaris just looks at you, with an expression that borders on horrified. “And they didn't come after you?”

“I jammed their gas. Locked the doors.” You can't help a smirk. “Bet it took them a while to get the thing to stop.” You decide to wrap this up quick. “I hid during the day, waited for dark. I knew they'd be looking for me, so I couldn't go to any of my usual places. I didn't-” you manage to stop yourself. I didn't want to put anyone in danger. “Anyway, I thought they'd never suspect me coming to you. Whoever they are.” Also, Solaris can take care of himself. He would have probably beat the guys to a pulp, plus if he disappears there are going to be questions.

“So yeah. I don't know who they belong to, or what they wanted from me, but I though you should know anyway. Doubt they'd be after you, but I can't be sure what they want with – you know. Specials.” The word almost makes you shudder. Yikes.

“Wait, you said they weren't law enforcement?”

You shake your head. Say about cops what you will but they would probably not set fire to a house full of civilians.

“And they basically tried to abduct you?”

“Basically.”

“And you think they are after people with powers?”

You flinch. That's even worse. But, “Yeah.”

Solaris takes a breath. “That's a lot to take in. I need some coffee. You want to stay for breakfast?”

And right. Sure. Why the fuck would you not want breakfast with your nemesis.

“So”, Solaris says after you sat down and you learned that he takes his coffee black, because of course he does. There's toast and you are trying really hard to restrain yourself and not eat the whole loaf. “These – people. Any idea what they were? Who they work for? What they wanted?”

You swallow. Another one-sided shrug. “Don't know. But...”

He looks at you expectantly. “But?”

You sigh. How could you explain this to him. “Sometimes people disappear. Kids, mostly. I'm sure you know that. And sometimes they are found. Mostly it's just parents having messy divorces, right? But sometimes...not. Sometimes someone will just not come home from school. Or be taken into foster care, never to be seen again. And they usually aren't the kind of families where cops put a lot of effort into the investigation, you know?”

To your surprise, Solaris nods. “I have – heard about that.”

“Right. Well, usually this doesn't happen to adults, because we know what we are capable of, and many of us have jobs and shit. We can defend ourselves. But recently, there were some weird things going on.”

“Like what?”

“Like people feeling like they were being followed. I know some people who I haven't heard from in a while, mostly homeless. You know.”

“You think someone tried to take you – for what?”

You shrug again. Truth is, you don't really want to think about it, just like you do not want to think about what might happen to children in white rooms.

“There have always been people who wanted to find out what makes us tick, right? What makes it so some people can do things others can't.”

Solaris nods. “I heard that there were efforts to develop a prenatal test for powers.” He glances down at his plate, thoughtful. “And there's the military testing, too.”

“You know about that?”

Now he looks back at you. “Of course. I'm not an idiot. How do you think-” he cuts himself off, but you might have an idea what he'd wanted to say. Huh. Interesting, you think and file that information away for later.

“Anyway. Not to be cocky but I'd be a pretty good catch, wouldn't I? Nobody is gonna ask too many questions if I disappear.”

“Your powers are strong. Useful.” Solaris looks at you with an expression you cannot quite decipher. “People would notice if you were gone though.”

“Maybe, but what's another dead villain? Mostly, people would just be glad I was no longer around to make their life more complicated.” You take a sip of your coffee. It's gone cold, but you drink it anyway.

“Whatever. Just thought you should know. If they are going after someone like me...well. Don't know who else might get on their radar. Maybe keep your eyes open?” You get up. Leaving the dishes for Solaris to deal with is okay, you decide. You are a villain, after all. There's a limit to how domestic you get with a hero and that limit is reached.

“Of course. Thank you.”

“No.” You turn around to look at him proper, one last time. The next time you will see each other, he's gonna be in uniform again. “Thank you. Truly. For everything. You didn't – have to do that.”

“I'm glad you came to me”, he says, and you might just believe he's actually genuine about it. “I'm glad you – you knew I'm not the kind of person who would turn you away.”

I didn't, you want to say, but you know it would just be to hurt his feelings. So you don't. He doesn't deserve that. You smile at him, say “See you on the streets”, and out you go.

The street is empty. You were right about one thing: They did not expect you to come here. You still hurt all over, but you feel more like yourself than you did last night. You start walking as casually and inconspicuous as someone with an arm strapped to their chest and blood in their hair can. There's a small park nearby, the kind that is mostly a public dog toilet, with a few trees, a path, a sandbox. You make sure nobody watches you before you disappear.

[des8pudels8kern]

Just 500 words, I said. A writing exercise, disconnected ficlets and snippets, I said. It’ll be quick, I said. Second day of the 500 words challenge. The Witcher, 1405 words of post-monsterfighting with softness, continued from yesterday but can be read alone. Mention of blood, potions, and alcohol.

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

There is movement ahead. First, he manages to make out Geralt’s hair, pale and silver under the moonlight, then his body begins to take shape as he comes closer. Jaskier has already begun his assessment before he’s even dropped his branch and slipped off Roach.

Geralt took his time getting back; mere minutes longer and Jaskier would have gone into the lion’s, eh, monster’s den to look for him. Still, he is moving under his own power, so that’s something. Head low with the inevitable exhaustion that always follows the rush of a fight, arms swinging at his sides as he walks rather than protectively cradling some broken ribs – oh, and there’s something clutched in his right hand, perfect, that’s the evidence for the villagers right there, no need to go back to the dead beast later – and both legs present and accounted for and not even limping.

Honestly, for all that his poor nerves have suffered the last seven-three-quarters songs, things are looking pretty good right now. Geralt has done his witchering, he’s got his kill trophy, and now it’s time for Jaskier’s performance. He shakes the stiffness of the wait out of his shoulders, clears his throat, and moves towards his audience to gauge the mood of the evening to decide how to play this.

“Great! I am so glad you have finally decided to grace us with your return. Did you take a nice little post-battle nap while Roach and I were languishing here tortured by uncertainty?”

Geralt’s approaching form grunts at him in reply, which… could mean anything, really. This is Geralt.

By now, Jaskier can see that his face isn’t merely shadowed but still black with poison from his cheeks to his forehead. It’s been a while since Geralt dosed himself up and left Jaskier and Roach to wait for his return. If the black hasn’t started to fade yet, hasn’t at least retreated enough to only leave his eyes dark and sensitive in a too-pale face, then he must have taken more during the fight.

Godsdamned.

Most of that stuff is poisonous enough that a decent-sized sip would make Jaskier very, very sick or maybe do some permanent damage to his liver, brain, or other precious parts of him. Geralt with his freaky witcher constitution may be able to just throw back a few bottles and wake up the next day sick to his stomach and with a raging headache, but he also handles his potion-hangovers less gracefully than Jaskier does his alcohol-induced ones. Unlike Jaskier after too much vodka, though, there is cure for that, and Jaskier at least has his wits together enough to make Geralt drink it. If left to his own devices, experience has shown that Geralt himself will usually insist that the poison is already fading and not worth wasting the Oriole on (which might well be true - some of those witcher potion ingredients are worth their weight in gold, and Jaskier trusts Geralt’s judgement enough that he doesn’t try to push it on him when Geralt refuses in complete, coherent sentences.) That, or he’ll be too out of it or too busy bleeding to take it when he would need it the most.

One of Jaskier’s hands dips into the bag at his hip and rummages around, fingers moving from bottle to bottle and feeling out the knotting at their necks until he finds the Golden Oriole. He pulls it out, unstoppers it, and holds it out to Geralt.

“There, drink that. As romantic as the woods at night may be as a concept, the reality of them is uncomfortably damp and fucking cold, and some of us can’t afford a sore throat because singing is how we earn our living and I know you don’t want to be the sole breadwinner of this little enterprise for the next two weeks.”

Geralt has come to a stop in front of him now but not made a move for the bottle, Jaskier freezing his arse off probably being the highlight of his night, so Jaskier shakes it a bit, like a treat for a child. If Geralt can be a little shit, then so can he.

Rather than harrumphing at him and jerking the potion out of his hand, though, Geralt merely takes one more step, well into Jaskier’s space, and raises his head. Under the light of the moon, Jaskier can see the placid expression on his face, mouth relaxed and lips open just a bit, as he calmly looks at Jaskier in expectation.

Oh. One of those times, then.

Jaskier doesn’t know if it’s a conscious decision of Geralt’s, a sign of trust, an indulgence he allows himself when he is tired and feels like he has earned it, or if the fight and exhaustion and potions strip him of his defenses sometimes and leave him in a strange, unguarded state halfway between waking and sleeping. Jaskier has never brought it up afterwards, and Geralt has never let on how clear his memories are on what happened after he crashed.

Either way, it does not matter. Whether given consciously or unconsciously, it’s an honour, and Jaskier’s self-imposed duty as Geralt’s friend and a decent human being, to take care of him. The Path may be Geralt’s calling, and a witcher’s life one of hardship and pain, but Jaskier’s no witcher, he’s human, and a rather hedonistic, comfort-loving one at that. While Geralt walks his Path alongside him, the suffering will be kept to a minimum, thank you very much.

He lifts the bottle to Geralt’s lips and dips it carefully, slowly raising the bottom as Geralt drinks the potion.

That done, he restoppers the bottle, puts it back in the bag, and moves in on Geralt’s side.

He runs his hands over his hair, gently and methodically checking for bumps or the stickiness of bodily fluids. He knows Geralt can heal from just about anything, even head injuries that are so tricky and insidious in humans, but he’d rather not find out if he can recover from his brain literally leaking out of his skull, and if nothing else they bleed an unreasonable amount and should be wrapped before Geralt adds blood loss to the list of things to recover from. There, above his left ear, an area that’s swollen and hot to the touch and has Geralt breathe in sharply when Jaskier’s fingers probe it. No blood, though, so Jaskier decides they are good for now.

He’ll just wake Geralt up a couple of times during the night, the way he always does in cases like this. If witchers can take a blow to the head and not need to be woken up at intervals to reduce the risk that, when they do so on their own, they’ll wake up with junks of memory missing, or an entirely different person, then Geralt has never told him so, even when Jaskier’ wake-up calls have left him grumpy and growling.

“There, all done.”  It’s not; this close Jaskier can smell the stench of something that must have spilled on Geralt, his hands have rooted around in dead monster, and he’ll have a closer look for cuts, bruises, and anything else that might benefit from attention later on by candlelight, but there’s no need to get into that now. This is not the time for words.

The blackness around Geralt’s eyes has faded wile Jaskier did his little examination, but his eyes are still dark pools that could be looking anywhere. Jaskier would swear that he can feel them on him, though.

He shifts one hand and cups Geralt’s cheek, warm against Geralt’s skin, stubbled and clammy dried sweat. He wills the touch to tell Geralt what he can’t process now in words, not when part of his facilities has clearly already chosen to retire to sleep off the events of the night. Geralt makes no sound, but he sighs and leans into Jaskier’s palm.

One of those times.

Jaskier steps aside and slips an arm around Geralt’s back, leading him to Roach and then to the barn where they’ll spend the night.

They make the trip in silence, no sounds but the creaking of leather, Roach’s hooves on the ground, and their combined breaths.

This is not the time for words; words are what Jaskier fights his battles with, and he will not use them when Geralt’s own defenses are so low.

[hoodoo12]

Ménage (11/13ish)

SFW. Injuries, healing, rest.

@janitor-boy @thewolfisapartofmysoul @beetlewise-and-pennyjuice @yogsathot @dilfyjuice

Enjoy! ~

For a moment, Dewey didn’t quite realize what had happened. He saw Molly run toward the angel, her hand dark with something, speaking words he couldn’t decipher over the ringing in his ears, and then a searing light like a bursting star filled the room. Then, silence. He gasped, air rushing back into his lungs as the choking pressure around his throat was suddenly gone, and through the purple spots in his vision. he saw the angel was gone as well.

Molly looked over at Dewey, who despite gasping for air, looked as if he would be alright; a shaky thumbs' up confirmed that he was unhurt aside for the burns around his neck. Nodding, she got to her feet, grabbing the bowl and dipping her fingers into it again. Methodically, she painted the dark mixture on every doorway, every window, effectively creating a seal around her home so that the angel couldn’t return.

When that was done, the empty bowl slipped from her fingers, clattering against the floor as she knelt beside the two of them. Dark blood stained her hands, dotted the back of her shirt, and there was drywall powder in her hair, but all she saw was them, all she felt was relief that they were okay. And, she noticed with a smile, Dewey hadn’t let go of Beej’s hand.

The angel sat up, checking himself over; his throat hurt, but other than that, he just felt a little bruised. Molly began smearing a dark substance on the doorframes, the sills of the blown-out windows, and he turned to Beetlejuice, recognizing the dark substance spattered around him to be blood.

"You okay?" he rasped, squeezing the demon's hand.

Molly soon returned, and he realized what she had done. He could smell the blood on her hands. The angel couldn't return. For now, they were safe. Dewey felt weak with relief, though his brow furrowed with concern when he noticed that not all of the blood was Beetlejuice's. Dewey scrambled up to his knees, ignoring the ache in his back as he did so, joining Molly at Beetlejuice’s side.

"You're both still bleeding…"

Slowly coming around, Beetlejuice realized Dewey hadn't released his hand, and when Molly returned she took his other one again. It was something else to focus on besides his face feeling like it was burned from the ill-advised attempt to bite the angel, his chest feeling like it was slowly inflating back into place, and the generalized agony of that came from some of his shadow mass being torn from him.

He also became slowly aware he tasted blood in his mouth, but it wasn't until Dewey actually said the words, "You're both bleeding" that he realized blood was pouring out of his nose.

His first concern at that statement was Molly, however, and once again he attempted to sit up. Once again, he was unable.

Feeling helpless because he was too weak, he asked loudly,

"Molly--are you okay? Did that angel touch you?!"

He was aware it sounded like he was asking about an assault of a different kind, but he didn't care, and didn't want to think about what that angel would have done to her.

"Dewey--what about you?"

The more she looked at him, the more injured Beetlejuice appeared to be, his chest burned black and sunken, his face an angry red, blood trickling from his nose and mouth. He didn't even appear to have the strength to sit up on his own. And here he was worried about her. She shook her head, once again lifting his hand to her lips, since it seemed to be the only place she could touch without hurting him.

"No, no, sweetheart, they didn’t touch me, I just fell back into some glass. They're just scratches, I promise, I'm fine."

She looked over at Dewey, who had joined her kneeling by the demon's side. Concern was etched into his face, in the crease of his brow and the downward turn of his mouth, and Molly noticed that the ring around his throat was already fading.

“I’m okay,” he promised, looking over at her as she kissed his knuckles. Dewey would heal more quickly from an angel attack than he would, since holy fire was designed to be harmful to demons. But he could help. He could take some of the pain away, if he worked quickly.

“Take a deep breath,” he advised, gingerly placing his hands on Beetlejuice’s chest, ignoring the disquieting texture of burnt flesh beneath his palms. “I’ve never done this on a demon before, so it might hurt a bit.”

His hands began to pulse with that golden light, and at first, nothing seemed to happen. Would he even be able to help, or would angelic contact make the wounds worse?

But then skin started to knit back together, the blistered red disappearing from the demon’s face as the scorches were healed, his chest no longer having that terrible sunken look. Relief smoothed out his brow, Molly smiling gratefully over at him as she held Beej’s hand. He couldn’t hold the healing pulses for long, though, and soon the glow faded, his hands shaking a little as they dropped back at his sides.

“Any better?”

His chest felt less like a truck had parked on it, and the skin on his face felt completely mobile again instead of like stiff and crackly, uncared for leather. There was still a bone-deep ache throughout his body from his tentacles torn from their roots, but he didn’t expect Dewey to be able to help with that. He hadn’t thought an angel would help heal him in the first place.

His tentacles had retreated to their realm when the superior angel had pinned him, not able to withstand the holy light the being had concentrated on them. Shadow couldn’t exist without light, but too much overwhelmed it in this case.

“Every angel is terrible,” Beetlejuice muttered, afraid of what permanent damage the angel may have done to him. He stare up at the ceiling, before seeing the surprised and offended expressions on the other’s faces at the statement he’d just made. “Rainer Maria Rilke. The Duino Elegies? The second elegy? Eh, forget it.”

At least now he could sit up with minimal assistance. Doing so, he decided to leave early 20th century lyrical German poetry behind. Instead, he praised with a groan,

“Magic hands. Thank you.” Looking Dewey straight in the eye he gave him a half smirk. “I bet those magic hands feel good in lots of places.”

A sigh of relief passed her lips when she saw Beetlejuice come back to more of his normal self, though she could only imagine how sore he must be from taking the brunt of the angel’s attacks. She sat back on her heels, furrowing her brow a little at his crack about angels. When he clarified its source, the name somewhat familiar to her, she smiled. Molly was fairly certain she had that book on her shelves somewhere; perhaps she’d pull it down and give that particular poem a closer read once things had settled back down.

She hid a more knowing smile behind her hand at the flirtatious statement, rising to her feet with a groan. While certainly not a life threatening injury, her back felt raw and stinging from the cuts and abrasions, and her living room was in shambles.

“Dewey, can you get Beej up and take him into the bedroom? I’ll be in a second, I’ve got to at least get the glass off the floor.”

Sooner or later she would have to take a shower and get all the blood and bits of glass out of her back, but she was dreading doing so. Ignoring the sticky pools of spilled liquor on her kitchen floor, she carefully picked her way to the supplies closet to dig out the broom, getting the glass and drywall off the floor. That fucking angel really had to go and break every glass in the house, didn’t they?

While Molly seemed to understand the reference, or at least the allusion to poetry, Dewey looked confused, his head cocking to the side like a Labrador trying to decipher a sound its never heard before. His hands twitched toward Beetlejuice as he sat up carefully, groaning deep as he did so, but he seemed to be able to hold himself up on his own. Indeed, his injuries seemed healed enough for him to have the energy to flirt.  

Dewey flushed beet red, quickly looking down at his hands, though his wings gave a rather pleased ruffle quite on their own. He stammered, not quite sure how to respond, not quite sure how he should respond, and was grateful when Molly gave him something to do. He helped Beetlejuice to his feet, steadying him by slinging one striped arm over his shoulder, and got him to the bedroom, sitting him down on sheets that were still rumpled from sleep.

“Is . . . Is there anything else I can do to help?”

He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, feeling a heavy shift in the air between them, unsure how to proceed but wanting to make the effort to continue the peace between them. Looking down at the carpet, he sighed.

"I'm sorry, by the way . . . I didn't want you to get hurt."

If it'd been his choice, Beetlejuice would have ignored the mess of a partially wrecked house and the broken glass everywhere, but he also knew breathers tended to be concerned about things like that, so when Molly left his side to start cleaning, he didn't tell her he'd rather just have her come back to bed.

Instead, it was the angel who helped him up and took him to the privacy of the bedroom. With his own arm over Dewey's shoulder and a reciprocal warm arm around his waist, he hobbled back to the bed. Just the short walk winded him, and he sat staring at the floor for a second, even as Dewey gingerly took a seat beside him.

"I'll be okay," he replied, and flicked a glance over at his companion at the apology.

Dewey looked nervous, or anxious, or -- Beetlejuice had no energy to devote to puzzling out what worry the angel had. Although he'd taken to fidgeting with his hands in his lap again, the demon reached over and stilled them with a squeeze over both.

"Hey. Dewey. I'll be okay. You were obviously trying to protect me and Molly and being all altruistic and angelic and stuff, but you think I was going to let you hog all the glory? You think I was gonna let you give your boss the boot and look like a damn hero in front of Molly? So she'd be all starry-eyed and hot for you, her savior--so she'd forget about me and fall into your arms? So she'd maybe even banish me, and you'd have her all to yourself?"

He turned a narrowed eye stare at the angel, whose eyes widened in return at the accusations. Beetlejuice let the tension ride for a moment, but when Dewey continued to look stricken, he knew the joke had fallen well off the mark. He shook his head and tried to amend the poor tease.

"Nah, I'm just joking! That thing was a prick. How could I resist an ill-advised attack on an angel?" he replied. "You didn't want it here, Molly didn't want it here. She'd already told me you and I could stay here together . . . was I just supposed to let that prick take away the best things I ever got?"

He squeezed Dewey's hands again, and weaseled his own hand between the angel's. Man, that warmth was addictive. Glancing down at himself, he saw his shirt had been scorched and his tie charred. Fucking angel and its fucking holy fire.

"I'm gonna take my shirt off. It's ruined, and I can't imagine Molly's gonna want ash in her bed . . ."

Before Dewey could give any indication whether he was uncomfortable with him half naked again, Beetlejuice's shirt, tie, and jacket were gone. Sitting next to the angel wearing only pants must be his new thing.

He wanted nothing more than to curl up in the sheets and blankets and be surrounded by Molly's scent, but she hadn't returned to the bedroom yet. With a sigh, he eased to rest against Dewey's shoulder. He felt the angel's wing brush against his back, and he smiled.

A jolt rippled through him, caused equally by surprise at the touch and shock at his cold hand, but it was quick and hardly noticeable. The furrow of his brow, however, was prominent as Beetlejuice seemed to quickly accuse him of fighting the angel for his own gains, primarily Molly’s affections. It didn’t dawn on him that the demon was teasing until he spelled it out for him; only then did he relax, laughing a bit at being unable to grasp the joke. In his defense, the healing he had done, not to mention the fighting itself, had taken a great deal out of him, he couldn’t remember being this exhausted. So when a cool hand pushed itself between his, he didn’t protest, pressing his palms around it in a gentle squeeze.

