#you can see how the loneliness and fear of being left behind is slowly creeping out on her

[darlingrxby]

eloise is getting the best foundation for her season

[rokutouxei]

like flashes of starlight

genshin impact | G | 4331 | ao3 link in bio xiao / aether

summary: Xiao’s entire existence is rooted in Liyue, all thousands of years of his life, and when he begins to develop a fondness for a traveler whose journey takes him farther than he can ever imagine, he finds himself seeing his much smaller world, its time and space, a little differently.

--

Liyue Harbor will always be in a state of flux—always changing, always inviting the newness of the world into its docks. History will paint it in vibrant colors, its most beautiful traditions alongside the innovations of ever-changing cultures. But to Xiao, Liyue will always be the same.

His Liyue. His to protect. Rex Lapis’ Liyue.

The fittings may change, but the core is the same.

When he’d first met the traveler, a thought crossed his mind that slowly embedded itself deep into his consciousness. Xiao knew with one glance that Aether was not of Teyvat. The way he held himself; the way he wielded his elemental powers; the mere energy of him was not human, or demon, for that matter. Aether felt like something different, like the night sky, broad and all-encompassing to those on the ground.

Had Xiao’s apprehension not superseded his curiosity, he would have asked: what does Liyue look like, to an outsider like you?

As a fellow outsider, do you see it as I do?

-

Rex Lapis’ decree is simple. Protect Liyue. Vanquish demons. Restore order through slaughter. Purge evil through battle. Nothing more, nothing less. The five yakshas' existence, purpose, and meaning all lie within that framework of being the weaponry by which Liyue is guaranteed safety.

As the last remaining of the five, despite being also assisted by the many remaining adepti, Xiao holds his mission close to his heart.

When the threat of Osial befalls Liyue, both the mortal millelith and Qixing, and the mighty, illuminated adepti come to the rescue. It is not easy to put aside their differences, but in the end they come together to fight for their nation, standing on top of the Jade Chamber, overlooking the monstrous water dragon haunting them all from the past. All are willing to fight until their deaths. But there is another one, standing on the battlefield, that does not need to be there—and yet is there—and does not back down despite every opportunity he gets.

Aether.

Aether is not of Liyue. Aether doesn’t even look like he’s from anywhere in Teyvat, for that matter, the true fittings of an actual wanderer, as if he were from an entirely different world of his own. And yet he is here. Bruised and still injured from a previous battle—he had heard the floating girl that they had come from the Golden House, and a battle with a Fatui Harbinger had led to the summoning of Osial—Aether still stands with the rest of them, ignoring any weariness from previous battles.

“What can I do?” he offers, and the adepti share a look at each other as if gauging the situation. They know. It is not exactly easy to hide that Aether is not like other travelers, other adventurers. They lend him their power. Slowly, gauging how much he can handle of their energies. They convene on the ballista, fighting Fatui and avoiding the strikes of the fallen god, water blasting them painfully.

At some point during the battle, Aether and Xiao meet back-to-back as they dodge from an attack. The former glances at the adeptus with an unreadable smile.

Xiao has long been used to being the strongest one on the battlefield, the one most proficient at killing. But with Aether here by his side—blocking and returning a strike, a Fatui agent dropping to the ground—there is a feeling that fills him about having someone near his equal, if not even stronger, fight with him.

Excitement? Thrill?

The tiniest bit of lax, like he would be safe with him?

So when the ballista cracks open with a particularly hard strike, and Aether has no choice but to obey gravity, Xiao does not fight the instinct to leap between debris to catch him before he lands on the ground.

Only a quiet tsk comes out of him once Aether is safely in his arms, to which the other’s gasp of surprise melts into a brief, sheepish grin.

He'd imagined the traveler would ease his murderous workload—not add to it. And right now, Liyue might be lucky to have a willing outsider to help them out in such a time of crisis, but like this… Xiao wonders if the nation will be any safer with a savior as reckless as him.

-

Aether calls it an offering out of jest. Xiao seems exasperated every time, but he does not reject the plate of almond tofu that gets offered to him anyway. Besides, it tastes different when it’s the traveler that makes it.

It is unfair in a way that Xiao hears ahead if Aether might pass by the Wangshu Inn—related to commissions from Verr Goldet or Huai’an, or perhaps from a brief sighting of him from the mountains of Liyue. But he finds it no sort of nuisance, because that only gives him more time to prepare himself to meet the traveler.

The plates of almond tofu, like all offerings to archons and adepti, are made with a wish in mind. Like this, Aether subtly asks for a sliver of time, a moment with some company other than his floating companion. And the Xiao before Osial, before saving Liyue, well, he would have turned him down, would have thanked him for the plate and then disappeared into the night, but—

Here, he does not.

Instead, he guides Aether up to the rooftop of Wangshu Inn. Here, the history of Liyue unfolds behind Xiao’s eyes, a history he knows like the back of his hand. Jueyun Karst to the left. Dihua Marsh to the right. And should the night be quieter, and Xiao allows himself to stand on the lower floor, there are the broken ruins in Guili Plains, where the war he had fought still rings clear.

Wangshu Inn fills his mind deafeningly with memories, but when Aether is there, all goes quiet.

Sometimes, Aether talks to him. Speaks to him of developments in his journey, or about a notable yet stray monster that he had fought with. Other times, it is mundane stories of his adventuring with Paimon. But a lot of times, Xiao’s company seems to be enough, Aether looking out at the view with an indistinct expression on his face.

It is in moments like these that Xiao recognizes something in Aether that he’s only ever seen in a mirror.

A deep welling of sadness. One that has been sharpened and smoothened and shaped by time.

Is this why Aether smiles at him like he understands his loneliness?

“My sister,” he said once, voice nearly just a whisper, “I’ve never been without her this long.” And that was it. No other explanation. He does not expound on what it means. It feels too heavy to say anything more than that. So when Aether leans his head against his shoulder, awake but not quite in his head, Xiao lets him, letting his questions disappear in an exhaled breath.

Eventually, if the Archons allow them, Aether will know of his secrets in time. And Xiao will know of his secrets in time.

Right now, it does not feel like it is his to ask.

But he can stay, he can keep watch, so that he does.

-

It isn’t that Xiao does not understand what draws the citizens of Liyue—and other nations as well—to the yearly celebration of Lantern Rite, it’s just that such a loud and joyous eruption of fervor has always had a different connotation to him, the one who protects Liyue from the monsters hiding in their shadows.

While Aether explores the newly-decorated streets of Liyue with the enthusiasm of a young tourist, streamers of red and lanterns bathing the city in a beautiful gold, Xiao looks over the harbor feeling like a foreigner. He hates the Lantern Rite. And not only because of the general adepti dislike of mortal life. Of course, he will never be one to complain about his duty, but the pain… The Lantern Rite is flashy and joyful—exacerbating the usual haze of the residual hatred of defeated gods.

On those days, Xiao finds no rest.

(Not that any kind of rest has ever been truly restful, not in what seems like ten thousand years.)

No room to breathe. Only the briefest of moments between fighting tainted monsters that spawn from the ground, his spirit black and blue and choking from corruption.

His one fear is what would happen to Liyue if one day, he becomes unable to fight?

When the karma that weighs down on him becomes too much for him to bear?

He has to continue to believe in his battle, lest he forgets it.

He sees the lanterns and chants to himself, like forcing himself to believe it:

It is worth it.

A camp of hilichurls reek blackness, slowly creeping into the territory of Wangshu Inn. There are innocent people there. As silently as possible, as to not draw any more attention, he quickly clears them, granting no mercy. Their anger dissipates from their bodies and sinks into his skin.

It is worth it.

Their eyes all black now, growling and hissing, a group of vengeful, corrupted treasure hoarder spirits track a caravan carrying stocks of food and materials on its way to Liyue Harbor. They promise sickness and death to whatever they touch. Before the driver and the millelith even notice him creeping by, the spirits are dealt with. When he breathes in, he feels them calling him unforgivable.

It is worth it.

He’s never been partial to crowded areas, not with his constitution being as it is. He’d rather be as far away from other people as possible, as to not bring any more danger than he already must. All of this human experience of the Lantern Rite—peeking in between stalls, checking wares, tasting the festival food, creating lanterns—are for individuals like the traveler.

There is evil out there to be cleansed, he does not have time for “merriment.”

Which is why he does not understand why Aether does not understand.

Why they insist to “bring the Lantern Rite to him”, serve him food that reminds him of sweet, sweet dreams. What they get out of dragging him all the way to the outskirts of Liyue Harbor, if only to overlook the Mingxiao lantern, a quiet reminder of a battle fought what feels like eons ago. The closer they get to the festivities, the more Xiao feels out of place, the more he wants to run.

But he does not, because Aether is by his side. And on the walk to the harbor, he asks Xiao about the Lantern Rite, as if he hasn’t heard about it before. Forces Xiao to form the words with his own mouth. Filling in the blanks when he no longer knows what to say; when he’s forgotten what it truly is now, to the people he is protecting, what happens on the stage while he is on the sidelines.

That the Lantern Rite is a celebration of the new year, a thanksgiving for the previous year’s joys, and a prayer in anticipation for the coming year’s blessings. That the Lantern Rite is a commemoration of its long past, its commercial hub status getting adorned with its intricate history, traders and storytellers coming together to speak of old wars and adepti and long-fallen gods.

Lanterns as beacons in the night, guiding bygone heroes back to their homeland.

Aether could be fair and say it as well, but he gives Xiao a taste of his own medicine and lets it sink in on its own.

This celebration is for you too, Xiao.

And when the traveler is long gone, he and Paimon in the streets of Liyue no doubt looking in awe and wonder at the culmination of the Lantern Rite festivities, Xiao sits on top of the mountainside on the outskirts watching Liyue light up with brilliance.

And he tells himself:

It’s worth it.

This is worth it.

Perhaps on the next Lantern Rite, Xiao wouldn’t mind taking a walk in the city with him.

-

No one prays to adeptus Xiao.

Not in the same way other adepti have served the citizens of Liyue, at the very least. There are no prayers of good tidings and great harvest; no pilgrimages made up to abodes to seek wisdom.

This has never bothered Xiao in the slightest, not in his hundreds of years of service.

It is better off this way. He doesn’t have what other adepti like Mountain Shaper or Cloud Retainer can offer, no knowledge and insight that he finds worth sharing. Even half-adepti like Ganyu would perhaps have more to give to a longing pilgrim.

The only thing Xiao can give is his executioner’s blow.

That doesn’t stop him from hearing them cry. Wishes for death from the most desperate, like silent bells tolling in the dead of the night. Demands for violence that are whispered into the traitorous air, reaching his ears without fail. They don’t have to speak his name for him to feel their prayers.

They twist, turn, mutate into the most horrible of requests, the hatred and miasma from old fallen gods corrupting even the most innocent of pleas, Xiao’s spear materializing in his hand as if on instinct, to kill, to eradicate, to cleanse, to kill kill kill kill—

This is why Xiao does not like to sleep.

Slumber means dropping his guard, letting the swirl of the voices take over him until he’s at his most vulnerable. Sleep is only more cause for trouble.

The yaksha soon learns, however, that sometimes, it is worth the spare openness; his emotions remaining unsaid and yet seen, somehow, because Aether is Aether. Xiao wonders if, to the traveler, he is transparent. Aether does not even flinch when Xiao misses to restrain the growl that crawls up his throat in response to the clamor of pain. Instead, the golden-haired boy readjusts where he’s resting his head on Xiao’s shoulder, and reaches the small distance to place his hand on his. Rubs two, three gentle lines with his thumb on the back of the adeptus’ hand before he promptly falls back into slumber, a well-deserved afternoon nap after a long morning of commissions.

Xiao’s spear dematerializes without a sound.

And, equally quietly, loud in its silence, Xiao rests his head against Aether’s, and closes his eyes.

-

Anger is not an emotion Xiao would associate with Aether, and yet here they are, at the highest peak of Qingce Village in the late afternoon, after he had asked Xiao if he knew someplace quiet where they would not be interrupted.

“I don’t understand,” he says, sat down with his arms on his knees, his head on his arms, curled up in a ball. Xiao stands next to him with his arms crossed over his chest, listening patiently. “She didn’t want to. …I’d finally found her, and yet…” There lingers the quiet kind of anger, voice calm yet cold. On the inside, Aether is trembling with irritation and swaying with dismay. The backlash of betrayal. “We’ve been separated for more than five hundred years.”

I’ve never been without her this long.

For what seems like an eternity after that, Aether is quiet. Understandably so. This is none of Xiao’s concern, at least not in the sense where he would have the duty to step in, and yet the chaos of it is one he could only ascribe to be some sort of nightmare. Perhaps similar to the ones he gets often. He imagines Aether’s world turned cleanly upside down—those he had considered his greatest allies now potentially his worst enemies; and that he had thought was his enemy is under the hand of the one person he trusts the most in the entire universe.

It is heavy.

In the silence, Xiao recalls when there were still five yakshas around. How the mist of karmic pain that entangled around them for eons of dutiful slaughter had begun to choke them, turn them into twisted versions of themselves. He had seen each of them fall from being unable to tolerate the agony.

He worries the same might happen to Aether. He worries that when that happens, he will only be able to watch, the same way he did back then.

That he would have to be the last resort to slay him.

It is only when the sun is long out of the sky when Aether speaks again, his voice hoarse as if he’d been screaming, sobbing openly—“I want to go home.”

Xiao… places a comforting hand over Aether’s shoulder. He knows that Aether would have been ready to go in a heartbeat. That Teyvat and Khaenri’ah are nothing but a blip in the grand canvas of his journeys. And that, unlike him, all permanent miasma and choking with his feet sunk into the ground, unable to move, forever rooted in Teyvat, in Liyue, in his karma, Aether has and always will be like flashes of starlight, beautiful and faint and gone in a moment.

That he would be gone before Xiao learns how to miss him.

The only question the yaksha has is, when he finally goes, if he would take the rest of Xiao’s heart with him.

-

He would have pulled a classic “foolish mortals” had he known no better about Aether’s own expansive lifetime. Like this, then, perhaps they are the same in their foolishness. At least the citizens of Liyue know better than to acquaint with him, their guardian whose only strength is in pursuing death. They hear the mere word of him and they scutter in the opposite direction. It is better that way. It is safer that way.

But Aether does not, and now it is too late.

Xiao stays up late wondering how much of what has befallen Aether is from him. How much of it is his own karma, spread by their bond—whatever sense he may make out of it—and leading to the other’s pain? Aether complains of nightmares, of being in that domain and calling out for his sister, only to be pushed back, thrown off, like he had never been wanted in the first place.

So Xiao sets up for an apology for what he has done, the least he can do for spreading the black miasma that surrounds him into someone unrelated like Aether, but the latter only throws him a look of confusion that slowly evolves into a now-familiar, cryptic smile.

“Why would I want to sever it?” Aether asks, “I’ve never thought of that, Xiao.”

Xiao is quiet, too dumbfounded to say another word.

So instead, Aether puts his hands over his hips and says, “When I am in Liyue, you make me strong, Xiao, knowing you are out here protecting the land as well. I have no regrets about being close to you.”

Then stay, Xiao nearly says.

“What does Liyue look to you,” Xiao finally asks, though he intones it not quite like a question, like he’s still apprehensive about it. Aether turns back toward him, all gold eyes and hair, stars in the night sky.

“Beautiful,” the traveler answers immediately, as if he had long thought of it that way. “Rich in its history, steeped in tradition. And with guardians that look after it long after the people have forgotten them in time. It’s a stunning nation.”

Then stay.

“I know you keep yourself all wrapped in secrecy for the people, but—think about it, everything they do is in debt to you.”

“A debt that does not need to be repaid,” Xiao says. “I only follow through Rex Lapis’ original decree.”

“And that’s exactly why it’s so praiseworthy.” Aether nods to himself. “It’s a negative cycle where only you bear all the consequences. Had they known about you—should they still honor you the way they did then—they would see you as the hero that you are, Xiao. As the hero I see you as.”

Then stay.

Yanxiao avoids eye contact with Xiao but does not hesitate in giving Aether a judgmental look when he orders a plate of almond tofu for breakfast. What the cook doesn’t know is that it’s a reward for a restless night of nightmares, and an apology for a friendship that has always been wanted.

For the something more that cannot be claimed.

As they share the plate of sweet dreams, Xiao realizes, while looking at Aether enjoying a bite, that one day, like everything else that has happened in the past, he might be able to forgive himself—forgive Aether—for what they have done to each other. No grudge can last a thousand years. And should the thousand years pass—well, Aether would have been long gone, and Xiao knows better than to dig himself an even deeper grave for his sorrows.

Xiao has lived more than a thousand years in the loneliness, where there is only his spear and his darkness, but now, bathed in starlight, he feels lost and ill at ease. Perhaps, in a different life, things would not have ended this way, and there would have been compromises to be made, and there would have been promises to be kept. He considers the possibility of a universe where that occurs, if it would be better, if it would be worse.

The young-seeming adeptus searches his heart, only to find no answers.

 -

The prowess of that one mortal Beidou is not one that has escaped Xiao, and once Aether informs him that she would be allowing him safe passage into the closed country of Inazuma, Xiao is certain the traveler would be alright. It doesn’t entirely ease his worries, however, so once the day of departure arrives, he slips into the nearby Guyun Stone Forest to observe the ship as it prepares to sail away.

His mind is so clouded he doesn’t hear Aether approaching him from behind.

“Xiao?”

The adeptus feels a pang in his chest in the other’s tone of surprise; on the other hand, a breeze of thankfulness fills his heart—perhaps he is less see-through than he’d once thought. He turns to the golden-eyed boy with his usual blank face, hoping his mask does not break.

Paimon speaks before he can. “Are you here to say goodbye, Xiao?”

“Hmph.” If he was, he would need more coaxing to admit it. “I wanted to see to it the ship wouldn’t sink before you’ve even left Liyuen premises.”

Aether smiles like he knows what that sentence really meant. Xiao wonders if Aether really understands, or he just likes to believe it is that way. “Thank you.”

He’d promised once, after all, that he would protect Aether, hear his call, for as long as he is in Liyue. Anywhere beyond there… is entirely out of his jurisdiction.

“You know,” Paimon begins, crossing her small arms over her chest, “Paimon thinks it would be great if Xiao came with us. Then I wouldn’t be worrying so much about you getting in weird stuff, Aether.”

Xiao gets interrupted before he can reply. “That wouldn’t be a nice thing to ask, Paimon,” he explains, patting the fairy’s head gently before turning to Xiao. “Liyue is Xiao’s home, he belongs here. I can’t take that away from him—and him away from Liyue. Don’t you think, Xiao?”

Home, huh?

Two pairs of gold eyes meet, and in the other, Xiao sees a longing that he wonders is what foolish mortals would call love.

