#the warmth of my heart for you is the warmth given to achingly cold fingers by a cup of hot strong coffee

[sleetmonster]

things I say: "sleets a snow leopard so yeah most of her fur is gray"

what I really mean: "her fur is the color of those heavy clouds which blanket the night sky after the first big november snowstorm that heralds in the solace of winter"

things I say: "I guess I mostly picked sleet as a handle because I vibe with the cold"

what I really mean: "I'm the sharp chrome reflection of brisk winter sunlight and the smell of eggs and greasy sausage and hot coffee hung in the air and given to fuel your body's furanace against the chill"

[sehunniepotwrites]

AS YOU WISH | J.JH | TWO

cover by @seostudios

SYNOPSIS. He was a boy, she was a girl— can I make it any more obvious?

But actually, she was a cursed genie of two thousand years who longed to be freed of her gilded cage and he was a modern but lonely boy who hoped to free her. He just didn’t expect to fall in love with her in the process.

GENRE. angst, slow burn, romance, genie!au, reincarnation!au, royal!au, thief!au PAIRING. jeong jaehyun x female genie!reader MINOR CHARACTERS. mark lee, moon taeil, jeong sungchan, lee taeyong, johnny suh WORD COUNT. 2k

WARNINGS. stealing, mentions of cuts and wounds, blood, physical beating, derogatory name calling, a lifetime of pain

ONE: PAST | TWO: INTERLUDE | THREE: PRESENT

You had all the magic in the world at the tips of your fingers but what was the point of it all? None of your spells or incantations as a genie would bring Yuno back to you. Even a genie had their limitations— there were rules and regulations to follow and Rowena made sure you understood them perfectly. 

As a genie, you were bound to your lamp unless your master called for you or wished for your freedom. The only other way for you to escape the curse was if Yuno was able to find you, become your last master, and set you free with a lover’s kiss. The situation itself sounded impossible but one could still hope in the good of people. You never wanted to lose hope in the hearts of humans but as time went on, your own heart hardened by witnessing the complete selfishness of others. 

The rules you had to relay to your masters were simple. They were given two choices: to have one wish granted with endless possibilities until the end of their lives or have three restrictive wishes granted. As much as you wanted someone to wish you free, they never did, too blinded by their own wants.

Every master who had found you throughout your years picked the option of having one wish granted. With each desire fulfilled, you lost faith in the human race and were completely disgusted at their actions. 

You were not able to kill, bring anyone back from the dead, or force anyone to fall in love with another person and yet, your masters found ways to come close to having these wishes granted. Those were the people you remembered most. 

One of those masters was named Taeyong. He was a young man, his lithe body filled with ambition. He strived for fame and fortune and refused any other light but the spotlight. He found you in his grandfather’s belongings after his kin passed and kept you to satisfy his selfish needs.

His one wish was to remain the richest bachelor in the world and to never run out of money. Taeyong spent frivolously with you by his side, your powers robbing those with higher numbers then him.

Taeyong remained on top of the world but at the cost of stealing what really belonged to others.

Another master you had met along the way was the handsome Youngho, a businessman who had no time for socializing. He was always nose deep into his work, calling you out at random times to keep him company. He never wished for anything; he just wanted to have someone with him.

Youngho said he liked having you around and he was glad he found you. He described you as a guiding light that kept him on the path and you almost fell for his charms. Your hardening heart softened and you found yourself falling for the lonely businessman with the sharp eyes and kind smile.

“Thank you,” Youngho said one day as you sat beside him, his head curled on your lap as you ran your fingers through his hair. 

“For what?” you asked.

“For being there for me when no one else was,” he replied and you felt the flutters in your stomach. It had been centuries since you had last seen your prince but the Yuno-sized hole in your heart was slowly being filled with Youngho.

But just as you let your guard down and your heart grew soft, something happened. Youngho fell in love with another— someone who wasn’t you. The pain you felt was excruciating and you had to grin and bear it as he asked you for an endless supply of the most powerful love potion in the universe.

You had no choice but to give it to Youngho and watch him as he poured the substance into another’s cup every time they started to slip from the man’s grasp. The potion itself did not mimic the feeling of love itself, it simply gave the consumer a case of strong infatuation aimed towards the giver. 

It was then you decided to hate humans and their extreme selfishness. The only people you refused to hate were Yuno and Minhyung— but they, much like the love in your heart, were long gone.

Reincarnations, you quickly discovered, were real. You could not count how many times one of your former masters found you in their new lifetime. Seeing Youngho reincarnated did not shock you one bit. He was named Johnny in this life and no matter how many smiles he flashed your way, you refused to reciprocate the action.

All humans are selfish, you repeated the mantra in your head. Do not trust anyone. 

You could not fall for his dazzling smile again. You refused to. The only person that belonged in your heart was Prince Yuno.

Similar to his last life, Johnny was a workaholic. He was a businessman with almost no time on his hands but the male still made time for his friends. You heard the voices of his closest colleagues often as Johnny brought you everywhere, your lamp tucked into his bag. He kept you hidden, a secret for only him to enjoy for the rest of his days.

Some of the voices were oddly similar to ones you had heard before and how you wanted to laugh. You heard Taeyong’s voice once; how funny was it that all your former masters met in this life? With a roll of your eyes, you remembered a saying Yuno would often iterate: “You attract what you are.”

Selfish, selfish, selfish. That’s what all humans were. 

There was a day Johnny had his other colleagues over for a late night drink. He hid your lamp in plain sight, the object acting as a paperweight on his coffee table as his friends gathered around the living room.

“If you could have one wish granted, what would it be?” Johnny posed the question, taking a sip of his drink. He reiterated the rules you gave him and you scoffed; the man couldn’t decide on what to wish for so he turned to his friends for ideas.

“Fame, naturally,” Taeyong’s reincarnation replied and you chuckled bitterly from inside your cage. He never changed. “I want people to remember my name.”

“Of course you would ask for that, you narcissist,” Johnny laughed, the others chiming in as well. They took turns around the room and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at each request.

Johnny posed the idea of forever staying on top, no matter the means. 

“So, let’s say someone takes the number one spot, would you do whatever it takes to snatch it away from them?” A new voice muttered. It sounded awfully familiar and it made your heart lurch forward. 

“Yeah,” you heard Johnny reply nonchalantly.

“Even if it led to hurting them?” the deep voice asked again. Tears welled up in your eyes and you couldn’t figure out why.

“Since killing them isn’t an option, hurting them until they’re on the brink of being ruined, why the hell not?” Johnny pushed. His other friends agreed with him but that one achingly familiar voice openly opposed his companion’s choice.

“Isn’t that a bit harsh? Some people spend years working their way up to the top and I think they deserve to stay up there,” he retaliated. 

“Jeffery, isn’t that a bit naive to say in the business world?” Johnny asked, a bit of edge in his voice. “It’s a dog eat dog world out there. You can’t rely on goodness and hard work to get you through everything.”

“But doing that, stepping on the underdog— it isn’t right,” the man named Jeffery said. “They’ll suffer. I don’t know, I just feel like it’s always been my duty to assist those below us and help them thrive.”

Why did Jeffery’s words sound like something you had heard before? 

As the men continued their discussion, a memory from long ago came to mind. Yuno’s face during your second meeting came to mind, his handsome features wrinkled as he expressed his disappointment in Rowena’s actions: “What she is doing to the people out here, it isn’t right. They are suffering and I feel as if it is my duty to stop her.” 

Bless the stars, you had found him. 

Yuno. Your Yuno

The tears began to fall as you sobbed. He was right there with you, in the same room. You closed your eyes and listened for his voice again and placed your hand on the wall of your lamp. You were facing the direction Yuno’s voice was coming from and a smile broke out on your lips. The action of smiling felt weird to experience, seeing as how long it had been since you last grinned this widely. 

After how many years of not having him by your side, your prince was finally there with you. If only you could let yourself out of your lamp.

“Hey, what is that?” Jeffery asked.

“What’s what?” Johnny replied, a bit confused.

The conversation shifted as your hand remained on the wall. They were no longer talking about wishes; instead, they were talking about you, or rather, your lamp.

“I’ve never seen that before, John; is it new?” Jeffery pushed. You felt a warmth radiating against the golden walls, a warmth similar to Yuno’s loving touch. This was it, you thought. The reunion you had been waiting for.

It grew hotter and hotter, your heart was about to burst. Electricity was flooding through your veins and a dizzying spell reached your head.

Just a little bit more, my prince. A little bit more, you said to yourself, your hand clasping against your lips as sobs of joy began to escape.

“No!” Johnny shouted. “Don’t touch that!” 

Just as quickly that warmth surrounded you, it was snatched away with the same amount of speed. It disappeared, the walls now cold as your lamp shook. The sudden action jolted you across your space, causing you to hit your head on a surface. 

“Sorry, John!” Jeffery said, “I was just curious.”

The mood in the room shifted and so did the mood inside your lamp. 

“I think you all should go.”

“Wait, just because I tried to touch your thing?” Jeffery fought back. “It can’t be that serious, can it?”

Not liking the sudden shift, the other colleagues obeyed Johnny’s request. 

“It is that serious and I think you should leave.”

“No!” you screamed from your cage, now banging on the walls. Johnny felt your actions, the lamp shaking as you continued to hit the surface. “No, no, no, no, no! Please!” 

Please, you begged miserably. Using a bit of your magic that would surely cost you a bit of your health, you willed yourself to peek through spout and there he was, still as beautiful as ever.

His name might have been Jeffery in that life but he was still your Yuno. He stood there, looking just as princely as he did in the past. His blazer was draped over his shoulder with a tie loosened around his neck and white sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His eyebrows were furrowed and a frown hid the dimples you loved so much. 

Oh, how much you wanted to escape and turn that frown upside down. To kiss the downward curl away like you had back in the days when you were together.

“Go, Jeff,” Johnny’s voice hardened, almost challenging the younger. Jeffery took one more glance at the lamp behind his hand and you caught his eye.

You watched as he did a double take with a look of confusion before a flash of pain took over his face. That expression of discomfort went away as the man shook his head. He dragged a hand over his immaculate face, stealing your one last glance at his beauty from you, as he unwillingly put on his shoes.

“Fuck, fine,” Jeffery said before taking his leave, his back turned from you. You bit on your lip as another sob escaped you. 

Don’t go.

Don’t leave me.

Don’t leave me alone again.

He promised to always find you. Why couldn’t he find you this time around? 

Yuno was so close yet so far. 

How much more of this pain could a genie like you take? 

Why was the universe set on keeping you apart?

Why couldn’t you finally have the only thing you wanted?

Why couldn’t your wish come true?

author’s note. hello, my genie lovers! this is the second part of three or four. i’m still working on the last part-- it’s a really slow process but i’m getting there! be patient with me, please! i would love to hear feedback from everyone! any thoughts on the rules she has to follow? her masters? her unwavering love for Yuno? uwu

taglist. @rindomo @yshbaewenjun @hannie-dul-set @itsapapisongo @babyyynatty @notnctu @w0nni3wrld @yuta1forme @lucyinthesunshinee @johtenrecs​

[whereflowersbloom]

La tendresse

She wakes with sunlight bright in her face, body aching all over and a slight headache. She felt like she might vomit but swallowed it down. She had been worse off before from a little wine sickness and survived. Rhachel sat up slowly, closing her eyes when the world tilted dangerously. When she figured she was steady enough, she opened them again.

The sun was streaming in through her open window, painting pinks and orange hues in the sky. Though the shadow led her to believe it was later than she normally woke. How long had she slept? It’s usually the birds that woke her up, their chirping a sweet melody that reminded her of homeland or the warm, familiar sensation of Damian’s lips wandering the curves of her body. She looked around, and spotted a flower on the little table next to the bed along with a breakfast tray of something. There were a few thick slices of Ma’rouk bread, some figs and grapes, and something that looked like rice custard.

She picked up the white rose, noticing the little card tied to the stem with a delicate silver ribbon. ‘To my lovely Princess of thorns, this flower pales in comparison to your beauty and grace. I’ll come find you after my council meeting. With fondness Damian.” Immediately a smile was curving her lips and all she could think about was her Damian. ‘Love can blossom over time just as it can capture you in a single breathe’ Lady Z had told her once before coming to the land of Sand for the tourney. One moment with him had been enough to set her world ablaze. His eyes like wildfire ignited her soul and engulfed her completely in the flames of ardor.

The first fingers of the coming winter caressed her bare legs, a false spring giving way to chill. The thin robe she wore did little to help her chill from the open window, the ivory satin clinging to her torso and hips but providing no heat. The last days of autumn brought a freezing cold breeze and even behind the safety of the red mountains, the blistering hot deserts of Nanda Parbat were not safe.

Soon it would be winter and it meant her seven and ten nameday was coming as well. Much had changed since she married Damian, she thought dropping her hands to the soft curve of her belly. Almost unnoticeable but there was no doubt a life was growing inside her womb.

The reason of her morning sickness became obvious after the imperial physician asked when was the last time she bled. She had not bled for two moons, she realized then. There had been a look of such happiness on Damian’s face when she told him the wonderful news and suddenly he was the sun itself. Radiating joy the same way as the colossal star did warmth.

She proceeded to eat her breakfast slowly, keeping almost all of it it down despite her stomach protesting. Kori was missing at the moment. Perhaps she was letting her take a rest from court. Nonetheless, she still had duties to attend that could not be ignored. Just as she was finishing her meal, someone knocked on her chamber’s door.

“Come in.” She replied, assuming it was Kori and preparing to greet her. The door groaned when it swung open, protesting. To her surprise, she met familIar green eyes she knew too well.

Damian.

“Awake now?” He murmured with an slightly amused expression. Her cheeks warming faintly at his question.

“The babe seems to be restless just like his father.” She pressed a hand to her stomach where she imagines their child to rest. After a brief moment she asks. “Is the council meeting over?”

“I left for a moment.” Damian said with a twinge of disappointment as he was reminded they still had much to discuss. He parted his lips as if to speak, but closed it again, thinking carefully of his words as he didn’t want to stir her emotions. “I wanted to spend time with you before I ride north with Jon.”

Her chest tightened painfully. Damian was riding with Jon up the snowy Kunlun mountains to distribute thick garments and goods for the less fortunate. She tried to remain neutral and collected as the crown princess she was, but her voice faltered, betraying her distress. “You could take me with you.”

“I do not want to risk your good health.” Damian shook his head lightly, the tension evident on his clenched jaw. He understood that she did not went to part from him but given her condition. It was best his wife stayed in the capital as he could not risk his heir. “Conner and Jayson will stay behind to protect you.”

The thought that this child in her womb could die sent jolts of heartache through her bosom. She just nodded, shaking off such dark thoughts.

Even if she was raised to be dutiful queen, it took her some time after marrying into the Al Ghul house to understand such a responsibility bore a heavy weight. Watching her every step as Damian assured there were enemies between them at court. Life was filled with rules and expectations she was if being frank unprepared for.

“Come lay with me.” She pleaded gently, reaching out an arm and patting the empty space next to her. She was far too tired to do much else.

Promptly, Damian kicked the door shut behind him. Ghosting to the large bed, climbing on before lying next to his wife. She nestled close to him, enjoying the warmth he provided, letting her head fall to the side to admire his face, and he did the same, those otherworldly indigo eyes bright and alive, burning with pure devotion.

“I’ll think of you every day we are apart.” Damian grasped her left hand, kissing the palm. “Both of you.” He added as one of his hands slid to the swell of her belly, stroking it tenderly.

His fingers travelled up, ghosting along her jaw until he's cupping her face, like she’s fragile and precious, a treasure to be hoarded. Damian was a generous and passionate lover, mouth moving over hers tenderly only pausing to whisper words of love and reassurance. She reacted instinctively, responding in kind to his probing tongue.  

“I love you.” She breathed against his mouth. Damian’s expression softened, and for a beat he looks younger, much more like a simple young man in love than the future ruler of the Nanda Parbat.

He placed a kiss on her bare shoulder, a gentle caress of his lips on her skin. “You are my queen, Rae. My only queen.“ His words achingly soft and genuine.

“After the babe is born. I promise to take you to Siodonna.” He murmured against her neck, his warm breath sending chills down her spine.

The word piqued her Interest. Damian had mentioned it several times while narrating tales of his ancestors and foreign lands he wished to explore. It’s said to be so beautiful it took your breath away. The Homeland of his grandmother, lady Shyla, who came from the tribe of Four Winds. Faraway land of the gray wind and freedom. The city of Sidhe rumored to be built high in the sacred mountains of Rudrà.

“Truly?” Rhachel asked with glee in her voice. She covered her mouth with her hand to hide a hearty laughter when Damian nodded solemnly.

Oh Gods, how she longed for the freedom to roam where she pleased with her husband. To have some time for themselves away from court and royal duties. It won’t be long. It won’t be long before their babe is born.

He gazed at her, his expression bore a twinkling smile. “You have my word.”

“You wish for a boy or girl?” The question slipped past unguarded lips. She never worried about the gender of her child before but the Azarathian queens gave birth to girls as the mystical gifts were inherited only by women. Perhaps Damian wanted a son as any ruler wanted a male heir.

His brows raised at the sudden question. For a beat appeared to be genuinely considering how to answer when he merely shrugged. “A healthy child.”

“Damian...” She pressed as nervousness palpitated in her chest. Chewing on her lower lip as she usually did when distressed. “What if it’s a girl?”

His furrowed his brows. “What would you like to name it if it’s a girl?” It shouldn’t have surprised her that he wanted to have her opinion on the name, but it did. She hadn’t thought about it.

“Manon.” The young woman answered. Would Damian like the name for their child? She envisioned a little girl with silver tresses and golden skin as the sun’s rays, and bright emerald eyes as the man she loved. “In my homeland it means blessed child.”