Dewey only nodded when Beetlejuice announced that his shirt was coming off; he’d noticed it was singed and scorched around the chest, and couldn’t possibly still be wearable. Besides, he’d grown used to the sight of him shirtless, and especially under the circumstances, the last thing in the world he felt was uncomfortable. Even as a cool cheek pressed against his shoulder, head resting heavily against him, he smiled at how strangely natural it felt, tucking a wing protectively around him. The sensation of feathers brushing bare skin was new to him, and Dewey would be lying if he said he didn’t like it

“I’m, uh . . . ” He started lamely, clearing his throat before starting again. “I’m glad you’re here. Molly wouldn’t have been able to banish the angel if you weren’t, and . . . I’m also sorry for some of the things I said about you. Y’know, before.”

The part unspoken was, “Before he had broken free of the near brainwashing of the angelic hierarchy, before he had discovered for himself that demons weren’t the mindless forces of evil he’d believed them to be, before he had known that Beetlejuice was just as lonely and desperate for companionship as he was.” He hoped the demon knew all that.

Molly did the best she could to clean up, sweeping up the crumbled drywall and shards of glass into somewhat neat piles, sopping up as much liquid as she could off the kitchen floor, and draping towels over the yawning holes of her busted windows. They would have to be boarded up until she could get them replaced, and the kitchen floor would need scrubbed, and she would need to find a way to patch the walls and get the debris out into the garbage can . . . but that could wait.

The spell had drained her, mentally and physically, and when she glanced outside, she noticed that the sun had almost finished setting, the world painted in deep shades of indigo and violet. Time must have flowed differently inside her house while the other angel was here. No wonder she was so tired. With the floors swept and the windows covered, it was good enough.

All she wanted was to join the two of them in the bedroom, but she had to shower first, or the scrapes on her back might get infected. It was quick, the water cool to ease the stinging, and a few tentative passes with a washcloth got the bits of glass out.

Here, she ran into a bit of a dilemma. There was no way she was going to be able to comfortably sleep with a shirt on, not with so many raw scrapes and scratches on her back. She doubted Beej would have much of an issue with her going topless, but it might be a little much for her angel to handle.

“Oh well,” she whispered to herself, “he’s gonna have to come to grips with the fact that I have tits sooner or later.”

She did at least throw her sleep shorts back on and wrapped a towel around her chest before walking into the bedroom, smiling fondly at the sight of Beetlejuice leaning heavily against Dewey, who had one wing folded gently over his upper body, their hands clasped. They both looked equally drained, nearly asleep just sitting there, and she couldn’t help bending to press a kiss to both foreheads.

“You two look exhausted,” she said, stroking her hands through their hair. “Do you want to try sleeping? I’m wrecked.”

Molly climbed into the bed, leaving the towel behind, and held open the covers for the two of them to join her. At least, she hoped they would.

Beetlejuice was vaguely aware of the sounds Molly made: sweeping, the water in the shower, and now her padding across the bedroom floor to stand in front of them. The warm touch of her lips and breath near his hairline and her fingers in his hair nearly made him purr.

When she stopped and he felt the mattress dip as she climbed onto it, he opened his eyes and twisted to see her settling at the head of the bed with an expectant air. Although he still felt like he'd been rolled by a truck, Beetlejuice grinned when he saw she was topless. With a grin he nudged Dewey in a "hey lookit that, bro!" manner before pushing himself off the edge of the bed too.

It was a slower move to upright than he expected; it seemed like his muscles had seized up a little. Carefully he turned and crawled up the bed to Molly's left, so he could sleep on his less injured right side. That trespassing angel had torn out a hunk of tentacles from his left side, the sinistra. Maybe they'd done that on purpose. Maybe they'd attempted to strip away some of the evil they thought was in him. Maybe he was delirious from exhaustion and pain, and overthinking all that.

Shaking his head, as he settled into the mattress, he called down to Dewey,

"Hey. You joinin' us or what? It's an exclusive club, and Molly's offering you a membership. Price of admission is taking off your shirt, like us," he said with a grin, enjoying watching pink creep up the angel's cheeks.

Dewey's eyelids felt as though they’d had lead weight attached to them, heavy even as Molly came close, smelling so warm and sweet from the rose-scented soap she used in the shower. The kiss to his forehead made him hum, and he felt the vibration of Beetlejuice doing the same beside him. Only when an elbow sank into his side did he lift his head and look up, and immediately felt a hot flush creep from the tips of his ears to the top of his chest. He hadn’t expected to see her . . . like this. Not yet, anyway. Not so soon. All the years of turning his back, leaving the room, giving her at least that modicum of privacy, and now, he finally got to see what he could only create in his mind’s eye. She was just as beautiful as he’d imagined, maybe more so.

He felt frozen in place by the sight as Beetlejuice slid into the bed beside her, Molly turning to face him and lay her head against his shoulder. When the demon spoke, grinning and beckoning him into the bed with them, he got clumsily to his feet. A twinge of self-consciousness rippled cold through him as he worked his way out of his shirt, the sweater vest getting momentarily caught on his wings, but he was too tired to feel it entirely.

Cautiously, he slid into the bed behind Molly, careful not to brush up against her back. He could see how scraped up and red it looked, and could only imagine that was why she had gone shirtless. He wanted to heal her, wanted to see her skin smooth and whole, but he just didn’t have it in him tonight. He pressed as close as he dared, her body heat intoxicating, and draped one arm over her waist. She didn’t protest, settling down between them, and he smiled, laying his head on the pillow as he pulled the covers up around the three of them. Like an extra blanket, his wing draped over them as well, soft and protective.

Molly happily settled against Beetlejuice’s bare chest, his skin cold at first but warming beneath her, affirming his invite to Dewey with a sleepy smile and a nod. The angel crawled into the bed behind her as if she were made of glass, his movements slow and deliberate, his arm wonderfully heavy and warm as it settled in the curve of her waist. She had never felt safer, being held between them, nor more loved. In that vulnerable moment between waking and sleep, her loneliness felt like a distant memory, and a single tear slipped from her eye, unnoticed and gone in an instant.

 tbc . . .

[chantillyxlacey]

Holiday Spirits Gift! An OT3 mer-AU in a series of vignettes

Merry Xmas @fishbones-wishbones!! I had so much fun writing this! Your prompt was about as tailor-made for me as it could possibly be lol-- I may have gone a little overboard with it, to the point where it might not even stop with what I’ve got written here-- I’m highly tempted to spin off these vignettes into a long-form fic-- thank you so much for the inspiration!! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it :3 Merry Christmas!

One: In Which Vivi and Arthur have become castaways

Vivi woke up sunburnt, sore, and salt-crusted, the taste of that same awful stuff burning her mouth. The last time she’d woken up to comparable discomfort had been the day after she’d been arrested by the Regnate’s men-- but no matter how unpleasant the waking up was, it did at least mean that she hadn’t drowned. ‘I’m still alive’ was always a good square one to start from.

Despite easing her eyes open slowly, the bright nearly-noon sunlight still stung like needles, so harshly that her optimism was nearly overcome by the urge to just roll over and go back to sleep for awhile. She valiantly resisted the temptation and sat up, ignoring the aching protests of what had to be every individual bone, muscle, and tendon she had to her name.

Even breathing scraped at her lungs and aggravated her rib cage, but the air was fresh and clean, and with each breath the fog cleared from her head more and more. The more sensible she felt, the more miraculous it seemed that she had really made it to see today. She’d more or less resigned herself to death last night, though she’d refused to just give herself up to it for as long as she had the strength to cling to that swath of wood with--

“Arthur!” she gasped, prepared despite her weariness to launch to her feet and scour the beach inch by inch to find him-- but that didn’t turn out to be necessary. He was sprawled on the sand right beside her, still unconscious but clearly breathing.

He looked about as worse for wear as she felt: his skin was an angry red from the sun and peppered with bruises and scrapes from the impact that had scuttled the ship. When she leaned down to shake him gently, trying to rouse him, she could see salt crystals clinging to his eyelashes.

“Arthur-- hey, Arthur!” she called softly, and after a moment he started to stir, a thin groan ekeing between his lips. It turned into a sharp hiss through his teeth when he tried to open his eyes-- Vivi didn’t know if it was the sun or the salt that had stung him more.

She helped him to slowly sit up, and couldn’t stifle a laugh at the way his hair had dried into stiff peaks that stood almost completely vertically.

“If you’re laughing at me that’s a good sign I’m not dead, I guess,” he rasped, then coughed and rubbed at his eyes.

“You guess right!” Vivi thumped him lightly on the arm, careful to avoid his sunburn. “Congratulations on not drowning!” He laughed at that, though it still sounded a bit like a cough.

“How--?” he asked.

“No idea!” Vivi said cheerfully, and he grinned at her for a moment before turning to stare pensively out at the sea.

“Okay then-- What do we do from here?” he asked.

“No idea,” she said, more soberly. She’d read her share of stories about shipwrecked adventurers, but how much could those stories help them through the real ordeal? “We’ll figure things out as we go, I guess.” She willed confidence into the words. Arthur hummed softly, still watching the waves.

His brow furrowed and he squinted, then suddenly shot to his feet, craning his neck and shading his eyes from the sun.

“What is--? Vivi, do you see that?”

“See what--?” Before she even finished asking she spotted it too-- a huge, fast-moving shadow under the water’s surface several yards out from the shore. Distance and the blinding glitter of the sun on the waves made it impossible to guess what it might be, and within moments it vanished entirely, fading into the endless blue.

“What do you suppose…?” Arthur murmured, more to himself than to her. Vivi shrugged, more to herself than to him. For awhile they watched the sea bob and roll, but the shadow did not reappear.

.

Two: In which Vivi and Arthur explore

The myriad of books Vivi had read about exotic locales, swashbuckling novels and natural histories alike, combined with Arthur’s practical experience travelling served them rather well as they took stock of their surroundings.

It was an island, or could loosely be called that at least; they’d swept up on what seemed to be a ring of clusters of sand and marsh, held together by tree roots that started several feet before ground level, as though the trees themselves were balanced atop scuttling insect legs. Vivi had read about mangrove forests like this one, but had never seen so much as an illustration before and hadn’t imagined just how eerie the whole tableau turned out to be; Arthur had seen them before but had never learned the name.

The marsh ring wrapped around a lagoon where the water was the clearest, most shining blue Vivi had ever laid eyes on. To their great surprise it turned out to be entirely fresh, despite opening up into the mangroves in several places, where seawater should have been able to leak in and render it too brackish to safely drink. They weren’t about to dwell on the impossibility though; instead they drank until the burn in their throats cooled and the taste of brine was washed from their mouths.

No longer distracted by thirst, they contemplated the second, smaller island nestled in the center of the lagoon. It looked to be real, solid land rather than marsh, but it was difficult to tell: trees clustered there even more densely than in the mangrove, trailing weeping curtains of leaves to brush the water’s surface and shroud the little island from sight.

“I’ve never seen trees that look like these before…” Arthur murmured. “Have you ever read anything about something like that?”

“I’ve read about trees with colorful bark before,” she answered. “But in greens and reds, not blue. And I’ve never heard of a tree with white leaves at all.”

The lagoon was too deep to wade across, but not too wide to swim-- or it wouldn’t have been if they weren’t still tired and aching from the shipwreck, and not too keen on getting into the water again from the same. They’d have to investigate it later, after they took care of the more pressing need to find food and a place to take shelter.

When they returned to the beach they’d woken up on, Arthur’s arms laden with fruit picked from various of the island’s trees (none of which should be growing in a mangrove; but again, they weren’t about to look any gift horses in the mouth, no matter how impossible they were) and Vivi’s with bits of dry wood for a fire, they were surprised to find that more had washed onto the shore while they were away.

Swathes of sailcloth of varying sizes were heaped just out of reach of the rolling surf, along with a mismatched pile of tools, two knives, several planks of wood and lengths of rope, and one badly dented tin bowl. Strangest of all, though, was the large fish stranded far enough up on the sand that it couldn’t have scuttled itself there, still alive and twitching weakly.

“There’s no way this happened just on accident,” Vivi said.

“No…” Arthur agreed, sounding nervous. Vivi didn’t blame him-- if anyone else from the ship had survived and made it to the island as well-- They wouldn’t be terribly thrilled to share a sanctuary with a prisoner and a traitor to be sure, and neither of them were in much of a state to put up a fight. 

“We should get back into the trees,” Arthur said, clearly thinking along the same lines. “And just wait and see-- right?” He was already backing up as he spoke, and Vivi followed.

They waited amongst the strange, ghostly roots until the first lavender tinges of sunset crept into the sky and the fish had long since stopped moving. No one came, but they crept back out into the open with caution anyway.

“Arthur, look--” Vivi gestured at the sand when she’d put the firewood down. “There’s no footprints.” “That’s-- Hm. That’s worse somehow, actually. So... what does that mean, exactly? Did a ghost do all this, or what?”

“Thoughtful ghost,” Vivi mused, starting to arrange the firewood and shave off some bark to catch sparks. “Do you know how to cook fish?” “Uh.”

“We’ll figure that out as we go, too,” Vivi laughed.

The fish ended up unevenly cooked, but they were too hungry to care much, and it tasted alright anyway. They ate their fill and slept like the dead.

.

Three: In which Vivi and Arthur develop routines

The days passed much like the first-- they foraged and tried their luck fishing, and they built a fairly sturdy lean-to between some of the more tightly packed trees, which they shared. The first few times they had woken up to find that the chill of the night had nudged them into each other’s arms as they slept had been awkward, but now they were so used to it that they dropped all pretense, and fell asleep holding one another from the start.

There was plenty of opportunity to explore the central island once their lingering aches subsided, but they never did. Something about it was-- offputting. It had the air of an intensely private place, and even Vivi’s usually insatiable curiosity was cowed in the face of its forbidding aura. They ventured into the lagoon itself to bathe, but never past the deepest point.

Each day also saw a new cache of useful flotsam awash on the sand where they had first woken up: more boards and rope, metal utensils, and one especially lucky morning,  one of the smaller iron cookpots from the galley. Something like that could never have just floated up on its own, but they never saw any sign of whoever it was helping them.

Their anonymous angel also left them food. Sometimes it was another fish, sometimes a pile of live clams left in a pit full of seawater dug into the sand, and once a pile of seaweed that Vivi had vaguely recalled could be boiled to make a broth. Whoever it was, they never left any footprints, or any other evidence of their existence but their gifts.

“Maybe it is a ghost,” Vivi mused one evening as she dug a roasted clam out of its shell with a twig.

“What kind of ghost would be so interested in feeding a couple of castaways?” Arthur wondered back, taking a gulp of the sweet water they had recently discovered was hidden inside the hard green fruits that grew on some of the island’s trees closer to the shore. Vivi chewed her clam thoughtfully, but ultimately had no answer beyond a hum and a shrug. 

“Getting better at cooking these,” she said instead, reaching for another. “Not that you’d know.” She wrinkled her nose at Arthur, who preferred to eat his raw. Vivi found it detestable. He grinned at her, unrepentant, and held the palm fruit out to her. She drained the last mouthful, then flopped against Arthur with a sigh and hooked one arm into the crook of his elbow, sliding the other around his waist.

She couldn’t be absolutely certain, between the night’s darkness and the orange cast of the firelight, but she’d be more than willing to bet that the color in Arthur’s face wasn’t just from sunburn. She snuggled closer and closed her eyes, smiling to herself when she felt Arthur’s cheek lean against the top of her head.

They sat like that for awhile, warm from more than just the fire, and listened to the night sounds. Vivi spent a few minutes weighing the pros and cons of letting go of Arthur long enough for her to lean up and kiss him. She gradually became aware of a new sound-- something that stood apart from the sigh of the waves and the rustle of leaves, and shook her from her thoughts. Arthur shifted, raising his head as though listening too.

“Artie? Are you… singing?” She already knew the answer before he shook his head-- the sound was distant, so far away that it had to be coming from out at sea. “Could that be a whale? I’ve read that they sing but I never thought I’d get to hear it-- Can you hear whalesong from shore like this?”

“You can,” Arthur said distractedly, staring out at the waves with his brow furrowed. “But I’ve never heard any whale that sounded like this before, though… This sounds too much like…”

“It sounds like a person singing, right? Maybe a ship…” She didn’t finish the thought. The moon was full and fat tonight, and if a ship had been so close they should be able to see it, but nothing interrupted the smooth, dark line of the horizon.

“Most captains are smarter than to risk their ships sailing through this part of the sea,” Arthur murmured. The captain of the Morgause had thought himself above those stories, and everyone but the two of them had paid for it dearly.

.

Four: In which Vivi and Arthur meet someone interesting

Whatever she’d thought they’re mysterious benefactor would be like-- she’d never have guessed he was a real-- living, breathing, real and right there-- merman.

He was enormous; had he been a man standing on two legs he would have been at least ten feet tall, even if she estimated on the conservative side. The broad, sinuous tail that trailed in the surf behind him was nearly that long all on its own, covered in ink-dark scales that glittered with startling violet iridescence where the sun hit. White stripes marched along its length, looking for all the world like he’d simply had ribs painted on. 

His huge hands, each big enough to cover Vivi’s entire torso, were webbed and the fingers tipped in blunt claws, but they handled the gift they’d left for him with utter delicacy. Pale slashes of gills lined his sides, standing out starkly against his brown skin. Other than those details however, from the waist up he looked remarkably ordinary.

Well-- perhaps ‘ordinary’ wasn’t the right word. Remarkably human was probably more accurate; ‘ordinary’ simply didn’t take into account just how astonishingly... appealing his appearance was. Even with half his face covered by an overhang of dark violet hair, Vivi could already tell that he had to be the most attractive man she’d ever seen in her life. Arthur looked just as gobsmacked as she felt, standing beside her and looking down at the same impossible figure on the beach.

“Are you--” Vivi started to call out, and the merman’s head snapped up, his face a mask of shock for a single moment before it-- disappeared.

That handsome, almost-entirely-human face was replaced in an instant with a fanged skull, twin sparks of magenta burning in the empty sockets where eyes should belong. Arthur yelped a curse and tried to scrabble backwards so fast that the powdery sand under his feet gave way and he crashed down on his back. Vivi sucked in a gasp, but it was more amazement than fear.

“Wait!” she called, darting forward even as the merman started to retreat backwards into the surf. “Please, wait-- don’t go just yet!”

As she got closer, she realized that he hadn’t actually shape-shifted or dissolved into shadow and bone-- his skin had simply changed colors, as she’d read certain sea creatures were able to do. Most of his color had deepened to a shade nearly identical to his tail, with patches leeched of color in shapes that mimicked a skeleton.

The patterns faded and his skin returned to human tones as she approached; his eyes, however, remained the same. The whites weren’t white, but as black as his pupils, and the irises were vividly pink. The look in them was guarded and uncertain.

“Was--” She paused. There was no guarantee he’d understand her. There was no reason to assume he could speak English, or any human language at all-- but what else could she do but at least try to communicate? “Was it you who’s been helping us?”

For a moment she thought he didn’t understand, and felt a stab of dismay at how to bridge a language gap that vast-- but then he nodded, face still tight with wariness. “You rescued us, too, didn’t you?” Another nod, although there was an odd hesitation to it, his eyes downcast in something almost like-- shame?

“Did you sink the ship?” Vivi gaped at Arthur, who by now had stood back up and come to her side, aghast that he’d jump to that conclusion. When she looked back to the merman, however, he nodded again.

“It came too close to the island,” he lamented. His voice surprised her: a soft tenor that didn’t seem like it should belong to someone so huge and imposing looking, and laced through with an accent she couldn’t quite place. As he spoke, she could see sharp, triangular teeth flashing behind his lips like pearls. “I’m tasked by My Lady to keep any intruders away, by any means necessary.”

“Why save us, then?”

“You didn’t deserve to drown. You kept each other afloat through the storm, you helped each other even though it put your own safety at risk.” He sounded as though he was reasoning it out to himself as much as explaining to them. “I couldn’t just… Duty or not, I couldn’t just let you die.”

Vivi and Arthur shared a glance. Neither of them were quite sure how to respond. After an uncomfortable silence, the merman offered back the amulet they had made. Vivi blinked.

“You don’t like it?” she blurted.

“N-no-- that isn’t it. I thought you would want it back. That you wouldn’t want to give a gift to someone who…”

“Someone who saved our lives, and has been looking out for us ever since?” Vivi offered.

“Your lives wouldn’t have needed saving if it hadn’t been for me.”

“We kind of needed saving before the ship sank, to be honest,” Arthur said. “There wasn’t anything good waiting for a couple of prisoners when we made port.” “Prisoners?” He sounded horrified.

“Vivi was arrested unfairly and I got caught trying to help her escape. That kind of mutiny gets you hanged-- If it hadn’t been for the storm they probably wouldn’t even have waited ‘til we came ashore.” “I’m sorry,” the merman murmured.

“You don’t have to be. Like I said, you saved our necks.” Arthur offered a wry half-smile, but the merman still looked unsure.

“What’s your name?” Vivi knelt on the sand before him-- even lying on his belly and sunk low in shame, his gaze was even with hers.

“My-- what?”

“Oh--” Vivi wondered if she’d just asked something incredibly stupid, or perhaps even insensitive. “Do you… have a name? Something you call yourself?”

“Yes, of course,” he said, still sounding completely baffled. “I’ve just-- I’ve never had to introduce myself to someone before. My name is Lewis.” It was an astoundingly ordinary name for a mythical-- or supposedly mythical-- being to have. Vivi had to stifle a laugh that was wholly inappropriate for the moment, but she did smile at him.