“May your journeys allow you to reach your sister soon,” is, instead, what Xiao settles with, and Aether pulls out another one of his cryptic smiles. Like he hears the Thank you. Like he hears the Liyue—and I—will always be here. Like he understands the I hope you, too, reach and return to that place where you belong.

Like he knows this is a goodbye, but of a different sort.

Xiao is too far from where they are to be visible when the two get on the ship. They wave vaguely in his direction, his attention called back by a whisper of his name in a familiar voice, carried by the sea breeze. Xiao watches as the anchor gets hoisted, the sails opened, and the ship begins to make its way into the great sea. Once it is out of his sight, he has no way to find out if Aether will be alright.

At dusk, the stars are beginning to come out, perfect for wayfinding. Its deep blueness is all-encompassing, as if cradling Xiao in familiar darkness.

The adeptus raises his head to the wide sky. The god he has worshipped is dead. Only Archons know where his pleas will end up in. But even if he does not know who will hear his wishes, for Aether—he prays.

-

Time is a silly thing. At first, a day feels like a hundred years, and then, a hundred years pass by in what feels like mere days.

What felt like the entire world once is now but a passing memory.

Liyue Harbor will always be in a state of flux—always changing, always inviting the newness of the world into its harbors. History will paint it in vibrant colors, its most beautiful traditions alongside the innovations of ever-changing cultures. But to Xiao, Liyue will always be the same.

Once, there was a traveler that roamed the landscape of Liyue, changing it and influencing it wherever he went. Shifting its colors; turning it upside down; leaving his stardust on it.

Liyue will always be the same.

The same harbor.

The same rooftop on Wangshu inn.

The same cliffside in Qingce.

The places Xiao went to, trying to understand what Liyue looked like to one who had come from the heavens, looking down.

The traveler he wished on stars to.

Xiao still finds him everywhere, in things beautiful and faint and gone in a moment.

[softcallofdutyimagines]

More Then a Woman | Frank Woods x Fem!Reader | Chapter 3

Summary:

Woods is out for his usual, morning run. Everything is fine... you know, except that it goes just about as bad as it usually has been lately. With results even less stellar then usual and a weight of worry unlike anything he's felt as of yet on top of it, could a chance meeting with you be enough to turn things as bleak as this around?

Tags: Slow burn, fluff

Chpt 1 | Chpt 2 | Chpt 4 | Warnings: None except language

No music, no people, and just the barest rays of sunlight.

It’s just after seven am, and Frank is out for his morning run.

Every morning starts off like this, just him and the road, while he organizes his thoughts for the day. Most days he plans out all the shit he has to do and measuring out his time into neat compartments, but lately…

He can’t get his mind off of you.

A single sound byte of you calling him complete with varying, imagined inflections from that one day with Mason, plays over and over again.

Sargent! Sargent Woods! Woods! Woods!

Woods…

A small, secretive part of him wishes he could hear you call him Frank. Just once.

Or... no.

No, he doesn’t.

This is crazy. Even if he ignores the fact that he’s met you a grand total of twice in his entire life… He doesn’t have time for a, a girlfriend. Besides, you’re young and pretty… two things of which he is not. How does he know you don’t have someone already? And, for argument’s sake, let’s say you didn’t. Why the fuck would you want him?

Such is the state of the ongoing debate in his mind.

Woods shakes his head, breathing hard and attempting to refocus on the road before him. He checks his watch and picks up the pace. He’s behind again.

In fact, it’s been far too long since he’s reached a new best, no matter how hard he pushes. He runs and he runs until his lungs burn like a knife in his chest and an eerie darkness creeps into the edges of his vision. At last, he can’t go on any further, and slows to a walk. Gasping for air and dripping sweat, he trudges up to the lamp post he’s been using as a finish line and gives it a tap.

With a great heave of breath, he checks his watch a final time. Off from his best by nearly a whole minute this morning.

He runs a hand through his soaked hair, every inch of his face down to the very air he breathes conveys his dismay and suddenly he feels far too aware of his own body. The fine lines and creases slowly drawing in around his eyes and forehead. The chilly kiss of wind as it blows over patches of his scalp that he swears it didn’t use to. The clicking and dull, constant ache in his back and joints.

And suddenly the dreaded phrase, “getting too old” worms into his mind.

The street light shuts off, pulling him out of the thought induced stasis. He wipes his forehead and takes a look around. Not a soul in sight. Normally he’d find such conditions ideal, but suddenly, he feels very... alone.

All this life lived so far, and what does he have to show for it?

A case of medals, a shitload of exclusive skills and tactics, and… and…?

An empty, hollow house to bar out the rest of the world? A cold bed for two, one side always perfectly made and never disturbed? A fridge of beer and a cable tv, always set to the same, droning channel, to give the illusion of company as he drinks alone on Friday nights?

What happens when he retires and the fighting is done?

These... things. These meaningless, empty things, will be all he has left.

For all the gruff exterior. All the ‘fuck you’ and ‘watch this’ attitude. All the pomp, and arrogance, and pride, and passion, and creativity, and humor, and zeal for life and living… Is it too much to wish that, maybe, he had someone to share it all with?

Fuck.

Lost in his thoughts once more, his breath hitches as his shoe kicks a familiar glass door. He looks up and reads the sign. It’s the same coffee shop he stops at every morning after a good, hard run well done.

Frank looks down and gives his ever so slight, and yet slowly ever developing, gut a pat. Ugh, he winces. He remembers a time when he was still able to say ‘his abs.’

For a moment, he considers skipping this time, but… fuck it.

He orders his usual and a plain bagel for breakfast as he goes to find a seat. As of now, he has the whole place to himself, but before he can go back to reflecting on his own loneliness again, the door chimes and a lone figure power walks in. Frank nearly spits out his bagel in an effort not to choke as he watches you hustle up to the register in a sharp, white pantsuit.

You look… like… an angel. Draped in white and floating across the floor in the loose, but flattering fabric. It’s then that he catches that same fluttering feeling in his chest, just as he did when you were calling for him last time. He doesn’t even realize he’s staring until you turn around and catch his gaze.

“Oh, hey!”, you smile and wave politely, even bothering to make your way over while you wait on your order.

Woods snaps to attention, ripped out of his daydream at the sound of your voice. He takes in a sharp breath as he sits up a little straighter, hoping against hope that he looks more impressive then he’s been feeling thus far.

“Good morning Sargent, wh-”

“Frank”, he grunts, realizing a bit too late that he sounds far too harsh. “Uh, please. You know, I’m off duty and all...”, he trails off, taking a convenient sip of coffee to mask the awkwardness.

You make an ‘ah’ shape with your mouth and give a nod. “Frank”, you give the name a test and, as far as he can tell, decide that you like it. With a smile, you ask if you can join him at the table and introduce yourself by name in the process.

And in that moment, he commits it to memory where, from then on, it will stay safely locked away, exactly as you said it, til the day he dies.

“So, what are you doing out so early?”, you laugh.

He quickly explains he’s been out for a run, hoping that you won’t press for details. Luckily, you do not, and he takes the opportunity to ask you the same question. Likewise, you quickly explain that you’re headed to work and running a bit behind.

After that, it feels like you’re out of conversation material, and a thick silence settles between you. But, before things get too awkward, Frank decides to pick up the conversation, “So, uh… I’ve been meaning to uh, apologize…”

You cock your head in confused interest, but say nothing.

“You know, when we first met and all… I um, I’m sorry I said that stupid shit before I left like that. I don’t want you to think I’m… you know, crazy or something, heh”, he laughs humorlessly, and looks away, itching at the back of his neck nervously.

“Hm? Oh, it’s no trouble, I honestly forgot about it for a moment there”, you laugh, and it’s the nicest sound he’s ever heard. Like a fresh breeze in summer, carrying with it the smell of clean linens on the line and warm grass….

Your eyes smile deeply into his as he holds your gaze. For the briefest of moments, he feels connected to and understood by another human being like he never has before.

He takes a breath and it's as though he can feel the very scene he described. Gone is the smell of stale coffee beans and dried sweat. No more pain in his lungs or cramps in his legs. No more worrying about all the years and age slowly building onto him. No more haunting fear of loneliness.

Just the sensation of you.

Without his perception, his rough, callused hand slides in stuttering increments closer and closer still in the direction of yours. And just like that, the trance is broken as the barista calls your name. You jerk your head around to look, and the broken eye contact brings Woods screeching back into reality. He blinks and refamiliarizes himself with his surroundings.

Everything looks… dull in comparison to the vivid daydream held in your eyes.

You look back towards him, wearing that same smile, “Well it’s been nice catching up, but I have to go…”, you reach out and give his hand a friendly squeeze, “Take care now!”

The Sargent tries to return the sentiment, but all he can manage is a winded sounding grunt. He never knew someone’s skin could feel so soft. And warm.

Even after you’ve left for the door, his entire arm is still buzzing with electricity as every nerve from the tips of his fingers to the length of his spinal column light up with an excitement that he couldn’t put to words in a thousand years.

He brings up that same hand to where he can see it, turning it over slowly and flexing his fingers experimentally, as though noticing the extremity for the first time. It feels… new, after coming in contact with your disarming touch, and suddenly he doesn’t feel so aged and wizened as he was just minutes ago.

And when he’s good and through with his coffee and bagel, he makes up his mind to achieve something he hasn’t in a long time… With a few hops to limber up and a deep breath for luck, he manages a run all the way back home.

[roo-sketch]

Since people have asked about the Ducktales Bushroot idea I’ve been cooking up, I figured I’d gush the entire thing here. And look! It comes with pictures! Blame the lateness of this on my two jobs, they run me ragged I tell you what

So seeing as how Darkwing Duck is technically a tv show in the Ducktales universe, that’d mean the villains would end up with vastly different backstories too (as did Drake Mallard and Jim Starling in “The Duck Knight Returns”).

So for Bushroot, or in this case Tino Moss, why not make him the only child to the part time actor/script writer Pete Moss - who played the Bushroot character on the TV show.

Ever since he could remember, Tino would tag along with his dad to the studio (since Peter was a single father and had no one else to look after his son while he worked). It’s here he got to meet the cast and crew to the show, all of which, save for one, were super nice to a shy little boy always hiding behind his fathers legs. Because of this, Tino grew to love watching the finished episodes and even began to idolize the main character a little, saying how he’d one day grow up to be a super hero too! But upon meeting Jim, and being rudely brushed aside, he soon realized it’s best not to meet your idols (I imagine Jim was just as self absorbed like in the Duck Knight Returns and wouldn’t pay a small fan any mind during the height of his popularity).

After being coldly rebuffed, it was then Tino turned his sights on being a super hero in a completely different way, deciding to become a doctor instead. Pete would often joke he should become a botonist like the Bushroot character (that he’d low-key based on his sons personality), but Tino shrugged it off with a laugh and aimed to be a traditional one instead, preferring to become a family physician.

Years passed and in his final stages of his clinical’s, it’s then he received the devastating news that his father had fallen terminally ill. It was a heavy blow to see the once exuberant duck he loved so much slowly fade into a shell of his former self. At this point Tino took time off from his career to tend to his father, despite the loans and bills quickly piling up, the two spent a majority of their time watching old episodes of Darkwing Duck and reminiscing about a time when things were happier.

Eventually the inevitable day came when his father passed, destroying Tino emotionally. He’d been the only remaining family he had left, and after his death he was left with no one. The time spent tending to his father had become his whole life, and any other relationships outside of that he’d sadly neglected to the point his friends had moved on or away.

It took him a while to get back into the medical field, having to retake his clinical’s all over again and even though the work was fulfilling in a way (distracting him enough not to think about the loss) he still wasn’t entirely happy with his life, struggling with the mounting bills and loneliness that’d started to creep in. It’s then Jim Starling practically materialized out of the clear blue, having had tracked down his address and wondered if he would like to meet and catch up.

Tino is hesitant at first, remembering the blowhard from his childhood and didn’t know if he wanted to revisit that chapter of his life again, but when Jim makes mention of his dad, of all the good times they had on and off camera, the former star eventually brings the other duck around enough the two sit down for a good, long chat.

They reminisce about the show, the actors, where everyone is at the moment. Jim mentions on several occasions how he’d been trying to reboot the Darkwing Duck series and asks if he’d be interested in reprising his fathers role as the mutated plant monster.

Tino laughs it off, admitting he isn’t much of an actor, or a writer for that matter, but if he ever wanted some pointers for the episodes he still had his dads old scripts archived in the attic.

After that Jim comes and goes infrequently, usually to ask scientific mumbo jumbo about the whole “mutating a Duck into a plant” thing, which Tino does some research between work and sleep just to appease what he considers a friend at this point (going so far as to getting ahold of a scientist in the Saint Canard University’s agricultural department for some additional insight). He passes the information off to Jim and thinks nothing else of it until the former star makes a surprise visit one day.

He tells him he has it all set up for the big shoot, inviting Tino down to see the studio for himself. Curiosity gets the better of him, and despite needing to get some rest for work tomorrow, he joins the other duck on the long car ride, a bit unnerved to see it’s in an abandoned factory on the outskirts of the city.

Any questions he poses regarding safety - or why anyone in their right mind would want to set up a shoot here - is quickly brushed aside, Jim telling him he was aiming for a darker, grittier Darkwing Duck, hence the change in scenery. They head inside to find what appears to be a fully functioning lab, Tino excitedly looking over all the instruments, commenting about how realistic it was. As he stands beside the operating table, it’s then he is suddenly whacked upside the head, knocked out cold for who knows how long.

By the time he comes to, he’s strapped down, wires running over and through him. He pleads to know what’s going on, gasping to see Jim in an off color version of the Darkwing costume leering over him. The former actor explains that after he saw the news of what went down in Saint Canard, the ram rod incident and the other dimensions villains running amuck on the streets, he realized he needed his own Fearsome Five by his side if he ever planned to rule the city.

Seeing as how Pete had passed away and the other actors were far to old or out of reach to reprise their “roles”, he’d set out to replace them with newer, younger versions, starting with Tino.

Panicking, and realizing what exactly he planned to do to him as the liquids start to pump into his body, Tino breaks free before Negaduck can fully flip the conversion switch.

He manages to run a good distance from the factory, picking his way through the unfamiliar streets of Saint Canard as his body begins to grow more and more sluggish the further he walks. It almost feels like he’s going through every stage of sickness all at once. Chills, hot flashes, nausea, dehydration. He asks for help several times to passerby’s only to have people take one look at his green complexion and lurch away in fright. Some even out right flee, especially when near by trees or other plants spring to life around them. They, along with Tino, run in fear, he finally stopping long enough to catch his breath and get a good, hard look at his reflection through a shop window. Horror spreads across his face. A face that is his own but not in so many ways. It almost resembles the make-up his father used to wear during shoots but oh so different, oh so wrong! Deep in the pit of his stomach he knows this isn’t fake, this isn't a dream, it’s real. The mutation is real, and with people gasping, crying and running, this will be his new reality if he can’t find a way to reverse it!

Through several more mishaps and misunderstandings, dodging both panicking citizens and Darkwing Duck, he eventually finds himself cornered in a building by the Saint Canard police force (who mistakenly believe he’s just as dangerous as the other dimensions Bushroot).

It’s here Tino is once again confronted by Negaduck, and though he yells at the one behind all this, for forcibly mutating him into a monster and how he won’t get away with it, his words are cut short when Negaduck laughs, pointing out he shouldn’t be angry at the only person willing to embrace him now. He offers one last time for Tino to join the Fearsome Five, sneering that if he refused, he’d never be a normal duck again.

When Tino asks what he means, Negaduck explains that he’d kept all the notes, all the formulas, everything he did to turn him into a mutant plant duck was written in a journal, stashed away for safe keeping. If he ever planned on reverse engineering a formula to turn himself back, he’d need that journal. But if he refused to cooperate, than he’d have no problem destroying it and leaving Tino as he was.

A monster.

With no other choice, Tino finally agrees, reluctantly starting down the path of villainy.

And that’s how I figured you could have a sympathetic Bushroot character that stayed in line with the “he’s not technically a villain per say,” category while having him justified as to WHY he’s a villain at all.

[thefanficmonster]

Never Satisfied [Teaser]

Corpse Husband x Original Female Character

Warnings: Language (possibly more?)

Collaboration between Vy & Ashens 🖤

“this criminal is stealing my fires, what the fuck?!“

Life is a rollercoaster, it always has been. One moment he feels at the top of the world and the very next he’s upside down at the bottom, wishing the ride would come to a stop as soon as possible. Things that shouldn’t be difficult, things average people would consider the norm to him were the equivalent of walking on glass, each step sending shocks of pain throughout his body, anxiety pumping his blood with adrenaline that provoked his fight or flight response. And after choosing ‘fight’ so many times, he’s more than prepared to choose ‘flight’.

But as he sits in the Walmart parking lot, he’s talking himself out of that habit of running from discomfort. He doesn’t want to battle it either, he just wants to face it and prove he’s strong enough to defeat it if he tried. Well, anxiety is laughing in his face right now, mocking him by the shaking of his hands and the tight sensation in his gut and throat. He’s here for what’s supposed to be just a quick shopping trip. Just to buy a few things! That’s all he has to do. However, he can’t bring himself to get out of his beige Subaru and walk into the store. 

I’m just hungry, right? Or maybe tired, he thought to himself.

That’s what everyone told him - that anxiety was caused by something simple to solve but hard to realize when your mind is in a frenzy. He’s planning on getting something to eat to calm his nerves. If that doesn’t work, to hell with it. He has been improvising plan B’s all his life, this wouldn’t be anything new. 

With a shaky sigh Corpse looks at his radio, switching stations until his luck smiles at him when he comes across a BONES song and turns it up just enough to not overwhelm his senses. He has been needing some kind of a distraction all day, why not gravitate to the one thing that felt real, as if sent to save him from the mess within his head. Putting the car into drive, he pulls out of the parking lot and into the nearest fast food drive thru. A plain burger with cheese so his stomach doesn’t act up, fries and an unsweetened tea. 

This will have to do.  He isn’t even hungry, and the thought of the greasy food only made his stomach churn worse but he knew he needed to eat something in hopes of it having the effects he was told it would have - magically cure his overwhelmingly hard to handle anxiety.

Once he got his food, he returned to the department store lot and parked in a far back spot. He has opened the paper bag to dig his food out, grimacing at all the grease and the smell of the cheap meal that wasted no time invading his car. He really isn’t hungry, but he hasn’t eaten all day and he’s aware of the toll the lack of food is taking on his system. He knows better than to work against himself in a moment like this when his mind is already working against him.

Chomping down on a fry, Corpse savors the salt as it hits his tongue and takes a moment to let his shoulders loosen and hang low. Something about the salt and fat seemed to make his body feel better. He tosses his head back slightly as he flicks a few stray strands of hair out of his eyes, reaching into the bag and grabbing another fry.