Damian smiled in content. “Our child is surely a blessing.”

“If it’s a boy, you can name it.” She ventured.

Damian breathed out a sigh. “Grandfather would want a strong name like Ra’ miel.” Rhachel immediately frowned. She was not entirely sure she wanted their child named after a past Al Ghul king as some of them did not have particularly great reigns. His green eyes flicked down to her belly, fingers caressing fondly and his smile widened. “We can think of one together when the times comes.”

“Boy or girl, it does not matter.” Damian’s orbs were twin pools of tenderness and awe. He tapped the tip of her nose affectionately. “I shall love any child you bear.”

A radiant smile graced Rhachel’s features, heart overflowing with joy at the declaration. The future seemed more hopeful, the weight of worry lifted off her chest. Damian was right; it did not matter if she gave birth to a boy or girl. This was the fruitful result of their love and sole heir to the Al Ghul throne. . Azar please grant your protection to this child of mine, the princess prayed in silence, her hand on her abdomen.

Yooooo. Have some damirae dorm your favorite teacup. 👀👀👀👀

I wrote this sleep-deprived so there’s probably mistakes but I’ll edit soon. This is for the damirae week.

Babies and Damirae fluff and shadows of thorns. Clarifying this is not a chapter but a Spin-off. I tried to avoid including spoilers. 🙈🙈🙈💜💜

@chromium7sky @carnationmilk @tweepunkgrl @amethyst-witch-05 @ravenfan1242 @opheliawillowbrook @alerialblu

[mybunnyparadenme]

Ah wow so cool to have found you on Tumblr! I'm a big fan of your fic :) For the Bunny chart post, it would be so cool to see a Princess Kenny/Marjorine fic, maybe with Marj as her lady in waiting or something? ^-^

Hhhhhh thank you, I'm so flattered! /)///w///(\ Glad you found my blog too! Here's the fic, THANK YOU for requesting the girls!! I hope that you don't mind it's super angsty! ^^;

--

D2 - Marjorine/Princess Kenny

Princess Kenny had to be the most beautiful girl at the ball tonight.

Of course Kenny's always the most beautiful girl regardless, Marjorine thought to herself as she watched her dear friend dance with a dark haired prince from a far off kingdom. How couldn't she be? Her golden hair was done up in an intricate braid, exposing her slender neck and pale shoulders, and the lilac of her dress highlighted her gorgeous eyes, making her look like a goddess in human form. Marjorine felt pride color her cheeks, knowing that she'd had a hand in her appearance. She'd spent ages running a brush through that long hair until it gleamed in the light, plaiting it carefully so not a single strand fell out of place. And her hard work had definitely paid off, Kenny had been dancing all night and she still looked as immaculate as when they'd arrived.

At least until the awful foreign prince reached up and carelessly ran his fingers through her hair, tugging at her braid and leaving several strands loose in his wake. He looked smug as he curled her hair around his finger, and Marjorine was ready to stomp over there and tell him off for being so rough with her princess, but before she could even take the first step, Kenny had that same finger bent backwards and was whispering something into his ear. Something harsh, given the worry in the prince's pain-laced expression. The exchange only lasted for a moment, and then Kenny gave him a sweet smile as she curtsied goodbye. Almost immediately, she was in the arms of a new dance partner, the handsome Elf King of Zaron.

Marjorine let herself relax again. The elf was known for being well-mannered, no doubt he would treat Kenny with the respect she deserved. She watched the two of them dance with a smile on her face, though it quickly became strained when she saw Kenny throw her head back and laugh at something he'd said to her. They seemed to be hitting it off very nicely, and... and that was a good thing! They were at this ball to scope out potential suitors after all, the goal was to find someone she could not only get along with, but rule a kingdom with. This was a good thing, wasn't it? So why did the air suddenly feel like it was too heavy to breathe? She quickly turned from the dance floor and made her way over to the open balcony several feet away.

I could use some fresh air, she told herself. That was all she needed, and then everything would be fine.

The cool breeze felt good against her heated cheeks, a definite relief from the stuffy air in the ballroom. Marjorine tilted her head up to marvel at the beautiful moon overhead, so full and big it looked like she could reach up and touch it with her fingertips. But as she lifted her hand and clutched at empty space, she felt her heart sink at the realization that the distance between her and the moon was similar to the one between her and the princess she loved so much. Marjorine was proud to be Kenny's lady in waiting, her confidante, but that was all she would ever be. A selfish part of her was hoping that tonight would be a bust, that Kenny would turn her nose up at all the people vying for her attention, and it could just be the two of them for a little while longer... but Kenny had a whole country to think about, and what was one girl in the face of a kingdom? She would just have to be content with the hand she'd been given.

"There you are, Marji!" A soft, elegant voice called, moments before a pair of arms wrapped themselves around Marjorine's waist.

"Y-Your highness!" Marjorine cried, stiffening for a moment before her body relaxed in the familiar embrace. Her worries always melted away when Kenny was holding her. "What are you doing out here?"

"Looking for you of course." Kenny whispered in her ear, her lips lingering just long enough to make Marjorine shiver. "It was getting so dull in there without you."

Marjorine shifted so that they were face to face, her arms coming up to loop behind Kenny's neck. It wasn't proper to show this much affection in such a public place, but after seeing so many pairs of hands around the girl she loved, Marjorine couldn't deny herself this moment of comfort between them. Still, duty demanded that she say, "We should head back inside, they'll notice you missing soon."

"I'd rather be out here with you, though." Kenny murmured. She knocked their foreheads together, looking into the other girl's eyes with an intensity that made Marjorine shiver. Her eyes were the color of lavender, but there was nothing calming about her gaze. "Can't we stay out here a little while longer, my dear?"

They both knew she couldn't deny her princess anything, especially not when she used such sweet endearments. She swallowed hard and nodded, trailing her hands over her shoulders (oh, they were so achingly smooth) and down her arms until their fingers were interlocked. "Of course, Kenny. Anything you want."

Seeing her smile was almost a punishment, so radiant it nearly left her blinded. "I want to dance with you, Marjorine."

And then they were swaying as soft music drifted out into the balcony, dreamy and beautiful and so perfect Marjorine had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from tearing up. They weren't dancing formally, the way Kenny had been taught all her life with steps to memorize and rules to follow. This was a dance they'd done hundreds of times, in the middle of the night when they weren't tired enough to sleep or after a boring meeting to let off some steam. It was a dance all their own, intimate and sacred and meant only for the two of them, Kenny taking the lead because that was what she was meant to do. Marjorine was the only one allowed to see this side of her, the girl who could rule a kingdom all on her own without a king by her side. But there were laws, and expectations being placed on those delicate shoulders, and they could only pretend for so long before they'd have to go back and face reality.

But they still had this moment, right now.

Kenny danced them into the far side of the balcony, out of view of the rest of the ball room. Marjorine could feel the cold stone wall against the fabric of her dress, but it didn't compare to the warmth coming from Kenny's body pressed flush against her own. Their lips were only inches apart, but she was distracted by the loose strand of hair that the awful prince had loosened from Kenny's braid. She reached up to tuck it behind her ear, but Kenny caught her hand and pressed a gentle kiss against her work-roughened knuckles.

Marjorine gasped and felt her cheeks burn. "Y-Your highness, you-"

"Kenny." She murmured into her skin, turning her hand to kiss the inside of her wrist. "Not 'your highness' or 'princess' when it's just the two of us. Use my name."

"Kenny." Marjorine breathed, shuddering as Kenny's lips trailed higher, until they were on her neck, her chin, her cheeks. "Kenny, my Kenny... m-my..."

"Just yours, Marji." Kenny whispered, and then their lips met and there were no more words spoken. If Kenny tasted the salt in their kiss, she didn't say, but her mouth worked feverishly against Marjorine's as if she could counter it with the sweetness of her tongue, and make up for the fact that moments like these would soon be fleeting at best.

And nonexistent at worst.

[kewltie]

Bitesize #3

One.

"Did you proposed to me because you wanted to or," Izuku smiles crookedly, "was it just another attempt to get back at Shouto?"

"We're already married," Katsuki scoffs. "There's no point in questioning it now."

"I see." His smile strains against the stiffness of his chest.

Two.

"Fix it or you're fire," Katsuki growls.

Izuku barely even react. "As per my employee contract and lengthy therapist bill, you can only use that threat on me nine times per week and you just hit your quota this morning, sir," he says, staring at him in blatant insubordination.

Three.

"Nii-chan," Izuku says, reaching for him.

Katsuki catches his wrist before it could touch him. "Don't," he snarls, fingers pressing down hard on his skin. "I'm not your fucking brother. Remember that." And abruptly lets go, but the place where Katsuki's touch still burns.

Four.

Bakugou Katsuki is made of sharp edges and tight corners, an uncharted landscape that Izuku could easily get lost in, spending years trekking across mountainous terrains, turbulent rivers, and coarse sands all in hope to map the undiscovered heartbeat of this impossible man.

Five.

"What's his name?"

Kaminari coughs into his hand. "Kacchan," he says.

Izuku blinks. "He named his cat after himself?"

Kirishima nods eagerly. "Doesn't this cat look like Katsuki?"

Izuku stares at the cat practically vibrating with murderous intent as he hisses at them. "Ah."

Six.

"No!"

"Why not?"

"I'm not taking you to an alpha clubhouse." Katsuki sneers. "I know some dumbass is going to offend you and as your spouse I'll have to duel them to defend your honor." T

here must be something wrong with Izuku because he's suddenly delighted by that prospect.

Seven.

"Done with your tantrum yet, princess?" Katsuki says, giving her an unimpressed look.

She stomps her foot. "No!"

"So you don't want to hold my hand then?"

Kasumi glowers at him with wet eyes and a sulky pout before snatching his hand in a tight grip. "Mine," she asserts.

Eight.

"Boy, you must be suicidal to be eyeing one of my prize omegas," Chisaki says as Izuku stiffen in his arms.

Katsuki remains where he is, head bent and knees on the ground. The picture is all wrong but then he looks up, eyes alight and there's not a trace of submission in them.

Nine.

"I just touched his fucking hand!" Katsuki snarls.

Nonplussed, Aizawa gives him a flat stare. "If you'd gone to the Xau debriefing you would know that's the equivalent of copping a feel for them," he says. "And you practically rubbed down their precious Prince Izuku in public."

Ten.

"I'll write no love songs," Katsuki croons into the mic, voice low and achingly raw in all its intensity as his eyes gaze out into crowd, "but all my songs belong to you."

In a sea of thousands screaming fans, Izuku feels keenly seen by those piercing eyes and haunting words.

Eleven.

In the ruins of the villain's base, all that remain are the familiar but weathered face of Katsuki's own staring right at him and the broken bodies around him.

"If you can't take good care of him," the man tells him, cradling Izuku's unconscious form in his arms, "then I will."

Twelve.

"Kacchan, I'll be with you all the way," the ghost of Izuku whispers in his ear, wrapping Katsuki up in his warmth undying presence. "Let's win this." Together in life and death, never apart.

Orange electricity cackles around him as Katsuki gives a feral grin toward the villain.

Thirteen.

"If you excuse me, my lord," he says, moving to leave but a hand abruptly clamps down on his wrist.

"Izuku, please," Shouto begs. "I miss you."

Caught by his own traitorous heart, Izuku stops. "I—" he starts, but then he hears: "Get your fucking hand off my husband, bastard!"

Fourteen.

As Izuku starts to disrobe his ceremonial dress, the Wolf God lowers his massive canine head to glare at him. "What are you doing?!"

He blinks. "Preparing to consummate our marriage."

"I don't fuck humans," the Wolf God growls.

"Oh," he says, trying not to be disappointed.

Fifteen.

"One billion yen," he says. "Three hundred first and you'll get the rest of it once the baby is safely delivered and hand it over to me."

"Bakugou-san, do you think my silence and child will be that cheap?" Izuku asks, his words as cold as the scathing heat of Katsuki's own.

Sixteen.

"You want me to, um," the rest of his sentence trails off.

Shouto and Katsuki shares a glance, it's so soft and intimate that Izuku has to look away for a moment. "Be our omega surrogate," Shouto finishes for him. "We don't want to entrust this responsibility to anyone but you."

Seventeen.

Katsuki wakes up that morning alone; the left side of the bed had long gone empty and cold. A note is left in the place where Izuku once slept. He picks it up, catches sight of the sorry written in the familiar loop of Izuku's handwriting and immediately crumbles it in his hand.

Eighteen.

Izuku is eleven years old when he first placed his hand in his betrothed's grip as they swear their vow in front of the gods. He bites back his tears with a wavering faith.

"Don't cry," Katsuki orders, a child himself. "You're mine now and I'll take good care of what is mine."

Nineteen.

"Surrender," Katsuki demands.

Five years ago their situation was reversed; Katsuki was the one in chains and his kingdom usurped. Now with Izuku's world crumbling down and his heart splayed open at Katsuki's feet, he says mirthlessly, "If you wanted me, you could have just ask."

Twenty.

Kota knows of the legend of the pirate Zero, how once he was stranded at sea for a hundred days and thrive. Now as a mer drags the captain above the wave, suddenly it all made sense to Kota. Zero had given his heart to the sea and the sea blessed him with one of her own children.

[alittlewhump]

Unbidden - Act 4, chapter 4

Masterlist | Previous | Next

Content warnings: fantasy violence

It was the sound that gave the first clue to Izual's location. The howling, to be precise. It cut like a finely honed blade through the faraway sounds of demons going about their business. Those noises were babbling, sometimes raucous, natural expressions of creatures in their home element. This was something different. It was hard, and cold, and achingly lonely somehow. Morgan shivered as he followed Blaise in the direction of its source.

She paused at the corner of a ruin, the two rough walls all that remained of an ancient building. "You said he'd be alone, right? That has to be who we're after." Morgan nodded, already reaching out to feed some magic into the ground beneath the lone figure at the centre of what might have been a plaza at one time.

The figure howled again, and its clawed hands wrenched and tore violently at... something on its back. Something that had once been wings, Morgan realized as it spread what remained of them, reduced to little more than bloodied bone and tendon. Shreds of leathery membrane quivered with the force of its baying. These ruined appendages were nothing like the tendrils of light that made up an angel's wings. Perhaps that was why it wanted to be rid of them so badly, Morgan thought.

There was no sense in further prolonging its suffering. With a push of will, the earth reached up to hold the creature in place. It did not struggle. Instead it froze for a second, then fell silent and tipped its head back to bare its throat in an implicit surrender.

Blaise dispatched it efficiently. But as the body fell, something remained standing. It peeled back out of the lifeless form, amorphous and nearly transparent. After a moment it resolved into the shape of an angel. It seemed to be staring down at the fallen husk. Morgan could still see right through it. The angel began to speak in a voice that sounded like an echo.

"Tyrael was a fool to have trusted me. I told Diablo and his brothers about the soulstones. About how they could be corrupted. I helped them mastermind their own exile to your world. The plan we set in motion so long ago cannot be stopped. Hell itself will spill into your world like a tidal wave of blood and nightmares."

"What exactly is this plan?" Blaise lowered her bow but kept it drawn.

"To corrupt the stones, allowing their influence to spread across your world unnoticed by the angelic host. Their claws are already hooked into the fabric of your world, and they are eager to shred the veil separating it from Hell."

"And what's stopping them? If they're so eager, why haven't they done it yet?"

"Their long imprisonment has diminished their power. They must restore themselves here, in their home, before unleashing Hell on earth. Even now Diablo and Baal seek the rejuvenation of the Chaos sanctuary. They know they are pursued."

"Sounds like it's a good time to strike. We can take them down before they get back to full strength." There was a certain glint in Blaise's eyes. She was undoubtedly already imagining their victory over the remaining demon lords.

"Impossible. Mere mortals cannot hope to stand against the power of the Prime Evils."

"Well, we already killed Mephisto, so you're wrong there."

"Impossible," Izual repeated. Blaise was squaring up for an argument, which wasn't likely to get them any additional information. This would be an opportune moment to interject, Morgan decided.

"You are free now, Izual. The form that bound you has been destroyed. You can return to the High Heavens. To your home."

Izual's spectral hood turned toward Morgan. "My prison is felled, but I cannot return to the Host. Not after what I have done. I am beyond redemption."

"There's no harm in trying," Blaise chimed in. "What's the worst that could happen? Seems to me they can't do much worse than what you've already been through."

"Heaven knows the depths of my betrayal. I cannot return after the treason I have committed."

"It was Tyrael who bade us free you," Morgan said. "Surely if the avatar of Justice feels your penance has been sufficient, the-"

"Tyrael is a fool," Izual repeated. "He has no power over me, not any more." He looked back down at the body that had once imprisoned him. "You have granted me a brief reprieve from the torment I have earned. I thank you for this kindness. But in time, this vessel will be born anew from the Black Abyss and I will be drawn back into it. There can be no other fate for me."

"Perhaps not." Morgan approached the body, drawing a vial of oil out of his pack.

"What are you doing, mortal?" Izual reached out as if to stop him, but the only resistance his arm provided was an uncomfortable chill. Goosebumps prickled across his skin where the angel's form passed through it.

"It is not my place to judge whether or not you deserve to return," Morgan explained as he anointed the forehead and claws of the demonic form. "But I did give my word that I would try my utmost to free you." It was a bit of guesswork, but it tracked with what he knew of angels and demons. Consecrating the demonic body should, in theory, cause it to be destroyed in a way that would prevent it from reforming. Demons' spirits could return to the Black Abyss to await a new body, just as angels were given form through the Crystal Arch. But Izual was not truly a demon, despite the corruption he had endured. There was no reason a completely new body should be created for him without additional intervention. That was beyond the scope of Morgan's control, unfortunately, but this seemed like the most likely way to ensure the angel's freedom.

