#why did they always make farming heart insufferable

[zylian]

(Rambling into sunshield) -.-

i think subz returning the same energy of whoever he's talking to is so real for cool scenes but its even better when he's half not caring & half lore mode

like he will be abrasive, he isn't afraid to die, he will risk it, he will say whats on his mind, he will be honest about fighting, he won't back down, he will throw shade and not elaborate, he will get all up in your face for emphasis and he will be true to his character

dudeee

he gave them an option out, didn't have to accept the deal just to know what a whisper was about but he did it anyway, even showed them his ominous bottles and they were so shocked when he didn't need to disclose that

zam has such a hard time dealing with people who have seen how vulnerable he is, like he didn't want to disappoint mapic with pvp and always tried to make sure he was useful

than in a similar breathe he was always trying to be a better grinder when compared to subz and he saw those bottles and immediately opened his shulker to his one stack- than just straight kept telling derap they were NOT doing enough grinding despite having these plans already laid out

subz offhandedly mentioned no rails in the chamber and zam was like why didn't sb do thattt and was happy subz was gonna make another key farm being all aloof

I think it's funny that zam curiousity for how complex auto farms worked kicked in when he teamed with subz in s4, he would ask subz to explain the mechanism cause subz would usually put his own touches on farms

zam asking if red needed hearts and subz already got him them like s4 is so insufferably intertwined this season, zam would be good but subz just was subz and zam never wanted to take him for granted but always wanted to help

plus subz instantly responding to zam and getting on for him again- even if it wasn't to save him this time but a confrontation

zam always has such a unique dynamic with subz and mapic, its so interesting to me, to be scared and slightly wary but than to switch and trust they won't hurt him and be silly aloof omfg

[kyberphilosopher]

Smile

Word Count: 3467 Requested: yes. Based off ‘505′ Warnings: strong hints to sexual disposition. Spoilers if you squint.

“I’d probably still adore you with your hands around my neck... I did last time I checked.” -Arctic Monkeys, ‘505′.

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

With hoarse breath and unwavering eyes, you look up to the stars as you speak. “So, you’re really going to do it then?”

“I have to,” you hear him say. His voice has gotten far more mature and calm since the first time you’d heard him speak. Still angry and determined, but in an intelligent, adult way. Eren is a more capable person now. The only thing left to do is wait and see if that’s a good thing, or a bad thing. 

“What do you think are the chances of winning?” you question. A shooting star whizzes across the sky at that very moment, and it’s gone before you can think of a wish. 

You turn around to face him, but his eyes are already on you. Once upon a time, Eren’s eyes were emerald and teal and deep. Now they’re paler. They are cold and steady as a byproduct of who he’s become. It’s hard not to wonder what he’s thinking about when he looks at you like this, especially since he’s become harder to read over the years.

At first, Eren was one of the most insufferable people you’d ever met. He acted out so often, it was hard to see him as another person of intelligent life. You mostly just minded your business through your cadet years, usually hanging around Reiner, who was also difficult to see as intelligent life. Sometimes you and Eren would argue, but it was never passionate. You just had different world views. 

Things got better when you found out what Eren really was. Since you hadn’t made top ten, you could only choose between the Garrison Regiment, or the Scout Regiment. And with Eren’s newly discovered power showing the promise of hope, you decided on the Scouts. He liked that. 

After that, it was hard not to mature at the same time as he. Eren often blamed himself for the death and carnage that surrounded the regiment. You were solely responsible for the passing of your best friend. And after everything that happened with the government, almost dying at Shiganshina- you knew you couldn’t stand this much longer. With your relationship with Eren still budding in its early and steamy stages, he was the only one you told of your desertion. You abandoned the corps, finding a small, abandoned farm within wall Maria to hide out in. 

Eren was too tired and sick of everything to think you were being cowardly. He wanted to leave too. Maybe come with you. But Eren had plans in the works that he couldn’t leave alone. He visited you less and less. Luckily you never made a fuss. 

And now Eren wants to end the world, to save the world. How does he expect you to react to this?

“I just thought I should see you,” Eren replies. You know he’s deflecting your question. You’re not stupid. 

You nod slowly, blinking as you think. “Am I going to die?”

Your companion crosses his arms calmly. “Yes,” he tells you. 

There it is. 

“You know I can’t support you in this, right?” you tell Eren, equally as calm. 

He only replies after a moment, also in deep thought. “I know.”

You look back up to the sky, sighing out through your nose. “Why did you come, Eren? Did you want me to tell you that I think you’re doing the right thing? Or was it because you need to let out some anger? I wonder.”

“I did want to see you.”

“Do you still?”

Silence. 

“Yes.”

“And I suppose there’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”

“No.”

The stars are glittering with pastel hues, like a rainbow, or kaleidoscope. Each one is a different size, bordering on different shapes, all fusing and melting together like your idea of heaven. You can barely even see the midnight color of the sky through all them. It is beautiful, but it’s also bitter. Everything is bitter, here. 

“I didn’t make myself any dinner yet,” you say. “Couldn’t think of anything.”

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

When she was alive, Eren’s mother would make a soup for the family. It was creamy, hot, filled with meat and cheese at the bottom. Eren never liked soup, but he did love that dish. She was always sure to make extra for him, so that he could enjoy it for several days. And although it wasn’t until after she was gone that Eren realized he rarely ever thanked her for it, it was still one of the warmest memories Eren had. 

He fills your wooden bowl with it, being awfully generous. He knows that even though you haven’t eaten much in the last few years, you too had grown fond of the soup. He knows no matter how slowly you force it down, you are enjoying it. It burns the roof of your mouth every time, but you’ve never cared. All that matters is the creamy sauce, and the cow cooked to perfection. 

You stare at the fireplace beside you, flames cackling and licking upward. Eren sets the bowl in front of you, and takes the seat on the other side. You know he sets his long hair behind his shoulders. You’re already prepared. From your pocket, you produce a stretchy brown hair tie on the verge of snapping, handing it to him. 

“Thanks,” he says, even though this routine has happened however many times he’s seen you. 

“You’re welcome.”

The soup is as amazing as usual. You’re willing to bet Eren makes it even better than his mother did, but you dare not say it aloud. It’s creamy, perfectly seasoned. It goes down your throat, still steaming. 

“Does Mikasa know about this?” you question, taking one more delicious bite. 

“No. None of them do,” Eren answers. “Armin will figure it out soon.”

“You want me to kill ‘em?”

Eren shakes his head. To a lot of people, this would be taken as a joke. But this is nowhere near it. Your tone is too casual, too low for it to be humor of any kind. And the way the man across from you reacts- he’s thinking the same thing. 

“No.”

“How are they, then?”

Eren thinks as he takes another bite, the warmth creeping up his chest sweetly. “They’re alright for now. I don’t know for how much longer. I can’t see everything.”

“Can you see who’s next?”

He squints at his bowl as if he were angry, but his eyebrows barely move. “Sasha.” 

Sasha. She was always a good presence to have around. While she seemed like the type of person who would annoy you, it was hard to hate her. And you admired her keen intuition anyway. 

“Will you give her something for me?”

Eren nods. Then you both go back to eating for a few seconds, basking in the orange glow from the flames. 

“How are things here?” he questions after a minute. 

“The same,” you tell him. “I think the cow might die soon.”

Some people might reply with condolences, or sympathy. But your lover does not, and you do not expect him to. “I’ll get you a new one,” he says flatly, almost like a promise. You nod once.

Despite the atmosphere which can only be described as bitter, you’re glad to see Eren again. You’re glad that he’s alive, and as alright as he can be. The bed is always colder without him, heated up only by your lingering fingers that you pretend are his every other night. Whenever he leaves an article of clothing behind, usually on purpose, you hold off on washing it so it can smell like him for you as long as possible. Then there are the hair ties you keep either in your pocket or on your wrist, specifically for him. The razors in your cabinet he often didn’t even bother using. 

Even with the sullen demeanor that had managed to overtake both of you, there was at least one thing you cared about in the world still. Maybe it wasn’t the most conventional kind of caring, or the healthiest coping mechanism. But it was still caring. And all that you cared about was him. 

You knew you weren’t Eren’s first priority. You were probably second, or third. It didn’t bother you. Eren’s head was one of the first things lost when the truth was presented to him. It came back coldly and sternly, in contrast to how previously hot and impatient it had been. But by then your head had also grown colder and sterner. In simpler terms, Eren did care for you. He did love you. But he would consider letting you die if it meant achieving what he set out to do, and you knew this. 

Across the table, Eren lifts his head to look up at you as he chews slowly. The burning meal slides down his throat easily, albeit painfully. It doesn’t even register with him, his piercing eyes slowly gaining a glint from the fire light. 

You meet his eyes after a few seconds, feeling them on you. You don’t say a word, don’t even give a questioning look. You just hold him patiently, which is something the two of you find yourself doing often. 

“You can’t stop it,” Eren speaks, looking you dead in the eyes with a steady gaze. There is love behind his eyes, far behind the anger, but you can tell from the tone of voice he is trying to tell you something as if it were an order. Your lips part slightly from the intensity radiating from your lover, who doesn’t move a muscle. “You’ll be free soon.” 

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

Dinner ends. Eren helps clean up the dishes for you and goes to get water from your well so you can clean easier. You already know from the way his thumb brushed against your own when you took the bowls that you’ll likely be bent over the sink in a few minutes, which you don’t mind, but you wonder if he’ll be willing to be softer than usual as an apology for what he’d said earlier. 

He’d meant to scare you. You’re intelligent enough to figure that out. Even though you don’t scare easy, and you didn’t even give an extreme reaction, the look in Eren’s eyes had made your heart drop to your stomach. Sometimes you forget that Eren sees everything. Then he says something like that to remind you in the most memorable way. 

The wooden door opens and closes behind you. Boots scuff the ground for a few seconds, drawing closer and closer as something in you sparks with anticipation, as it always does. A pail of water hits the surface beside you, partially sloshing over the sides, shining silver in the moonlight from the tall window in front of you. Finally, ultra hot hands slide around your waist and push gently but tightly against where your ribs diverge. 

A jaw leans down on your right shoulder, chin poking against your collarbone. Locks of hair brush against your own, just as the hand on the left runs across your side to finally put a small band in your pocket. 

“I did miss you,” Eren’s low voice seemingly growls, his chest rumbling softly against your back. 

“I was thinking about you,” you admit with monotone, knowing your lover can read through it like as easily as a knife slices through skin. 

“I hope I didn’t worry you,” he says, though you can also read through his own tone. He probably didn’t care about worrying you. He definitely doesn’t still. 

“You didn’t.”

You place a both bowls in the sink, running your fingers over the dirty spoons. Eren’s orbs follow your movement. You can feel his chin change positions ever so slightly in the coming seconds. 

“Can you pass me the rag?” you ask, eyes focused on a piece of food on the spoon that doesn’t even exist. 

In response, Eren doesn’t pass you anything. Only his right hand gives you any kind of acknowledgement, passing from on your ribs to down lower. His fingertips skin over the erogenous zone under the waistband of your undergarments. 

“I worried about you,” Eren murmurs boldly. The hot fingertips pass under the cloth finally, pricks of stubble on his jaw scratching your neck and shoulder as he shifts. “I wanted you to be okay.” His left hand raises to grasp the breast above it. Slowly at first, then firmly, like a warning. Everything is a warning with him. 

Your head lulls back uncontrollably. The back of your hair matts up as it rolls against his own shoulder. 

“I said you worried me,” your partner grumbles. “Did you hear me?”

“No,” you lie lowly, refusing to let your voice shake despite the shiver in your throat. 

“Mm,” Eren hums in condescending understanding. A force presses against your core, which has turned burning hot and ice cold at the same time. The force pulls away, a string of something smooth and slimy following it that makes a sound draw from your lips. It’s high pitched, weak, and unstoppable. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t so associated with Eren. 

His hand gives your breast a firm squeeze, soreness blossoming from the center. Your back arches quickly and returns lax against him, though now something pokes against your bottom that makes your eyes pop open with a new alertness. Eren’s hand gives you no time again. From your chest, it flies to your throat, holding it back with soft strictness as the other finally dips into the hot pool between your hips. 

“I worried about you.”

A strangled groan releases from between your lips again, this time fully carried up through the air. To Eren, it must sound like nothing more than music, or background noise. 

Thick cylinders pump inside you to the knuckle. They feel better than your own. They always have. 

It feels good. Full. Tight and fast and like the inside of you is quivering under the weight of something that you can’t see or hear. Eren is like a blanket supporting you from falling over, keeping you upright with his grip and his fingers buried inside of you. Prodding every angle, every spot. Not necessarily romantically, but still lovingly. He has always had this goal during intimacy. Nothing matters but communicating to you just how close he wants to be. 

“Eren,” you choke, a dribble of spit sliding from the corner of your lips. 

“Again,” he hisses in response. His fingers hit a tight spot, making every muscle in your body clench at the same time. 

You don’t say another word, your mouth hanging partially open as you focus on everything around you. And it’s all Eren Jaeger. His smell, his growls, his voice, his breathing, his chest, his muscles, his hair, his anger, his bitterness, his intelligence, his determination. It’s overwhelming. It reminds you of getting swept in one of those waves at the ocean he described to you. He’s yours. No- more likely, you’re his. End of story. 

“I said again.”

“Eren,” you moan.  

His head nuzzles into your neck comfortingly, his fingers pushing faster and harder. You can feel how warm you are, never mind how slick. And the way your own body holds around his digits every time he pulls away is enough to make you all the more warm and slick. 

But then...

What is he doing?

He had said “you’ll be free soon”. And yet, here he is, gripping you tightly as he forces you into the corner of submitting. And yes, it is hot. It arouses you as it always has. But something about it makes your stomach turn into a knot of unpleasantness, in contrast to the other one of liquid pleasure. 

“Eren,” you strain, squirming against him. 

Eren speeds up again. A grunt falls from his own mouth from his own power, and you know he’s getting off almost as much as you are. It doesn’t stop feeling good. Feeling euphoric. 

It’s getting rougher. Rougher and harder and faster, more intense. 

“Eren.”

Another gruff moan from him. 

“Eren! Stop! Stop!”

Eren’s palm softens away at once. It lifts away, his eyes opening and his hand stilling inside of you. He watches you shake as you gaze up to the ceiling, wide eyed. Your thighs sputter, entire body twitching. You didn’t cum. 

His eyes trail over you. You’ve worked up a steady sweat glistening and glowing, shivering and shaking and quaking because of him in the best way. You’re his. His partner, his friend, his ally he knows for a fact he can rely on.

“C-can we... Eren...” 

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

Drips of water dribbling down Eren’s temple. One of your hands are threaded in his brunette locks, holding them back so you can have an uninterrupted view. The other hand is dabbing cloth against his forehead and hairline, bathing him softly. 

He’d gone a while without bathing again. You could tell. Eren’s eyes are glued to yours, deep teal memorizing all the flecks in your own as if he hadn’t a million times over. 

Eren loves you. Dearly. He’d travel all seven hours and forty five minutes just to tell you that. He doesn’t know what made you stop earlier. He doesn’t ask. But he’s not mad. Overall, Eren understands that it doesn’t matter what you asked to stop for. You give the word, he obeys. Not because he has to, but because he loves you. 

Still, he knows something is wrong. You don’t show it. You’re steady, calm, mature, apathetic as always. But in the pit of Eren’s stomach, something brews. A warm, strange feeling of intuition and omniscience. 

“You look very pretty today,” Eren ventures, wondering only of your response. “Did I tell you that?”

Your eyes squint. “Thank you,” you reply back. 

The cloth continues to rub against his skin, cleaning something that probably doesn’t even exist. Dirt, maybe. Eren’s stopped taking care of his skin in the past few years. 

“You’re welcome.”

Your eyes squint again. This time, they gloss over with sharp wetness like glass. The eyebrows crease like a break, your bottom lip trembling as you suck it between your teeth. 

He doesn’t know what he was expecting. But your lover wasn’t expecting this. 

Eren hates when you cry. He can remember the first time he’d seen it, but not the most recent. You didn’t cry often- you were strong. Crying over something as useless and flimsy as emotions didn’t seem worth it. So what was this for? What were you about to make Eren break down inside over?

Your hand falls limply from his forehead. Shoulders hunch over in defeat, staring down at the floor as your hair covers over your face. And then the sniffles come, choked out coughs like sobs. 

Eren can see the lightest of bruises he’d left on you from earlier, but you’d never had a problem with it before. No, it was something else. But what?

Silent, your teeth grit together as you wince, tears streaming down your face inexplicably. 

“Earlier w-when you,” you gulp, snot beginning to form, “when you- I did worry a-about you. I- I don’t know why I didn’t...”

You stumble forward. Eren stands from your bath tub to catch you as you slump against him tiredly. 

“I hate it when you go.”

Eren switches positions with you, pushing you down to sit on the edge of the tub. He takes the wet rag from your hand and holds your shoulder back so he can have a good look at you. Then the cloth dabs against your own forehead, just as you had done to him. 

“I hate it here,” you sigh, a single tear drop blurring your vision as it falls finally. 

Your lover moves the cloth from your head to your cheeks, smearing the wetness into your skin and away. They moisten and dry, your eyes red and shiny. Eren tilts your head up under your jaw, creasing his brows and using the towel to clean closer to your eyes. 

“If it helps,” he says, looking straight into your eyes, “you’re crying, but I still think you look pretty.”

You’d be lying if you said that didn’t help even a little, because you love him. 

A soft smile creeps to your lips, your hands dropping in between your thighs. 

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

No I didn’t reread this lmfao enjoy. Hope I did you justice anon

[bbyheedeungie]

Tales of the ring | Orphan! Jay AU Part 1

Pairings: Jay x Reader

Genre: fluff, angst, eventual smut, age gap (4 years)

Warnings: suggestive content, messy timeline

Synopsis: You've spent most of your lives together at a Catholic orphanage in a small town, with Jay being left there as an infant and you volunteering there since you were thirteen years old. Now twenty-three, every child in the orphanage looks up to you as their older sister. Well, except for that one stubborn kid named Jay.

You always tend to his cuts and bruises when he fell down after climbing on trees with his friends, but not after a long hour of bickering.

"Stop climbing trees if you're just gonna fall down!" You scold 9-year old Jay as you rummaged through the first aid kit.

"Just shut up and fix me up, woman." He demands, his arms crossed over his chest. You sigh.

"I'm just worried about you, okay? You could've broken a bone or something!" You reasoned with him. His eyes turns into slits, glaring at you.

"Are you calling me a wimp?" He challenges. Though it never crossed your mind, the thought of calling him a wimp was indeed amusing. You tried to suppress your laughter but it came out as a snort.

"Hey, I'm not a wimp. Drop it." Jay says, almost coming out as a whine. You nod, trying to calm yourself down from wanting to laugh. Cause you know Jay's going to end you if he even hears anything close to a giggle come out from your lips.

_

"Still as wimpy as ever, huh?" You teased him as you disinfected his wounded knees. He was sitting on the couch with you kneeled infront of him, and 16 year old Jay just can't seem to take his eyes off you.

Your lower lip is caught in between your teeth as you concentrated on his cuts, and Jay licks his own lips unconsciously.

At 20 years old, you have grown to be quite a lady, Jay notes. Beautiful, luscious hair that complimented the perfect features of your face, your body slightly plump in some places which gave you that womanly figure, dainty and gentle hands that cared for his wounds, any man would think of you as wife material. And Jay couldn't help but huff in annoyance at the thought of other men wanting you for themselves.

"And you're still as annoying as ever." He mutters before he pinched your cheeks hard, making you yelp in pain and involuntarily putting pressure on the cotton ball you were dipping onto his wound. Soon after, you were both crying from pain.

"How could you." He said in betrayal, clutching his wounded knee.

You always chased after him around the orphanage when he had a fever to make him take his medicine when he refused to drink them, dragging him by the back of his shirt to his room to make him rest.

"You can't just pull a stunt like that when I'm fixing up your cuts you dummy." You glared at him, massaging your reddened cheek.

_

"I don't want to stay in bed, woman. I wanna play outside!" 11-year old Jay huffs in annoyance, kicking off the blanket you've just placed on his body. You sighed and placed it back on him.

"Bold of you to call me a woman after I've just wrestled you at the lobby earlier." 15-year old you chuckled, remembering what you had to go through to make him go back to his room.

"Don't remind me, you were like a freaking hippo back there! Geez." Jay scrunches his nose and turns his back to you.

_

"You insufferable woman." He mutters as you tuck him into his bed. 18-year old Jay was just as irritable as ever, but only when it came to you.

"Yeah yeah." You rolled your eyes at him dismissively as you placed a cold compress to his forehead. He's such a big baby.

"Stop being a jerk for once and learn to take care of yourself, will you?" You scold him, leaning in to fix the position of his pillow. Jay's heartbeat goes nuts, with your body so close above him. He could just grab you by the waist then and there and hold you tight. Your feminine scent was so alluring, filling up his senses, your skin translucent in the moonlight shining through the windows and he even caught a glimpse of your cleavage through your thin, white dress shirt.

Shit, shit, shit. He thinks, fisting his blanket tightly. His cheeks glowed crimson red, but thankfully you thought it was just because of the fever.

_

Rest assured, Jay wasn't all that bad as others make him out to be, and you strongly believe this. You remember that one night, it was your fourteenth birthday but you didn't bother telling anyone. You didn't want to burden the sisters, and your family didn't care much about it either. But Jay did. He cared, and he remembered.

You sat on the roof, your secret hiding place, as you admired the starry sky. But it's not really a secret when Jay knows about it. The ten year old boy climbed up, grunting as he struggled keeping his balance. You flinched at the sound and panicked, but it immediately died down when you saw it was just him. He quietly sat beside you.

Silence took over as you sighed in content, taking in the peaceful evening.

"Happy birthday." Jay said, almost a whisper. Your head turns to him and he immediately looks the other way, refusing to meet your eyes.

"Thank you, Jay." You said in gratitude, not bothering to hide your smile. He still refused to look your way as he held out his fist.

"What is it?" You asked in confusion, furrowing your eyebrows at his closed hand. He sighs, taking your hand in his as he placed something cold and hard on your palm.

"It's for you." He says. You gasped, taking in the shiny object encrusted with tiny jewels that glinted in the moonlight.

"Jay, where did you get this?" You ask him, bewildered.

"The sisters said they found that ring in my pocket when they found me outside the door of the orphanage the night that they took me in. It's my most precious possession. In fact, it's my only possession." He says, laughing lightly as he looked up at the sky.

"Must be an heirloom, maybe you came from a wealthy family! Jay, I can't accept this. This is important to you!" You exclaimed, holding the ring back to him.

You're important to me. He thinks.

"Maybe, but they've left me here haven't they?" He simply shrugs.

"But why give it to me?" You asked, holding the ring close to your chest. Jay rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue.

"Hey, no more questions. I gave it to you as a birthday gift, so you better treasure it. Good night." He says and prepares to climb down, leaving you dumbfounded.

_

At nineteen, Jay was the oldest at the orphanage. He never got adopted, and younger kids would pick on him because of it.

"You never got adopted because your a weirdo."

"They can probably sense that you're useless."

But Jay being Jay, he'd beat them up everytime just because their faces annoy him. And you'd be the one to ask for forgiveness for his sake everytime he got in trouble. You knew him well enough to know that although he'd never admit it out loud, seeing other kids like Jungwon and Sunoo get adopted while he gets left behind hurt him more than it should.

"I'm very sorry for Jay's actions, please don't send him away." You begged to the Mother Superior's feet, and Jay couldn't help but feel embarrassed. Not of you, but of himself for having you go through all this for him.

"Noona, please you don't have to do this." He tells you softly, for once as he tries pulling you up to your feet but you just won't budge.

"I'm sorry Y/N, I know you have grown quite close to Jay for the past ten years. But he is now of legal age he can't just keep hurting minors." The mother superior, which is the head of the orphanage states.

"Jay promises he won't do it again, please." You continue to plead, at this point you were so close at kissing the sister's feet if that'll make them forgive Jay.

"What, when did I promised—." He says and you signal him to shut up. The sisters sigh, and decide to just punish Jay by making him work at the farm for a month. You thank them over and over, tears welling in your eyes.

"Y/N, may I have a word with you. Jay, you may retire to your room." The mother superior instructs. Jay looks at you hesitantly, before leaving.

"Have a seat." She commands you, and you oblige.

"What is it that you wanted to talk about?" You asked.

"Listen, dear. You're now twenty-three years old, you are at your ripest age of getting married. Not only that, but you're also one of the most beautiful maidens of this town. You can't spend your life at this orphanage forever. Won't you consider settling down soon?" She suggests, and you felt a lump in your throat, your heart feeling unease.

"That's alright, Mother Superior. I'm only twenty-three, I still have a lot to figure out in my life. When a man does take interest in me, I'll decide then." You assure her, and stand up to leave.

The next days, you'd wake up early to prepare breakfast for the kids and for Jay before he heads off to the farm. Jay being the stubborn boy he is, refuses to sit down and have breakfast and so on most days, you'd chase after him to bring him his breakfast and lunch box. He'd purposely walk faster, ignoring your shouts. A smirk never leaving his face.

"Jay! Jay! Wait!" You yelled, chasing your breath as you continued to run after him. But your quick steps were no match for his long strides.

"Jay you freaking dimwit! Haaaaalt!" You yell at the top of your lungs with all your might, and he finally stops in his tracks, turning to look at you.

"Oh, you've been calling for me? Did you need something?" He asks, feigning ignorance that you've been shouting his name for a good fifteen minutes. You huff, stomping towards him angrily. His face smug the whole time.

Others would think you're ready to punch him in the face, but instead you would take his hand and place his boxed meal there. You sigh.

"Take care of yourself, okay? And finish everything I packed for you." You say. Jay simply rolls his eyes and waves a hand at you dismissively.

"Yeah yeah, just don't go missing me too much." He teases, suppressing a smile. You scoffed, punching his shoulder lightly.

"Damn right, I wont." You stuck your tongue at him before waving him goodbye, running back to the orphanage.

As you walked back, you notice a fancy carriage parked in front of the orphanage. Many people were gathered around, gossiping.

"The crown prince has selected candidates to be his wife."

"Now that the queen has passed away, the prince must choose his bride in order to ascend to the throne."

"Oh what a lucky girl she must be."

You slip through the crowd of people, successfully making your way inside.

"Oh here she is now." Mother Superior introduces you to the men in fancy clothing, and you stood their dumbfounded.

"She is a beauty indeed." The men agreed to themselves.

"What exactly is happening?" You whisper to the Mother Superior.

"They came here for you, my child. You have been selected by the prince to become a candidate of being his wife. I've already had your suitcases ready, they will take you to the palace now. And don't worry, I've already informed your parents and they are more than happy and wished you the best."

Everything was happening so fast, it's like everything's been decided for you. And amidst the chaos in your mind, you could only think of one person. Jay.

"What about Jay, I haven't said goodbye—" You pleaded to the old woman to let you see Jay one last time but the footmen has announced your departure to the palace. You choked on your tears as pain burned through your chest, clutching Jay's ring to your chest as you were brought further and further away from the place you called home all your life.

Jay plowed the soil over and over, sweat trickling down his neck and forehead. The sun is high and the heat is a pretty tough companion.

"Jay! Jay!" Jay's friend, Sunghoon called his name, sprinting towards him as if his life depended on it. Sunghoon was one of the orphan kids who got adopted recently, whose home was only a few blocks away from the orphanage. Jay halted his work, placing the tool beside him.

"Haven't seen you in a while, what brings you here?" He raises his eyebrow. Sunghoon holds onto his knees as he catches his breath, before uttering words that shattered Jay's heart into pieces.

"No, it can't be." He refuses to believe it, shaking his head aggressively as tears welled in his eyes. It felt as if he was pierced so deeply in the chest with a dagger, so agonizingly painful.

"It is true, they took Y/N to the palace to become the prince's bride. It's been the talk of the town all morning." Sunghoon is sad for his friend, knowing his feelings for her all along.

"No! Y/N wouldn't do that, she wouldn't leave just like that. No." Jay cried and ran his way back to the orphanage, leaving his belongings behind.

He enters the orphanage, screaming for your name.

"Noona? Noona! I'm here, I'm here now. Noona? Where are you?" He kept on calling for you, his voice breaking as tears blurred his vision. The sisters tried to calm him down but he shoved their hands away from him.

"No! It can't be, she couldn't have left. Please tell me she didn't leave, please." Jay crumbled as he called your name over and over in agony. He begged for everything to be just some sick joke, a prank you planned to get back at him for always being so mean to you.

"Y/N." He choked out before everything spiraled infront of him and went black.

[lady-o-ren]

The Dig

You can read this on ao3 // HERE //

Suffolk, England

1939

“What's going on in Sutton Hoo, then that has you in such a hurry?”

James Fsaser reluctantly looked up from where his head had been braced on his leather satchel, clutched atop his knees, and gave the old ferryman a one-eyed stare.

“I've a job. Digging,” he swallowed, trying mightily to keep himself from retching as the wee boat he was in bobbed up and down like a mad carousel.

“You came all the way from Scotland to dig like a dog?” He laughed hoarsely, hawking up a wad of phlegm into the murky river water as he swung his oars.

“Ipswich,” Fraser muttered, turning a bit more green.

Ipswich Museum to be exact.

He'd been hired to help excavate a centuries old burial site located at a rural estate in Sutton Hoo, overseen by the archeologist, Dr. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp. A woman much admired (or envied depending on the man) for her keen mind and boundless curiosity (and unrivaled stubbornness that often spiraled into outright defiance according to those same particular men) that had her uprooting half of Great Britain in pursuit of the secrets hidden beneath the mossy plains. And more often than not her instincts were right and another antiquity would be dusted off to be reborn again.

Fraser wasn't sure what he'd done to earn the right to work by her side but Christ, he wouldn't question how lucky he was.