He’s been content with sitting in his car, eating and trying to quell the anxiety bubbling up under his ribs and in his throat. There’s a sense of peace to it and to the loneliness of it. He doesn’t mind being alone, though. That’s how he prefers to be actually. Dwelling on that thought too long has had the tendency to kill even the smallest spec of a positive energy he possessed in the past so he avoids it for his own peace of mind. The feeling of his heart thundering in his chest to nothing more than his own unconscious is being muffled by the soft rap music coming from the car speakers, him having chosen to pay attention to that instead.

Corpse is so engrossed in his attempts of maintaining this peace that he fails to notice the person approaching his car at a rapid pace. He’s left completely unbothered until one of the backseat doors is yanked open and someone is diving inside, shaking the vehicle. 

“What th-..” He shouts, startled out of the peaceful bubble he had created around himself. 

“Hey, how's it going? Sorry to interrupt your dinner. I'm just avoiding somebody, so don’t mind me!” A slightly out of breath female voice answers from the backseat. But before he could bring himself to turn around and demand this girl get out of his car, fear takes hold of him, closing his throat and drowning his words in the sea of questions and anxiety rising from deep within his chest. 

Ok, breathe. This is weird. There’s a stranger in my car, but she doesn’t appear harmful. Just breathe, stay calm. Fuck, is that a fucking cop car?! 

His shaky hand is barely capable of holding the burger as his wide eyes follow the movements of the vehicle. The patrol car in question slowly drives through each aisle of the parking lot, seemingly searching for something. Or someone. He feels himself unable to blink nor breath as the car creeps closer and closer. He has already broken into a nervous sweat, head spinning with all the possible outcomes - none of which bode well for him.

How am I gonna explain this shit?! There’s no way they’ll believe that she just dove into my car. They’ll think I’m an accomplice. I’ll go to jail. God knows if I’ll get out. I’ll die in there. Oh fuck, I’ll die in there.

He inhales sharply, trying not to hyperventilate, all his muscles tensing before a slap to his arm shook him out of it, “Could you look any more suspicious?! Fuckin’ act cool!”

He nods automatically and looks down at his lap, like he’s trying to find a napkin before taking a quick sip of his tea in attempts to look natural. The liquid promptly went down the wrong pipe, causing him to choke and go in a fit of coughs which he suppressed with his baggy hoodie sleeve. 

The cop passed by, eyeing the man in the car before making a turn to go down another row of parking spots, allowing Corpse to finally peek his gaze upwards to check if the guy was finally gone when the voice in the back seat spoke up again. “Thanks dude, you saved my ass.” 

He hadn’t noticed at first but as he turned to look behind him he saw a bare arm reaching from the back seat, dipping into the paper bag and taking one of his fries. Before he could comprehend it, the girl had climbed up over the center console as the police car pulled out of the parking lot and left. 

Only now is he able to get a real look at the woman who is a potential criminal and went into his car. She isn’t tall but not short either. She’s wearing a pair of jeans that are ripped around her knees and upper thighs and have little occult symbols drawn on them, peace signs and even an occasional tiny dinosaur - the majority, if not all, probably a DIY project of hers by the looks of it. She’s also sporting a sleeveless top with the sides cut open to show most of her waist. Under that, a black sports bra and a tattoo are visible - the tattoo extending from her back to her ribs just slightly. Her dark brown hair is pulled into a loose and rather messy hairdo, every strand going in its own direction as if she couldn’t be bothered by it. Looking down he sees the pair of black combat boots she has on. They look to be well taken care of and loved. A glint of a septum piercing attracts his attention when he notices it reflecting the ugly yellow light of the parking lot street lamps. 

She’s pretty. 

His cheeks flush a little in the darkness as he dumps the remainder of his food back into the bag, noting she was taking another one of his fries before he looked away, swallowing nervously when he feels her gaze on him. 

Before he could speak, however, she had already taken another one of his fries, leaning back in the passenger seat.

“W-why...are you in my car?” His voice showed off his confusion as well as the rising levels of his anxiety, his brow furrowed as he tries to remain cool and calm. 

“Hiding from the police...obviously.” She responds in a ‘duh’ tone as if she were pointing out something very simple and ordinary.

“Bu-...Alright...I guess. You should stop stealing my food though.” He finally mumbles, putting the paper bag into the back seat and catching a brief whiff of the perfume she has on as he turns to do so. 

He’s been alone so long, people have grown to terrify him. Public places terrify him, so it’s no surprise he stays inside for as long as he can. He hasn’t been this close to someone in months. Not since his ex left. She was just...another human being. Another one to leave. Nothing new to him. It shouldn’t have been a surprise nor a disappointment to him but he couldn’t not feel distraught over it for a while after it happened. He couldn’t help but hope she would….nevermind.

She grins - her smile a little spark of light in this lonely little world that is his life. Everyone around him always looked so damn happy. How come he never felt the happiness for himself?

He shifts back into his seat, fingers fiddling with the zipper on his black hoodie, avoiding her gaze as much as possible while still trying to take subtle glances at her. He feels uncomfortably like a teenager at that moment, stumbling his way through a conversation with a girl way too pretty to be talking to him.

“I bet you hear this all the time, but you should do like, audio books or voice acting or somethin’. You’ve got a rad voice to narrate some Steven King or Dean Koontz. Bram Stoker's Dracula would be sick, or some kind of devil or demon character.” She offers, grinning again as she steals another fry despite the bag now being in the back and shifts to reach into her back pocket, the sound of her wallet chain hitting the side of his car door echoes throughout the enclosed space of the car. She pulls out a couple dollars and slaps them onto his dashboard, “anyway, for the fries. Annnd for letting me hide in your car. Don’t go spending it all in one place.” She pushes the door of the Subaru open, winking at him and sliding one leg out. “Thanks for keepin’ the fuzz off of me, see ya Hades!” She jokes teasingly, slapping the roof of his car before closing the door and practically skipping off in the opposite direction of the one the cop went in. 

Corpse parts his lips, blinking slowly before looking at the department store and back towards the slowly shrinking figure of the girl. His head is spinning again, for different reasons now.

“What the hell just happened....?” He pauses for a lingering second before his voice turns sharp and a distressed look crosses his face, “Fuck, what did I need from the store?!”

[fullmetalscullyy]

hold my girl

summary: the prompt used is “shh, it’s okay. it was just a dream” and it comes from this prompt list (feel free to send me more if you’d like!)

an: i've not written young royai in so long and the mood struck me this afternoon so decided to roll w it and see where it took me! a wee bit of hurt/comfort was nice too. bby riza deserves all the hugs. listening to hold my girl by george ezra didn't influence this at all. nope.

rated: t | words: 2835 | tags: hurt/comfort, young royai, nightmares, pre-canon, angst with a happy ending

read on ao3

There are two people calling out to Riza in her dream, but she finds their cries are overwhelming and loud. It feels like an assault from multiple fronts. She doesn’t know where to look, who to answer, and feels like she is being pulled in so many different directions by each of them as they fight for her attention. The worst part is they become angry or offended when Riza doesn’t give her full, undivided attention to them. But it’s impossible to please them both.

Her mother’s face flashes before her eyes. She’s pleading with young Riza, begging her to save her from the illness that’s ravishing her body so unfairly. But she’s quickly removed from Riza’s sight. Her father muscles his way into view, expression irate that she isn’t good enough to get a grasp of alchemy. He raves about how useless she is because she cannot transmute anything. She’s of no importance to him if she cannot perform such a simple task.

Both parents are fighting to be heard over each other, both deafening and commandeering.

Suddenly, they’re gone. Riza is left reeling and gasping for breath in the sudden silence. The ringing in her ears from the raucous noise prior is piercing and painful, making her flinch.

She does not get to rest in her dream though, which has turned into a nightmare.

There’s a faceless stranger looming over her. They cast a long, dark shadow as light illuminates them from behind in the empty, white room, devoid of any defining characteristics. She hears her name being called, but it is muffled and distorted. She doesn’t recognise the timbre, cannot assign it to anyone she is acquainted with. Riza shields her eyes as she turns her head upwards, to try and face them, but the light in the room is so impossibly bright, she cannot manage it. She catches glimpse of a moustache and glasses before it becomes too much to bear. The light sears her eyes, leaving her in pain. Eyes are squeezed tightly closed to try and give some kind of reprieve. It helps a little, but not by much.

After she recovers, the person shakes their head in disappointment. They turn their back on her and walk away, leaving her alone.

Her parent’s cries for attention are gone. Their faces are nowhere to be seen, leaving only the echoing footsteps of the mystery person’s retreating form. The two features she’d managed to pick out sparked an inkling of recognition within Riza, but it was not enough to grasp on to and make a connection. She cannot place them anywhere. Still, their departure feels just as crushing as her parent’s, and Riza doesn’t know why.

She’s left alone while the light from above starts to blind her. Even behind closed lids, it fights its way through. It heats her skin slowly, leaving her sweating and uncomfortable. When it becomes too much to bear, she starts to cry. There’s something gripping onto her chest tightly, squeezing at her heart relentlessly.

Loneliness.

Someone else is calling to her, but it’s too much to bear to try and figure out who. The pain is too much, blazing across her skin. The light is quickly fading while Riza is left on the cold ground, alone and afraid.

“Riza!”

Something jerks her upright. There’s a heavy pressure on her shoulders and in her disorientated and agitated state in the darkness, she fights against it. The pressure doesn’t move though, and another sensation joins it. There’s something – no, multiple things – digging into her skin, but it is not sharp or intended to harm, just hold on and not let her escape as she struggles. It doesn’t help Riza though. She continues to fight the darkness invading her.

“Let go,” she gasps.

“Riza, it’s okay!”

She recognises the voice. It was the same voice that had been calling to her as her world started to darken, after the shadow figure had left her. The recognition causes her to pause and slows Riza’s movements for a second, and that was the opportunity this new person needed.

“It’s me,” they reveal, but Riza still doesn’t know who it is –

“Riza, it’s Roy. Stop fighting, you’re safe. You were dreaming,” he adds. “I’ve got you. You’re all right.”

The fight is starting to leave her. It’s Roy? It’s Roy. It’s okay, it’s him. It’s her father’s apprentice. It’s someone familiar, and someone who isn’t yelling at her.

Her shoulders sag with instant relief.

She likes him. He hasn’t said a bad word to her face yet, but she cannot trust him so easily. Not going by what everyone else around her whispers behind her back. Still, he always shoots her a smile and takes the time to say hello and tries to strike up a conversation with her. He’s friendly, but still. Riza is wary.

As reality returns to her slowly, Riza realises she’s in her bedroom. She’s out of that bare, white room with the impossibly bright light where her parents were shouting at her so loudly. Her skin tingles but there’s no heat or pain like there had been in her nightmare. Taking stock, she realises her body is covered in a cold sweat. Her hands are clammy as they grip onto Roy’s upper arms tightly.

Her grip is so tight. She must be hurting him.

She flinches back, but Roy doesn’t let her go. In the dim light of her room she can see him scrutinising her face closely. He is concerned for her. He looks worried.

Looking down at her hands, she loosens her grip. She wants to run away from him, to hide. She feels completely exposed, ashamed after her show of weakness, and wants to burrow underneath her bedcovers and never show her face to Roy again.

He shouldn’t have witnessed her nightmare, and Riza scolds herself for probably being so loud that she woke him up. He needs his rest to practice and study with father. He doesn’t need Riza interrupting that or diverting his attention elsewhere, like father warned her not to do.

Besides, this was not her first nightmare, and Riza doesn’t think for a second it will be the last. She is used to them, but has to admit, they are starting to wear on her. She doesn’t know what to do, though. She doesn’t know how to make them stop. Exhausting herself with chores throughout the day so she falls into such a deep sleep works sometimes, but not every time. And that leaves her even more fatigued the day after. It is turning into a vicious cycle that will only end badly for her.

She feels lost and alone, struggling to keep a lid on it all.

“Are you okay?”

No, she’s not. She wants him to leave, to let her deal with this on her own and in private –

Her face screws up involuntarily at her silent admission to herself, that she is not okay, and hasn’t been for a while. Suddenly overwhelmed, the familiar feeling of loneliness creeps up on her, unbidden. Its cold fingers wrap around her heart and squeeze, making her gasp.

“Hey,” he calls to her gently in sympathy. His voice is calming, reassuring, and welcoming. A stark contrast to the tone used by those in her dream.

Roy shifts on her bed and makes himself comfortable. As soon as he starts to move, Riza immediately fears he has somehow heard her thoughts, or she accidentally voiced them aloud, and he really will leave her alone.

Suddenly, she’s pulled tight against his side.

She’s frozen as Roy gently lays her head on his shoulder and wraps an arm around her back. His free hand rises and comes to rest against the side of her head. He cradles it and holds her in place against him, quietly reassuring her that she’s all right.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he soothes her, “it was just a dream.”

In a move that Riza never would have expected, Roy runs a hand through her short hair in an attempt to calm her. His hand starts its journey by almost cupping her face. His palm is warm as it partly covers her cheek and temple. Then, his fingers travel up and back, burying themselves in her sweat soaked tresses, unafraid and undeterred. As soon as he runs out of hair, he repeats the motion.

Riza is frozen on the spot, surprised at the sudden show of… affection, she realises, and comfort. They were not things she was used to. It has been a long time since someone was so kind to her… Riza squeezes her eyes closed tightly in an effort to not let her tears fall down her flushed cheeks. It is not entirely in vain, but a few do escape.

“It was just a bad dream,” Roy murmurs softly into her hair. She feels the vibrations on her scalp, and it tickles her. Now, her hair feels like it’s standing completely on end.

His movements are calming her more than she’d ever like to admit to anyone. Her heart rate is slowing, and her breathing is becoming easier with each passing stroke of her hair. A few more tears escape but neither mention it. She thinks Roy expects it. He pauses when he feels one hit the back of his hand. Riza’s eyes still remain closed, unable to face him just yet, but pop open as soon as his thumb swipes across her cheek, removing the wetness. She glances up at him in surprise, but also almost fearfully. She doesn’t want to see any disgust in his eyes at her show of emotion and weakness. But there’s nothing of the sort in his dark eyes. Only sympathy, understanding, but also wild concern.

“Are you okay?” His voice trembles slightly with worry.

The temptation to nod her head and lie is right there, but Riza stops herself.

She shakes her head. She cannot speak just yet, afraid that her voice would fail her.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” He is earnest, and while she appreciates his offer, she could never ask him to do that for her.

“No,” she croaks, her fear of a failing voice temporarily leaving her, “it’s okay. You don’t have to stay.”

“What if I want to,” he ventures slowly and carefully. He doesn’t quite meet her eyes, but after voicing his question, he turns to look back at her with confidence and surety. He is deadly serious.

Riza blinks at him, not quite understanding. “You… want to stay?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.

Roy nods eagerly. “Of course. Nightmares are not good,” he adds grimly. “I don’t want you to be alone if you’re not ready to be.”

“Why?” She can’t help herself from asking. It shocks her that he would even offer such a thing.

“Because…” He doesn’t have an answer for her. He looks stumped, but a frown draws his eyebrows together. “No one should have to go through a nightmare like that alone. It looked bad,” he comments.

Riza almost shrivels in on herself. “It was,” she whispers, her voice becoming impossibly quiet.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It would be nice to do so… It would be a welcome change, and liberating, almost, to share her worries and fears with someone. To take some of that weight off her shoulders. It’s something Riza has dreamed about a few times. And Roy offers the opportunity to her so openly and without reservation. He’s ready to listen to her, actually listen to her, and offer support.

His face is expectant when she looks up at him. There’s no disgust or disappointment. He wants to listen, just like he said. He doesn’t seem to be lying.

But of course, she feels like she would be burdening him. Riza couldn’t do that.

Riza shakes her head.

“Okay.” Again, he’s not disappointed. He’s respecting her decision.

Roy scoots forward and quietly stands up from her bed. He walks over to the chair that resides across the room by her vanity and lifts a spare blanket from it.

“What are you doing?”

“I… I want to stay with you.” His cheeks turn pink in the twilight filtering into the room from outside her threadbare curtains, but Riza doesn’t know why. “I mean, I don’t want to leave you alone. I can stay with you while you sleep if you’d like, and keep you company?”

Now, Riza’s cheeks turn crimson. He can’t stay in her bedroom with her overnight!

“I’ll just be here,” he gestures to the end of the bed, “and if you ever want to talk about your nightmare, please let me know.”

“You can’t –” The words catch in her throat. “You can’t stay in here overnight.” Riza is mortified. “Please, it’s okay. Go back to your bed, I’ll be fine –”

“You want me to go?”

No, she doesn’t. Her mouth opens to lie and reply with the affirmative, but she pauses. Her eyes widen with fear of being left alone by someone else after her dream, and the hesitation costs her. Roy sees it, as clear as day, even in the dim light.

Slowly, he settles on the end of her bed. The blanket is wrapped around his shoulders as Riza watches him, still unsure. Once comfortable, he leans his head back against the wall and turns to look at her. His smile is kind and gentle as she watches understanding blossom over his features.

“I’ll be right here, Riza, okay? If you want me to go, just let me know.”

“I…” She doesn’t want to be an imposition or a burden… But –

“What do you want, Riza? Do you want to be left alone?”

When it’s worded like that, the answer comes easy to her.

“No,” she breathes. It’s impossibly quiet, but it’s finally out there in the world. She has expressed herself openly to someone else. Someone she doesn’t fully trust, but in a way, after the comfort and kindness he has shown her so easily and readily in a time of upset, Riza finds herself being a bit more open to the possibility of it.

“All right then,” Roy nods. “I’ll be right here.”

Again, he grins at her. It’s bright, like the light from her nightmare, but it has a soft and warm glow. It is not overbearing and blinding. It’s like sitting by a warm fire on a cold winter’s day. It’s cosy and kind. It’s welcome.

Awkwardly, she lies down in her bed. She tucks the sheet right underneath her chin and curls into a tight ball. It will be weird having him in the room with her as she tries to sleep, but Riza can already feel her eyelids drooping. The fatigue from her numerous nights of interrupted sleep and the exhaustion that comes after waking from a nightmare doesn’t give her much choice but to give into it.

Without realising it, she slips away into sleep once more.

When Riza wakes a few hours later, she remembers the night she had and feels embarrassed. She’d gotten so worked up and had woken up Roy –

Her head jerks up, also remembering his promise to remain by her side through the night. She expects him to be gone but is proved wrong. Instead of what she had secretly feared, she finds him still at the bottom of her bed. His head has lolled to the side and it looks uncomfortable, but he’s sound asleep.

In the night, her body had relaxed from its tightly wound ball and stretched out. Looking down the bed with a frown, Riza discovers the reason for the strange sensation near her ankle. One of Roy’s hands was laying atop the sheet, covering her leg. She can feel the warmth and comfort of his touch through the bedsheet.

Her leg twitches and she’s at a loss of what to do. Something is telling her to move her leg immediately, to jerk it away to rid herself of the feeling, but it’s also… pleasant. The weight is calming and a reassurance that he really is still here for her.