“Thank you for saving our lives, Lewis.”

He ducked his head again, though this time it seemed more like a flustered movement than an ashamed one.

“You’re… welcome,” he mumbled.

The rest of the afternoon was spent sitting on that beach, trading further introductions and asking Lewis questions about the island.

They learned that the smaller central island, which they still hadn’t yet dared to explore, housed a temple hidden among the weeping trees. It belonged to goddess who Lewis would not name, only calling her “My Lady.”

There were not-- at least as far as Lewis knew-- other merfolk, and he had no parents or family. His Lady had created him with magic for the sole purpose of guarding her island and her temple from any intruders-- the second-to-last line of defense after the enchanted storm she had concocted with magic stole from an ancient rival; he was under orders to sink any ship that braved that tempest, though thankfully crews that were bold or foolish enough to do so were a rarity. Past him, there were wards growing within the trees on the central island itself to repel trespassers. Vivi and Arthur were the first humans to ever set foot on the isle to test them.

“Is it safe here?” Arthur asked. “If your, ah-- your ‘Lady’ comes back to find us here…” 

“I wouldn’t expect her to. There are decades between her visits, and she was here less than a season ago. She won’t be returning any time soon.”

Most other questions about his Lady Lewis was cagey at best about, but on any other topic he was happy to give thorough answers. He had apparently never had a conversation with anyone other than the Lady he served before, and he seemed to be enjoying it immensely. They talked through the entire evening, parting ways only when it grew so late that sleep became impossible to fight.

.

Five: In which Lewis procures a very strange looking fish for lunch

Arthur eyed the lumpy creature with amused skepticism. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Lewis, but I really hope this guy tastes better than he looks.”

Lewis didn’t seem the least bit offended. “He isn’t much to look at, that’s true,” he laughed. “But we don’t know-- perhaps among fish he’s a real Prince Charming.”

“Isn’t that you, instead?” Arthur grinned, then realized just exactly what it was he’d said. His and Lewis’ faces were mirror images of wide-eyed surprise until Arthur went pink from the tip of one ear across to the other and he turned his attention to the cookfire  with sudden enthusiasm. “So uh-- how’s the best way to cook his highness? Does the fire need to be hotter, do we need more firewood--?”

Lewis didn’t blush-- Vivi wondered if he could blush at all-- but he looked equally flustered as he explained that this kind of fish needed a more delicate heat, and how they should wrap it in palm leaves. Vivi smirked to herself, eyeing the way that their hands seemed to ‘accidentally’ brush far more often than could be entirely accidental as they prepared the fish together.

.

Six: In which Lewis and Arthur have a heart to heart

“I’ve been wondering something,” Arthur hesitated. Lewis flicked the very tips of his fins against Arthur’s arm.

“You can ask anything, Arthur. I’ve told you that before.” 

“How did you learn so much about the world? You said you’ve never left this island before, but you know a lot-- did-- did you used to be human, Lewis?” Lewis looked surprised, then sad.

“No, Arthur. I’ve always been this.”

“Wait-- I didn’t mean it like--” “I know you didn’t; I know you’d never. I just…” He sighed. “There was a man that My Lady used to create me. I never really was him-- I don’t have any of his memories-- but whatever knowledge he had is now mine. So I know a great deal about a world I’m not a part of.”

“That’s-- so she turned him into you? I’m not sure I understand.”

“No. I wondered myself, when I was new. She told me that he did not become me any more than the earth a seed is planted in becomes the tree.”

“....I still don’t really get it.”

“I didn’t either,” Lewis laughed ruefully. “She said that whether I understood my origin or not didn’t matter, as long as I understood my purpose.”

Without thinking, Arthur laid his hand over Lewis’.

“Why haven’t you ever left?” He asked. “You said your Lady only even comes around every few decades, you could just… go, and see the world for yourself.”

“I was afraid.” Lewis drew abstract shapes in the sand with one blunt claw. “My purpose here isn’t much, but it’s more than I’d have anywhere else.”

“Didn’t you ever get lonely though?” “Not really. And now I never am,” he looked up at Arthur, and finally smiled again.

.

Seven: In which Lewis invites Vivi and Arthur over for dinner

“Where on the island do you live, anyway, Lewis?”

“Not anywhere on it-- Under it. Beneath the temple there’s a large cavern, and that’s where I live.”

“Oh,” Vivi hummed thoughtfully. Lewis tilted his head, seeming confused.

“Did you want to see it?”

“Isn’t it underwater?” Arthur wondered.

“The entrance is, but there’s a pocket of air in the cave, and a little beach. It might be too far for you to swim on your own but I could carry you--!” He broke off, folding his hands sheepishly. “Ah-- if you didn’t mind me doing that, of course.”

“I wouldn’t mind at all,” Vivi said with a flutter of her eyelashes that was playful but nonetheless made Lewis duck his head shyly.

Lewis met them at the lagoon and they waded in until the water reached their chests. With absolute gentleness, Lewis scooped them against his chest, one of them in each of his massive arms.

“Take as deep of a breath as you can,” he said, and waiting until they had before diving down with them. The water was warm at the lagoon’s surface, but it rapidly cooled as they delved deeper and the light that filtered through her eyelids dimmed. If it hadn’t been for Lewis and his warmth, she didn’t think she would have been able to stand the cold, even though it was mercifully brief. The water warmed back up, and the light returned.

Just when Vivi’s chest was starting to burn with the need for air, the water broke above her head. She sputtered and drew in a long, grateful breath, swiping water from her eyes until she could focus.

“Oh--!” She didn’t know where to look first-- The cave would have been beautiful even unadorned: the ceiling was high-- so high it must have breached the surface and belonged to the ground of the island itself, and peppered with holes that let sunlight stream in. Embedded in the rich black stone of the walls were freckles of micah, which glimmered faintly and reflected like stars in the water’s surface. Even the sand making up the cave’s beach seemed to have a pearly sheen to it.

Garlands were strung in a complex web throughout the cave. Abalone shells and bits of sea glass clinked gently along their lengths, throwing dancing blots of color around the chamber. A band of colorful mosaic, stretching from just above the water line to presumably as high as Lewis could reach, wrapped about two-thirds of the way around the cavern walls. Even clearly incomplete it was gorgeous-- a lovely and chaotic mix of abstract shapes, pictures of sealife, and even maps of constellations. In the water tiny, colorful fish darted around them like living jewels.

Along one wall were natural ridges of stone that Lewis had utilized as shelves, which were covered with an array of dishes and vessels. Some of these were made of stone, some were fashioned from large shells, and a few seemed to be human-made and had probably been salvaged from the seabed. A fire pit sat in the middle of a stretch of pebbles further away from the water’s edge, and a wooden rack nearby seemed to be a setup for drying out firewood. The trinket Vivi and Arthur had made was set in a prominent niche in the cave wall, directly in a beam of golden sunlight.

“It isn’t very much,” Lewis said sheepishly as he set them on the sand.

“What on Earth are you talking about?” Arthur nudged him lightly with his elbow. “Lewis, this place is incredible!”

“It’s like something from a dream!” Vivi agreed, beaming up at him. She clung to his bicep, having to use both her arms around just to reach all the way around. He cast his eyes down and clearly would have been blushing if he could. He’d let them go, but his arms curled gently back around them now.

After a while, Lewis lit a fire with a flint and steel, and prepared a pot of soup for them that was more elaborate than any Vivi had seen before, and was also about the tastiest thing she’d ever eaten. They spent hours sitting by the fire, so absorbed in talking and sharing their meal, that they hardly noticed as the light filtering into the cave from above shifted into rosy hues, then faded. Rather than face the cold of the depths, especially not in the chilly night air, Vivi and Arthur opted to bed down in the soft sand of the cave’s beach.

.

Eight: In which Vivi is happy precisely where she is

Vivi woke up warm and serene. For a few blissful minutes she didn’t open her eyes or think about where she was, just basked in the comfort of the moment. When she did open her eyes at last, her field of vision was filled with a swathe of skin-- Lewis’ specifically.

Though he’d fallen asleep alongside them on the main beach plenty of times before, Lewis had always kept a respectful distance between himself and the two of them. Now, in the much smaller space of the cave, the three of them had gravitated together as they slept. Vivi was tucked against the expanse of Lewis’ chest, and she could feel Arthur’s arm draped over her waist, as well as the tickle of his breath against the back of her neck. Lewis’ tail was curled up around her and Arthur both, as though holding them in just his arms wasn’t enough.

Vivi was who knew how far from home, from any kind of civilization at all, and at the moment she had no idea how or even if she’d get back. Somehow, she didn’t find the thought distressing-- in fact, she’d never felt as safe or as much like she belonged somewhere as she did right now, wrapped up in Lewis and Arthur’s warm embraces.

They’d figured things out for themselves as they went pretty well so far, and Vivi didn’t doubt that they could keep right on doing so. She craned her neck up to brush a kiss under the edge of Lewis’ jaw, which was as far up as she could reach, and threaded her fingers through Arthur’s. Sighing contentedly, she settled back down into sleep.

[writing-for-amusement]

Commission for Confidence, 8

Summary:  Y/N has been struggling with her self-esteem for years. After incessant pushing from your best friend, Y/N decides to commission an artist to draw her, expecting everything to happen via Internet. However, when your phone is stolen, you try to cancel the commission, but Peter Parker has other ideas. He quickly becomes enraptured by you, and a friendship forms easily. Will it lead to something more? Or will your past fears get in the way?

A/N: Okay, here is a chapter! It’s a little short, imo, but I just really wanted to post something because my Soulmate-Zendaya fic isn’t leaving my brain the way it should be. And, tbh, I have NO IDEA where this one went or even how it got where it did, but hey, I’m not mad at it. I hope you all aren’t mad at it either! Please let me know what you think!!!

And if you want to be tagged, let me know!!!!!!! If there’s a strikethrough on your username, it means that the tag didn’t work for some reason, Idk why it didn’t though

Taglist: @pparkerwrites @scatterbrainedgenius @jordyns-library @wildfirecracker @pastlives-purplesouls @maybemona @hotchocolattee @heregoestheworld @beccaboo929 @willowtree42095 @134340-cm @this-is-just-for-fanfic-lmao

Word Count: 2647

Warnings: mentions of violence from previous chapter, doctors, nausea mention, pain, swearing, being super tired, some anxiety, self-doubt, Peter being a cutie and kinda smooth, awkwardness, reader loves garlic bc I love garlic (so, sorry if you don’t like garlic)

You tried to keep your heartrate regular as Doctor Finestein gently pressed around your ribs to see if there was any damage.

Did you have anxiety about not having a shirt on? Absolutely. Was it present throughout your entire life? Absolutely. Were you trying to work through it? Absolutely.

But, after a long day, with adrenaline rushes and glass and then Peter being adorable, well, longstanding anxiety was trying to take the place of your years-long work.

Of course, you were trying to fight it, so it wasn’t like all your progress had been undone in the course of a few hours. You were proud of that; you’d take that win, thankyouverymuch.

Doctor Finestein stood back and handed your shirt to you. She smiled brightly as you put it on (being careful of your hurt arm) and said cheerfully, “No broken ribs! There’s likely some bruising on the bones, though, but there’s nothing we can do about that here; that one just takes time. However, if you start to experience extreme pain or problems breathing, come back in immediately so we can do some scans.”

“Sure,” you nodded, straightening your shirt. “How do I cope with the pain? Ice?”

“Yep!” she chirped. “Ice it for a bit and then take the ice off for a bit, as needed for the pain. Also, take pain medication, whatever you usually take, or the stuff we’ll give you. After about two days, you could soak in a hot bath or use a hot water bottle or use a warm washcloth to help the exterior bruising fade faster. Sound good?”

You nodded, “Sounds good.”

“So, before we go do the CT scan,” Doctor Finestein leaned in a bit and lowered her voice to a whisper, “I thought Peter was your boyfriend, so that’s why I didn’t ask him to leave earlier. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, that’s not right of me as a doctor.”

You felt a rush of blood head straight for your cheeks and chest. You felt like you were in an old cartoon and like your head was going to pop off from the force of your blush.

“N-no,” you stuttered. “No, he’s not. He’s just a good friend.”

“Well, he’s a sweet boy,” the doctor grinned at your sudden sheepishness, “and he obviously likes you. So, I suggest you hold on to him.”

Before you could stutter out a response, she gestured for you to follow her out of the room. You gathered your things, trying to cool your face, and left the room.

Peter looked up from where he was leaning against the wall and beamed at you.

You tried to knock the echoes of Doctor Finestein from your brain. Thankfully, her comments had also knocked most of your anxious thoughts out of your head, too. So, you were just in a place of minor disequilibrium as you tried to control your emotions.

You and Peter followed the good doctor down the hallway and into the elevator. She began to explain the process of a CT scan as you went down a few floors, and you managed to focus on what she was saying.

Though, part of your brain would have preferred for you to focus on Peter as he stood close to you in the small space of the elevator.

The CT scan was actually easier than you thought, and you chatted with Peter in the waiting room while waiting for everything to process. He was telling another story about Ned, and you were smiling so wide that you thought you’d crack some of your skin.

“Y/N?” Doctor Finestein called your name after about twenty minutes, making you and Peter both look up. She tilted her head with a smile, and you crossed over to her. Peter was right on your heels.

“Long time no see,” you joked to the doctor as she took you to a small, private office sort of room. It was all quite professional.

“I know, it’s been ages,” the doctor joked right back. She didn’t sit down, so neither did you and Peter.

“What’s the damage?” Peter asked after a few tense moments of silence when your brain had decided to stall.

“No major damage!” Doctor Finestein cheered.

“Yay!” you and Peter echoed brightly.

As Doctor Finestein explained the results in a bit more detail, all you could think about was your stomach rumbling. You pushed the hunger away and listened intently as the doctor went through the things you should do at home, and what to do if certain situations were to pop up. You let your brain soak all of it up, hoping that you wouldn’t have to return to the hospital for a long time.

Soon, you were leaving the hospital with Peter and some strong pain medication. It was dark as you exited the building, but you enjoyed not having to smell the hospital air, even if it was Manhattan air and the quality left much to be desired. Hospital air always felt stiff to you, a little stifling. You understood why, as the air needed to be clean, but it didn’t mean that you liked the scent.

“I heard your stomach rumbling,” Peter informed you as you were walking. “Let’s get some food in you. What sounds good?”

You fought down the urge to tell him that he didn’t have to hang around with you anymore, as he was surely getting tired of you. Normally, that’s what you would’ve said. But tonight, you were tired, and Peter offered, so you let yourself go along with it.

“I think pizza sounds good. But not too greasy,” you said after a moment of thought.

“I know just the place,” Peter grinned, linking his elbow through your good one, the left one, and began to lead the way. “They also sell these really tasty fries; I think you’ll love it. Well… do you like garlic?”

“I love garlic,” you informed him immediately. “My family always joked that we could never be vampires because we love garlic too much.”

Peter laughed at that, his head tilting back and his eyes crinkling at the edges. “I’ve never thought of it like that, but I’m the same way!”

You chuckled with him, the warm from his arm spreading up your body. It was comforting, but it also brought attention to the fact that your body was sore and exhausted. You let out a small sigh as you thought of collapsing onto your bed.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asked gently.

“Hm?” You looked at him to see concern knitting his brows. “Oh, I’m just really tired and sore. I was thinking about my bed,” you chuckled.

“Well, the sooner we get pizza, the sooner we can get to your bed.”

“We?” you asked him with a smirk.

“Yup,” he said easily, though the blush tinging his cheeks made you grin.

Peter talked aimlessly as you walked together, a yawn stretching your jaw. His chattering paused very briefly, and you glanced at him to see him hailing a cab. One minute later, you were clambering carefully into a taxi and he was climbing in next to you. Peter told the driver where to go and then he was launching back into his story. You were only half listening, of course, because you were trying to stay awake; you’d been trying to stay awake even when walking down the sidewalk.

A few minutes later, Peter was paying the driver and helping you out of the car. When you straightened after stepping out, you were hit with a wave of pain and nausea that had you nearly falling onto the asphalt.

Peter was there, though, catching you easily with his body. Unfortunately, his arms ended up catching you on the ribs, making you wince once more. Your injured arm was throbbing in time with your face, and as he easily helped boost you up, you sighed heavily.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked you, making you glance up at him. The concern in his soft brown eyes make you feel a little better, but then your arm throbbed again. As you grimaced and looked away from him, Peter gently guided you back into the cab, which had yet to leave because the door was still open.

You scrambled to the corner of the car, clutching your pained ribs with your good hand, you could faintly hear Peter talking to the driver. It seemed that leaving the hospital had caused all the pain to catch up with you; it was akin to some of your worst cramps.

The car started to move, and your eyes flickered open to see Peter watching you carefully. You managed to give him a weak smile and straightened up with another grimace.

“Sorry,” you muttered, trying to get in a comfortable enough position in the small space. “I think the pain and nausea caught up with me,” you chuckled humorlessly.

“Don’t apologize, it’s okay,” he reassured you, putting a hand on your shoulder. “You never have to apologize for not feeling well. Especially not to me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Queens,” he replied easily, scooting closer to you.

“But what about—”

“I’m taking you home,” he said firmly. “I’ll make you some food.”

“You can cook?” you asked with perhaps a little too much doubt.

“I can, yes,” Peter informed you with great pride. “I can make some great pasta; I will have you know that it is a great delicacy.”

His dramatism made you chuckle, though you controlled it enough to where you didn’t cause you more pain. You saw how the sound made Peter’s concern lessen ever so slightly and took a deep breath to try to relax. It made your ribs twinge, but the rest of your muscles began to relax a bit, so it mostly made you feel better.

The cab finally arrived at your apartment building and Peter paid the driver before you could. He helped you out of the cab this time, essentially forcing you to brace yourself on him as you stood properly. Then, Peter laced your arms together and began to walk.

As you stepped up onto the sidewalk, you realized that your entire body was sore, especially your legs. You figured that it was probably from being dragged around by the robbers by the hair, and from the adrenaline completely working through your system.

Once again, you found yourself cursing the lack of a working elevator.

Peter’s sure and steady steps next to your shaky ones made you feel self-conscious about making the trip longer than it needed to be. He was already missing out on apparently amazing pizza because you couldn’t even manage to get fully out of a taxi, and now here he was, helping you and your shaky, sore body cross the damn sidewalk to get to the entrance of your apartment building.

“Peter,” you stopped in front of the entrance, making him turn to you. “Peter, you don’t have to keep helping me. It’s okay. You can go home; I’ll be alright. You don’t have to waste your evening on me; I know it’s annoying.”

His eyebrows furrowed and he shook his head in slight confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Peter, I’ve already taken up so much of your day with my stupid problems and probably annoying mannerisms, and I don’t want to annoy you by being slow and difficult, so really, it’s okay if you go home. I won’t be hurt. It’s gonna take me a bit to get up the stairs, so you really don’t need to waste your time on—”

“Hey now,” Peter interrupted your fast speech, putting a finger to your lips. “You’re not a waste of time, Y/N, and your problems aren’t stupid. You make it seem like it was your fault you got hurt. It wasn’t, Y/N, just as much as it… wasn’t mine. It was the robbers’ fault. Your mannerisms are not annoying: in fact, they are adorable, and I enjoy seeing them.”

“But—”

Peter surprised you by tenderly cupping your cheeks and gazing into your eyes intensely. “Y/N,” he nearly whispered, “you need help. And I want to help. Beyond that, I want to be around you more; I like hanging out with you. This is just an excuse to hang out with you more. I promise. You’re not annoying and you aren’t a waste of time or a burden. You’re my friend.”

You blinked away simmering tears and cleared your throat. Peter’s hands drifted away from your cheeks and he gently took your elbow.

“Let’s get inside, okay?” The artist suddenly grinned, “This is also an excuse to get you to try my amazing cooking.”

You chuckled lightly and let him lace your arms together again. “You keep talking yourself up, buddy, and I’m gonna be disappointed if you only cook ramen.”

Peter laughed brightly as he walked inside with you. “I can make ramen from scratch, but that’s not what I’m going to make you.”

“Well,” you winced slightly as you inhaled too sharply, “what are you making?”

“It’s a secret,” he winked down at you.

Your laughter echoed across the lobby and you saw Peter’s wide grin. You found yourself copying it, with the happiness to match it.

Then, you arrived at the stairs.

The happiness on your face deflated like the world’s saddest balloon as you stared at what would likely be your demise. You mentally cursed the day that the elevator broke down, even though you knew that it broke down a year and a half ago (therefore before you moved into the building) and began to curse the shoddy repairman and his family.

“I can carry you,” Peter suggested.

Your mind went blank and your jaw gave a jaunty hello to the floor.

“What?” you stammered.

“I can carry you up the stairs,” he repeated, amusement in his eyes.

“What? No, no way, Peter.”

“Why not?” he pouted.

“Well, for one, it’s eight fucking flights of stairs,” you pointed out, and he nodded in understanding. “Two, I am way too heavy for you. I’d break your back. There’s no way I’m letting you carry me up the stairs on your back; no way in hell.”

Peter flashed you a mischievous smirk and the next thing you knew, your legs were dangling in the air and Peter was cradling you to his chest. He had one arm under your knees and the other wrapped around your shoulders.

“Peter!” you essentially squealed, wiggling in his hold. “What the fuck are you doing? Put me down, you’ll hurt yourself!”