The boat then suddenly coasted to an abrupt stop against the rivers side.

“Here we are, Mr. Fraser. All in one piece. And I thank you for keeping me boat and boots tidy,” said the old ferryman with a wink.

Fraser didn't bother with a retort, he was just happy that the world had blessedly stopped spinning and hopped onto wonderfully solid land.

Smoothing the wrinkles from his attire and fixing his father's old grey cap atop his head (taking special care to tuck in his dark ginger curls that always peeked out from just under the rim), he made his way down the brambled path that the old man said led to the big house. After a brief introduction with the owner of the estate, he was then directed to where he'd be working, and trotted past the trees and sprawling country green to an open field.

From afar, Fraser could see three burial mounds jutting from the earth, grassy topped with yellow dandelions sprouting all over.

But what made his breath catch was the sight of the woman he'd been so eager to meet.

She was surveying the site with her hands on her trousered waist looking like a general on the cusp of conquest. Sensing his approach, she turned away from her prize and future glory, her short curls bouncing and gleaming a rich shade of earth in the dewy sunlight, and met his gaze with her own.

Sharp with intelligence. Kindled with mirth. Shimmering like molten gold.

"A Dhia," Fraser whispered to the fragrant spring air, and took off his cap, twisting it between his hands that ached to trace and memorize every curve of the archeologist's face.

She waved him over seeing him linger and a terrible heat sprang to the young lad's face at having been caught staring at the beauty like a halfwit, and forced his legs to move. Prayed he didn't fall flat on his face.

"Hullo there," she greeted, and clasped her small hand to his, but there was nothing dainty about its grasp. Fraser could feel the years of hard-earned experience chiseled in her palm that held his hand firmly, letting him know exactly who he'd be working for.

It sent a thrill down his spine.

"I'm Dr. Claire Beauchamp. And you must be the very late Mr. Fraser I've been waiting for."

"Aye, and I beg yer pardon for that, ma’am," Fraser replied in earnest, detecting a subtle spike of irritation in her voice, seeing the annoyed flick of her brow. "The morning train was running late.” By three hours! “ Then I had to wait for the ferryman to take me across the river -" He'd been taking his "tea" in the pub " - all a lousy excuse, I ken, but I promise ye it willna happen again."

Beauchamp crossed her arms and tipped her head to the side giving Fraser a scrutinizing once over that made his throat bob and the blood in his heart to palpitate.

"Good," she smirked, nodding her approval from his noticeable discomfort. "If you're anything like how the stiffs at Ipswich Museum described we'll get along well."

He clenched his jaw at the mention of the museum, the cantankerous men who worked there. Especially a certain Dr. Randall, who valued a good cigar over the work of a “farm boy”.

"And what do they say of me, if I may ask?"

Beauchamp bit her full bottom lip (wonderfully pink Fraser bashfully noted), quirking wryly.

“Quite a lot depending on who you ask. From what I've gathered you're hardworking, painfully intelligent and have an innate knack for reading the earth. But that you're also highly unorthodox, difficult and the most insufferable Scotsman ever to step foot in Ipswich. So naturally I had to work with you."

He let out a tightly held breath and chuckled softly.

"Weel, who am I to argue wi' a reference like that. I'm passionate about my work and little else, apart from food and kin. And while I've never been disrespectful to reason, I haven't the patience for men who think a title is deserving of my unquestionable fealty."

"And why should you? The conviction of a Viking is something to be admired not belittled,” she praised, making Fraser glow. "I only wish I could've been there to witness how you earned the ire of half the museum.”

“I'm merely in the right and they the wrong, more often than not,” he shrugged.

“I'm just as terrible,” she proudly grinned. ”But I know we'll make a good team. We'll have to if we want to tackle this lot.”

She motioned her head at the site looming tall, brimming with excitement that spoke to Fraser's own spirit.

"If that's so then it'll be an honor working wi' ye, ma'am."

He shook her hand once more and thought he felt her thumb move against his knuckle, light and curious as a brush stroke.

//

Working with two assistants from her previous digs (the studious Jeremy Foster and the wide-eyed youth Elias Pound), Fraser and Beauchamp made great strides in plowing the core of the mound that was the larger of the three, even when logic argued that the dip in the middle meant thieves of the past had already plundered it's horde.

But Fraser's gut and bones told him that there was something different about this one.

Beauchamp had thought so too.

"There's something grand and marvelous here begging to be found. Don't you think? Can't you feel it?"

The deeper they dug only intensified that feeling.

As had his attraction to the irrepressibly brilliant Dr. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.

However, after a fortuitous streak of good weather, the air started to blow with the sweet scent of rain and the leaves of the oak trees that dotted the lush clearing turned toward the skies, parched and longing.

"We have some time, I think, before the rain comes," said Beauchamp, gauging the skies westward still clear of thunderclouds.

Fraser leaned against his shovel in the hollow of earth he stood in, his dirt stained sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and could see the mad impulse to defy mother nature flash in her eyes.

"Usually I'd agree wi' ye, ma’am, but yer hair -" his mouth flicked upward in unbridled appreciation. "Is curling like a tumbleweed."

She pressed a dirt-flecked hand near her temple and felt the wild frizzy pushback of flyaway curls fallen loose from her twisted bun, springing around her face like a mane.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” she huffed. “Have I been like this all morning, Fraser?”

"Pretty much," he grinned, enjoying how her usual regal self pinked across her freckled cheeks and the wee scrunch of her nose.

But Fraser's smile faltered, catching himself for a fool, and averted his attention down to the soil where his heart had fallen. Writhed. Burrowed with the worms and roots.

For what use was it for a man like him to yearn for a woman like her?

He swallowed the hopeless lump in his throat.

"Shall we go for lunch then, wait for the weather to clear?"

Hearing the word lunch, Foster and Pound looked up from their own end of the excavation with hunger in their eyes.

"Did that on purpose did you?" said Beauchamp, throwing an accusatory glance at the ginger lad while trying to gather her wayward curls back to partial respectability.

He gave her a half smile.

"The Almighty is the one making it rain, ma’am. Take it up wi' him."

She sighed and her hands fell to her waist as she took one last disappointing glance above.

"I would if He ever bothered to listen,” she frowned, then gave the other men a nod that made them hoot and holler.

“Numpties,” she mumbled, though did so fondly, and puffed at a rebellious forelock flirting with the wind.

After covering the ditch with a tarp secured to the ground, the men headed for the local pub raucously singing an old drinking song with a few choice words changed.

Our Lady must have been an Admiral, a Sultan or a Queen

And to her praises we shall always sing

A pint for our Lady Beauchamp who fills us up with cheer

A pint for our Lady Beauchamp . . .

Their lady laughed and rolled her eyes, before waving the lads off with a promise to catch up to gather her things, and headed to the shepherd's hut that had been provided by the estate.

Fraser glanced back watching her go, and after a moment's hesitation where he reasoned it would be rude to leave without her, he too told the others he'd forgotten something and went after Beauchamp.

Cursing himself an "EEJIT!" every step of the way.

//

Inside the hut was a small curtained window softly lighting the room from the back and two wooden scuffed chairs positioned along the side wall with a table snugly fit between them. Beauchamp herself was crouched by the table legs where Fraser had left his satchel but it was now laid open on its side, contents spilled over.

At his unexpected appearance that shadowed the doorway, she turned his way with an apologetic expression.

"I'm sorry, I was just grabbing my bag when I tipped yours over and . . ."

She held up his small green fieldbook opened at the first page.

And white-hot panic flooded Fraser's veins.

"The writing caught my eye," she continued on, seemingly unaware that the poor lad was gripping the doorway for support. "I didn't know you spoke gaelic beyond the odd phrase here and there. That you can even write it too is something of a feat,” she said, impressed by the words secreted on the page.

“Aye,” he managed to breathe, relieved that she hadn't seen a thing. Not a thing! “I don't get much practice living away from home so I speak it in my mind and heart, write letters to my family when I can.”

“You've spoken of a sister, if I'm not mistaken. Older or younger?" She prodded, as if he were a new discovery, and he answered in hopes to distract her from what she still held in her hands.

Felt a fluttering warmth overtake him that she recalled him having a sister.

"Jenny,” he said, as he moved to kneel down beside her to stuff his scant belongings back in his bag. “She's older and feels the need to remind me of that fact whenever we see one another.”

“And you're the brat aren't you?”

Despite his predicament, Fraser couldn't help the grin spreading across his face.

"I was the devil's spawn, aye, but Jen was no angel. We once got into a terrible stramash about our chores on the farm, the way wee bairns do, and I ended up telling her she had a face uglier than a coo, smelled worse than one too. Next I knew, I was being tackled to the ground wi' my face shoved into a ripe pile of coo shite and my sister above me laughing her wicked wee arse off.”

Beauchamp broke into laughter and it made his stomach do a flip.

“I'm sorry, that must've been awful for you, but I think I may love your sister for that.”

“Everybody says so. Not sure it was worth it in the end myself . . .” said Fraser, his voice suddenly trailing off at the end seeing her attention turn back to the page.

His mind spiraled into action.

"But we really should get going before the rain catches us. It looks to be a downpour, a terrible one.”

“Well it's a good thing we're under a roof then isn't it?” She countered, eyes sparkling through her long lashes. “ Besides I'd rather have an impromptu lesson in gaelic on what,” she paused, squinting down at the book opened on her knees. “Baa-mia-’bruu -” means.”

“Bha mi a ’bruadar mun bhròn mhòr,” he begrudgingly corrected, wondering how rude it would be to just snatch his own fieldbook away. But then Beauchamp smiled as if charmed by his voice and echoed back his words with near perfect silky inflections, looking pleased as punch as she did so.

Endearing herself even more to the young Scot's already smitten heart.

“Verra good,” he hummed softly.

“Absolute luck,” she grinned, tapping her fingers atop his writing. “Now tell me what does it all mean?”

He shook his head embarrassed. "You'll think me daft, ma’am."

"I promise I won't."

She said it in such an earnest way, Jamie knew she spoke true. But then a deep rumble of thunder sliced through the air, enough to give Beauchamp a jolt that made her forefinger on the page slip and Fraser's stomach to rip and plummet to the old wood floor.

There, drawn on the page, was Beauchamp's face staring back at her.

“It’s nothing but some wee scribbles,” he stammered to explain, reaching for the book only for her to angle it away.

“You're right about that,” she agreed, her fine brows furrowing as she traced a slim finger to her pencil drawn cheek. “You've made one of my eyes bigger than the other, my nose a dash too long and -"

Her eyes went comically round as she pressed the pages to her chest, a sudden thought coming to her.

"You don't have anyone posed in the nude here do you?"

"O-Of course not! I'd never. I- I'd -"

"Breathe Fraser, I was only teasing you," she nearly giggled, but then her face softened with regret seeing his own face take on the horrible color of a split beet left to shrivel in the sun.

“But really, why bother with me?”

He had no answer but the one that pounded from his heart, a noise like a thousand drums that all struck the same adoring note. She could see it beaming from his face and a hushed silence fell between them as the rain finally came down, hitting the rooftop in a pitter-patter that enveloped her quietly spoken -

“Oh.”

That single utterance had Jamie wishing the rain would flood and swallow him up but it was now or never to speak his heart. No matter that hers would never be his to cherish.

Looking down at his hands, anxiously wringing the strap of his satchel, he spoke.

“There was never any helping it, me liking you. I'd never seen a sight sae fair as you, stubborn as you, nor wonderful as you. And I could never get ye out of my mind, no matter how hard I tried, but ye were always there like the sun and air."

He lifted his gaze to her likeness on the page.

"And then I just started filling my fieldbook wi' pictures of you if only to have something to remind me of you for when the job ends and we part ways. But I'm none so good as ye can see. I never could capture the grit and fire of yer spirit, the way yer curls bristle in excitement or the way yer eyes glow like a match to a candlewick . . . "

His heart tightened as his words faltered while Beauchamp remained quiet. Then like a blow to his chest she flipped through the small book once more, her face unreadable as stone. She looked through his sketches, one of her curls drawn like the ripples of the tide, another of her hands digging through the earth, and of her lush determined mouth curved into a beaming smile, bitten with impatience, beneath a perfect speckled nose.

And threaded between her gestures, her features were more bits of gaelic.

 A bòidhchead . . .

Tha pian orm . . .

Tha cho teann sa tha a ’bhriogais gam iomain

"I told you I was no good. I ken I should just rip up the pages -” Fraser began to miserably say, but Beauchamp hushed him by taking his hand in hers and softly stroked her thumb against the work-hardened skin. 

"You have a fine hand, Fraser. Especially for making my nose look as delicate as Garbo’s,” she smiled, cheeks touched lovely in pink.

Then in a moment that made it hard for Fraser to breathe, she simply said . . .

“Ask me for a drink.”

He blinked, thinking he misheard her, mouth agape. But there was no mistaking what brightened her eyes to shine like whisky.

“Ask me,” she repeated impatiently, almost laughing, as she squeezed his hand. 

Fraser inhaled sharply and tentatively squeezed her small hand back.

“Will ye join me for a pint, ma’am?”

“Claire,” she grinned, and coyly tilted her head . “And of course I will. Took you long enough to ask,” she winked, making Fraser stare at her in charmed disbelief.

And then Beauchamp closed the distance between them, hand light as a feather against his chest.

“But first you ought to kiss me, Fraser. It's still raining and I might catch a chill from all this waiting."

Still staring at her mesmerized, with questions that could wait another day flitting through his mind, Fraser wove an errant bonnie curl around his fingers and smoothed it behind her ear. Letting his thumb drag against her cheek.

“It's Jamie,” he murmured, in a brush of his lips to hers. 

And on and on it went.

//

Bha mi a ’bruadar mun bhròn mhòr. . .

I dreamt about the mourning. The deaths of great men. Terrible men. Old and young. Of Kings lost in battle buried beneath us. They cried out to me and the Earth came to life and twisted her roots around me, dragging me inside her womb. Dark and cold, breathless like a cave. But I wasn't frightened. I saw lights rushing around me, bright as the twilight sky. The souls that lie ahead. Surrounding us.

They brought me to you.

//

A/N: This had a ton of notes and explanations so you can read all those on ao3. But for sure I’ll say here this is very loosely based on the movie The Dig.

[script-nef]

Confession in the moonlight | Gojou Satoru

Category: fluff

2.2k words; Hatsumoude date [6/6]

Happy New Year everyone!

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Bells and chatter are almost deafening even this late into the night. Families and friends are gathering here, mingling and pushing against each other in the narrow path leading up to the shrine. There are so many carts lined up on the sides, owners screaming their products and shouting over another.

And you're walking through the crowd with the one person who you want to avoid the most in the world.

Thanks to the event which is now dubbed "The Alcohol Incident That Can Never Happen Again", you learned about a couple of things in the following days.

First, alcohol is the enemy. This is ironclad and nothing will ever shift your opinion on it. Alcohol. Is. The. Enemy. None of it will ever touch your lips again.

Second, you discovered what type of a drunk you are. The clingy, bubbly one who has the misfortune of remembering practically everything that happened. Worst combination ever. Because your brain wants you to die from embarrassment. The only plus is that you don't feel like throwing up and you don't have headaches. Whatever Gojou fed you worked wonders. 

Just thinking his name makes you want to slam your head into a wall. 

Facing him again after that has proven to be a challenge. The memory of what happened on that day intrudes every time you see his face and then you have to take a break to calm down. Faking ignorance and acting as though you remember nothing from the night was your choice. Which was a bad choice since you’re not known for your acting skills and you also have the misfortune of wearing your heart on your sleeve. Which brings on the next problem.

Third, you… seem to have feelings for Gojou. The romantic kind. Like, the boyfriend-girlfriend kind. When you woke up the next day, it was probably the most clear your mind had been in months. Alcohol is a confusing drink. Still, you're never going to go near it again. Making a fool out of yourself once is enough.

Lastly, perhaps most importantly, you basically confessed to him. While drunk. And then went to sleep.

Sitting up in bed the morning after, hair everywhere and jacket still on, you did an analysis. 

It's like a typical light novel cliché. A guy and a girl, co-workers or something like that, comfortable with each other, hangs out all the time, one major event or couple of minor events happens, the girl falls in love with the guy or vice-versa, confession and then happy ending. 

It all kind of made sense with your new, alcohol-cleaned brain. The fluttering feelings, the spike in heart rate, the uncontrollable blushing and noticing physical contact more. There’s a reason why he’s so comfortable to be around, why you practically entrusted your life in his hands. And you literally said to him once, you think in the movie theatre, that he would make a good boyfriend. To his face. Who says that? Embarrassment turns into self loathing. It makes you wonder how you didn’t notice it last time.

With this new shocking revelation, you didn’t know what to do. Confess? If there is even the slightest bit of chance he doesn’t like you back and rejects you, life will be hell to live. Because you live in the same goddamn place, work together and all of your friends are his friends.

So two options. Three outcomes. One: you confess and he accepts and everything is fine. Ideal. Two: you confess and he rejects you and so you leave the place, never come back again and work in a farm halfway across the world by changing your identity. That sounded reasonable enough. Three: you don’t confess and somehow act naturally around him. This has problems because, again, you wear your heart on your sleeve. It’s still very tempting. More so than the second one. This is perhaps the most difficult decision you’ve made in your life.

So you turned to the one person you can vent this kind of thing on. Shouko. Who looked at you like you were either stupid or dense. Maybe both. Definitely both. It was quite amazing what she could express while moving the least amount of facial muscles. 

“So… yeah. I think I like Gojou and I don’t know which of the options I should take. Help me?” 

She just stared at you. With a deadpan face that has all the stress and exasperation in the world. You pride yourself in being able to read other’s faces quite easily. Rubbing her fingers over her eyes and groaning for a bit, she eventually took her phone out and dialled a number. The line rang for a bit.

“Ijichi? You owe me 10,000 yen.” Clicking off the phone even before hearing a response, Shouko turned her focus back to you. “You seriously don’t know?”

“Don’t know what? What was the phone call about?”

“That he likes you? That’s he’s insufferable because of that? You seriously don’t know?” She inched closer and closer until her face was right in front of yours. Shouko is seriously scary when she’s angry, like a sleeping lion. And you just somehow poked her. “Look at me in the eyes. You seriously never realised?”

“Um, what?”

“The dates. Remember when I couldn’t go to the movie for Howl because someone came in? I immediately gave it to him because I owed him a favour and he wanted to spend time with you. The time he went shopping with you by flying. Do you know why he offered that in the first place?”

“I mean, it was getting late… And I was in a bad mood so— oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. Do you get it now?” 

“So then… the dinner, that was also…”

“A date.” Sighing, she sits back on the sofa, letting her head drop onto the backrest. Thoughts jumble inside your head, all of them slowly clicking into place.

“Wait, so. He likes me?”

Annoyed moans are her response as she thuds her head into the furniture. Something along the lines of “Why me.” could be heard.

“So him inviting me to hatsumoude today is also a date?” Her hand waves lazily in the air.

“Yes, it is. Tell me you accepted.” You nodded, then realised that she can’t see from her position.

“I did. I can’t really say no to him.” She makes a gagging sound.

“Good. Finally. So just confess to him then. He’ll accept, you’ll be happy, he’ll be happy, and we’ll all finally be free.”

“Free of what.”

“Your denseness.” She snaps, sitting back up. Fire burns in her irises. “It’s like the Chinese story, the one with the shield and the spear. You’re the shield, oblivious to every single one of his advances and he’s the spear, never giving up. And we’re the spectators who are bored and tired. So dress up in your prettiest clothes and go.”

And that’s why you’re walking up the steps to the shrine, swaddled in clothing. Gojou is right next to you, enjoying mochi he bought from somewhere and humming. He’s humming while you’re having one of the worst crises of your life. God, you envy his ability to keep cool. 

Making every effort to keep calm and not look move your head in his general direction, you finally arrive at the bell. The sound resonates clearly into the night. Coins clink into the offering box. Two bows, two claps, pray, one bow. Your wish is the same as always, with one more sentence. Gojou copies you, mochi finished and trash discarded.

The way down is much easier, your heart a little lighter. Maybe the rest of the night will be fine. 

This is a delusion and you realise it as soon as Gojou opens his mouth.

“What did you wish for?” His voice cuts through the commotion, nudging for your attention. You flinch a bit at the closeness but try to regain your composure. If he saw it, he doesn’t comment on it.

“I—I  wished for everyone I love to survive the fight with Sukuna and have a peaceful retirement. Especially Ken-chan.” In actuality, you did wish for that but also for a way to confess. He doesn’t need to know that yet. Your voice trembles a bit, betraying you. 

“You do know that saying it out loud negates the wish right?” There’s a delighted tone in his voice, like he’s happy he baited you. How is a person this childish? And what does that say about you, the person who likes him? A hand ruffles your head before you have a chance to lament your heart. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure your wish comes true.” Your heart thumps.

It’s so unfair how he always knows what to say. It’s so unfair that it’s having this kind of effect on you. Your earlobes grow hot and you scramble to find a reply.

“What did you wish for then?” He shifts his head to look at you. “Yeah, I know. It won’t come true if you say it out loud, but if you can protect everyone and save the human race, I’m sure it's not up to the gods or spirits whether or not your wish comes true.”

He seems to contemplate it. Then nods. 

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s not up to them.” 

“See? So what’s yo—”

“It’s up to you.”

You nearly trip over one of the stone tiles, flailing for balance. Of course Gojou comes to your rescue, hands gently gripping at your sides. The first problem here is that your reaction was too obvious. You can’t feign ignorance now, like you didn’t hear him over the crowd. The second is that you just made a fool of yourself. Which leads to the third problem. 

He is way too close. 

“You okay?” And now he’s whispering. The blushing worsens. “Come on, let’s go.”

It’s a clearing in the forest a bit away, a smaller dilapidated shrine on the edge of it. A small pond is in the middle, fireflies skimming over the surface and glimmering beautifully. 

“There you go.” He guides you to the steps of the ruined shrine, letting you sit down but stays standing. Shifting on his feet, neck cracking as he rolls it. Nervous energy leaks out of him. Wait, is this— 

“I don’t know what to say. I’ve rehearsed this like, hundreds of times but my heart is kind of going crazy.” So is yours. He comes back to you then lowers himself to one knee. Your heart stops. “I’m not proposing. Not yet. I’ve heard dating comes first.”

One of your hands slots into his. He removes his blindfold, revealing his cerulean eyes to you for the second time. Breath hitches and he most definitely heard it because his smile, no matter how tentative it was, becomes full and true.

“Let’s get to the main point straight away. I like you.” The words burn you alive and you try to take your hand back but his grip is strong. So you do the next best thing. Averting your face. “I know you do too. I also know you remember the night. Your acting skills are terrible. And Shouko told me.” If you’re not drowning in mortification and something that feels vaguely like hope, you might hit him. And Shouko.

But the second you face him, you see him. The heart-gripping worry in his eyes, the way he’s smiling to cover for his anxiousness, the light trembling in his fingers. It’s so different to his normal self, the aloof and laid-back aura completely dissipated. This is what you do to him?

“I’m not good at this. But I mean every word when I say that you’re the kindest, cutest and the most loveable person that I’ve ever met. You put up with me, and that’s saying a lot.” Protest is at the tip of your tongue, ready to argue that he should stop being so hard on himself and that you genuinely like spending time with him, but he recognises the look on your face and laughs delightedly. “See? So ready to come to my defence, even if it’s me you have to fight. Everyone’s fed up with me to some extent, and I know you are as well, but you still put up with me. That’s what made me fall for you. That unlimited kindness.”

He presses a kiss to the palm of your hand and it feels like he’s giving you his heart at the same time. Love shines in his eyes and clogs at your throat. A shuddering breath passes over the both of you. But then the cheeky smile comes back.

“I think that’s enough to sweep you off your feet. Is your heart beating fast?” A nod. “Hands clammy?” A nod. “Think you can manage granting me my wish?”

A wave of calm washes over. Gojou’s words, filled with sincerity and bare hearted emotions, turn into butterflies that travel to every inch in your body. It’s delightful and there’s no way you can live without hearing it again.

The distance between your lips close, and you swear your heart synchronises with his when they finally touch. 

[razorblade180]

RWBY vol8 ep11 review

Hello! I’m a little late but taxes are scary and I’m a little sleepy still. Let’s get started!!!!

I’ll probably have to rewatch this again but as it stands right now, potentially my favorite episode of RWBY and this episode saved this volume for me in a couple of ways.

First of all I just want to talk about how last episode left me thinking Oscar’s blast killed all the grimm. I’m so glad it didn’t; that broke so much tension if it did and kinda made me upset. Weird thing to be happy about, but I am happy regardless.

I love how much of a mess things are for the Ace Ops in particular. They all know this is a mess but it’s damned if you do and damned if you don’t. I actually found it a tiny bit insane for Marrow to think he could walk away from this. He’s seen Ironwood shoot people for less. He’s lucky Winter has a big heart and hit him before he got shot; which I’m positive she did intentionally. I also love how every side is not sure if Ironwood is bluffing or not.

[Ruby is me at the tax office and Blake is the nice lady putting my papers in order.] Seriously though, I’m glad this happened. I’m glad RT committed to Ruby being fed up and it wasn’t over after the Blake speech. I’m glad Yang ran after and it only her. This is the stuff I wanted! Having optimistic and heroic characters doesn’t mean they can’t feel bad or can’t be in the wrong.

Listen, I don’t like dumping on other ships typically. It’s rude and all ships are different. However; it’s pretty crazy how strong Renora is built compared to bmblb in my opinion as person who likes both. Ren and Nora aren’t technically even dating but this relationship is allowed to have them to disagree, agree, comfort each other physically, verbally, and say they love each other; as well as respect each other’s space. Not to mention how great this was for Nora! Their feelings are out in the open and even though she wants time to come into her own like Ren has been doing, they are now closer than they’ve ever been. It makes me really happy and at the same time wonder why we can’t get this for Bumblebee? They have the same if not more moments than Renora but they’re mainly flirty or “conflicts” that either vanish, feel glazed over, or end as soon as they began. (I should stop complaining about the farm seen and basically V6. Not today though)

Do I even have to say it!?

I’ve maintained the mentally all this volume these two needed to talk about the way things were being lead and just needed one really good moment of emotional vulnerability from both of them. I’m happy Ruby tossed Yang’s remark back at her to show it really bothered her. Yang and Ruby recognizing that both of their plans were messy and discussing their mother together for the first time in this show was really nice. They always linked Summer coversation to Ruby without Yang being prevalent until recently. It also felt like Yang wasn’t torn up over Summer and more focused on Raven until recent episodes. They really needed this talk and I’m happy for sibling moments. I probably won’t get a Qrow and Raven moment but I’ll dream.

This was cool, like really cool. In case you all haven’t noticed, I like this episode a lot because they address things I wanted addressed and it’s done well. The topic of Penny just asking Ruby to kill her instead of someone else using her for the maiden powers was a topic I at least wanted said. I don’t want it to necessarily to happen, but it would’ve been crazy if that avenue wasn’t mentioned. Also I never realized Emerald’s weapons are like Ren’s, but like 50 times cooler.

Second thing that I can get behind is Penny’s soul fighting back the virus. I needed more than “that’s just a part of you” because that’s not how programming and hacking works. It just can’t be repressed. Knowing what is repressing it and that someone else had to help her keep it contained longer makes it feel less hammy in my opinion. Also everyone know realize maybe Oz not telling the truth from the start and being cautious out of fear/uncertainty is easily the most relatable ever. Beef is squashed; teamwork is happening again.

I’m actually very excited to see what she does. I want to know what Cinder looks like when she’s getting her shit together. I don’t think the world is ready for Cinder to actually start being better at her job. Even Watts seemed psyched.

All in all, strong episode. One thing I glazed over was Robyn telling Qrow to shut up and think, because he has honestly become the most insufferable character to me. They’ll probably bump into Marrow and Winter. Robyn gains a few points in my book because even she thinks going right up to James to kill him is insane. It might be the most insane thing.

[playlistmusings]

I had him right there where I wanted him

3,252 words

Jude Duarte x Cardan Greenbriar

read on ao3

A very big thanks to @yourlocalautisticoverlord for giving me the prompt: Knife Wife Jude teaches Cardan basic self defense (he is very bad at it).

Jude is bored and wants someone to spar with. The only thing stopping her from having a sparring partner is that, Cardan sucks at fighting. Luckily, Jude doesn't mind teaching her husband how to defend himself and Cardan doesn't mind the way Jude teaches him.

-----

Ambiguous time period, could be set during a slightly AU TWK if Cardan and Jude had their shit together and Jude wasn’t exiled or post TQoN with pretty much no changes to canon.

-----

Cardan felt oddly at peace in the training room of the Court of Shadows. He knew he probably shouldn’t, after all he was surrounded by more weapons than he could count and some of the most gifted and terrifying warriors and spies he’d ever met. But one of those warriors was his wife and everyone else had, at one point or another, actively worked to keep alive and on the throne, so perhaps the peace was justified. So, he sat in a chair off to the side, pieces of parchment in his hands that he read through whilst desperately trying to ignore the group of spies that was taking turns sparring each other. He was just flipping a letter over to read the back—because reports on crop growth were so interesting—when a knife flew past his face and thudded in the wall. Ripped from his thoughts, Cardan looked up and towards the person who threw the knife—of course it was Jude, who else would risk even nicking the High King? —and gave her a sardonic glare, daring her to let a second knife already held between her fingers go flying.

“Come on, Cardan! At least try to spar with us!” Her voice rang out as she grinned at him, as if all it took for Cardan to give up was a taunt and a smile (which, to be fair to Jude, usually that was all it took).