After a few more moments of deliberation, Riza relaxes. She doesn’t fight it. She smiles at the gesture and the knowledge that he’d kept his promise. He really was there for her last night. The pleasant feeling creates a warmth inside her chest, and it spreads from her heart up to the crown of her head and makes her scalp tingle.

He’d been so good to her through the night. He hadn’t left her alone after she’d asked him not to.

Her lips tugged upwards again, happily.

She appreciated that more than he would ever know.

Perhaps her father’s apprentice could be someone she could learn to count on and trust.

The sleepy, but bright and pleased smile that Roy greeted her with when he finally woke up started to slowly solidify that thought inside her mind.

[jeonsjiddies]

Practice Makes Perfect  (m)| jjk

summary- your best friend jungkook offers to teach you about sex and practice with you

rating- explicit / 18+

word count-  4086

pairing- jungkook x reader

genre- smut

Warnings- loss of virginity, some dirty talk

a/n- any feedback is appreciated :)

You loved the sound of the rain drumming steadily against your windowsill. You loved the calm, easy feeling that washed over you when it rained. You loved the lazy stillness, the cool breeze. You loved when it rained. You also loved how every time it rained, your best friend Jungkook found himself sprawled across your couch, skillfully tossing popcorn into his mouth while he picked a movie for the both of you to watch. 

His black t-shirt had ridden up on his stomach, revealing a small patch of tanned skin. Your eyes lingered a split second too long. Shaking your head, you shoved his legs out of the way to sit beside him. Jungkook huffed, moving to the side for a moment before laying his legs across your own.

“What are we watching?” you questioned, glancing from your best friend’s handsome face to the TV, willing a flush not to creep up your skin at the physical contact.

“I don’t know, it just looked cool.” he admitted, pressing play.

“Promising.” you scoffed but sent him a playful smile. 

His large hand reached over to poke your side, and you giggled, wriggling away from his touch. He smiled to himself before turning his attention to the TV. The movie started off okay, it seemed to be mostly action, two undercover cops who didn’t like each other forced on a mission together. They were playing the role of a couple, much to their chagrin, in order to infiltrate a drug ring and take it down. 

Action movies weren’t usually your thing, you only watched to please your best friend, but this one had you on the edge of your seat. Clearly, the two cops were starting to develop feelings for each other, being around each other all the time and bonding over the dangerous situations they’d been in and escaped. In typical movie fashion, when they’d gone to rent a hotel room for the night, the hotel only had single beds available. 

The male cop offered to take the floor, but the female rolled her eyes and they ended up sharing the bed. One thing led to another, and soon they were kissing. You glanced at Jungkook discreetly, checking to see if he was as uncomfortable as you were beginning to be as the scene heated up and clothes started disappearing. 

“Can you fast forward or something?” you asked quietly, hiding your face, except for your eyes,  behind a throw pillow.

“Why? This is hot.” he grinned.

“Jungkook.” you whined. 

Jungkook pressed pause and looked at you curiously for a moment. You felt warm under his scrutiny and pulled the pillow up to cover your whole face. Jungkook laughed and tore your safety net from your grasp, watching you carefully.

“Why are you so weird about sex scenes?” he asked.

“I’m not.” you defended yourself, “this one is just getting a little risque.” 

“You can’t even see anything they’re under the blankets.” he laughed. “Are you this weird when you have sex?”

A squeak left your lips and your eyes widened, staring at him after his bold question.

“I am not discussing my sex life with you.” you hissed, your entire face heating up. Or lack thereof…

“When was the last time you got laid, Y/N? You’re wound tighter than one of those wind up dolls.” he chuckled.

You mumbled under your breath and looked away, unable to hold his gaze as your embarrassment flooded your cheeks.

“I can’t hear you.” he said.

“I haven’t! Okay! Just drop it, Jungkook!” you whined.

“You’ve never had sex?! Like on purpose?” he gasped. 

“No one wants to.” you lied.

“That’s bullshit, I can name at least six guys I know who want to get in your pants.” he threw back at you.

“Six?” you repeated, eyes wide.

“Off the top of my head, yeah.” he supplied.

“I don’t know, Jungkook, I just… It’s embarrassing. I don’t know what I’m doing and when is the last time you heard of a 20-something virgin?” you groaned, head in hands.

“So you’re rejecting guys who want to sleep with you because you’re embarrassed about being inexperienced?” he confirmed.

“I guess? I just don’t want to do something wrong and look stupid.” you sighed. “Can we please stop talking about this?”

You glanced over at your best friend, who looked both amused and also contemplative. He sat up and removed his legs from your lap, turning to face you.

“What if you could practice? Without feeling judged?” he asked, eyes watching you carefully.

“How? Hire an escort or something?” you rolled your eyes.

“Practice with me. Let me teach you the basics, so when you meet someone, you’ll be ready.” he offered, tongue darting out to wet his reddened bottom lip.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the movement of his tongue for a moment too long before you met his eyes, a frown on your face.

“What?!” you asked, incredulous. 

You couldn’t deny the stirring in your belly at his words though. You’d had a crush on Jungkook since the first day you’d met two years ago. He was incredibly hot and you often wondered what he was doing hanging out with you. Girls were constantly all over him, you were sure he knew exactly what he was doing. He would be the perfect teacher…

“Come on, Y/N. It would solve your problem! No strings attached, just learning how guys work and what we like, and what you like. You trust me, right?” his doe eyes looked into yours.

“Well, yes…” you spoke softly.

“Let me help you.” he smiled sincerely.

“What if I’m bad at it?” you mumbled.

“You gotta start somewhere. I’ll show you what to do. Plus, I can make you feel really good and relieve some of that tension you’ve got built up.” his tone turned teasing, voice low and husky. 

Jungkook didn’t miss the way you squirmed in your seat, thighs pressing together. He smirked and scooted closer to you, one hand finding its way to cup your cheek and turn your head to look him in the eye.

“What do you say? You wanna do this?” he asked softly, eyes searching yours while his thumb brushed softly along your bottom lip. 

Instinctively, your mouth parted, sucking in a shaky breath. You nodded, eyes locked with his as your heart thundered dangerously in your chest. Jungkook smiled. The butterflies in your stomach were swarming rampant at the look in his eyes. You’d never seen Jungkook look at you like that. Like he wanted you.

His lips found yours tentatively. He was cautious to read your signals, make sure you were okay with each new move he made. His lips were soft, plump, and the pressure against your own felt heavenly. You couldn’t count on all fingers and toes how many times you’d daydreamed about kissing Jungkook. You never thought it would actually happen.

Jungkook went slow, giving you time to adjust to everything. His hand cupped your cheek and angled your head so you were more exposed to him. His tongue slowly licked a stripe along your bottom lip, and you shook with nerves but parted your lips for him. Jungkook deepened the kiss, his tongue dancing with yours as he inched himself closer. Your body relaxed more the longer you kissed him. He didn’t rush you, just enjoyed the way you tasted.

Shaky hands lifted from your sides and you let your fingers run through his hair, nails grazing slightly, causing a shiver to erupt from Jungkook. Fearing you’d hurt him, you pulled back, hands dropping to your sides as your mouths separated.

“I’m sorry!” you began, but Jungkook just laughed.

“Don’t be. That felt good.” he explained, then smirked “would feel even better if you tugged on it a bit. Don’t be afraid.” 

You bit your lip nervously and nodded, reaching up to his ridiculously soft locks and giving them a gentle tug. Jungkook groaned, reattaching his lips to yours. His kisses soon got more urgent, though he made sure not to push you too far too fast. Jungkook’s kisses were equal parts passion, technique, and absolute magic. He lit a fire inside your chest, among other areas, that had long been dormant. Of course, you’d been turned on before, using thoughts of Jungkook to work yourself to release in the loneliness of the night, but this… this was different. He consumed you. He was all you could think about, how his lips felt, how his hands felt, rubbing and gripping at your hips. 

You needed more. You didn’t care how desperate it made you seem, you pulled away from him. A soft whine left his lips in protest when your lips left his. 

“You okay?” he asked, pupils blown but eyes laced with concern. 

His hair was a mess after you’d run your fingers through it and pulled in different directions. He looked edible. You nodded, smiling.

“It’s a little cramped on the couch, can we go to the bedroom?” you asked, looking up at him through your lashes. 

His eyes darkened, seemingly catching on to your ulterior motive. Without warning, his strong arms circled your frame and pulled you up into his embrace as he carried you to your room. You couldn’t help the fit of giggles, whether it was nerves or the ridiculousness of the situation. Jungkook chuckled along with you, a genuine smile finding its way on his face as his eyes sparkled. You used both hands to cup his bicep.

“Damn, Jeon. When did you get so buff?” you joked.

“I’ve been buff, Y/L/N. Where have you been?” he laughed, tossing you gently on your bed and hovering over you.

“Apparently not paying enough attention.” you joked, before turning serious as he lifted his shirt from his body, tossing it aside. “Fuck.”

You’d seen Jungkook shirtless before, of course. You’d been friends for two years. It felt different this time. More intimate. You could let your eyes roam and didn’t have to pretend you didn’t notice how devastatingly sexy his body was. 

“Can I… can I touch you?” you asked quietly.

Jungkook smiled, taking your hand and placing it on his chest, urging you to explore his body. You let your hands wander over his skin, seeming to burn you in the best way with each new inch you discovered. Your fingers brushed tenderly over his collarbones, trailing down over his pecs, perfectly defined. Your fingers brushed over his nipple and he let out a low groan. ]

You dared not meet his gaze, lest you lose your nerve to keep going.Your touch traveled across his abs, fingers tracing the lines one by one. Feeling the heat of his skin under your touch, finally getting to see his beauty up close, had your mouth watering. Jungkook watched you quietly, letting you memorize his body at your own pace, though holding back was becoming increasingly difficult for the man on top of you. 

This was evident when your fingers dipped below the elastic of his sweats, so close to where he wanted your touch, but not close enough. His abdomen clenched, and your gaze traveled to the tent in his sweats. He was big, which you weren’t surprised about. You could tell even from his clothed state, but you wanted to see. You slowly tugged the fabric down, giving him time to back out if he wanted to. You pulled his sweats and boxers down just enough to let his rock hard member spring free and rest against his stomach. 

His cock was pretty. That was the only way you could describe it. It was perfect to you. It was long and thick and curved, thick veins decorating the otherwise smooth skin. The tip was round, shiny with precum. You leaned down and licked the precum off of his tip, savoring the taste. Jungkook groaned, torn between closing his eyes and watching you. This was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. You seemed innocent at first but now he decided that was just curiosity, because the hunger in your eyes when you looked up at him was anything but innocent. 

“I want to blow you.” you admitted, nipping at your bottom lip nervously. “I know I’m not supposed to use teeth, but if I do something wrong, you’ll tell me?”

Jungkook nodded enthusiastically. 

You slowly sunk your mouth on his erection, careful not to let your teeth touch him. You thought back to all the dirty fanfics you’d read, and decided that knowledge was better than nothing. He’d stop you if you did something he didn’t like. Tentatively, you hollowed your cheeks, sucking gently. Jungkook moaned blissfully from above you, and  you hummed appreciatively, the vibrations adding to the pleasure he felt. You began to move your head, bobbing up and down slowly, letting your tongue circle the tip each time you pulled back. Jungkook seemed to like this, his hips bucking every time you did it.

Testing how much you could take, you moved your head closer to his body, taking more of his cock in your mouth. You thought you’d immediately gag and give up, but determination to prove yourself flooded your veins and you relaxed your throat, allowing him to hit the back of it.

“Shit. Y/N if you keep doing that I’m gonna come.” he breathlessly warned you. 

Pride filled your chest and you doubled down on your efforts, reaching up to stroke the parts you couldn’t fit in your mouth. Deepthroating his length, you swallowed around him. He tried to pull back, mumbling “fuck fuck fuck” as his he was brought to the edge. You didn’t let him go, only swallowed again. Soon, he was spilling into your mouth, and you kept sucking until he gently pulled himself from your mouth. You swallowed the remaining cum and licked your lips slowly. 

“Holy shit, Y/N. Are you sure you’ve never done that before?” he asked, eyes wide.

“Does that mean I did a good job?” you questioned, suddenly a little shy.

“You did fucking amazing.” he laughed, kissing your forehead.

Redness filled your cheeks at his praise. Before you could process the emotions fluttering in your chest, Jungkook pushed you back against your pillows, body hovering over yours. He lifted your shirt up, and you helped him get it off, and you thanked the stars above you’d bought a new bra the previous week instead of wearing the old ratty one. Instead, it was red and lacy and perfect for the occasion.

“You’re so beautiful.” he cooed, lips coming down to press against the skin of your neck.

He left budding bruises in his wake, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin. Your whole body tingled with excitement. Deft hands undid your bra and tossed it aside.  Jungkook licked his lips, eyes trained on your breasts on display for him. You wanted to cover yourself before he leaned down and brought one nipple into his mouth, sucking and licking on the hardened nub. Arousal shot through your body, and you could feel yourself getting wetter with his actions. 

“Fuck.” you breathed, closing your eyes and reveling in the way his tongue felt against your breast.

His large hand kneaded the other before he switched, sucking and nipping at the neglected breast. Your back arched off the bed, it felt so good. Why had you never done this before? Damn insecurities. You probably should’ve felt insecure in that moment but you couldn’t focus on anything but Jungkook and the way his mouth sent electric currents through your body. 

He started moving lower and your breathing got heavier the closer he got to your clothed core. You were almost dizzy by the time he reached the button of your jean shorts, popping it open with ease and sliding the material off of your legs, along with your panties. Instinctively, your hands shot down to cover yourself from his view. Jungkook pushed himself up on his elbows to meet your eyes, gently placing his hands over yours.

“You trust me, right?” he questioned, eyes searching yours.

You bit your lip, holding his gaze before slowly nodding. 

“If this is too much for you, you don’t have to go through with it.” he told you softly, “you never have to do anything you don’t want to. That being said, I would love to eat that pretty pussy of yours, Y/N. I’ll make you feel so good. I’ll take good care of you.” his voice turned into a purr. 

“I… I want it.” you confirmed, your core tingling at his tone as you removed your hands but kept your legs pressed together.

“That’s my girl.” he grinned proudly, and moved farther down, beginning to kiss up your legs. 

You watched his slow assault, slowly making his way closer to the apex of your thighs. He looked up into your eyes for a moment before spreading your legs apart, effectively putting you on full display for him. Heat rushed up to your cheeks and you looked away, closing your eyes tightly.

“Fuck. You have the prettiest little cunt I’ve ever seen.” Jungkook praised. 

You dared opening one eye and glancing down at the boy between your thighs, seeing him lick his lips hungrily before letting his tongue lick a thick stripe up along your slit. You gasped, eyes flying open. 

“You’re so wet already.” he noticed, pleased with himself. “Mmm… you like the way my mouth feels on you?” he smirked. 

“Yes.” you answered, surprised how confident you sounded when your body was shaking. 

Jungkook smiled and wrapped his lips around your clit, causing you to gasp and arch your back off the bed. Distracting you with the blazing trail of his tongue, he slipped one finger inside your wet heat, curling it right where you needed it. You couldn’t stop the moans from leaving your lips, a constant stream of “oh-ah jungkoo-fuck!” 

Jungkook chuckled from his position nestled between your legs, the vibrations sending shock waves through your heat, and soon that familiar feeling started in your core, only much better. Jungkook got you to the edge faster and more intensely than you’d ever done to yourself. He added a second finger, stretching you. The burn didn’t even hurt, the ridges of his knuckles brushing up against your walls was delicious torture. Soon, a third was added, and you couldn’t control yourself anymore.

“Oh-OH!” you cried out as your orgasm crashed over you in waves, Jungkook fucked you through it with his fingers and tongue until you fell limp on the bed.

He slowly removed his fingers from inside you and crawled up your body to kiss you, your juices dripping off his chin. 

“How do you feel?” he asked, moving his kisses to your jaw.

“Weightless.” you answered honestly.

“Mmm.. that good, eh?” he smirked against your skin.

“Don’t be cocky, Jeon.” you giggled.

“Speaking of cocks…” he brought your attention down to his, standing at attention once again, “I would really like mine to be inside you… if you’re ready.”

“I’m ready.” you told him, no trace of doubt in your voice.

If there was anyone you trusted to be your first, it was Jungkook. You wanted him. Jungkook kissed your lips quickly before reaching for his discarded clothes, pulling out his wallet and extracting a condom from it. 

“Do you want to put it on? To practice?” he asked.

You nodded, sitting up and taking the condom from his hands. You tore the package open and glanced at Jungkook for further directions.

“Okay, so you want to pinch the tip of it between your thumb and pointer finger, make sure there’s no air so it doesn’t split. Then you roll it on, but keep the tip in your fingers until you’re done. Okay?” he checked to make sure you were okay with the task.

You did as instructed, pinching the tip and placing it on his cock, slowly rolling it down the length of him. Jungkook sucked in a breath at the feeling of your fingers brushing against his throbbing cock, watching your every move with rapt attention. When you couldn’t roll it anymore, you looked up at him for confirmation. 

“Good job baby girl.” he smiled, placing an encouraging kiss on your cheek.

Something about the nickname stirred at your heart, but you didn’t have time to focus on it before his lips met yours again.

“You sure you’re ready?” he checked again, aligned with your entrance, waiting.

“Yes. Please fuck me, Jungkook.” you whispered, breathy and low. 

Everything in him wanted to just plunge right into you at the way you were looking at him, but he took his time, slowly easing his length into your heat and watching your face to make sure you weren’t in too much pain. The stretch burned a little, but his lips came down to suck on your neck in a distraction. He stilled inside of you, allowing you to adjust to his size. Once the burning subsided, you gave him the OK to move.

He slowly pulled out of you before thrusting back in, going slow at first before gaining a little momentum once he knew you could handle it. He found a delicious rhythm, hitting that spot inside of you that drove you crazy with each new thrust. And here you thought his tongue inside of you had felt good, but this was so much better. You couldn’t stop his name from leaving your lips, loud moans from escaping. These eventually morphed into screams of his name. You were losing your mind underneath him. 

Your nails scratched down his toned back, and this spurred him on, picking up the pace, and bringing one hand between your bodies to circle your clit. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, your whole body was in a blissful state. Jungkook felt so good inside of you that you didn’t ever want to stop. You couldn’t help rocking your hips up to meet his thrusts, which he seemed to enjoy. You tugged on his hair, knowing he’d mentioned he liked that, and his low moans turned into more of a growl as he pounded into your pussy, giving everything he had to bring you closer to the edge. 

The mix of his merciless thrusts and the circular motions of his fingers on your sensitive mound had your head spinning, and you groaned out that you were almost there. 

“Cum for me baby. Cum on my cock.” He encouraged, struggling to keep his own release back, determined to make you cum first. 