He grinned down at you and began to climb the stairs. He didn’t even look bothered by holding you, much less carrying you up eight flights of stairs.

“One, I never said anything about carrying you on my back,” he said cheekily, adding a wink, “and two, you’re not that heavy.”

“Peter, I weigh more than you and another person combined, please put me down, you’re going to hurt yourself,” you pleaded.

=“I’m fine,” he shrugged one shoulder. “Besides, I get to hold you and feel your gorgeous form; what could be better than that?”

It was obviously a rhetorical question, but it was one that had you sputtering for a response. Peter simply beamed down at you and that made your blood roar in your ears. You stopped squirming and simply let him carry you, though your brain was racing.

When Peter’s foot slipped on a step, however, you found yourself clutching his neck in shock. He caught himself easily and had even squeezed you closer to his chest, but the temporary shift had you spooked. As you opened your eyes, you saw him gazing down at you with an unreadable gleam in his eyes.

After a few moments, Peter cleared his throat and muttered out an apology before continuing up the stairs.

[monstersandmaw]

Male drider x male naga (nsfw)

This is a commission for someone who asked me to hold off posting it til today because it’s their birthday. So, happy birthday! I hope you like this. I really enjoyed working with these two characters of yours, and I’m totally in love with Ambrose...

Contents: one naga with some colourful language, one shy and arachnophobic drider boy, some thievery, some fluff, and some smut. Length: 4847 words

___________________________

Aiden cursed as he ducked and wove through the dense pine trees as evening pressed on relentlessly into night and the baying of the hounds and shouting of guards faded behind him.  

It had all been going so well until the duchess had returned early to her chambers and caught him red-handed with his sharp, taloned claws in her safe. She’d shrieked half the castle down, screaming about thieving snakes, leaving the naga no choice but to hurl himself out of the window and take a long dive into the freezing, filthy moat surrounding her castle. At least he still had her jewels in his satchel. He grinned wickedly to himself, canines flashing in the dying light of the day.  

Honestly, he was exhausted.

His python-like lower half was built for stealth rather than for prolonged speed, and his muscles were screaming at him to stop. The warmth had faded from the day, and the cold-blooded naga was starting to feel the chill as his muscles tightened and began to burn. His underside bore scratches and scrapes from his long flight, first through the remote castle’s extensive grounds, and then out into the wilder woods beyond. Sharp rocks had scored along his thick, red-scaled hide, leaving him bruised and a bit bloody, and he ached all over.  

Thirsty, weak, and with nowhere left to go, he eventually slowed his pace, breathing hard, and came to a halt in a quiet glade amid tall, silent pine trees. The wind hissed in the needled canopy above, but down here between the sentinel trunks, nothing moved. The baying of the duke’s hounds had long since faded into nothing, and as he swept his spiky, dark red hair back out of his eyes, he went utterly still, straining to hear any sounds at all. His head swam and his vision went double for a moment. He’d not eaten in days and while that wasn’t normally an issue for a naga, it was going to be problem for him soon after expending so much energy on escaping.  

Lightheaded, weak, and shaky, he swayed on the spot.  

Something darker than the surrounding shadows moved in the trees up ahead, and he swore softly, trying to get his eyes to focus.  

He ground his teeth and drew his body up tall, hoping to look menacing, but the extra effort sapped the last vestiges of strength from him and before he knew what was happening, he had pitched forwards and was lying face down in the carpet of old pine needles. Woozy, on the edge of consciousness, he watched as the dusk-dark body of a drider emerged hesitantly from the trees. He couldn't see enough to make out any features, but the blue-black of the delicate limbs that speared down silently into the forest floor was enough to tell him it was a drider.  

“Shit,” he hissed and his eyes rolled shut as he finally succumbed to his exhaustion. 

When he next stirred, he was chilled and sluggish, and lying in the dark somewhere. Warmth; he needed to get warm. And where the hell was he? The last thing he recalled was the approach of a drider. He realised with a jolt of fear that he should be wrapped up in webbing, stored for some future meal, if even half of what was said about driders was true. But he was free, if sluggish and sore.  

He blinked and tried to push himself upright on shaking arms, his cold muscles reluctant to obey him, and as he shifted, something squeaked at the back of whatever dank cave he was in. A rat?  

Still fighting the lingering grogginess, he lifted his head and saw a drider shoot backwards, stumbling over its tangle of spindly limbs, only to sit down heavily and stare at him with wide, panicked, dark eyes. The drider looked young, but into his adult years, and his dark, messy, almost violet-purple hair fell into his eyes as he panted, clearly terrified, and stared at the naga. The skin of his human half was bear and almost pure white, in stark contrast to his dark spider’s body, and his torso was rather scrawny, skinny, and a little pathetic, but flawless as carved marble.  

“Hello,” the drider croaked awkwardly. “You’re awake. You startled me.”

“No shit,” Aiden grunted. “Where the hell am I? And who are you?”

“My… My name is Ambrose,” he faltered, following it up with a frankly adorable smile, and Aiden was pleasantly surprised by the little dimples that formed in his cheeks at the gesture. “You’re… You’re in my -” he broke off with a screech and shot sideways, limbs scrabbling on the stony floor as he stared at the floor beside him.

“What the fuck?” Aiden muttered as he watched the drider panic at apparently nothing. “What is wrong with you?”

“Spider,” the drider whimpered pathetically, pointing a slender finger at the spot where he’d been sitting in a mess of dark limbs only a moment before.  

Aiden found laughter bubbling up inside him and he roared with amusement, the whole cave echoing with the sound of it. “You’re shitting me!” he wheezed. “Oh that’s fucking precious! A drider that’s afraid of spiders!” He laughed until his sides hurt and his eyes watered, but when he eventually got himself together, he wiped the tears from his eyes and crooned in a patronising baby-voice, “You want me to put it outside for you?”

“Yes please…” the drider mumbled miserably, not meeting Aiden’s gaze.  

Aiden snorted, still chuckling to himself, and scooped the tiny black spider up and chucked it out into the forest, feeling the drag of his cold tail and the ache of his muscles. He grunted and winced, rubbing the back of his neck and looking around the cave. “So, this dump is your home then?”

Ambrose’s cheeks flushed scarlet, and he nodded. “Yes. It’s… It’s not much. And thank you for putting the spider outside,” he said. “Normally I just wait over here until they’ve gone away…”

“You have to be the worst spider boy ever,” he snickered, ignoring the way Ambrose’s face crumpled dejectedly.  

The drider levered himself up off the ground, arranging his stick-like legs underneath him and, to Aiden’s surprise, the naga realised he was really quite tall. His legs were thin and fragile looking, and his pendulous, midnight black body was covered in silky-soft hair. The tactile naga was almost overwhelmed by the desire to touch it, and drew himself back before he could give in to the unexpected urge.  

“Well,” Aiden said, “I don’t suppose you’ve got a fire pit in this hovel, have you? I’m fucking frozen, and I stink from my impromptu swim in that foul bitch’s moat. I need a bath, and I need to warm the fuck up.”

Ambrose looked frankly horrified at the naga’s crass language, and Aiden reminded himself to rein it in a bit. No need to offend the person who’d been kind enough to pick him up and bring him here. He mused on that for a while and then asked, “Hang on a second… How the fuck did you get me in here? You look like one stiff breeze would send you spinning away like a tumbleweed!” He laughed at the image of the poor little drider cartwheeling away on the wind, only to find Ambrose looking hurt and embarrassed. “Ah, shit,” the naga added. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Ambrose mumbled. “I’m stronger than I look though. I dragged you here. I made a litter out of web and pulled it like a sled. You’re heavy, but I managed alright.” He tucked a stray strand of his inky hair behind his delicate ear and added, “There’s a stream just a few hundred yards that way, if you wanted to wash. I’ll start a fire for you.”

Something about the quiet sadness in his voice made Aiden pause. He looked at the miserable looking drider and asked, “You live out here alone?”

He nodded mutely and turned away.

With a sigh, Aiden slithered painfully out of the cave and found the stream. It was freezing, but it washed off the muck from the moat, and with every icy wave that bit into his skin, he promised himself he’d be warming up beside a toasty fire before too long.  

Aiden hauled himself back up the steep bank, panting and groaning, his head aching and his vision blurred from exhaustion and lack of food. He let out a string of vile curses when he had to force himself to stop and take a breather. “Damned, fucking cold-blooded snake,” he swore, cranking his tail up the last bit of the incline and beginning his slow drag back to the cave.  

When he got there, he found that Ambrose was heating a pot of something over a now-roaring fire, and it smelled amazing. “What’s cooking?” he asked, nearly adding ‘good looking’ for good measure afterwards, but he decided against it.  

“Rabbit stew,” he said. “I made it this morning. It’s good to be reheated once more though. Is that alright?”

“Fuck yeah,” he grinned, and Ambrose gave him a very shy little smile in return. Something about it made Aiden’s stomach flip over and he crushed the sensation immediately. It wouldn’t do to go falling for some cute little spider boy when he was out in the middle of nowhere and still had to turn his thieved goods into his guild’s boss.  

The two shared their meal in relative silence, but Aiden couldn’t help noticing the way Ambrose always made sure he had enough, and how the drider watched him eat and then glanced away whenever he caught him staring.  

“You really don’t get out much, do you?” he asked boldly when it happened for the third or fourth time. “How many other people have you seen lately?”

Tears formed suddenly in Ambrose’s eyes and he looked away. Guilt lanced through Aiden, and he lowered his empty bowl, setting it down on the ground.  

“Hey, come on, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to be…” He broke off and turned away. “I know I can be a real dick sometimes. Maybe it comes from having two of them…” he interjected, and then cursed himself for saying something so crude. “Anyway, look, I just meant… you seem nice. You don’t deserve to be shut away up here in the mountains, living alone in a cave full of spiders that you’re absolutely terrified of.” He couldn't help the little giggle at the memory of Ambrose tripping over himself in his terror at the little spider, but his mirth was short-lived.

“I have nowhere else to go,” Ambrose said in a tiny voice.  

The way he said it made something in Aiden’s chest crack. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

He nodded. “I’m scared to go out alone. So many people hate my kind. I’m scary to them, but really… I’m… I’m the one who’s afraid.”

“Come with me,” Aiden said before he’d even thought about what he was going to say. The sudden statement shocked him; Aiden was not known for random acts of kindness.

“Where? Where will you go? I saw what was in that bag,” he said, pointing to the satchel with the stolen diamond tiara and necklaces. “You’re a thief and a criminal. What kind of life are you trying to offer me?”

Aiden hissed out a sigh. “You’re right. But I mean… spider silk is really good for healing, and you could maybe work at a healers nearby if… you know… ah shit, what am I saying? I don’t know.” He scratched his head, feeling the rake of his sharp claws over his scalp. “You don’t even know me.” He sighed. “Forget I said anything.”

Ambrose looked at him steadily across the dancing flames of the fire pit. The light reflected in his big, dark eyes, and Aiden felt that strange coiling in his gut again that had nothing to do with the excellent food that the drider had prepared for him. He was strangely beautiful, in his skinny, slightly creepy looking way, but it was easy to see how some folk might be unnerved by the sight of him.  

The warmth from the fire began to make his head nod and a drowsiness washed over him as he coiled himself up tightly beside the fire pit a few minutes later.  

“You should rest,” Ambrose murmured quietly, coming over and stooping gracefully to pick up the wooden bowl that Aiden had abandoned beside him.  

“Thankssssssss…” he hissed, forgetting not to lisp as his body tipped towards sleep before he could stop it. He must have been more exhausted than he’d realised as he slurred, “That wassssss reallygood.”

“I’m glad,” Ambrose said in a soft voice. “Do you want a blanket?”

“Mmm,” was all Aiden could get out before he slipped into sleep.  

Inhaling deeply, he stirred and felt the warm weight of a huge woollen blanket over him, and he looked up to see Ambrose on the other side of the cave, curled with his legs stowed neatly beneath him on a wide hammock of web. The thought struck Aiden that he looked oddly sweet like that, and he smiled.  

The gentle vibrations caused by the naga waking and stretching must have reached the slumbering drider because he twitched awake with a yelp of distress and scuttled back into the deepest corner of the cave, eyes wide and fearful and unfocused.  

“Hey, it’s just me, dumbass,” Aiden chortled. “Remember, the criminal snake you adopted yesterday?”

Ambrose surprised him by beaming a wide smile at him that stopped his slow-beating heart for a few seconds and stalled his brain. Gods above; he was beautiful.  

“What?” the drider asked. “Do I have drool on my face? Have I leaked webbing or something?”  

“Is that like pissing yourself?” he snorted, shattering whatever moment had hung pendulously between them.  

“No,” Ambrose replied, blushing prettily. “It’s still embarrassing though.”

When he looked around and saw that in fact everything was as it should be, with no drool or webbing out of place, he sighed and stretched. Aiden tried not to watch too closely as his torso flexed, but he found that he had to turn away all the same.  

Ambrose went lax with a grunt and looked over at Aiden with his big dark eyes gleaming softly. “How are you feeling today?”

“Stiff, tired, achy…” Aiden complained. “But mostly alright, I guess.”

Ambrose’s previously relaxed posture tightened and he looked suddenly as though he were staving off tears.  

Aiden moved closer, his smooth, hard scales barely whispering on the cold rock of Ambrose’ dank little home. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said, trying to hide his emotions behind a wavering little smile. “Nothing…”

Aiden cocked an eyebrow, and Ambrose caved.  

“Fine,” the drider sniffed, turning away, legs moving like a clockwork automaton.  

Not having legs himself, Aiden would have been lying if he had said that he didn't also find Ambrose’ eight, slender legs fascinating. Forcing himself to concentrate, he shifted a little closer to the drider, who paused when he sensed him getting near, and drew in another long breath before speaking.  

“I suppose… I mean… it’s kind of lonely up here in the forest…”

“But this cave is full of spiders to keep you company,” Aiden jested, and Ambrose suppressed a shudder. “Ok, seriously though, if you hate it so much, why do you live here? There’s a town not fifty miles away, and for someone with legs like yours, that wouldn’t be a taxing journey… I don’t get the whole hermit act… Give people a chance… Trust me, there are way scarier looking beasties out there than you. You’re positively angelic in comparison to some of the folk in my guild, let me tell you…”

Ambrose looked over his slender shoulder at Aiden and gave a sad little smile. “You’re the first person who’s ever seen me and not run screaming.”

Aiden’s heart cracked at that. “What?” he breathed. “You’re shitting me! But… But you’re -” he cut off quickly before he embarrassed himself.  

“I’m a drider, that’s what!” Ambrose said hotly, drawing himself up tall, and for the first time, Aiden saw him as perhaps others did: more than a little ‘otherworldly’, with his big dark eyes and ghostly pale skin, his long limbs and his rounded, downy arachnid body. “People hate driders. They think we’re creepy or scary, or that we eat their children, or wrap them up in web for later and suck them dry…”

“You don’t?” Aiden snorted. “Damn, I quite liked the idea of being able to say I’d survived a few nights with a monster…”

The hurt on Ambrose’ face cut Aiden to the quick once again.  

“Ah, shit,” he said. “I’m sorry. I always run my mouth when I get uncomfortable.”

“See? I make even you uncomfortable!” he said, huge, crystal tears rolling down his pale cheeks. “And you’re a criminal and a thief!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he huffed defensively. “Just because I nick stuff for a living, doesn’t mean I hang around with creeps… Ok, maybe I do, but they’re alright. My crew is alright. We don’t steal from people who don’t deserve it, you know?”  

He darted back to where his satchel still lay on the rock and scooped it up, drawing out the sparkling gems.  

“The bitch who owned these has a whole vault beneath the castle. She just kept these ones in her room because they were her favourite. She also keeps a tiefling on a leash as some kind of sick pet, and she’s got a centaur whose coat she dyes baby pink and has her paraded around for her amusement. Trust me, I’ve seen monsters, and you, my friend, are not one.”

Ambrose was still crying silently, but he lowered his dark spider’s body close to the floor, legs moving seamlessly like the dwarven and goblin lifting mechanisms at the docks. “I guess I don’t want you to go yet,” he said in a small voice.  

“Who said I was going anywhere?” he grinned, wondering what he was getting himself into. This wasn’t like him. Had Ambrose been anyone else, he’d have left him in the dust a long time ago, but there was something about his curious innocence, and the way he had instinctively helped the weakened naga, despite his obvious wariness of others…  

Ambrose perked up visibly at that. “You… You mean you want to stay?”

“Maybe for a few more days,” he shrugged, putting the jewellery back in the sack. “Just until I feel myself again, you know?”

“This isn’t you at your best?” Ambrose joked, and he was met with an answering grin from Aiden.  

“Ho boy,” Aiden beamed at him, sharp canines showing. “I’m unstoppable when I’m on top form. Just you wait.”

The exchange seemed to have cheered Ambrose up, but when Aiden asked the drider if he fancied showing him around the surrounding forest, Ambrose shrank away again, shaking his head. “I can’t,” he said.

“What do you mean?”  

“I… I don’t go out much.”

Well, that much was actually obvious to the naga, but still… “Just a few yards from the cave?” he said. “I’m cold and I could use some sunshine on my scales, you know?” he said, flicking his red hair playfully. It was enough to draw a little smile from Ambrose, and he agreed to accompany Aiden to the mouth of the cave, and then just a bit further.  

Aiden found himself drawing the drider out more and more, both literally, and metaphorically as they laughed together over meals, or, more accurately, as Aiden scandalised him with tales of his thieving crew’s antics and escapades. However, after another four days, Aiden was certain of two things. The first was that he had stayed too long and his crew would be wondering if he’d just run off with the profits of the heist, and the second was that he was falling for this sweet, intelligent, shy, under-socialised drider faster and harder than he ever would have thought possible.  

“Come with me,” he murmured, on the evening when he had decided to announce that he absolutely had to return the next day.  

The two were lying beside the fire, Ambrose with all his legs tucked up adorably beneath him so that he looked like a little black cat with its paws scrunched in close to its body. He was also leaning his upper body against Aiden’s, who was coiled around Ambrose’ entire form. He was just long enough to be able to encircle him completely, the very tip of his tail just coming to rest in front of Ambrose’ spider body. Occasionally, the dark tip of his tail would twitch involuntarily, and Ambrose’ eyes would always dart down to look at it, and he would twitch his pretty lips into a little smile every time. Naturally, Aiden did it deliberately sometimes, just to watch his new friend’s reaction.  

“I can’t,” Ambrose whispered hoarsely.  

“Do you want to?” Aiden asked. “I mean, don’t you want to see the world? Do you really want to live out your whole life in this one cave full of spiders which you’re terrified of? How long do driders even live anyway…?”

His face crumpled. “We can live a long time,” he mumbled. “And no. Of course I don’t want to stay here alone forever.”

Aiden reached his hand out and ran the back of his fingers up the smooth, slightly fuzzy surface of the leg nearest to him. Ambrose shuddered violently and let out a gasp of shock, eyes rolling closed. When Aiden repeated the gesture, a moan spilled from Ambrose’ lips, and it was the most seductive and delicious sound that Aiden had ever heard anyone make.  

“Holy shit,” he breathed. “Ambrose, you… the sound you just made…”

“I’m sorry,” he panted, pink flushing his skin from collarbones all the way up to his ears. “That… That felt so good.”

“Has anyone ever touched you?”

Ambrose shook his head, his messy hair tumbling into his heavily lidded eyes.

The naga went very still and removed his fingers from the incredibly soft velvet at the ‘hip’ of Ambrose’ spider leg, where it joined his spider body. “Would you let me?” Aiden asked. “Would you let me make you feel good?”

Ambrose licked his lips and opened his glittering eyes. His pupils were huge in the dark, and he nodded slowly. “Please…”

“You want me to make you feel good?” Aiden asked again. “How far do you want to go?”

“I don’t know,” he said. His pulse beat rapidly at his throat, but he looked determined. “Will you stop if I ask you to?”

“Of course,” he said, and he couldn’t resist adding, “I know I’ve got two of them, but I’m not that much of a dick…”

Ambrose snorted, his lips hitching up on one side. “I barely have one, so…”

It was Aiden’s turn to be confused, and Ambrose’s turn to laugh.  

Ambrose blushed and giggled his way through a rapid-fire lesson in drider anatomy, and Aiden was suddenly very interested. “Male driders don’t really have a… you know… I mean we do, but it only really comes all the way out when it’s mating season. Mostly it just stays inside. Even if… you know…”  

“So wait, you’ve got a slit, or what?” he asked. “I mean, some male naga have both, so I’m cool with whatever you’ve got going on down there… but that’s… that’s kinda hot, you know?”

Ambrose’s answering blush was so pretty that Aiden felt his cocks stirring already, and the heat must have shown in his gaze because Ambrose’ blush only deepened when he realised. “You think…? I mean… You’re… You’re turned on by me?”

“Yes,” he hissed. “Very much so.”

“And it’s not just curiosity?”

He shook his head. “Part of it is - I do like the idea of something new - but mostly it’s just you. You’re sweet and bashful, and you deserve to be praised and told how beautiful you are. I want to give that to you.”

A single tear rolled down Ambrose’s cheek. “Alright,” he said. “How… How do you want to do this?”

A little while later, Ambrose was on his back, and Aiden was trailing his claws down his incredibly soft and wildly sensitive underbelly. Ambrose jerked and twitched and bucked, crying out and biting the back of his hand as Aiden worked him all over, just getting him used to the sensation of being touched and, quite honestly, worshipped. Aiden noticed almost immediately that Ambrose was getting wet in a very particular place on his lower body, and when he ran his fingertips over it, he discovered a slit that was slick and warm and wet.  