"Do not interfere," Izual growled. Morgan flinched as the angel lunged at him. It was colder this time, but there was still no physical resistance as the angel's form passed through him.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing? He's trying to help you," Blaise called. An arrow flew harmlessly through the angel's ghostly body. It got his attention briefly, long enough for Morgan to draw a sigil in oil on the chest of the remains. He used the oldest symbol he knew. It began to glow faintly as he hovered his hand over it, starting the consecration by empowering the anointment.

"No," Izual hissed. The icy tendrils of his wings wrapped around Morgan's throat as he began reciting the prayer that accompanied the sigil. Although the touch wasn't tangible, the chill was. It drained his breath and made the muscles in his throat tighten with the shock of the sudden cold. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the intent he was feeding into the prayer and the oil. As long as he could manage at least a whisper, it should suffice. It was only a few phrases he had to get through.

Freezing chill assaulted Morgan, targeting his face, his throat. The cold ached in his teeth and stole the sensation away from his lips. He treated each word carefully, slowly. If he wanted to have any chance at success, he couldn't let Izual interrupt him. It was unlikely he'd be able to complete the prayer a second time if he had to start over.

At one point it felt like glacial fingers were reaching through his chest to squeeze around his heart. That made him gasp, opening his eyes to see Blaise trying ineffectually to grapple Izual away from him. Morgan staggered back a step but the angel followed effortlessly. The cold grew impossibly deeper as he reached his other hand in to join the first, bringing Morgan to his knees. It was so cold it burned, too cold to even shiver.

"Morgan, stop! I can't touch him, he's going to - you have to get out of there!" Blaise's words turned to steam as they left her mouth, little clouds hanging in the shimmering cold that surrounded Izual. Morgan shook his head minutely. No matching steam accompanied the words he continued to force past his teeth. The air from his lungs wasn't warm enough for that. But he was so close. I believe you capable, Tyrael's voice echoed in his mind. If Tyrael believed that, surely it was true. It had to be. He could finish this.

Morgan rasped out the final syllables and slumped forward, no longer trying to resist the darkness pulsing around the edges of his vision. His immediate task was complete and he could rest a little in this enveloping cold. Izual jerked back as the anointed body was consumed by light. It glowed at first like a firefly, then a torch, then a bonfire, then a sun, replacing the creeping darkness with brilliant white. Izual howled a wordless protest, growing in volume as the light shone brighter and brighter. Even when Morgan angled his face away from it, echoes danced across his eyelids. Then, suddenly, it stopped. No light, no sound. Izual was gone.

A ragged gasp broke the silence as Morgan finally drew a fresh breath unhindered by Izual's chill. It stuck in his throat, warm air warring with cold. The rough stone of the plaza scraped against his forehead as he fell into a helpless fit of coughing, his body finally reacting to the temperature shock with violent, rattling tremors. Blaise was saying something but the coughing drowned her out. A heavy hand thumped on his back, which was uncomfortable and did nothing to stop either the hacking coughs or the tremors. He waved her away weakly as he tried to steady his breathing, encouraging the stone to prop him up into a more upright position. This was no time to rest after all. Tyrael's task was complete but his own work was still in progress.

"Akarat's bane, Morgan, that was close. I thought I was going to have to drag you out of there." Blaise paused. "Would that even work?"

"I don't know," Morgan croaked, hugging his arms around himself. It was ineffective; his armour prevented any heat transfer. "People are... tethered to their bodies when they die, if they linger. But I don't know about angels. That wasn't even his true body." The uncontrollable shivering was beginning to slow slightly, the warmth of the environment chasing away the chill.

"Well, I'm glad I didn't have to try it. Anyway, let's get back to the fortress. Everyone's going to want to hear about that thing with the soulstones, and I don't really want to stick around to see what that light display might have attracted." Blaise raised one arm to loop briefly around Morgan's shoulders. The gesture warmed him better than the ambient heat of Hell, but he refrained from chasing it as she released him to open a portal. There was more work to be done, and he was fit enough to do it. Comfort was an unnecessary luxury.

Tyrael and Cain were conversing quietly when they returned to the fortress. Blaise set off to talk to Halbu while Morgan waited his turn to speak with Tyrael. He didn't have to wait long.

"You found Izual," the angel observed. "I can feel the echo of his resonance within you. Tell me of what happened."

"He was not eager to be freed," Morgan said. "Once the form imprisoning him was defeated, he spoke of his cooperation with the Prime Evils. Their exile to our world was planned. They have corrupted the soulstones somehow, to spread their influence across the world unnoticed by the forces of the Light. That was all he said on the matter. I consecrated the body," he added.

"In doing so, you have assured his freedom. You have my thanks for this." Morgan wrestled briefly with the awe and elation that lit up like a pyre in his chest. To receive the gratitude of an archangel was nearly unthinkable. "But if what you tell me is true," Tyrael continued, "we have been played for fools all along. With the powers of the soulstones under their control, the Prime Evils will be able to turn the mortal world into an outpost of Hell, and all mankind may be doomed." That certainly helped to dampen his emotions back down to where they ought to be.

"I feared as much," Cain said grimly. "What you described of the Zakarum high council pointed to that conclusion. If the soulstones have all been corrupted, there are dire implications."

"But we defeated Mephisto already," Blaise interjected, striding over to join the conversation. "We have his stone. And we're going to get the other ones too. Can't we just smash them?"

"When Mephisto's soulstone was split into pieces, those shards each served as a focus for his power," Tyrael said. "They are impossible to destroy by conventional methods."

"Well, what unconventional methods are there? There has to be something."

"There is the Hellforge," Halbu called from where he was working. "There is a hammer that can annihilate anything placed on that accursed pedestal. I've wanted to get my hands on that hammer for ages. It ought to be somewhere near the forge, but without any scouts I don't know for sure."

"Yes," Tyrael said, "that could work. The Hellforge could destroy the stones completely. We will lose any advantage the soulstones ever gave us, but shattering the stones is more important."

"Their advantage was lost the moment they were corrupted," Cain added.

"Is this hammer enchanted?" Morgan asked.

"Naturally," Halbu replied.

"Excellent," Cain exclaimed. "That ought to make it much easier for you to find, my friend!"

"Yes. If you suspect it's near a landmark, I ought to be able to find it easily enough." It would be good to put his skills to use again so soon, to make more progress toward their ultimate goal.

"I think I might have spotted the forge from up on one of those spires," Blaise said. "And now we know the big boys are holed up in the Chaos sanctuary, so we can head there right after."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Halbu said. "No offense. But I've been after that hammer for years."

"I guess this is your lucky year, then," Blaise returned cheerfully. "And it's my lucky day if there's any more of that pork thing you made earlier. We have to eat before we head back out."

Morgan cast a glance at the space the portal had occupied, but it was empty. She must have closed it already. And since she was the one with a clear idea of where they were going, he would have to wait.

"You coming?"

"No, thank you. I require a brief meditation." The last traces of chill had fled in the face of Tyrael's presence, but that in itself was something to be treated with caution. Although their goals aligned at the moment, that was no reason to allow his neutrality to be compromised. His duty was to his Order, and not anything else.

[i-jus-wanna-writehappy]

Handful

Pairing: Finan x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Smut y’all 18+ READ ONLY

Author’s Note: I love Finan with all my heart, and I have a fluff for him started, and for some unknown reason, this idea clocked me clean in my jaw, lol. I hope you enjoy. I do some head hopping by paragraphs in the beginning. I know a lot of people don’t like it, but I really enjoy writing it

Tags: @thotyana-in-this-hoe @neeadinghugs

Masterlist    Black Girl Insert Series

*     *     *     *

Finan huffed as he watched the women sashay through the alehouse. It wasn’t a huff of judgement, not at all, these were beautiful women, perfectly plush women. His huff came from a place of frustration, because he was surrounded by all the ale he could want, and multiple women perfect for a drunken hump, and his cock didn’t stir at all. Finan grumbled into his ale and looked around with a sharper eye. He didn’t have to look long before a slender hand caressed the back of his neck. He didn’t have to see her to know that touch, he’d spent a lot of silver on it. 

“Leofwen.” It was Uhtred that called out the woman’s name. He’d noticed his friend was in a mood, and surely a good fuck from one of his favorite women would make him feel better. Leaning back in his chair and watching the woman scratch softly through the hair at the nape of Finan’s neck, Uhtred was sure the two of them would be gone in a flurry of hands within moments. Much to his surprise, Finan simply leaned back into her touch for a moment and groaned, “I’m not much tonight, Leofwen.” The tall woman snorted and leaned down beside Finan, “When are you ever much?” Finan laughed and Uhtred felt a little better for that. “’S nice to know I don’t have t’ lose any silver for your mouth.” Finan took one more breath enjoying Leofwen’s hand on the nape of his neck before leaning out of the embrace, “Seriously, go find someone who’ll give y’eh some silver tonight.”

With one last scrape of her short fingernails, Leofwen sashayed across the alehouse, eyes on a man with shiny shoes. “What is it?” Uhtred finally asked, watching Finan watch everyone in the alehouse grab tits and laugh merrily. He would usually be the life of the night, shouting out songs for people to join in singing and wooing women left and right. It wasn’t until Finan answered with a closed-eyed, “Nothing.” that Uhtred found the problem with his friend. “Ah, so it’s Y/N.” Finan groaned, hating the teasing he knew was to come.

You’d asked for a place in Coccham nearly a year ago. You’d heard of Uhtred, that he was an honorable lord and had no qualms with the religious preferences of his peoples, and the prospect of starting your adult life under his eye was promising. You’d been presented to Uhtred and his men, and as soon as Finan saw you, he knew you’d be trouble for him one  way or another. He had no idea that his torture would last so long and that every conversation with you would add more pressure to the heap of heat in his body firmly stamped with your name.

“It’s becomin’ a problem. I said no - to Leofwen. And you know she does that thing I always like -”

“With your ear, yes, I remember. Have you spoken to Y/N about it? She doesn’t have a man, and she doesn’t dislike you, she listens to you tell shit jokes too often for that.” Uhtred poked fun at his friend. And he was right about that, you had seemed a bit friendly with him, flirtatious even, so maybe he could turn on some Irish charm and pull you his way. But you were surely long sleep, and he needed something to sate the more primal hunger he had for you now. “Maybe I’ll stop by her door tomorrow, tonight, I hav’ta sleep off this ale before I fall asleep here.”

Giving pat to Uhtred’s shoulder, Finan made his way out of the alehouse. The cool air was helpful in clearing his head, the alehouse was humid and stuffy, but then Finan passed by your home and knew what he needed to do. He didn’t necessarily like it, but he knew.

Stepping into his home, Finan lit a fire and shed his clothes. The night time left a chill in his home it would take a while to shake, but still, with goosebumps rising on his skin, Finan flopped down on top of his furs. For a moment, he was just there, lying spread eagle, naked as the day he was born, wondering if he’d hate it as much once he started. God, once he finished. Listening as the wood crackled, Finan closed his eyes and thought about the nights you’d join him and the others at the alehouse. The dress you’d wear in hopes of finding yourself a man. It was low-cut, and a rich purple that made you look like royalty. It began to get a lot easier from there as Finan felt himself heat up and his cock harden.

Keeping his eyes closed to keep you with him, Finan lowered his hand to his growing member. Behind his eyelids, Finan saw you open the door to his home, dress cut low and feet bare. You’d rushed to him in the night, so needy for the feel of his flesh on yours that you couldn’t be bothered to put on shoes or a cloak. Your voice came to him easily, and he could hear you in his mind, “Fin? I’m sorry to bother you so late.” Finan can’t decide whether he’s wearing clothes in this encounter, still so caught up in the nickname you’ve given him, so for now he focuses on you as his warm hand squeezes his base.

“Yer fine, lass. What’s botherin’ ya?” You looked behind yourself to make sure you weren’t being watched before slipping in all the way and closing the door behind you, “I just - I can’t generate any heat. My fire isn’t building, and I can’t seem to get comfortable in the cold tonight. This was the only place I could think to come.” You didn’t need Finan to say anymore, you looked at him and knew you were welcome. The warmth of his home wrapped you up in a tight embrace as you made your way to the edge of his bed. Sitting down, feet still on the ground and hand achingly close to his decidedly bare leg, you stared into the fire as you spoke, “Can I tell you the truth?” Finan shivered as he began to throb in his hand, but he couldn’t move yet. He was waiting. “Anything, Y/N.” You kept still, “I came here straight from the alehouse.” You turned to him now, scooting your body and resting on your knees so they were pressing against the side of his leg, “I saw you leave and I couldn’t go another moment without touching you,” You ran your hand up his side and rested your forehead on his temple, “Feeling you. Can I feel you, Fin?” Another shiver made its way through Finan’s body as he nodded.

You shifted again until you were sitting right behind Finan, your legs were spread so his body was nestled between them and your hand caressed its way down to his throbbing cock. Finan grunted, applying more pressure, the heat from the fire began to reach him on his bed and for a moment he felt like maybe he wasn’t just imagining you. Finan still knew better than to open his eyes and check for you, so he put his attention back on you behind his eyelids. Finan pressed his hand over top yours to finally get you to move. His senses were bouncing all over the place: he could feel your breath on the nape of his neck, the sweat on your thighs made them stick to his skin just a little, the fabric of the dress you had pulled up to your waist brushed against his back, and your warm calloused hand, just rough enough to make him grit his teeth.

Part of Finan wanted to commend itself for how vivid his imagination was, but his cock twitched in his hand and he realized he didn’t care enough about how he was doing it, but he did care that you were fully present through the entire endeavor. Without him even having to say anything, you pressed your lips to the back of Finan’s neck kissing between your words, “I’ve wanted this for so long. To grip you tight and listen to the sounds you make when you’re enveloped in the warmth of a woman. To feel you sweat and pant against my skin. The only thing that could make this better would be you getting me here for real. Do you know what I would do if you came up to me, Fin? What I’d say when you recommended we have a hump?”

Finan groaned and pumped his hips up into his hand, “I don’t, but I reckon you’re gonna tell me?” He gritted through clenched teeth. You nodded as your lips pressed to his neck in a wet kiss, “I would tell you how often I reach beneath my gown at home, fingers seeking to give me release as I think of you. I would moan and cry out your name as I bounced on your cock. Hold you tight when I came, whimpering and hungry for more of your touch.” Your confession was all Finan needed. He was sweating like a madman now and he was sure that anyone passing by would hear him grunting, but his orgasm was so close, and nothing but God could stop him from chasing it.

Releasing the tight grip he had on his covers with his free hand, Finan cupped his balls. “Fuck, fuck,” He muttered over and over as he imagined your hands beneath his own, jerking him faster as you whispered words of encouragement in his ear. A handful of fires sparked in succession in the pit of Finan’s stomach and with one final growl, his release spurted from the tip of his swollen cock.

Finan spent some time recovering, panting with his eyes closed as the warmth of your imaginary touch slipped away. Once he’d gathered himself, Finan was able to open his eyes and see what a mess he’d made of himself. His right hand was still wrapped softly around his dick, the edges of his fingers warm and sticky from his cum. Up his stomach and neck, Finan’s cum sat, thick and still. He was glad that he hadn’t gotten any in his beard this time. He already hated having to fuck himself in your absence, he didn’t want to do anything like clean the cum from his beard too.

Standing with a stretch, Finan grabbed one of the loose strips of fabric he had to wrap or clean woulds and wiped the cum from his stomach. He also found that he was efficiently exhausted and collapsed back onto his bed. Just as Finan was letting sleep take him, a knock shook him out of his slumber. “Whadda ya want?” He called out, sure the know was coming from Sihtric, who probably had some dumb drunken game or adventure he wished for Finan to join. A jolt went through his body when he heard you speak, “Fin? Can I see you? I need your help with something.” Thinking back to his little dream, Finan felt his cock begin to stiffen again, and almost asked you to leave, but he couldn’t pass up an opportunity to see you. Finan jumped up and rushed to grab some clothes, “Yeah, Y/N, I’m in my sleep clothes now, just give me a moment.”

He heard you huff outside the door and the knob began to turn, “That’s fine.” You replied, pushing the door open. Finan didn’t know what to do what you opened the door and saw him naked, but he knew he was in need of another release.

[patriciasage]

because you are my heart

Author: Patricia_Sage

Fandom: The Adventure Zone - Balance

Summary:

Barry goes down to the lab every morning. One rainy day, about two and a half weeks from the initial implantation, he comes up the stairs with an excited expression on his round face. “I’ve got some news –”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish because Lup is already sprinting past him. They hear the sound of shattering glass. “It has a latch...” Barry mumbles, his head in his hands. They would have to go to the black markets to find another tube, now.

The footsteps on the stairs sound much more solid coming up than they had been running down. The door is kicked open and there’s Lup in her corporeal form.

posted in full under the break but you can find me on A03!!

Lup is incredibly impatient to get her body back. She rambles to Barry over their post-Hunger-battle celebratory dinner about how they could alter Taako’s DNA. But her boyfriend interrupts her, red-faced and mumbling something Taako can’t hear. He hears his sister’s reply, though.

“Babe, that is so creepy. I love you so much.”

Taako kicks her boot from across the table. “What?”

Her white-toothed grin glows from within the black, wispy shape of her face. “Barry saved a lock of my hair like an absolute weirdo.” Barry flushes with embarrassment as everyone turns to listen. “But you know what that means – mama’s gettin’ her body back!”

Magnus cheers from beside Taako, raising his glass of mead in a single-person toast. “How long will it take to grow?” the wizard asks.

Barry takes off his glasses and cleans them, something he does about ten times a day. “I’d say about a couple weeks.”

“Fuck yes!” the twins say in unison.