At his words, your vision went blurry, you saw stars, your body felt like it was flying, time stopped moving as your release completely consumed you. You were lost, euphoric. Your orgasm was more intense than any other you’d had, and your core tightening around Jungkook sent him over the edge too, both of you riding out your highs together. Jungkook looked so fucking beautiful when he came, mouth parted, eyes closed, and the moans coming from him nearly had you on edge again. He looked like he couldn’t possibly be real. He was too gorgeous, sweat slicked skin glistening with the light that shone on you both from your ceiling. Coming down, Jungkook began to slow his thrusts, eventually stilling inside you.

He slowly removed himself and discarded the condom, and you whined at the empty feeling. You felt completely boneless in the best possible way. Jungkook crawled back up next to you, one hand on your stomach, rubbing soft circles into the skin there. 

“You okay?” He asked, breathing just as ragged as your own. 

“I have never felt better in my life.” You sighed happily, “I shouldn’t have waited so long to do this.”

Jungkook laughed, a deep genuine belly laugh that shook his body. He shook his head but continued to smile fondly at you.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” He smirked “I know I did.”

“Mmm.. I’m not ready for this to be over..” you admitted, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness as your eyelids drooped from drowsiness. 

“Oh, we're not done yet. I have plenty more to teach you.” He purred into your ear. 

You shivered but snuggled up to your best friend with a content nod. 

“Well, practice makes perfect.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Painted Windows 5

Warnings: violence, trauma, allusions to abuse and noncon, isolation, torture, further tags to be added.

This is dark!Bucky and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Bucky returns.

Note: Okay, things are gonna start getting a bit... awry. Hope you all are ready! I appreciate you and thanks for all your patience. Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3 Let me know thoughts, excitement, theories, anything.

You thought you knew loneliness. Those days, months, years, in your cell. Maybe the visits were dreaded and torturous, but you could hear the voices, the movements, the existence in the same halls as you. This was a very different type of loneliness; isolation but now you could look out at what you were being kept from.

It snowed the first night after Bucky left. You watched the power pile on branches and add to the heaps on the ground. Then you stayed up in the glare of the television and watched the fabricated lives of others. The simplicity of going to a cafe or walking in the sunshine. The life you’d missed out on.

You wrote in the mornings. To keep yourself busy, distracted. You walked around the room as much as you could to stay active. Maybe you could ask for a stationary bike to keep your legs from cramping. That would have to wait though. 

By the third day on your own, day nine in your journal, you were writing at night too. When you tried to write about before, you found your mind hazy and indiscernible like your dreams. The patchwork of quilt dissembled and strewn about. 

So you wrote about the cell, the days you could remember clearly, the torture, the way it felt; the fear, the confusion of body and mind, the anger and self-pity. You stained the pages with your despair.

The fourth night passed easier. You slept soundly until a bump woke you. You sat up as you heard the lock on the door shift. The handle turned and you slipped from beneath the covers. You turned on the lamp on the bedside table and got to your feet as the door opened and revealed a dark shadow. The same that had looked through the bars of your cell.

Bucky entered and the door closed behind him. He locked it with the code he hid from you. His fingers moved without looking. Your heart began to race as he stalked towards you. He was dressed in thick leather and a harness with empty holsters. His hair was mussed and as he came into the glow of the lamp, you saw the dried blood on its ends and smeared across his cheeks.

You cowered as you looked into his eyes. His pupils were dilated and dark. You didn’t know if he could see you. He was so mechanical in his movements, his face sharp and deadly. He reached out and you flinched. He grabbed your arm and pulled you close. His other hand, the metal one, touched your cheek. 

You stood frozen as he stared at you. His brows drew together and he lowered his head. He released you as if snapping out of a trance.

“Sorry,” He retreated slowly. “I’m all… I’m filthy.” He turned away and moved numbly towards the bathroom door. “I’ll wash up and…” He stopped and exhaled. “Go back to bed.”

The door snapped shut behind him and was followed by the whine of the shower head. Your hands folded over your chest, the pounding of your heart against your palm. You were confused; terrified. If he hadn’t stopped himself, you couldn’t have.

You touched your cheek. You could feel his cold metal thumb there still. You shivered and slowly went back to the bed. You climbed to the far edge of the mattress and hid beneath the blankets. You listened to the shower, the footsteps on porcelain, the subtle movements just on the other side of the wall.

You were wide awake and when the faucet groaned to a stop, your eyes shot open. There was a moment of silence then the door opened. You felt the warmth of the steam behind you and heard the footsteps near the bed. Another pause. The weight of his gaze settled over you.

The mattress dipped as he got up on the bed. You trembled and squeezed your eyes shut. He slid down beside you under the blanket and his hand rested on your shoulder. He pulled until you turned to him. You couldn’t look; wouldn’t look. He took your arm and draped it over his bare torso. 

Your eyes opened just a little, a towel knotted at his waist barely concealed his nudity. He pulled the blanket higher as he nestled against you. He cradled your head in his hand and rested it along his shoulder. He hugged you with his other arm and sighed. He reached over and turned the lamp off with a flick.

The room went dark and you listened to the beating in his chest as it steadied. Your own was frantic and tamped wildly around his. His hand softly tickled your shoulder and arm then slipped down to trace the line of your throat.

“Sleep,” He said quietly.

You tensed and he hugged you tighter. His metal hand fell to your arm and held it across him. You couldn’t move, only succumb to his will. Though he was gentle, you could feel his strength; inhuman and unyielding. 

You closed your eyes but knew sleep would not come, even at his command.

You didn’t sleep. Just laid against him as he did. He only dozed, nothing more. Didn’t try to touch you further or use you. This man continued to confound you. There was a desire for affection in him, for closeness, but it seemed he was as inept at it as you. You weren’t sure you wanted it. Truly, all you wanted was to be left alone. To once more be your own person.

When the sun rose, you tried to. He woke and clung to you. Held you to him until you stilled.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“I’m awake,” You said. “I wanted to get up and have tea.”

“Stay a little longer,” He squeezed you and took your hand in his.

You couldn’t pull away. You were too afraid, too weak. You cursed yourself and let him hold you. He lifted your hand and played with it, he admired your palm and fingers as he did. It was such a misplaced act of intimacy it made your stomach clench.

“You were okay when I was gone?” He asked.

Better, you wanted to say. Instead you nodded against his chest.

“Sorry I was so long. It was… rough.” He explained and you frowned. Why was he telling you all this?

You shrugged and he closed his hand over yours. The metal was cool against your skin.

“What?” He asked sharply. You said nothing. “Are you upset?”

You sat up and tried to pull away from him. He kept hold of your hand and you were stuck there with him. “I don’t… What do you want from me?”

“Have I hurt you?” He ignored your question as he sat up, his fingers were like a vice on yours.

“No, no, but… why can’t I go? Please…”

“How long were you locked up in that place?” He asked.

You opened your mouth to answer but had none. You shook your head defeated.

“So how do you think you would survive out there?” He prodded. “You wouldn’t be alive without me and you will not stay alive without me.”

“No, no. I have a family out there. Somewhere.”

“Yeah? Somewhere? You don’t even know your name.” He sneered.

“But I will. I just need time. If I went to the police, they could--”

“Do what? How could they ever help you figure it out? Were you ever convicted? If not, they wouldn’t have your DNA or fingerprints filed and do you even know how many missing persons cases fit your description?” He turned on you as he rose on his knees. He grabbed your arms and pulled you to face him. “You would spend the rest of your life lost. Alone. You have a place here. I made sure of it.”

“But--”

“But what? Okay, fine.” He released you harshly and held up the towel as he backed off the bed. “How about I unlock the door,” He crossed the room, “Hmm, we’ll go downstairs and I’ll just let you go.” He punched in the code. “How far do you think you’ll make it, huh? You go down to that road, stick your thumb out, and what? You’re picked up by some creep who’ll leave you dead in a field.” 

He swung the door open and crossed his arms. “Go on then.”

You gaped at him. You rheart sank and you slowly crawled across the bed. You went to the closet and he tutted.

“Ah, no. Go as you are.” He snarled. “You don’t wanna stay, you don’t appreciate all I’ve done to keep you alive, then you go with what’s on your back.”

You winced and backed away from the closet. You glanced over at the window, the ledge thick with snow. Your bare feet felt colder and your arms prickled with goosebumps.

“I’m… sorry,” You said quietly. “Y-you’re right. I’m sorry, can I please… stay?”

“Can you what?” He cupped his ear dramatically. “You gotta speak up.”

“Please,” Your voice was thin as tears welled behind your eyes. “Please, can I stay?”

“Stay?” He measured the word before him. “You’ve changed your mind so quickly.”

“Stop,” You pleaded. “You’ve made your point.”

“My point?” He feigned confusion. “And what’s that?”

You sighed and shook your head. “I wouldn’t survive without you… and I have been ungrateful for all you’ve done to keep me alive.”

“Kept you alive and safe and comfortable. Warm and well fed. Dressed, clean…”

“I get it, okay?” You said. “I get it.”

“And yet you don’t act like you do.” He challenged.

You stared at him. His eyes were like knives stabbing into you. You shook and rubbed your elbow nervously. 

Your lip quivered as you spoke. “Thank you.” You said quietly at first. “Thank you.” You repeated louder and he tilted his head. “Thank you for saving me, Bucky.”

His lips twitched as if he wanted to smile. He didn’t. He shut the door with the flick of his wrist and it beeped as it locked. He put his hands on his hips as he approached you.

“Your welcome,” He said evenly as he leaned in to look you in the eye. 

You made Bucky breakfast. Your roles seemed to have reversed in that sense. Almost as if you were repaying him for the sound-proofed room and all its amenities. You ate together though your appetite dwindled with each bite. You watched him and he pretended not to notice. He was as perplexing as this entire situation.

Last night, he was needy, almost desperate for your touch. He’d clung to you like a scared child and in a second, he’d reverted back to the callous man with the metal arm. You looked down at your empty plate and tried not to gag. You felt sickeningly full. You cleaned up his dishes and he left shortly after.

You were thankful for his absence. Yet your solitary was not as it had been. He was somewhere in the house, just on the other side of the walls. Lingering, even waiting, to make another appearance. You washed the dishes and put them away in the small cabinet. 

Then you sat and opened your notebook. You didn’t write about him or the long night, you continued where you left off. To the fragile and fractured mind of a young woman torn out of reality. To the cell that encapsulated your life. The best years of your life, they said.

You were older now. You could see it in the mirror, feel it deep inside. Still you weren’t sure how long it had been. The stress could have worn on you and aged you before your time or perhaps it had been that long and you had crossed the threshold of thirty. You didn’t know and you didn’t have the strength to guess.

You finished the page and closed the book. You slipped it inside the drawer of the nightstand and tidied the bed. You pulled the sheets and blanket back into place. You went to the window and stared out onto the carpet of white belows. You could see his footprints there, leading away from the property and back. 

He appeared by the car and you watched him open the trunk. He closed it and walked away with a duffel bag in his hand. He disappeared below the eaves and you could picture him climbing the steps to the front door. It was odd how you could see it all and hear nothing. Like living in a box or an aquarium. Entertainment for your sole visitor.

You turned away and slid down the wall until you were slumped on the floor. If this man truly had an ounce of empathy, if he truly sought to be compassionate, to free you from your former bonds, he would’ve killed you. This was worse than any death. You almost yearned for the days behind bars waiting for your next tormentor.

[aerynwrites]

The Hidden (4)

Chapter 4: Lonely

Author’s Note: Okay so I haven’t been able to see any of the posts to this story show up in the tags...Could you all please do me a favor and let me know if you can see them in the tags or if that’s how you found this work? I’m really frustrated by this and want to know if it’s just me who can’t see it. Thanks!

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: mentions of injuries?

Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four (you’re here), Five, Six, Seven, Eight

//

You glanced from your form in the mirror to the sleeping Mandalorian behind you. After the skirmish with the last Chroig, Jaleer, along with some of the other villagers, had helped you bring him back to your hovel along with a small cot. Hammock’s weren’t great for treating the wounded. One of the older women, a former resistance medic, had helped you as you relieved the unconscious man of his armor. She had reached for his helmet but stopped at your harsh grip on her wrist. You shook your head simply and she seemed to understand and you released your hold on her and let her start inspecting the wounds. You cringed as you saw the deep red marks across his lower abdomen and shoulders. His beskar had protected the majority of his torso from the deadly sharp claws of the beast but couldn’t protect him from everything. You watched as Ellaria, the medic, pulled some batcha patches from her med kit and laid them over the angry red wounds. she quickly looked over him for any other noticeable injuries before standing and looking concerned at your own shoulder.

“You need attention too. You didn’t come out unscathed.” at her mention of your own wound you suddenly remembered the sharp sting in your shoulder. The animal must have grazed you before it attacked Mando.

You waved her off, “I can take care of it, it’s just a scratch.”

The woman rolled her eyes but handed you a few batcha patches as well along with a roll of bandages, “Put these patches on yours and you should be fine, but him-“ she gestured to the bounty hunter, “he’s going to need some bandages after the batcha has done it’s work. They are amazing tools but not miracle workers.”

No nodded in understanding taking the items from her hands, “Thank you Ellaria.”

She smiles gently and glances back at the man, “No, thank you both. Without you we would still be living in fear of another attack. He helped us like he promised.”

You too look at the man, “yeah,” a slight warmth fills your chest as your heart flutters slightly, “he did keep his promise.”

Your comment fell into the empty room as Ellaria had already left.

You brought your eyes back to the mirror as you recalled the memory and tried to place the batcha patches on your shoulder. You had pulled your shirt off which left you in nothing more than a thin tank top but made it a lot easier to treat your wound. You had placed the last patch on the back of your shoulder, albeit awkwardly, but placed it, when a low modulated groan filled the air.

Your head whipped in the direction of the noise and you saw Mando starting to stir from his position. He attempted to sit up, but you moved quickly to his side to help him.

“Hey, take it easy,” you instructed gently moving your hands to his arms to help guide him into a sitting position. You tried to ignore how nice his skin felt under your hands.

“You took quite the blow out there, Mando.” The man felt a small shiver run through him as your nickname for him slipped past your lips, but you just assumed he was chilled from the cool breeze whispering through the home.

“I’ve had worse.” He stated plainly, as he looked around the home slowly, “what happened? where’s the kid?” you could hear worry tinge his words as you turned to grab the bandages from behind you.

“The kids asleep in the back,” you assured, “and we killed them. You’re plan worked.” You said triumphantly as you turned to face him again, squatting to be face level with him, a warm smile crossing your face.

Your smile fell and your breath hitched as you felt one of his warm hands brush lightly against your injured shoulder.

“Not without consequences,” he muttered bitterly, withdrawing his hand from you.

Your mind was reeling from the small act, trying to figure out the man behind the mask in front of you. You’ve only known each other for what? Four or five days? Yet, here you both were inches from one another a tension in the air neither of you dared address. You cleared your throat, and shrugged your shoulder, wincing slightly as the action sent a sharp pain through your shoulder.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

You look at the batcha patches still on the man and look up to him holding the bandages up for him to see, “Ellaria told me you’d need these after the batcha did it’s work. I can check if you want, to see if they- “

“No.” he said shortly.

You frowned slightly but set the bandages down none the less and stood silently, “Okay, if you’re sure.”

He just nods and grabs the bandages from beside him as you turn around and walk to stand in front of the mirror once again. You tilt your head to the side and peel up the patches on your shoulder slightly. You pressed it back down when you saw it wasn’t completely healed yet and glance in the mirror at the man behind you. You could see him struggling to maneuver to remove the patches and heard small grunts of pain coming from his direction. You shook your head at his stubbornness and turned swiftly walking back to crouch in front of him once more. Damn him and his stubbor nature. You reached for the patch on his lower abdomen and startled slightly when he gripped your wrist tightly. You again felt your breath stutter but steeled yourself and looked up at him, met only with a mask. You tried to look through the mask, tried to see him, but it was impossible with the metal separating you.

You looked at him pleadingly, “Let me help you” Your voice was only a whisper, but even behind the mask the Mandalorian could hear the desperation behind the plea.

He hesitated before releasing your wrist from his grasp and instead gripped the edge of the cot. You took this as permission and gently peeled the patch from his skin. You immediately noticed a massive improvement. The deep cuts were now almost completely closed and had considerably less redness around them. You set the patch aside before removing the second one gently. You hear a small hiss come from the man in front of you and whisper an apology before picking up the bandage roll. You gently start to wrap the gauze around his torso, fingers gently grazing his skin occasionally. You don’t miss the multitude of scars that litter his body as you start to wrap the bandages around his shoulder. Once you’re satisfied with your work you secure the end of the bandage and glance up at the man sitting over you.

You gently sweep your fingers over a particularly jagged scar before blurting, “How long have you been doing this?” the words escape your mouth before you can stop them.

The man pushes your hand away and reaches for the discarded blanket beside him pulling it up to cover himself slightly. You immediately regret your question and mentally kick yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you breath, standing from your position quickly, “That’s none of my business. Don’t get too close right? That’s the unspoken rule.” You declare, a slight bitterness working its way into your words.

You walk over to your hammock a few feet away and lay yourself in it gently before facing away from the man who was still a mystery to you. A deafening silence fills the air after you both settle into your respective sleeping areas, the only sound being the steady hum of insects outside and the light rustle of foliage floating through your windows. You surprisingly hear a low hiss followed by a thunk of metal on the wooden floor of your home.

The Mandalorian had removed his helmet.

As much as your curiosity screamed at you to turn and look you willed yourself to stay facing the opposite direction. You would not do that to him.

“Since I was young.” His voice startled you, breaking the tense silence.

A small gasp escaped your lungs as you heard his voice unaltered for the first time. While you had already found it mesmerizing before, even with the helmet, it was truly breathtaking now. You had to swallow past the lump in your throat.

“Why?”

There was a slight pause before he responded, “because it’s what I was trained to do.”

You couldn’t find a response to that answer and sat quietly once more. One question still lingered at the forefront of your mind.

“Why do you always were your helmet?” you finally push out.

“It’s the Way.” Is all he offers, as if that fully answers your question.

“When was the last time someone has seen you without it?” you ask curiously, throwing all caution to the wind.

“I was just a child.” Short and to the point, as always.

You felt a tightness grip your chest, as a sadness washed over you. He hadn’t seen anyone without his helmet since he was child?

“Does it not get lonely?” you question, confusion and sadness lacing your words.

Once again, a long paused greeted you and you were sure this time he was not going to respond. You had crossed a line. But a soft sigh cut through the air.

“It does.”

You opened your mouth to reply but quickly shut it once you realized you truly had no words. The vulnerability in those two words almost knocked you from your hammock. You were seeing a side of him that no one had seen in many years and Dyn was, for a moment, afraid. Not of dying, or getting hurt, but of truly opening up to someone. Vulnerability is a terrifying thing. But the feeling was replaced slowly by a warm relief. It felt like a small weight was lifted from his shoulders as he finally admitted his loneliness. Dyn felt drowsiness start to creep into his mind, he glanced over momentarily at you, breathing steadily and turned over on his good side.