“I have important work to do, you know, as High King of Elfhame I actually have to do things.” He held her gaze, shifting from a glare to a equally sarcastic smile, the type of smile that usually made her jut out her chin and glare at him—the smile that usually followed some offhand comment meant to rile her up and preceded Jude muttering something about how insufferable or intolerable or in- something Cardan was before she crashed her lips into his. But here, in the training room, surrounded by people, Cardan was pretty certain she wouldn’t do anything—after all she always seemed off when publicly showing affection. And if they only kissed or hugged when they were alone, it didn’t really bother Cardan, if anything it made moments like these, where he could taunt her like he did back when they were in school—minus the part where she thought he was genuinely trying to kill or main her—all the more fun. So, as Jude glared, obviously trying to come up with some clever retort, Cardan’s smile softened, turning genuine for only a second before he forced himself to focus on the papers sitting in his lap.

“Ah, yes, High King Cardan has to focus on his work, because he’s so important, and does nothing but focus on work…” Jude muttered half formed insults under her breath while walking to rip her knife from the wall. And if someone saw Cardan smiled wider when he heard her, then he would claim that he was just happy that Elfhame was having a good farming season and it had nothing to do with his wife.

-----

Jude was exhausted. The good kind of exhausted, though, where you could feel your muscles work through every movement, growing stronger as you pushed them. Yet, all of her sparring partners were apparently too exhausted to continue training. One by one, over the course of an hour or so everyone had made their way out of the room, first it was the Roach claiming he had somewhere to be, then it was the Bomb claiming she had a meeting with someone— acting like no one knew that someone was the Roach—and then, all too quickly, it was only Cardan and Jude in the room. This would have been a welcome change, if Cardan weren’t more focused on those God damn papers than Jude. She had been trying to get him out of that chair for hours, taunting him and “accidentally” losing grip of her weapons and strategically letting them fly past his head in an attempt to break his focus on his work and look up at her instead.

So now she stood in the middle of the room, exhausted and exasperated, trying to think of some way she could get Cardan’s attention. At this point it was less about the way he seemed to have a stick up his ass and wouldn’t interact with anyone else, or her wanting her husband to pay attention to her, or anything like that, Jude was filled with determination and spite, if he would work so hard to not pay attention to her then she would refuse to let him do anything other than focus on her.

She pulled her arm back before swinging it forward, letting the thin throwing knife slip out of her fingers and spin through the air past Cardan’s ear and into the wall behind him, it was the second time she had done this today, but luckily that didn’t mean it surprised Cardan any less. His eyes snapped up to hers before wandering around the room briefly, as if just noticing that they were alone in the training room. His gaze latched onto hers right as she started stalking towards him, Nightfell swinging in one hand, a random dagger in the other.

“What are you up to?” His voice was uneasy, but just barely, his discomfort hiding in the waver his voice had as he ended his question—he was trying to hide his discomfort in the way that only Jude could see through.

She kept walking toward him, stopping an arms-length away before holding the dagger out to him, “Take it.”

Cardan looked at her face, as if searching for a reason for her actions, before gingerly taking the dagger from her left hand.

-----

Cardan held the dagger in his right hand, feeling its weight, trying not to slice a finger on the blade. Jude was certainly up to something, he couldn’t figure out what quite yet, perhaps she was going to make him spar her or perhaps she had snapped and was going to kill him here in the Court of Shadows, tucked away where only a select few people could find his body. However, while Cardan was left wondering what was going to happen, he was pretty certain it was happening because he had been very purposefully ignoring her all afternoon.

“Stand up.” Her chin was jutting out again, and Cardan could see her jaw clench as he took a few seconds before sighing and setting the parchments on the floor and standing, making a show of every action he made.

“So, now are you going to tell me what’s happening?” Something in Jude seemed to momentarily soften as he looked her in the eye plainly, with no pretense or sarcasm, just searching for an answer in her face.

“I’m bored and you’re here and I’m going to spar you,” Her voice made it clear that even if he wanted to ignore her, she wouldn’t make it easy for him.

“Well, my Queen, that would be a wonderful idea if I were a partner worth sparring.” Cardan thought back to days spent attempting to refine what few combat skills he had, forcing himself out of his memories before they could go down a dark path consumed by Balekin’s taunts and servants whipping his back.

“Then, I don’t know, I’ll…” Jude turned on her heel, exasperation coloring her voice as it faded off, “I’ll just have to teach you. I know you can fight a little, so I’ll teach you, I mean it makes sense for you to at least be able to try to protect yourself.”

Cardan once again forced his thoughts away from other lessons he’d been forced into, knowing that he couldn’t hide the discomfort Jude’s words brought on.

“Oh, I don’t mean to—I won’t make you, if you don’t want to, it’s fine, I forgot about all that. It’s okay, Cardan, I’m fine,” Jude stuttered her apology as her mind drifted to the time she hid under a table in Balekin’s house.

Cardan’s heart softened, the realization that despite all of Jude’s rough edges, she’d do anything before hurting someone she loved sunk in as he said words he didn’t know if he’d regret, “No, it’s fine, let’s do this. Teach me to fight, your Majesty.”

-----

Jude nodded, still feeling guilty for forgetting why Cardan didn’t enjoy endless sparring sessions like she did. She quickly pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind, trying to take Cardan’s reassurance, after all he couldn’t lie to her even if he wanted to, so it had to be fine, right?

“Okay, let’s start with defensive positions, then.” Jude approached Cardan, loosely holding Nightfell in her hand before swinging directly towards Cardan’s side, stopping inches away from his arm that did nothing but flinch. Dear God, he really has no self-preservation, no wonder he always got into messes. Jude groaned a little before looking at Cardan and asking, “So, in that scenario do you really just want to lose an arm?”

He shook his head, “Obviously not, but what am I supposed to do? You have a whole sword and I have, what? A tiny knife?”

“You could at least try to block me. Like, here, like this.” Jude moved towards Cardan and lifted his harm and hand to make a motion so that his dagger would intercept the path of her blade. And so, it went on like that, for what felt like years. Jude slowly showing Cardan a motion, working with him until he could do it cleanly, eventually moving on from defensive maneuvers to offensive jabs and slashes. It was progress, however clumsy and unpracticed his movements were, at least it was progress. Jude kept telling herself it was unreasonable to expect Cardan to perfect anything she showed him but something in her ached for him to understand faster, to understand more.

-----

Cardan had been trying to execute the same movement for about fifteen minutes now. Jude kept claiming he was going wrong when he did something wrong with his wrist, right there after you reach out, but he still had no clue as to fix it. And while Cardan could see the merit in knowing how to defend oneself, he did have an entire legion of knights whose sole job was defending him, so he didn’t have to and on top of that he had a wife who was more than happy to ride off into battles for him, so there was really nearly no scenario he’d need to know any of this stuff. The last time he could even think of getting attacked was when Jude held a knife to his throat in Dain’s study—which to be honest, he didn’t exactly mind repeating that event. But alas, despite all the repetition and scolding and sweat, Cardan loved seeing the way Jude’s face lit up whenever he mastered a movement or successfully blocked an attack. Something about Jude just seemed right when she fought, like this was what she was meant to do. Her eyes had a fire in them, and her body moved with a practiced ease that Cardan was only now noticing, when for once he could focus on her and her movements without a threat looming over every action. It was intoxicating, seeing someone so in their element, seeing Jude so clearly doing exactly what she was trained to do, exactly what she loved. Even now, when she wasn’t doing anything other than glaring at his arm—as if that was the solution to his problem—there was something in her that made it clear that she wasn’t actually mad or upset, she was purely focused and full of intent.

Cardan made the same movement for possibly the hundredth time, which elicited a drawn out and dramatic groan from Jude as she threw her head back in exasperation, “I keep telling you, not that, you need to—” Jude groaned again before stepping behind Cardan and reaching around his body to grab his wrist, “You need to do this.” Cardan felt sparks erupt across his skin as her breath hit the back of his neck, trying desperately to focus on the way her hand twisted his wrist and pushed out his arm and not on the way he could feel a ghost of her lips right above his shirt or the way his tail was flicking back and forth, wanting to reach out and around one of her legs, trapping her against him.

After a few repetitions, Jude stepping back, and Cardan didn’t know whether to thank her or beg her to come back. He tried the movement again and this time he thought Jude was going to kill him with the glare she shot at his hand. He tried to shrug, and she groaned again.

“Perhaps this is a signal that we should stop?” Cardan offered, hoping that Jude would take him up on his offer and he could stop pretending like he even knew what scenario he would need use this movement in.

“Perhaps.” Jude echoed, looking lost in her thoughts, no doubt still trying to think of some way she could help fix his issue.

Cardan walked over to a table and placed the dagger he had been using next to a variety of other knives before he was interrupted.

“You know what? No. That’s not happening. I taught you all of this so that we could spar, so before we’re done, we’re going to spar.”

As Cardan turned to face Jude, readying some response about that being unnecessary and there always being tomorrow, he was faced with a fearsome sight, Jude standing just behind him, Nightfell drawn and a blaze in her eyes. His throat bobbed as he reached to pick up the dagger just in time for Jude to make her first strike.

Cardan didn’t know how he blocked it, his arm instinctively reaching out while his wrist twisted so he could stop her blade from slicing his side.

“Of course, now you get it,” Jude’s voice filled the training room as she stepped back, so that they could spar in the middle of the room.

As soon as Cardan reached Jude, he knew he made a mistake. She was relentless, all offense and power and grace, and it felt like all he could do was struggle to hold onto his dagger and hope he wouldn’t get cut.

She swung her sword around in mesmerizing arcs before reaching out to continue her attack, stepping towards Cardan so she could push him away from the center of the room. Cardan knew he should lash out, at the very least he should find a way to move away from exactly where Jude wanted him to be, but he couldn’t find any openings. She was unstoppable, a force of nature pushing against him and forcing him to use every ounce of training he had just to stay in one piece.

As soon as Cardan felt one of his feet hit the wall behind him, he knew he was done for. He was trapped and definitely the worse swordsman—knifeman? —and he knew he couldn’t get out of the reach of Nighfell or block Jude’s attacks forever. Jude’s eyes lit up when she saw Cardan freeze, using the opportunity to let her sword clatter to the floor, take Cardan’s dagger from his hand, and push him against the wall, holding the knife to his throat, all in one maneuver.

Cardan breathed heavily, looking into Jude’s eyes hoping she understood this was him surrendering.

“Come on Cardan, how do you ever expect to win a real fight if you can’t even stop me from unarming you?” Jude’s voice was a little breathless, despite the lack of sweat on her body and the steady heartbeat Cardan could feel through her chest and she pinned him to the wall.

He grinned.

-----

Jude suddenly felt unsure of her victory. Yes, she had a weapon poised in the perfect position for a killing move. Yes, she had him trapped. Yes, she had the upper hand.

But then his hands were on her waist and he gave her one of his stupid smiles, the one that she didn’t know how to respond to, and he whispered, “Come on, love, we both know I’m already winning in this situation.”

Jude forced herself to keep her grip on the dagger, but she knew he could feel her pulse stutter then speed up, and suddenly she didn’t know whether to curse or thank her past self for deciding the best way to beat Cardan was to use her body to trap him against the wall. It felt oddly reminiscent of their first kiss, where she thought she had him exactly where she wanted him, but then he somehow gained all the control. As his hands pulled her even closer—she didn’t even realize that was possible—she resigned herself to losing just this once and let her hand fall down to her side and the dagger slip from her grip.

His lips were on her jaw first, making her head fall back with a groan as he worked his way down her throat. Jude felt a little stupid for letting herself give into Cardan’s charms so easily—was that really all it took? A cocky comment and a touch? –but quickly pushed thoughts of stupidity and regret out of her mind as he took her face in his hands so he could crash their lips together. It was a breathless mess of teeth and lips and tongue, as their hands pulled on each other, trying to get closer, closer. Jude felt like she was making up for that first kiss, where Cardan was drunk, and she was confused, and everything was hiding behind too many falsities and lies to even begin to unravel the truth about either of their feelings. But now—when she had Cardan in her arms and her feelings sorted and a ring on her finger—she felt like this was what that first kiss could have felt like, in some different life where things weren’t as complicated.

All the thoughts of the past were quickly shut out as Cardan flipped them around, so that Jude’s back was against the wall, and lifted her up so that he could kiss her deeper. Jude felt lost in him, she knew she must be doing something, after all Cardan was gasping into her mouth, but she couldn’t take her focus away from Cardan and his hands and his lips long enough to even think about where her hands were. As Cardan pulled his lips from hers, leaving Jude making a rather undignified noise in the back of her throat—a noise she would most definitely deny making if asked about it at a later date—he panted and held a finger to her lips.

“Jude.” Cardan’s voice was rough and low. “Jude, I think someone is coming in.”

As soon as he said the words, Jude could hear voices and nearing steps through the door. She groaned, letting her face fall onto Cardan’s shoulder before unwrapping her legs from around him and walking back to where she had dropped Nightfell. As the door opened to reveal the Bomb and the Roach, Jude turned back to Cardan who had just barely reached the dagger he had been using all afternoon, she grinned dangerously before asking, “Want to spar again?”

[problems-turn-fics]

More Hercules/Robert. Can be read as a continuation of my main fic for them (Have My Attention) or stand alone. Either way just some developing relationship nonsense [Words: 1472 | Rated T]

Mulligan curled closer and Robert turned his head for a kiss, feeling for a moment to be at perfect peace in his bed at home. After a minute, though Mulligan sighed and started to untangle himself from the sheets. “You’re going back to your room?”

Mulligan turned and took Robert’s hand, giving it a quick kiss before he stood. “Not because I want to.”

Robert just hummed. He knew, of course, that he was right. His father had been supportive, he’d pushed them together after all, but the theory of it was much different than the practice and Robert didn’t want to push. Still, he didn’t want Mulligan to go again. “The man sleeps like the dead. He won’t wake until morning. A few more minutes won’t make a difference if you’d like to stay.”

Mulligan stood at the end of the bed, clearly tempted. It was a bit fun to be the one doing the tempting for once. “If I come back to bed now, I’ll fall asleep.”

“I’ll wake you,” Robert said, adjusting the blanket. That did it and Mulligan crawled back up the bed and tucked himself against Robert’s side. Robert blew out the candle as he did and adjusted them until they were both comfortable wrapped up in each other’s arms.

“Are you going to be able to stay awake?”

“I’ll be fine.”

** Robert woke suddenly to the sound of a knock, and only had half a moment to panic before his door started to open. Mulligan was staring back at him with wide eyes and they both knew it was too late for him to hide. “Robert, can you-. Oh. I’m sorry,” Samuel said, his eyes barely seeing Mulligan before he turned around and shut the door behind him.

“Dear God,” Mulligan whispered, looking like he was about to be sick. Then he sprung out of the bed and started to redress, his fingers fumbling over the ties and buttons in his haste. “I’m so sorry, Robert.”

“No. You said you would fall asleep and I said I would wake you and I didn’t. It’s my fault,” Robert said as he got dressed as well, trying to think of an excuse that would justify why Mulligan was naked in his bed.

When he was done he looked to Mulligan who nodded. “I’ll get my things and head straight out the door. Write to me. And if you need to, come to the city. You have a place with me.”

Robert shook his head. “It won’t come to that. But I’ll write, I promise,” he said, taking Mulligan’s hand.

Mulligan kissed him quickly and then slipped out the door and into his room. He was already halfway down the stairs before Robert had managed to compose himself enough to face his father.

“Hercules,” Samuel said, brightly just as Mulligan was opening the front door. “Where are you going so soon? I’ve made you some eggs. You too, Robert. Come, eat.”

Mulligan set his bag down by the door and followed Samuel to the table and Robert followed him.

Sure enough, the table was set with bread and eggs for each of them. Robert stared at the eggs for a moment, forcing himself to grab the bread.

It felt like each moment stretched on forever. They weren’t even halfway done when Samuel clapped his hands together. “Will you two please relax? You’re spoiling breakfast.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Robert lied before taking a long drink of ale.

“So I’m imagining the tension that’s threatening to suffocate us all?”

“There’s no reason why there would be any tension,” Robert said. “Mr. Mulligan was -”

“I have a fairly good idea of why Hercules was in your room this morning.”

“Mr. Townsend-,” Mulligan started but Samuel held up his hand, silencing them both.

“Boys, you have nothing to fear here. All love comes from God which means all love that is freely given and returned, is good and right.” Robert released the breath that had been caught in his throat since he’d heard the knock and Mulligan blinked a few times, looking close to tears. “I will have to learn to be more patient when waiting for Robert to answer my knocking.”

“Thirty years and all it took was you finding a man in my bed,” Robert grumbled without really thinking about the words.

“I knew you were asleep. I could hear you snoring from the hallway,” Samuel said, rolling his eyes.

Mulligan cracked a smile but quickly looked back down to his plate.

Samuel turned to Hercules, putting a gentle hand on his arm. “And I could hardly mistreat someone who has brought my son so much joy.”

Mulligan gave a half-hearted smile but his shoulders lost some of their tension and he didn’t hide when his eyes made contact with Robert’s.

**

An hour later Robert walked out to the barn with Mulligan, he did still have to go back to the city after all. He helped him put the saddle on the horse but once there was nothing to be done except for Mulligan to ride off he grabbed his hand, not quite ready to say goodbye yet.

Mulligan seemed to understand without a word and stepped closer, kissing Robert sweetly. “I meant what I said.”

Robert’s heart jumped into his throat. “You say a great many things.”

“You’re lucky you’re handsome, otherwise you’d be truly insufferable,” Mulligan said, shaking his head even though he was smiling.

“I could say the same about you.”

“Oh, you think I’m handsome?”

“Unfortunately.”

Mulligan kissed him again. “I’m trying to be serious here.”

“No one’s stopping you.”

“When I told you that you have a place with me, I meant it. You might not need one, but you have one. Franny and Minnie love you, Franny even said she'd be willing to marry you if need be. More importantly, I love you so know that there is a place in the city for you.” Mulligan was looking at him expectantly and Robert couldn’t meet his gaze. It was too much. There was too much emotion on his face and Robert couldn’t handle all of his while also trying to sort out his own.

He tucked a bit of hair behind Mulligan’s ear. “I don't need a place in the city, as you've seen.”

Hercules signed. "I know. Clearly, you don't need to marry Franny, though her family is very wealthy so you might want to rethink that."

"You should understand that when I told you I wouldn't move back to the city I meant that," Robert said, hating himself for it. It needed to be said because he really wasn't going to move back to the city but he hated to disappoint Hercules.

Hercules grabbed his face gently, forcing Robert to look at him. "And I don't want you to. You're happy here. And your happiness is paramount." He let go of Robert's face and smiled. "I just meant that if something were to happen you have a home there. A place where you will be safe no matter what."

Robert nodded and leaned forward to kiss Hercules softly. "You have a home here as well. You, and Minnie, and Franny."

Hercules laughed brightly. "Don't let Franny find out you said that or she'll be plotting our escape from the city to your farm for the summer."

"We can always use the extra help."

"Do you remember what I said about her family being wealthy? Neither her nor Minnie would be the definition of help."

"Anyone can be taught," Robert countered.

"Is that a challenge, Mr. Townsend?"

"No, Mr. Mulligan."

Hercules laughed again, his smile bright and warm.

"Shall I visit you the weekend after next then?" Robert asked. "Once spring starts there will be no getting away from here until the harvest is done."

"Wonderful." He leaned forward and kissed Robert soundly. When he broke away Robert missed him but he was already getting up on the horse to ride home. "I'll let the girls know. And James. He misses you dearly, and has demanded that the next time you visit I invite him for dinner as well."

"We wouldn't want to disappoint James."

"I'll never hear the end of it."

They walked out of the barn together and Hercules hesitated just a moment. "I will see you the Friday after next," Robert said.

"I'll be counting the days," Hercules said. "I love you."

Robert smiled. "I love you too."

Hercules winked at him and then turned up the drive. Robert stood in the middle of their drive watching him go, longing already swelling in his chest as he watched him. When he was out of sight Robert turned around and saw his father standing on the porch watching him.

Robert sighed. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

[krypticss]

FIVE DAYS — Hvitserk.

Hvitserk x Reader

PROMPT: 12.  “I feel sick… so anxious and sick and like my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest.”

SUMMARY: The reader goes missing after they raid York.

WORDS: 1.845

WARNINGS: none?

“I feel sick… so anxious and sick and like my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest.”

It had been five days since the Vikings invaded York. Five days since their conquest had gone as smoothly and as gratifying as it could possibly have.

Five days since anyone had seen you. Hvitserk had walked day and night, through every inch of the town, looked through every house and under every block of stone. You were nowhere to be found. Before you left Kattegat, a feeling haunted him, something dark and filled with sorrow. He should not have let you come, he knew it in his gut.

“Brother,” Ivar wiped his lips of the remnants of ale, “had something happened to her, we would have found her body. It’s (Y/N), she is fine.”

Hvitserk’s leg bounced up and down, his hands passed down his face. The plate in front of him was untouched, he found no appetite in himself.

“Eat. You will feel better.”

The plate flew to the nearest wall as Hvitserk hurled it with all his strength. His body burned with the frustration, nothing would simmer down the fire in his eyes. The words spat from his mouth before they could be contained, “I don’t want to eat, I want to find (Y/N).”

His brother was unbothered by the petty behavior. Hvitserk might have been the oldest, but he rarely acted as such. Ivar shrugged.

“Don’t eat, then.”

He huffed, and paced around the old church. Ivar was insufferable. He didn’t understand. How could he? He didn’t know what if felt like to love you. To have your bare skin pressed against his chest as he laid kisses on your head. To feel your smile intoxicate his being to the bone.

To not have you by his side was waking up to a morning without the sun.

Hvitserk would rather face an army on his own than to bear the thought of you joining the gods so soon. You could not go to Valhalla. Not yet. He wouldn’t allow it.

“We must gather the men and search for her.”

Ivar contained his laugh, but the taunting smirk remained on his face, “You would have us leave York?”

“Some of us.”

“You see, brother, this is why I am in charge.”

“Don’t push me, Ivar.” He warned.

Ivar might underestimate him, treat him like waste, but he could never forget, Hvitserk was more than capable of unleashing chaos and walking out unharmed. He was still a son of Ragnar, after all.

“Two men will accompany you. Don’t wander off too far.”

Hvitserk’s jaw clenched tight, it was not what he had in mind. If it was up to him, he would have half the town looking for you. He nodded, nonetheless.

“Good.” Ivar smiled and sipped on his drink. Hvitserk was ready to leave the church, the confined space had become enough to suffocate him breathless, much more with his little brother around. As he opened the grand doors, Ivar called out to him, “She would be disappointed.”

He was frozen in place. Fingers clasped the handle tight, nearly breaking his bones. Every breath became more rapid, every heartbeat echoed louder in his ears.

“All this time,” Ivar continued, “and you still underestimate her.”

Hvitserk made sure to slam the door behind him.

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

The group had been on the road for three days when they came upon a small farm east of York. Hvitserk, a shieldmaiden and one of Ivar’s most trusted men. The sun had barely shone its rays in the sky. It was quiet. The cold breeze ruffled the tree branches above them. If they concentrated enough, the heavy waves could be heard as they crashed in the distance.

Hvitserk’s heart fluttered with hope. It was the only place that consisted of more than trees and dirt in miles. You had to be there. They rounded the farm with care, but no living soul was to be seen besides the sheep and cattle. At last, they checked the wooden hut, where the farm owners were likely to be asleep at such early hours.

With his axe in hand, he slowly opened the door. Its hinges creaked to announce their arrival, but the room remained still. It was empty. There was a door, left ajar. It led to the only other room of the house. Hvitserk approached it, his boots pressed hard against the floor with each step.

The door burst open once he was within reach, a round shield was thrown towards him. Hvitserk was barely fast enough to block the impact with his forearm. He did not bother to attack its owner, he recognized the familiar patterns of the paint that dried on it.

He had watched you paint the shield with delight. Your favorite part of fights and battles was not the thrill of violence, or the trial of skill. It was testing your weapons to their limits until they broke and you could improve them. And then, at last, decorate them. You loved painting your shields until they became uniquely yours. So your friends could find you miles away on the battlefield.

You were nothing like Hvitserk. The thrill he found in action, you found in watching. The love he found in talking, you found in listening. The two of you were not similar, and that’s why he loved you with all his heart. The broken pieces of you seemed to fit in each other with perfection.

“Stop! It’s me!” Hvitserk laughed as he blocked your blows. Joy consumed him, so much he could take on the whole of England right then and there.

You stopped your axe mid air and took the moment to analyze the man before you. Within the adrenaline, you had failed to recognize his voice, but the laughter was unmistakable. “Hvitserk!”

The axe and shield dropped to the ground and you threw your arms around his neck. Hvitserk held you tight, taking in the feeling of having you in his arms. The scent of your hair, your body warm against his.

“I thought I lost you,” He mumbled against your shoulder.

You pulled away from him with a frown but kept your bodies entwined. “Lost me? Why would you have lost me?”

“You disappeared, (Y/N),” He breathed, “I searched all of York, and I couldn’t find you. No one could find you.”

“During the raid, I saw a man leave the town with a child. She cried and screamed, and he dragged her with so little care, it felt… wrong.” You explained, your hands dropped from his neck and you sat at the table. “I followed them. When they got here I saw how he mistreated her and I intervened.”

“You killed him?”

“He attacked me first.” The words came out more aggressive then you had intended. “I waited for her mother to arrive, but she never came. I would ask the child, but… I do not understand a word she says.”

Hvitserk’s sigh was heavy with emotion he had to hold. “Have you stopped to think she might not have a mother? Or any other family? What will you do then?”

You bit your lip, “I will take care of her.”

“No, you will not.”

“Yes, I will.” You stood up, your lips pulled tight into a frown. One of the few similarities the both of you had, one could be just as headstrong as the other. Arguments turned into fights, and fights tended to not end well for either of you. “It is not your decision.”

His voice was low, his hands slid to your waist gently, “(Y/N), if you wish for a child, I will be more than happy, you know this. But not like this.”

But it wasn’t so easy. The gods knew you had tried, both intentionally and unintentionally, but there had never been a sign of you bearing a child. It vexed you. So much, your worst fight had been when Hvitserk suggested the possibility that, perhaps, you simply… couldn’t. It wasn’t unusual. You refused to accept it, but a part of you hung onto it, in the back of your mind. A poisonous seed among your thoughts that always told you it could be true.

“It’s not about that,” You shook your head, “I cannot leave her alone.”

Out of the corner of your eye you saw the two warriors share a look as they fidgeted in the spot. Whatever they had been here for, it most certainly wasn’t to witness a couple arguing. Recomposing yourself, you cleared your throat.

“Forgive me,” you smoothed out the night gown you had been wearing, “You must be tired. There is ale on the jar, I will arrange a place for you to rest.”

Inside the bedroom, the little girl hid under the bed in fear. You gathered the furs you had been using for yourself and some clothes from her parents so you could make a decent bed for your companions. You set everyone in the main room of the house to not frighten the girl.

The sun was high in the sky as the two warriors slept. On the other side of the room, you and Hvitserk were still wide awake. His chest heaved up and down with each breath, his heartbeat faint as a dream against your head. Your thumb rubbed small circles on his arms, he was the most relaxed he had been the entire week. Even so, he couldn’t find it in himself to fall asleep. He finally had you in his arms, and he didn’t want to miss a second of it. He was afraid he would wake up and you wouldn’t be there anymore. Blown out of his reach like petal in the wind once again.

“Why did you come?” Your voice was a whisper, barely audible. But he heard you.

“I was worried about you.”

You lifted your head to rest your chin against his chest, “I can take care of myself, Hvitserk. This was a simple raid.”

His fingers played with your hair, he was lost in thought. He knew you like the back of his hand. You were a shieldmaiden. A viking, just as much as he was. Strong, determined, headstrong. Hvitserk also knew the other side of that. The adventurer, fearless free spirit. The part who would be the first to run to the top of a hill to find what was on the other side, whose curiosity could not be eased. It was not hard to believe that you ran from York without a note of warning. In fact, it sounded just like you, running to the rescue of the innocent.

“I know,” He pursed his lips, “when it concerns you, (Y/N), I tend to act by my heart, not my head.”

Your expression softened, “How could I ever blame you for that?”

[spaceskam]

Alex Manes hated the new farm hand.

The farm had been in his family's name for generations, it was all Alex knew. He took it seriously, desperately wanting to eventually have it passed down to him instead of one of his brothers. He just knew he could do wonders on the business and ethics side of things.

But, to prove himself, he worked hard. And usually that was easy until his father hired this new insufferable farm hand.

"You're doing that wrong," Michael said. It was basically his catch phrase.

"I am not!" Alex spat, turning back to the engine of the tractor, "I've handled these things my whole life, I'm not about to let you come in here and act like you know more than me."

"Which is understandable," Michael said, "But I do know more than you. About this at least."

He bumped Alex out of the way, ignoring his flabbergasted face as he fiddled with the engine. A few minutes later, it started up with ease and he flashed smile.

"Don't be so smug," Alex told him, rolling his eyes and swiftly turning on his heels to go find something better to do elsewhere.

"Alex!" Michael called to him as he walked, "Seriously, if you just calmed down, I bet it would be easier to get things done!"

"Don't tell me what to do!"

Alex continued walking despite the fact he heard the engine cut. Maybe he just needed to walk, clear his head. Then he could go and help Elle, his brother's wife, with dinner. He just needed to get away from him.

But, of course, he followed.

"Your dad hired me to help you so you could focus on school more so you can get into college, I don't know why you get so angry," Michael said, still following him through the fields. Alex didn't slow to let him catch up or turn to give him any satisfaction. "C'mon, I'm just doing my job."

"No, doing your job would be listening to your boss. And I am your boss."

"Your father is my boss, you're my coworker," Michael said and that only infuriated him more. One day he would be his boss. And as soon as he was, he was getting fired. "Are you really this angry that I'm good at what I do?"

"I'm angry that you're arrogant and impossible to have a conversation with. Do you know how irritating it is to try to speak to someone when all the do is correct you on things you already know?" Alex scoffed, "No, of course you don't."