Magnus, being the rustically hospitable man that he is, allows them to use his basement as a science lab. He’s the only one besides Merle who has a house. Lucretia still lives on the moon; Davenport is traveling; and Taako has a small apartment in New Phandalin. Lup and Barry have a place in the Astral Plane, but they had a feeling Kravitz would lose his mind if they start growing a body in his neighbourhood. It’s already stressful enough for him to look the other way when they do necromancy shit here.

Lup and Barry need to be there to monitor the experiment but there’s no real reason for everyone else to stay. However, Magnus’s table is full of friends while Lup’s body grows in his basement. The kids are with Hecuba, so Merle invites himself over. Taako can’t bring himself to leave. Days turn into weeks; a few sleepovers turn into a strange vacation.

Kravitz visits often, gently convincing Taako to go out for a walk or an activity with him, but never pressuring him to go home to his apartment. He kisses the wizard goodnight on Magnus’s porch. “Keep me up to date on that thing I don’t know about,” he says, then disappears into the darkness with moonlight shining off of his skull.

“Bet your boyfriend has a bone to pick with me,” Lup winks when her brother enters the kitchen.

“Nah,” Taako replies, “he’s chill.” He grabs Magnus’s apron off of the hook next to the door. It’s warm yellow with strawberries embroidered on it. “I’m thinking dumplings tonight, what about you?”

Cooking together was what they always did. When things got tough, they lost themselves in a recipe and the warmth of each other’s company and forgot about the world. “Sure,” Lup replies. But things are different now. She can’t taste any of the food. Her hands are cold when he passes her a dish. Instead of filling the room with a comfortable fire, her physical presence is dark and damp. And Taako has trouble ignoring that, although he wouldn’t trade this time for anything.

Lup teases him about the garlic. They used to double the amount in any recipe that called for it. In retrospect, Taako thinks maybe a hidden part of his mind created thirty garlic clove chicken because of this. But he uses barely any now. The smell of it brings him back to the sound of choking, the sight of dropping bodies, and panic flooding his veins.

He tells her this. She knew about Glamour Springs, of course, but she didn’t know about the recipe. “Shit, Taako, I’m sorry, babe.” She hugs him and he appreciates the gesture, but she’s cold and weird and not quite solid. He pulls away.

“Taako’s good, don’t you worry, sis.”

They cook, the boys eat, and days pass sluggishly. It’s kind of nice being together like this, and everyone knows that Magnus loves a house with a crowded table. Taako teaches him how to make churros. Merle teaches Barry how to garden. And Lup watches, wringing her shadowy hands together and wishing she could fully join them. Sometimes Taako hears a noise from the basement, but it’s only Lup – pressing her hands to the tube and shouting at her body to “hurry the fuck up!”

Barry goes down to the lab every morning. One rainy day, about two and a half weeks from the initial implantation, he comes up the stairs with an excited expression on his round face. “I’ve got some news –”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish because Lup is already sprinting past him. They hear the sound of shattering glass. “It has a latch...” Barry mumbles, his head in his hands. They would have to go to the black markets to find another tube, now.

Taako watches Barry closely, looking for any sign of stress. Besides the general air of exasperation he always has, he seems relatively calm. Taako tries to take some deep breaths in the silence. This feels exactly like when he was standing on the deck of the Starblaster, watching Lup and Barry rise up from their bodies in their lich forms for the first time. Anxiety squeezes his heart with an icy hand.

The footsteps on the stairs sound much more solid coming up than they had been running down. The door is kicked open and there’s Lup in her corporeal form. She’s dressed in the clothing Taako had bought for her – a black crop top with a pair of skeleton hands over the breasts and a pair of leggings covered in rhinestones. She’s smiling wider than she has in weeks. Taako thinks about Lup in her lich form, how he could recognize his sister in the shape of her ears and the way that she moved. But looking at her now – the softness of her shoulder-length hair; her dark, freckled cheeks; the angle of her nose – he’s overwhelmed.

Taako isn’t even aware that he’s crying until he realizes he can’t see. Lup crashes into him like a tidal wave on the beach planet. She holds him close and he presses his face into her shoulder. She smells a bit like Barry’s lab, but also achingly familiar and so very real. She no longer feels cold and misty; she’s warm and strong and alive. There’s something about it that slots everything into place for Taako and suddenly he’s consolidating everything in a way he hasn’t been able to before. He grips the back of her shirt tightly and cries for the ten years she was trapped and alone, for the years he lived wandering and scared, searching for something that felt like home.

When he pulls back, Lup is sniffling too. Taako wipes her tears away and then just holds her face in his hands, squishing her a little like he used to when they were young and she needed cheering up. They’re exactly the same height now that she’s not floating a foot off the ground anymore. She laughs. Her eyes are shining.

“I missed you, Lulu,” Taako says.

“I never left you.”

“I know.”

The others can’t seem to hold back anymore, and they join the twins, invading the bubble of space they had given them. Taako feels Merle hug him at the hip and he feels Magnus’s big hand on his back. Barry presses his face into Lup’s hair. He’s also crying. Lup gives him a big, wet kiss. “Gross,” Taako protests half-heartedly.

Of course, Magnus is crying too. Even Merle wipes his eyes when he thinks no one is looking. It’s squishy and messy and way more emotional than Taako would usually be comfortable with. But he just looks into his sister’s eyes (a honey brown, no longer glowing red) and lets himself feel safe and warm.

They clean up a bit and sit down in the living room with a fresh pot of coffee. Merle makes a group call on his Stone of Farspeech to the entire I.P.R.E. crew. His voice echoes from the foyer where everyone else hung up their coats. Taako takes his Stone out of his pocket and calls Kravitz.

Lucretia takes a canon down from the moon base immediately, and everyone is delighted and surprised to see Davenport with her as well. He had just returned from a trip and had been visiting Lucretia when they got the call.

Kravitz arrives soon after. He’s initially very concerned at the sight of everyone’s tear-stained faces, but then he notices Lup’s corporeal form and his face softens into happiness. “You look wonderful,” he tells her.

She shoots finger guns at him. "You're just saying that 'cause I'm his twin." He laughs easily, as he always does.

Taako leaves to make a new pot of coffee and his boyfriend follows him into the kitchen, enveloping him in a cold but comforting hug. Taako presses his face into Kravitz’s neck and tentatively acknowledges that this is the happiest he’s ever been.

A rainy Thursday morning turns into a celebration full of tears, hugs, and reminiscing. Taako and Lup cook supper together and she takes charge this time, very excited to be able to eat again. They make arroz con pollo, their aunt’s recipe, and this time the smell of garlic and chicken summons fond childhood memories alone.

They’re back – Taako and Lup, Lup and Taako.

He’s whole again.

[thepandapopo]

Weak - Sylvix Week Day 2: PDA

Sylvain and Felix embark on the road to becoming a couple in typical Sylvain and Felix fashion – completely backwards and embarrassingly obvious.

OR

Felix is weak for Sylvain.

OR

Four times Sylvain initiates PDA and the one time that Felix does instead.

i.

Felix really should have known better.

He should have known that this joke, this mockery of his pent-up feelings, would become more than a one-off thing. But he is weak; so very weak to Sylvain and even if he could, Felix doesn’t think that he would have put a stop to it anyways because despite all his hissing and cursing, he really is touched starved for the fool.

Yet here they are again, about to ride off into yet another battle – because that’s what war is; just a never ending string of blood and death and loss – and Sylvain is leaning down from atop his warhorse, looking every bit the intimidating Dark Knight that he is with his black armor shining boldly in the afternoon sun, and threading one large hand between the inky strands of Felix’s hair to bring his face closer to his prize.

Felix has lost count how many kisses Sylvain has bestowed upon him in the calm before the storm. It’s a testament to just how many battles they have gone through together, how many wordless promises they have made to each other to come back alive and whole after the blood has finished soaking into the earth beneath their feet.

However, no matter how many times Sylvain brings his warm, soft lips to Felix’s own rough, chapped ones, Felix still feels the strength drain from his legs and all his senses hone in on the heat of lips on lips, sliding easily over each other with practiced movements slicked with spit.

“Come back to me alive, yeah?” The words are murmured so close to him that Felix can feel the brush of Sylvain’s lips even as the hot air escapes between them, flushing both of their faces with soft crimson.

Felix scoffs – a typical Felix response – and that’s more than enough of a promise for Sylvain who straightens back on his horse and gives his lance a practice twirl with a grace that belied his fierce strength.

“I always do. You’re the one who needs to be careful, what with your dismal training regimen.”

And it’s true. Felix always keeps his promise and comes back to Sylvain. After all, he thinks to himself, he still has yet to confess his feelings for his childhood friend and Felix knows, just as he knows that the sky is blue and that Sylvain’s hair is more beautiful than any sunset will ever be, that he will always come home; home to Sylvain.

How else will he get another kiss?

ii.

Felix is weak for Sylvain.

But then again, that was something that Felix had already established early on in his life – even before they had made what Ingrid liked to call their ‘morbid childhood death pact’.

Not many could say that they could annoy the Fraldarius heir to the point of sputtering without making an immediate acquaintance with the sharp end of a blade. Even fewer could get away with initiating physical contact with Felix outside of training, much less casually throwing an entire arm around his shoulders and then proceeding to whine like a child about anything and everything.

But the most telling sign of Felix’s softness towards Sylvain is the fact that the Gautier heir is the only person who is allowed to touch his hair.

“Tilt your head down a little.” A calloused broad hand cradles the back of his head gently and pushes Felix’s forehead to meet the warm muscle of Sylvain’s shoulder. They must make an intimate picture, Felix thinks to himself as he inhales the warm citrusy scent of bergamot and honey that he has come to associate with his childhood friend. They are in Felix’s room behind closed doors and it is still early morning. Were anyone to enter his room, the sight of Sylvain kneeled at the edge of the bed between Felix’s legs with his hands buried in raven locks and Felix with his face in Sylvain’s shoulders would have invited more than a few salacious rumors to the monastery grounds.

“Ow. Be careful.” Felix hisses at the not-so-gentle snag of fingers against a tangle.

“Sorry, Fe.” The puff of hot air grazes the back of his neck and sends shivers down his spine.

In the back of his mind, Felix recognizes that it’s probably a colossally stupid idea to let Sylvain tie his hair up every morning while he is recovering from a broken arm. The fact that the Fraldarius heir allows himself to indulge in their pre-battle kisses is already torture enough; but letting Sylvain run his long fingers through his raven strands to pull and tame them into his customary ponytail?

It isn’t an exaggeration to say that Felix’s nights have since gotten more restless.

“Your hair is longer now.”

It’s a plain statement. Neutral grounds in terms of speech, but the sinful way Sylvain tugs his hair, landing a little on the side of deliciously hard, makes the words drip with suggestion and invitation.

Felix must be going crazy if he thinks he can hear anything other than plain, factual observation in Sylvain’s tone. But if it is the madness that conjures images of the Gautier heir yanking his hair to expose the expanse of his neck and suck his claim… then he decides that insanity must not be half bad.

It is both an eternity and not long enough when Sylvain finally announces that he is done with a breathy whisper. Reluctantly, Felix pulls back and reaches his good arm up to pat the neatly tied strands under the pretense of checking Sylvain’s work. If Felix secretly revels in brushing his fingers along the lingering warmth clinging to his hair, then that is his own business.

A familiar strip of leather lays on the desk to the side.

“You didn’t use my normal hair tie.”

Sylvain smiles as him just a little too wide. Wide enough that Felix is suspicious.

“Yeah. I figured it was starting to get really old so I got you a new one.” Sylvain says very matter-of-fact. The sincerity in his voice sends Felix’s heart thumping wildly in his chest and he feels the heat in his cheeks even as he scowls.

“I am perfectly capable of buying my own hair ties.”

As usual, Sylvain is an expert in understanding Felix-speech and simply laughs. You’re welcome rolls off his tongue with ease born from years of enduring harsh words and learning to read the subtext behind barbs.

Even as they walk through the monastery hallways together down to the dining hall, Sylvain rolls with the punches and their conversation doesn’t so much as falter for even a moment, instead slipping into a familiar and achingly comfortable banter that hides years of unspoken emotions.

No one mentions anything about how Sylvain seems to stick more closely to Felix now that his arm is in a sling.

No one mentions the bright Gautier-red leather strip that stands out so glaringly obvious against the dark canvas of Felix’s hair.

No one mentions anything when Felix hands Sylvain that same hair tie the next morning to complete their new morning ritual, the unspoken subtext wrapping soothingly around them as Felix once again bows his head in the only surrender he will ever acquiesce.

I’m yours.

iii.

“Felix!”

Pain. Screaming. Panic. Sylvain.

Where is Sylvain?

“Fe! Fe, stay with me. Don’t you dare die, you stubborn asshole!”

The part of his mind that is still rational and conscious tries to cajole the rest of his body into letting out an indelicate snort, but all that comes out is a wet cough that sends pain and blood spilling out his mouth.

“Mercie? Lin? Marianne? Healer, please, anyone! I need a healer!”

Felix’s arms feel more like dead weight than limbs at this point given the numbness of his extremities, but that doesn’t stop an agonizing lance of pain from shooting through him as he feels his body lifting up and being cradled against a cold metal chest plate.

A low moan manages to slip its way unbidden past his chapped lips.

“I know, Fe.” Warm honeyed words wash over him. Even in his half unconscious and delirious state, Felix can hear the unbridled fear that lurks beneath the forced calm. “You’ll be okay. I’m gonna get you to Mercie and she’ll fix you right up, okay? Stay with me.”

Sylvain’s voice cracks at the end along with Felix’s heart.

He doesn’t like it when Sylvain is in pain.

With herculean effort, Felix manages to pry his eyelids open just enough to look at the underside of Sylvain’s clenched jaw.

Huh. When did he get on a horse?

“Are you… okay?” The words are harder to wheeze out than Felix is comfortable with, but he forces his lungs to work with him because above the pain and fear for his own life looms the overwhelming need to make sure that Sylvain is unhurt.

Otherwise the axe he took to the side would have been for nothing.

Sylvain lets out a choked laugh, “yeah. Yeah, of course I’m alright. Fuck Felix, you shouldn’t have pushed me out of the way like that.”

You should have trained more, is what Felix wants to reply, however his mind and body are no longer working in tandem and somewhere along the line his heart decides to step in instead.

“Don’t…cry, Syl…”

In all their years together, Felix can count on one hand the number of times he has seen Sylvain cry; most of them in their childhood before Glenn dies. The last time Sylvain had allowed his emotions to bubble up to the surface was the day he shoved his lance into Miklan’s chest in an attempt to give him a merciful ending rather than living on as a demonic beast.

But none of those times can compare to the wrecked look and unending rush of tears that are carving their way through the grime and gore on Sylvain’s cheeks.

Felix doesn’t hear the reply that Sylvain gives, but knows that he must have said something given the comforting rumbling he feels against his cheek.

The world is dark now. There is nothing but a large black pool of nothingness and Felix can feel himself slowly sinking down, down into the depths.

He does not know how much time passes, but through the empty void Felix can hear fragments of words from someone he knows is important, but for the world cannot seem to remember.

Stay with me, sweetheart.

Don’t leave me, please. I can’t do this without you.

I love you.

Come back to me, Fe. My heart.

Felix clings to those words and the warmth that they bring. It takes an eternity, and slowly but surely, he manages to pull himself from the darkness and into the light.

When he wakes, he wakes with a full body ache and in the familiar arms of his crush, who apparently is still dripping salty tears on him and refusing to let him go despite Mercedes insisting that he’s fine. Of course that idiot is too busy sniffling to notice that he’s no longer unconscious.

“I told you to stop crying, didn’t I?” Felix croaks, bringing both Mercedes’ and Sylvain’s attention to him.

A new batch of tears well up in his favourite honey brown eyes and piercing relief crumples Sylvain’s expression like a house of cards in the wind.

“Fuck, Felix. Don’t ever scare me like that again.” Sylvain’s voice wobbles as he clutches at Felix just a little tighter, pressing his head to his chest as if trying to hide him away from the world.

The rapid staccato thumping against his cheek stays Felix’s hand and he lets himself (in what is starting to become a concerningly frequent habit) indulge in the physical display of affection, not caring that the rest of the world inside the infirmary can see them.

Right now, there is only Felix, Sylvain, and their beating hearts. And if that’s what Sylvain needs to chase away his fears, then Felix will happily concede because there is nothing that he wouldn’t do to protect Sylvain from the world and his own demons.

iv.

For a person born in the second coldest region of Faerghus, Felix does not do well when the temperature plummets.

Although his regular outfit consists of at least three separate layers - one of which is fur lined, for crying out loud – the cold somehow still manages to seep its way into his bones, rattling his entire core with shivers.

“Shitty night to not have a tent, huh?” Sylvain laughs humorlessly from where he is huddled up beside him, his long legs folded up as close as possible to his chest to conserve heat; his Gautier crest emblazoned cloak is thrown of his shoulders as are two more thin blankets that also cover Felix as well. Their sides are pressed together like two halves of a whole and on a regular day, Felix would have spontaneously ignited at their close proximity, but right now the heat that is radiating off of Sylvain is the only thing that keeps his body from succumbing to the cold. At their backs, Sylvain’s trusty warhorse acts as a third source of heat and also as a sturdy wall to lean against.

“Fucking bandits just had to torch our shit.” If they weren’t already lying six feet under buried in a shoddy, half assed grave, Felix would have personally saw to it that every single one of them died a horrible and painful death by his blade.

All around them their friends and comrades sat in huddled pairs, much like him and Sylvain. The sad, dismal fire they had managed to start did little to stave off the chill, but when literally everything around you is wet with sleet, it is already a small miracle that there is any fire at all.