“Goodnight,” he offered quietly, not sure of you were awake to hear it.

Just as sleep finally claimed him he heard a small ‘goodnight Mando’ meet his ears. And for the first time in as long as he can remember he fell asleep without a worry in the world.

[roseskiesandbutterflies]

My Melancholy Blues (Good Omens One-Shot)

Summary: 1923. When Aziraphale bumps into a rather drunk Crowley for the first time after their fight at St James's Park, he's hellbent on helping the poor dear. Pun not intended. But maybe it isn't just Crowley who needs help. After all, what is it we say about coincidences?

Warning(s): alcohol, swearing, cigarettes, angst

Word Count: 2.1k+

A/N: I’m back! I’ll be quick because this is for the DTIYS from @whiteleyfoster and it needs to be up by the end of September to be considered and September in the UK ends in 2.5 hours. Classic me leaving this until the last minute. Anyway I hope you enjoy, sorry about the angst but it just kind of happened. Whoops. Also the title comes from My Melancholy Blues by Queen! The song isn't a perfect match to this fic but the vibe is similar enough for me to like it.

"Hey, 'ziraphale," Crowley slurred from the rooftop he was perched precariously on, waving like a lunatic, "Cooee!"

He watched as the small white blob that was hopefully the angel in question stopped dead in his tracks. Something not all that dissimilar to astonishment washed over his face, before looking up warily, almost scared of what he would find. Shock soon turned to concern when he saw that Crowley was, in fact, sitting on the roof of the Ritz with a ridiculously lopsided grin on his face. Honestly, he thought to himself, a little over sixty years and not a single word, and then I find him drunk in the middle of London. Typical. He shook off the thought with a hardly noticeable eye-roll before calling back, "Crowley? What on Earth are you doing up there?"

Crowley made a face at him, "What does it look like I'm doing?" He waved the bottle of wine he was holding in Aziraphale's vague direction before taking a swig of it.

"I can see that," he said, speaking a little more slowly when he started to realise just how drunk Crowley was, "What I meant was why are you drinking on the roof of the Ritz?"

"The view up here's great! You can see Buckingham Palace from up here!" he said, quite keen at defending his choice of location.

"Surely there's a nicer place to drink in, though? Perhaps somewhere warmer?" he suggested, really quite worried now that he could see how little Crowley was wearing.

"Nah, I was in this club in the East End but the music was a bit shit so I left," he shrugged.

"Right," he nodded unsurely, "And it never occurred to you to go to another bar?"

Crowley suddenly looked very offended, pouting like an extraordinarily petulant child, "Why are you so worried about where I drink? I thought you didn't care about me or something. 'S a bit suspicious if you ask me."

"No, no. Curious is all," Aziraphale said, blatantly avoiding the issue they hadn't got round to resolving yet. No matter how annoyed he was at Crowley, and how the latter must feel towards him, he didn't think he could bear to fight with him again. He'd much rather dance around the truth for a little while longer.

Crowley, even in his not quite sober state of mind, seemed to understand, though the tension was so thick it wasn't exactly difficult. He quickly changed the subject, "You should come up here, angel, you'd like it. Promise."

He looked so hopeful and even vulnerable, as if his whole world was about to come crashing down and Aziraphale sitting with him was the only thing that could stop it. If he'd refused then that would have made him very heartless indeed, and that simply wouldn't do. Though luckily for him, he didn't have the time to even briefly consider the proposal before he found himself sitting by Crowley's side, staring down at where he'd just been standing. He shifted himself so he opposite him, with his back leaning against the chimney post, feeling considerably steadier than he was before.

"Well," Crowley looked at him expectantly, "What do you think?"

Aziraphale blinked before murmuring, "I think you look lovely, my dear. The blue of your dress really compliments the colour of your hair-"

He was cut off by Crowley's undignified snort, "Well, thanks, angel, but I meant the view. Not my dress. Though I'm glad you like it," he reassured him quickly when he noticed his mortified expression.

Aziraphale's tense expression softened like melted butter when he finally looked at the breath-taking landscape surrounding the two of them, encompassing them in the odd security that comes with strangely empty cities. Crowley was right, you could see Buckingham Palace from the rooftop, as well as St James's Park and Berkeley Square and the rest of Piccadilly. Incandescent lights shone from the streets below, but they were nothing compared to the forget-me-not blue of midnight skies above them, dusted with millions of stars like icing sugar on a cake. "Oh," he sighed softly, wholly content and at peace with the world, "Oh, Crowley, it's beautiful. It's, well, I never realised London could be so..." he trailed off, left speechless from awe.

Crowley grinned up at him, "Just wait until the sun comes up. Won't be long now."

Aziraphale's smile faded ever so slightly, "You say that like you've been up here before," he said gently, trying hard not to come off as accusatory.

Crowley's face morphed into one a child might wear when caught with their hand in the cookie jar, but he quickly shrugged it off, leaving it for Aziraphale to mull over by himself. "Drink?" he offered, holding out the bottle of wine.

"Oh, a drink would be lovely, thank you," he smiled, taking it cautiously and sipping at it, letting the alcohol seep in and ease his aching mind.

"What are you doing out this time of night, anyway?" Crowley asked innocently as he took the bottle back from him.

"I-I fancied a walk. Been spending far too much time indoors recently. Needed some fresh air," Aziraphale stammered out, passing the bottle back even though he could have easily finished it off right there and then.

Crowley hummed in response, deciding not to question it even though his gut was screaming at him, screaming that he was lying, he needs help, he needs someone, anyone.

He needs you. Just as much as you need him.

He decided to ignore his intuition because ignorance was far easier than the truth. It slid down like honey and soothed your soul, however temporarily.

"So, the nineteen-twenties," Crowley mused, letting his eyes dance over his surroundings, "'S been an interesting decade so far, hasn't it? Great nightlife. And the fashion, ooh. I've really been enjoying this whole flapper thing. What d'you make of it all, angel?"

It took Aziraphale a moment to respond, "I-I can't say I'd noticed much," he murmured, eyes hellbent on avoiding Crowley's.

Don't look into my eyes. Don't look into them, my love, because if you do, you'll know everything. I'll have no more secrets left, none at all. And I don’t think I can handle that.

The alarm bells in Crowley's head were deafening by that point, even he couldn't ignore them any longer. "Noticed what?" he asked, cautiously placing the wine bottle behind him, deathly terrified of the answer.

"Any of it," he said, voice no louder than a whisper, "I haven't noticed any of it."

Crowley's eyes widened as he tried his best to push down this rising tide of dread inside of him, "Angel-"

"Don't, Crowley," he pleaded, voice breaking but desperately trying to hide it. It was when he finally dared to glance at him that Crowley could finally see the vulnerability and the fear and the anxiety and just about every other emotion that humans had a name for. "Please, don't make me explain, I can't-" he stopped midsentence, inhaling deeply, desperately attempting to pull himself together, "I don't want to talk about it."

Crowley momentarily looked like he was about to object, and Aziraphale’s heart would have skipped a beat if he had one, but he didn’t, opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish. He let himself wonder, for a fleeting second, if perhaps he hadn’t been alone in his weird and confusing feelings. For he had felt this strange sense of loneliness for decades after their fight back in 1867. He’d spent much longer than a few decades without his angel before, but that time had been different, had stung in a way that struck him to his very core. Maybe there was a chance that Aziraphale had felt much the same way. Maybe they were more alike than he thought. He brushed off these thoughts as quickly as they’d arrived; it was unwise to ponder these things while in the presence of others. Instead of making a comment that wasn’t likely to be welcomed with open arms per se, he nodded deeply, oozing with understanding.

Crowley would be a hypocrite if he said that he wouldn’t mind being interrogated like that if he was in Aziraphale’s position, and he was sure he’d already worked most of it out.

Aziraphale softened in relief, the unshed tears in his eyes glistening like gemstones in the glow of the sun that was just starting to rise, creeping slowly up his face as it peered over the London skyline. Crowley couldn’t help it if his eyes lingered on the angel’s face. The logical side of him knew that angels were ethereal by nature, but only now was he starting to understand why. He seemed to literally glow gold with the dawn, outshining the sun and putting it to shame. His ivory suit had been dyed champagne by the sun’s rays, champagne, the colour of the drinks people downed with ease, the colour of the streetlights below them. His eyes were sapphires buried behind a veil of melancholy, framed with the wrinkles that came with centuries upon centuries of things to find joy in.

Oh, the irony, Crowley thought sadly to himself. He forced himself to cast his eyes away, feeling Aziraphale starting to squirm under his stare, instead looking at the Marlboro Red which had materialised in his hand miraculously, or not, depending on how you looked at it. He lit it with a click of his fingers, taking a drag and offering it to Aziraphale. No words had to be said; they’d known each other for long enough, they could say anything with no more than a look.

He eyed it nervously but only for a second, vulnerability taking over and impulses kicking in, and it was in his hand and he was breathing it in before he could even register what he was doing. The smoke waltzed circles around them before leaping away in the early morning breeze. Sparks flew off the cigarette as Aziraphale passed it back, glowing crimson in the sunrise, dying embers of a phoenix blowing away in the lapis blue of the sky.

They sat in the strangely comforting silence for a few moments, the dawn bringing with it its own eery peace. It wasn’t until the cigarette had nearly burnt away completely did Aziraphale finally murmured something, “Will we be okay, Crowley? You and me? Will we be alright?”

Crowley blinked back at him in surprise for a second before mumbling, “I don’t think I understand.”

“I think you do,” he said, voice filled with the spirit of the clouds above them, sweet and gentle and oh-so-soft, “Will we be alright?”

Crowley took advantage of the now burnt out cigarette to think of a response, leaving it to fall out of his hand and onto the pavement below, watching the ashes scatter over the London streets as if he was mourning them, “Yeah. I think we’ll be okay. Do you?”

“I hope so,” he said, voice no louder than a whisper but speaking volumes all the same. A single tear escaped, a drip of molten gold running down his face.

There was a lump in Crowley’s own throat just at the sight of his angel, and at the overwhelming meaning of those three simple words. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and brushing the tear away and my, hadn’t they gotten rather close. Aziraphale melted like butter under his touch and Crowley’s heart could burst just looking at him. Suddenly he was pressed up to the demon’s chest, arms hesitantly snaking around him, leaving Crowley speechless in shock for no more than a second. He quickly wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, resting his chin on the top of his head as the angel buried his face in his chest. They fit like two pieces of a puzzle that had remained unsolved for far too long, both of them internally sighing in relief and shouting for joy because they knew that this was where they needed to be. Neither let go, for neither wanted to, and they held each other as the dawn sun watched over them, casting its protective glow over a moment that deserved to be shielded from prying eyes.

And in the years to come, they would both act like that fateful night in nineteen twenty three had never happened, tucking the memory away in a far-flung corner of their minds and putting the whole thing down to alcohol’s wicked influence. But, no matter how much denial they would put themselves through in the next century or so, they both remembered in the depths of their hearts the words that had been said and the words that had been buried deep between the lines.

[aubergineanathema]

Esteemed guests of the Vorsfeldes

This is Part 15. To see all parts, or to start at the beginning, click here: Fiction Updates -----

Part 15.

There were no velvet curtains in the dungeon.

That was the first thing Helga noticed as she crept as quietly as she could down the stone stairs and saw the bright streams of light entering from the small, barred windows near the ceiling. As dark as this place had been the last time she had visited it, in the daytime it was notably lighter than the rest of the castle. Dust seemed to collect here, too, even more than on the other floors. There were small piles decomposing hay and dirt all over the floor, and any movement seemed to disturb the hazy air, full of musty flecks of debris.

Helga had decided to look here first for Lucian’s guest from the night before. She had considered, briefly, sneaking into the room where Lucian slept, but one glance at the dried mud and blood upon the door had convinced her that it was not a place she should dare to go—at least, not without Angelika. She resolved instead to check the dungeon, for it seemed a likely place for a guest of the Vorsfeldes.

As she had wandered, she had kept an eye out for Franz. Helga had begun to expect him to be looming around every corner, considering his orders and how she had disobeyed them. However, the steward of Vorsfelde castle was nowhere to be seen. This was, she assured herself, a good thing, for she did not want him following her any more than she wanted to sleep during the day. But even so, his absence was conspicuous as she made her meandering journey down into the dungeon. Indeed, she encountered not a soul on the way there.

Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, she stared down a simple hallway, with cells and bars on either side. In total, there seemed to be eleven: five on each side, and one at the very end of the hall. This was, more or less, as she had remembered it.

Except for one thing, of course.   

It was quiet, and something was certainly missing. Helga’s eyes fixed upon the cell facing her at the very end of the hallway. Its bars seemed new, shiny and polished, but the cell itself appeared to be empty. The beast that had resided within some nights prior seemed nowhere to be seen, and this came as a surprise to her. If Lord Alastair had moved the beast, she assumed she would have heard of it from Angelika, but her lady had been silent on the matter.

Also pricking Helga was a strange twinge of disappointment. Part of her had hoped that seeing the creature in daylight, even if only sleeping, might assuage some of her fears, and banish it from her dreams. Alas, she instead began peering into the other cells. They seemed empty, too, until a glance into the cell closest to her made her gasp. At first, she thought it was just a pile of rags, but she recognized something in the torn and soiled leather. There in the cell was the man from the night before. Or, at least, what was left of him.

Helga rushed over to the bars. These were not polished in the slightest. They seemed old, caked with grime, and made of rusting iron. Still, she hesitated to touch them as she tried to get a better look at the man. He was lying on his side, facing away from her, and so she found it difficult to see anything that might indicate his condition. Staring hard she was able to see, after a long tense moment, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, and she let out a sigh of relief.

“Sir?” Helga whispered, “can you hear me?”

She watched as he seemed to tense slightly, and tremble, but he did not turn toward her, or give any other sign that he had understood her.

“Hello, sir—are you alright? I just wanted to…” Helga’s voice faltered as it became clear he was not in any fit state to hear her words.

It was then, as she watched the man cowering there, that Helga felt a sudden, creeping despair, accompanied by an unexpected pang of loneliness. What had she wanted to do, anyway, help this man? She was helpless to do anything to better this man’s situation, and she did not even know how to help herself, let alone this prisoner. She knew the Vorsfeldes did not care, and indeed, she did not imagine that Angelika would react positively if she knew of her maid’s plain disobedience. The loneliness was harder to place, but she felt empathy with this man—more so than with her masters, or even the other servants of the castle—and to go unacknowledged left her feeling even more alone than before.  

Slowly, she turned away, thinking she could still at least bring him something from the kitchen, so long as Franz remained elsewhere occupied.

“I wouldn’t bother him.”

A sudden voice echoed through the hall.

“He only got to sleep about an hour ago.”

The voice was so unexpected and unfamiliar, Helga stifled her surprise and stared around for the source of the sound. Her eyes scanned the other cells and saw no one in the cells nearby.  

Then she walked through the hallway, guarded and tense, as she moved closer and closer to the cell at the very end of the hallway. All the other cells were clearly empty, but the last cell was more expansive, and as she approached, she saw it had walls that afforded slightly more privacy, at least from a distance.

Behind the shining bars a man sat, with his back pressed against the wall. His dark eyes met hers briefly, as she approached the bars, but then he looked passed her, nodding towards the other occupied cell.   

“I heard him throughout the night. Awake, but exhausted… I think he was also in a great deal of pain.”

Helga was stunned for a moment, having not expected to find anyone else down here. “He is.” She found herself stammering, before she could think to stop herself. “They—they took his hand.”

The man gave a quick, understanding nod. “To wake him just now would be a cruelty.” The voice was softer now, and plainly sorrowful.

Helga found herself intrigued by his voice. It was deep, and almost melodic in its cadence, with the intonations of certain words in odd places. She had never heard anything similar from anyone in the village. The closest she had ever heard to such a speech was from certain of the merchants that travelled through the region, but never lingered long.

Indeed, she could see that he was not from the lowlands. His eyes were a rich brown, and his complexion was a warm tanned color—such a sharp contrast to the pale faces of her masters and the servants of the castle—as though he was accustomed each day to linger in the hot bright sun. His face was not that of a farmer, however, as she had known many such men. His skin bore some of the scars of old injuries, but none of the roughness of exposure, and was not at all weather-worn. Wiry dark hair drooped down about his shoulders, blending at the edges of his cheeks into a thick black beard, the disheveled state of which hinted at the extended nature of his captivity.

“If he’s lucid when he wakes, I can tell him you came to see him.”

Helga started as she realized not only that she had been staring, but that now the man was staring back at her. “What?”

“I can tell him,” he repeated slowly, “that you were here. I’m sure he would take some small comfort in knowing he has not been completely forgotten.”

She suddenly felt flustered and a little self-conscious as his eyes continued to bore into hers. As she processed the words, she found herself searching for any sign of ire or malice in them—for he was a prisoner after all—but saw only concern.

“Oh, no! He doesn’t even know that I’m—it’s fine.” Helga shook her head and looked over her shoulder. “I’m not even supposed to be down here. I just couldn’t sleep, and…”

The prisoner gave a solemn nod again, but said no more.

Helga felt too nervous not to fill in the silence. Her mind teemed with questions for the stranger. “Why would you do that for him? Do you know him?”

“No,” the man shook his head. “Do you?”

“No, I only saw them bring him into the castle last night.”

“Then why would you seek him out?”

Helga shook her head with a sigh. “I don’t know. I was worried about him, and I couldn’t sleep.” She looked over her shoulder again, hoping she was not being so loud that Franz would hear. “I shouldn’t be telling you all this either. I don’t even know who you are.”

The man smiled wearily at her. “You’re afraid of something.”

Helga tried to deny it, but her voice wavered in a way that made clear her discomfort. “No—not really. Not of you! But I’m really not supposed to be down here,  like I said and, well a few nights ago—before you were here, there was this huge beast that Lord Alastair was keeping down here, behind these very bars, and I am a little concerned about where he’s moved it to.” She laughed nervously, as Angelika had gotten her into the habit of doing.

The man listened quietly, his eyes now pensively considering the floor. He had not moved from his sitting position against the wall since she had encountered him there, with his bare feet flat against the stone and his knees bent towards the ceiling. His hands were clasped, and his arms draped casually over his bended knees. She could see, however, through the tattered clothing he wore, that the muscles of his arms were tensed tightly, and his hands gripped each other so firmly his fingers were constricted and ruddy.  

“And what are you, to Lord Alastair?” He asked after a moment.

“Me? Oh I’m nobody.” She was surprised by the question, and unsettled by his tone. “I doubt he even knows my name.”  

“An esteemed guest of the Vorsfelde family, perhaps?”