A loud clap of thunder sounded above them. Alex glared upwards as he kept walking.

"I'm just trying to help."

"Well, you aren't helpful. You're the bane of my existence."

"Oh, that's an impressive title."

"Leave me alone!"

"I would, but it'd be much easier on both of us if we're both gone rather than if your father comes to see only me and I have to explain that you stormed off," Michael explained. Alex didn't have a response to that. He was right. If they were together, they could say they were doing something important.

"Fine," Alex grumbled, "But don't open your stupid smart mouth."

"So you're thinkin' about my mouth?"

Alex walked faster.

Thunder kept sounding as they got further and further from the main house. Soon, once they were away from basically all the buildings, it started raining. Then it started pouring.

Before Alex could make any kind of decision of his own, Michael grabbed his wrist and began to run, pulling him to the old barn that they hadn't used in at least a year since they built a new one closer to home. They made it there eventually and Alex yanked his arm away once they got under the shelter.

"What did I just say?! I live here! This is my property! Stop acting like you know better than me!" Alex yelled. Michael gave that all too charming smile, the one that had won over his dad.

"You do realize you don't know me well enough to hate me this much, right?"

"I do know enough, thank you," Alex told him, glaring. Michael didn't share his anger which was honestly even more insulting. "You think you're the smartest in the room and it's one of the worst traits ever."

"You know what, Alex?" Michael said, taking a step closer, "I think you hate that so much because you're used to being the smartest in the room. You're just threatened someone actually challenges you."

"Oh, fuck off," Alex said, "I am smart, but you're not a challenge."

"I am."

"You're not."

"I really am."

"You're really not."

Michael rolled his eyes playfully before tilting his head to the side.

"Give me your hand."

Alex felt his anger subside just a little to make room for his confusion. He furrowed his eyebrows and could suddenly feel his blood pumping in his ears.

"What?" he asked. Michael took another step closer.

"Give me your hand," he repeated, holding out his own, "We're both arrogant assholes. Handshake to stop the pissing contest."

Alex eyed him skeptically, at his hand that was extended to him. It was calloused from years of manual labor, but still looked so goddamn appealing. Alex looked between his face and his hand for what felt like forever before reluctantly reaching his own hand out.

However, once they clasped hands, Michael tugged him closer. Alex felt his heart drop to his stomach and his eyes widened. He was suddenly chest to chest with a boy and far too close to deny that his usual smug face was more attractive than he bargained for.

Michael tilted his head in curiosity.

"Ah, see, I was pretty sure it wasn't actually a pissing contest," Michael said softly, "And I'm glad to know that I am still always right."

Alex buried his nerves and his eyebrows pulled together in anger again, raising his hand to push him away. Except he didn't make it that far. Instead, Michael grabbed his face and kissed him. Seriously kissed him.

He pulled away after only a moment and Alex stood there, frozen in shock. He'd never done that before. All his life, he'd been on this farm with just his brothers and older farm hands who never have him the time of day. Now he had a young one.

And now things made a lot more sense.

"Oh," Alex breathed, eyes widened again as pieces fell into place. No wonder he didn't find himself interested in the daughters of other farmers he knew. "Oh."

"You're very smart and very clueless all at the same time," Michael laughed, "Still angry at me or can I kiss you again?"

Alex didn't answer with words.

Later, he would have to explain how he got hay stuck in his hair. But that was later. He didn't care about later.

[consumedkings-archive]

ancient names, pt. xxi

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt xxi: what went we

Masterlink Post

Word Count: 15.3k

Rating: Explicit: sexual content ahead.

Warnings: mentions of self-harm, some slight gore/blood (it's very mild), the aforementioned sexually explicit content.

Notes: Hi guys. I don't really know where to begin this post, because I am incredibly emotional. It feels so very fitting and special to me that I am bringing in the last chapter of Ancient Names just as 2021 rolls in, and so yes, I AM crying, yes, this WILL be an exceptionally sappy notes section, and yes, this is going to be all about you!

There are so many people that are in part responsible for this fic actually getting finished and put out where the world can see it. @empirics, whose unending support even when she doesn't even GO here and cheerleading me through writing sprints; @lilwritingraven, who is so sweet, so supportive, so incredible and just an overall gigantic sweetheart; @faithchel, whose tags are incredible and always just give me LIFE, I love that our girls be out here really feral like that; @shallow-gravy, who not only lends me her eyeballs but also lets me complain and whine, send her memes nonstop, and participates in my very elaborate fantasies of Elliot and Diana living out their lives as dog moms on a farm (and sometimes in our unholy OT3); @baeogorath, also an eyeball-lender, also incredibly sweet, ALSO lets me send them memes, and does so good in talking me down from my adrenaline anxiety pre-posting and post-posting, was the first person to welcome me into this fandom and is also just a dear, dear friend who happens to be incredibly talented. And, of course, @starcrier. As always, this would have never ever ever been possible without you, not even a little bit, not even at all. From the bottom of my heart, to every single one of you, and the people who have left kudos, have left comments: thank you thank you thank you, from the absolute bottom of my heart. Here is ALL my love, just for you!

The emotional journey of writing this fic has been an incredible one. And a taxing one. Elliot is a character near and dear to my heart for many reasons; I pour so much of my heart into her, so when I hear people say that they love her, and love this journey, and love these things that I've created and written, I mean it when I say that it makes my whole entire day. It means so much to me. Thank you.

In the essence of time, I will not go through all of the feelings that are in my brain right now because there are SO many and I am already crying lol. Please just know you have made the experience of joining a new fandom, and writing in it, so incredible!

There is going to be an epilogue following this chapter, and then I'm going to take a short break and start in on a sequel fic, tentatively titled Witching Hour. Please feel free to hang out/chat w me/plague me with your thoughts at any time of the day; I would love to visit with all of y’all!

John was lying to her.

Or, at the very least, he was withholding information from her, which was just about as bad as lying, Elliot thought. She didn’t know what exactly he wasn’t forthcoming about—but did it matter, at this point? She could tell he was lying; he’d been all kinds of ready to leave and go and get out of Hope County, and now he was scrounging up some kind of ass-pull reason for them to stay. So did it matter? Did the distinction count?

Yes, she thought absently, as John’s fingers traced slow, lazy circles along the small of her back. Yes, I have to know what he’s lying to me about.

“Good morning,” John murmured against her neck. “How did you sleep?”

It had been three days since her baptism-gone-awry, three days of Burke occupying the bunkhouse she had been in while she had wordlessly moved into John’s space, three days of avoiding eye contact with the marshal and deferring questions about him. I don’t know, I really only knew him for a day, she’d say when John asked, or does it matter if I told him? He wouldn’t get it, the unspoken words being ‘not like you do’. She hoped, anyway.

Three days of trying to figure out what it was John wasn’t telling her.

“Like shit,” she replied tiredly as his mouth trailed along the curve of her shoulderblade. The pressure of his fingers against her sternum had her rolling onto her back to look up at him; his gaze swept over the exposed skin.

“Bruising’s clearing up,” he said, his voice low and rough from sleep. But he didn’t elaborate; he didn’t say, should we reveal your sin today, my love? the way that she thought he would try. It felt as though the gears in her head were still sluggishly turning, trying to piece together the entire picture of what was going on, a picture that she felt like John didn’t want her to see.

She knew exactly how it would go if she asked. What’s the game? she’d say, and John would look at her with those eyes, and lean in to kiss her, and he’d say, no game, hellcat, and she’d have to believe him because she didn’t have any empirical evidence that he was lying to her. Just a feeling, deep in her gut, twisting and wrenching.

It made it worse to know that John was looking at her with adoration.

Trailing a lazy circle below her collarbone with his fingertips, John asked, “Do you want to do it today?” and she stifled a sigh.

“I don’t know yet, about staying,” she replied, even though she did know: she wouldn’t. She would die before she crawled into a stupid fucking bunker at the behest of Joseph Seed. “I want to wait.”

John’s eyes flickered a little at her words, but he nodded. Elliot reached up, catching her hand with his and skimming the pads of her thumbs along his palm. The words sat there on the tip of her tongue: what aren’t you telling me? Why can’t you just tell me? Haven’t we been through enough, the two of us?

“Your heartline,” Elliot said instead, forcing her voice into playfulness because she couldn’t stop thinking about how Burke had told her to carry on as she had been. “Have you ever had your palm read?”

“No,” he answered amusedly, letting her nail skim along the curve of the line on his palm. “Are you an expert in palmistry?”

“My mama used to entertain tarot cards and palm readers with her ladies,” she replied. “So I listened in a lot. I suppose it isn’t very Godly to have your palm read.”

“It isn’t.” John’s eyes glittered. “But go ahead and tell me what mine says.”

She shifted a little against the pillows. On the floor by her side of the bed, Boomer let out a long, suffering sigh—like he was tired of listening to this flirtation already. For a small second in time, that feeling of peace swept over her, and she let herself bask in it. Elliot thought that she deserved that much at least.

“Your heartline shows your personality, and your quality of love,” she explained, skimming her finger along his heartline. “Yours comes all the way over, see? All the way across your palm.”

“Is that good?”

“Very,” Elliot said somberly. “It shows you have an abundance of love, and high expectations.”

John worked his jaw a little, clearly trying not to smile like he was proud of himself—like he had any control over the lines of his palm and how they worked. “I could have told you that.”

“And it curves upward,” she continued. “Which means you have great verbal dexterity.”

“I could have also told you that.”

“Undoubtedly,” she deadpanned. “Are you going to let me finish my reading?”

He flashed his teeth at her in a grin. “Please,” he said, “continue.”

Elliot clicked her tongue, turning her attention back to his hand. Inspecting for a moment, she said, “You have a upward split here, you see? That means you’re willing to sacrifice a lot for love.”

John rumbled his agreement at the statement and leaned down, kissing her shoulder.

“And these little forks here,” she added, pressing her thumb against them, “indicates a dispute on marriage.” Her eyes lifted to his, playful. “Are you intending on marrying, John? Palm says that’s a bad idea.”

For a second, John stared at her—his eyes fluttered, and he looked like he was collecting himself. Elliot sat up a little, frowning, but when she did it seemed to trigger whatever it was that was needed for him to come back to being present. Interlacing their fingers together, he pulled her forward and kissed her; and kissed her, and kissed her, until her lungs ached and she thought she was getting dizzy from not being able to take a full breath. His free hand slid down between her legs; when her lips parted to allow her to whimper, John’s teeth caught her lower lip with bruising force.

Already, heat was pooling in the pit of her stomach. Already, she could feel those telltale signs of desire, the way that John inspired it in her with just a few simple gestures.

“Want you,” John said against her mouth, guiding her onto him, settling her on his lap. Something was wrong, something she’d said had struck a strange nerve in him; but undeniably, it felt good, that his hands were trembling whenever his grip on her lessened a little. It felt good, because it felt like he needed her.

“Reading my palm is a cute trick, but—”

“How badly?” Elliot asked, before she could stop herself. John’s eyes, dark with want, raked over her as the sheets bunched at her hips. When she rocked her hips against his inquisitively, a low, strangled noise came out of him. “How badly do you want me?”

“You’re—in a mood,” John managed out. He opened his mouth to keep talking—something insufferable, Elliot was sure—but as he did, she adjusted and sank down against him, drawing out of him a low, vicious moan. His fingers dug into her hips and he hissed, “Wicked thing.”

She slid him out of her, and he groaned, miserable.

“How badly?” she asked again, less cloying this time. There was a strange kind of satisfaction that wound up in her, hot and humid, when John let her do this—let her take, let her sink her nails and her teeth into him wherever and however she wanted. Like he knew exactly what it was she needed and didn’t mind giving it to her.

Liar, something inside of her said, he’s a fucking liar, there’s something he isn’t telling us, but then John looked at her and said, “So badly, more than anything, Elliot,” and her chest tightened.

Her fingers found his shoulder and she tugged him up into a sitting position. Her mouth found his; she tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled just as their hips slotted together and she sighed his name in a hitching breath. The delicious burn was almost enough to fizz her focus out of existence—with so little sleep on her agenda, it was hard enough, but then she canted her hips wantingly and sparks of red-hot pleasure went racing up her spine.

“So. Fucking. Tight,” John ground out, burying his face against her neck. “Can’t believe you’re mine, El—can’t—after all of this—”

Elliot’s lashes fluttered at his words, the uneasy sprint of happiness making her stomach churn. Something else, though, wrenched around the cavity of her chest—those words. Can’t believe you’re mine.

“John,” she managed out, breathless, “I—”

“—and I’m yours.” John kissed her and guided her hips down against him until she was moaning unsteadily. “Fuck, yes, I’m—all yours, baby, just take w-what you—need from me, give you anything, anything—”

I’m all yours, he said, in the same breath as can’t believe you’re mine, and it shouldn’t have but it felt different: in that moment, having John buried into her up to the hilt and digging his fingers into her skin and sighing her name, it shouldn’t have felt different, but it did. It did, because they belonged to each other.

Her fingers tightened in his hair, on his shoulder. She thought, he’s a liar, and she thought, I’m so afraid of losing him, too, and she thought, we belong to each other.

“Please,” Elliot moaned, but she didn’t know what she was asking for; to finish, to hear him say it again, to hear him say more, to tell her the complete and absolute truth? Did it matter, anymore?

It does matter. The distinction matters.

So she said, “You’re mine,” and she kissed him, and she said it again, and again, like a prayer; until John was saying it back, feverish and panting the delicious words against her skin, I’m yours, I’m yours, all yours.

Wicked, and wretched, and maybe a liar, but all hers.

Later, tangled together in bed, John pulled her flush against him and said against her skin, “Don’t you want it, too?”

“I do,” Elliot murmured, knowing that he was talking about the Wrath he was going to put into her skin. “There’s just... A lot after that, to think about. And I know you’ll want an answer right away—”

“Is it that hard?” he asked. “To make a decision about staying or leaving?”

“What the fuck kind of question is that?”

John frowned. “I just—”

“You just want me to say yes to whatever it is you want,” Elliot snapped. “I’d like to remind you that you told me we’d go as soon as this was done.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know, Elliot. I’m just—”

And then he paused, like something wanted to come out of him that he didn’t want to say, like he’d caught himself before he’d make a fool of himself. All this time, and Elliot thought she’d never see John vulnerable, not really in the way that she wanted—he’d seen her crying and broken and grieving, and she’d seen him in intimate glimpses, but not completely.

“You’re just what?” she asked, brows pulling together.

John’s fingers traced along her sternum, spelling out WRATH, much like he had done that evening at her mother’s house.

“They’re my family,” he said after a moment. “He gave me everything.”

Something uncomfortable twisted in her chest. “I know.”

“That includes you, too.” John leaned down and kissed her shoulder. “He brought me you. I know you don’t believe, hellcat, but if nothing happens then what did we lose? Nothing. I just get to keep my family.”

Her lashes fluttered, exhaustion seeping over her bones again. It was late into the morning, but already she wanted to close her eyes.

“I told you before,” she whispered. “I told you. You can’t have both. You can’t put one foot in both worlds, John.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line. He ducked his head against her neck and kissed there, and she thought about what he’d said that night in the bar.

Outside of my loyalty to Joseph, there’s you, and I want both.

I want you too, Elliot.

We can have a place to belong.

She thought about Jerome’s voice over the radio. You don’t have to Atlas this thing, deputy.

She thought about Joey, holding her tight. I never doubted you’d be able to get me.

She thought about how, at twenty-five, she had to bury her best friend in the fucking ground.

John was lying to her about something. He wasn’t telling her everything, and maybe she had always known that it would be like this, between them: maybe, down in the marrow of her bones, she had always known they would end up at odds with each other, John trapped between two worlds that he wanted and neither side willing to budge.

Something has to be done, she thought tiredly, as John’s fingers smoothed along her hip, and I’m going to have to fucking do it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“You’ve gotta get them out of here, Rook.”

Burke’s words stayed there, lingering in the air between them. It was late in the afternoon, and John was with his brothers and Faith in the chapel, and she’d ducked into Burke’s bunkhouse between guard shifts to grab a quick word with him. As soon as she told him that John had been pushing to get her sin revealed sooner than the original week he’d told her, Burke’s frown had deepened.

“They’re planning on getting it over with and getting the fuck out,” he said, pacing the tiny bunkhouse room. “There’s no way I’m getting to that radio with them all here. They think the world’s going to end, and that they need to be in their bunkers to survive it. If they get locked in there, Elliot, then—”

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to get them all out of here,” she replied irritably. “You do realize that I’m only—John’s the only—”

Burke waved his hand to stop her from elaborating. He’d made it clear that he didn’t want to discuss the nature of her relationship with John beyond what the base information: they had indulged in a physical relationship, and an emotional one, and now Elliot’s priorities included him. As best they could.

“He wants to do the… Ceremony,” Elliot continued, mouth twisting around the only word she could think to say without making it macabre, “soon. And I just think that if I push it all the way out, then it’ll stir up suspicion, after I told him I wanted to—”

“What if you didn’t?”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“What if you didn’t push it out?” Burke continued, slowly, pitching his voice quieter and more urgent when he noticed movement outside. “What if you asked for it to be done sooner? But just—somewhere else? Not here? Make up something about how you don’t have good memories here, and…”

“And ask for his family to be there,” Elliot finished, “so that they have to leave you here?”

Burke nodded. His gaze darted to the window again, and she knew that they were running out of time. “You’ll still be guarded.”

“I can handle a few of these fuckers,” he replied, waving his hand. “Most of them are scattered out, getting supplies. I hear them complaining about it outside all the time. I’ll get that radio, see if I can hear any chatter, and tell them where to find you. ”

I need more time, she thought, but she knew that she wouldn’t get it. Not now. Her deadline had been set for her—by Joseph, by John, and even a little bit by Burke. She was this close to being done, to being—

Free.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay, yes, I can do that. I’ll ask them to take me to the ranch, and—I can do that.”

“I know,” Burke said, and he had never sounded more confident; he planted his hands on her shoulders and looked at her, the clarity having returned from his Bliss-induced high. He hesitated, and then said, “The ceremony—”

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

“I want you to know,” he plunged on, “it doesn’t matter, but I want you to know that you aren’t… That isn’t all of who you are.” His hands squeezed shoulders, the pressure welcoming and comforting and nauseating all at once. How strange, that kindness sickened her, now. “Wrath.”

Elliot paused, swallowing thickly. “I should go,” she said, because Burke still didn’t know what she’d done to Kian, still didn’t know the full extent of her body count or the way she’d felt when she killed a man. How it felt good, now—satisfying, an instant hit of dopamine centered around control.

“The back window,” Burke said, gesturing. “So the guards don’t wonder.”

“It’s all very exciting,” Elliot added. She tried for lightness, pushing the window up. “Subterfuge.”

“Just try not to say that where anyone can hear you.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“We’ve nearly collected the last of the supplies,” Joseph said, pacing absently back and forth. “How long do you think, Jacob?”

“A day, at most,” the redhead replied. “They’re working quickly, without all of these interruptions.” Jacob paused, and then turned his gaze at John. His mouth twisted for a moment, and John could tell his older brother was trying not to smile when he continued, “What’s your timeline, John?”

“The same,” John replied tightly.

“A day at most?”

“No, the same as before,” he clarified, even though he knew Jacob was doing it on purpose. “You gave me a timeline and that’s what I’m working with.”

“It’s just, you sounded very confident about your ability to wrangle the deputy,” his eldest brother continued, “and you’ve always been an overachiever.”

Joseph was looking at him expectantly. John knew that they wanted him to say that Elliot had insisted on doing it sooner, that she’d fully acquiesced to staying with him, that he had fully convinced her, down to every molecule of her being, that what they were doing was right and just and undeniably truthful.

But he hadn’t. Their conversation this morning only proved that more to him. You can’t have both, she’d said, like she still thought of herself as a separate entity from him, from his family. But she wasn’t; where else would she find people who would accept her, unconditionally?

Well, mostly unconditionally. There was one condition: believing. The most difficult one for her, he thought.

“I can spend more time with her,” Faith supplied, helpfully. “Maybe she’s tired of being around you boys all the time. You can be...” Her gaze flickered, and she tilted her chin a little, smiling. “A little heavy-handed. It’s possible that a lighter touch is necessary to bring the deputy around.”

“First, you should stop calling her that,” John pointed out, and he felt a little more than petulant saying it. It hadn’t escaped his attention that Elliot was naturally inclined to open up to Faith more easily, and he shouldn’t have been surprised, but it did still bother him, sitting right in the back of his mind. Always away but never forgotten. “Continuing to refer to her as “the deputy” is only going to further cement her ties to her past life.”

“Well,” Jacob demurred, “we can’t all call her baby, can we, John?”

“If you have a problem with me enjoying the marital bed,” John bit out, “then I think perhaps you spend some time reflecting inwardly on why that’s such a—”

The door to the chapel creaked as it was pushed open. Swallowing back his words quickly, he turned and glanced over his shoulder to see Elliot, hesitating in the doorway. Boomer lingered just behind her, sat at the bottom of the stairs, ever obedient.

“I can come back,” she said, sounding uncertain.

“Not at all,” Joseph replied, before John could tell her maybe that would be best. “Please, come in.”

She did, letting the door swing shut behind her, and moved tentatively toward the front. He wondered how it felt for her—coming in here, with all of them looking at her, much the same way she had the day that set the events in motion that brought her back to them.

John wondered, too, if Joseph had known this all along; if the things that he heard and saw had shown him that Elliot would always come back here, to them. Our deputy, he’d always said, without fail.

“I want to do it,” Elliot said, as she approached. “Soon. As soon as possible.”

Silence reigned supreme for a moment, before John said, “That’s great, Elliot. We can get started with—”

“But I don’t want to do it here,” she interrupted, bringing John’s mouth to a full stop.

“More fucking demands,” Jacob muttered under his breath.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Joseph said, watching her curiously. The way they had been, he was the closest to Elliot, with a table separating her from John. His fingers itched. “If you’re worried about the safety of it, I am sure John is more than equipped to—”

“This is supposed to be cleansing, isn’t it?” Elliot asked. “Regardless of how you feel, Joey’s body was put on display here. I don’t want this to be the place where I...”

Her voice trailed off, and her gaze darted elsewhere, mouth pressing into a thin line. John said, “I don’t think going somewhere else would be a problem. Where did you have in mind?”

“The ranch,” she replied, sounding relieved. “Feels fitting.”

As John stifled a smile, Joseph said, “Well, we’ll need to clear out the bodies, but I’m sure that can be done.”

“That’s manpower,” Jacob protested.

“You were just talking about how quickly they were getting things done,” John replied. “Weren’t you? Ahead of schedule. Over-achieving, I think.”

Jacob’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click and grind of his molars, and for once, John felt a sweeping thrill of victory. It was coming together, right there, in front of him—in front of his brothers, and Faith. All of the witnessing the fruits of his labor.

“Fine,” Jacob acquiesced, at last. “But it’ll take them a few hours.”

“Perfect.” John smiled, looking at Elliot across the table, Joseph’s figure nearly eclipsing her. “Then Elliot and I will head out as soon as we hear that the bodies have been properly disposed of.”

“There’s one more thing,” Elliot began, looking uncertain, and drawing all eyes back to her again even as Joseph had moved to place his hand on Faith’s shoulder. When they had watched expectantly for long enough, she continued, “I want—everyone there.”

“Everyone?” John asked, the word souring in his mouth.

“Not—of Eden’s Gate. Just… All of you,” she elaborated.

John could feel the surprise, bubbling fresh and unexpected, between his siblings as they exchanged glances.

“Even me?” Jacob asked, and John saw the grin splitting across his face.

“Even you,” Elliot replied, dryly. “Against my better judgment, I’m sure.”

“I’m touched, honey.”

Clearing his throat, John walked around the table briskly, muttering a quick excuse us as he guided Elliot away from the front of the chapel and down the walkway a little.

“You want my family there?” he asked, keeping his voice low as his siblings chatted quietly amongst themselves. Jacob was grinning wolfishly, looking very pleased with himself, which was something John didn’t necessarily like. “Normally, it’s more of a—a private affair, and that’s how I pictured it with you—”

“This is important to me,” Elliot said, watching him. “And they’re important to you. Aren’t they?”

John swallowed. “Well, yes, but…”

“John,” she murmured, her fingers loosely tangled with his, “I’ll stay, after.”

He blinked at her. “You’ll—?”

“Yes.” Her gaze flickered over his, her voice low as she struggled through the words. “I’ll stay here, with you—and your family. After it’s done. I just… Need to close the chapter.”

I fucking did it, he thought, certain that he was going to grin like a complete maniac if he didn’t keep himself in check. I fucking got her. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe they doubted me.

“Of course,” he managed out, somehow keeping his voice steady despite the rush of butterflies banging against his rib cage. “Of course, hellcat, anything you want.”

“Okay.” She paused, and then reached up and kissed him—willingly, of her own volition, in front of his siblings, she kissed him, and then sat back on her feet. “In a day, then?”

“In a day,” John promised, their noses brushing. “We’ll really belong to each other.”

Elliot’s lashes fluttered. She looked a little more tired than before, but it was hard to tell this close; and if it bothered her at all—if it was changing her mood—it didn’t show. He felt her smile against his mouth.

“Yes,” she murmured, just the way that he liked. “Completely.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Jacob stopped by the bunkhouse with Joseph that evening to let him know they’d dispatched the men to clean out the ranch of any remaining corpses; they’d do it through the night, to better assist Elliot in her revelations. It seemed that the members of Eden’s Gate were just as relieved as the siblings themselves that the deputy was no longer and adversary, but joining them.

Which still left the matter of Cameron Burke.

“I say we kill him,” Jacob announced, glancing over John’s shoulder to ensure Elliot wasn’t there—and never before had John been more grateful for the blonde’s need to go on exorbitantly long walks out of the compound. “Quick and easy.”

“Well,” John said, “that is what I had thought you intended before, yet here we are, with him still on our hands.”

“We are lucky that our brother cares so much as to run our deputy through such trials,” Joseph interceded serenely, before a spat could break out. “And that she passed. With flying colors, I think.”

“That’s a little generous.”

“At any rate, that we’ve moved up this celebration for her is good,” the blonde continued. “I hear that the Family may not all be finished. Jacob mentioned that his scouts saw movement, out close to the Whitetails.”

John frowned. No good, he thought, but then—what about all of those dead couples he and Elliot had seen? Paired, holding hands, flowers blooming from wherever they could fit them? How was it determined which ones would off themselves and which ones stuck around?

“Now that we have all of the supplies we need,” Jacob said, “we don’t have to worry about getting rid of them.” He shrugged. “Let the apocalypse finish them off.”

“Well.” John clapped his hands together. “I’ve quite a day to prepare for tomorrow, I think. And when it’s all done, we’ll be ready to settle in.”

Joseph and Jacob exchanged looks, just for a moment, before Jacob said, “Night, Johnny,” and set off, leaving Joseph alone in front of the doorway to the bunkhouse. When he looked at John, his expression unreadable, something uneasy crawled and settled down at the base of his spine.

“I have something for you,” Joseph said. “Come with me to the chapel?”

Trying not to recognize that dread, lest he give it more legs than it already had, John nodded his head. “Of course. Though, you know you never have to…”

“It’s the least I could do,” his brother interjected lightly, waiting patiently as he closed the door to his temporary base of operations and then fell into step with him to the chapel. The evening was brisk and chilly, and when Joseph said, “And where is our deputy?” John stifled a rueful smile.

“Taking a walk, with Faith,” John replied. “And the dog, of course.”

“Of course.” He saw a smile ticking the corner of his brother’s mouth, small and almost imperceptible. “It’s nice that they get along, don’t you think?”

“It is,” he agreed, “like she was always meant to be with us.”

Joseph paused outside the chapel’s doors, reaching up and giving John’s shoulder a squeeze. “Just like.”

They stepped inside. It was cool and quiet; nobody remained. The radio flickering through channels was the only noise, and they rang empty and static, not a peep out there. He wondered if the remaining members of the Family were just looking for a place to rest, or a way to get out; maybe they didn’t want anything, anymore.

He followed his brother to the front of the chapel. On the table was the map they’d been using, a few scribbled notes in Jacob’s hand-writing, and a manila envelope.

Joseph picked up the envelope and held it out to John. He took it, and then glanced inquisitively up at his brother.

“Is this—?”

“Her file,” Joseph confirmed. “What we gathered on her prior to the Collapse. Also in there are my notes from her confession, as well as what appears to be diary entries, recovered from where Kian had tried to hunt the two of you.”

Holy shit, John thought, because sitting in his hands was the exact thing that he’d wanted from the beginning. Everything that he wanted to know about Elliot was right there: waiting to be read, devoured, committed to memory. He would know every single part of her, every wretched thing she had ever done, every loss she had ever suffered, every—

“And,” Joseph continued, “your marriage certificate.”

John glanced up at his brother. Suddenly, the envelope felt—different. Like an ultimatum. If he learned all of this about Elliot, and she got suspicious because he suddenly knew so much about her, and she asked where he found out and he told her—and he would have to tell her—she’d want to see it and then. And then.

And then.

“I think it’s time, John,” his brother said. “I know that you haven’t told our deputy about this arrangement. She is your wife, after all, before the eyes of this congregation and God.”

“Right,” John murmured, swallowing. “Yeah, of course. I planned on it. After tomorrow. It feels fitting, to tell her then.”

Maybe it would be better to tell her in the bunker, he thought absently, and then shoved that immediately away. No, fuck, no, I have to tell her. Tomorrow, after we finish everything.

“Good.” Joseph smiled, and for the first time in a long time he smiled with teeth, and the expression on his brother’s face almost unnerved him. He reached up, and his fingers brushed the nape of John’s neck, tilting him forward so that their foreheads pressed together.

Relief, hot and overwhelming, washed straight through him. They had been so at odds that John thought he might have forgotten what it was like to be in his brother’s good graces, but here he was.