“At least we’re together and alive though, right?” Sylvain smiles at him and it’s the small genuine one that Felix recognizes is specially for him; the one where burnt sienna glows molten and the corners of his eye crinkle with rarely used crow’s feet. “It was a pretty nasty ambush and we’re honestly pretty lucky that we had a small enough unit to quickly mobilize and pivot.”

Felix scoffs but it comes out as more of a pathetic chattering of teeth.

He doesn’t know when it happens, but he and Sylvain have become closer over the last few weeks. Close enough that Sylvain’s eyes no longer hold a shadow of doubt whenever he leans in for his pre-battle kiss, as if he now knows that Felix will give into him even as obligatory protests escape his lips. Close enough that Sylvain doesn’t even ask for permission anymore, but instead just silently reaches over to play with stray locks of hair that have escaped his updo after a long day.

Close enough that Sylvain now just takes whatever he wants from Felix because there is a mutual, silent understanding that no matter how much Felix protests, Sylvain just needs to look into his golden irises and find all the consent he needs from there.

“Come here, Fe.”

Felix often forgets that despite his awful training schedule, Sylvain is still a soldier through and through and is much stronger than Felix thinks. Such strength Sylvain currently demonstrates as he is quickly lifted like he is no more than a sack of potatoes, and gently deposited in a very warm lap.

If it weren’t for the cold, Felix would have run his childhood friend through with a sword for his audacity.

Of course, it’s only because of the darned cold that Felix’s hands slip under the outer layer of Sylvain’s armor to fist themselves in the fabric of his undershirt.

And it’s only because of the darned cold that Felix instinctively cuddles up to the human furnace next to him and presses his nose into the warm divot at the base of Sylvain’s throat, causing the older man to shiver at the hot puffs of air against his neck.

Yes. It’s only because of the darned cold.

“Better?” Sylvain’s voice is rough even as his words smooth over Felix like a balm. The one hand that isn’t curled around Felix’s back and supporting him reaches over to pull the two blankets around them so that they are swaddled in a little cocoon of warmth, leaving only their heads visible above the swathes of fabric.

Although a large part of his brain is screaming that this is wrong, dangerous, and too close; Felix cannot stop his body from betraying him as the shivers slowly subside and he begins to melt into Sylvain. Underneath the blankets and hidden away from the world, a gloved hand moves to settle near his upper thigh and rubs hot little circles that sends heat of a different kind flushing through him.

It’s unfair how his heart and body have decided to stage a mutiny against his mind.

Fuck Sylvain and his stupidly beautiful smile and his stupid velvet voice.

“Yeah.” Felix mutters, squeezing his eyes tight against the orange glow of the fire.

He practices counting his breaths using the meditation technique Glenn taught him back when he was only ten years old and manages to wrangle his heartrate into less of a sprint and more of a steady gallop. Whether Sylvain notices or not, he makes no indication that he can feel Felix’s heart trying to escape his chest, though Felix is pretty sure he can tell based on their proximity.

Instead, Sylvain lets his body curl loosely around Felix’s until his chin rests on the crown of midnight hair, barely disturbing the tresses even as his breath evens out and he falls to the persistent clutches of sleep.

Of course, it’s because of the darned cold that eventually Felix also lets himself be dragged under into dreams of memories long past when he never used to be fear being touched.

v.

It was quite well known that Margrave Gautier was not a patient man.

It has not even been three moons since the fall of Enbarr when a letter arrives at the Fhirdiad castle sealed shut with ink the color of crimson and emblazoned with the Gautier crest.

“Father wants me to return home to meet a potential suitor.”

The teacup clatters loudly against the table, spilling Almyran pine over the dainty white tablecloth. In the pits of his stomach, Felix can feel the claws of jealousy and anger sink into his gut and travel up into his throat.

Perhaps it is because his mind is still in a daze trying to process the fact that the war is finally over, or maybe it is because Felix is half delirious from lack of sleep (no one had told him how much more exhausting cleaning up after a war would be than actually fighting it) that the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“I’ll go with you.”

And fuck if Sylvain doesn’t light up like he was just told it’s his birthday, the millennium festival, and Valentines day all in one.

Felix is weak for Sylvain.

No matter how many times Felix repeats it in his mind, that statement has gone far beyond simple fact now into the realm of absolute truth. And it is exactly because it is an absolute truth that Felix rides with Sylvain non stop through the night all the way back to Gautier castle, and it is because it is an absolute truth that Felix finds himself eavesdropping outside the large oaken doors leading to Margrave Gautier’s study where he is introducing some noble girl to Sylvain who looks like he would rather be anywhere else.

“Olivia here is the daughter of a minor lord from the Gideon territory. Their family has done well with managing their lands and they have also made a name for themselves through the war.”

The margrave prattles on, completely ignoring the increasingly uncomfortable look on Sylvain’s face even as he tries his best to plaster on his signature fake smile.

From his position, Felix can only see Sylvain and his father through the tiny gap where the door sits ajar, but thankfully he does not need to strain to hear the conversation.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Gautier.”

Of course her voice sounds like wind chimes. She’s also probably fucking beautiful too given the Margrave’s tastes. It makes Felix want to dry heave just listening to this and he can’t imagine how Sylvain must feel having lived this exact situation hundreds of times.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Sylvain replies without missing a beat even though his voice comes out a bit strangled.

“The war has been rather unfortunate with our people and crops this year, but Olivia’s father has mentioned that their lands have an overabundance of yield that he has agreed to share with us should the wedding take place before the first snowfall.”

“What?” For the first time, Sylvain’s mask falters and there is an abject look of horror in his eyes.

“Preparations will need to be made immediately, but –“

“Father, this is too sudden. I cannot –“

“You will hold your tongue and stay silent. I have given you time to find your own wife, but you have done nothing but squander my generosity. This is no longer a choice you get to make.” Venom coats his words and the poison seeps into Sylvain’s veins as his mind automatically falls back to the terrified little boy who could never disobey his father.

Sylvain is pale and shaking, his eyes darting around frantically looking for, at the very least, a physical escape from this hell that he has walked into.

“As I was saying, preparations will need to be made immediately. I have already sent for a caravan to retrieve the dowry, but when it arrives, you will need to accompany them to ensure that they return safely. I expect that you will inform his highness of your engagement prior to your departure so that he has ample time to ensure his attendance.”

“I… no – this… I don’t…”

“Shut up, boy. I am your father and you will do as I say.”

“Like fucking hell he will.”

The door slams loudly against the wall and all three occupants jump at the sound. They whip around to stare in various expressions of shock as Felix stomps up to them burning with a fury that he has never felt before.

His heart is pounding out of his chest like it wants to escape, but the only thing Felix can focus on right now is trying to stifle the overwhelming urge to draw his sword and cut down the Margrave where he stands.

“Fraldarius.” Like the reptile that he is, Margrave Gautier hisses his surname and spits it out like venom.

“That’s Duke Fraldarius to you.”

Sylvain chokes on his own spit.

“Duke Fraldarius-” ugh, just hearing his voice makes Felix’s hand twitch for the hilt of his sword. “-I would implore you to keep your nose out of business that isn’t yours. This is highly improper to interrupt-“

“I don’t fucking care if it’s improper.” Shifting slightly, Felix positions himself closer to Sylvain while engaging in a stare down with his father. Eye contact be damned, Felix will not let himself lose this silent battle of wills even though all he wants to do is look away. “Sylvain is not marrying this girl.”

“Oh? You dare to come to my home and tell me what I can and cannot do with my son?”

His blood is boiling and images flash across his mind, filling his head with memories of a younger Sylvain looking so scared and sad every time the summers came to a close and he has to return home.

No. Never again. Felix will never let Sylvain go back to a life where he is shackled and beaten into submission by a family that only conditionally tolerates him and uses him for their own benefit.

“Sylvain is not marrying this girl,” Felix repeats adamantly.

“And why not?”

This is the moment.

Felix can feel the tension in the air; he can feel the Margrave’s furious and challenging glare on him, daring him to speak and make a fool of himself; he can feel Sylvain standing rigidly next to him, barely a hair breadth’s away watching with wide, fearful eyes (Nonono Fe, stop it please, I can’t let him hurt you too. Never you).

It might be 26 years late, but Felix finally figures out how he can give Sylvain the home that he has always deserved.

“Because…”

Confidence blooms in his chest and Felix is proud when the gloved hand he extends to tangle in the collar of Sylvain’s jacket does not shake nor tremble under the weight of what he is about to do.

“…he’s mine.”

Felix yanks and tilts his head up to catch Sylvain’s lips as he stumbles forward, their noses slotting against each other like two puzzle pieces and their lips meeting in the same practiced way they’ve done hundreds of times.

The kiss lasts only for a moment, but when they part, Sylvain is gasping for breath like Felix has stolen all the air from his lungs. Honey brown irises are nearly eclipsed by blown out pupils and the strong jaw that Felix so desperately wants to nibble is hanging agape in shock.

Felix doesn’t wait around for the aftermath of his actions. Immediately locking his fingers with Sylvain’s, his cloak flutters around him as he spins on his heels and proceeds to walk out the door with a shell-shocked Gautier in tow.

Later, it occurs to Felix that he didn’t even spare a look at the girl, so he will never really be able to confirm whether or not she was beautiful.

Not that it matters.

Right now, as Felix makes a beeline for his guest room to retrieve his belongings, the only thing that matters is getting Sylvain out of this wretched place and back to Fraldarius where he will never have to deal with that pathetic excuse of a father ever again.

“Felix, wait. Felix!” Sylvain tugs on his hand forcing him to turn around when they are finally behind the safety of closed doors. “Holy shit. What the… holy shit.” Reluctantly, Sylvain releases Felix and instead settles one hand in his own hair, tugging on it as if trying to ground himself with the pain.

“Go pack your things, Sylvain. You’re not staying here with that pathetic waste of space anymore.”

“What? But where are we going?”

For the first time in years, Felix allows the walls around his heart to come down as he looks as Sylvain. He has wasted too much time already punishing himself by depriving himself of the one thing he thought he could never have, but after five years at war with only stolen moments to motivate and push him towards survival, Felix would be a fool to ignore this bond between them any longer.

“What do you mean, where are we going? We’re going home, idiot. Back to Fraldarius.”

Sylvain freezes for a second as if he has misheard, but when auburn eyes detect no hint of a lie, the smile that blooms on his face is one that Felix has never seen before. It is radiant and genuine and everything beautiful that Felix knows is Sylvain.

And just like that, Felix is falling for him all over again.

“Hey Fe?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

“…I love you too, you idiot. Now go pack.”

 BONUS:

Halfway to Fraldarius territory, Sylvain hums thoughtfully and turns to his now-boyfriend.

“Hey Fe?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I be your trophy husband?”

“Shut up.”

[hallospaceboyy]

Hey, I love your writing. I’ve been reading as soon as you’ve been updating! Could I request some angst/softness? It’s a sensitive topic so I understand if you’re against it. The reader is pregnant and has recently moved to Greendale with her boyfriend who’s emotionally and physically abusive. She gets a job somewhere in town and meets the Spellman’s, Zelda is the only one who spots the warning signs and wants to save the reader. (Smut or not, it’s totally up to you. I hope this is okay! 🖤

Let Me Take Care of You

Warning for mentions of abuse, slight homophobia, I don't go into the abuse in great detail but it's there.

You had thought he would stop when you revealed your pregnancy, but he didn’t, was just a little more careful where his fists hit you. Then you'd thought he would stop when you moved away, bought your own little house in the quaint town of Greendale, didn’t think that it was just his way of isolating you, alienating you from the people you hold dear, ensuring you were his and only his.

You had gotten a job at a small book store and cafe - Cerburus', anything just to get you out of the house, but Brett still came by every day on his break to check up on you, gives you icy looks when he sees you being friendly to customers. He always punished you for that, being kind, as if every person you talk to is a potential suitor that will whisk you away despite the fact you’re carrying his child, have never given him any reason to distrust you.

You get along well with Hilda, she looks after you, becomes something of a surrogate mother, and when you meet her sister Zelda, a dazzling redhead that never fails to command the attention of everyone in the room, you find you get along well with her too. Zelda shows an interest in you, asks about the baby every day, asks about you every day, and you’ve grown fond of her. She’s grown fond of you too. You know that Zelda can sense that something is amiss, has noticed your nervous disposition, the way you start every time the bell jingles above the door. But she doesn’t press, and you're grateful for that, even though she insists on being around almost constantly, intent on keeping an eye on you.

Your intuition tells you there's something different about the Spellmans, you can sense this strange tingling electricity about them, and after weeks of being around them, weeks of them becoming more comfortable with you, taking you under their wing, they tell you why. You're told of them being witches, and you don't disbelieve them for a moment, and it doesn’t sway your trust and affection for them either. They make you feel safe, and you only cling tighter to them at the admission.

*

One day Brett happens to come in when Zelda is present, and you’re not at your usual place behind the counter, but standing with the witch, and you’re laughing and talking amiably, her hands resting on the swell of your stomach to feel the baby kick. The baby always kicks when Zelda is around, seems to recognise her voice, love her voice, and it makes you feel warm.

You pull away from her touch sharply, as if burned when you see Brett approaching, and Zelda notices the cold fear on your face immediately, the dread in your eyes, and she squints at the man, brow furrowing.

“What's going on here, then?” He drawls, standing impossibly close to you, hand wrapping around your waist and gripping your hip so hard that you wince.

“This is Zelda. She's just a friend. A regular customer.” Your voice is quiet, his presence makes you meek, has your hands trembling.

“Seems a little too friendly to me, baby. This dyke bothering you?” He glares at the redhead, and she glares back, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even recoil, but you do as his nails dig into your flesh.

The exchange is awkward, the hostile tension in the air palpable, and he punishes you when you get home that night, leaving bruises on your arms, your legs, gives you a split lip and a shining bruise beneath your left eye. You don’t come to work for a week after that, and Zelda notices, feels a dread in the pit of her stomach.

When you do come back into work, the bruise has faded but not entirely healed, and you've done your best to cover it with makeup, wear long sleeves and full length trousers despite the summer heat. You're wiping at the tables, bent over a booth when you feel a warm hand on the small of your back, and you flinch, stumbling as you pull away, and Zelda catches you with a firm grip on your arms. You hiss as she presses on the bruises, and she pulls away, face etched with concern.

“Sweetheart, what has he done to you?” Her voice is gentle, eyes soft, and her familiar scent calms you for a second, breaks down your walls enough to have tears filling your eyes, before the defensiveness you're so used to instilling in yourself rears up, and your face hardens.

“Nothing, Zelda. He’s kind to me.” It sounds forced, monotone, and you know you don’t have Zelda fooled.

“Poppycock. He's hurt you, hasn’t he?”

You visibly flinch at her words, hand immediately resting over a prominent bruise on your forearm that you know is there, despite being hidden by the long black sleeve. Her slender hand comes up to stroke your cheek, skims over the purple mark under your eye. Obviously, you didn’t do as well at covering it as you thought. You shouldn’t have come back, know that Zelda is extremely intuitive, know that she'll use her powers to tear him limb from limb now she's found out he's hurting you.

Her hands move to your arm, and she gently rolls up the sleeve, revealing the dark finger like bruises his grip has left there, and you see her eyes darken, anger pulling the corners of lips, down turning them.

“Don't go back to him.”

“Wh-What?”

“I can protect you. We can protect you.” Her voice shakes, and you're unsure if it's from the tears gathering in her eyes, or the fury radiating from her. Probably both.

“He's the father of my child, Zelda. I can’t just leave him. He'll come after me. He'll find me.”

“Think of the babe.” Her pale hand rests on your bump, stroking her thumb there tenderly. “Violence is no fate a child should be exposed to, Y/N.”

Your bottom lip trembles, and you place your hand over hers, and her anger dissipates then as she gazes at you affectionately.

“You stay with him only for fear. You don’t love him. Not as you once did.”

“No. I don't. Not anymore.” Your jaw clenches, your hand squeezing hers. “I hate him.”

“Let me care for you.”

You nod, wiping at your eyes with a shaking hand. “And Brett?”

“I'll deal with that bastard.”

*

You go home with Hilda that night, trust the Spellmans to keep you safe when he comes looking, but he doesn’t. Zelda hadn't been home when you arrive, and when she does show up, she looks tired, slumps down on the sofa in the parlour and rubs at her temple. She drops a bag down on the floor beside you, and when you open it, it's full of your own clothes. Your eyes roam over her, feel free to do so now, free to marvel at her beauty, for she really is achingly beautiful. Her pale skin seems to glow, and her flame red hair burns intensely in the glow of the lamps. She opens her eyes to look at you, and smiles softly when she finds you admiring her.

“He can't hurt you anymore. Not ever.” She murmurs, and you suddenly fall against her, face nuzzling into her neck, and she holds you tight, stroking your back as your body is wracked with sobs. They are sobs of relief, and Zelda shushes and rocks you comfortingly, burying her face in your hair.

When you pull away, Zelda's warm hands wipe at your cheeks, gazing at you with a palpable affection that makes your heart flutter in your chest. You had always denied even to yourself that your fondness toward Zelda is anything more than friendly, but the love you feel for her is so intense in this moment, warmth spreading through you as she caresses at the growing swell of your stomach, that you finally admit it to yourself now. Admit that you’re entirely smitten with the witch, and that you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Zelda doesn’t pull away when you press your lips to hers insistently, hands tangling in her copper hair. Her tongue greets your parted lips, and you moan against her mouth. She chuckles against you as the baby kicks against her hand, and then her touch slides higher, brushing over your nipple, and you whine and arch against her. It's been so long since you’ve been touched tenderly, and you’re aching for her now, desperate for her, and when you break away from her lips you're panting with the sudden onslaught of arousal.

“Make love to me, Zelda.” You whisper, and the redhead grins, gently guides you to lay back on the sofa, and you whimper when her hands glide up your thighs through your trousers, parting your legs eagerly.