“Can I use my mouth on you?” he asked huskily.  

Ambrose whimpered and nodded his assent. “Wait,” he gasped, and the naga halted. “Are you poisonous?” His words were slurred and weak, but he cracked one dark eye open and tried unsuccessfully to focus on Aiden through the pleasure of the touches he was still receiving from Aiden’s fingertips.  

The naga snorted, amused. “ ‘Venomous’ is the term you’re looking for, and no. No juice in these,” he said, flashing his canines. “Some of us are, but I’m not. Don’t worry.”  

And with that, Aiden leaned his weight against the curve of Ambrose’ body and cautiously lowered his mouth to taste him. Aiden’s long tongue lapped at him, finding him slightly sweet and a little salty, and he soon discovered Ambrose’s cock seated deep inside him. As he worked his tongue repeatedly along the length of it, sometimes managing to curl the long muscle almost all the way around Ambrose’s hidden cock, he felt the walls of the slit pulse almost rhythmically, and he knew that it would feel incredible to be inside him.  

When Aiden paused and voiced this aloud, Ambrose, who was quickly becoming a whining, mewling mess of limbs and heaving body, groaned, “Yes! Please…”

Aiden looked down the length of his own, scarlet red body, and bit his lip. Not only was the larger of his two cocks fully erect and weeping profusely, but the second, which usually only became fully erect during the naga’s heats, was also hard and slick. “Well, well,” he said. “Look what the sight of you like this has done to me,” he chuckled.

Ambrose managed to open his eyes with a flutter of long, dark lashes, and he smiled. “Beautiful,” he rasped. “I want you…”

Aiden shifted, coiling himself up so that he could slide easily into the slick heat of Ambrose’ sheath. The moment their cocks touched, he felt a jolt run right through him, and he gasped, clinging to Ambrose’ body. “Fuck,” he snarled. “Fuck, you’re perfect…”

Ambrose was beyond words at the sensations coursing through him.  

“I’ve never felt so full,” he managed to gasp a few minutes later after Aiden had begun to rock back and forth inside him. “I… I don’t think I’m… I’m going to…” he panted, his body convulsing and shaking with over stimulation beneath Aiden. “I -” and with a rush of heat beneath Aiden, the drider came.

Spurts of thick, hot come pulsed around Aiden’s two cocks, and the naga lost his rhythm and his control, coming with a gasp a second after Ambrose.  

Ambrose’ uninhibited yell of pleasure echoed off the walls of his home as he came, his body twitching and rocking with pleasure, while Aiden rammed his eyes shut, cocks buried inside him, and ground his teeth, gasping at the intensity of it. He had never come like this.  

It took a while for both of them to come back to their senses, and when they did, Aiden laughed nervously and slid free of Ambrose. “You alright?” he asked, voice hoarse.  

Ambrose nodded and tightened his skinny torso, abs clenching as he looked down his body to where his lower half was frankly a mess. “I think I might need to bathe tonight,” he said. Then, with a wicked glint in his eyes that Aiden would never have suspected from him, he added, “Unless you want to go again?”

“What have I unleashed?” he laughed.  

In fact, they did go again, twice more, before the dawn.  

As they were both tired and spent, washing clean in the freezing stream, Ambrose said quietly, “I think I will come with you.”

“What, you only want me for the sex now?” Aiden joked.  

Ambrose remained serious as he said, “No. I was thinking about it before. If you promise that you will help me… I’d like to come with you. I’d like to see something of the world.”

Aiden was not expecting his heart to react in the way it did, but he flashed Ambrose a wide grin. “Great,” he said. “I promise. You’re going to love it. I just know it.”

___________________________

| Masterlist | Patreon | Ko-fi | Writing Commissions |

[shipppersrus]

The Kids Are Alright- Chapter 1, part 1

Contains spoilers from Take Us Back.

Clementine’s POV

Clem’s POV~

I was ready to say goodbye, though I wasn’t ready to leave him. I prepared myself to finally be with Lee again, to see my mother and father, Sandra, Omid, Duck, Kenny… at least that’s what I hoped happened when I got to the other side. I took one last deep breath and closed my eyes, this was it, this would be my last moment with Aj; at least for awhile. As I prepared to die a surge of pain raged through my body, I screamed; he didn’t aim for the head Aj chopped off my leg. The walkers roar matched mine as tears ran down my face, my leg was gone in two strikes. Aj was fuzzy through my tears I tried to mumble words the pain was agonizing, it was too much, I blacked out. Aj? Black out. Louis? Black out. Ruby? Black out. Blood? Black out.

I kept fading in and out, I could barely hold onto any consciousness. I just remember a pain like no other, and how I still wasn’t dead, yet. My eyes felt heavy with sleep, and there was a tingling pain coming from my left leg. The sound of classical music played lightly in the background, my eyes slowly split apart as I stared at the top of the bunk bed. I started to wiggle my fingers just a bit as my body felt stiff. As I moved my leg I felt a pain like no other coming from my left leg, I yelped with pain, what happened? “She’s up! Ruby she’s awake!” I heard Aj’s voice as he ran out the room.  I tried to get up but as I sat up the pounding in my head played on repeat, I fought through it. Next, I flipped the covers and saw one leg but not the other. The door busted open before I had a moment to react. “Clementine! Whoa, take it easy. Come on lay back down.” Though I couldn’t take my eyes off the stump that was now my leg, I recognized his voice: It was Louis. He lightly touched my arm and helped me back down. My head was banging and my body was sore, it was easier not to move. “My leg!” I started to panic a little bit. “Hey, hey, hey. Look at me, breathe.” I looked at him and started to breathe. “I was bit…” “Shh, Clem, you made it. Aj saved your life, you lived.” He caressed my face. The door busted open as Aj busted in with Ruby. “Clem!” Aj ran to me as I accepted his embrace. It caused me pain but every second was worth it being with my goofball again. “How long have I been out?” I asked. “4 days.” Ruby held onto the ladder of the bed. “We kept you medicated and watered, but I bet your starving.” “That’s an understatement.” I felt my stomach. “I’ll get you something to eat, so I can give you something for the pain.” Ruby smiled. “It’s good to have you back with us Clementine.” “It’s really good to be back.” I shared her smile. “Aj why don’t you come help me get some things for Clem.” As reluctant as Aj was to leave my side, he still willingly left to help Ruby.

I sat up off my elbows as I supported my weight against the back of the bed. Louis helped me adjust then took my hand in his. “I thought I lost you.” He held my fingers close to his lips. “Me too.” I closed my eyes, not trying to think about how heartbroken I would of left him. “Clem, I know we haven’t been… well… a thing for long, but I care so much about you and ever since I met you a month or so back, you’ve been the best thing to walk into my life since forever and the thought of losing you-“ he choked on his words as I saw him wipe a quick tear away. His words slightly took my breath away. I didn’t have words to comfort his pain, so I kissed him. It was something I didn’t know I needed till now. He lightly touched my face, I could tell he was being as gentle as he could, but I held onto him with as much strength as I can offer. The kiss lingered between us for a few minutes before my hands fell on top of his.  I still don’t understand how I cheated death, I was bit, I was gone, how did I live? “Louis.” His eyes slowly met mine. “Hmm.” I loved the affect my kiss had on him. “What happened?” His face dropped with mine following his. “I just remember we were all searching for you guys, when we heard a scream. We followed it, then heard another one. It led us to the barn. We all fought so we could get you guys out. I just remember seeing your leg and all the blood… Aj told us you were bit but he cut it off and that you need a doctor. I picked you up and him and I ran the whole way back, I didn’t stop for a second until you were in Ruby’s care. Luckily she had just finished helping Violet and was able to help before you lost too much blood. When Minnie cut your leg, ironically she saved your life. She got you patched up, and a fever set in. We all thought you weren’t going to make it, well all of us except Aj. You ended up pulling through and let me tell you, he never left your side. I came and stayed for as long as I could, but the other kids needed me and I knew you were in good hands.” I took my time taking in all the information. Aj made a call and he saved my life. “I’m just glad you’re still with us, with me.” I smiled as he kissed my forehead. The door slowly opened and Aj entered. “Are you guys going to be doing that all the time now?” He said as he brought me some food. “Yup pretty much.” Louis smirked while Aj rolled his eyes.

“How do you feel Clem?” Aj asked as he sat the bowl of soup beside me.

“I’m in a lot of pain, but I’m happy to still be alive.” I looked at the stump that was now my leg.

“I knew you’d live, you’re still the toughest person I know.” I moved over so Aj could take a spot next to me.

“I don’t know Aj, I think you’re becoming more tough than me. What you did was very brave.” I smiled as the soups flavor overtook my senses.

“ No ones as tough as you Clem.” seeing Aj’s face was everything in this moment. I started to eat the delightful soup, I could tell it was getting cold, probably from sitting outside for awhile. I wanted to eat slow but I was starving and couldn’t help myself.

“I think you’re going to need a little more, i’ll be back.” Louis stood from my bedside.

“No it’s okay, the others need to eat.” I grabbed his arm.

“Clem it’s okay, we have enough. What Willy stole from the raiders will keep us going for at least a month or so, we’ll make due.” He touched my hand then left the room with my bowl, he’s amazing.

I turned around to see Aj staring at me. I took him into my arms and held my little goofball.

“I love you Aj.” A tear slipped out of my eye.

“ I love you back Clem.” He held onto me.

The door opened and Ruby came in with some medicine and what looked like supplies to clean my fo- I mean stump.

“Hey Aj would you mind giving us a moment.” Ruby started setting things up on our dresser.

“But-” I Immediately cut Aj off.

“It’s okay Aj, as soon as she’s done you can come back in the room.” I squeezed his hand.

“Okay.” Aj left the room, but not without a fit.

“Alright let’s get you cleaned up.” Ruby said.

First she cleaned my stump and replaced my bandages, it hurt like hell. Next I had to take my shirt off. The bruises on my ribs and arms were ferocious, those hurt like hell. She sponged the hurt parts of me and gave me some medicine for the pain, then wrapped up. I could tell she wanted to ask about my brand, but refrained from doing so. Once she left Aj and Louis both entered in all at once with food and Aj with a new drawing of me. I happily took the bowl and beautiful artwork and watched the two change the music to jazz. Louis and Aj danced and were jolly, I laid there and watched the two before drifting to sleep.

I was swinging in my treehouse tire swing, I could see my house 5240 S Grover St., the pool covered up and the high fence behind me. It was quiet, no walkers, only the sound of nature. I took in the fresh air, it felt nice to be back.

“You did it Clementine, I knew you could.” Lee gave me a push on my swing.

“I almost died, but Aj saved me.” my head dropped, understanding the pain I put him through.

“Yeah sweetpea, but you’re still here.” He continued to push.

“Still not Bitten.” I repeated those words as both my legs were high in the air.

“Still not bitten.” He repeated after me.

“I found a home Lee. I really like it here.” I thought about Louis, mine and Aj’s room, our friends.

“I’m glad Clementine, I’m glad you found people to love you and look out for you. You found gold in this hard life, that’s all I ever hoped for you.” He stopped pushing and I got out my treehouse.

“Thank you Lee, thank you for saving me and teaching me how to survive.” I hugged him as tears poured down my eyes.

“It was you that saved me Clementine.” He hugged me back. “Now go Clem, we’ll see each other again soon.” He stood at my level.

“You can count on it.” I smiled as i wiped the tears from my eyes.

I turned around and climbed up my treehouse. I have a new home now.

Part 1        Part 2         Part 3        Part 4      Part 5

Thank you guys for reading and all the other talented fic writers for inspiring me to write! I hope you guys enjoyed as I plan to come out with many more parts to this. Before I continue I just wanted to ask if you guys prefer James to be in this story or not depending on how you felt towards him after the last episode, please let me know! Also check out “ Don’t be Afraid” by @sweetsimblr28

Also still searching for some lovely artist! Let me know if you’re interested!

[kenzieam]

Full Circle - Chapter Four (Bucky X Lev)

Rating: M (smut, language, violence, mature themes, potential major character death)

Genre: Drama/Angst

@captstefanbrandt @iammarylastar @kiiiimberlyriiiicker1995 @notimetoblog @captain-ariel-barnes @jaamesbbarnes @lancefvcker @bitsandbobsandstuff @softlybarnes @lovelybbarnes @buckitybarnes @bucky-plums-barnes  @moonbeambucky @badassbaker @citylights221 @empress-of-boujee  @shynara51 @diinofayce @casestudy-mw  @jewels2876 @damnaged-princess @everythingisoverrated @allmyfanficfaves @melgoodwin @clarabella960 @curvybihufflepuff  @angryschnauzer @wowspideyholland @sergeantwhitewolf @smilexcaptainx @plaidcat4815 @shirukitsune @chook007

*******************************************************************************************

This is the sequel to It’s Time, with Lev reaching the end of her pregnancy; but will ghosts from the past threaten their newfound and hard-fought happiness???

*******************************************************************************************

In the aftermath of Lev’s accident, what happens?

Sorry, my lovelies.... shameless fluff and angst...... enjoy, I did........

******************************************************************************************

“Would you like to have a shower, dear? Clean up a bit?”  

“God, yes.”                                                                                                              

The shower feels amazing, even with Mary having to help me; my ankle is fractured and in a cast, so I have to sit, and my arms are weak and feel weighted down, but she shampoos my hair and chatters away on mundane things, seeming to realize I just need white noise while I decompress.  

I would never, in a million years, have expected Alicia Howard to show herself at my door, my hospital door or, even more shocking, to apologize. I doubt this would’ve happened if she hadn’t experienced the pain of Tommy leaving her, but I’ll take it. A vicious little part of me is absolutely dancing a gig of glee over her karmic misfortune, while the grown-up side of me can only summon sympathy and relief. A huge weight is gone and while I doubt Alicia and I will ever sit down for coffee together, as least we’ve laid this to rest.

What now though, with Bucky?

I should have known, did know deep down inside that Bucky would never have done anything with Alicia, and I feel a deep sense of shame welling up in me. I can’t even fully blame pregnancy hormones, I would have done the same damn shit if I’d walked in on that at any time, pregnant or not. Why couldn’t I just let go and trust Bucky? Was it because of before, from holding onto five years of heartache? From believing with narrow-minded precision that I had been betrayed and that was all there was to the story? That the man I’d loved, honestly since kindergarten, could have done something like that to me, after only a week apart? Even then I’d been too stubborn to consider anything else.... was it like Steve had said, I’d never been able to rely on my own mother, and that had conditioned me to expect betrayal from those closest to me? That I'd fallen so hard and so fast because it had only confirmed what I’d always secretly feared and waited for?

That was fucked up, and if there was ever a time to try and change that, it was most definitely now.

But again, what about Bucky?

How many times would he let me hurt him like this?  

How many times would he forgive me for believing the worst? For automatically jumping to the conclusion that he’d set out to hurt me? A person’s love can only be questioned and tested so many times before it breaks, even unconditional love, there’s always a breaking point. And I continued to goose-step merrily towards Bucky’s, kicking him at every opportunity. What did I offer him except mistrust and suspicion?  

I didn’t deserve him. I didn’t deserve Bucky as a lover, Clint as a brother, Steve as a friend; they were all too good for me.

But I’m not ready to give up yet. If I’m anything, I’m stubborn as hell. Maybe, just maybe, Bucky’s natural good-heartedness will extend my way one more time.  

I will never test him like this again. I have to commit or get out. Commit my full trust to Bucky or stop the charade and stop leading him on. And that’s not going to happen. I love Bucky so much it hurts, I would do anything for him, and it’s time to show him that.

I’m pulled from my thoughts by the water stopping, and Mary gently wrapping a towel around me. She gives me a knowing smile as she helps me dress in my own clothes, clothes Bucky must have brought over; my favorite faded hoodie and comfiest sweats.  

According to Mary, the majority of my bruises are gone and the pain I feel is mainly just from atrophy and disuse. I’m stiff and sore, but really, for being hit by a truck, I feel pretty good. The neurologist shows up as Mary is combing my hair and runs me through a gamut of questions and tests, nodding after each one before announcing that he sees no signs of brain damage, but would like me to see him in a few weeks for a follow-up.  

I’m dying to see my babies, but I also want to see Bucky; it just seems right to meet them with him at my side. Mary seems to understand, and brings in a phone for me to use, then leaves. My hands are shaking so badly I can hardly dial the number and I nearly drop the damn thing as I press it to my ear. My chest is tight and I can hardly breathe.

“Hello?” Bucky’s voice is flat, tired. He doesn’t recognize the number.  

I try to say his name and burst into tears instead, nearly dropping the phone again. I curl forwards, bowing in on myself as the dam breaks, as uncontrollable sobs rack me. Every breath hurts my sore body, makes my tender incision ache, but I can’t stop.

“Lev? Lev?!” I hear Bucky over my sobs and choke them desperately back. That’s a good sign, isn’t it? That he hasn’t just hung up on me?

“Bucky,” my voice breaks, tears hot on my cheeks.  

I hear him exhale raggedly, and his deep voice trembles when he speaks again. “Baby?”

“Bucky, I’m sorry.”  

He starts to cry then; harsh, breathless sobs that he fights to hold back. His suffering is obvious and overwhelming, driving a stake deep into my heart.  

“Buck, please. I’m so sorry-”

“I love you, baby. I’d never do anything-”

“I know, I’m so sorry. Please, I have to see you, I don’t want to meet our babies until you’re here-”

He breaks down completely, and for a few minutes I can only listen helplessly, Bucky’s full anguish washing over me, stealing my breath. After a few minutes he gets control again, breathing hard and unevenly.  

“I’m banned until-”

“Fuck the ban.”

He chuckles weakly. “Lev...”

“Please, can you come?”

“Baby, I’m halfway out the door already.” I hear scrabbling in the background, the clink of keys and a muffled ‘Meat, please bud’ before he’s back. “I’ll be there, I love you.” He sounds so much lighter already and I’m still crying, tears morphing from sorrow to joy as he hangs up.

I don’t deserve this man, the happiness he brings me; he is my absolute light.

I’m nervous as I wait for Bucky, my hands twisting in my lap. I called Mary in and begged her to sneak Bucky in, regardless of the suspension and she winks conspiratorially, disappearing for a few minutes before returning with a thumbs up.  

She also brought me a mirror and I wince at my reflection; I look like, well, like I got hit by a truck, but I don’t have long to think about this before Mary glances at her phone and ducks out of the room.  

I sense him long before I see him and I hardly notice Mary shut the door behind him to give us privacy. Bucky stands in the doorway for barely a second before striding to me and pulling me into his arms, I bite back a whine as pain floods my body and Bucky flinches, sitting on the edge of the bed.  

“Sorry babe,” he pulls back and smooths my hair back. “You’re still sore, aren’t you?”

“It’s okay,” I murmur, pulling him back against me and he falls silent, clutching back at me with equal desperation. For long minutes we just hold each other and I start crying again, my breath hitching as Bucky rubs soothing circles on my back.

“I’m sorry, I'm so sorry,” I murmur again and again through my tears, hot shame threatening the bone deep relief I feel at being back in Bucky’s arms again; I’m babbling in my desperation to convey my remorse.

“Baby, don’t.” He whispers, lips trembling as they press to my neck.  

“Yes,” I insist. I pull away and Bucky reluctantly withdraws his face from my throat, eyes opening slowly. I cup his face, my hand shaking slightly and he leans into my touch, eyes fluttering closed again.  

“I’m so sorry. For everything. For freaking out, for not trusting you, for running away like that-”

Bucky tries to shush me, but I continue.  

“I was wrong, what I did was stupid and dangerous and I almost destroyed everything-”

He crushes me back to his chest then, body shuddering violently. “Don’t,” he mutters harshly. “Don’t remind me of that... when the hospital called, when I thought I’d lost you-” he drops his head to my throat and I feel fresh tears wet my skin. His arms around me are almost painful but I cling just as tightly back.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he mutters and my blood freezes in my veins. Here it is, I deserve it; he’s tired of all my drama, my lack of faith in him. I can’t say I blame him, but damn it hurts.

“I understand,” I whisper in return, moving to sit back. I feel like I’m being flayed alive and fresh tears fall unheeded down my cheeks. “I’ve been horrible to you, I’m always doubting you.... you want to leave... it’s okay, I deserve it-”

Bucky has been reluctant to let me pull away but as I speak he startles sharply and pushes me back to look directly into my eyes. His massive hand cups my cheek and I let myself lean into his strength once more, relish his calloused caress. “Lev? No. No baby, that’s not what I mean.... I would never want to leave! Jesus baby... I can’t breathe without you, nothing makes sense without you. No.” He pulls me close while I’m still processing his words and I feel the faint tremor in his limbs as he crushes me to his chest. His voice is low and tortured. “But babe, I need you to trust me. I.... Jesus, I’d give you the world, everything I have and it still seems like you think I’ll hurt you-”

“I’m sorry-”

“Shhh.” There’s a faint command in his tone and I fall silent. He needs to say this, and I need to listen.  

The faint tremor in his limbs is gone. “I will never hurt you, Levka. I would give up everything I have to keep you; you are all that matters to me, you and our babies. I need you to believe me.”  

There’s a sorrowful finality in his words. I have the power to break him right now, he’s laying it all out for me, baring the heart I’ve scarred so many times before and I feel a warmth suffuse my limbs.  

I do.  