“No, I’m not a guest!” Helga recalled keenly that the Vorsfeldes had taken to calling the bloody man in the cell behind her a ‘guest,’ and the word brought a fresh wave of dread upon her. “I’m just a servant: Lady Angelika’s lady-in-waiting!”

The man paused, and wearily he looked upon her again, his expression softening slightly. “My apologies, Miss Nobody. I saw the paint on your face and the jewels upon your neck and made assumptions. It is a shame that only noblewomen wear their hair so beautifully coiffed.”

Helga’s hand flew up to her neck and hair in a rush, as she could feel her face grow beet red. She remembered the makeup, and the dressing up of the night before. She could not believe she had worn the necklace, which suddenly felt so heavy, all the night long. But she had, and not even Franz had bothered to mention it to her.  

“Angelika—She likes to do this do me. It’s nothing. I’m just a servant from the village. I swear it to you.” She felt so exposed, all of a sudden, in front of this strange man, even though he wore only a shirt and garments of rags, and she was fully dressed, she rarely saw anyone except for Angelika without her wimple, and she knew how Angelika’s paints accentuated her face.

Beautifully coiffed. Those were the words he had used.

Slowly, the man rose and approached the bars—but did not touch them—regarding her carefully with his dark eyes. Some far away part of her mind noted with surprise that he was only a few inches taller than her.

“Please, let me start again.” He did not really give Helga time to respond. Indeed, he seemed himself a little anxious about whatever he desired to say. “I do not believe that you are nobody, but I do believe that your heart is untainted by this evil place. You came down here to comfort a man you don’t even know, and you have no idea the danger you’re in.”

“Helga.” She said quietly, feeling frozen in place. Danger from what? “My name is Helga.”

The man nodded in acknowledgement.

“My name is Masud al-Dahia ibn Sulayman al-Hasif ibn Qasim al-Aziz.” He paused and watched as Helga stared at him, easily overwhelmed by the pronunciation and cadence so unfamiliar to her.

He smiled slightly, seeming bemused. “But you can call me Masud.”

“Masud.” She repeated softly, trying to ignore how lightheaded she felt.

“Yes, and sometimes they also call me Masud al-Dhiyb: Masud the Wolf, in your tongue.”

“Oh?” Helga asked, and wondered fleetingly when he had gotten so close to the bars. He smelled like a warm day, but she felt cold. “Why would they call you that?”

“Well, Helga.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment, second guessing before taking a deep breath. He collected himself, and strengthened his resolve.

“Sometimes, I am also that beast of which you speak.” ------- This has been Part 15. For more, see my Fiction Updates -------- Don’t be shy! I would like to hear any feedback or comments anyone might have! Very PM/ask friendly. Please never share without attribution. ---- I am trying out tag-lists. Let me know if you want to be added or removed from this list. <3 @jenifersaturn​ @hypnoticwinter​ @leannehuang​ @writingvenusian​ @tomato-greens​ @ocdsensei​ @springtimebat​ @myhoagiemakerplaid​ @alphazao​ @donthavechoice​ @freedominique​ @lost-in-fiction​ @odysseywritings​ @adelinemwriting @concreation @yo-imagino @contra-passo @indiiig0 @worlds-tiniest-puff-pastry @themoondidntloveme @autumnsky01 @unforgettable-sensations @maddiviner @missmercurymoon @peloblancophoto @be-i-ng @beautifulimposter25 @johnnyabbate @bloodorange-sacrifice @sulfurandbrimstone74 @illessayano

[gauntie-o-dimm]

Vernon Roche | Fights, Fangs And Fucking

Requested by Kayrash via Discord

Vernon Roche joins Geralt on a contract concerning vampires. When the fight proves more difficult than expected, Roche runs into a cave system to hide. Enter a powerful higher vampire, who hasn't seen such a handsome mortal in a long time...

Word count: 3900+ Relationship: Strangers

Vernon Roche was not one to pass a challenge soon. If anyone wished to test his skill, his worth of being a commander, his dedication, he’d never bat an eye. Tonight was no different.

Roche was seated at the Temerian Partisan Hideout, leaning on a makeshift bar a few of his men had come up with. In the haphazardly created camp, it was not bad. He was enjoying a bottle of ale, though it was stale and had lost most of its flavour. Around here, there wasn’t a lot to expect from luxuries like alcohol.

Lo and behold, Geralt of Rivia had dropped by. Vernon, he wasn’t half bad to offer said witcher a drink for the road. And thus, he found himself tipsily leaning on the wooden crates that sufficed for bar, and took a large swig.

“Tell you what I think, Geralt.” he said, “Slaying monsters can’t be that difficult, now can it? It’s like hunting Squirrels but less… Intelligent ones.” Though Roche had given up chasing the damn elves some time ago, mentioning them being intelligent still made him slightly cringe, even though said words came from his own mouth. Geralt smiled a little behind his ale, shaking his head in disbelief.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about. Imagine a person of any race, but venomous and way quicker. Sharper teeth, too. And claws, not to forget.”

“You only have to slay a monster a handful of times before you learn its weaknesses, no? Besides, you’ve got bestiaries. Non-humans and other vermin prove to be quite unpredictable. No book can actually describe their next move, or their intentions.”

Geralt scoffed, humming in discontent. He reached for his pocket, taking out a messily folded piece of paper. “Then I believe you’d see no problem in joining me on my next contract, hm?”

Vernon Roche unfolded it, reading over the details of the job. He thickly swallowed, but held his unfazed posture. A flock of lesser vampires terrorized the outskirts of Velen. Strange, since when did these beasts move up north? “Of course not. We can leave whenever you want.”

The witcher smirked, finishing off his drink before slamming it down onto the bar firmly. Vernon slightly jumped at the loud sound. “Okay. Let’s leave right now, then.”

Roche was slightly taken aback by the sudden need for departure, but he couldn’t back away now. “Sure.” he hummed, taking a small sip from the bottle. “I need to get some supplies, but then we can go.”

Geralt was patient enough to let Roche gather some equipment before patting onto his trusty steed’s back, coaxing her to wait a little longer. “I have no horse available.” Vernon said, hoisting a bag over his shoulder. Estimating by the darkness outside and the faint glimmer of a star here and there, it must be far past midnight. Geralt held out his hand for him to take.

“Come on, then. Ride with me, it’s quicker that way. You can hold that lantern, too.” Vernon looked at the lantern he had strapped to his hip, a candle flickering inside of it. Geralt didn’t need the light, but he figured Vernon would enjoy the idea of being able to see in this dark night.

The commander held onto his friend, who brought Roach into a steady gallop soon enough. Even though Velen wasn’t too close to the hideout, it should only take them a few hours to get to the location mentioned in the contract. It was close to Crow’s Perch, but Vernon did not know who the current head of town was. He had caught wind of Phillip Strenger hanging himself, leaving him wondering how the disease-ridden the no-mans-land was doing.

“Lesser vampires,” Geralt mumbled, “should not prove too difficult if you carry the right amount of bombs and blade oil with you. Here,” he handed Roche a vial of a dark red liquid, “Grease your sword with this as soon as we arrive.”

“I spoke with the contract-giver, and there should be around five lesser vampires roaming about. Two-hundred gold I bargained, of which a hundred upfront. I will pay you twenty percent after this.”

The ride was long and pesky, but Geralt’s horse was fast and left Vernon Roche with just a dull ache in his thighs. He’d certainly feel that tomorrow, the commander thought, but what was that compared to the fight he was about to get into? He had to learn to not run his mouth so often. Lucky for him, the daze of the ale had already worn off.

Per Geralt’s instruction, Vernon coated his blade with the substance, handing the remainder back to the witcher. The White Wolf threw back a few potions Vernon did not know the name of – after all, Black Blood was not a commoner’s liquid – and chased away Roach. Geralt looked around with dark eyes, as if he had already sensed something in the air that any other could not hear nor smell.

“Get ready.” he growled lowly, the silver of his blade shimmering in the moonlight. “They’re creeping closer.”

The first one showed up quicker than expected and shortly left Vernon frozen in his spot, but he managed to deflect the lash aimed at him. Geralt soon intervened, slashing the head of the katakan clean off.

“Holy fuck!” The commander had to prevent himself from covering his mouth because of the stench – this was different up close. Sure, he had smelled corpses feasted on by ghouls on abandoned battlefields, maggot-filled men that had been dead for weeks, but being actually covered in blood and whatnot from a monster like this; it had him startled.

A loud cry from one of the creatures pulled him to his senses again, and he parried, managing to strike the beast across its snout. It certainly showed agony from the pain the oil caused, but it did not falter for long. Roche slashed off one of the katakan’s front paws before finishing it off by stabbing it in the skull.

Geralt on the other side had already killed a few of the agitated creatures, though confusion visible in the knitting of his brow. Hardly breaking a sweat, he turned to Roche, who was having a difficult time killing a weaker one than the one before.

“It’s way more than the contract stated!” “How many are there?!” Roche quizzed over the sound of screams and cries. “At least thirty! They spread faster than-“ Geralt momentarily paused to strike a fatal blow across one of the lesser vampires.

“They’ve spread faster than I expected.” From the distance, a new wave was already approaching, seemingly furious about their slain kin. “Will we manage?” “Not a chance. Not with this amount of blades and oil.”

Before Roche could ask on, he was already attacked once again. He dodged the blow, but stumbled back because of it. “Geralt!” he shouted, “What will we do now?!”

“Run and hide, Roche! Into these caves! I need to make some potions and oil!” was the witcher’s answer. Vernon had no time to respond to his friend – the White Wolf had already bolted. He cursed silently between gritted teeth, cutting the lesser vampire provoking him fatally across the chest.

He ran after Geralt, finding the cave-system easily enough, but navigating them proved way more difficult. “Geralt?” he called out, his voice echoing against the walls. Soon enough, he lost all vision.

“Geralt!” he spoke up again, but there was no response from the witcher in question. Vernon padded his sides for the lantern he had brought. In his pocket were a few matches. When blinded by darkness, lighting one was no easy task, but he succeeded after breaking a couple.

The small flame illuminated the cave, revealing its size. Vernon nearly forgot that he had to hold the match against the oil-drenched wick to prevent it from disappearing. The space was way larger than he had expected and a shiver ran down his spine. “Geralt?” he called once more. Loneliness crept up on him…

…Just like something else did… A pair of dark eyes peered at him from the ceiling, shimmering in the light of the flickering flame. Roche reached for his sword, but he froze when six other pairs of eyes seemed to aim at him. That same sound he had heard moments ago while fighting vampires rang in his ears.

So, this is it, then? Vernon thought as he saw the beasts approach, appearing way larger in the ominous space. The commander grabbed his blade nevertheless, taking on a fighting stance. It would be of no use.

Three of the beasts came at him simultaneously and Vernon slashed his sword through the air, haphazardly swinging it from side to side. He hit the vampires, but only hard enough to make them stagger momentarily.

The other four katakans took their chance and lurched forward, aiming for Roche’s neck. However, when they were about to give him the fatal blow, they halted in their actions, as if thoroughly distracted from their task and unknowing of his presence.

All seven katakans shied away like a scolded dog with its tail between its legs. They scurried off as if afraid of what was lurking in the shadows. Or better said… whom.

“What mortal goes there, dares to intrude?” A feminine voice pierced the air, clear as day. The hairs of his neck stood on end at the sound of it, fear immediately tugging at his conscience. He regained his cool posture soon enough, but the creature seemed to have already smelt it.

You approached from the shadows, eyes as dark and shimmering as the ones of the katakans had been. Your pupils were wide blown and showed no colour around them. “Who are you?” Roche asked, tone shivering and giving away his emotions.

“I could ask you the same, soldier.” As you spoke, Vernon could see the sharp fangs you momentarily bared. A vampire, but different. Roche frowned – a higher vampire?

“Who are you to enter my cave without any kind of invitation?” you hissed, inhaling his scent deeply. Slowly, you started to walk around him as if sizing him up, attempting to intimidate him. He was a rather delicious-looking piece of meat. It had been a while since you’ve had your fill of lust and blood.

To Vernon, it seemed as if you were floating around him, the padding of your bare feet inaudible, absent. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword, wrapping his fingers around it so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Of course, as a vampire, you took quick notice of his actions.

You halted in front of him, eyes resting on his face before falling to the heavy pendant around his neck. “Ah, the Blue Stripes… Tell me, how badly do you want to return to your Temeria?”

You were toying with him, and it was working. Roche swallowed thickly whilst your gaze pierced through him. “I… I can just head out if you show me the way.”

A dissatisfied tut left your heavily painted lips. “Oh, but where’s the fun in that? Besides, no mortal should disturb a higher’s rest. Didn’t they teach you that at army school?” For a moment, you took the metal pendant in your hand, tugging at it firmly. It came dangerously close to snapping.

“I’m the fucking commander. Of course I know about the danger surrounding monsters.”

Putting a hand on your heart, you feigned hurt. In the dim light of the lantern, you made sure that he was seeing you pull down your gown a little more, revealing more of your cleavage.

“You think me a monster? Oh, I’m thoroughly offended, sir.”

Once again, you walked around him, but now halting behind his back. You stood on your tiptoes, breathing heavily in his neck. “Good thing I’m parched.” Vernon visibly cringed at the feel of your fangs scraping against the nape of his neck. “A handsome commander’s blood should just suffice.”

Before Roche could attack, you were already gone. He stood rather awkwardly and confused with his sword in hand, looking around frantically around him. A shiver of mist soon approached, accompanied by a giggle. “Oh, commander.” you basically purred, “You’re not getting it, do you?”

Suddenly, the sword was flung from his grip as if it was nothing. It clattered against the wall somewhere nearby. Roche was defenceless, now…

“Stop lurking in the shadows like a coward! Show yourself if you’re going to rob me of my belongings!”

“Oh, there is no shadow for me, sir.” you replied, circling around him in a misty cloud. He nearly dropped his lantern onto the ground from fear, shivering on his feet. Vernon Roche was never afraid – except now.

“I can see all. I can smell how scared you are of me. How endearing.” “What do you want to do with me?!” Roche spat, “There is a witcher nearby! He will find us and kill you!”

Soon, you turned into your corporeal shell again, your (h/c) flowing over your shoulders as you stopped in front of the commander. He slightly parted his lips at the sight, not able to talk for a moment. He wanted to shake the thought off but failed: You were absolutely gorgeous. It must be a trick, he fooled himself.

“Not only do you show disrespect by trespassing, you threaten to kill me and to top it all off you throw a witcher into the mix? Very interesting, commander.” You leaned in closer, bringing your face to his.

Vernon closed his eyes at the feel of your breath on his lips, entranced at your approach. “You know nothing about higher vampires, do you?” Your lips ghosted over his chin, softly brushing his stubble. “You’re lucky that it’s been awhile since I’ve… Been this intimate with a mortal. How about I don’t kill you… For now.”

His eyes snapped open at the suggestion but he was soon surprised by the feel of your fangs against his neck, scratching the skin slightly yet not to the point of breaking. Breath hitching in his throat, Roche braced himself against you, gripping your waist out of pure instinct.

You lightly giggled, dragging your tongue over the spot you’d damaged. “Tell me, commander. Ever done it with a monster before?”

“Stop playing your games, vampire. You should be impaled with a stake through the heart.” “You believe I have one?” he could practically feel your smirk. “A heart, I mean.”

“Don’t think I will tolerate this behaviour!” “Says the man who’s got his hands on my hips.”

Vernon realized where his hands had been resting and you pulled your face from his neck, giving him an endearing smile. He gazed down at you, biting his bottom lip while deliberating. A gentle reminder about what you wanted; you pressed your hands against his chest and ground your hips forward against his groin.

The commander groaned lowly and allowed you to press your lips to his. Yours were surprisingly cold but showed passion nevertheless. He was hungry for more and let you know by pushing his tongue forward, attempting to roll it into your mouth.

Interesting and needy, you thought to yourself, smirking at the swell of his erection in his underpants. Mortals can be so easily coaxed into anything.

Vernon Roche tasted unlike any other you’d ever tasted. It caused a pool of heat to course through your abdomen and the numbing spot between your legs. His hands carded themselves through your hair, feeling each strand carefully as if it was the softest material he had ever felt. It had been so long ago since he’d touched someone like this that he couldn’t help himself.

An experienced kisser like you must’ve been with many men before, Roche shortly speculated. Your nimble fingers showed no sign of struggle with undoing the belt around his waist, letting it fall to the floor with an echoing thud. Vernon slightly jumped at the sudden noise, but you showed no such reaction.

Instead, you dragged your fangs across his throat, enough to leave marks that did not bleed, as if a cat had scratched him. They stung a little, spurred on by cold air. “Is this what you want, commander?” you purred, voice not louder than a whisper. Roche opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly you evaporated into mist right in his hands.

You circled him, starting around his ankles, all the way to his face. “Tell me…” you whispered in his ear from behind, causing him to confusedly look around. “Oh, your body tells me enough. And your heartbeat…”

As if there was magic involved, Roche’s trousers became undone. Invisible hands tugged it down to his ankles and he was unable to respond properly. Ashamed, he closed his eyes when his erection popped from his underwear, throbbing and swollen with need.

“What a sight.” you sincerely murmured, sneaking your hands around his armour to push it off his shoulders. Roche was entranced by the feel of you so effortlessly unclothing him, clouding him completely. He shivered from the cold hitting his skin, and when you reappeared in your tangible shell, it only intensified. You were stark naked, your body unlike any he had ever seen.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen a man so handsome.” you mused, sinking to your knees. Experienced, quick and nimble fingers wrapped around the hilt of his cock, testing the waters. Roche groaned, almost too overwhelmed to be able to stand on his legs. He kept his ground and simply watched when your dark red lips wrapped around his tip.

You always enjoyed the flavour of human sperm on your tongue, giving it an extra swirl around his foreskin before pulling it back around the sensitive circle around his shaft. An extra treat; not better than blood, but just as enticing.

He slipped further into your mouth until he hit the back of your throat. You didn’t gag, looked up at him with half-lidded eyes, his face a blur through your lashes. He was thoroughly liking this, you noticed in his composure.

Vernon bit his lip, deliberating whether it would be appropriate to put a hand in your hair. He decided against it, putting it to his side instead, figuring you a creature that liked to be in charge. Never before had he felt a mouth so soft and refined, yet so demanding.

He gritted his teeth, hissing when you mouthed the sensitive spot under his head, making it tremble against your bottom lip. A small laugh left your lips, but Roche couldn’t figure out if it was meant as playful or mocking.

“You… You’re pretty.” he said within grunts. Momentarily, you paused your lapping at his cock to laugh. “A man gets blown by a total stranger and all he can say is that she’s pretty.”

You stood up, releasing the weight of his erection to put your hand against his chest instead. A hungry kiss, animalistic, needy. Vernon dared to put a hand behind your neck to pull you closer. When your teeth clashed together, you pulled back, frowning with a smirk forming at the corner of your mouth. “You’re amusing, commander.”