“I'm going to worship every inch of you, my darling.”

[emospritelet]

Twisted Fate - chapter 20

*waggles eyebrows back*

[AO3]

x

It was still dark when Belle woke, her pressing need to go to the bathroom breaking through her slumber. She was very warm, the unfamiliar but welcome feel of a body against hers, Gold’s arm snug around her waist and the sound of his even breath in her ear. It made her smile for a moment, but then she remembered their fight, and his admission, and the smile wobbled a little. He had told her he loved her, that he always had, that he had pushed her away through fear. She still couldn’t decide whether she should be happy, sad, or incandescent with rage about the whole thing. 

She opened her eyes a crack, eyes picking out the green figures on the digital clock by her bed. Five-oh-four. Too early to get up. Easing gently out of his grip, she tiptoed to the bathroom.

By the time she got back, she was a little cold, and she quickly got back into bed, wriggling into the warm hollow she had left in the blankets. Gold inhaled deeply, stretching a little in his sleep, his arm going around her instinctively. It made her smile. Yes. Still mad at him, but he loves me. He loves me.

She dozed, warm and comfortable in his arms, and was awakened by the feel of something pressing against her buttock. Something long and hard and achingly familiar. Belle smiled, her eyes still closed, remembering other mornings when she had woken in his bed in just the same way, with very enjoyable results. His breathing was even, and she was almost certain he was still asleep, but the feel of him against her was making her belly tighten with desire. She remembered those other mornings, how he would wake her slowly with his touch, with soft kisses and stroking fingers, how he would gently lift her leg once she was fully awake and aroused and ease inside her. She wanted that again. It was probably a stupid idea, given that they were only now just starting to work towards a reconciliation, but it seemed that common sense had yet to wake up, leaving her libido firmly in charge. She rolled her hips, rubbing against him.

Gold inhaled sharply, a gentle snort in his nostrils, and his arm tightened around her. Belle bit her lip, moving her hips again, and he mumbled something before stretching his legs a little. She moved her hips in a slow circle, a grinding motion, and his arm stiffened before he pulled back from her, rolling away.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Sorry, Belle. Asleep. Didn’t mean to - well, you know.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Really, I don’t mind.” I don’t mind. Really I don’t. Get back here.

There was silence for a moment. She could almost hear the cogs in his head turning as he woke up, wheels clicking into place and firing up his brain.

“Were you - were you doing that on purpose?” 

He sounded bewildered, and Belle screwed up her face, bottom lip pulling up over her teeth, wishing she didn’t feel awkward about wanting the father of her child.

“Uh…” She kept her eyes squeezed shut. ”Yeah?”

More silence. Click click click. She felt the mattress dip a little as Gold moved closer again. The feel of his fingers sliding over her hip made her shiver deliciously. She could feel his eyes on the back of her head, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Things were so much less awkward when he was pretending not to care, what the hell?

“Do you want me to touch you?” he asked.

He sounded both surprised and hesitant, putting her in the frustrating position of wanting to reassure him, while at the same time feeling as though she couldn’t ask for what she wanted.

“Is that wrong?” she asked instead, and was unsure whether it was meant for him or for her.

He was silent for a moment.

“It’s - unexpected.”

“It’s fine if you don’t want to,” she said hurriedly. “I get it. It probably seems weird, right?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“And now I’ve made everything more awkward,” she sighed. “Sorry.”

“Belle, it’s fine, really.” His fingers tightened a little on her hip. “I just - I’m not sure if - I know we still have a lot to work through.”

“I know.” God, can we just pretend we don’t? Just for an hour?

“We should probably talk some more,” he added.

“Yeah.”

Silence. She could feel tension in the air between them, an odd pressure that seemed to make her ears ring. Her heart was thumping, a heavy, urgent pulse, and she licked her lips, skin tingling. She could hear his breath, feel the warmth of his hand on her hip, and she closed her eyes, concentrating on the ache between her thighs, wishing he would touch her.

He moved his hand, fingers stroking against the fabric of her nightdress, a gentle, swirling caress over her hip. As they moved in rhythmic sweeps, his fingertips dipped a little lower, brushing along the crease at the top of her thigh, and Belle sucked in a breath, rolling back a little, allowing him to touch a little more of her. She felt the mattress dip a little more as he moved closer, and shivered at the feel of his breath on the nape of her neck. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, where the neckline of her nightdress exposed a patch of skin, and she inhaled sharply as his lips trailed up her neck to her ear.

“Belle,” he whispered, the word raising goosebumps as it tickled her skin.

His hand was still stroking her hip, but as he began to kiss her neck again it slid down her thigh, plucking at her nightdress, pulling it higher. Fingertips found the hem, tugging it up and slipping underneath to slide up her thigh to her hip. Belle bit back a moan as his lips gently pulled at her skin, the wetness of his mouth against her, and his nose nudged her ear.

“Do you want me to touch you?” he said again, and this time his voice was low and rough, vibrating through her and making her shiver.

“Yes!” she breathed.

His hand slid over her skin at an achingly slow pace as he pressed soft, wet kisses to her neck and shoulder. Belle could feel her breathing quicken, her belly tightening with need as stroking fingers swept in half-circles, each dipping lower, brushing against the top of her thigh, sliding along the crease at her groin. One finger traced along the outer edge of her nether lips, and she gasped, wanting more, wanting the finger inside her.

Gold gently sank his teeth into her neck, making her moan and push back against him. She could feel the hardness of him again, pressing insistently against her buttock, and a surge of desire went through her, an urge to have him inside her, to feel every inch of him sliding deep. His finger brushed against her again, stroking down between her legs and back up, moving in tiny circles over her skin. He was so, so close to where she needed him, and she could feel her breath growing rapid and desperate as she ached for his touch. His mouth found her ear again, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps through her with his breath and the brush of his lips.

“I still remember the way you tasted,” he whispered. “Like salt and honey on my tongue. I loved to taste you when you came.”

Belle moaned, and he drew a finger along her outer labia, gently stroking. His lips pulled at her earlobe.

“Are you wet?” he murmured. “Can I feel how wet you are?”

She nodded fiercely, and his finger moved inwards, teasing apart soft folds of flesh and releasing slick fluid. Gold growled in pleasure, the finger pushing through her flesh, spreading her juices. Belle moaned as he grazed her clit, fingertip drawing tiny circles around it before sliding down and teasing her entrance. He tugged her hard against him, sucking on her neck as his finger pushed slowly inside her, and she let out a tiny cry at the feel of it. He groaned, a deep, rumbling growl that went straight to her core, the heel of his hand grinding against her and sending jolts of sensation through her body as his finger thrust in and out.

It felt incredible to be touched, to be touched by him, as though she hadn’t realised how desperately she had missed him until that moment. She pushed against his hand, her cheeks flushing as a wave of pleasure rose up through her. He kept up the pressure, grinding against her in a slow, steady rhythm, and she moaned as his finger slipped in and out of her, bliss making her lips tingle and her pulse throb high in her throat.

She came with a cry, bucking against him, squeezing her thighs together and holding his hand in place as she rode out her pleasure. Gold groaned, biting down into her shoulder, lips tugging at her skin. She moaned, rocking back and forth, sensations rippling through her body, perspiration blooming on her upper lip as her heart thumped hard. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, slowly sliding his hand out from between her legs and back up to rest on her hip, and she opened her eyes as her breathing steadied a little. Gold kissed her shoulder, patting her hip affectionately, and then rolled away from her.

“I’ll make some tea,” he said, and threw back the covers.

Belle blinked rapidly, skin still tingling with the last hints of pleasure as he left the room, and it was as though he had thrown a bucket of cold water over her, leaving her shocked and breathless. She heard him in the bathroom, water running as he washed his hands, and she sat up, running a hand over her face and feeling an odd mix of confusion and disappointment at his rapid exit. His rejection.

She slid her legs over the side of the bed, pushing to her feet and listening to him clattering around in the kitchen. Turning her gaze towards the mirror, she took in her reflection: her face bruised and still a little swollen, her arm in a cast and her belly protruding outward. Insecurity pricked at her skin. God, I look terrible! The total opposite of when we met. Maybe he didn’t want to touch me at all.

She closed her eyes, trying not to let the snide voice at the back of her mind dig in its claws and destroy the self-worth she had been trying to build since their break-up. Eyes snapping open, she grabbed her robe, putting it on with some difficulty and swearing under her breath at her broken arm before marching through to the kitchen, the ends of the belt flying out behind her. Gold was making coffee, spooning it into the pot as the kettle boiled. The teapot was already on the table, with the jug of milk and some cups. He glanced over his shoulder as she entered.

“You didn’t have to get up,” he said. “I’d have brought it through.”

“Am I hideous?” she demanded, and Gold turned slowly on the balls of his feet, a puzzled look on his face.

“What?”

“Am I hideous?” she repeated, waving her free arm up and down herself. “I said I wanted you to touch me, and you said we should talk, and then - and then you touched me, and then you left, and now I’m thinking that maybe you didn’t want to touch me after all, and you felt obligated to, and that makes me feel awful because I absolutely do not want you to feel obligated to. So am I hideous?”

He looked genuinely confused, but he put down the coffee pot, turning towards her fully. 

“You couldn’t be hideous if you tried,” he said. “Why would you think that?”

“Because I’m all bashed up,” she said, “and - and pregnant, and my arm’s broken, and I haven’t worn make-up in days or high heels in months, and - and I’m pretty sure you never mentioned sweater dresses as a favourite item of clothing on me, and - and...”

Her words seemed to dry up, leaving her opening and closing her mouth like an idiot, and Gold shook his head. 

“Do you care what I think of your appearance?”

“Oh my God, are you blind?” she snapped. “You think I don’t want you to want me? Haven’t I been throwing myself at you enough?”

“Uh…” Gold hesitated. “I’m sensing there’s both a right and a wrong answer to this, and I’m not entirely convinced I know which is which.”

Belle slumped into one of the chairs, frustrated, listening to him pour water into the coffee pot, and he set it on the table, easing into the chair opposite.

“Belle,” he said gently. “You were always the most beautiful woman I’d ever met. Pregnancy has only made you more beautiful. A few bruises doesn’t change that.”

He looked uncertain, almost nervous, and she tried to put aside her own insecurities and explain how she was feeling.

“You left,” she said. “We were - intimate - and you left.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Gold hesitated, fingers tapping together.

“I - I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to stay,” he said eventually.

“You didn’t think asking you to get me off was enough of an invitation?”

“Not really,” he said simply. “We both know I can give you pleasure. Doesn’t mean you want me to take my own.”

Belle sighed, letting her head drop.

“Okay, that’s a fair point,” she admitted. “You’re right, I should have been more - explicit. I guess given everything we’ve been through, dropping hints really doesn’t cut it. Even hints the size of - of boulders.”

Gold inclined his head, reaching out to pour her some tea.

“I think it’s safe to say that I will not be presuming anything where our personal life is concerned,” he said. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to be open about saying what we want.”

“The horror,” she said dryly, and he smirked.

“Quite.”

“Hell of a change to our relationship.”

“I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”

“Hmm.” She was amused. “We’ll see about that. In the meantime, I’ll practice being more explicit.”

Gold winked, pushing the cup towards her.

“Practice makes perfect.”

“So they say,” she said, taking her cup. “I guess your self-control’s better than mine.”

He gave her a wry grin.

“Years of practice.”

“Liar.”

“I’m serious.”

She sighed again, slumping in her chair, and he poured himself some coffee.

“Well, at least we know we can have a conversation about a personal subject and have it not descend into one of us either shouting or leaving,” he remarked. “So that’s progress.”

“Yeah.”

Belle took a drink of tea, eyeing him as he sipped at his coffee.

“Speaking of having conversations about personal subjects,” she said. “I think we should keep doing that.”

Gold looked up, that wariness back in his eyes again.

“Was there a particular topic you had in mind?” he asked, his tone cautious.

“Not a particular topic, no,” she said. “There again, given that I know almost nothing about your life other than what you told me about your son, I think there’s probably a lot to go through.”

Gold sat back, hugging the coffee cup to his chest like a shield.

“I assure you there’s very little of interest in my life,” he said, and she shook her head, reaching out to put a hand on his thigh.

“But I am interested,” she insisted. “If we’re going to build something worth having, we need to be open with each other, right?”

“So Dr Hopper informs me.”

Belle sat back, mouth flattening.

“And you don’t think Dr Hopper might be right?”

Gold sighed, setting down his coffee cup and running his hands through his hair.

“No, of course I do,” he said quietly. “Sorry. I’m being flippant. I know what I have to do, I just - knowing doesn’t make it easier.”

“Yeah, I know.”

There was silence for a moment. Belle took another sip of tea, watching Gold turn the coffee cup with his fingertips, the dark surface of the coffee rippling. He glanced up at her, brown eyes watchful, uncertain.

“Ask me something,” he said. “Ask me a question, and if I can answer it, I will.”

“Okay…” Belle thought for a moment, and set down her cup. “Tell me about your family.”

“Other than Bae, I don’t have any.”

“Parents?”

“Both dead,” said Gold curtly. 

He was still turning the coffee cup, the rotations faster, the ripples more agitated. Discomfort was coming off him in waves, and Belle felt a moment of guilt for pushing him, but he had encouraged her to ask questions.

“What can you tell me about them?” she asked.

He wrinkled his nose, sniffing a little, and finally set down the cup, spreading his fingers flat on the table top.

“Never knew my mother,” he said. “She died not long after I was born.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Cancer.”

“I lost my mother too,” she said. “But at least I got to have some time with her. My childhood, most of my teens... It must be hard to grow up with no mother at all.”

Gold shrugged, looking awkward.

“When it’s all you know, it’s neither hard nor easy,” he said. “It just - is.”

“I guess.” She put her head to the side. “What about your father?”

“Died about ten years ago.” His fingertips tapped restlessly on the table, as though he wanted to push himself up out of the chair and leave.

“Did he get to know Bae?”

“Not really.” Gold sat back, hands dropping to rub over his thighs. “He and Milah didn’t get along.”

“Oh.” Belle watched him shift in his seat. “What about you and him?”

Gold pulled a face, looking away.

“He never wanted children,” he said eventually. “He just wanted my mother. He loved her very much, and when she died… When she died, I don’t think he dealt with it very well. Drank a lot.”

“Yeah,” said Belle, thinking of her own father. “I know how that goes.”

More silence. She reached for her tea again, letting the tannin-rich brew spread across her tongue, a hint of bitterness in it.

“I don’t want to be like my father,” he said suddenly. “I want our child to know how much it’s wanted, how much it’s loved. I promise you.”

“I believe you,” she said. “I do.”

Gold hesitated, leaning forward with his elbows on the table and his hands clasped together, fingers threading in and out in a nervous rhythm.

“I - I don’t know what’s going to happen with us,” he said. “I don’t know what you want, whether you think we can make it work properly, or - or whether it’s too early for you to know.”

“I want to try to make it work,” she said. “I want us to try.”

He nodded his head, hunching his shoulders a little, and she reached out to put a hand over his, squeezing gently.

“You deserve so much better than me,” he said. “I don’t know what I ever did to have your love, Belle, but I’m fucking positive I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. Your kindness. I don’t deserve anything from you.”

“Stop it,” she whispered, reaching up to cup his cheek. “Stop talking like that. You’re not a monster, Alex, you’re just - you’re hurt. You’re in pain. You’ve been in pain for decades, with no let up. You’ve had to deal with loss, and - and guilt, and not knowing whether the person you loved most in the world is dead or alive, and it changed you.”

“Did it?” He shook his head. “Maybe it didn’t. Maybe I was always this way. Maybe you think there’s something inside me worth fighting for, when in reality there’s only more - more nothing.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Gold glanced away, his jaw tightening, and she let her hand drop to slide over his, clutching at his clasped hands. He looked back at her, and Belle smiled faintly.

“I get it,” she said. “I’m not saying your way of dealing with things was healthy, because it absolutely wasn’t, but I get it. At least - at least I’m trying to imagine how that might feel. The thought of losing my child, of not knowing what became of it - that’s too terrible to want to think about for even five minutes, never mind decades.”

Gold ducked his head a little more, as though he was ashamed.

“And I threatened to take our child from you,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, Belle. I threatened to put you through the same agony that I’ve borne all these years.”

“It was a shitty thing to say,” she agreed. “On top of a whole heap of other shitty things. But now that I know a little more of your history, I suppose I can find a way to understand why you said it, and we can move past it.”

“You’re a good person,” he said. “Far better than I deserve.”

“I want you to try to stop saying that you don’t deserve love and compassion,” she said firmly. “You do, okay? We all do. That doesn’t mean that you don’t apologise when you screw up, or refuse to take responsibility. It doesn’t mean you can’t learn and grow and be a better person. We can both learn to be better, for our child and for each other.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Yes. I’ll try my hardest, I swear it.”

“So will I.” 

She squeezed his hands, and he glanced up again, sending her a tiny smile.

“And I need you to put your all into therapy,” she added. “I mean seriously put your all into it.”

“I will,” he said. “I promise you.”

“Good.” Belle sat back, releasing his hands and picking up her tea. “Now. Let’s have some breakfast.”

x

After their early morning conversation, it seemed as though something had shifted between them, some of the heaviness in the atmosphere dissipating. The day was spent quietly, with Belle reading in one of the chairs and Gold cooking their meals and cleaning up. There was comfort in the gentle domesticity, and she felt herself relax a little more. She had briefly considered asking him to accompany her for a walk in the park, but angry clouds had rolled in from the east, building above the city, and she could sense that more rain was to come. At least the snows seemed to have passed.