“I am so proud of all that you have done for me, for our family, for Eden’s Gate.” Joseph’s voice rang in the hollow of his bones, vibrating straight through him, spiking in him a delirious rush of pride. “You have done so well, John, despite all that God has done to test you.”

Oh, there it was: everything in him said, finally, finally, finally, someone sees me, and he was reminded of why it was he owed Joseph so much. Because he gave him this.

“I’m—” John felt the words choke and stutter on the way out of him. It was almost too much—the finish line was in sight. Elliot had said, you can’t have both, but he could. He could, and he was going to, and it was here right in front of him.

Waiting.

“Thank you,” he managed out. “Thank you, Joseph. I only ever wanted to make you proud.”

“I know.” Joseph smiled, hand pressed against the back of John’s head, holding him gently. “I know.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Leaving the chapel, John was cruising on cloud nine; he had everything. Everything. Nobody was going to take it from him. No stupid cult, no last-minute hail mary’s from the opposing team—

As he passed by a window into the bunkhouse that had been Elliot’s before Burke had made it his home, John stopped and leaned against the siding of the house, tapping on the window. Burke was sitting at the table, leaned back, eyes closed; when the sound of John’s finger against the glass rattled again, he opened one eye.

John waved, and grinned. “Hi, bud.”

Burke stared at him. He gestured for the Marshal to push his window up, and after a few exasperated gestures, he did—reluctantly.

“Seed,” he said, tiredly. “Particular reason you’re not fuckin’ off?”

“Just wanted to stop by,” John replied slyly. “See how you were holding up. The impending apocalypse must be weighing heavily on you.”

Burke stared at him for a moment. He worked a toothpick between his teeth. His hands and feet were both cuffed, and the guards standing outside of the bunkhouse seemed to be concerned with his tone when he said, “Can’t wait to beat that shit-eating grin off of your face.”

“That’s not very professional,” John drawled. “Won’t that look poorly, in front of all of your little friends?”

“They’ll avert their eyes to let me give you some extra special attention.” Burke lifted his chin, taking the toothpick out of his mouth and spitting out the window, nearly landing on John’s shoes. “Promise.”

Impudent, John thought. Burke really just couldn’t let him have a moment, could he? “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Marshal,” he said, straightening up from the window and taking a step away. “I like it rough.”

And then he paused, turning on his heel like a swivel and lifted a finger thoughtfully.

“If you want some pointers on what I like,” he added pleasantly, “you can always ask Elliot.”

Burke’s eyes narrowed. “Your little brainwashed cultist? I think I’ll pass.” he asked, and John’s smile plummeted, wiped off of his face.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” he hissed. “You’re the failing party here, Cameron Burke. You’re going to be the one suffering when the End comes for you.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” Burke replied, “better get goin’, shouldn’t you?”

John’s teeth snapped together with a click, pain shooting up through his jaw as his molars ground. Petulant and arrogant, all the way to the very end, wasn’t he? He supposed that made it a little bit better that Jacob was going to off him.

He had everything he wanted, and not even Cameron Burke was going to take that from him.

John flashed a smile, all teeth, and held his arms out. “I suppose I should,” he replied. “Have a nice ceremony tomorrow to prepare. Though, I don’t have to tell you—you’ll be there for it, won’t you? A front row seat and all.”

Even in the dark of the growing evening, he could see Burke’s jaw clench. The Marshal pulled back from the window and slammed it shut, signaling his exit from the conversation; if John had been in a worse mood, he would have stormed right in there and shown Burke exactly what the consequences were for trying to run the show.

But there wasn’t time, because just as he was debating the logistics of doing so, he heard a dog barking in the distance and the sound of familiar voices.

“Hi, John,” Faith sing-songed at him, swinging Elliot’s hand in her own as they approached. “Isn’t it a bit late? I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” John replied with a quick smile, which was not necessarily a lie.

“Too excited,” his sister agreed playfully. 

As they approached, he could see the circles beneath Elliot’s eyes had darkened. She really wasn’t sleeping, was she? Reaching up with his free hand as soon as she was close enough, he brushed some loose strands of hair from her face and guided her close, his fingers tangling into her hair at the base of her skull and his mouth finding her temple. Faith giggled and waved her fingers at Elliot, breezing past him on her way to the chapel.

He asked, “Did you enjoy your walk?”

“It was dark,” Elliot replied, by way of explanation. Boomer sniffed around their feet and then cocked his head, listening while his eyes fixed on the dark treeline. “What’s that?”

“Hm?” John asked, distracted by Boomer’s sudden alertness. “Oh, the envelope?”

“No, John, this stupid fucking Hot Topic belt I’ve seen you wear all the time.” Elliot pulled back to look at him, eyes glimmering with amusement. “Yes, the envelope.”

He opened his mouth to respond, trying to decide if he wanted to be upfront with her about it or not; he was so caught up in his decision that he didn’t even have the time to be offended by her remark about his belt before he said, “We should go back to our house, don’t you think? The company here’s a little sour.”

Elliot’s gaze swept around curiously, and when she spotted Burke through the window, she said, “Ah.”

“You never did tell me how your talk went,” he added, taking her hand and beginning to pull her away. “Good? Bad?”

The blonde watched him for a moment, like he’d said something a little too suspicious. “It really bothers you when you don’t know what exactly is going on, doesn’t it?”

John feigned a pleased smile. “It’s my job to know what’s going on.”

“I thought it was your job to talk incessantly?”

“I am multi-faceted.”

They reached the door to their shared space—and that was a nice little thought, their space, like they had a place that belonged to the two of them—and as Elliot stepped inside, she said, “Burke wanted to know what had happened.”

John closed the door behind them, pausing and looking at her for a moment; he tried to glean any insight he could out of her expression, but he couldn’t. He could only see quiet exhaustion sitting on her face, just there, just within his reach.

“And?” he prompted, when she failed to elaborate. She walked into the bathroom and turned the water on, washing her face; quickly, John opened the envelope and thumbed through the documents until he found what he was looking for. He slid the paper beneath the nightstand beside the bed and shut the envelope, smoothing the metal pins out. There, he thought, like it was never opened.

“I told him the truth,” Elliot replied from the bathroom, shutting the water off. “About the Family. About—you. And your siblings.”

“Well, he did refer to you as my ‘little brainwashed cultist’, so I imagine that conversation didn’t go well.”

The blonde stepped out of the bathroom, crossing her arms over her chest and watching him for a moment. That was answer enough, he supposed—whatever friendliness had lingered between Elliot and Burke seemed to have been decimated by the reality of their situation.

“What’s in the envelope?”

“It’s your file,” John said, plainly. Elliot’s jaw tensed.

“My file,” she reiterated.

“Yes. All of the things Joseph had on you before, including your confession to him and some papers they found in Kian’s bag of belongings. Back in the woods.”

Her eyes flickered, and she exhaled, long and tired. He could tell that she didn’t like that he had it. She had so desperately tried to keep him from knowing what it was that haunted her, though he had mostly pieced it together by now—an ex-boyfriend gone bad, the resulting fallout, all wadded up into a tiny ball of trauma that sat right in her ribs. All of those times Elliot had tried to cling to those shreds of control—and everything about her had been handed to him in a manila envelope. He imagined that it was quite frustrating.

John offered, “I haven’t looked at it.”

“Why not?”

“I thought,” he began, carefully, “that you might want it. For yourself.”

Elliot looked at him warily. “You’re just going to give it to me?”

“Elliot,” he said as he closed the space between them, “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you. I’ll give you anything you want.” John reached up, brushing his fingers against the slope of her neck, feeling the way her pulse jumped at the contact. “Besides, I have you. What do I need the file for?”

He wanted it. He wanted to read her file, learn every gritty detail about her, memorize them the same way she’d memorized his scars and tattoos with her fingers; to know her, inside and out, so that there wasn’t a single dark corner of her that he didn’t have completely.

“Throw it away,” Elliot murmured. “I don’t want it. I don’t want it anywhere. Please, just throw it away.”

“If that’s what you really want,” John agreed.

“It is.”

She leaned up and kissed him; her hands cradling his jaw and pulling him there, her mouth soft and compliant against his. He dropped the envelope in favor of getting both of his hands on her, walking her back against the nearest wall and sliding his fingers beneath the hem of her sweater. Elliot’s breath stuttered and hitched prettily, but she pulled back until her mouth was just out of his reach.

Still, though her head was tilted otherwise, her fingers tugged on the front of his shirt and crowded him against her, close. If he thought about it too hard—about the way they had begun, hissing and spitting, and how they were now—he’d have thought he was dreaming, how she wanted him in her space now.

“Let’s go,” the blonde said, her voice urgent. “Tonight. To the ranch.”

“You—” John paused, watching her. “You want to go tonight? Why not tomorrow?”

“I don’t want to be here,” she murmured, “in the compound. I want—”

Elliot stopped, then, worrying her lower lip between her teeth for a moment. “I want to have some time,” she continued, “with you, before... Everything. Just us.” Her mouth twisted in what John thought could only be a playful smile. “Like old times.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, narrowing his eyes amusedly. “Which times are those? The times where you told me to go fuck myself, or—”

“I think you liked it.”

“Your mouth is one of my favorite things about you, yes.”

“So,” she continued, “can we go tonight?”

John, propped up against the wall with her caged between his arms, studied her for a moment. It wouldn’t be bad to get some time away from the compound that wasn’t some kind of macabre venture out into Fall’s End, haunting her with all of the things she used to have and had once been.

“Sure,” he said finally, “I don’t see why not. Just a little time for us.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Though he had been less than thrilled about the idea of Elliot being outside of the compound, Jacob had confirmed that the ranch was cleaned out of bodies and ready for them. When they swept past Burke in the bunkhouse, watching them through the window, John’s eyes went to Elliot—trying to see if there was anything in her expression, trying to see if there was a blink of affection or recognition.

There wasn’t. Elliot walked past without looking at the U.S. Marshal and swung into the driver’s side of the truck, and when John reached across the console to drop the keys in her hand, her gaze and expression were clear of any cloudiness.

When they got to the ranch, it was quiet; the lights had been left on, and while John knew that the bodies were gone and cleaned out, he still braced himself for impact when they walked in. The bookshelf had been righted again, and the strong smell of cleaning solution lingered in the air, but for the most part, everything was exactly where he’d left it.

It was a shame, then, that soon they’d be slipping underground.

“Bleach,” Elliot said, walking up the stairs after him. “How romantic.”

“It’s your mess they were cleaning,” John replied dryly, flashing her a grin over his shoulder. “In case you forgot.”

“I didn’t.”

He pushed the door open to the master bedroom, taking in a little breath and turning to look at Elliot. She was inspecting the room, and for a second, John almost felt self-conscious—that she was here, now, with him. In his home. Touching his things. Looking at him.

It was almost unnerving to think about; that some time ago, she had been viciously looking for any way out. But of course, she had come around. She was always going to come around, one way or another. He thought about the way she’d spit Go fuck yourself, John, the way she’d tried her hardest to be as obtuse and unhelpful as possible, how she’d said in the bar you can’t have both but here he was.

Here she was.

There was only one thing left standing in the way, and it was something he had all the power in the world to change if he wanted to.

“What are you thinking about?” the blonde asked, arching a brow at him loftily.

“You,” John said, and it wasn’t a lie. Her lashes fluttered and she almost looked shy, for a moment; when he reached out and tugged her close by the belt loop of her jeans, he added, “What do you think about getting married?”

With her hands steadying herself on his chest, she barked out a laugh. “In general? Or us getting married?”

“Primarily the latter.”

“I—” Elliot blinked, and shook her head. “I don’t... What do you mean, what do I think about us getting married?”

“Do you like the idea?” John prompted. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the slope of her jaw.

“We’ve barely been together,” she murmured. “And—you still piss me off.”

“That’s amore.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Elliot groaned, and John grinned, sliding his arms around her to pull her closer still. He hoisted her up into his arms and carried her to the bed; when he’d settled her there, on her back and with her legs looped loosely around his waist, she watched him for a moment. “I don’t know. I’ve never wanted to get married.”

John cocked his head. “Not even once?”

“Not even once.”

“And why not?”

“Why would I?” she retorted. “The only marriage I ever saw was my dad dragging my mama’s credit through the dirt and then fucking off the second he got tired of playing house. Giving up my last name to someone? Letting someone take that away from me?”

John leaned down, pushing her sweater up and pressing his mouth to the curve of her hip cutting up and over her jeans. Her breath stuttered for a moment, and she squirmed when he let his tongue slide along one of her scars.

“I know this is going to sound crazy,” he said, “but marriage isn’t all about giving. It’s about receiving, too.”

He watched the heat crawl into her cheeks, undoing the button of her jeans and sliding them down until they pooled on the floor with a whisper. She said she’d never wanted to get married, but he thought after tomorrow—after she saw how beautiful it would be, to have her sin revealed and in the open—she would change her mind. For him, she would.

Elliot let out a sharp, stuttering breath. “Come here,” she said, tugging on him a little to guide him back up to her. He obliged, and she tangled her fingers into his hair and kissed him; long and patient, lips parting beneath his and her tongue flickering playfully against his mouth. She skimmed her fingers along his chest, down until she could undo his belt and pull it from the loops, discarding it on the floor.

“Miss Honeysett,” John murmured.

“John,” she replied, as her fingers deftly undid his jeans.

“Are you trying to seduce me?”

“You did take my pants off.”

He laughed, the sound sweeping out of him just before Elliot pulled him down into another kiss. She shifted and squirmed against him, pushing and working with her fingers until they were skin on skin. There was a second, a heartbeat of time, where Elliot paused, her gaze flickering over him.

“I want—a home,” she said, her voice quiet, “with you. I don’t have one anymore, and I...”

John dragged his fingers along the exposed skin of her sternum, down and down and down, and she sucked in a sharp little breath the second he found exactly he was looking for.

“You have it,” he replied against her mouth, and a spike of heat sprinted up his spine when he beckoned his fingers against her and she whimpered. “You have it, El, I told you—”

Elliot’s nails dug into his shoulder and she said, “John,” and her voice plunged a little when she did, pitching high and sweet and just the way that he liked it; he mouthed a spot on her neck, sighing against her skin.

“Love those sounds you make,” he murmured. “So good for me.”

“Yes,” Elliot said breathlessly, turning her head so that their noses could brush, “yes, I am, for you—so, please—”

So, please, she said, so sweetly, wanting and hurting and needy as she clutched him, as her breath hitched in anticipation when John pressed up against her, slow and without urgency.

“Is this what you wanted to come here for?” John rumbled against her mouth, breathing unsteady. “So I could f—fuck you in peace and quiet?”

The blonde moaned her agreement as she kissed him. Her body arched up against his, impatient, and when he finally pressed into her all the way, she let out a sigh, her fingers twisting in his hair.

It was too good; too tight, too hot, and the way Elliot held him close, like she thought she was going to disappear if she didn’t keep her grip on him, made the trickle of heat turn into a wildfire splitting through his body. He groaned, the pace excruciating and delicious as he made sure to take each drag as slow as possible.

“F-Fucking—faster,” Elliot whimpered against his mouth, “John—”

“No,” he ground out, slotting his hips against hers tightly before drawing back out again. “You have to—I want you just like this, hellcat—”

She made a sweet keening noise and rocked her hips up, impatient; each time she did sent another sharp jolt of desire sprinting through him, and he bit out a low swear and gripped her hip with one hand.

“Brat,” he moaned. “Wants everything her way but can’t—f-fucking—behave.”

“Fuck you,” Elliot replied, but there was no real heat in her words; she said it in a broken, stuttering breath. “What if I want you faster? What if I want you to fuck me until you just can’t stand it—”

“Stop.” John gritted the words out between his teeth; if there was one thing that sent him to his undoing, it was Elliot and her filthy mouth. “God, you—fucking—”

Elliot dragged him in for a kiss, open-mouthed and slick and wanting, and she begged, “John, I want you so badly—I need—”

And her words stuttered for a moment, like she was catching herself before she could say something that she thought might be embarrassing. John’s hand came up and pressed to her jaw, tilting her face back to him so that he could see her; gazing at him through her lashes, flushed and lips kiss-reddened and eyes dreamy and dazed.

“Tell me,” he managed out, through the haze of his own pleasure. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” Elliot moaned, “I need you, John.”

“Fuck,” John ground out. He was powerless to go against her wishes when she was looking at him like that, and saying I need you, and twisting her fingers in his hair and—

And when he snapped into her, she sighed his name like a prayer, like he was holy, and he thought that it would have been a crime not to give her what she wanted. It was almost as good as taking it slow; hearing Elliot whimper yes yes yes into their liplock as he fucked her, rough and a little unforgiving, nearly sent him spiraling.

When he slipped a hand between them, dragging the pad of his thumb across the neediest part of her, he felt her tighten; closecloseclose, it said, and Elliot made a wrecked, desperate sound and kissed him just as she came unraveled, panting his name.

His followed close behind—it hit hard, a strange, empty moment just before the ricocheting pleasure rattled around in his skeleton. John buried his face into Elliot’s neck and moaned, gripping her tight to him, and she arched up a little into him and made him hiss.

“You,” he said breathlessly into her neck, “are getting too comfortable using that filthy mouth of yours to get what you want.”

She laughed, raking her fingers through his hair. “You like it.”

“I’ve said that I do.”

“How much?” Elliot idled, and he felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

“Wicked thing, aren’t you?” he asked, instead of answering her question. Her lashes fluttered, and when John leaned down and dragged his teeth against her pulse point, she made a soft, sweet sound, squirming in his arms.

“I’m going to sleep,” she announced. Having disentangled themselves and slipped under the covers, she settled back against the pillows and he was reminded, once again, of the dark circles lingering under her eyes. “Feels like I have slept a fucking wink in the compound.”

“Fine,” John agreed, kissing her temple. “You’ll need your rest for tomorrow, anyway.”

It took some time for them to fall asleep; Elliot slept more fitfully than he, and each time she shifted or sighed or rolled it woke him up, too. Eventually, the blonde settled with her face tucked against John’s chest, her fingers absently tracing over the shape of his scar until her breathing slowed and she drifted back off.

Sometime around three in the morning, she stirred, sliding out of bed and making her way to the bathroom. John reached over to the nightstand and picked up his watch to squint at it in the dark. He heard the sink running, and the door to the bathroom was slightly ajar.

“Can’t believe it’s almost the end of November,” he said, out loud and to no one in particular, though Elliot’s head peeked out of the bathroom. She’d wrapped herself in his robe, cinching it tight around her waist.

“It is?” she asked, tiredly. “What’s the date?”

“The twenty-first.”

Elliot stilled for a moment. A strange emotion swept over her face; he thought that it was almost sadness. “It’s my birthday tomorrow.”

John set the watch back down on the nightstand. “Well, perfect timing then. I just gave you an incredible birthday present. How old are you turning? And why do you look so terribly distressed?”

“Fuck off,” she muttered when he grinned at her. “Twenty-six, asshole.” And then, like an afterthought: “It’s just that normally by now, I’m—”

The blonde cut herself off, and then shook her head, rubbing her eyes tiredly and walking back into the bathroom to turn the water off.

“Elliot?” he called. “What is it?”

“Just weird,” she replied after a minute, “being... Having a birthday. Here. Like this.”

He settled back against the pillow. “Come back to bed.”

She did as he asked, obliging him as she slid back under the blankets and covers. The robe was still on, and he pulled at the hem of it playfully. Elliot somehow looked more tired than before; and her eyes didn’t quite meet his, like she was somewhere very far away from him.

“Looks good on you,” he murmured. “Blue’s your color.”

Elliot’s attention snapped to him. “Faith said the same thing.”

“Great minds.”

She rolled her eyes, shifting to the other side in bed so that John could tug her back against his chest, burying his face into her neck. When her breathing finally slowed a little, and regulated, John felt himself finally start to relax.

I can have both, he thought, as he began to drift back off. I can, and I will.

｡☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆｡

When Elliot awoke the next morning, the first thing that she thought was, I’m late.

It hit her differently in the cold light of day, to think her period was delayed. That’s probably what it was, anyway—a delay. Lots of things could fuck around with the timing of a period, right?

The second thing she thought was, today’s the day.

Things did seem oddly calm, as they went about their morning; they showered, and John kissed her smelling like expensive soap, and his hands went to the places he loved the most—her hips, her hair, her jaw. It was like they’d fallen into a routine with each other, in just this short period of time; but then, she supposed, that was very natural to have happened, considering that they spent so much time with each other now.

“We should do it downstairs,” Elliot said as John busied himself with some coffee. Boomer had sprinted outside at the first opportunity, taking off into the treeline to burn some of his energy off.

“Downstairs?” he asked, glancing at her. “In the room?”

“Seems fitting.”

He shrugged, sliding a cup of coffee her way and leaning across the counter. “Whatever you want, baby.”

The sound of car doors closing and voices outside stirred her attention away from John’s mouth—a wholly distracting thing—but when she turned to see the Seeds walking through the front door of the ranch, she felt her stomach plummet.

“Brought a plus one,” Jacob announced, shoving Burke forward. “Hope you don’t mind.” He fixed Elliot with his gaze. “Caught him snooping around the chapel. Isn’t that weird?”

“I—” Elliot’s brain fuzzed viciously, static biting through all other noise. Burke’s lip was split and he had a nasty black eye forming. Oh, no, she thought, oh, no, no, no, no. This is so fucking bad.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I couldn’t trust anyone to keep an eye on him, so unfortunately, that is now my job.”

“No,” Elliot said abruptly, drawing all eyes on her. “I’m—I don’t want him here.”

“Elliot,” John murmured.

“Then what do you propose I do with him?” Jacob demanded.

“I don’t know, that isn’t my fucking job,” she snapped. With the siblings all looking at her, Burke took a second and very gently, very resolutely, shook his head no.

Her mind went frantic. What does that mean? Does that mean stop kicking up a fuss? Does that mean he got to the radio? Or that he didn’t? What the fuck is the plan, now?

Joseph said, gentle, “I’m afraid we just can’t afford to lose track of him, Elliot.”

She felt fingers brushing hers. John had come around the kitchen island, and now their fingers were interlaced. It felt like she was on some kind of precipice, some great, plunging cliff into a void, and all she could do was stand by hopelessly as everything pushed her towards the edge.

She didn’t want Burke to watch. She didn’t want him to see her let John carve WRATH into her skin, but most of all—most of all, she didn’t want Burke to see that maybe it would feel good, for her, a catharsis.

“Fine,” she managed out after a moment, watching Burke’s eyes flutter shut in what might have been relief. Or suffering. “Fine, whatever.”

“Well,” Joseph murmured, “shall we get started? There’s a full day ahead of us.”

As they moved down the stairs, Elliot swallowed thickly and tried to clear and compose her brain. Everything did feel just a little bit like it was too much. Joseph there, his shoulder brushing hers; Faith and John, chatting like it was nothing to have her sit down in a chair in the middle of the room where she had been kept captive; Jacob, shoving Burke into the room and on his knees.

It was too much. She would just have to pray that Burke had gotten a chance with the radio before Jacob found him.

“We’re going to have to take your shirt off,” John said, moving into her vision, and didn’t sound like he regretted that in the least. A little rush of relief coursed through her when she realized she’d be able to focus on someone familiar—none of Joseph’s prying eyes or Faith’s sweet smiles to unsettle and unseat her. Just her, and John.

“How long is this going to take?” Burke asked, his voice bordering on vicious. Jacob gave him a little jostle.

“Why? You got somewhere to be, friend?”

Elliot barely heard them. Her eyes, her thoughts, were on John; when her shirt was discarded to the side, he skimmed his fingers along her sternum, eyes bright.

“It’s going to look so good,” he murmured, and she knew that he wasn’t paying attention to them, either. He’d seemed disappointed when she asked someone else to be there, but now, it didn’t seem like it mattered at all. “Ready?”

She nodded, feeling a little swoon of adrenaline kick through her body when John left the room and returned with a knife. John looked at her expectantly. The physical acquiescence wasn’t enough.

“Yes,” Elliot said, and John’s eyes fluttered closed just for a moment before he leaned forward and kissed her—hard and open-mouthed, his fingers bruising where they gripped her shoulder.

“Fucking Christ,” Burke ground out, and John pulled away with a wicked grin.

“You and me,” he murmured against her lips, and she nodded.

John sat down. Over his shoulder she could see Burke, sitting on his knees, his face resolutely turned to the side. She turned her gaze away, too, because she didn’t want to see—didn’t want to see Burke sitting there, biting his tongue and trying not to look at her, look at her scars and the one John was going to give her and—

The sting of the first cut barely registered through the fog of her brain. It didn’t quite hit, and then her eyes flickered down and she saw the first stream of red, and it really hit, immediately slicing through the fog of adrenaline to hit sharper, harder, nastier.

Elliot exhaled a stuttering breath. It felt exactly the same as she remembered; it wasn’t so soft, on her chest like this, but it wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation to her either. Something in her brain tripped at the pain, neurons firing rapidly; we know you, they said, as John meticulously carved the W into her skin, we know you, pain, we missed you, missed you missed you missed you.

“John,” she said, because there was a burst of panic going off in her brain like fireworks. The two parts of her—the one that self-preserved, and the one that craved this exact sting and bite—wrestled with the reality of her situation: that she was both doing and not doing the thing she had tried to deprogram out of herself.

“So good, hellcat,” John murmured, his eyes fixed on his work as he started on the R. He was fixated; he was somewhere far away from her, even as close as he was. “It’s going to look so good on you.”

And behind him, Jacob said, “C’mon, Burke, don’t you want to see what your little deputy asked for?”

“Fuck. You,” Burke bit out.

The sting, the bite; the push and pull. Elliot breathed her way through each excruciating moment, and they were excruciating, these moments, because John was utilizing every second that he had her here, like this.

And that was fine. She needed him to; both for her sake, and for Burke’s. 

Something sounded like thundering up ahead, distant but out of place. It gave her a little jolt of panic. If that was what she thought it was, then—

Elliot saw Jacob’s eyes flicker up to the ceiling, narrowing; she managed out, “Slow down,” just as John paused too, to draw his attention back to her. 

“Slower?” John asked, and the way he said it felt intimate, with his eyes fixed on her and his fingers red with her blood.

“Please,” Elliot breathed. Jacob looked at her for a moment, long and hard, but she didn’t meet his eyes; only looked at John, only waited patiently for him to begin.

After a moment, John said, his voice pitched low, “Anything you want.”

“I’ll be back,” Jacob said. He dropped his hand from Burke’s shoulder; John made a non-committal uh-huh sound, finishing off the unsteady cross of the T. She hissed, squirming in her seat at the pain, drawing Jacob’s attention for just a second long before he made his way out of the room.

The H followed next. As soon as he finished, John pulled back to admire his work; there was still a bit of bruising, but most of it was up on her shoulder, not her chest, which was now doused in crimson. Wiping his hands off with a towel, he beamed at her; all teeth and bright eyes.

“What a relief, don’t you think?” Joseph asked, his voice idle and distracted as he glanced up at the ceiling inquisitively. “To have it all out there.”

John flashed a smile at his brother, clearly pleased. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said to Elliot, coming to a stand. “We’ll have to let it heal for a while to see how it’s going to scar, and then we can go back in and—”

Before John could finish his sentence, Elliot heard the sound of car doors slamming outside, and Jacob’s voice, asking something in a demand, and then a volley of responses: it was hard to hear, a floor down, but she thought they were saying get down, get down.

“What is going on?” Joseph asked, his voice verging on something other than cool and calm, and the sound of it filled Elliot with a bright spark of joy: yes, she thought viciously, coming to a stand and feeling around for her shirt while her eyes stayed on the Seeds, yes, you fucking cockroach, squirm.

“I don’t know,” John said, stepping toward the door. “Stay here.”

He only took two more steps before the sound of Jacob shouting something above them, followed by a gunshot, and then a loud cacophony of footsteps above them.

“Jacob,” Faith breathed, her eyes wide and panicked. “Something’s happened, Father, we have to—”

“Stay,” John barked out, suddenly all business as he was hauling Burke up to his feet. “I think our friend the Marshal would like to take a look first, make sure nothing is dangerous.”

But Burke was grinning when his feet righted themselves on the ground. He sucked his teeth, looked directly at Joseph, and said, “Time’s up, fuckhead.”

Burke’s words send her stomach somersaulting. So he had gotten to the radio. He had, just in time, which meant he’d been caught just after, and now—

Now he was here, and so were all of the Seeds, too.

I fucking did it, she thought hazily, bracing herself on the chair. Holy shit. I fucking did it.

The sound of footsteps storming down the stairs made John’s eyes flicker to the doorway, and he let go of Burke, gripping the bloodied towel loosely in his hands.

Her heart was thundering in her chest. It was hard to think through the haze of pain, the stinging and burning of the cuts on her chest, but it was there, if she tried hard enough to look: hope.

But Joseph wasn’t looking at John. He was looking at Elliot.

“You,” the Father hissed, as Elliot pulled the shirt away from her chest, sticky-wet with blood. “You did this. I know you did, you fucking locust, I knew it the second you stepped foot in my chapel—brought us all here, rounded us up like lambs for the slaughter—”

“What do you mean?” John demanded. “Elliot has been with me since this whole—”

Things moved very quickly, then: through the fog of pain, Elliot heard one, two, three heavy thuds against the door before wood splintered and came crashing down, the instant array of green sights set on them—all of them, her included—and the sound of voices demanding their hands go up.

Elliot watched Joseph, hands at his sides.

“What. Did. You. Do?” Joseph ground out, his voice vicious, the rage splitting across his face almost as delicious as the fear. Faith was crying, and saying something through her tears, as John lifted his hands obediently.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see one of the SWAT members hauling Burke out of the room first. She looked at Joseph and arched a brow at him, lifting her hands obediently when the order was shouted again. 