I believe him. The faint shadows that always lingered, always whispered and murmured at the corners of my mind have faded and fallen silent. He actions have always proven this.  

He waited for me, for five years; putting his life on hold in hopes that I would come back to him.  

He waited for me now, taking care of our babies, hoping I would come back one more time.  

Actions speak louder than words.  

“I do.” I choke, overwhelmed. But words aren’t enough and I cling to him, pour my conviction and resolution into my arms, into my body as I claw closer, ignoring the sharp aches and jabs of pain from my complaining limbs. I feel him exhale hard, long and deep as he feels my resolve, my wordless promise and something shifts in both of us, settling with a sigh of contentment.  

His touch is gentle but insistent, cupping my chin to turn my head and guide my lips to his. Our first touch is tentative, little more than a brush but it sets off a lightning bolt between us. We’re frantic, clawing at each other, tongues tangling together. Bucky’s clasping my face in his hands as we devour each other’s mouths, kissing with bruising force. Small, desperate sounds of need escape us both but it’s Bucky that pulls back first, panting, to rest his forehead to mine.  

“Christ babe, I want you something fierce but it’s too soon-”  

I whine in protest and try to kiss him again but he pulls away with a rueful chuckle, grabbing my wrists and clutching them gently but firmly. His deep blue eyes capture mine and in them I see bottomless depths of love. “You’re sore, and still recovering, we have to wait.”

I nod, conceding to his wisdom reluctantly and settle for snuggling, tucking my head up under his chin. His stubble rasps against my forehead. He stays silent, but I feel the question in his mind anyway.

“Alicia Howard came to see me.”

He tenses, a faint, unconscious growl forming in his chest.  

“She apologized... for everything. For five years ago and now.”

“What did she say?”  

“That she was jealous of me back in school and targeted you; purposely went after you when you were drunk and vulnerable. Tommy’s left her, so her parents are moving down there to help with the kids and it made her think about all this; made her realize what if feels like, so she wanted to say she was sorry. She regrets going to you first though, but she was scared of my reaction.”

Bucky chuckles mirthlessly. “She did say she was sorry, but I was so dumbstruck I just sat there. I didn’t believe her, but I was too stunned to do anything. I should have just thrown her out, and then you were there and -” He breaks off, not wanting to remember and I wince, remembering it for him.  

I trace my fingertips gently along his lips and he kisses them gently, cuddling me closer for a minute before speaking.  

“Well.... shit. I never thought Alicia’d have it in her.... I want to feel bad for her but I can’t, she took five years from us.”

I nod silently and wait. After another long, reflective moment Bucky sits up a little straighter and pulls away, grinning widely down at me. “Let’s go, see our babies.”

I feel a pang of guilt. I’ve been so concerned with repairing my relationship with their father I’d completely put the twins aside in my mind, but my longing for them comes back hard and fierce and as I nod, tears cloud my eyes again.  

Bucky kisses my forehead, a loud, happy, sloppy kiss then detangles us and stands, striding from the room. He reappears a second later, pushing a wheelchair. He helps me to sit and then we’re speeding off, Mary winking at me as we pass.  

A thought occurs to me and I can’t stop a giggle.  

“What’s so funny?” Bucky asks, and I can hear the grin in his voice.  

“Mary thinks we’re married... you never corrected her?”

Bucky stops so abruptly I almost tumble out of the chair and then he’s crouched in front of me, clasping my hands in his. His expression is a curious mix of embarrassment and excitement.            

“No, I didn’t,” he concedes, blushing. He looks up at me and I bite back a gasp at the intensity in his eyes. “And that’s a mistake I intend to rectify right now.” He reaches for me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.  

We’d discussed marriage, but never seriously. It seemed like a foregone conclusion with us, a natural progression that we’d gradually get to, and once I fell pregnant I preferred to wait anyway, until the twins were old enough to take part, a little flower-girl, a miniature ring-bearer...

“I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time-”

“How long?” I tease.

“Since kindergarten,” Bucky replies lightly, then sobers. “But seriously since eleventh grade. I saved up for a ring all through high school-”

“You said that was for a back-packing trip before college-”

“Well, I couldn’t have you know the truth,” Bucky grins. He flushes faintly, looking down at our clasped hands. “I bought the ring a week before we broke up, and I still have it. I don’t have it on me right now, or else I’d get down on one knee and-”

“Yes.”

His look of surprise is almost comical, as if he could honestly thought that I would say no.

“Yes?” He stammers.

“Of course, yes. Yes, Bucky.” I can’t stop a huge grin and find myself blinking away tears. Bucky whoops and pulls me in for a kiss, excited as a little kid.  

“When?” He’s practically vibrating. “I want to do it now, these last few weeks have been absolute hell, thinking I’d missed my last chance-”

I’m touched by his excited, flushed cheek. “Can we wait for a while, until the twins can participate?”

Bucky frowns, looking vaguely petulant and giving me a taste of what his two little toddlers are going to look at me like when I tell them no.  

“Okay,” I give in. “Just until they’re a few months old.”

My compromise is accepted and he kisses me again, a sloppy, joyful kiss before bumping his forehead against mine gently and standing again, almost skipping as he pushes me towards the NICU.  

As we near the ward my heart starts to pound with apprehension.  

“Bucky? Stop.”  

He leans over my shoulder. “What, babe?”    

“What are they like? Have they forgotten me? I’m-”

Bucky silences my nervous ramblings with a tender kiss. “I’ve been with them every moment I can and I’ve told them all about you. They can’t wait to meet you.”

“What are they like?”

Bucky grins and starts pushing me again. “You’ll see.

My fingernails are digging painfully into my palms as Bucky pushes me through the NICU; nurses smile at him in greeting, he’s an obvious regular, and exclaim in surprise and happiness when he introduces me. When he reaches a certain set of incubators he starts talking earnestly to the nurse nearby, and my head spins as he asks a multitude of educated questions: What do the twins weigh today? How was their last feed? Did the doctor look at the spot on their son’s navel stump? The one that looked irritated?  

I feel a mingled sense of pride and shame. Bucky’s been here parenting like a champ, taking over everything in my absence, making sure that our babies are being well cared for.  

Bucky turns away from the nurse and smiles widely at me. “We’re just in time, it’s time to feed them.”

Realization hits me. Although there’s nothing wrong with formula, I really wanted my babies to be breastfed, and I haven’t been here....  

Bucky understands my hesitation. “No, they’ve been getting your milk.”

I raise a brow and Bucky shrugs. “I knew how important it was to you.”

The mechanics of it are still beyond me.

Bucky flushes slightly. “Even comatose mothers' lactate, they’ve been using a pump. Nat and Wanda donated some until your supply caught up.”

While some would feel a sense of violation, I can only muster relief; I haven’t completely failed my babies. It’s been bad enough knowing I’ve slept through their first few weeks of life, it would have been heartbreaking to learn I’d failed to nourish them as well.  

“You don’t mind?” Bucky is hesitant.

I shake my head. “No, I’m relieved.”

Bucky smiles widely for a moment before sobering. “The nurses say the twins probably won’t take to breastfeeding now though, they’re used to bottles.”

I wave my hand, that’s the least of my worries; as long as they get my milk, I’m fine.  

Bucky’s biting his bottom lip. “Do you want to sit in the rocker? That’s usually where I feed them.” At my nod, he helps me stand and shuffle over, lowering me carefully into the rocker. I remember Mary’s earlier words and fumble at my hoodie.

“You want your hoodie off?” His large hands are gentle, putting my weak pawing to shame.

“Skin to skin.”

Bucky nods, carefully extricating me from the hoodie, smiling excitedly at me. The nurse hovers in the periphery, but Bucky looks like a veteran, and she leaves him to it, leaning over the closest incubator and cooing at the occupant. I see a tiny fist wave in response.

“Your mama’s here.” Bucky murmurs, oh so carefully gathering the squirming bundle. He turns to me, beaming, and gently places the baby in my arms.  

“Our son,” he whispers. “He was born first.”

I’m gone, gazing down at absolute perfection. Soft, downy brown hair dusts his little scalp and curious, deep blue eyes gaze directly at me. His tiny waving fists slow and I swear his little lip pooches out in thought for an instant before he seems to realize who I am, then he grins at me, baring toothless gums.  

I hear Bucky sniffle and tear my gaze away for a moment. Bucky smiles wetly, holding our daughter. Cradling her with one arm he gently helps me shift our son over then sets our daughter on my free arm and my joy doubles.  

She too has Bucky’s brown hair and deep blue eyes, but she’s not as quick to accept me, tiny face scrunching for a minute, her nose wrinkling adorably before decided to forgive me and gifting me with a coo.

The force of my tears surprises me and I feel Bucky gather me to his chest, one arm around me, the other around our babies as he rests his head to mine, crying with me for a time, until the twins start to squirm hungrily and protest. He pulls away with a sniff and reaches, returning with set of tiny bottles.  

“Here.” I watch, impressed, as he guides the nipple into our son’s mouth and he gestures for me to take it. Cautiously, I take the bottle from him, holding it at the same angle and watch in awe as our son is voracious, draining the bottle quickly.  

Bucky chuckles as he gently pulls our daughter from my lap and settles in the other chair. “She’s a little tougher,” he explains; fiddling the nipple in her mouth for a few beats before she decides to eat.  

Just as I’m worrying our son’s going to drain the bottle and cry for more, he slows, his tiny lids fluttering shut.  

“Food coma.” Bucky grins. Now that she’s started, our daughter is catching up rapidly and it doesn’t take long for her to finish. “Here,” Bucky instructs, demonstrating. “Lift him to your shoulder and rub his back.”

It’s like holding a doll, I’m afraid I’m going to break him but Bucky smiles encouragingly at me and I smile back. Bucky’s been handling this alone, I’ll catch up.  

The twins burp in unison, making us laugh then Bucky’s standing, gently settling our daughter beside her brother, both babies now on my chest, bare above the tank top I’m wearing. They’re warm and squirming and smell so good and I feel fresh tears trail down my cheeks, see the same on Bucky’s face.

“You don’t know much I’ve wanted to see this.” His voice is low and he bites his bottom lip.  

“I’ve dreamed of it,” I admit, dropping my head to press a kiss to each downy head. Three-quarters asleep already, the twins shift only slightly, sighing against me and my heart swells even more.  

“Thank you, Bucky.” I mean so much more than these simple words, and Bucky understands, breath hitching as he nods. He covers our babies with a blanket and settles back in his chair, resting his forearms on his knees as he watches.  

“What are their names?” I ask curiously.

Bucky shakes his head, smiling apologetically. “I haven’t named them, I’ve been waiting for you.”

The simple declaration kicks me in the gut and I can only gape at him. He’s waited for me? Knowing how important this was to me, he’s been waiting until I woke so we could decide together-

“Bucky-” I choke and he smiles, understanding.  

“You’re welcome, babe. I knew you wanted it.”

I glance down at our son and his name hits me, like a rock between the eyes. The multitude of boy’s names I considered before their birth disappear. There is only one name that makes sense.

“James Buchanan Jr.”

Bucky jolts, staring at me. “Yeah?” The edge of hope in his voice only proves the rightness of it.

“Yes. How about J.J.?”

James Buchanan Sr. wipes at his eyes and nods, grinning widely. “And her?” His eyes move to our daughter.

“You decide, I named J.J.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, considering. After a moment he exhales. “How about Aria? Aria Belle?” He bites his lip, tentative.

“It’s beautiful.” And it is, soft and strong and rolls right off your tongue.  

Aria Belle Barnes. Perfect.

James Buchanan Barnes Jr., perfect.  

I raise my eyes to Bucky’s, see tears trailing down his perfect face.    

There’s only one problem, nagging at the corners of my mind.  

Clint.  

Steve.

Because of me, because of my impulsiveness, my rash actions, my family is divided.      

[naughty-teddy-innit]

Rehabilitation : Chap. 2 An Ed Sheeran Fanfiction

Title:      Rehab: Chapter 2

Author: @naughty-teddy-innit

Rating:  PG- No smuts for a while, but intense content?

Click here for: INTRO  Chapter 1

CHAPTER 2

I inhaled, and tipped my head back, a low hum of pleasure escaping my lips. The warm, moist steam that filled my lungs was equally heavenly on my sore, stiff muscles, and I took a long moment to just stand there, to let the spray of hot water cascade down my body. It was so soothing and relaxing and just SO deliciously nice after a very, VERY long day, and for a moment I seriously contemplated just STAYING in there, before reaching down and twisting the slippery knob to shut the water off.  I mean, I could quite comfortably have flipped the TV on and relaxed with a cold drink WHILE sitting under the heavenly streams of hot water. It was just that lovely. Sigh.

I awkwardly managed to scoop up the 2 fluffy turquoise bath towels that were hanging on the wall, and wrapped one tightly around myself, and twisted the other around my soaking wet hair.  I stepped from the shower, and faced myself in the mirror, quickly wiping the steam from the slick surface.  Ugh. I bit my lip at what was staring back at me, wishing for the millionth time, probably like every other woman in the world, that I could change the reflection.  Making the same wishes that probably any other girl staring into the mirror would make. Prettier, perkier breasts. Slimmer arms. A flat belly and thighs that didn’t jiggle. I’d always been a curvy girl, it was a trait that ran through almost all of my family, and it was a trait that was a struggle to embrace at the best of times.  I self-consciously sucked my tummy in, and turned study the line of my jaw and profile. Add a slimmer face to that list, and lose the double chin, and…I guess that list could go on, right?  Funny thing is…I don’t consider myself ugly at all. I love the sparkle of my blue eyes, and I’ve always been told my long, wavy hair belongs in a Pantene commercial. Masses of silky waves that once tamed, really were pretty, and were probably the one feature that made me feel prettiest.  

I unwound my hair, quickly ran a comb through my damp tresses, and tucked it back into a simple braid.  A bit of moisturizer on my face, some lotion on my arms and shoulders, and that was that. I wrapped myself up in my favourite, faded flannel bathrobe, and turned back to the mirror.  I could feel the exhaustion behind my eyes, the dull ache of not enough sleep, an ungodly early morning and just… too much. Too much in my mind, too much on my heart.  My eyes squeezed shut, the onslaught of the day washing over me….

 ______________________________________________________________

“God…. Jesus in Heaven…Oh Ed…My boy…”  

For the briefest moment, as his voice broke and he wobbled right in front of my eyes, I’d honestly thought his knees were going to go right from under him. I’d almost found myself grabbing for his elbow, but he’d managed, with his good arm, to steady himself on the railing of the bed.

I had tried to prepare him, but it had to have been a horrible shock for Stuart, seeing Ed that way.  He managed to lower himself in to the chair that sat perched by the head of the bed, out of the way of the wires and tubes and beeping equipment, and scooched it as close to Ed’s side as possible.

I saw the sheen of tears in his eyes, but only one managed to land on the scruffy expanse of his cheek before he gathered himself, taking a deep breath and blinking the rest away.  It was an awful, brutal sight. I was only a bystander, I didn’t know him at all, but even my stomach hurt to see someone so young in such a god-awful state.  

He was white as a ghost, pallid against the sheets and his hospital gown, and he had IV’s, tubes and monitors connected all over his body.  His poor face was a mess.  A massive gash along his hairline was stitched carefully back together, as was his badly split lip.  One eye was bloody, swollen shut and marbled with bruises. The rest of his face wasn’t much better, puffy and covered in contusions and scrapes, and there were dried spatters of blood still matted in his pretty orange hair.  His arm and shoulder were tightly braced, and it looked as though metal pins or …something…were protruding from the cast on the lower half of his arm and hand, likely surgically implanted to keep his broken bones in the right place.  His neck was braced too, and he was intubated, a breathing tube placed down his throat.  His leg was also elevated, casted and in traction, and beyond all the injuries we could see?  I could only imagine the injuries we couldn’t.  

I don’t think he moved from that chair for hours. He managed to slide his good hand through the railings of the bed, carefully avoiding any tubes or wires, and kept his one good hand laid gently over Ed’s uninjured one. And he just…sat. Watched over him, just like he said. No words spoken, just silent…protection? For hours, he just…sat. Never once leaving his side.  

It had to have been close to lunchtime, when he came hurrying back to the front desk, phone in hand.

“If I leave to take this call, will I be allowed back in??” He asked in hushed, but urgent tone. “His mum and dad have finally landed and I need to get them here.  I need to tell them where to go.  Imogen’s frantic and John’s BARELY holding it together.  I don’t imagine you want phone calls in here?”

I looked up from my computer screen and gestured to the call buttons by the door. “Not a problem, Mr. Ca-, I mean, Stuart.” I smiled, remembering what he’d said earlier.  “You just have to press the call button outside the door, identify yourself, and we’ll buzz you back in.  Get them here safely, okay?”

“Appreciate it, Annaliese, thank you.” He nodded an exhausted smile, and rushed out the door to take the call.  

—

His sweet mama, God, she just flat out broke my heart.  SO tiny, and just beside herself when they finally arrived.  I could see where Ed got his pretty ginger hair from, though hers were streaked, showing her years, and she had beautiful dark eyes.  Her husband was taller than her by quite a bit, he had grey, thinning hair and a beard to match, and warm eyes.  Her eyes were swollen and red and she looked as though she hadn’t stopped crying in hours, even days, and they still flowed as she clung to her husband. Stu made very quick introductions, mentioning briefly that his brother Matthew would be arriving later in the day; he’d apparently been on vacation with some friends, but I knew they only cared about getting to their son.  Stu and John held her tightly, supporting her and holding her up in every way they could while I paged Ed’s doctor and signaled to the nurse that they’d arrived.

“Mr. and Mrs. Sheeran?” I spoke softly. “I’ve paged Dr. Hendry, and he’s on his way right now, and Amy, our charge nurse, will take you to your son. I’m so sorry the last 48 hours have been so rough, but I’m glad you’ve made it now.  Please let me know if ANY of you need anything.”

Imogen was beyond words, but she managed a quick, but grateful nod as Amy joined us, and gently led them away.  

 ______________________________________________________________

I shook my head, subconsciously trying to shake free the images swirling around my brain. Once his family had arrived, I’d taken a step back and let the doctors and nurses do their job, an effort to separate myself from a situation that while it didn’t not involve me, somehow had drawn me in anyway. I found myself wanting to check in on him, on his family…. but I pulled back, wanting to maintain some level of professionalism. Still. The remainder of my shift, my mind couldn’t help but wander, and even now, hours later in my own tiny bathroom, I clearly wasn’t having much luck detaching myself.

The steam on the mirror had faded, and there was a chill to the air.  I tossed my towel over the shower rail, still trying to figure out for the life of me why this boy had me so drawn in, and fumbled for the switch on the wall.  I padded off to my tiny kitchen, determined to find glass of wine and something involving chocolate. I was exhausted, dying to put my feet up on the couch and probably just pass out. I’d not left work until near 6:30 after starting my day at 5, and working ICU/ER shifts meant that my weekends were not always weekends. I was due back in the ICU to cover for Brenda again the next day, but graveyard shift meant I wasn’t due in till much later in the evening, and would work over night.  

I sank into the worn, overstuffed cushions on my couch, a glass of chilled White beside me on the aged pine chest my grandmother had passed down to me, and handful of double stuff Oreos for good measure.  I fumbled with the remote, flipping on an old episode of Breaking Bad, and several sips and a couple of cookies later, I’d nodded right off.

————

The next day was spent sleeping till late in the afternoon.  My body clock was often at a loss; my sleep schedule often changed depending on whether I was working an overnight, a morning or an afternoon/evening. I managed to pull myself out from under my duvet with enough time to do a grocery run, hit the bank and get home to throw down a quick supper.  I’d bring a sandwich and some snacks with me, but nothing sucked more than having an empty, rumbly belly when you were stuck at desk on graveyard shift.  

My third-floor walkup was about a 10-15 drive from the hospital, but staff parking was brutal, and gas was expensive, so I often just took public transit.  This night was no different, and I found myself on the unit with time to spare for the beginning of the graveyard shift.  The nurses were completing their shift change at the same time I was starting, so the typical checks were completed and updates given.  Cheryl, the nighttime charge nurse, was a sweet lady and one I’d worked with quite a few times before.  Unfortunately, she was already a bundle of frazzled nerves when I arrived. Short staffed, one nurse and the other clerk on duty had already called in sick, and the Resident was stuck in traffic.  Goddamn. I was already dreading what this night would bring.

Several hours, a cardiac arrest, and a medication allergic reaction later, I was in desperate need of a coffee and a stretch.  I hadn’t stopped in hours, not even long enough for my brain to drift to Ed (though I knew he was still with us) and I was due for a break. I logged in my last order and faxed out the last of the requisitions over to 3C, our step-down unit. I lifted myself from the lumpy desk chair, rolling my neck to loosen it up, and stretched my arms behind me.  

Cheryl was updating flowsheets and charts at the Nurses Station, kitty corner to my desk, and shot me a grateful smile when I mentioned where I was going.

“Girl. Go. Coffee waits for no woman. Take a fifteen, and lord knows we’ll be here when you get back.”

I grinned and grabbed my bag from under the desk. “Steeped tea, 2 milks and a sugar?”

“Bless you, my child.” The woman actually folded her hands in prayer and crossed herself, and my shoulders shook as I silently cracked up.  “My turn next time?”

“You got it.” I tucked my bank card into my pocket and glanced at the massive swinging doors that gated our unit, and then decided to tiptoe through to the back doors that were closer to the elevators. The main cafeteria was closed this time of night, so the coffee shop on the main level would have to be my destination. I tiptoed through the maze of beds, carefully making sure not to disturb anyone, and I was almost to the back of the unit and out the door, when I heard the noise.