The rain started as she was readying for bed, a distant rumble of thunder heralding the coming storm. Belle peeled off her clothes and shimmied into her nightdress, wriggling awkwardly until she got her injured arm through the sleeve. Lightning flashed, and she hurried to the window to peer out, watching sheets of rain lash the city. She left the curtains open, shivering a little as she climbed into bed, and lay back with one arm behind her head, listening to the hiss of rain as she thought over the conversation that she and Gold had shared. He was trying, just as she was, but there was still a long way to go, and a lot for them to talk through. Too bad they couldn’t wave a magic wand and make everything right. 

She lay in silence for a long time, her skin prickling uncomfortably, her pulse throbbing hard. Thunder rolled, and Belle wriggled in the bed, feeling restless. There was a familiar ache between her thighs, the memory of his touch making her abdomen clench. She had wanted him to touch her again, to press up against her and slide deep inside. She still wanted him.

Cursing under her breath, she sat up and threw back the covers. It was no good. She had to go to him.

[sylvanwool]

The Pirate/Royal Navy Taakitz AU That I’ll Never Continue But Is Still Fun To Think About

The high moon filters weakly through the clouds, reflecting off the choppy waters of the southern sea. Debris floats all around, remains of a battle not an hour completed.

The Raven Queen sits idling in the water, sails drawn and anchor lowered. Soldiers scamper across the deck of the ship, checking for damage and tending to the wounded. One single body lays covered by some spare canvas, waiting to be buried.

Kravitz surveys the flat, grey waters from the helm of his ship with unblinking focus. The winds have picked up considerably and while they’re not going anywhere without lowering the sails, they’re also expecting a squall within hours. If the caps on those waves grow any larger, he’ll have to call the majority of his crew below.

Not ideal conditions for a recovery mission, if he’s being honest.

“Captain?”

Kravitz turns, hand going reflexively to the revolver at his hip even as he recognizes the familiar, high voice above him. “Yes, Angus? What is it?”

The small boy waves from his perch in the rigging. He indicates a spot in the water with his spyglass before tossing the instrument below.

Catching the cylinder of brass in one hand, Kravitz handily extends it and trains the device on the spot Angus pointed to. As the lens focuses, so does his vision. There, bobbing in the water, is a figure. Small, blond, and slumped over a bit of driftwood.

Kravitz doesn’t hesitate. Taking only a moment to shuck off his coat, he climbs up on the rail and dives toward the sea. The cold water shocks his system, but he pushes through to propel himself forward and back to the surface. He comes up on the makeshift raft quickly enough and catches his breath with one hand on the edge.

The figure doesn’t stir at all, and for a second Kravitz fears he’s jumped overboard to fish out a corpse. But he lays his hand on a narrow shoulder and feels movement, and warmth, and he knows they’re still alive. He hears Angus yelling for someone to drop a rope ladder into the water. Smart boy, as always.

The waves start to get a little rougher, inhibiting Kravitz’s progress, but he manages to haul the unconscious body to the side of his ship. He wraps one arm around the drifter’s waist and finds a hold on the ladder with the other, hanging from the end as his crew pulls the ladder up. Icy saltwater drips from his clothes and the ends of his hair, and Kravitz winces at the sharpness of the cold the ocean wind brings.

Waiting hands pull them over the side, and Kravitz goes rolling onto the deck with his arm still fixed tightly to his catch. The impact of hard wood finally seems to jostle them enough to wake them, and they instinctively shove at Kravitz’s chest. Kravitz lets them go easily in favor of finding his footing.

“Whoo boy,” they rasp out in a voice choked by salt and fatigue. “You’re a clammy one, aren’t ya?” They push themselves to their knees and grunt with pain, trying to push their soaked hair from their eyes and get their bearings. In the end they seem to settle on studying the wood under their hands, too weak to hold up their head. “Shit, what-?”

Several of Kravitz’s able bodied men move to help them up, but Kravitz holds up a hand. Sadly, information comes first. “We’ll get you a change of clothes. Something warm,” Kravitz promises. “For now, I’d count yourself lucky to be alive. What port did the Starblaster take you from?”

“The what now?” Their voice is becoming clearer now as they continue to speak, a lilting but decidedly male tone rife with confusion. “I understand the words you’re sayin’ but the order is doin’ a number on my noodle, my man.”

Angus trots up then, Kravitz’s abandoned coat in hand. He breezes right by the captain and crouches next to the newcomer to drape the warm black fabric over his back. Kravitz feels equal parts pride in Angus’s hospitality and concern for the shivering man- his long, pale fingers can barely grasp the hem of the garment.

“The ship you were imprisoned on,” Kravitz repeats slowly. “The Reds would have captured you at port, probably along the Sword Coast. If you give us your information, I’m sure Her Majesty will have a vessel dispatched to return you to your family as soon as possible.”

The man shakes his head. “I don’t know about any ship. I…” He bites his lip, still staring blankly at the deck. “I don’t remember a port,” he says finally. “I don’t remember being captured.”

The soldiers mutter to themselves, a thread of dissent that oh, Kravitz needs to snip right this moment. It’s silly superstition, nothing more. “Surely you remember something,” he says, urgently but not unkindly. “What’s your name?”

The man finally looks up and meets Kravitz’s eyes, and Kravitz finds it hard to look away. Even drenched and cold with his hair hanging limp, the man is heart achingly beautiful. He frowns. “I’m Taako. You look like you’re made of salt?”

Then, without warning or preamble, he faints.

Angus is still close enough to catch him when he slumps to the side. He shivers but holds himself steady enough to keep them both mostly upright. “He needs urgent medical attention, Captain. Hypothermia, deliria- the dehydration alone is-“

Kravitz snaps his fingers at the soldier closest to him and the woman snaps to attention. “Killian, get him belowdecks. Angus knows what to do from there.”

“Sir!” She snaps off a smart salute and crouches down. With Angus’s help, she wraps the unconscious man in Kravitz’s coat and throws him over her shoulder. It’s not exactly gentle, but then again it hasn’t exactly been a gentle sort of day. When they’re out of sight, Kravitz addresses the rest of the crewmen pretending not to eavesdrop.

“I know what you’re all thinking,” he says. “I know there are rumors about the Reds, about what they can do to a man’s mind. You know it’s nonsense.”

They shuffle their feet, chagrined. “He doesn’t even remember being on a ship,” someone says in a trembling voice. “They have to have-“

“There are simple, natural explanations for everything,” Kravitz corrects. “You heard Angus- the man is delirious and tired. I’m sure once he’s well again he’ll recover his senses and we can send him on his way.” He turns on his heels and stalks toward his cabin. “Now back to work. I want us ready to weigh anchor at dawn, and the oncoming storm won’t give us much time to prepare. We’re going to catch the Starblaster one way or another.”

“Aye, Captain!”

Kravitz walks down the narrow wooden staircase and listens as the sharp sounds of boots running overhead fade into the soft creaks of the ship. His crew are still nervous, he can tell, but he’s sure everything will be fine. They’re the finest men and women in all Faerun; a few head games won’t incapacitate them so easily.

He makes his way down to the sick bay, where the newcomer has already been given a cot and a dry change of clothes. Angus gently dries the man’s long hair with a towel and watches intently for any sign of consciousness. All Kravitz can see is a worried looking frown.

“Are you taking over, Captain?” Killian asks from her place in the corner. Kravitz didn’t see her before, but he notes her defensive stance and the hand on her bow.

Kravitz raises an eyebrow at her caution and takes another glance around the room. The only other occupants are some of their own soldiers, casualties too injured to walk. They’re all blissfully knocked out by the herbs their medical officer surely administered, but Lucas himself is notably missing from the room.

“He’s helping topside,” Killian answers his unspoken question. She jerks her chin at the boy carefully tending to your guest. “I know Angus can take care of this but… I didn’t want to leave him alone.”

At that, Kravitz lets go of a breath he’s been holding since the afternoon’s battle. The adrenaline rush of the fight, the rage at their quarry escaping, and the worry about his crew all rushes out of him at once and suddenly Kravitz is just tired. Tired and unspeakably glad to have such good people at his side so he can let himself feel this.

“A good call, certainly. Please consider yourself relieved of guard duty and go… Go check on Carey.”

Killian gives him a wan smile. “You don’t have to coddle me, Cap. But thank you, I think I will.” She holsters her weapon and exits, clearly eager to touch base with her wife.

Kravitz sits on the next empty cot and watches Angus work. The boy has barely looked up the entire time, completely focused on his task.

“Will he live?”

“Oh, definitely.” Angus tosses the towel away and starts crossing the room in trips, fetching any spare bit of fabric he can find from blankets to dishrags to pile on the frozen man. “He’s not seriously injured, just freezing cold. There’s some seawater in his lungs, and he won’t enjoy getting that out, but other than that he’s just got a bump on his head.”

Kravitz sees it now, a bandaged lump just behind the man’s left ear. It explains Angus’s excessive gentleness with his hair, at least. “Do you think that hit is why he’s so confused?”

“Lucas told me that a hard hit to the head can affect memory,” Angus confirms. “We won’t be sure until he wakes up.” He throws one last blanket on top of the cot and Kravitz swallows a tired chuckle. The man is cocooned and the frown on his face is less severe now that he’s warm. The shivering has stopped completely and the color slowly returns to his cheeks.

Angus must see the same improvements, as he looks quickly up to Kravitz with a defensive look on his face. “I’ll take care of him,” he promises. “Lucas needs to focus on the injured, let me watch out for this one.”

Kravitz laughs. He reaches out and ruffles the boy’s hair in spite of his indignant grumbling. “He’s not a new pet, you know. But yes, I’ll entrust his care to you for now. Let him rest, but if he wakes the first priority is to get some food and water in him. And Angus?”

“Yes?”

“Get my coat back from him once he’s stable. I’m going to be needing my compass.”

[unbottledchaos]

The Greater Good | Ch. 8

Just the Three of Us

CW: negative self-talk, self-hatred, self-esteem issues, using sex to numb, using alcohol to numb

Previous chapter: x

Ao3

Just as they had years ago, Juniper and Geralt talked until the sun rose. They held each other and talked of what happened in the four years they were apart, about what happened after Geralt and Jaskier left, the things that Juniper left out when catching up with Jaskier.

Juniper hadn’t spoken as much as she did that night than she had in the last four years.

Though it was difficult to say goodbye again given that the time since the last one was so unexpectedly long, Juniper and Geralt knew that they couldn’t spend the whole day in bed. Not that day anyway. Juniper watched Geralt walk down the corridor, looking back at her with a sweet smile, love drunk. When she turned to go back into her room, she was met by Triss.

“Triss,” she said quietly, instinctively reaching out. Juniper was always the rescuer. Triss pulled away from her and walked past into Juniper’s room, their bodies breezing past one another like two strangers passing on the street. Juniper breathed in the scent of her—clementines and mint—a scent so familiar to Juniper that she felt her gut twist with guilt.

A scent that reminded her of sun-soaked sheets latent with the smell of sleep and late night kisses, mornings in the garden, holding hands under the table, best friends, lovers.

Juniper shut the door as she went back into her room, knowing and dreading the conversation ahead.

The sun leaked in through her bedroom windows that overlooked her garden. It was a beautiful, golden day and as she stepped into the light that cascaded over her bed, she felt an instant warmth. But that didn’t prevent the chills she got from Triss’s cold glare, but Triss was not the bad guy. She sat next to Triss at the edge of her bed where she was fiddling with her shirtsleeve, a habit that she picked up from Juniper.

“Triss—”

“Juniper,” she interrupted. “I know. I knew this was going to happen, though I hoped that it wouldn’t.” She looked away from Juniper, out past the dust motes dancing in the sunlight in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Why didn’t you talk to me first before spending the night with him?” Her voice lost strength, her shoulders falling with her confidence.

“I don’t know—I don’t know why…” She was telling the truth. Juniper had no idea why she and Geralt couldn’t stay away from each other, why they couldn’t bear to be away for more than a few minutes.

“You know why June!” She raised her voice, standing as she did. But Juniper didn’t know, she looked up at her once partner, her best friend. Tears threatened to spill down Triss’s beautifully round and freckled cheeks. Juniper looked at her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“Triss, what are you talking about?”

She looked defeated as she scoffed. “Now you’re just making me look stupid. I mean, were you just using me until he found you? Was I just a body to fill the empty space in your bed? Because you could have done that with anybody—you have.”

Juniper tried to reach out to Triss, but she pulled away. “I wasn’t using you, Triss. I have a lot of feelings for you,” But she could never tell Triss that she loved her, because deep down she knew that what she felt wasn’t love. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. I honestly don’t. I didn’t expect to ever see him again. I spent years looking for him, but never found him. Day after day. But then I met you…” She fell off quietly. “I didn’t expect things to change so quickly. I know we’ve talked about the possibility, but I didn’t think it would happen.”

“I didn’t think it would hurt this much, but don’t you understand, June? When you healed him, took his pain, you bonded yourself to him forever. You took on pieces of him that would never keep you apart. Parts of him are you.” She said, pointing to her.

Juniper froze. She felt as if the floor had dropped beneath her. Did Geralt know this? Was this some kind of love curse? Were her feelings even real? Were his?

Triss rolled her eyes. “You had to have known,” she paused, seeing Juniper’s reaction which was pure confusion. “Right?” Her fists fell softly open at her sides.

Heat creeped up Juniper’s neck and she chewed at the inside of her cheek. “No,” she sighed through gritted teeth. “I didn’t.”

“Sorry, June. Regardless, we can’t be together. We shouldn’t have in the first place. I should have known this would happen.” She shook her head as she walked towards the door, beating herself up for letting herself be used, for letting herself fall in love.

“Stop catastrophizing." Juniper spat. "As if you knew this would happen, because that’s definitely not true.” Even as Juniper spit out those words and knew that she couldn’t take them back, she knew it would push Triss away. “I guess what we had wasn’t real anyway, so don’t feel so bad.” Juniper looked away from Triss as she said the words that would make things easier, she couldn't bring herself to see how much the words hurt. 

“What we had,” Triss breathed, shaking her head. “I should go, June.” Before leaving, she turned back. “I’m sorry it had to be this way. Good luck with your destiny.”

Juniper didn’t look, but after a moment she heard the door shut softly. She paced with her hands on her hips, chewing at her lip. She was furious, heart-achingly so. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let her in; why I shouldn’t have gotten close. She thought, as she found herself in front of her bathroom sink, a basin of emerald and gold. She looked at herself in the mirror, the corner of her lip rising in disgust for herself. She looked at her shit-brown eyes, her stupid pout, her pointed chin, her brows furrowed forming a permanent wrinkle between her eyes. She clenched her teeth together, her jaw tightening. She was stupidly beautiful, but if you looked close or long enough, there was something wrong, something missing. There was no soul behind her picturesque features.

Juniper hated herself. 

“How could I be so stupid?” She said, placing both of her hands on the edges of the vanity. Standing up straight, she turned the faucet, letting the water run ice cold over her fingertips. She cupped the water in her palms and splashed her face.

Numb—it was time to numb the feelings. Juniper tied her hair low at her slender neck, then tossed back several swallows of the strongest spirit on her bar cart, leaving her stomach burning. She blinked a few times to focus and dropped her robe, remembering how frail she had been when Triss found her as she felt the silk fall against her skin. Now, she had filled back out to her regular proportions, if not more muscular this time, as she had spent too many hours to count, sweating under the sun in her garden or training for battle. Her strength felt more powerful to her than her magic did.

Once again, she looked at herself in the mirror. In her greatest moments, in moments of pure happiness or ecstasy, the tattoos on her arms and her thigh would come to life, but in her darkest times, they looked as if they were sleeping. The siren on her shoulder hid behind the massive ship, afraid to come out and face whatever darkness Juniper was witnessing. She had made herself into a work of art, something she could be proud of. She touched her fingers to the poppies on her forearm, they were folded in on themselves. She looked at her reflection; her breasts were not quite symmetrical she thought to herself, but beautiful nonetheless as they pointed slightly upward. She touched the moles near her belly button, the pink scars on her sides. They looked pearly in the reflection of the sun. She smiled, thinking about the times that Geralt had touched her. The smile quickly faded as she remembered all of her questions with no answers. She clenched her fists as she became angry once more.

She marched into her closet and pulled a black shirt over her shoulders, her slightly drunken fingers fumbling at the buttons. She left enough buttons on the shirt undone so that if you were lucky, you could catch a glimpse of her bare breasts underneath. Juniper enjoyed the tease. Forcefully, she rolled up her sleeves, revealing her tanned forearms, and tucked her shirt into her black pants. Lastly, she laced up her boots before bounding down the stairs and out towards the garden shed where she grabbed her tools and got to work underneath the sun. The work was gratifying, as she knew her garden fed Myanmag’s small population and they also crafted the potions that she had been stockpiling.

As she dug into the earth with her shovel, she buried her feelings.

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

It was long past noon when she came upon a surprise in her garden.

“Hmmm. I don’t remember planting any bards next to my carrots,” she said, wiping the sweat from her forehead, her hair sticking to her skin where it had fallen out of her hair tie. She could feel her shirt clinging to her back.

“Oh,” Jaskier said in the surprise of being found. “I uh—well, I thought I fit in well amongst the carrots actually.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” he said, standing up, dusting the dirt off his trousers. “Tall, lanky, good head of hair. Quite delicious if you take a bite. Or so I’ve heard.” He said with a smirk. Juniper chuckled.

“I’m sure,” she retorted, rolling her eyes.

“Wouldn’t you like to find out. Or it seems you’re interested in…other fruits these days.”

“I like all fruits, Jaskier.” She responded, quickly picking up his metaphor. “Vegetables too. I like to mix in some herbs from time to time as well.”

He put his hands up. “A woman with many good tastes is what I’m hearing.” They laughed together. “Anyway, I’ll get out of your way.”

“I don’t mind the company," She started, welcoming any distraction. "But are you going to tell me why were you really here in the first place?”