“Oh, Father,” she sighed, her voice cloying and sweet and just between the two of them, “did God not tell you about this part?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Things were going poorly.

That is to say, Jacob had a gunshot to the shoulder that was currently being patched while he was in handcuffs—“Can’t have you bleeding out on us, can we?” the medic said, a little too gleefully, until Jacob said something along the lines of I’m gonna rip your fucking face off—and Faith was crying, and Joseph was seething, furiously whispering to himself and held in place by one of the other U.S. Marshals.

Elliot was in cuffs, too, but Burke seemed to be talking furiously with the man who had cuffed her, occasionally interrupted when Elliot would try and draw his attention back to John.

This won’t do, he thought, as panic pounded through his body, as his heart hammered against his chest. All of his siblings, in handcuffs, and Elliot too; she was, too, but she looked—

Fine.

She looked fine, and he thought about what she’d said. You can’t have both, and then she’d immediately gone back on that. Of course she had. Of course, because she was wretched and wicked and clever, and she had never truly let go of her hatred for Joseph, but they were married. They were married, and the U.S. government was going to know about it before they stuck her on a stand to testify against any of his siblings.

“I need to speak to her,” John said to the officer holding him. “The woman, there. That’s my—”

“You don’t need to do anything,” the man replied sharply, “except shut your mouth and wait patiently for us to load you and the rest of your fucking brood into the van.”

“She’s my wife,” John bit out viciously. “And she’s in cuffs, I would like to speak with my wife—”

“What did you just say?”

It was Elliot’s voice, sharp and clear and splitting through the distance between them. In the chilly Autumn afternoon, John felt the spike of pure adrenaline race through him at her tone, at the way her head snapped to him and she shouldered her way past Burke. The officer had taken her cuffs off.

Burke said, “Rookie,” in warning, but it didn’t matter, John knew; they had never been able to ignore each other, in love or in war.

“I said,” John reiterated, “you’re my wife.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Elliot demanded.

“That night,” he began urgently, “that night that you were feeling unwell after your walk with Faith, and we talked about leaving—”

Elliot started, her voice hitching, “John, what did you do—”

“—we talked about other things, too,” he plunged on. “I didn’t tell you, Elliot. I didn’t tell you because I wanted it to be the right time. I was going to tell you today, after we were done—I was going to tell you that we talked about it and I asked you if you wanted to marry me, and you told me yes—”

“Stop,” she moaned, agonized. “Stop—fucking—talking—you didn’t, John, you fucking didn’t lie to me again about this thing that you know I hate—”

“And you signed the certificate. It’s back at the compound,” John finished, trying to lean around the officer. “We’re married. You and me, hellcat, just like we say, you and—”

He saw the slap coming before it hit, but it definitely took a few seconds for the pain to actually register in his brain. And oh, then it hit; Elliot had swung her hand with the same amount of force she might have if she were close-fist punching him, but her palm connected with this side of his face and sent a sharp, red-hot shot of pain blooming and blurring behind his eyes.

Dazed, John blinked and tried to focus his attention again as the officer jostled him out of her reach. He was vaguely aware of Burke moving toward them as Elliot gritted out between her teeth, “How fucking dare you.”

“Ell,” John said, and there was blood in his mouth, his lip split from the impact of her hand. “Listen to me—”

Burke, louder and closer: “Elliot.”

“No, you listen to me, you fucking rat!” Elliot’s voice was pitching higher in volume, and higher in frequency and hysteria. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! I told you, I fucking told you what was going to happen if you lied to me again—you fucking—I’m going to fucking kill you—”

John saw Burke sling an arm around Elliot’s waist just as she lunged again, seething and furious, holding her tight against his chest as she clawed at his arms to get free. His mouth against her hair, he said, “Rookie, take a breath.”

“You take a fucking breath!”

He hauled her, all five feet and four inches of her, turning her away from John, like breaking her eyesight with him would save him the trouble of having to cuff her.

“Elliot,” John called, trying to lean past the officer, “I forgive you—”

“Fuck! You!”

“—marriage is hard work, but I know,” he continued, grinning when she finally pulled herself out of Burke’s grip, “that you’re just the woman for the job.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Every line in her expression was pulled tight with fury, and yes—John thought he should have told her sooner, maybe, but if she was going to find out, what better time to find out than in front of the very men who wanted to put her on the stand?

“Don’t you remember what you said last night? You need me,” he tried again, and he could tell the officer holding his shoulders was getting tired of him leaning around all the time. “I love you, Elliot, through sickness and in health, no matter how many—”

“Oh, John,” Elliot breathed out, like she almost couldn’t get a full lungful of air, she was so out of breath. She swayed on her feet exhaustedly, her mouth twisting around the next sentence that came out of her mouth: “I want a fucking divorce.”

The words plunged John straight into a panic, the kind that made it feel like there was a feeding frenzy going on under his skin. This was not how things were supposed to unfold. This was not how it was supposed to go. Elliot was going to be upset, sure—but he had taken great pains to make sure that she knew he was the only thing left for her, after it all. She was supposed to upset, and then see that it had been for her, it was always for her, for them. Everything he’d done, every step he’d taken, every—

She’s mine, he thought, his face still stinging, dull and hot, from her slap. Burke was saying something to her. That’s my fucking wife, whether she likes it or not.

No one was going to take her from him. Not Joseph or Jacob, not Cameron Burke, not even her. No one was going to put a serial murderer and the wife of a religious group’s lawyer on the stand. He’d make fucking sure of that.

“You think you’re gonna move on from this, El?” he demanded, managing to shoulder around the officer to make eye contact with her. His voice came out tight, sharp—slowly and purposefully careening, but he hated the strike of strange hysteria that wormed its way in there, too. “I watched you slaughter at least a hundred people in the name of “justice”—you beat a man to death with a blunt object, and you liked it—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Elliot ground out. She made to move at him, nails digging into her palms, but Burke hooked his arm around her waist and hauled her back again, much like before.

“You think you’re gonna move on and meet some nice little country boy who’s gonna love you even with all that fucking red in your ledger?” Oh, he was careening—all of the control slipping out from between his fingers, like sand. “No fucking way, baby, I’m it for you!”

“Rook,” Burke said, but there was no follow-up which made it worse; Burke said one word—one tiny little pet name—and Elliot’s attention immediately snapped to him.

John had never been made to feel like he was nothing; not like this.

“Look at me,” he snapped, and Elliot’s eyes turned to him; but he saw the fury split across her face, the absolute indignant rage. “You’re going to spend one day back in polite society and come unglued, Elliot Honeysett, and when you fucking do—you’ll be begging for me to take you back, and I guarantee you I fucking won’t.”

“That’s enough,” Burke said, but he was speaking to Elliot, looking at her.

“Maybe,” she hissed, pushing at Burke’s arm as blood seeped through the wound on her chest “you should have considered how I would react to you being a pathological liar before you fucking came inside me, you cunt.”

Her words sent a strange, uncomfortable sensation sprinting down his spine. She couldn’t be, John thought, alluding to—

But she had been surprised when he told her it was her birthday, like she hadn’t realized what day it was, and had said something like, normally by now I’m, and just hadn’t finished her thought. 

“Okay.” Burke pulled her back a few more steps, his voice strained. Pulled her away from him. “We’re taking a walk. You and me, Rookie.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” John called after her, panic rising in his voice. “Elliot? Tell me what you—”

“I mean I’m late, fuckhead,” Elliot spit at him over Burke’s shoulder.

The officer pulled him back towards the truck, dragging him by his arm as Burke took Elliot around the corner of the ranch house. His stomach was lurching nauseatingly, trying to piece it together. Had it been long enough? Of course, it had—it had been over a month, probably, maybe even more because he didn’t know how to keep track of time when he’d been drugged and kidnapped and dragged around.

If she is, he thought, frantic; if she does have my child, if she’s—

“John,” Joseph said, his voice eerily quiet as he was pushed into a sitting position across from his brother. He seemed to have recovered from his outburst earlier; there was an odd grimness about his expression. “We must remain focused.”

“She—” John blinked rapidly, trying to gather his fraying, desperate thoughts. “Joseph, she might—”

Joseph lifted a finger to his lips to signal silence. Jacob’s breathing was labored but controlled, and Faith’s gentle crying had been snuffed out. She’d only been the damsel for a few minutes before she tried to storm her way out of their grip.

“The task at hand,” Joseph cautioned him. “Then, we will figure out what to do for your son.”

My son. The words echoed hazily in his brain as the van doors slammed shut, eclipsing them.

“How do you know?” John demanded. “You know? You know that she’s—with my—”

“Of course,” his brother replied, still keeping his voice soft.

“God told me.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Take a breath.”

“No.”

“Rookie.” Burke’s voice was hard. “Look at me and take breath.”

She couldn’t. Every inch of her body was screaming—desperate for a reprieve, but there was none to be had because she was still nursing her WRATH wound, because she was heaving out great, panicked breaths between ragged cries.

“I can’t,” Elliot moaned, her hands shaking, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—”

Burke snagged her hand and pressed it to his neck, just like before, but this time it didn’t do anything; this time, she just felt the spiral hit harder, the overwhelming sensation of touching and being touched sending her brain sprinting in panic.

She yanked her hand out of his grip and clutched her knees to her chest, ignoring the warm seep of blood even against the bandages the medic had patched her with and the sting of the pressure of her bones pressed up against the wound.

Burke stayed, and she noticed. He stayed, and he didn’t have to—he was done, free, could leave and go home—but he stayed sitting there with her, against the side of the Seed ranch, wherein many ways, things for her had began.

So, she cried; she sobbed into her jeans until she thought she was going to be dizzy from gasping for air, and Burke stayed, and waited until her hand fumbled for his blindly before he touched her again. His fingers gripped hers, firm and soothing.

“Is it true?” he asked, when she had stopped her crying, when she had breathed so much there was too much oxygen in her brain. His gaze flickered over her. “That you’re… With that fucker’s…”

“I don’t know,” Elliot replied, exhausted. “I’m—fuck, I’m late, and I didn’t realize until yesterday, because it’s been so fucking—”

Burke passed his free hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m sorry,” and the words came out of her agonized; because she could hear the disappointment in his voice, or what she thought was disappointment. “I thought—I thought he—Burke, I—”

“I know, Rook,” Burke murmured, not unkindly. “Just focus on breathing. I know.”

A few more moments of silence passed between them, filled only with the sound of voices and out and the kick of an engine starting and pulling out from the ranch. After her breathing had evened out again, Burke said, “They’re going to be retrieving Kian’s body.”

Elliot stared at the ground, feeling numb. He didn’t have to say; she knew what that meant. Government officials were going to see what she’d done to Kian. They were going to see it, and see that she was legally married to one of them, and see that she was carrying the child of one of them, and see her history, and all of these things were going to add up.

The picture was not going to be a good one.

“I’ve gotta take you in, Rook,” Burke said quietly. “At the very least, to a therapist.”

She sniffed. I love you, John had said, after he’d lied. Lied, and lied, and lied, and used her, and lied, and if he loved her, he didn’t love her in any way that she understood.

“Okay,” she whispered.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

“Yeah.”

“I know what you’ve been through, and you know I’ll vouch for you. I saw firsthand the kind of—the shit that was going on,” he insisted. “I just—want you to have a realistic picture of what it’s gonna look like, when we get back. They’re gonna autopsy Kian’s body, and—”

She took in a long, suffering breath. “I’m really tired,” Elliot said, her voice breaking a little. “Can we—are we going straight there, or?”

Burke paused, his expression softening, and shook his head. “We’ll hit a motel or two along the way.”

Elliot nodded, closing her eyes and pressing her face back into her knees. She stayed like that for a while; it was hard to tell how much time passed, but eventually, someone came around the corner and said something to Burke, and he tugged her to her feet and walked her to the car.

The sensation of Burke’s hand slipping out of hers sent another burst of panic flooding through her; her body was so tired, so very fucking tired of managing the adrenaline, but the more she tried to calm down the more tired she got.

“I want to stay with you,” she said, feeling hazy and tightening her hand around Burke’s. The Marshal looked at her for a long moment and then nodded.

“Alright, kid,” he murmured, reaching up and squeezing her shoulder. “We’ll stick together.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Time passed differently, after that. Elliot couldn’t have said how long it took them to get to the first motel; it couldn’t have been seconds, or minutes, or months for all that she knew. She was numb when they set her up in a motel room with two beds, she was numb when they checked her scar and redressed it.

“Fucking Christ,” the medic said under his breath when he saw the WRATH wound, still hot and trying its best to scab over. “You poor thing.”

It’s not me, Elliot thought miserably, opening her mouth; but no words would come. All she could think was, I asked for this, I’m not the poor thing, please don’t.

“Hey,” Burke barked out, his voice sharp as he took in Elliot’s crumpling expression. “Let’s get it cleaned and let her sleep, buddy.”

The medic nodded, thoroughly scolded, and worked quickly after that. When he’d finished and she had swallowed two Tylenol dutifully, Burke watched her climb under the covers of the bed and said, “I’ve gotta make a call. You okay in here?”

She swallowed thickly. He was looking at her like he was wary of her. The same way Whitehorse had looked at her.

“Yeah,” Elliot murmured. “I’m fine.”

He gave her a tight, tired smile and then stepped out of the motel room, closing the door behind him. Silence lingered there for a little while; Elliot tried to close her eyes and sleep, her fingers brushing through Boomer’s fur as he dozed, but the low, murmuring sound of Burke talking just outside stirred her anxiety, and each time she closed her eyes she just saw John’s face.

John, holding her face and kissing her, You and me. John, burying his face into her neck, I love you.

John, their noses brushing, We can have a place to belong, Elliot.

John, vicious and unyielding, I’m it for you.

She lurched out of the bed, pushing her way into the bathroom and shutting the door behind her just in time to lean over the toilet and throw up whatever was left in her stomach—which wasn’t much, if the amount of dry-heaving were any indication. Bile burned at the back of her throat, and she thought if she didn’t get a breath of air she was going to fucking die.

Elliot pushed the window open and tried to steady her breathing. Rinsing her mouth out in the sink, she shut the water off and paused, looking at herself in the mirror.

The person that looked back at her was unfamiliar. A stranger. She blinked rapidly, trying to steady herself, but each time she did, she felt less and less familiar with the gaunt, sharp-faced, dark-eyed stranger gazing back at her from the mirror. Some bruises along her neck and shoulders still remained.

Who are you? She thought, tiredly. The one that killed all of those peggies? The one that killed Kian? Why don’t I recognize you?

“... understand that, sir, it’s just—if you saw what was going on...”

Burke’s voice drifted in through the window. He must have been pacing, because the volume of his words drifted and moved, as though he were walking around the corner and then back again.

His footsteps paused. “No, I have not read the autopsy report yet. I didn’t think it pertinent at this time, considering we only just—”

She heard Burke’s words cut abruptly, the sound of his breath leaving him in a sharp exhale, and then he said, “Jesus Christ. No, I didn’t know.”

Oh, she thought hazily, oh, he knows. He knows what I did.

Her body moved automatically. Something inside of her kicked—we’re not done yet, it said, ferocious and furious, sinking its teeth into her and operating her body outside of her own executive function. We’re not fucking done yet.

Elliot pulled her sweater and her shoes on. The late autumn chill drifting through the open window made her mind feel sharp, and clear, and she thought, somthing has to be done, and I’ll fucking do it.

She stuffed a couple of things that felt essential into a bag—painkillers, bottles of water from the fridge, Burke’s gun he’d left on the nightstand closest to the door—and then waited until she heard his footsteps pacing around the corner again before she ducked out of the window.

When she looked back, Boomer had already leapt through the window after her. His eyes were on her, bright, ready.

And then she ran.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

She’s twenty-six, and she’s in a bar.

Or that’s how it would go, anyway, if she was asleep. If she were dreaming, or remembering. But she wasn’t. Elliot was twenty-six, and she was in a bar, and she wasn’t waiting for her best friend to come back with a different drink, and she wasn’t making eyes at a handsome blue-eyed stranger from across the bar. He wouldn’t come over and call her beautiful, and he wouldn’t make her want to be kissed by someone whose face looked a little sharp, and she wouldn’t one day think that maybe she was in love with him.

I’m just a girl, she thought tiredly, staring at the water glass on the counter in front of her. This wasn’t supposed to be my life.

But it was. It was her life. Here she was, sitting in a seedy bar halfway to Georgia, with a U.S. Marshal’s gun she’d lifted sitting in her bag. She’d hitch-hiked a ride back into Fall’s End, grabbed what remained of her things—her ID, what little cash she still had on her, a debit card she was too paranoid to use, dog food—and then she’d taken the jeep parked out behind the Keller’s old place and drove.

And drove. And drove. And drove.

Now, she was twenty-six, sitting in a bar, and there is no Joey coming to rescue her, and there is no John to be a monster that she needed rescuing from.

I’m just a girl. This wasn’t supposed to be my life.

She left the cash for her water on the bar top, hauling herself out of the stool and back out into the parking lot. It was late; the sky was speckled with stars; if she thought hard enough, if she really thought about, Elliot thought maybe, somewhere inside of her, she was going to be okay.

As she climbed into the driver’s seat of the jeep, Elliot turned the key into the ignition and reached into a grocery store bag on the passenger seat, fumbling around for the cigarettes she’d purchased. Her fingers hit hard plastic and she glanced over.

The two little tiny lines on the pregnancy test stared back at her. Her stomach lurched, nausea welling up inside of her, and she tossed the hard plastic back into the bag and left the cigarettes untouched. Boomer, dozing in the back seat, pricked his ears forward and looked at her inquisitively.

She was just a girl. This wasn’t supposed to be her life. But it was—and there was only one place left to go from here.

Home.

[cats-obsessions]

The Survey Never Lies

Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion Modern au, something fluffy

Read on ao3

Summary:

Jaskier convinces Geralt to try Speed dating. The results are not what either of them expected.

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

Geralt isn’t exactly sure what possessed him to agree to this. It’d been a rough past few months, with contracts being few and far between, and when they came, they were truly the worst. To say that this dry spell had extended to other areas in his life was an understatement; even Yennefer was able to move on by now after their latest, seemingly permanent, breakup. ‘Move on’ might be an understatement- enough time had passed for Yennefer to go into full-blown party mode, get over it, begin a new and honestly adorable relationship with their mutual friend Triss, and make up with him to the point of being hostile friends again.

That is to say, it has been a long time.

With next to no money and even less company, even Geralt could admit he has been feeling down. And yet, of course, Jaskier was always there right beside him through it all. It was always that way. Which is precisely why he got himself into this mess.

Initially, when the troubadour had suggested they try speed dating, Geralt was quick to strike the idea down. He’d already gone through the pains of using that awful dating app at Jaskier’s insistence, and he wasn’t about to have a rerun of that disaster. But then, Jaskier started to frame it as if he was the one that needed a date, and Geralt accompanying him would just be a favor- just to keep him company if it was boring, and to keep him safe if things went wrong. Geralt knows that was just a ploy to make him go, but between that and big blue puppy dog eyes, he found himself reluctantly agreeing.

Jaskier did not, however, tell him how horrible it would be. ‘it won’t take long’. Bullshit. Over an hour of small talk with strangers, and Geralt feels like he wants to crawl out of his skin. The establishment isn’t the finest, either. Everything is cheap- 90s music playing on shitty speakers grate on his eardrums, dimmed florescent lighting and fake candles on every table make it feel morel like a pizza parlor than a romantic dinner. And then there’s the people.

They’ve been paired into groups based on some benign personality survey they were forced to take when they got there, then paired off for short conversations. Five-minute sessions are timed on a buzzer, each blessed ring marking the end of the conversation, and bringing with it another stranger. They’re awkward at best and insufferable at worst.

It’s Geralt’s personal nightmare incarnate.

The best conversation he’s had all night was about one woman’s five cats. The worst was probably when a man tried to lean across the table and grab at his medallion without asking and Geralt found himself releasing an inhuman snarl before he could stop himself. The poor guy ended up hiding in the bathroom for the remaining duration of their five minutes, but that’s what he gets for trying to touch people, especially a witcher, without asking.

Even the cheap beer doesn’t make it better. When the timer dings, and all the participants in the room begin to shuffle to new tables, Geralt takes a moment to look down at his glass, taking a long, long sip of tasteless beer. By the time he has glanced up again, Jaskier is seating himself across the table, wine glass in hand. The bard flashes him a toothy grin, leaning in closer, propping his elbows on the scratchy, off-white tablecloth. As per usual, his button down shirt is left undone far too low, exposing a far too distracting patch of chest hair that Geralt most certainly doesn’t stare at, nor do his eyes slowly trace up exposed skin of his collar bones and neck to the slight blush tinging his cheeks.  

“So, how’s it going, my friend? Found the new Mrs. Rivia, or Mr., though, I suppose it’s not guaranteed he’d take your last name. Not that it’s guaranteed with a woman, either. You could take her name. Though, I do like yours- better than my own, actually.”

Geralt glances away, trying his best to hide his smirk at Jaskier’s prattling, “Hm.”

“Oh, come on now, use your words. We’ve talked about this. You’re not going to find someone when I’m the only person that understands your unintelligible grunting.” Jaskier chides, though it is true. Somehow, over the years since they met in that shitty bar in Pasoda, Jaskier has come to understand the witcher well- better than most. Where other humans shy away from him, Jaskier became stuck to him, following him on hunts and writing songs about their adventures- reluctant at first, he’s now thankful for the bard.

Geralt sighs “This is hopeless, Jaskier.”

“No, it’s not!”

“It is. They’re all- ugh, I don’t know.” Geralt rubs his hand over his face, “They’re all either freaked out by me or oblivious to what I am, and they just talk about their normal lives and normal jobs and- and how Geofry from accounting fucked things up again, while I’m sitting here thinking last week I was swallowed by a fuckin’ kikimora. I don’t fit in here.”

“That was horridly disgusting, but lots of people are into adventurous men. What about Eveline? She seemed amenable.” Jaskier gestures to the woman a few tables down with long red hair. Yes, she had found Geralt attractive, in dim lighting which hides his scars and expands his pupils into circles rather than slits, but that doesn’t translate to companionship, or even a night of fun. Yet, Jaskier is always the optimist, “There’s still hope yet!”

Geralt shakes his head “Easy for you to say. You don’t need to go speed dating to find someone. Everyone likes you.”

“As flattering as that is, I think, there’s nothing wrong with speed dating. Anyone who isn't interested in you is a fool. Besides, it's not always that easy for me! I’m looking for something a bit more committed this time. Not that I didn’t have great affections for my previous romances. Just…” Jaskier trails off, tongue sticking out slightly as he looks for the right terms.

“Momentarily and in measured amounts?”

“Mm,” Jaskier hums in agreement.

“Infatuation has to wear off some time.”

“So I’ve been told. Seems some hang around longer than others though,” He mutters. He casts his eyes down as if in thought, his ever-moving hands finding the rim of his wine glass, a long finger tracing it in a way that emits a high-pitched noise the musician likely isn’t even aware of. Geralt grunts, frowning slightly as he grabs Jaskier’s hand to remove it from the glass. The bard lets himself be moved easily, fingers warm and inviting under the witcher’s touch.

“Noise,” he grumbles.

Jaskier smiles apologetically, “Ah, witcher hearing. Sorry, my dear.”

His fingers tap on the tabletop, looking for something to fidget with in the wine glass’ absence. He finds the long-abandoned conversation que cards so kindly provided by the event’s organizers, as if they knew rightfully well how miserably uncomfortable this predicament would be.

“Have you looked at these at all tonight?” he asks, picking them up to glance through them.

“Tried not to. They’re deplorable.” Yet, the well-worn corners of the cards attest to how many attendees truly rely on them.

Jaskier smiles coyly “You’ve been showing people pictures of your lovely lady Roach again haven’t you?”

“Maybe” he blushes, both of them chuckling. “People like horses”

“Mm, that would only be a good pick-up tactic if she didn’t bite strangers.”

“She’s shy.” He defends, though he knows she’s not. She’s just picky; she’s never tried to bite Geralt, or Eskel or Vesemir for that matter. These days, she likes Jaskier enough to let him ride her when they visit her stables at Vesemir’s farm.

Jaskier glances to the clock, red numbers counting down the seconds until he will be subjected to yet another stranger. “We still have a bit of time, want to try these dumb questions?”

“Is silence not an option?” Geralt groans, though not without the hint of a smile on his lips.

Jaskier swats at him lightly, ignoring the comment. He flips through the cards, reading a few under his breath “What color is your personality? That’s dumb- yours is blue, obviously, and mine is yellow. Hmm, Ah, here’s one.” Geralt tilts his head, waiting “Describe your best friend.”

He can’t help but snort at that “Annoying.”

“First of all, rude. Second of all, appropriate answers could have included handsome, funny, talented, brilliant, loyal” Jaskier counts his claimed attributes on his fingers, likely to go on forever lest Geralt interrupt.

“Reckless, frivolous-” He jumps in, a teasing, toothy grin on his face.

“Fun. Fun is the term you’re looking for. It doesn’t matter though. I know you adore me.”

There’s too much truth in the words; though he wouldn’t hesitate to call Jaskier his friend -his best friend- adoration is a strong word, a word unknown to many witchers. Yet, he can’t deny the way Jaskier makes his heart fill with warmth, makes him feel alive and safe like he never has before. But that is something he’d much rather keep to himself. Geralt looks away, surely blushing as he lets a curtain of white hair falls in front of his face, hopefully hiding the pink tinge.

Jaskier watches him quietly, that soft warm expression in his eyes that somehow seems to be reserved for the witcher. A moment of silence passes before he snaps out of it, only a few seconds left on the clock “Wanna get out of here?”

At that, Geralt perks up, “I could use a real drink, but what about your search?”

“I don’t think I’ll find the one in this crowd,” he says, looking out on the group, a disappointed little pout pulling at his lips for just a moment before he turns back to Geralt, ever bright smile returning to his face.

Geralt nods, standing up and slipping on his jacket in preparation to leave. He catches Jaskier’s eyes roaming over him for a moment before the bard diverts his gaze, catching his lip between his teeth. Geralt does his best to focus on anything else. Whatever warmth or fluttering feelings it may give him, he knows he’s just imagining his friend’s interest.

They almost make it out with everyone around them shuffling to new tables. But, of course, they’re stopped by the group coordinator. They’d met him when they came in- a young man far too invested in this program, reciting his company provided lines with an unnatural enthusiasm.

“Looks like you two are having a good time. I’m glad to see some real sparks fly tonight! Sneaking off already?” the man grins, a little too much, as he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“Oh, we were just-” Jaskier begins, laughing slightly under his breath.

“No, don’t tell me- for liability reasons and such. But good news!” he exclaims, “According to our survey, you two are our most compatible couple of the night, and the survey never lies!”

“Of course, we-” He’s cut off again, and next to him, Jaskier cringes.

“Which means, if you’re interested and it certainly seems like you are, you have won our luxury romance date package!”

“I think there’s been a mis- Sorry, what?” Geralt stops as the boy pushes a bright pink, sparkling gift card into his hand.

“$200.00 to the White Orchard, free drinks included and guaranteed reservations within the month. All you have to do is go together, have fun, and discover the romance of your lives!” The boy’s smile doesn’t falter as he continues to speak. “I’m legally obligated to tell you we have not run background checks on anyone.”

“But we’re-” Jaskier tries to speak, but not before Geralt can stop him.

“Excited!” Geralt grins, grabbing Jaskier’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “Thank you!”

$200 is $200. He’s not about to let the first chance he’s had at a fine dinner in who knows how long go by because of Jaskier’s big mouth. So, with that, he leads the bard outside, their hands still firmly grasped together, and pointedly doesn’t think about why his thumb is rubbing circles into the back of his best friend’s hand. Nor does he consider how well their fingers fit together. He certainly doesn’t notice the disappointed pang in his chest when their hands separate as they step out into the cold night air outside.

One glance between them and their prize, and neither of them can stifle their laughter. “I can’t believe you almost said no to the nicest restaurant in town.” Geralt chides, elbowing Jaskier lightly as they begin to walk home.

“I can’t believe it either. It’s like the offer didn’t register in my brain yet.” Jaskier chuckles.

Geralt rolls his eyes at him “Seems to happen a lot.”

Jaskier deliberately ignores him, instead leaning over his shoulder to look at the gift card, still cradled in Geralt’s hand “It is ‘luxury romance’” Jaskier snickers, “We may have to keep up this act a bit longer.

“Apparently it’s not too difficult.” Geralt sneers “Some survey. Of course, we match; we spend all our time together.”

Jaskier’s chuckles quiet down, a silence hanging between them as he seems to think it over, “I have known you longer and more deeply than any other in my life. There’s no one I’m more comfortable with.”

“And I you.” He doesn’t often admit such things, but somehow in the silence of the night, with the way Jaskier had stated it so gently, he can’t help but know he truly means it when he agrees. After the silence becomes too heavy, Geralt clears his throat “Anyways, it’ll be fun.

“Yea, fun.”

Somehow, Jaskier’s voice comes out flat, preoccupied. When Geralt glances over at him, his lip is caught between his teeth again, his face scrunched in deep contemplation. It’s not a long walk back to their apartments, their complexes within walking distance of each other. Geralt doesn’t push, silence between them doesn't normally bother him after a night of so much noise. But try as he might, he can't help but wonder if Jaskier is bothered by the implication they were- could be a couple. Instead, he tries to focus on the sounds of the city, cool air blowing around them, leaves crinkling as they skip across the cement sidewalk.

When they approach Jaskier’s apartment complex, they stop in front of the old brick stairs leading inside, and Geralt waits for either an invitation inside or a declaration that Jaskier has changed his mind about drinks. He looks… uneasy. His hands are shoved into his pockets, and he shifts back and forth on his feet.

“Um, Geralt?” Jaskier says, voice uncertain for once.

“Hm?”