First one monitor blared, then another alarm screamed, and then I heard the rattle of the bed rails. Oh no. I whirled around, my coffee forgotten, searching out the source of the commotion.

The flash of orange hair, the rainbow colours of his skin, so bright against his hospital gown and sheets- my heart dropped. Shit.

It was Ed.

Luckily, there was a phone on the wall, and I grabbed it, slapped the call button and paged the Code which would summon the doctor.  I could see Cheryl come skidding around the corner- she’d have seen the monitors go off on her screens at the Nurses Station, and she literally flew to his bedside, along with another trauma nurse on duty.  

He’d not yet woken up, he’d been unconscious and intubated since he was brought in from the accident, and it looked as though he was finally coming to. The problem with an unconscious or comatose patient coming to with a tube down their throats and no idea where they were or what was going on?

Panic, fear and utter confusion. And panic, fear, and utter confusion can wreak havoc on an already weak and injured body.  

I noticed his parents were nowhere to be seen, and neither was Stuart, probably because it was the middle of the night. I grabbed the phone again, and called down to paging to have them call whatever numbers they had on file for his parents. They needed to be here now. If he was waking up, I knew how much he’d need those familiar faces to support him.  

I touched nothing, I was very aware that I was NOT a medical professional and I ALWAYS made sure to leave anything medical TO the professionals, but physically, I was closest to him, and mentally…I couldn’t help it. I only wanted to help.   His eyes were wide, frantic and panicked and his good arm was trying blindly to yank at the tube that was down his throat. His frightened eyes locked with mine and in his drugged up, confused state, he was blindly reaching for me.

“Hey…. hey, Look at me.” I spoke softly, and very gently wrapped my hand around his, guiding it away from his ventilator tube, and made sure to keep eye contact. I spoke again, clearly, softly and gently.  “Ed, Look at me. You’re okay. You’re in a hospital, your family is coming, and the doctor is coming to help you. The tube in your mouth is only to help you breathe. You’re safe. I promise.”

His whole body was tremoring, and he obviously was not all the way conscious from the way his eyes were rolling around and intermittently drifting shut, and I wasn’t sure he’d understood a word I’d said.

Dr. Collins came rushing over, along with his Resident and the surgeon on-call, and together they began to check his monitors and vitals, and issued orders for tests and scans. Cheryl immediately made notations on his chart and sent the second nurse for the sedative and pain med the doctor ordered.

The doctor made his own progress notes, and then waved the nurses and resident back a bit, ostensibly to uncrowd his overwhelmed patient.

“You’re a very lucky young man, considering.” The doctor smiled a reassuring smile, and rumbled on in his deep voice. “I think we’re ready to remove that breathing tube, but you must try to remain calm. You’ve had a rough ride.  We’ll talk more when you’re feeling stronger, and when your family has returned.”

He gestured at Cheryl to come assist with extubating the tube.   I quickly moved to step back and get out of the way, but a set of warm, strong fingers, fingers I’d still been squeezing up until just a moment ago, quickly wrapped tightly around my hand and wrist. A pair of the clearest blue eyes I’d ever seen looked at me and frantically begged me to stay, no words needed. His grip was strong, and I could see him shake his head just the tiniest fraction of an inch when I’d tried to pull back.

I gently squeezed his hand back, and bit my lip, a (what I hoped was) a reassuring smile flitting across my face. He wouldn’t be alone. I’d make sure of it.

“I won’t go. I promise.” I whispered, holding on tight. “I’m right here.”

TBC…..

Xoxox

Author’s Note: I’m just gonna hide in my little corner over here and hope the wait was worth it? I know it’s not my longest piece of writing, but I kinda love. Small disclaimer- Take everything with a grain of salt, and allow for touch of creative license pretty please lol I do work in a hospital, I do Annaliese’s job, but I haven’t worked in ER or ICU before, so if I’m a tad off, it’s with the best of intentions!! 

ALL FEEDBACK/ASKS/NOTES/MESSAGES much appreciated and welcomed!  Love you guys!

[lygrim]

Feudal High Fantasy AU Part 3!

So excited! Thanks to @displacerghost​ and @elf-kid2​ for the support, it made this go much smoother. 

Onwards~!

Three times she tries to come back to herself. The first time, she is aware of something rapping against her forehead, and the nauseating sensation of being upside down, and swaying. She is happy to relinquish her hold on reality and all its attendant discomforts.

The second time, she is aware of red fox fire and the baying of hounds, hot breath, and something tugging at her short hair. At first she is afraid, until she hears canine whining and feels a hot tongue on her face. She swats at Molly, her mother’s motley old bitch, and the annoying animal backs away so she can sleep. As she sank again, a whisper of memory shows her Molly, stiff and cold and staring glassily on the hearthstones last spring. She was gone before the thought pierces her consciousness.

The third time, she awakens with an urgency that has her bolting upright and instantly regretting it. She cups her head with a moan; her skull pounds like the bell for mass is ringing inside it.

It takes several minutes for the pain to abate enough for her to open her eyes. She notes that she’s on a dusty fainting couch in front of an empty hearth, that she is freezing cold and caked with mud, and that she’s in a room she’s never seen before. She’s also not dead, which she counts to be rather extraordinary, considering what had transpired the last time she was conscious.

More important than any of that, though, she needs to piss and there’s not a damn chamberpot in sight.

Levering herself off of the couch is a challenge. She’s sore all over, from her crown to her feet, except for her toes, which are completely numb. She waddles to a sturdy wood plank door, one of two in the room, hoping to find a garderobe in which to relieve herself.

For the first time today she’s in luck; it is indeed a garderobe, or at least she supposes it is. Relief is sweet, and she considers the room around her now that her bladder is not pressing on her brain.

It’s… it’s an exceedingly pretty place to do one’s business. The walls are paneled wood and the mouldings on the doors were carved with flourishes, a costly and excessive detail for a water closet. It looks rather like something the Scotts would have in their demesne, where they a little more wealthy and a bit less practical. And Roxanne supposes that’s what puts her off about this room: who puts so much extravagance into the room where people spend the least amount of time? The room doesn’t even smell like a commode; instead it smells like lemongrass, and the sea.

Across from the commode is a silvered mirror. She moans in consternation when she sees her herself; ‘bedraggled’ is an understatement. Her everything is covered in mud, and there are twigs and leaves snarled in her hair. When she tries to rub a smear of mud off her forehead, she discovers (painfully) that it’s not dirt, but flakes of dried blood and a bruise stretching from brow to hairline. She prods at it bleakly. She doesn’t remember hitting her head, but this absolutely explains her migraine.

She’ll have to avoid her mother for weeks. When she was a child, her mother would joke to anyone that would listen that Roxanne was obviously a farmer’s get; she had a field for a forehead. Roxanne could live the rest of her life without hearing what her mother had to say about her new bruise in conjunction with her unattractiveness, spinster status and every other thing that’s ever been wrong with her.

Below the mirror is a wash stand, but the basin is empty, of course. She considers it mournfully: she’d kill for something to drink, even tepid water, and her dress had been dull burgundy when she set out this morning. Now it’s a dusty brown, with an emphasis on dusty. Her skirt is so stiff it crackles when she moves and she leaves a rain of dust behind her. She badly needs a laundry. And a bath. And most definitely something to eat. In fact, almost every physical discomfort known to man is plaguing Roxanne about now.

“And least you didn’t have to piddle on the floor,” She mutters to herself as she sets her skirt to rights. The far wall is an hidden by a tall privacy screen, but this one doesn’t appear to be made of wood or cloth, but rather some sort of semi-opaque white sheeting, painted with mountains and trees and long-necked birds in flight, besieged by looming grey thunderheads. In the center of it all was an armored figure on horseback, attended by a servant in green geometrically-patterned robes and a pack of the daintiest black hunting dogs Roxanne had ever seen.

The screen really was quite beautiful, but strange, with its muted colors and delicate lines. She traced a finger over the warrior; his armor was foreign to her, layered in scaly plates and rendered by a careful hand in exacting detail. The helmet was overly large compared to the rest of the figure, flared and festooned with… she really wasn’t certain what that was. A thicket of curving, waving tendrils, like a profusion of horns. The armor was the prettiest shade of blue-black, like hellebore, or wet slate.

She felt as though she was touching a relic, and quickly took her hand away at the thought. Then she scoffed at her own folly. Here she was, mooning over this fine work that someone obviously didn’t care for more than as something to shove against a wall in their privy. Still, something about it enchanted her and made her forget her pains. She could almost hear leaves rustling in the wind when she looked at the trees, and hear the distant baying of the dogs.

And then something damp and cold landed on her stocking foot and she jerked backwards with a shriek, kicking it off.  

A frog bounced off the bottom of the screen and floundered on its back for a moment. When it righted itself it gave her a gimlet stare, then with a disgruntled croak it hopped out of sight beneath the screen, back the way it came.

She clucked and bent down to look where the frog had hit, worried that it had damaged the beautiful painting. She found no mark, but she discovered there was a soft light peeking under the base of the privacy screen.

Also, she still heard trees in the wind. And now birdsong.

Confused, she straightened and pulled aside the edge of the screen, and shielded her eyes with a curse as she was bathed in sunlight.

Squinting and scowling, she shaded her eyes against the sun and looked out, and what she saw stopped her breath. Her eyes wide with wonder, her discomforts forgotten, she stumbled into Paradise.

Her eyes caught on jewel tones, vibrant green leaves crowding up to the edge of water so blue and clear she feared she would step in and drink in that color, never to surface. Or want to.

Soft mist hung in the air and a warm, inviting breeze kissed her face and drew her forward. Even the basalt beneath her feet was warm, heated by a golden sun. She had left her world and its autumnal splendor behind for a land of eternal summer.

She fumbled with her ties, laughter bubbling up in her throat. She was battered and bedraggled and unmarried but by God she was not unfortunate, and not fool enough to stand for a moment longer on the banks of the most beautiful pool in the world.

She dipped her toes in the water, then disturbed the silence and the stillness with a shriek of joy and a loud splash when she found the water to be hot. “Dear God,” she groaned rapturously, leaning her head against the rock on the edge of the pool. “Let me never leave this place.”

After a few minutes of bliss, the soreness was gone from her muscles. By the time she had finished cataloguing and tending to her wounds, they had stopped stinging so badly. Besides the bruise and cut on her forehead -which was bleeding sluggishly now that she’d cleaned it-, she had scraped her hands, skinned her knees and acquired a collection of bruises. In spite of them, she felt relaxed and restored. Even her headache had abated. She washed herself leisurely, and when she finished she virtuously set to trying to salvage her dress.

She did her best, but she had no soap and no washing bat, and there was nothing to do with the smears of grey-green where she’d slid on moss and grass. She drenched and wrung out her dress until the water ran clear, and then set it out to dry on the warm stones before she gave her chemise and stockings the same treatment. While her undergarments had been spared the worst of the mud, they were distinctly dingy, especially around the hem and on the soles. She sighed and set them with her dress, and was content to let herself float and contemplate everything she had seen.

She realized that everything here had the air of something very grand that was somehow diminished. Everything was just slightly off, as if this place had been broken and when someone had tried to mend it the pieces hadn’t fit together properly. Or more aptly, they had used pieces from other things to try and fill in the gaps. The faded, understated drawing room she’d woken in had seemed as though it was waiting for an erstwhile servant to come set it to rights, and the bathroom, well. The bathroom was the bathroom, with all its strange incongruities and foreign artefacts.

Everything here was very fine, but the shrewd bookkeeper in her and the practical housekeeper had her frowning at the foolishness of whoever owned this property, which might be a certain flat-faced turtle-backed crosspatch bastard of a frog and a monkey she had made acquaintance with. That would go a ways towards explaining the bathroom opening directly to a pond with only a flimsy screen as a barrier.

She jerked when it occurred to her that perhaps that abomination had been the very sorcerer she had sought out. No one had ever seen him, outside of Wayne, and he never talked about the magician, no matter how many times she had prodded at him. All anyone knew about the sorcerer was that he was male, that he was powerful and dangerous with his craft, that he had a vicious temper, a worse sense of humor, and that he was terrible to behold.

Roxanne had assumed he would be something like a wizened, twisted old hunchback, perhaps with one eye and a shriveled hand. In her wildest imaginings, she’d never considered that the sorcerer might not be human at all.

Her heart pounds and her breath shortens, and the gentle lapping of the water cannot forestall her panic. Once again it dawns on her that seeking out the sorcerer -for all she admired his skill and the intelligence and wit behind his creations-, was foolhardy in the extreme, especially when her motivation amounted to fascination and curiosity.

She was out of the water and pulling on her damp chemise in an instant. She’d had more than enough adventure for today. It would be best if she found her way to the exit. Hopefully she would be able to find her way home. She glanced at the otherworldly pool in the summer sun and wryly amended that she hoped to find her own world first.

She slung her dress and stockings over her shoulder and slogged towards the painted screen, conspicuous against the foliage around it, and yet seeming like it had every right to be there. She ran careful fingers over it in farewell before she breezed through the profligate bathroom and into the drawing room.

She spared a quick glance, hoping to find her shoes. She froze when she caught sight of the fire crackling merrily in the hearth, a hearth that had been cold as old bone and strung with cobwebs when she’d left this room; this room that had now been dusted and swept.

She was not alone here.

She strode for the second, unexplored door as panic crested in her breast. Now was most certainly a good time to leave.

She’s pulling open the door when she hears it; a low, reverberating growl. A black muzzle with sharp, curved teeth jams itself in the gap between the door and the frame.

There’s a pissed-off animal trying to get into the room with her. A big one.

Her breath hisses through her teeth as she shifts her weight and pushes her shoulder against the door, hoping the animal will pull back and retreat. She doesn’t really wish to hurt it. Instead the jaws in the doorway flash and snap, furious and unwilling to get out of the way. Roxanne had assumed it was a dog, but the sound it makes is a horrible croaking bark, and as she looks she realizes there’s something very, very wrong.

The muzzle has no fur. It doesn’t even have skin; it’s just skull, with sharp, exposed teeth, but shiny and greenish black, like the carapace of a beetle.

Roxanne stops thinking and shoves on the door, pressing with all her body weight. The bony maw yelps. She can hear it grinding against the frame as she pushes. Looped by fear, her only thought is that she hopes she breaks it.

In the space of a breath, things go catastrophically wrong. A force slams against the other side of the door. Not expecting the resistance, Roxanne cries out when she’s pushed backwards and the door opens wide to let in a swarm of demons from the depths of hell itself; a legion of disembodied skulls, growling and barking in horrible synchrony like harbingers of the end times. The sockets of their eyes are overtaken with crystalline growths; each head is anointed with a fell crown of jagged quartz spikes wreathed in fingers of blue-white lightning. Each forehead is overtaken by a single slitted eye, glowing red with hellfire.

The swarm turns its blazing gaze upon her soul, and Roxanne runs.

She races across a room that suddenly stretches out for miles, every second slowing down to a crawling infinity of waiting for the first set of jaws to hamstring her. The door to the garderobe is before her but when she stretches out her hand it slides away, out of reach, always out of reach. Roxanne is distantly aware that time and space are not as they should be, but the demons are close behind. Their baying is deafening, she can feel the air of them snapping their jaws inches away from her ankles. She hears something ripping; her dress is yanked off her shoulder, her stockings go flying. Next time it could be her arm.

She feels the room mocking her. The door will never come. She will die here, a few scant feet from safety. Fear spikes in her chest, and she stretches for the door again. “Let me in!” She screams.

Space snaps like taffy pulled too tight. Roxanne rockets forward into the door at full speed, bowling it open. She trips on her momentum and throws her hands out to catch her fall, one wrist buckling and flaring in pain. She rolls on flagstone floors in a spacious, well-lit room that is certainly NOT the garderobe.

She scrambles to her knees, holding her sprained wrist to her chest, her eyes on the swarm. They hover in the doorway, filling it from jamb to floor, whining like chastened puppies and snapping at each other. Something is keeping them from entering the room. Roxanne stumbles to her feet, grips the edge of the door and slams it shut on all those staring red eyes with instructions on where they should go. She can hear yelping and scraping on the other side of the door for a moment before it quiets and fades away. She is safe, she thinks. For now.

A glance tells her she’s in somebody’s kitchen. Unlike the drawing room with its stately, forlorn dust, this kitchen is clean and worn in with use. There is a fire on the hearth and a cauldron that, from the smell of it, is full of stew. Before it is a rough-hewn table set with two chairs. She wobbles over to it on watery legs, collapses in the chair closest to the fire, and lets herself shake. Tears bite at her eyes and she leans over her knees, covering her face with her hands. Inside her a void yawns, sickening and dizzying. Her ears ring, and she gulps for air like water, making her head float and her vision darken. Tears slip between her fingers. Roxanne stops being okay. She is not okay for many painful minutes.

Finally she collapses against the tabletop, still hiccuping out light sobs. Her head throbs again; from dehydration or her bruised forehead, she doesn’t know. With Herculean effort she drags herself out of her chair. There’s a pitcher on the counter across from her; she reaches for it and hopes it’s full of something she can drink.

She puts the rim to her lips and drinks greedily; it turns out to be a sweet wine and Roxanne feels that somewhere out there is a trickster god who can’t decide whether they love her or want her dead. Roxanne wishes they’d just decide and get it over with, but in the meantime quaffing her fill of wine seems to be a good answer to her problems. By the time she’s done the shoulders of her chemise are damp with white wine and she’s beyond caring about anything: she is in her underthings in a stranger’s house, it’s not like she can be much more improper at this point. In the same vein her trespasses are enough that she’s willing to add a bowl of purloined stew on top of them.

She finds crockery, including a cloche with a ball of fresh dough that looks to have been abandoned before it could be baked. She takes the cloche to the hearth and covers it in coals, and serves herself a healthy serving of stew. It smells delicious, and her stomach rumbles as if she needs reminding that it’s been clawing at her spine since she woke.

She sits and immediately burns her mouth, trying to eat it too quickly. Disgruntled, she forces herself to slow down and cool each bite with her breath.

It is delicious; the meat is venison so soft it dissolves on her tongue. There are onions and potatoes and turnips, and carrots that are delightfully soft and savory. The stock is so thick it’s almost a gravy. Between the repast and the frankly regrettable quantity of wine, Roxanne is beginning to feel good about life again. She takes a second to reflect as she gets up to help herself to another bowl that this place seems to throw good and bad at her in equal proportions. She winces at the implication that hell is looming over her, waiting to cap off her meal with another period of terror. Maybe if she keeps going back for more stew she can put it off indefinitely. She brings the rest of wine with her, just for good measure.

Her theory is dashed when, halfway through her second bowl, the door slams open and the host of skulls spills into the kitchen, howling.

Roxanne jumps, but finds her nerves are a lot steadier this second time. It is possible she is quite a little much tipsy. She takes another bite and watches in amusement as half the host darts around the room, yapping, belatedly looking for her while the other half pins her down with eyes of arcane fire. It takes a few seconds for the swarm to get on the same page. She’s in no hurry. She keeps eating until she has their undivided attention, and then addresses them.

“Since you haven’t ripped me to pieces yet I’d appreciate it if you waited another half hour or so. I have bread in the oven, and if I have to die I’m taking all the stew with me.” She tells them, still chewing.

The swarm stares at her, and then surprises her by turning to each other and clicking as though conferring on the matter.

“If you’ll behave yourselves, I’ll allow you to stay and keep me company while we wait.” She said graciously. That seemed to decide them. They yip and disperse, flurrying through the room. Some go to the cauldron, some sniff at the cloche, some come flitter at her skirts. One particularly brazen one that was crusted with opals squirreled into her lap next to her injured hand and nipped at her spoon.

She quirked an eyebrow at her guest. “Excuse you, this was not part of the deal. I did not agree to this.” The skull whuffles at her and bares its teeth. Roxanne gets the impression it’s grinning, more so than a skull might normally do. She huffs. “Fine, suit yourself. Mind my wrist, though. If you pain me, I’m evicting you.” The skull whines and she takes that for agreement, and sets back into her food.

Something crashes on her left and shaves a few seconds off her rapidly dwindling lifespan. The skulls had knocked the butter crock on the ground and were now staring at the mess and conferring quietly with each other as though they were village council trying to settle a dispute. They had also managed to open every single cupboard and get into a sack of flour, condemning a quarter of the kitchen to a powdery death.

Roxanne opens her mouth to tell them off, then realizes it’s not her kitchen, and she doesn’t actually care to expend energy on wrangling a horde of the undead to spare the good crockery. Feeling oddly light, she makes a note to keep them away from her pitcher and looks back to her bowl, only to find her guest has disappeared halfway inside it.

“Hey! You slipgrace son of a succubus, get out of my food!” She scolds, trying to grip it with her good hand. It’s hard; the skull is slippery. She finds it to be made of metal. Of course, she thinks sardonically. To set all those pretty opals, Roxanne. The only orifices she can grip are either lined with sharp teeth, or perilously close to sharp teeth. Eventually she hooks a finger in a hole at the base of its head and pulls it away from her now-empty bowl. She delivers a withering look to her officially unwelcome guest, still hooked on her finger and licking its chops with a shadowy tongue and altogether too pleased with itself.

“You disgust me,” she tells it, and shakes it off her hand. “Begone, jackanapes.”