He fiddled with the tomato vines but stopped when Juniper shot him a look that told him to back off from her precious tomatoes. “Well, I—how should I put this,” He looked up to the clear sky, eyes squinting in thought. “I was feeling kind of sad actually.” Juniper didn’t say anything, she waited for him to continue. “I was thinking about how much I’ve missed my best friend, Ciri and then I started thinking about how much I want to help but then I realized,” his voice got quiet as he spoke. “I don’t have any gifts to offer.” He shrugged. “All I’ve got is my lute.”

“You can’t forget about your good looks.” Juniper said light-heartedly.

Jaskier smiled softly. “But that’s not going to help take down Nilfgaard.”

Juniper thought for a moment when an idea came to her. “Have you ever used a sword before?”

Jaskier returned an intrigued look. “A few times, but why?”

“I can train you to fight, Jaskier.”

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

“Always keep your eyes on the opponent, but we aware of your environment. Never stand still,” Juniper coached from under the willow tree as she watched Jaskier fumble with the sword in his hands as he stood in front of the dummy that Juniper had crafted to practice. She needed her skills to remain sharp, she would always be one step ahead; never caught off guard.

Jaskier dropped his arm to his side and brought the other one up to shield his eyes against the waning afternoon sun and looked to Juniper in the shade as she lounged. “Can I take a break?’

“Will you take a break when Nilfgaard has a dagger at your throat?”

“C’mon Junie. This isn’t for real this time.”

“Why don’t you take a break and watch how it’s done, Jaskier.” Both Juniper and Jaskier turned to the deep voice that had come from the side of the hill—Geralt. Juniper and Geralt hadn’t seen each other since the night before and anger boiled inside of her as she stood. Geralt nodded towards her, waving her to the battleground, challenging her.

She took her sword from Jaskier and curtsied acrimoniously. “It would be a great honor to kick your ass, Sir Geralt.” Jaskier chuckled as he fell to the ground underneath the tree, tossing his head back in laughter. Geralt glared at him out of the corner of his eye.

“How do you know you’ll win?” He grumbled.

“I always win.”

[i-never-look-away]

Home Is The Nicest Word There Is

This fic was inspired by this picture of Tyler. All I want is for Michael to see Alex and Buffy like this one day.

Thank you, thank you to all my amazing family at the junkyard for all of your encouragement. It’s meant the world to me you have no idea. This fluffy mess is for you.

Also on AO3

Michael gets home later than he has in a long time. Ever since word got out that he was quite the handyman, he's had more work than he knows what to do with. But once he and Alex finally got it together and stopped kidding themselves into believing they could stay away and be anything less than completely and utterly in love with each other, they both made it a goal of theirs' to be done with work at a reasonable time so that they could always spend their evenings together or with their friends. It mostly is a rule they can stick with, except on days like today when an emergency keeps him out and getting home late.

 Home, he thinks again and it brings him up short. It’s winter in Roswell and while it’s not snowing, the temperature is frigid at the best of times. It's the kind of cold that stays with you, that settles into your bones and makes you feel like you’ll never be warm again. But just one look at the cabin is already starting to fill a warmth in him. To say he never thought he’d have this life is one thing, but to say he never thought he’d have this with Alex is probably the understatement of his life. It was always a desire he tried his best not to let his mind get too carried away with. But in dreams and lonely nights where the bottom of the bottle was his close companion he would imagine the life they could have. The home they could build for themselves.

 They haven’t been back together all that long. They’re going on 4 months next week. But their hearts have been together for more than a decade. Once Alex finally kissed him to shut him up while Michael was nervously trying and failing spectacularly at asking him out for real, they both knew they were finally on the same page this time. They both were in this for good. They managed to last all of a month before Michael moved all of his stuff into the cabin.

He's so eager to get inside that he uses his powers to unlock and open the door as he's walking up the steps. He’s only partly prepared for the sight that greets him the second he walks in. 

It’s pretty much a guarantee that their beagle Buffy will spend every moment possible by the fire they have most evenings. The amount of times friends have shown up at the cabin to find them curled up together on the couch while Buffy keeps watch over the fire is enough that the word domestic has been thrown around on more than one occasion. They mean to lovingly tease, but it's pretty much everything that either Michael or Alex have ever wanted with each other so they happily agree. 

 Despite knowing that Buffy's comfortable and cozy on the rug in front of the fireplace, Alex always drapes a blanket over her so she's taken to facing the fire as she sleeps.

 This time though she has her back to the fire and the reason why is laying right in front of her. Alex has joined her on the floor, arm curled around her while she rests her paws on his chest. They both seem to be asleep and it is the most achingly soft sight he's seen that he can't help but let out a contented sigh. Buffy stirs and lifts her head to see him, but that's about all the acknowledgment she can give him before she lays her head back down and scoots a little closer to Alex.

 "I'd be offended if it was anyone else, but I get it, girl. I wouldn't move if I was laying next to Alex either. Just remember that next time you insist on making me get out of bed and let you out when I have an armful of him first thing in the morning." he whispers as he toes off his boots and removes his coat. 

 As he makes his way over slowly, his eyes zero in on a patch of skin at Alex's hip that has become exposed with the way that his shirt has ridden up. He knows every inch of Alex, has taken an up-close and personal approach to memorize each of those inches with his teeth, tongue, and lips and has had one on one sessions with that very exposed patch. And yet just catching a glimpse is still normally all it takes to have him ready to go. 

 But tonight all he can feel is affection as he takes in the whole picture. Deep to his core love for the man in front of him.

 As gracefully as he can he lays down behind Alex but despite being as quiet as possible, Alex is a light sleeper, something that followed him from when he was in the Air Force, when Michael is not next to him and so he hears a soft, 

"Mmmmm, you’re home."

 As if Michael wasn’t already aware of how far gone he is for this man and this life he now gets to have, his heart stuttering at the raspy loving way that Alex says the words is just another sign he can add to his very long list. 

 This cabin was given to Alex as a safe space from the hurt and turmoil he endured for most of his life and he will never take for granted Alex referring to it as his home now too, knowing that a big part of what makes Alex feel safe now is Michael himself sharing his bed and his life with him.

 He pulls him close, sliding his hand down to skim his fingers along the exposed skin at his hip before Alex tangles their fingers together and turns his head slightly so Michael can lean over him and catch his lips in a soft kiss before laying his head down and burying it in Alex's soft hair. 

 "I'm finally home, and now I've got you in my arms, where we both belong. I'm never letting you go again."

 Alex snorts and he swears he can feel the affectionate eye roll even if he can’t see it. “You’re such an overdramatic sap, Guerin.” 

 "Only for you."

 "No you’re pretty much always overdramatic," he says before he jolts a little at the nip Michael gives his shoulder with that comment.

 "Some may say sap, I say hopeless romantic, and that, my beloved, has always been only for you."

 "Lucky me," Alex whispers with so much conviction that Michael couldn’t try to pretend that he was teasing even if he wanted to. Neither has gotten completely used to how comfortable the other is at vocalizing their love. What once was kept hidden behind closed doors and careful phrases is now expressed openly and with free and sincere words.

Michael responds by kissing him on the back of the neck which has Alex humming.

  "How did she manage to talk you into laying on the floor babe?"

 "Mmmmm. Well, we were both commiserating all evening over missing you, decided to wallow in our misery on the floor together and then I guess I might have dozed off," Alex murmurs, and it's Michael's turn to laugh a little.

 "Quite the welcome home for supposedly missing me so much," he teases.

 "How about I make it up to you tomorrow, show you just how much I missed you tonight," Alex somehow manages a hint of mischief despite the fact that not even looking at his face, Michael can already tell that he's half asleep again.

 He knows they’ll both regret it in the morning if they fall asleep here, they have the most comfortable bed that either of them has ever slept on waiting in their room for them. And while they may still be young, nothing about a hard wooden floor is forgiving after spending too long on it. They learned that the hard way after christening the entire cabin when Michael moved in. Michael insisted it was quantity that had them barely able to move the next day, but Alex proved him wrong one weekend when they stayed in their bed the entire time and still were able to walk (mostly) at the end.

 "I'm gonna hold you to that."

 "You can hold me to anything you want," Alex tries to flirt back, even wiggling his hips with as much enthusiasm as he can and Michael shakes with laughter at the line that his love clearly thought passed for sexy. 

 They both settle back down and a deep yawn from Michael alerts him that he doesn't have too long before he's going to be out too. 

 "We should probably get up and head to bed," Michael mumbles, trying for the life of him not to get too settled in this moment.

 "Yeah probably."

 Neither makes a move and if anything Alex grips his hand even tighter as Michael burrow his face into his neck and lets any lingering exhaustion from the day finally slip away for good.

 Five more minutes he says to himself as he uses his powers to float a pillow and blanket to throw over them.

 Buffy spares them both one more glance before moving closer to Alex as Michael covers her with the blanket as well and pulls them both as close to him as they can get. She slowly starts to snore as Michael drifts off, warm and at peace, surrounded by all the love and security he ever hoped to have whenever he dreamed about finding his home.

[interstellarrambles]

memories. bg.

pairing: bonnie gold x female!reader

pronouns: they/them but reader has a womb

warnings: angsty, pregnancy, funerals l, season five spoilers

a/n: I have been so fucked over by the peaky writers because who the fuck thought killing off my favourite was okay? damn. also, I never ever write pregnancy fics but I was inspired. anyway, enjoy - solis x

tag list: @shutter-bug124

@amazinggraceling

wrinkled, worn, weary yet loved: you ran your fingers over yet another parcel of souvenirs you and Bonnie had collected, and willed yourself the energy to unravel the ribbon that held it together and feel yourself unravel with it. as you had been going along in your life with him, you had never realised how much you had gathered, but now as you relived every painful memory, it hit you in endless waves. these memories were chronologically closer to you that the previous parcels had been, however when you admired the gleaming smile of the boy pictured in the crinkled sepia photos, you had never felt further from him.

honestly, you hadn't had the energy to go and see his body again yet, that could wait for the day of his funeral. you felt too weak, consumed by sadness and sickness to make yourself strong enough to go.

too many of your hours were currently being spent preparing his varda for the ceremonial burning, and since his gruesome end, you had seen his lifeless form in your dreams enough times already. regardless, you'd spent enough time at his side after his death holding his limp hand to know that the warmth you needed was nowhere to be found in the cool yellowed skin you'd once worshipped.

sorting through these memories, filing away the thoughts into neat boxes and piles was cathartic in itself but you only had a day left before his varda had to be ready, and you weren't sure you could take staring at his photos much longer. Bonnie would never stop being the most handsome man you'd ever seen and you'd never stop talking in love with him, no matter how much you tried to push it from your mind.

shifting the posters and photos, your eyes fell on a photo you remember posing for. Bonnie had his arms wrapped around you, and though your eyes were shut as you captured him in a passionate kiss, his stared adorimgly at you. he'd wanted to hang it on the wall, but you'd insisted on keeping it safe; you never wanted to forget that moment. now though, as you leant back and rested your head on the edge of the bed, you felt his arms around you once more, and his lips against yours. it felt so real, so achingly real that when you reached up and touched your lips, you were surprised to see they were very much not connected to the love of your life. now you knew that no matter where these photos were, you'd never forget it. he wouldn't let you.

in the past, you would claim you'd never seen a ghost and say that you doubted you ever would. partly, your past self had been right. you never saw bonnie anymore in your waking hours, but you felt him. a brush of the hand, lips kissing good morning, a hand sweeping hair out of your face, even a hand slipping into yours sometimes. shit, it hurt, but it was nice to feel his presence every now and then, even if it did make the realisation of his physical absence harder afterwards.

letting go was hard, you had heard, but bonnie still hadn't left, he remained in the moments of dusk and in the shifting daylight when you felt his touch once more.

dark fabric clung to your body as a cold breeze whipped through the air around you. bonnie's varda was there right in front of you surrounded by fire wood, tense with anticipation.

"we're gonna have our children in here, a little baby, with my hair and your eyes," bonnie had claimed when you'd first had the varda, and now your heart wrenched at the thought that you'd never be able to have the future you'd wanted to so desperately.

aberama was silent as bonnie's sisters sobbed not too far away, but to you it all sounded like white noise, something you'd push out your mind and get on with your day despite of. either your brain couldn't or wouldn't process the fact that bonnie was leaving you today, you didn't know which, but it didn't really matter because nothing could stop the numbness spreading through you, festering in your tears.

also clad in a black dress, exhausted from crying, polly sidled up to you and smiled as strong as she could, but you saw right through it.

"he was a good lad. would've made a wonderful son for me," she whispered as flames erupted at the bottom of his caravan, and a stifled sob crept up your throat; "would've made a wonderful father for that baby too."

instinctively, your hand shot to your stomach as it turned with nerves, wondering if what she had said was true. polly simply offered a hug, careful to miss your torso as you hoped against all hopes she wasn't wrong this time.

eleven months later, and a soft bundle of tightly wrapped blankets take the place of the cushion you used to cuddle to remind you of bon. nowadays, it's hard to miss him when he's so close to you in other ways.

with dark curls of black hair and strong fists, there's no denying he's bonnie's son, but even so, there's still a strong streak of you in him.

although he's too young to tell yet, aberama swears he'll take after his dad and be a boxer, says he can tell by the way he grabs anything and everything. polly disagrees. she says bonnie jr will be a thinker: she knows by the way his eyes catch on everything and watch people like he already knows what they're like.

"what if he's both," you think but never say.

you're not sure, but you know he's saved you in a way you wouldn't have been strong enough to. either way, as long as little bon is with you, you have no worries about what he'll become.

motherhood isn't as easy as you'd thought, but when you're with ada, sharing stories of disgusting baby antics, or laughing along with aberama and polly, nothing else matters.

in your heart, you still wish bonnie was here, that you'd given birth in the varda you were meant to, that life had not stolen away the very thing you loved the most.

but life does not only take. it gives too.

[wistsandmagic]

The Hook

Shh, shh, shh. Hush now, be thee careful. Shh, shh,shh.

The paper rustled, brown with age, dusty and dim, as small hands pulled the little packet free from the mailing it had come in. It whispered of years long gone, the thin scrap of fabric tying it closed faded and tightened with too many years held in a knot. Shh, shh, shh. Patience for thee.

Knots came undone with a little coaxing, and paper folded back, albeit reluctantly. The clear, sterile plastic inside was a harsh contrast to the gentle crackling of the paper. Harsh and cold, oddly silent. It was too new to have a voice.

But that which it held so carefully, protected from the elements of many human hands and thousands of miles, was not silent. The soft clink-clink was barely heard through the packaging, but it was there. Eager, hopeful. Small hands reached into the plastic. The soft clinks grew a little louder as she was drawn out, allowed to breathe, to see light she had not seen for far too many years.

Those same small hands turned her over, feeling gently. Other hands had held her once. The last time they had been gnarled with age, trembling with palsy, and she had known there would not be another time.  These hands were young, still trembling, a bit clumsy, but gentle, and they gave  her hope. There was a strangeness there, a feeling that she was known, that the life steeped into her thin shape by far too many years was recognised and accepted.  It was a strange feeling, to be known.

The shhing of the paper, the gentle admonishment of care, of patience, was ignored. The light shifted as the hands moved. They held her correctly, turning her, feeling the soft curvature of many years of use worn into the bone she was made of. The hands that had held her before had held her much the same way, although they had done so opposite.

There was colour before her. Bright and cheerful, in loops and whorls, shells and ropes, colours that had been beyond what she saw the last time she was held such. But they were here now, inches from her. So close, so close. Hope grew, so for the first time in a century, she spoke. Her voice was dim with age, as cracked and whispery as a crone, but strength shone beneath her whispers. She still yet had many words left to say, if only these hands would let her say them.

Ye have work for me, don’t ye. It has been so long, I dinnae know if I can still. But ye have work for me, in the weft and weave, the colours ahead say so.

The hands didn’t answer, but after a moment, they didn’t need to. The colours lifted, and it -- she -- felt the achingly-familiar sensation of yarn, fine and delicate, move across her, wrapping around her neck as the fingers moved, deft despite their trembling. Creating more loops and whorls with her as their guide, catching yarn, drawing it through.

She had been carved from bone, life breathed into her by the carving, the calloused hands of the carver whispering secrets of her purpose as they tweaked her shape. She had been refined by gentle hands and soft woollen yarn, gliding over her shape and holding her gently, oils from fingers and wool seeping into her body as she guided the creation of blankets, caps, mittens, socks, woollen sweaters and uncerclothes, in colours as varied as the house seen by flickering lamplight where she worked. For too many years she had been left to lie, unused and wasting, her life seemingly useless. Who had need of bone when metal was so much easier to make?

Metal though, was cold. It did not learn the ways of the hands holding it, so that over time the hold became easier to bear. Thumbprints could not work their way inside, stamping on its heart a tiny mark of those who held it.

She was warm, and she had learned. Her heart bore many thumbprints, her bone body many little dips and bumps, shaped by the hands that had held her. But she had been abandoned. Or so she had thought. These hands were still learning. The stitches were not quite perfect, the pattern she guided new and somewhat uncertain. But these hands were loving. These hands had a use for her. And better still, these hands heard her, and whispered back, their words a little strange to her, a little off, but understandable. We have work for you. We have many new things we are learning, but we have work for you. You are needed to guide us, to make our yarn become what it should be.

More loops, more whorls. Another bright shell made in this colourful, round pattern, delicate and as strange as the hands holding her, as strange as the knowing, but a strangeness she was all too glad for. It made her sigh with relief, and her warmth radiated outward, settling into the hands gently holding her as she added their thumbprints to the collection she kept in her heart, in the core of the bone making her, where her life had been given over a century ago.

Thank ye for needing me. Let me have my work again, and I shall guide ye intae the making.

Thank ye.