“I, um,” Geralt barely has time to see Jaskier stop biting his lip before suddenly his lips are on Geralt’s, his hands in his hair, caressing, not forceful. The witcher could pull away without much of a fuss, but he finds himself pulling Jaskier in by his waist, holding him tightly as if he’s afraid he’ll lose him if he lets go.

The kiss is equal parts gentle and desperate. He feels like he’s on fire; he feels like there’s electricity running through him, between them, and- and butterflies in his stomach, for maybe the first time in his life. It’s all so new and different, but he finds he doesn’t mind- not one bit.

When Jaskier pulls away, he finds his head feeling light “Jask,” he breathes lightly, their noses bumping each other lightly.

“Sorry, I-” Jaskier moves to step back, a spark of caution and panic glimmering in his eyes, as if he hadn’t felt Geralt’s desire in their embrace. “I thought-” he begins, but Geralt pulls him back in.

“I didn’t say stop.” He smiles softly, bringing up one hand to cup Jaskier’s cheek. It relaxes the bard, all the tension melting away to be replaced by a mischievous smile as the witcher pulls him into another kiss.

****

Rays of morning sun beam through the windows of Jaskier’s apartment, illuminating every inch of it. Below, the city is bustling with noise, but here, things are peaceful. Geralt woke up first, no surprise there. He would have been more than content to stay in bed all day, wrapped tightly in his lover’s embrace- the thought of that word describing Jaskier brings a smile to his face. But cursed with his witcher metabolism, he was dragged out of bed by a growling stomach.

Rummaging through Jaskier’s kitchen for breakfast, he barely notices the other man enter the room. When he turns around, Geralt is met with striking blue eyes watching him intently as Jaskier leans against the counter, dressed in his boxers and a hoodie he’d stollen from Geralt long, long ago. Geralt chooses not to dwell too much on the thought that he’s been sleeping in it all this time- for now, anyways.

“What are you so smug about?” Geralt grins, abandoning his task to invade Jaskier’s space.

The musician smiles, unabashedly staring as he runs his hands over Geralt’s exposed chest, settling above the hem of the sweat pants he snatched from Jaskier’s closet this morning, “Who wouldn’t be smug after getting a boyfriend as beautiful as you?” Even though they kissed all through the night, Jaskier’s lips on his send a shiver down his spine.

“You know what they say.” Geralt murmurs, kissing his way down to Jaskier’s neck.

As he presses dark marks into the pale skin of his throat, Jaskier only breathlessly hums in response “Hm?”

“The survey never lies.” He quotes mockingly.

Jaskier snorts, shoving at Geralt’s shoulder playfully, but the witcher doesn’t budge, only nuzzling in closer against his neck. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Very.”

[dopescotlandwarrior]

Bluegrass-Chapter Nine

                    A special thank you to @statell​ for all your help and wisdom

Previous Chapters on AO3

Chapter Nine

Claire was on her second day of coaching Runner about his air transport to the upcoming races. So far, all he wanted to do is race her. She was getting nowhere. When the answer came to her it was inspired and she smiled wickedly.

Later, Claire was in Runner's stall as he chowed down on fresh hay. She had 8X10 glossy pictures of some very fine, and fast horses. She taped the pictures to the back wall at Runner’s eye level and waited. She stroked Porcelain. Runner started throwing images at her of him beating these horses.

“Who is that horse? Oh, that’s Sham. He is favored to win the Champagne Stakes.” She threw him an image of Sham beating him.

“This little beauty is Angle Fire and she will beat you too.”

The hay was forgotten as Runner paced, getting more worked up by the minute. He sent an image of him crossing the finish line and the other two horses were way down the track, laying down. Claire laughed at the image and grabbed his face.

“The only way to race them is to ride the airplane. So be a good boy and don’t act up.”

She saw the last image of the sleeping competitors and Runner’s big finish several more times that day. He was stuck on racing them to the exclusion of every other thought. So easy, she thought.

Rupert’s giant king cab waited at the bottom of Claire’s stairs. Jamie stowed her cases and jumped in the front seat listening to Rupert explain what happened to Runner that morning at the airport.

“I’ve never seen a horse more eager to board a plane. He dragged the handler up the ramp and backed into his flight stall in under ten seconds.” They were laughing while Claire looked out the window with a slight smile. I’ve got your number Runner, she thought.

When Nick was picked up, Jamie got in the back seat to pester Claire and slapping his hand made Rupert look at her in the rearview mirror.

“Yer always pretty lass, but with yer hair down like that yer beautiful.”

Claire blushed and thanked him, and Jamie knew Rupert must be under her spell to make such a comment. He kissed her hand and felt like the luckiest man in the world.

Through the flight to New York and for the rest of the afternoon Claire tried to get Nick's attention. She wanted to talk about actually riding Runner as a partner and having input into the way he ran the race. After dinner, she pulled his arm until he stopped and looked down at her.

“Nick, you promised we would talk about techniques I can use on Runner…to help him make decisions, to actually decide for him.” Her voice got smaller as she completed the sentence because Nick was staring at her with irritation.

“Sure Claire, just pick the race you want to lose and go for it. Make him dance like a ballerina if you want, I don’t care because the race was lost as soon as you interfered.”

The blood drained out of Claire’s face and she looked at him like she didn’t know him. She felt humiliated the way he talked down to her and hated his heavy hand in the decisions about how Runner would race. Her anger and hurt feelings made this conversation impossible to continue so she took off toward the hotel.

“What the fuck is wrong with you Nick? Do ye really feel that way, are ye blind to the bond they have?”

Jamie’s face was purple with his rage as he fired off questions to the insufferable trainer. He wanted to rip his skin off for the way he talked to Claire, but found himself looking at a puffed-up self-anointed king of the trainers and his energy to hurt the man blew away.

“I won’t be needin your services anymore Nick, yer fired. I’ll have a ticket delivered to yer room and ye won’t be runnin into Claire on yer way out, by chance or otherwise. Yer done here, now get away from me.”

Nick looked at Jamie like he had lost his mind. He had trained racehorses for twenty years, no one knew this sport better than him.

“It’s a fluke that horse has won what he has. You put a rider with no history of racing on him and bet the farm on a retarded Thoroughbred that got lucky at Iroquise. He’s gonna kill your little girlfriend when he gets twisted up at the gate. Maybe she won't be missed. A guy like you must have a dozen waiting to take her place. That's on you, Jamie. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Jamie drew back and landed his fist in the jaw of one ex-trainer who went down like a sack of potatoes. He was out cold, so Jamie pulled a one hundred dollar bill out of his pocket and asked the Maitra d’ if there was someone to drive him to the airport.

“Tell him to listen for his name so he knows where to pick up his ticket home.”

Jamie’s thighs were burning when he raced back to the elevator and stepped off on their floor. He wanted to cry for Claire and tried to imagine her disappointment. The room was dark, but he could hear her sniffling in the corner. He knelt in front of her and waited, hoping he could fix this.

“I am so sorry mo chridhe. I don’t even know Nick anymore and never expected this. I didn’t know Claire.”

“I knew something was wrong when he never worked with Runner like the others. Nick was never serious about Runner, or me. Just keep him away from me, please.”

“I knocked him out, right there in the lobby, just after I fired him. Paid the Maitra d’ to drop him at the airport.”

Claire touched his cheek, “we have lost someone I felt was a valued member of the team. Runner needs a trainer, so what do we do now?”

“If you had one hundred trainers to choose from, all ages and backgrounds, varied experience with winners, which would you choose?”

“That’s easy,” she whispered through her tears, “I would pick the one that knew the science and didn’t fall back on his excessive, unproductive time on the track. I’d pick the one who used science to win.”

Jamie let Claire rest while he met Air Horse One at the airport and watched his goofy horse almost drag the handler down the ramp. Runner was looking around, nostrils flared, ready to explode until he saw Jamie and whinnied hello. Jamie asked the handler for a few minutes with Runner and felt the big colt pull the stress out of him.

“One more leg of yer journey my friend, and you get dinner and a rest.”

The handler took the rope and Runner resumed dragging him to the trailer where he ran inside and waited for the cross ties to clip to his halter. Jamie looked at Runner and shook his head, wondering why he was in such a hurry.

The alarm seemed ear-splitting at five o’clock in the morning. Claire pulled her riding clothes and boots on while Jamie stood under a hot shower praying for strength. Runner was still percolating high octane energy making Claire laugh at his head twisting in every direction looking for Sham and Angle Light.

Claire looked at the training schedule Nick left behind in his unconscious haste to leave. She read through his scant notes about Runner and compared them to pages of notes on the other horses he worked with. She felt her blood boil and realized she had lost faith in Nick’s training slamming the book closed. She looked at Runner.

“Let’s see how motivated you are today big guy.”

Jamie lifted her foot and held Runner while she adjusted her stirrups before turning into the track to warm up. Thirty minutes later she rode up next to Jamie who was deep in a conversation with a gentleman she didn’t know. She smiled and lowered her goggles. She circled in a canter before she let him go for a one and half mile breeze. Runner stretched into his stride, but Claire could tell his heart wasn’t in it today. She always got this feeling during training. If there was no one to beat, he often asked her why he was running.

When Runner was cooled down, Claire jumped off and secured her stirrups.

“I’ll take care of that Doctor Beauchamp.”

A young man, around twenty she guessed, pulled the reins over his head and smiled at her. “Mister Fraser hired me for your groom while you’re in New York. I will be here before you every day and hopefully, this big guy will grow to like me.”

Claire was stunned. She managed a smile for the pleasant man and offered her hand, pulling her glove off quickly.

“What is your name sir?”

“Ha, it’s weird enough you’re a female jockey, and you’re British too, that’s awesome. Oh, my name is Jason Campbell,” he said shaking her hand.

“Thank you, Jason, very pleased to meet you.”

The boy blushed and walked Runner toward the stalls and wash racks.

Claire walked to Jamie and the man he had been talking to. Both men stood while she sat next to Jamie pulling off her second glove.

“Sassenach, I’ve been talkin to Michael here about needin a trainer for Runner. He watched yer ride and asked me questions I dinna know. Perhaps you can supply the answers.”

Claire looked into the intelligent and questioning eyes of the man named Michael. He was twenty-something with an easy manner about him. Claire surmised this was just a trackside conversation and settled in to answer his questions.

“Do you hand ride him during races, like you did in today’s training?”

“Yes. I carry a regulation whip, but I’ve never needed to use it. Thankfully, because I don’t know how. Runner wants to win, so I let him.”

“Your body position is very different from the norm. I saw that you crouched and ducked your head in the last quarter mile, otherwise your …um…position was different. Why do you ride like that?”

“Let me help you ask the right question. I appreciate your gentlemanly tact sir but what you want to ask is why is my ass so high off the saddle and my hand holding his mane?”

“The Royal Veterinary college studied this position and the monkey crouch finding the open position kept the body weight forward and lessened the burden of the horse moving through space. They used…”

“Forty-five GPS monitors to watch the jockey’s body as the horse moved under him.”

Claire’s eyes went wide knowing this man was familiar with the study. “To be honest, it is my natural position, I mean it happened naturally. No one would show me how to position myself so that’s what I did.”

“No one demonstrated your position in school? How do they keep the doors open?”

“I am a veterinarian. I never went to jockey school, I don’t know any jockeys. I ride hunter-jumpers.”

Michael stared at Claire like she was speaking another language. “I have never heard of something more preposterous, however, I know it’s true, I can feel it from both of you. How utterly remarkable you can compete with world-class jockeys. It’s impressive.”

Yes, well, my wanting to take part in his race suddenly turned our trainer into a jerk and Jamie fired him. I know Runner is ready for the Champagne Stakes. What happens then, when there is no trainer to get him ready for the Hopeful Stakes in three weeks?

“That’s why you don’t use a crop, you don’t know how. The way he ran today I doubt you’ll ever need to.” Michael pushed his chair back so he could see both Jamie and Claire.

“If you don’t mind, may I ask how far you intend to go on the road to the derby?”

“We are going to win the Kentucky Derby sir. It’s Jamie’s dream, then I go back to being a vet.”

Michael sat back in his chair and rubbed his chin thinking. He knew this was a serendipitous moment in time, and he wanted to be a part of this remarkable story, no matter what.

“Can I come too?”

Claire looked at Jamie like she didn’t understand and then smiled at Michael with a questioning face.

“I graduated with a Master’s degree from the University of Michigan last year. I want to train Thoroughbreds and make a name for myself while I change the standard of whipping a horse over the finish line. I have prayed for a miracle and this is it!”

Claire looked at Jamie and laughed.

“I have a proposition for you both, may I explain it please.”

Jamie who had remained quiet for the past twenty minutes looked the man in the eye, “you have our attention, sir.”

“Let me train them, Mister Fraser. Half of my graduate curriculum was preparing me for a horse like Runner. Claire should be an active partner in the race. He seems to run all on his own, but he won’t always. When you start the super six he will be exhausted and whatever means you use to make it fun won’t work anymore. That’s where Claire takes over the race and keeps him going, guides his leads around the turns, holds him back for the first half mile and then lets him go. I want to come with you and train him. If we get to the derby I will write his story, Claire’s story, and mine. It will be a best seller and the world will never forget his name.”

“That’s quite an offer Michael, how do you eat in the interim?”

“Books and magazines.”

Claire recoiled at the thought of eating books and Michael noticed her reaction.

“No, I don’t eat them. My family is in publishing. I am sole heir to Pearson Publishing. I spent some time on the track five years ago and fell in love with Thoroughbreds. I don’t need a paycheck, but I want first rights to publish this amazing story.”

Michael had worked up a sweat in his excitement talking about training Runner. Jamie and Claire were speechless and got carried away with his excitement. Jamie could not untangle all the facts that had just poured out of the man’s mouth but when he looked at Claire, he knew the decision was made.

“Do you have track time this afternoon Claire?”

“Yes, five-thirty. What should I be doing?”

“An hour of breeze, then the short track to work on his leads. Tracks in America are run counterclockwise so he will make the best time on the right lead along the straight track, and change to the left lead around the turns. He isn’t changing leads in the turn and it’s costing him time. “

Claire stood up, “will I see you there?”

“You will see me everywhere Doctor Beauchamp.”

“Well, alright, but enough of the formality. He is Jamie and I am Claire.”

They checked on Runner who was sending Claire images of beating Sham and Angle Light. She laughed and kissed his nose before catching up with Jamie.

Claire lathered under a hot shower and thought about the race tomorrow. She no longer had the fear of death before a race. Her fear now focused on losing the race because Runner was out competed, or God forbid, she made a mistake that cost them the race.

With a big fluffy towel on her head and another wrapped around her body, she sat at the vanity and rubbed lotion into her skin. She could see Jamie behind her on the bed, grabbing some dream time while he could.

He was breathtaking. Easily the most handsome man she ever met. Her eyes swept over his chest and stomach, dipping into the region that brought her intense pleasure and she felt her heart quicken. She pulled the towels off and fluffed her hair as she made her way to him and purposely made little movement on the bed so he wouldn’t wake. She wanted time with his body. To look at every inch of him and touch his secret places.

She kissed his balls before sucking one into her mouth, lightly holding his penis up to watch it get hard. She had no will power to tease. She needed to come and ran her tongue up his shaft and circled the head. She heard him moan and slowly pulled him into her mouth pushing him as deep as she could before she choked. She felt a strong hand grab her hair and force her down on him and then back up until he reached for her and dragged her up on his chest. She could feel his cock pushing against her core, threatening her sanity as he bit her nipple and then feasted on the whole breast.

Jamie was energized and hungry for her. Pulling her to his chest before he rolled off the bed. He kissed her away from the bed and spun her back to his chest as he bent to place his hands behind her knees and lift her, spreading her legs so she was wide open, her pussy hovering above his dick. She reached her hands above her and locked them together behind his neck.

“Look mo chridhe, look at what I’m doin to ye.”

They were in front of the vanity and mirror and she could clearly see her body, wide open and descending on him.

“Jesus Christ, that is hot.”

She was completely dependent on Jamie to move her, set her pace, and open her legs. Claire was breathing hard, staring at the coupling reflected in the mirror. It was something she could never see without his assistance and the erotic view made her pant and moan. She was begging him to make her come when he walked back to the bed and lifted her off of him setting her down on her knees and pushing her head to the bed.

Jamie watched his cock slide into her body and shuttered at the site. When he pushed harder his hips slammed into her ass making it quiver until he was ready to lose it. He loved the erotic image, but he needed to feel the connection by looking into her eyes. He dropped his mouth to her until she exploded in her release. He flipped her over and locked into her energy, her eyes, and what felt like her soul. Jamie took his time as they spoke volumes about love, commitment, and desire without saying a single word. Jamie pumped his hopes and desires into her and clutched her to him. Claire dropped her head into his panting chest and cried.

Michael had lost none of his enthusiasm by the afternoon and stayed close to Claire to coach her through the crucial lead changes that Runner wasn’t used to doing. Claire knew the instant Runner understood what to do. After that, there were two quick reminders and he instantly corrected his lead.

Claire wore her new silks for race day and when Jamie lifted her foot into the saddle, she was the very definition of calm determination. Runner knew it was time to race and shot blinking pictures of him winning as they were ponied to the gate.

Michael stayed up in the stands, high enough to get the whole race on his video recorder. Jamie admired his equipment, all very high tech, and his confidence in this man grew a bit. He had tried to vet Michael, but the weekend made it impossible to reach the registrar’s office at the University of Michigan. He was able to bring up photos of Michael on the internet which proved he was the only son and heir to Pearson enterprises.

Claire stayed quiet in the saddle as the horses were loaded into the gate. Runner would be coming out of gate 3 in a nine-horse race and would face all the old habits of breaking late and hanging back. She wondered if Jamie thought to mention that to Michael.

When the gate slammed open, Claire was off Runner’s back, ready to move. The pack of horses was well away before Runner bolted into his race lane, running a methodical slow race to the first turn. Claire could feel the easier gate as he changed to his left lead in the turn and then engaged his power. It felt like she was flying as he chased up the outside and caught up to the pack. Even with the deafening sound of hooves pounding the dirt she could hear the roar of the crowd as Runner past one horse after another. He told her he would run very fast to catch up to Sham and Angle Light. Claire tucked close to him, no time to hope, no time to pray, Runner became a bullet, coming out of the second turn with Sham and Angle Light twenty lengths ahead, he lengthened his body as his front feet pounded the ground at the same time making each stride a leap to cover ground. Claire felt her heart sinking as the finish line came into view but suddenly Angle Light was fading behind her and she was neck and neck with Sham’s jockey who whipped the horse mercilessly.

She realized that Runner was keeping pace with Sham so he could torture him and she let him know, in no uncertain terms, it was time to win. He did. Claire was screaming at him with her joy and disbelief he had done it again.

“Runner! You big beautiful horse! You won the Champagne Stakes! You won, you won, you won. Thank God, thank you, God!” Runner was still in a gallop as Claire tried to pull him back, slow him down, but he wasn’t listening. When she saw Angle Light ahead, she knew he just had to race by her and flaunt his win. She let him, after which he obediently started to slow down. She looked for Jamie in the stands, and on her second loop, she saw him and Michael at the rail waving. Claire was crying with joy and pulling back on the bit. When a track handler rode in front of them, Runner finally slowed down.

In the winner’s circle, Claire smiled with her tear-streaked face and Jamie and Michael proudly smiled with her. Claire jumped off and let Michael take Runner so she could get lost in Jamie’s kiss and cling to him like he was the most important man in the world to her. Because he was.

In Kentucky, Nick logged into the track at Belmont Park and snorted with disgust. He felt a small flair of pride and happiness at Runner’s win and then logged off. He was moving his training horses out of Highland Brother’s and had little time to waste.

Michael’s enthusiasm never seemed to lessen and Jason the groom was not far behind. Claire saw Jason jumping and waving at her from Runner’s bath and she smiled at him and his happiness. She passed several jockeys as they moved through the facility, each having a curt nod for her as they passed.

Claire was too exhausted to find a restaurant for dinner, so they ordered a pizza, watched a movie, and slept like the dead.

Jamie checked in with Rupert or Angus daily, happy the construction was going so well. He had ordered new locks on all the doors in the compound and had them monitored by a local security agency. When they returned, each of the borders would get their own password and Jamie could print a report of who entered and exited at any time. If the doors were tampered with it would trip a silent alarm and the video surveillance would wake up Jamie’s phone and beep. Each improvement he made brought him that much closer to a peaceful existence.

Having Jamie to herself was like heaven to Claire. They went sightseeing during mid-day, walked for miles and talked about their early lives. It was a struggle for Jamie to hear about Claire’s life as an orphan and he stopped several times to pull her into his arms and just hold her. This time together deepened their bond and devotion to each other.

Michael had changed Runner’s training schedule and Claire was spending more time breezing and working on lead changes. When he discussed new ideas with Jamie and Claire, he always had the latest research to support his changes. He and Claire were in their element and Jamie was excited for them both.

When he held her close and ran his hands down her body, the changes were obvious and worrisome. Her hip bones and shoulders were bony protrusions where she once had soft round curves and she had constant bruising on the insides of her knees. When she kept losing weight Jamie made an appointment with a nutritionist who gave her a list of supplements to take every day, keeping her energy up and stabilizing her weight.

On race day, Claire was feeling so good, and she teased Runner about beating Sham again because he would be racing too.

To Jamie and Michael, it was a smooth transition to the Saratoga racetrack as Runner was getting very accustomed to traveling. Runner looked calm and ready to race during his workout and Claire’s rosy cheeks were a blessing to Jamie’s worried heart.

When Runner bolted onto the track, the other horses were well ahead, as usual, and he came out of the first turn like a bullet, as usual. He took the lead before the second turn and was never caught. An easy win for this horse who was gaining notoriety because he was unbeatable. The day and the race were so perfect and Claire lavished him with praise during his post-race flaunting to Sham. When she came around the turn and saw Jamie it felt like the air evacuated from her lungs. Something was terribly wrong, and she felt confused and scared until she heard the announcement.

“Midnight Runner has been disqualified from the Hopeful Stakes."

[chiefnooniensingh]

I Won’t Hesitate (for you) Epilogue

Epilogue: I thank the oceans (for giving me you)

In this chapter: Michael and Alex reflect on that fateful train ride.

A/n: I wasn't going to make you wait a full week for this epilogue! I can't believe it's over you guys, what a wonderful ride! I hope you guys enjoyed it. And if anyone has an au in mind that they want me to ride, hit me up! I'm looking for new inspiration!

As always, a special thanks to Aileen (@acomebackstory), Callie (@callieramics), @hm-arn, @royalshadowhunter, @ladymajavader and May (@eddiediazs) over on Tumblr for their continued support and cheerleading. I don't know if I would've finished it without you guys!

Last chapter hasn't been guessed yet, so give it a go! Can anyone guess this chapter's?

Also on: ao3

other chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

19th of October, 1945

The war was over. Paris had been liberated for over a year, but the war itself had only been over for 5 months. Michael and Alex had recently returned to their city, to find it miraculously undamaged and their flat only marginally ransacked. They’d never had much valuables anyway. They cleaned up their flat, settled back into their lives and it was almost as if the war hadn’t happened.

Alex and Michael had waited out the war in the countryside, living with a large farming family who treated them like their own. In the last year before the liberation, a young child who’d lost both her parents in the camps joined them, and Michael and Alex became her surrogate parents. When they returned to Paris, she came with them.

Alex was looking at her sleeping now, his darling girl, the beautiful and genius Mara. If he hadn’t known she wasn’t related to them, he would’ve sworn she was Michael’s kid. Cheeky, optimistic, chaotic and infinitely smarter than him. Alex loved her so much it ached to look at her now.

It was 4AM. The house was quiet and dark, the autumn chill already creeping in through the windows and the cracks. Alex shivered, gave his daughter one last look and returned to his own bedroom, to his husband in their bed. He crawled back under the covers and pressed himself against Michael, who was always warm and chased away the night chill. Michael jerked awake with a hiss. “Jesus Christ, Alex.”

“Sorry,” Alex muttered, buried his cold nose in Michael’s neck.

“You okay?” Michael asked softly, flipping over and wrapping his arms around Alex. “Why were you out of bed?”

“It’s been ten years.”

Michael looked at the clock on his nightstand and let out a long breath. “It has.”

Alex closed his eyes and curled into Michael’s chest. It was the reason he’d woken up so suddenly. His nightmares only rarely brought him back to that fateful train ride anymore, but tonight they’d come back with a vengeance. On the day Noah Bracken was murdered, setting events in motion that eventually led to Alex letting 8 people get away with murder. “Do you regret it?” It was a question they always asked each other around the 19th.

“No,” Michael said, his voice trembling a little. “Never. None of us,” Alex knew Michael meant the 8 passengers with whom he had committed the crime, “would’ve been able to move on if we hadn’t done it.” Alex nodded. “Do you regret letting us get away with it?”

“No,” Alex said, without hesitation. “Noah Bracken was a monster. He deserved punishment, and the system wouldn’t deliver. You did. It wasn’t just, but it was right.” He sighed, wrapping his arms around Michael and squeezing tightly. “But it’s something I will always have to live with.”

Michael nodded, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Yeah. Me, too.”

Alex looked up at his husband, his heart melting when their eyes met. The ten years since the Orient Express had been kind to him. The curls were still as wild as ever, Michael had even grown them out more, providing Alex with plenty of hair to run his hands through. His eyes were filled with warmth, love and laughter. There were small wrinkles in the corners of his eyes now, and those on his forehead reflected the worries and burdens he’d had to bear these past ten years.

They’d both grown up. Both seen and done stuff they carried with them forever. But they’d fought for their love and their life and they’d won. They’d survived the war and even managed to raise a child together.

“You know, when all is said and done, I’m grateful for that train ride,” Alex said, nudging Michael’s nose with his own.

“What do you mean?” Michael asked softly, nipping Alex’s lips with his.

Alex pressed a kiss to his husband’s mouth and smiled. “Because it brought us back together. Despite the terrible things that happened there, we found each other again. I never thought I’d see you again, and then I stepped on board that train and there you were. You were haunted by the ten years since we’d last seen each other, troubled by the horrible crime you were about to commit. But still beautiful. You were cold and distant, and yet I knew instantly I had never stopped loving you.”

Michael nodded. “I instantly knew that the plan was doomed, when I saw you. I knew I wouldn’t be able to lie to you for too long. For ten years, I loved you from afar and suddenly, there you were, in the most critical moment of my life.” He shook his head. “I’m still impressed with myself I lasted as long as I did.”

Alex laughed. “Well, you never actually told me anything. I figured most things out by myself.”

“You were scarily accurate, I was so proud.”

“The world is built on logic – ”

“ – one just needs to learn to see it,” Michael finished with a smile. “You are still insufferably modest.” Alex just shrugged and snuggled close to his husband again. “I love you, Alex Guerin.”

Alex’s stomach did a summersault, as it did every time Michael called him by his full name. He’d left the ‘Manes’-name behind long ago, but hearing his married name spoken with so much love and adoration that Michael always put into it, always made him giddy. “I love you, too, Michael Guerin.”

Michael leaned in for a kiss, the two of them entwined together in their bed. The kiss started out chaste and loving, but as Alex pulled Michael’s hips against his own, it turned hungry fast. Michael groaned, and Alex felt a burning longing to draw out more lovely sounds. With one swift movement, he pushed Michael on his back and climbed on top of him. Alex pinned Michael’s hands against the pillow beneath him and dove in for another hungry kiss. He pressed his hips down into Michael, drawing out another sweet moan from his throat. “Alex, please,” Michael whined when Alex broke their kiss to trail his lips down Michael’s throat. “Please, my love…”

“I like it when you beg,” Alex murmured, playfully biting at his husband’s earlobe.

“I like it when you get me off,” Michael growled, bucking his hips to cause some more friction between them. Alex gasped and Michael looked victorious. Alex sat up, his hands braced on Michael’s chest. Michael’s hands immediately found purchase on Alex’s hips.

They were both still fully clothed, and that was unacceptable. With a swift motion, Alex got rid of Michael’s shirt and then his own, letting his hands roam appreciatively over Michael’s chest. No matter how often Alex looked upon his naked husband, he never became any less attractive. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

“Yes, yes,” Michael said impatiently, arching off the bed when Alex playfully flicked a nipple. “Now, please, Alex!” He sounded absolutely wrecked, and Alex grinned. They hadn’t even started yet.

Alex bent down and trailed kisses from the hollow of Michael’s throat all the way down to the waistband of his pyjamas. “Don’t move, Michael. You know the drill.” Grabbing hold of the pants, he began, slowly, torturously, pulling the pants down, trailing kissing on newly exposed skin as he went. Michael was panting heavily, his hands fisted in the sheets as he tried to keep himself from grabbing Alex’s hair and kissing him senseless. Alex grinned against the inside of Michael’s thigh, lightly scraping his teeth against the sensitive skin there, causing Michael to shiver. He looked up to see Michael biting his lip to restrain himself, and Alex tutted, sitting up and pulling Michael’s lip from between his teeth. “None of that,” Alex chided, letting a single finger absentmindedly slide up Michael’s cock, with only the lightest of touches. “You know I want to hear you.”

“You fucker,” Michael growled, “God, please, I can’t take it, please, Alex, god damnit, fuck…”

Alex laughed, leaning over to the nightstand to grab the bottle of lube stashed there. He sat back up and moved to sit between Michael’s legs, who spread them eagerly. “Look at you,” Alex whispered. “So eager.”

“Fuck you,” Michael spat, his eyes half-closed with pleasure. Alex enjoyed Michael’s absolutely filthy mouth when Alex was toying with him like this. He knew Michael was enjoying this as much as Alex was.

“I think I’d rather fuck you today,” Alex said, coating two fingers in lube. He bent over Michael, pressed a small kiss to the tip of his weeping cock and then took him in his mouth. Michael let out a string of curses and threw his head back. While Alex was sucking him off, he spread his ass a little wider and gently pushed a single finger inside him. Michael groaned as he felt Alex enter him.