The skull yips and floats away. Roxanne is sure it would be whistling if it but had the means to do so. She sighs and shakes her head as she gets up to refill her bowl. A flock of beggars flit at her feet, hoping for her to drop a morsel. “I’d wonder if you could eat at all if I hadn’t just been a victim of robbery,” she tells them. She eyes the empty space beneath their jaws skeptically. “Where do you put it?” They open expectant jaws towards her in answer. Roxanne tells herself she feeds them each a bit of meat to stave off getting bitten, and not because she’s a soft touch. As she feeds them they gurgle and click, and she notices for each mouth she drops a bite into two more appear until the whole host is crowded around her and the hearth in a cloud, jockeying for a treat.

And that is the tableau she presents when the door slams open once more. She looks over her shoulder, not even perturbed this time.

The embodiment of menace stands in the doorway, roiling with lightning and staring her down with eyes of witchfire green.

Well, she thinks, turning to face him. I think I found the sorcerer.

-To be continued-

Part Two

Part One

Art for this Chapter

[jediofgrace]

I have an hour left of scoundressaturday in my time zone! So here we have a little story where Han is captured and given a truth serum. Even I was surprised by what came out of his mouth! Set in the EU. Many thanks to @jainadurron, the Grand Master of the EU for her help!

.........

"Looking for something?" a voice said from behind him. "Or someone?"

Han stood up. He'd been running, then crouching behind the canister, looking for Leia. He took a frustrated breath and slowly turned around.

"Yeah, I'm lookin' for the 'fresher. Guess you must be the garbage boy?" He collapsed as a gun whacked against his skull.

Han awoke, disoriented and confused. His memory came flooding back as the man who had captured him knelt down on the floor beside him.

"Well, good afternoon, Captain Solo. How are you feeling this fine day?"

Han stifled a moan. He tried to move his hands, testing to see if they were bound. They weren't, but they felt heavy, almost immovable. He dragged the nearly dead weight of his hand up to his face and rubbed his eyes.

"This truly is a fine day," the man continued as he stood up. "For me to capture the infamous Han Solo makes it a very fine day indeed. When my superiors learn it was I who brought you in, I'm sure a promotion will be forthcoming. Now, you would like to help me accomplish that, wouldn't you? And you'd also like to help save us both time by telling me why you're here, who's here with you, and where your ship is." He poked Han's side with his boot. "Wouldn't you?"

"Oh yeah," Han said as he tried to lift himself up to a sitting position. The man kicked him in the stomach, sending Han crashing back to the floor with a grunt.

"I'm glad you agree. I am Lieutenant Salvan, at your service. You may notice your arms and legs feel a tad heavier than normal. That is because of a special medicine we have given you to make sure you stay, shall we say, calm. No use in taking any chances on you running away from us, now is there?"

So that's why he felt like he weighed as much as a rancor. He worked again to sit up, and this time Salvan let him. He leaned against a crate, carefully looking around. They were in a large tent, the green canvas walls fluttered slightly from the wind outside. He had seen the tents earlier as he'd been scouting around. This appeared to be a temporary base for a small band of Imperial remnants. It was rumored that they were stockpiling weapons here, so he and Leia had been sent...volunteered? He could never tell, but here they were. And now here he was.

"So, Captain, am I correct in assuming you are here alone? On vacation, perhaps?"

Han looked up at him. "Yep."

"I thought so. So we shouldn't bother looking for anyone else?

"Nope." Han looked around him. There were items that could possibly be used as a weapon, but until this drug wore off he wouldn't be able to move much faster than a Hutt. He looked to see Salvan grinning at him.

"It's hard not to think of escape, isn't it? I assure you, the drug will not wear off for some time, and when it does, we have plenty more. I can be here all day, if you like. You could speed things up for us by telling me who else is here with you. Forgive me if I'm a little skeptical of your claim to be alone." Salvan grabbed a folding chair and sat in front of Han. He rested his elbows on his knees, looking down at him.

"It's just me. Lookin' for a fishin' hole."

"I see. Did you find one?"

"Nope. Just a scummy pond full of worms," Han said, pointedly.

Salvan looked at him, then gave a light chuckle. "Too bad. I hear the fishing is good around here. How long have you been here?"

"Few years. Got tired of those high and mighty rebels. Figured I'd lead a quiet life here."

"Hmm. From intelligence reports I've read, I do not believe you are telling me the truth. Are you here with your wife?"

"Nope." Han was practiced enough not to show it, but his heart clenched. He desperately hoped Leia had made it back to the Falcon. Once she figured out he wasn't coming...

"Really, Captain, you leave me no choice but to convince you that I am quite serious." Abruptly he stood up and walked around the desk. Han could hear him tapping on something for a moment, presumably a computer. In another minute, two men entered the tent.

"Captain Solo, these men are here to help you realize the serious nature of your situation. If at any time you want to have an honest and open discussion with me, let them know and we can stop this nonsense."

The men came to Han; one picking him up and holding him in a standing position, the other wrapping his fist with tape. Han grimaced.

"I do apologize for the crudeness of our little operation here. I'm afraid we don't have the high tech equipment of the larger Imperial centers. At least not yet. But until we do, we'll have to depend on good, old-fashioned elbow grease. If you have no objections?" He nodded to Han as if Han had agreed with him. "Good. Gentlemen, I leave it to you." With that, Salvan tipped his cap to Han and walked out, leaving him with his two new companions.

The first few hits were just warm up exercises. The next few started to hurt, and the many after that made Han start to wonder if he might actually be in a bit of trouble.

Han tasted blood. He tried to lick his lips and found they were swollen and cracked. He clenched and unclenched his jaw, working to loosen the stiffness.

"Captain? Would you care for some water?"

Han managed to open a swollen eye and saw shiny, black boots. His face was pressed to an earthen floor. The tent. Salvan. He groaned.

"Or maybe you'd prefer caf?"

Han kept quiet, willing the man to just disappear.

He watched as the boots came closer and with a push, one of the boots rolled him over onto his back.

"No? Pity. I think it might help your disposition. Come now, it's time to wake up. We have things to discuss. Is your ship on planet? How did you arrive without our scanners detecting you?"

"Faulty programming," Han mumbled.

"I think not. How many of your friends are with you?"

"A million."

"Captain, I can't help you unless you give me some honest answers. An Imperial transport is coming, bringing reinforcements. They will scout around and find your friends, and it may not end well for some of them. So how about you tell me now what I want to know?"

"I think I'll wait."

Salvan walked a circle around Han as he laid on the floor. Han's limbs still felt heavy, and every muscle in his body ached. Why couldn't Imps ever create drugs that numbed pain? If he could infiltrate their medical centers, that would be the first thing he would change; all drugs used by Imperials would have a pain reducer added.

"Is your pretty little wife with you? Or perhaps she's safe, and has already left the planet?"

"I don't know," Han said. "Perhaps she's got a sniper rifle on you right now and is preparing to blow your pretty little brains out."

Salvan kicked Han in the ribs. Han curled himself around his poor bruised self, silently cursing Imperial boots. Then he cursed all things Imperial, just for good measure.

"So she's close by? Come on, Solo, give me something; just a yes or no, and I'll get you some water. Deal? Is Princess Leia with you?"

Han made a show of looking around the tent. "I don't see her, do you?"

"Where's your ship?"

"What ship?"

Salvan walked to a nearby table and poured himself a glass of water. Blast if even the sound of water pouring sounded good. Han swallowed nothing and sat himself up. He hated to do it, but he had to hand it to the Imps, this drug worked really well. It was just as effective as binders in keeping him immobile. He could sit, but it felt like he was sitting under a mountain of sand. That and the fact that he was bruised and sore ensured he wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon. Unless Leia figured something out, that is, which she probably would.

Salvan drank his water slowly as he studied Han. Han pretended not to care as he looked straight ahead of him, quietly taking stock of his surroundings. There appeared to be only one door. He could see daylight coming through the bottom of the doorway, but it looked like it was fading.

Salvan came and sat in front of him again, swirling his cup of water.

"Every minute we waste here brings that shipment of troops closer. They'll also be bringing much more sophisticated interrogation equipment. You could save yourself a whole lot of trouble by just talking to me now."

"Listen, Sal, I'm not your trophy, and I ain't gonna be your buddy and share all of my deep, dark secrets with you. So wake me up when they get here." Han leaned back and closed his eyes.

"Fine." He dumped the rest of his water on Han's face as he got up. "Since you don't seem to feel like talking much, let's see if we can't help you out a bit."

Han didn't like the sound of that.

He wiped his face with his hand as he watched Salvan lift a needle and vial from the table. Oh boy. Sal came and knelt beside him again.

"This won't hurt a bit," Salvan said cheerily, as though to a child. "And maybe now you will be more sociable."

Han licked his lips. So this would probably be a truth serum. He really, really hated Imperials.

Salvan's friends were back. They maneuvered him into a chair, then tied him to it. Not that he could go far on his own, but at least now he wouldn't fall. One less thing to worry about, he supposed.

Salvan was circling him again. "All right, let's try something easy. What is your name?"

"Han Solo." Oh how he hated that desperate urge to speak. He'd had this drug before; a long time ago, before Leia. He hadn't given the information they'd wanted then, and he wouldn't now. But that didn't mean he would be able to keep his mouth shut.

"Good. And your wife's name?"

"Leia Organa Solo," he blurted. "Although sometimes they call her Jedi Solo. She's a Jedi, you know. She could squish your brains into a puddle of bantha slop."

"I'm sure she could." Salvan chuckled. "And your kids? You have children?"

"Yeah. And she's a princess too, so you'd better watch your mouth. She don't take no crap from anyone."

"I see. And what are the names of your children?"

"You know their blasted names. Leia and me picked them out when they were born. You have kids?" Han gave him a look of mock sympathy. "Oh. Probably not. Well, when they're born you get to name them, which is kind of a big deal. When we had the twins, we had no idea what we were doing. But we'd brought these little humans into the galaxy, so we bucked up and figured it out. Couple years later we had Anakin too. He was sure a great kid. Died in the war. I really miss him. Now his brother and sister are Jedis. They clean up garbage like you."

"Are your children here with you?"

Han shook his head, trying to keep his mind off of Salvan's questions. "Jacen looks a lot like me, some people say. Jaina is beautiful, like her mom. Anakin was a bit lighter than the other two. We named him after Leia's father, kind of a remembrance thing, you know? Like from before he went evil. It was important to Leia so I went along with it. Glad I did. We never called him anything stupid like Kin or Ani, just Anakin. Although when he was born Jaina kept calling him Napkin, we sure laughed at that. Jacen always-"

"Where is your wife?" Salvan interrupted.

Didn't that guy ever give up? "She's really beautiful. Smarter'n you and every single Imp put together. I can't believe she married me. I left her once, you know. After my friend died. I'll never do that again. Dumbest thing I ever did. She loves me, can you believe that? I never thought anyone would love me like that."

"It does defy the imagination." Salvan folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.

"Yeah. You should see her with a lightsaber." Han focused on him for a moment. "I'd like to see her chop your head off."

"I'll bet you would. So is she waiting for you? Back at your ship?"

"She bought me these boots." He sort of moved his heavy feet. "I think they're pretty great. She always crabs at me to change my socks more often but when I do, she complains because I leave the dirty socks on the floor by the laundry basket. I just do it to bug her because I like it when she scolds me. She never gets too upset though. Sometimes at night she sticks her cold feet on me. The galaxy is a pretty nice place when you have someone to keep warm." Was he making sense? He didn't really care, the words just poured out and as long as he didn't let anything important slip out, he'd be okay.

"So you were here, sleeping with your wife, enjoying the scenery? Or maybe you were spying on us?"

Han wanted to answer him so badly. Yes, he was spying on them! He shook his head and forced his brain into a different direction.

"The scenery ain't that great. Don't know why you guys decided to build a camp here. You shoulda gone to Mustafar, then maybe we'd leave ya alone."

"'We'? Are your rebel friends here with you? Maybe they're coming to rescue you."

Han smiled. "Leia's rescued me lots of times, even before she was a Jedi. Did you know I was frozen in carbonite one time? You were probably in diapers at the time. It was awful. But she came and got me. I rescued her a few times myself. We take care of each other. She's so pretty."

"Is she coming to rescue you this time?"

"She had to shave her head a few years ago. Even then she was pretty."

"Captain-" a buzzer went off from somewhere to Han's right. Salvan went to check it. Han watched, thinking of Leia. She had to know by now that he was missing. She'd get Luke and maybe the kids... Although they were probably kind of far away. Well, she'd figure something out. She always did.

"Yes? Oh really? How delightful! I'll be right there." Salvan returned to Han, smiling.

"Well, Captain, I might just have a little surprise for you. If you will excuse me? I need to go check on something. I'll be back, sit tight."

Han had a very bad feeling about this.

"So, Captain, how are you feeling? Comfortable?"

Han startled awake. He'd been dozing, his head hanging down in front of him. He felt like the drug was wearing off and he had a bit more in control of his thoughts.

"I've been better. How you doing?"

"Oh, I'm quite well. I think perhaps we should up your dosage a little. We don't want you getting quiet, now do we?"

Han mentally rolled his eyes. So much for it wearing off.

Salvan gave him another injection, wiggling the needle around a bit for good measure. Han didn't bother to flinch.

"There. That's a pretty high dosage. Anything you feel like telling me?"

"You really are an ugly fellow. No wonder you don't have any kids." Salvan lashed out, smacking Han on the side of his head with his fist.

"How many of your friends are here?"

"That really hurt."

"Does the Galactic Alliance know of our base here?"

"I dunno. Did you tell them about it? You should. It's not legal for you to be here."

Another smack caused Han to see stars for a minute.

"Ouch," he said. "I wish you'd stop that."

"I grow impatient." He gestured behind Han. Han heard shuffling and movement behind him as more people entered the tent.

"I'm really thirsty," Han said. The urge to speak was so great, it was almost a marvel. "How about some of that caf? Or just water. You could even throw it at my face again, I'll just open my mouth." Han stopped talking as the group of newcomers came to stand in front of him. There, her face bruised, her clothes torn and dirty, was his beautiful wife.

"Leia, you shouldn't be here," Han said, his brain not quite able to compute everything he was seeing.

Salvan grabbed a handful of Leia's hair, wrenching her head back to look up at him. "So this is the pretty wife you've been telling me about? She doesn't look very good to me. You should take better care of her."

"Get your hands-" The guard beside him whacked his head from behind. Han fought to stay conscious as he let his head hang down.

"Leia... How did you find her?" he murmured. He knew Leia wasn't very easy to capture; those Jedi senses always telling her when someone was near...

"She surrendered to us. I guess she couldn't stand to be away from you. Now, Captain Solo, will you be reasonable? I'd hate to see you put through any more discomfort." He released Leia's hair, smoothing it down her back. Han held his breath to try to keep from saying something. He hated it when people touched her.

Salvan was gentle as he moved her hair to the side, exposing the back of her neck to him. He massaged lightly, slowly wrapping his hands around her throat.

"As for the princess, well, she's so tiny, she wouldn't hold up very long if I were to let the boys here have her for awhile. You wouldn't want to see that, trust me. So how about we have some conversation?"

"Sure. I like talking." He looked at Leia. "Hey, hon. I missed you."

Salvan shoved Leia towards a guard, who caught and held her.

"Fine. If you won't answer me, maybe she will." Salvan walked to the table, giving Han an unobstructed view of Leia. She gave him a small smile.

"Hey, I missed you too."

He smiled at her through his cracked lips. "I missed you more. These guys aren't any fun and that one there stinks bad. We're never coming back to this planet again."

"Sounds good."

"Enough." Salvan gestured to the guards, who turned Leia towards him. He grabbed her shirt sleeve at the elbow and jerked, ripping it from the seam at her shoulder.

"Hey!" Han yelled. Salvan ignored him and quickly injected two vials into her arm.

"We don't want to take any chances on your Jedi woman using her powers on us, now do we? So now you both have matching chemicals coursing through your veins. Isn't that sweet? So, let's talk. Who else is with you here on the planet?"

When Leia only shrugged, he backhanded her, knocking her to the floor. Her hands were bound, so she hit the ground hard.

"Hey! Don't do that! She doesn't like it!" Han thought maybe he sounded a little childish, but blast it all, she didn't like it!

Salvan walked to Han.

"Come now, Captain, this is your woman!" He gestured to Leia. "Where is your honor, man? A soldier like yourself, choosing to let his wife suffer?"

"Go to hell." There. That wasn't childish.

Salvan's fist made contact with Han's jaw with a loud crack.

"Where is your ship?"

"Dunno. But I know something else." Oops. Maybe he shouldn't have said that.

"Oh? Like what?"

Han searched his brain desperately for something to say. What he wanted to say was that Leia knew how to keep drugs from affecting her. Those Jedi skills sure came in handy sometimes.

Salvan leaned down, putting his face right in front of Han's. "What do you know, Captain?"

"I know you're a dead man."

"Why's that?"

"Scum like you never live very long." Smack! Han was sure tired of getting whacked in the head. But he also wanted to keep Sal's attention on himself and off of Leia.

Han looked down at Leia. Her lip was bleeding, she was scratched and a large bruise was forming on her forehead, but she held his eyes. Wait, he knew that look. She had a plan.

"Wanna know what else I know? Your tiny little outpost here ain't even big enough to bother with real buildings. If you got blown off the map, the rest of the Imps wouldn't even blink."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, I think so. I also think you're bluffing and there aren't any reinforcements coming. My head really hurts. But know what else? I helped take down your Empire a while back. You're nothing but a remnant. You'll never be anything more. You've got all these little friends who you think make you strong." Han snorted, which hurt, but he ignored it. "You're nothin' but an insignificant pawn."

Salvan nodded silently at Han as he backed away from him. He gestured to the guards, who brought Leia upright again. Han tried not to blanch. So much for keeping his attention.

"How about you, Princess? What do you know?"

"Same as Han."

"Hmm. You're not very talkative. Do you like seeing your husband hurt? It can get a whole lot worse, you know."

She looked to Han like she was going to faint.

"That's odd," he said before he thought better of it. Leia shouldn't be fainting, unless maybe she was trying to distract...

"What's odd?" Sal turned to him. Leia used that moment to lash out with her legs. In a split second she was free of the guards. The binders on her wrists clanked to the floor and her leg went in a wide arc around her, clobbering all three in one lightning fast spin.

"I love it when you do that," Han almost slurred. She quickly grabbed the fallen men's guns. Adjusting one of the weapons, she fired three times, stunning them. She came to Han and quickly worked the knots in the rope securing him to the chair.

"I really love you," he said as she helped him stand.

"I know you do," she replied. He leaned heavily on her, his legs still felt like wooden logs attached to his body.

"I don't know if I can walk. But I like holding onto you."

"Hmm." She looked around. "Hold on, sit here for a sec." She carefully set him down again.

"Hey, I don't wanna sit anymore. I wanna go. Let's go!"

"I know, but I can't carry you, so hold on." She kissed him gently on the lips before walking around the desk.

"I wanna kiss you more." He really had less and less control over what came out of his mouth. Good thing the Imps were out of commission.

She laughed. "Later, we need to move." She brought a chair with wheels and helped him get into it. It was a good thing he was drugged, because he was pretty sure in any other circumstance he would not like being pushed around like this. But right now he didn't seem to mind at all. He watched as she tied him back up.

"Why you tying me up again?"

"So you don't fall."

"Oh. Good idea."

"All right. Do you feel secure enough?"

"I dunno. I'm thirsty."

"I know. We'll get you fixed up soon. Let's get out of here first." She put a gun in his lap, then suddenly drew up her own and fired at the doorway. A man Han hadn't seen before dropped to the ground.

"Wow! That was a close one," he said. She went and dragged the body forward, clearing the path for them to roll out the door.

"He must be heavy. Sorry I can't help but they drugged me. Imperials have the worst drugs and their needles are huge. I hate them."

"Me too," she said as she returned to Han and proceeded to wheel him out the door. The sun had set long ago. The only light came from the few lamps that hung on the tents.

"Where is everybody?"

"Sleeping, I think. We need to be quiet so we don't wake them." She pushed Han along a path, heading for the surrounding forest.

"This is kinda bumpy."

"Shhh, just hold on. We'll get to a safe place and hole up until you feel better. I can't push you all the way to the Falcon."

"Well, okay. My head hurts. You're really dirty. Am I that dirty?"

"Yes." She stopped and blasted another Imp. He noticed she'd put her blaster on silent mode.

"You're so clever. Why's your hair so messy?"

"I was crawling through the bushes trying to figure out where you were. Then I had to somehow surrender so they'd take me to you. I'll tell you about it later. Now shh, we don't want anyone to hear us."

"I'll try but I really want to talk. I didn't like it when he touched your hair. Made me so mad. Whoa! Almost dropped me there."

"Shhh!"

"Oh yeah. Shhh. Right." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I was a little worried earlier. Thought I mighta finally run out of luck. I was mostly sad 'cause I didn't want to leave you. My eyes are feeling heavy. Is that normal? You're really good at rescuing me. As long as we keep rescuing each other, we could just go on forever."

"Yeah, we could. But if you don't shut up they're going to hear us." She steered him around a tree and stopped.

"Why'd you stop?"

"I'm trying to remember which way to go. Shh."

"I'll be quiet. It's just hard because they gave me a drug to make me talk. Did I tell you my plan? I'm gonna infiltrate their...uh, the wherever-they-make-drugs place, and put pain-killers in everything they make. Isn't that a good idea?"

"Han."

"What?"

"Shhhh!"