Alex watched his husband closely, watching the familiar and wildly attractive look of ecstasy come over his face. He gently began pushing his finger in and out, allowing Michael to adjust to the presence and waiting as long as needed before pushing the second finger inside as well. Michael let out a wrecked sob, music to Alex’s ears. He hollowed his cheeks around Michael’s cock, and Michael gave a strangled yell. “That’s it,” Alex whispered, letting Michael’s cock pop from his mouth, “let me hear you, my darling.”

“Alex,” Michael whined, looking absolutely wrecked as Alex pushed his fingers into Michael again and again. “Please, I’m ready, please, please, my love…” Michael’s face was flushed with pleasure and despair, Alex felt his own cock throb, desperate to fuck his husband. But he wasn’t going to do anything before he was sure Michael was well and truly ready. So he picked up the lube, dribbled more on his hand and then gently added a third. Michael sobbed. “I love you, I love you, I love you, please, Alex…” he babbled, his head thrashing against the pillow, and Alex knew he was ready.

He fished a condom out of the nightstand and hastened to put it on himself. “Alright, my darling,” Alex whispered, leaning over Michael to kiss him softly, “I got you.”

Michael raised his hips, his entire body begging for Alex to just fuck him already. Alex lined himself up and slowly pushed into Michael, allowing him time to adjust. Michael let out a long, drawn-out moan that made Alex nearly come on the spot. “Oh baby,” Michael croaked out, “Alex…please…move.” He jerked his hips and Alex hissed, pleasure shooting up his spine. Alex obeyed, pulling out and pushing back in, finding a rhythm they had perfected over the last decade, that he knew would unravel Michael faster than anything else. “Yes…” Michael moaned, reaching up to grab Alex’s head and pull him down. Their mouths crashed together, and they kissed sloppily, between moans and heavy breaths, as Alex sped up his movements gradually. “I love you,” Michael whispered, wrapping his arms around Alex and burying his face in Alex’s shoulder. Alex let his head drop against Michael’s shoulder in return, trying to hold off his own orgasm. But he was close. And he could tell Michael was as well.

“I love you,” Alex whispered. Michael’s hips jerked, sending a thrill of pleasure through Alex, making him gasp and bite down on Michael’s neck. Michael groaned. “Come on, baby,” Alex urged him. “Come for me, I want to feel you come for me.” He reached down and wrapped a hand around Michael’s cock. Michael jerked, his hands flying into Alex’s hair.

“So – so close,” he panted. His eyes were locked on Alex, and they looked at each other intently as they drove each other to the brink. Soft ah, ah, ah’s slowly turned to high-pitched whines and soon enough, Michael exploded underneath Alex’s expert ministration. Alex didn’t slow down, but fucked through Michael’s orgasm, now chasing his own. Michael let his hands roam down Alex’s back and grabbed his ass, pulling him even closer. Alex lost all control. Growling, he sped up, so close, wanting…needing. “Come for me, Alex Guerin,” Michael whispered, and that was that on that. For a second, everything went white as he came, shuddering, his arms giving out and falling, wrecked, on top of his husband, who caught him effortlessly.

They lay together, panting, for several minutes, Alex still inside of Michael, neither feeling any inclination to move. “God, that was amazing,” Michael finally said, drawing a laugh from Alex. “It’s like you get better every time.”

“You make me want to be better. Watching you come apart beneath me is…highly arousing.” Alex finally extracted himself from Michael’s embrace, pulling on his bathrobe and padding over to the bathroom to dispose of the condom and clean himself up. He returned with a warm, damp towel and he cleaned Michael best he could, despite the man’s genuine dislike of moving after sex. When they were both a semblance of clean, Alex fell into bed again, wrapping his arms around Michael and closing his eyes. There was light on the horizon, signalling that the day was about to start, but neither felt the need. Friday was their day off, and they wouldn’t have to move until Mara demanded breakfast.

The events of that one week ten years ago would always be a part of them. October would always be a difficult month. But they had each other, they had Mara, they’d made a life for themselves, as good, upstanding citizens. Life wasn’t always easy, but Alex felt that with his husband and his daughter there with him, he could handle anything.

So Alex snuggled closer to Michael and closed his eyes, knowing the nightmares wouldn’t come back today.

He fell asleep, content and happy, with Michael right there next to him. Side by side.

Where they belonged.

[geethedentist]

The Sassenach Warrior

Catch up on Chapter 8 here and read this chapter on Ao3!

Chapter 9: Tea Leaves and Existential Crises 

Torrential rain battered the windows. It was loud but I enjoyed the static as I sat curled up in an arm chair near the hearth with a cup of tea. My boots were strewn on the floor below in favor of woolen socks. The back of my head had a large, sensitive lump from where it had made forceful contact with the floor last night. It was now accompanied by a dull throb and minor light sensitivity. Brady had thought me unconscious, and had turned his back to celebrate a premature victory. The power I felt surging off the ground to claim the true victory was indescribable. The match was hard won but I had triumphed, and Dougal got his hands on another bag of coin this morning. 

Becoming more accustomed to the fighting techniques, I determined that I had graduated to a different opponent. A larger one, whose size I could use against him. These matches were hardly about strength, and anyone who thought otherwise was surely going to lose … to me. 

As Jamie entered the room I sat up straighter, stopped squinting, and tried to appear altogether non-concussed. His face was buried in an empty teacup as he sat in the chair across. “There’s an auld woman in the taproom readin’ tea leaves! Give her yer cup once ye’re finished.”

I shifted in my seat, letting my leg hang over the side. “You actually believe that stuff?” 

“Well, I suppose not fully. But there’s always a voice in the back of yer mind asking if it could really be true.” 

I rolled my eyes. “Yes and there is another, louder voice asking how the hell a bunch of soggy leaves could know that.” 

He feigned a pout. “Ye’re no fun, Sassenach.” 

“Well? What did your leaves say? Oh please don’t keep me in suspense.” Waving my hand in the direction of his cup, I took another sip.

Jamie inhaled deeply, as if he seemed unprepared for me to ask him this. His voice turned serious. “Well, she told me a lot had happened to me for one so young.” He shifted his shoulders, and I knew he was thinking of the scars, Randall, the death of his father. It was silly how something like this could dredge up those memories for him. How could this woman have possibly known what his life was like? 

“She said my hardships were far from over.”

I wondered what more the world could possibly do to Jamie Fraser. 

“But there will be one thing to make it all worth it.” 

I looked up sharply to find his blue eyes staring intently into mine. “One thing?” I whispered. 

And with that, the door from the taproom banged open announcing Rupert, brandishing his empty cup. “I knew it!” He said. “I’m goin’ to be a hero in battle! That will impress the lassies for sure.” 

“Let me see that!” I grabbed the cup from him and inspected the contents. “Well this lump looks a bit like a pile of shite … and would you look at that! This one looks like Dougal!” 

Rupert snatched the cup back. “What do you ken? Ye dinna have the sight!” 

I ignored him and looked into my now empty cup. “I’ve got a snake that’s eating itself, and what appears to be a lopsided bannock.”

Jamie was trying unsuccessfully to hide his laughter at Rupert’s rising anger. Rupert held his hands out for both cups; I gave them to him. “Ye ken on second glance, this clump does bear a slight resemblance to Dougal.” 

“It would seem I have got the sight after all.” 

Rupert suddenly began staring very intently into my cup. “But I would be lyin’ if I said I wasna curious about Claire’s leaves.” 

I stiffened. They still knew next to nothing about me. It wasn’t that I was afraid the leaves were going to reveal my true past. But that whatever they did reveal, true or not, they would likely believe it. Sure enough, Dougal was lurking in the corner of the room as Rupert handed my ‘fate’ to Mrs. Graham. 

She spent an awful lot of time with it, rotating it this way and that. She was squinting the whole time; her pale eyebrows knit together and she looked worried. I had noticed my heart had begun to knock against my ribcage. At last, she set it down on the counter. The only sound was some muffled conversation from some patrons in the corner; all the other mouths were shut for once and all of their eyes were locked on the fortune teller. 

“I read yer tea leaves,” she said finally. “Here’s some whisky.” 

I silently reached for the glass and took a large sip. Clearly she was about to drop a large problem onto my head. Another large problem. Why was I gripping the glass so tightly? I had just finished telling Jamie how this is a load of crap. Who was this women to tell me my fate? She could be making it all up for all I knew. 

I pictured her sitting back and laughing while she watched a bunch of sorry fools running around doing ridiculous things just because they believed it was their fate to do so.

“Your life has been full of tragedy.” She began. “No family, nowhere to go back to. You are an outlander no matter where on this earth you think you can run to.”

Breathing heavily, I abruptly backed off the stool. Jamie got to his feet as well.  “No… you can’t know that.” 

“As for the future,” Mrs. Graham consulted the leaves again. “Should ye so choose, ye can be an integral part of something greater than yourself. It will bring ye much more sorrow, it will bring crushing defeat. But it will also bring great joy, and great passion. Ye can replace what ye’ve lost.” 

All the while she was talking her voice was mounting in intensity, and I was involuntarily backing up towards the door, pricks of tears behind my eyes. With the end of the proclamation, I turned and sprinted out. 

With absolutely no idea where I was going, I kept running. The woman had just laid my whole miserable life out before me, and before everyone. In times when emotions like this began to take control, the cool metal of my ring would give me comfort. I couldn’t even remember how many months it had been since I’d seen the damn thing. 

Should I run off without it? Is it even worth it? All throughout this roiling confusion I was dimly aware of the pouring rain. It didn’t even matter now if I was crying or not. Also becoming apparent was the fact that I didn’t bring my weapons, my cloak, or even bothered to put my boots on. I stopped and looked down at my feet. The once cozy and inviting wool socks were now soaked with mud, and my toes were quickly turning numb. 

So what will it be Claire? Go back, grab your shit, have an awkward confrontation and leave? Or shall I just keep running and lose a couple toes to frostbite? I had a nice head start anyway; everyone else was likely still standing open mouthed in the taproom. 

The scariest thing was not even the harsh reminder of the death of my family. I had always considered myself a solitary person. But when she had declared that I truly had nowhere and nothing to return to, a strange weight of soul crushing loneliness had settled upon me. I had spent so much of my time trying to escape from Dougal that I didn’t even stop to think about what I was going to do when I returned to the pile of rubble that was formerly my parent’s house. My books, my wooden sword and bow, a scorched portrait of my mother lay strewn about in the ash in front of me. I don’t even remember what they looked like. 

I belonged nowhere. 

And it was during this insane inner turmoil when a sound materialized that appeared to be the approach of many riders on horseback. A streak of red between some of the farm buildings at the edge of town, and suddenly I was back in the glade in which I had first met Jamie. A bright red blob in a mass of green, and I stood cursing at myself to move, climb a tree, do something. 

With the same absence of thought with which I sprinted out of the tavern, I was sprinting back. The need to warn Jamie had overshadowed the tea leaves, and my feet squelched in the mud as I picked up speed, barreling back through the door. Mrs. Graham was gone. 

Jamie had returned to the chair by the hearth, his head in his hands. My boots were still on the floor a few feet away. It was as if I had never left, as if I wasn’t standing over his now startled face soaked to the skin and looking like an absolute lunatic. 

“Sassenach, what …” 

“Redcoats.” I blurted out. “You have to hide.” 

“Me? You have to hide!” He spluttered. 

I grabbed his hand and yanked him up the stairs. “All right we both have to hide.” 

I brought him into my bedroom and we crouched just inside the door frame, across from one another. The hallway overlooked the taproom, allowing us to see below. Jamie was looking around the small chamber with wide eyes, as if he found it scandalous for him to be here. I laughed to myself at the thought. My room was a complete mess. The blankets had fallen off the bed, there were empty tankards everywhere, and to be quite honest, it didn’t smell that great.

Dougal was striding around the bar, inquiring about Jamie. “The lad’s done well to make himself scarce. I think some soldiers are headed towards this tavern.” He commented to Angus. “Although don’t ye find it strange the second that sassenach ran out of here, a whole squadron of English show up?” 

“Insufferable fucking bastard. After everything I’ve done.” I groaned angrily and banged my head back against the wall; the doorframe rattled. Pain immediately radiated in all directions and I emitted a high pitched gasp, having aggravated the sore spot from my head injury the previous night. 

Jamie turned his head sharply in my direction. “Claire,” concern dripped from my name, and his hand involuntarily flew up. He forced it back down again. “Are ye all right? Ye’ve been acting quite funny lately and …” He broke off, 

So my strained movements and small winces of pain had in fact not escaped his notice. Of course not. He was more attentive to me than my own damn self. 

“What are you talking about I’m fine.” I quickly removed my hand from the back of my head. 

His eyes narrowed. “Ye never let anyone help you.” 

“I don’t need it or want it. I can take care of myself.” 

Whatever his next rebuke was had gotten cut off when the front door slammed open and in strode about a dozen redcoats. Loud and boisterous, they showed a complete lack of respect for the establishment. Jamie was intently scanning the crowd, undoubtedly looking for Randall. I had no idea of what he looked like. 

“He isna here,” he whispered, more to himself than to me. 

The redcoat in charge had made himself right at home. “Well what are you waiting for?” He sneered at the barman. “Ale for myself and the lads.” 

The poor flustered man scurried about behind the bar, dropping and splintering several glasses in the process. The Englishman had taken up a seat and placed his muddy boots on top of the bar. After the fifteen or so glasses of ale had been served, the redcoat flicked a penny at the barman’s head. 

“Keep the change!” The rest of the men roared with laughter. 

I started to get to my feet. “He can’t just do that!” 

Jamie quickly grabbed my wrist. “Yes, Sassenach. He can.” 

The barman’s face held an expression of utter defeat. Jamie was right. 

“What brings the patrol in today, sir? Ye’re early.” 

“What? We can’t pay a visit to our favorite tavern? Didn’t you miss me?” Came the mocking reply. “Well first off, we’re about to run out of food again, so you’d better tell that little brat of yours to come load up our wagons.”

“Right away, sir.” The man’s head remained directed at the floor. 

For the next hour, the soldiers laughed and drank and harassed the women serving them beer. Jamie and I still sat across from each other. We had started to toss a balled up pair of my socks back and forth. 

“Ow! What did ye have throw it so hard for Sassenach?” He huffed, rubbing his eye. 

I shrugged. “I was bored.” 

Downstairs, the conversation had resumed. The Englishman in charge approached the bar with quite a nasty smile on his face before he spoke. “Rumor has it, you’re harboring fugitives. What’s more, there seems to be an attempt to stir up the rebellion in this very tavern! Among other illegal activities in this shitehole of a town.” Ah. The real reason for the visit. 

Where the hell was Dougal? 

My eyes snapped up to Jamie’s at the very second his eyes came to mine. And for the second time that day, I wanted to run as far away from that tavern as humanly possibly. I made to get up again, wildly turning my head in all directions. Jamie had risked a quick maneuver over to my side of the doorway. His hands held my forearms, and the effect stilled me. Breathing slowing down, I wondered what ridiculous thing I might have done if his touch hadn’t brought me back.

“Claire. Ye’ve got to stay put. What can ye possibly do at this moment?” 

There it was again. His words had driven home the feeling of complete powerlessness conferred to us by the English. My arms trembled with anger and panic under his hands. 

“Fucking nothing.” 

“Nothing aye? All we can do is wait and see what happens.” He said matter of factly. 

“Jamie what if they find us?” I already knew the answer to that. I would be sent to the noose and Jamie would be sent into the arms of Jack Randall. I had never thought my days as a fugitive would come to an end like this. We crouched pressed together, sharing the tiny amount of wall between the left side of the doorframe and the washstand, waiting to see what happened next. 

Downstairs the barkeep, ever the Jacobite, was lying straight to the ugly bastard’s face. “I run a simple, honest establishment sir. I’ll no have ye comin’ in here accusing me o’ such a thing. Not to mention drinkin’ all the ale that I ken well and good ye have no intention of payin’ for! Agh!” 

He crumpled onto the countertop clutching his face into which the redcoat had just emptied his glass. 

The solider grabbed the man by the front of his shirt. His eyes were red and streaming. “See to it that you’re telling the truth then. Because there is a little English bitch and a red headed Scottish brute both of whom the Crown would love to welcome into its custody. The next patrol will be by again in two weeks. If you don’t have more food, we will be taking more coin. Get up lads, we’re leaving.” 

As the last redcoat lurched out the door, Jamie and I let out simultaneous breaths. I turned to look at him. “Are you all right, red headed Scottish brute?”

“Better than ever, little English bitch. But my arse seems to have fallen asleep.” He grinned. “I want to thank ye for coming back to warn me. I ken those tea leaves really unsettled ye.”

I had completely forgotten about the tea leaves. 

“Jamie!” Dougal’s voice sounded from somewhere above. He must have made his way up to the attic during the little English tea party. 

“Right here, Uncle.” Jamie rose, and extended a hand down to me. 

Dougal stopped in front of the doorway, and narrowed his eyes at me. “Where in the devil have you been?” 

I stomped my foot and opened my mouth to give him a wise mouthed answer when Jamie gently squeezed my wrist, a sign which I took to mean shut up. 

“Claire was here with me the whole time. She was the one who told me to hide in the first place. She was the one who first spotted the patrol. I should think ye can place a bit more trust in her, Dougal.” He snapped at his uncle. 

I had the grace not to smirk at him over Jamie’s shoulder. 

A couple days, a couple more bags of coin, and more than a couple bruises later, I was about to return to the tavern from my latest fight. Of course, it was decided that we would be leaving this town in a few days time, before the redcoats tore the place apart looking for us, and I told Gavin as much. 

“Aye it seems that surprise patrol has put everybody on edge. I was actually going to close down the ring for a bit after tomorrow night.” 

“Well you can be sure to see me tomorrow. I wouldn’t miss my last fight for the world.” I would miss this, and I hoped I would have the opportunity to do it again someday. 

“Dinna tell anyone, but ye’re the bonniest fighter that I’ve ever seen.” He smiled. “Half the lads are scared of ye!” 

“As they should be. Goodnight, Gavin.”

After going through my ridiculous ritual of hiding behind the stables for twenty minutes and then creeping up to the window to make sure the coast was clear, I caught sight of the heinous reflection starting back at me and heaved a sigh. My breath caused a bloom of fog across the glass. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the consequences of my actions.” 

My left eyebrow was almost completely split in two, a dark mass of congealed blood in between. It was surely going to leave me with a lovely little bald spot after it healed, and not even a win tonight to show for it. Given only half the coin I normally receive, I groaned at the prospect of a disappointed and now spoiled Dougal in the morning. 

I had been cocky and overconfident in my big genius plan and I could have split my other eyebrow myself because of how foolish I’d been. Who knows how much money I had just handed over? 

Do you not think things through on purpose or are you that stupid, Beauchamp?

And yet, despite the fact that Scotland was accepting my donations to its fight for  freedom in the form of Dougal Mackenzie’s greedy hands, it felt right somehow. 

The footsteps were completely silent. 

“Claire?”

[sam-not-samantha]

The Blackwoods & the Rheiders

“A train wreck dynasty of cash stacks and funny farms.”

#sltask02

 [Photos embedded, but not all characters have a faceclaim.]

The Blackwoods (Immediate)

Andrew Blackwood | Father | June 21, 1969-April 30, 2017         “Paycheck giver. Businessman. Quiet and kind, yet so apathetic.” Eliza Blackwood (née Rheider) | Mother | October 28, 1971-April 30, 2017         “Whiny bitch. Passive-aggressive. Judgmental. Tasteless. Fucking DEAD.” Samantha “Sam” Blackwood | Self | February 5, 1995         “Best fucking person you’ll ever meet.”

The Extended (And not-so-distant)

Jodi Rheider | Maternal aunt | July 1, 1975         “Anti-vaxer. Vegan. Cunt. Used to get cocktails with Kris Jenner.” Jenna Rheider | Maternal cousin | April 14, 1994         “Brainless twit. And a narc; ratted me out for doing coke only for her mom to do the rest.” Connor Rheider | Maternal cousin | November 2, 1999         “Quirky. Genius. Loves drones. Probably in charge of WikiLeaks.”

Luke Rheider | Maternal uncle | May 4, 1966         “Pretentious. Thinks old money is anything over a year. Football fan. Moron.” Charli Diamond | Maternal aunt-in-law | October 31, 1982         “Second wife. Thinks Luke’s gonna die soon, but she deserves gold. Refused the name.” Bastien Rheider | Maternal cousin | January 28, 1988         “One of the two actually cool people in this family. Sarcastic. Sick. Sweet.” Evie Rheider | Maternal first cousin, once removed | September 12, 2008         “Started sweet, is now fully demonic.”

Paul Blackwood | Paternal uncle | October 6, 1965         “Loudly republican. Loudly terrible. Horrible suits. Still calls me ‘Squirt’.” Charlotte Blackwood (née Gilfrey) | Paternal aunt-in-law | May 10, 1967        “If Ann Coulter was slightly younger and somehow slightly worse.” Kim Blackwood | Paternal cousin | August 1, 1987         “Couture PotteryBarn expert. Insufferable. Screechy. Trend-chaser.” George White | Cousin-in-law-to-be | November 7, 1980         “The manifestation of Kim’s daddy issues. Wedding date is permanently TBD.” Lisa Blackwood | Paternal cousin | April 9, 1989         “Mini-Eliza. Clothing terrorist. Should’ve been aborted.” Salvatore Stracci | Cousin-in-law-to-be | October 22, 1976        “Tall, Italian and scary. Also in a state of perpetual engagement and dissatisfaction.” Alessandro Blackwood | Paternal first cousin, once removed | May 31, 2010         “Had to hold him at a party once. He spat on me.”

Michael Blackwood | Patnernal uncle | May 1, 1967         “I legitimately don’t know if he and Paul are different people.” Natalie Blackwood (née Gainsbourg) | Paternal aunt-in-law | July 1, 1968        “Quiet, but clearly judgmental. Alopecia. Clings to Michael desperately.” Heather Blackwood | Paternal cousin | March 14, 1990         “The only sane woman. Editor at Harper’s Bazaar with Natalie. Goddess. Soul sister.”

Matthew Blackwood | Paternal uncle | Stillborn August 8, 1970

-

Dances– The Blackwoods | A Personal Essay (Written pre-parental death).

It was a dance.

It always was, no matter what. No, there was never any music. No stage. No choreography. But conversations with my mother were always an intricate samba on a tightrope.

It could begin at any moment, about anything. Simple small talk about where I went for brunch yesterday morning could turn into a bitchfest about my weight– as if being 110 was something to be ashamed of. The mere presence of an unopened, monthly bank statement could turn into a lecture about financial responsibility– as if she wasn’t surrounded by new, shiny things and maxed out AMEX cards. And, far more recently, a quick, innocent glance at the alcohol cabinet would have me sat down with some professional life coach while she watched, a vodkatini in hand.

Eliza Blackwood (born Eliza Rheider in 1971) was a bitch. An absolute bitch. A wretched, spoiled, high-strung, narcissistic, classist, borderline-anorexic, Valium-addicted, Shalimar-drenched, Kris Jenner-wannabe bitch. She was lucky she came from money, because if she wasn’t, I don’t think she’d be alive right now. I mean, I’m lucky, too, but I’m grateful for what I have.

Her parents were corporate assholes– her dad worked for Goldman Sachs, and his wife was a vapid, shrill, useless little brat not unlike her daughter. And, of course, that unloveable little bitch went and married someone who could satisfy her financial needs and not embarrass the family name– Andrew Blackwood, a New York politician from a family of Wall Street types (Some of whom also worked at Goldman Sachs, which is how the two met). On paper, they were a match made in heaven. A wealthy politician and his obnoxious jetsetter wife.

But, fortunately for me, even though I hadn’t been born quite yet, Andrew was a good, caring man. While Eliza was (and still is) ruthless, selfish and absolutely disgustingly horrible, Andrew had a heart. He cared about people. And things. Which was why he went into politics. He wanted to make a change. While his family was a bunch of wealthy Republicans, he was entirely Democratic, a fact that nearly alienated from them entirely (if only it had actually managed to keep his family out of my life) which is why I’m still in awe that he wound up with a pathetic Paris Hilton knockoff. A politician with a heart of gold wound up with a blue blood twat who measures her love in karats.

But back to her dances.

I’m not entirely sure where they come from. I mean, no matter how much you analyze someone and their family and upbringing and everything, you can’t pin point their personality traits and their behaviors. That said, I think I have a fair amount of clues as to where Eliza’s horrid personality came from.

While her relationship with her mother is mostly concealed to me, their lifestyle was no secret. Eliza always went on about how well she lived as a kid, how luxurious her house was, how high the thread count in the sheets of her crib was, and how she washed her face with caviar or something. But how she got along with her mother was never fully described. I’ve seen hints here and there– a glare across a table at a gala or whispers on the phone. But I don’t know too much. As far as I know, Eliza’s mother– Mrs. Karen Rheider– didn’t even bother to raise any of her three children. I wouldn’t have been surprised had they all been raised by a nanny while Karen went went on living as a trophy wife. But I assume that the two of them, when they did interact, got along the same way Eliza and I do– and that would make it safe to assume Eliza picked up her bitchy words, malicious intentions and passive-aggressive, condescending demeanor from her mother. The family bitchiness is hereditary.

Passive-aggressiveness is definitely a running trait in my family. I see it to an extent on my dad’s side– his brothers and him bicker endlessly, and they seem to show some slight disapproval for his opposing political stance, as if world views are trivial dinner conversation. But it pales in comparison to the Rheider family’s guilt. Aside from me, and my mother, I see it in the rest of the family.

My aunt Jodi, mother of two, is another disgusting person. Like Jenny McCarthy, she refused to vaccinate her kids because she believed it would make them autistic. Her son, Connor, has caught the flu every single year since he was six. The three (including her daughter Jenna) currently reside together at a nudist resort, where the kids were homeschooled… because they lack their immunizations. But that’s kind of besides the point– any time Jodi decides to dress up and sneak out into the world of normalcy, she misses no opportunity to make slick comments that everyone else in the family is living incorrectly. Thankfully, everyone else has mastered the art of clapback.

Eliza’s brother, Luke, and his wife, Charli (a full 16 years younger than him) are an obnoxiously pretentious couple who are all too proud of their FormDecor relationship and all too ashamed of everyone else’s. Luke has a son, Bastien, who he had with his first wife, that’s only 6 years younger than Charli. However, Bastien’s one of the few people on my mother’s side of the family that I actually enjoy. We share similar morals, and gratefulness for what we’ve been given, and spend every single family function together ripping the family apart. It’s a shame they never hear us.

Even the family elders have the same disapproving, condescending disdain for everything that my mom displays. But they’re far too silent around me to reveal anything noteworthy. The most words I’ve ever heard from my great grandmother Dorothy Cross (my mother’s mother’s mother), was scolding Jodi for her nudist colony being racially integrated, so it’s safe to say not much good was going to come from that generation. Fortunately, most of them are dead– Dorothy passed in 2011 (though her husband is still living off of a diamond-encrusted life support machine), and Eliza’s father’s parent’s are both long gone. Three out of Andrew’s four parents are deceased, his mother’s mother Clarissa Pullock (or something like that) is still alive, though I’ve never met her and probably never will– our first interaction will probably be at her funeral where I’m forced to pretend to mourn.

While Eliza’s family is dominated by a vile matriarchy, Andrew’s family has been dominated by powerful men with miniature dicks who made the Blackwood name known very much for investment banking until bank holding companies began to reign supreme, after which the family figured they would be better off in electoral politics. Andrew’s grandfather, Adam Blackwood, worked up a networth of slightly over $1 billion, and while his successors haven’t exactly been slacking, I don’t think any of them are ever going to do as well as him (but at the end of the day, if Andrew decided to have a bonfire using $100 bills as kindling, we’d recover before the fire even went out). Adam had two sons– Matthew and Bernard, and both received their jobs at Wall Street after him in a clear sign of nepotism. Bernard married a real estate agent named Elaine or Elle or something like that and had a million kids– most of which were boys. I don’t know much about them, and I don’t really care to. Matthew married some Janet something and had four kids– Paul (1965), Michael (1967), Andrew (1969), and Matthew Jr. (stillborn in 1970).

Unfortunately for this generation of men, who, unsurprisingly, continued the trend of nepotism and began work at the same place as their ancestors (save for Andrew who stayed in school, exploring his interests), none of them were able to produce any boys to continue the line. Paul was the first to reproduce– shooting out Kim and Lisa in 1987 and 1989, and as soon as the Kardashian sisters came around, they tried their hardest to be them but soon settled with just being their very close friends (and it’s safe to say I can’t stand any of them). Michael had Heather in 1990, and somehow, amidst a family of putrid, selfish monsters, she wound up a tasteful and snarky angel of hope. Like Bastien, we spend our family events together, an unholy trio of stylish black sheep.

And then finally, February 5, 1995, I came around. Eliza and Andrew had been married for about three years, and finally had me. Adam was still alive at the time and was praying for a great grandson– only to be disappointed for the fourth time. Almost as a sign of flippancy towards him, they named me Sam (well, Samantha, but I’ve grown accustomed to Sam and refuse to be called by my full first name unless I’m being charged with something). My mother made my middle name Elizabeth– because she hoped that I would follow in her footsteps. She once said naming me after her was “the biggest mistake” she ever made, which I don’t think is entirely unfair because taking after her is the last thing I ever want to do. And I’ve spent the last twenty-one years learning all of this.

People always say that blood is thicker than water, or whatever. That we’re supposed to stick with our families (over friends, or, well, anything). There’s been some mindset that family comes before all, that you honor your last name above anything and everything. I don’t believe that for one second. As if who happened to bang should determine everything about you. I despise almost all of that. And I won’t claim any of the ones that I don’t like for one second. I’ll take a tango any day. Fuck blood. And fuck the Blackwoods.