“Roche.” “Huh?” “Roche. My name.” “Oh. Roche. As in…  Cockroach?”

Vernon scoffed humourlessly. “My friend has a horse named Roach. Same pronunciation. Different spelling though.”

Long fingers rested at the nape of his neck where you put your hand. For a second, you scraped your nails against the scruff where his stubble began.

“Enough trivial talk.” you whispered. “Roche.”

You looked as if you were hovering over the cold floor when you slipped past him, leaning against the wall with your hands. You bent forward slightly, looking over your shoulder at him. “Down to business, no?”

You allowed him to rest his hand on your hip, his fingers soon exploring the (s/c) skin of your flesh. His gaze halted at your core, dripping with need. “You haven’t told me your name.” he replied, moving to stand behind you. In a complete state of trance, he guided himself inside of you, slipping past your folds without a lot of effort.

Biting your bottom lip, you breathed out a moan. “Oh, that doesn’t matter. Just feel nice inside me, alright?” You didn’t have to repeat yourself, your simple request spurring the commander on to start fucking you. Though his thrusts were slow, testing out your depths, you enjoyed the girth of his cock moving in and out of you.

When he found a steady rhythm of his hips, Vernon Roche tried maintaining the pace, earning a few moans from you. You braced yourself against the wall, throwing back your head in enjoyment. Judging by his movements and the way he twitched inside of you, it was clear that he hadn’t gotten action in a long time.

It was wrong to blame him for it – you were just as touch-starved. It had been ages since an attractive human had dared set foot near your hideout, let alone cross paths with you. And thus, you found yourself joining in his movements, rolling against him to the point his skin slapped yours with every thrust.

“Make sure your witcher friend won’t notice us!” you teased. “What would he think of walking into us like this? Seeing you balls deep in a higher vampire.” You had to prevent yourself from bursting out into laughter. “Oh, you’re twitching… Are you close, commander?”

His cock once again throbbed inside of you and you moved your hand between your thighs to stimulate your clitoris. “What a man you’d be if you wouldn’t let me cum first, huh?’ you taunted, soon chasing after your high. Roche’s grip on your ass tightened whilst he quickened the speed of his stuttering hips. Your cunt clenched around him, drawing him closer, closer, closer…

And then he burst inside of you, stilling in his movements, eyes snapped shut. A groan escaped his throat, one that had been building deep inside his lungs ever since the build of his release. Your orgasm was quieter. Why would you give him the satisfaction? You’d seen what such pride could do to mortal men… It was a nice pulsating of your clit accompanied by the heat of his cock still buried deep inside of you.

Roche sighed, sweat trickling down his brow. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, removing himself from your heat. Seed trickled down your thighs. The air was immediately colder again. Perhaps it was the sweat on his body cooling off, Roche thought.

And as to where your clothes had so quickly disappeared, so quickly they had returned to your form. You moved over to the commander, who was still standing with everything out for all to see. You leaned in and kissed him chastely on the lips, smiling while pulling back.

“Thank you, commander Roche. Tell your witcher friend I said hi.”

Before he could ask what you meant, he heard footsteps around the corner. “Roche? I've slayed the remaining vampires! Roche?!” Geralt’s raspy voice sounded, out of breath though concerned.

With a giggle, you moved away from the commander, your final question to him a whisper. “Will you come to visit me again one day?”

You blew him a kiss, and he didn’t get the chance to reply, because you had disappeared before he knew it.

“There you… What the fuck?”

Geralt shielded his face from the naked commander, who was hastily looking for his undergarments. Getting lost in a cave system and then being found in the nude like that, smelling of sex? Vernon Roche definitely had some explaining to do, over a cup of cheap wine on their way back to receive the contract’s pay.

[amayawolfe]

HxH OC Fumiko Nakamura Story ~ Ch. 11 - Hisoka and Abaki

My Stories Masterlist  

Word Count: 2921

Warnings: harsh language, bullying, mild violence, blood

   Hearing the name of the resident town bully, you looked up at the boy that was now sitting up in front of you and glaring at you with a look of pure malice.

   "So it is," he snarled at you as he got to his feet. You quickly did the same in a scramble, your eyes locking with his. Upon standing, you noticed that Tsume's two lackeys, Kan and Maro, were here as well. Being large for his age, Tsume was strong in his own right. However, he never liked the idea of a fair fight and always had Kan and Maro in tow to make sure he had the upper hand at all times.

   Spotting two more people out of the corner of your eye, you turned you head ever so slightly to risk a quick glance. You needed to make sure these people weren't also on Tsume's side; because if they were, you would have little choice but to run. Five-to-one was a little more than you wanted to handle at this point in time.

   When you looked over to the boy and girl you quickly realized that these two were complete strangers. And they looked so... different.

   The girl had to be close to your age with warm, caramel brown skin and sparkling violet eyes. Her auburn hair was chopped short all round except for the right side which hung as a braid down to her collar bone. She was lean, but toned, and wore a halter top with intricate designs, harem pants in a color that complimented her top, and slipper like shoes. Shiny metal bracelets adorned her thin wrists, and she wore a fine chain choker as well as multiple earrings in each ear.

   This girl looked so strange to you, but in a beautiful and unique way. Shifting your gaze to the boy, your breath caught in your throat.

   His skin was nearly as pale as fresh fallen snow. His hair, which was longer in the front and sides but shorter in the back, was the same color as the wild raspberries you so often saw growing along the countryside roads and pathways. Appearing to look on the darker shade of red at first until the sunlight showed a hint of pink mixed in. Light colored freckles were splashed across his nose and the apples of his cheeks.

   He wore a simple short sleeved shirt with a card suit spade on it, pants that looked similar to knickerbockers, and the same slipper like shoes as the girl. He was also lean, but taller than the girl and looked to be just a couple years older than you. There were bandages scattered across him; one under his left eye, another his right cheek, even a few on his arms.

   What truly caught your attention the most about the boy was his narrow, amber colored eyes that shown like dark citrine in the light. Although, it wasn't the color of his eyes that caught your attention, it was the swirl of emotions within them.

   At the surface you could see anger and hatred, most likely towards the three creeps in front of you. However, there seemed to be so much more beneath that. It was a look so akin to the very same one you saw in the mirror every day. Sadness, internal struggle, loneliness...

   Suddenly you realized he was looking right back into your eyes with almost as much intensity as you were his. You wanted to look away, but found that you simply couldn't. Your ears and cheeks grew hot and your heart began to flutter like a caged bird.

   "It seems our old local freak has come to help out the new circus freaks," Tsume sneered. The sound of his irritating voice caused you to finally break eye contact with the boy.

   I see, you thought to yourself, so they're from the circus. Well, I guess that explains why I've never seen them before and why they're here.

   "I see you're being your usual jerk self," you said in a cold tone. Your muscles began to twitch and your heart was starting to pick up pace as your intuition told you there was a fight quickly approaching. The darkness inside you stirred in anticipation within it's cage.

   "What the hell did they do to deserve your ugly face to look their way?"

   "Tch," Tsume tsked. He appeared to ignore your insults, however the small twitch in his left eye showed you were making him angrier. "I just wanted to say 'hi' to the pretty girl. And when she ignored me I just tried to get her attention. That's when this pale redheaded freak decided to butt in."

   You glanced at the girl again and saw bruises already starting to form on her upper arm. White hot anger began to spark in your mind and the darkness began to pace within it's cage.

   "What the hell, Tsume?!" you shouted. "Just because your papa is mayor of this place doesn't mean you can go hurting or touching who ever you want!"

   "And who's gonna stop me? Your daddy?" He let out a cruel laugh. "The only thing that bastard is good for is drinking booze and beating the crap out of you. And from the looks of it, he did a pretty decent job of it last night."

   Tsume's goons giggled from behind their boss.

   "Yeah, you tell that freak," Kan jeered.

   You suppressed a growl that was trying to rise from your chest. Narrowing your eyes you snarled at him.

   "Get the hell out of here, Tsume, or else I'm gonna tell your mama how you've been treating girls again." Your gaze shifted to Maro and Kan. "And I'll be sure to mention the two of you to Tsume's mama as well."

   "Bitch, you better not breath a word to my mother, or else-"

   "Or else what, jerk ?" A toothy grin started to spread across your face. Your body began to feel hot and tingly from the sudden surge of adrenaline. "Your weak ass going to attack me again? Didn't learn your lesson not to mess with me after I broke your nose last time?"

   That did it. For the longest time Tsume was usually the one that had won the fights between you and him. But over the last few months, around the same time the darkness had began to emerge within, you had been the one coming out on top causing his hate for you to increase ten fold.

   "Shut the hell up, you stupid freak!" he yelled. Tsume sneered and charged at you, raising his fist up into the air to aim straight at your face.

   From that very moment, everything seemed to slow down. You watched as Tsume moved towards you, your eyes darted this way and that as you quickly picked out all his weak points and flaws. Scenarios quickly flashed and you calculated each best course of action until you came to the best one for the most likely scenario.

   {To slow.~}

   Just as it looked like he was actually going to make contact with your face your hand darted up and snatched his wrist.

 {Break it!}

 Squeezing it until you felt something snap, Tsume cried out in pain. You then pulled him forward while turning to keep his momentum and direction going. Releasing his wrist you continued your turn and swept your leg out to sweep his legs out from under him, causing him to become airborne and land face down onto the ground.

   You now saw that Maro had followed Tsume and was coming straight for you, lowering himself in attempt to tackle your midsection.

   {Crush him!}

   Instinct kicking in, you brought your leg straight up then down when he came into range. The back of your foot connected forcefully with Maro's head bringing him face down right into the dirt. The action instantly rendered Maro unconscious.

   Kan had started his charge just after Maro but skid to a stop just out of your range upon seeing his friends eat dirt. His eyes were wide and he was beginning to tremble.

   With the creepy, manic grin still on your face you tilted your head to one side.

   "You wanna play, Kan?" you giggled.

   Kan frantically shook his head from side to side and took a step back away from you.

   {Little coward...}

   "Aww, that's to bad,~" you pouted. You turned to face Tsume who was still laying on the ground, cradling his now broken wrist. His eyes grew wide and shone with fear and hatred as you approached him and squat down next time him.

   "You see, Tsume, you weren't wrong with what you said about my papa. However," you leaned forward menacingly, "you forgot to mention he's the best damn fighter in this area. And when you're his punching bag on as often as I am you tend to pick up a thing or two."

   Tsume snarled and spit a large, snotty loogie at your face. The projectile hit you right between the eyes and immediately started running down the side of your nose. Rearing back in disgust your hand shot up in desperate attempt to scrub the mucus off your face as quickly as possible. The action causes you to apply to much pressure to your already damaged nose and bursts of light span across your field of vision when a white hot pain shoots through your nose.

   Seeing his chance, Tsume swung a leg forward and kicked your own legs out from underneath you. The unexpected move causes you to land hard on your back, knocking the breath out of your lungs and leaving you gasping for air in a mild state of shock.

   "Get her now, Kan!" commanded Tsume.

   Kan, having seen you go down and Tsume seemingly regaining control of the situation, bolts forward to deliver a running kick to your vulnerable open side. But before Kan can deliver the blow, the red head boy charges forward and shoulder checks him hard sending Kan landing right on top of Tsume.

   "My my,~ ♦" the young man teased, an amused grin spread across his lips, "How rude, you seemed to have forgotten my friend and I have been here this whole time.~ ♠"

   The girl stepped up beside her companion with her hands balled into fists. A fire now burned in her violet eyes causing them to shine with ferocity. As you slowly climbed to your feet the girl took a fighting stance and glared down at your assailants.

   "You're out matched now, I suggest you take your friend and leave!"

   Kan had been stunned from the red headed boy's attack and was feebly moving around on the ground as Tsume had managed to push Kan off of him. Maro was still mostly unconscious, only barely showing he was coming back around with a few twitches of his limbs. Tsume himself was injured and had yet to even get back up on his feet.

   He glanced around and saw that the girl was right, there was no way he was going to be able to win this fight. Tusme gave Kan a rude shove.    "Get up, idiot," he spat his orders angrily, "Help me get Maro and let's get the hell out of here."

   The two bullies shakily got to their feet and collected their friend. Tsume was careful to hold his broken wrist close to his chest in attempt to keep it as stable as possible. Maro groaned as he was brought to his own feet. His head rolled to one side revealing his dirty scrapped up face. Blood was slowly oozing from his nose and one eye didn't seem to want to open all the way.

   "Did- Did we win, boss?" Maro mumbled aloud, still relatively stunned from his harsh impact with the ground. Tsume sneered.

   "Just shut up," he turned his angry hate filled gaze towards you. "This isn't over, freaks. I'll take care of you myself. Just wait."

   "Tch, what ever, asshole," you sneered, "Get the hell out of here."

   The three stumbled down the street, around a corner and out of sight.

   "Hmmm,~ ♣" the boy hummed aloud as his amber eyes hovered over where the trio bullies disappeared, "Why is it that simpletons such as them make such cliché statements? ♠"

   You hadn't heard the boy's comments as you were to focused on watching Tsume and his gang. Just as they disappeared from sight you suddenly became light headed and the world spun around you. Without warning, your knees grew weak and buckled beneath you. Luckily, the strangers had been close enough to you to catch you before you hit the ground.

   "Whoa! Hey! Are you alright?! Your nose is bleeding!" the girl cried out. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a clean hanker chief and gently held it up to your nose. "Do you think we should take her to see someone?"

   The boy leaned closer to your face and looked you over carefully. You swallowed hard as you felt your heart begin to flutter again while those eyes looked over your facial features so closely.

   "That's strange, I didn't even see her get hit.~ ♣"

   "That other boy said something about her dad hurting her... Do you think you should get her to the town doctor?"

   "It probably wouldn't be a bad idea. ♣ But first,~" his eyes moved to yours, grabbing as much attention as you could possibly focus in on him while the world swam and danced around you, "you really should tighten up your ten. If you keep letting that much aura slip away you'll pass out.~ ♠"

   You groggily narrowed your eyes at the boy in confusion.

   "Let what slip away? And, ten what?"

   The boys eyes flew open in surprise. He and his friend exchanged looks then he looked back down at you.

   "You mean to tell me you've been using nen and you didn't even know it? ♦"

   You could feel a look of complete confusion take over the entirety of your face. You blink several times, trying to understand through the foggy state of your brain just what this boy was talking about. Looking over at his friend you shook you head a little.

   "What is he talking about?"

   The girl had a look of surprise as well.

   "Uh, n-never mind that for now. "She licked her lips as she tried to think of something. A thought seemed to cross her mind. "Just, what do you normally do after something like this? You know, to calm down and help focus yourself?"

   "Uuhhh," you thought for a moment as you processed what she was asking you, "I usually feel so tired and dizzy after a fight; but, once I just breathe, and force myself to relax, I feel a lot better."

   "Okay, just go ahead and do that then. We'll stay here with you until you can get on your feet.~ ♥"

   The combination of the strangers' concern and kind words brought a warm smile to your face. You honestly could not recall the last time people besides your younger sisters having been this nice to you. And you honestly couldn't recall kids your age being this kind.

   You closed your eyes and focused inward. Taking slow, deep breaths through your mouth since you nose was clogged with blood. You focus on your heart rate and gently encouraged it to return to a steady rhythm. After a couple minutes your head began to clear and the world around you began to settle.

   Opening your eyes you saw that the boy and girl were watching you carefully and almost with awe. You felt your cheeks and ears grow a little hot. You looked down at the ground and found that you couldn't stop smiling.

   "Thanks, I'm feeling better now." You start to get to your feet and they didn't even hesitate to help you. They even each hold onto an arm until they are sure your steady on your feet.

   "Really, I'm fine," you assured them while still holding the now bloodied handkerchief to your nose. "But, I really do appreciate it."

   "It's our pleasure,~ ♥" the boy replied. "It's the least we could do for our rescuing heroine.~ ♦"

   You could feel the heat on your face spread and you just knew it was turning a bright red.

   "Is your nose going to be okay? It's still bleeding," the girl asked. "I'm assuming there is a town doctor?" You nodded a response. "We'll walk there with you. To be honest, we needed to go their ourselves to get some supplies for our troupe."

   "Alright, it's this way," you turn and start to head in the opposite direction Tsume and his friends went. The boy and girl quickly fall into step on each side of you.

   "By the way," the girl said cheerfully, "my name is Abaki!"

   "And my name is Hisoka,~ ♥" the boy added with a warm smile. You couldn't help but smile back as a warm, fuzzy feeling spread through your chest and stomach.

   "It's really nice to meet the both of you! Despite the circumstances," you added with a laugh, "Oh, and my name is Sadashi!"

   "Well, Sadashi, it's an absolute pleasure to meet you as well.~ ♥" Hisoka cooed.

   "Cool the charm, Hisoka, or else you're going to embarrass the poor girl," Abaki laughed. It was a bit late for that, you honestly didn't believe your face and ears could get any redder.

Next Chapter: Ch. 12 - ??? (TBA)

[devil-in-the-d3tails]

It’s the End of the World as We Know It - Chapter 2

summary: During the international quarantine in your first-ever pandemic, the people around you slowly begin to disappear. As the world grows quieter and quieter, you find yourself all alone-- no power, no friends, and only one goal: to find whoever of your friends might be left and reunite with them.You're naive to think anything can be that simple. As you're faced with ever-increasing loneliness, you run into some boys who apparently went to the same high school as you. Will you join forces with them to figure out your strange circumstances together, or will you brave loneliness in a world that is slowly crumbling apart?

Link on AO3!

words: 3,341

rating: M - Mature

genre: angst/humor, romance, adventure, apocalypse AU, reader-insert

warnings: sort of depressing content, a smidge of violence, cursing

a/n: this one’s a little short, but please enjoy nonetheless!

- Can I Crash Here? -

It’s raining outside. You sit on a mattress that’s been grouped together haphazardly with a number of other mattresses in the dark, cold gym. Akaashi has been sitting next to you quietly this whole time, and you’re appreciative of the silent comfort. Indie lays at your feet, heaving a great sigh every now and then.

When you’d shown up at the gym, you were relieved beyond words to see some familiar faces-- even though you hardly knew these boys at all, they were still alive. You remember falling to your knees and screwing your eyes shut as the grief and fear from the past few weeks came pouring out of you in shaking sobs. Akaashi had been the one to awkwardly pat your shoulder, while Indie sniffed and licked at you nervously.

Somehow in your hysteria, you had been ushered to sit on a mattress while you sobbed into your knees. After a few minutes, you hesitantly looked up to find Akaashi next to you, and Bokuto and Kuroo kneeling in front of you with distress and hesitation-- of course they wouldn’t know what to do in this situation, as you hardly knew yourself.

Akaashi had gently asked you what happened, but you shook your head, unwilling to think of what you had just been through. You remember when a fresh wave of panic overcame you, and you had gasped, which only worried the boys even more.

“M-my car!” You ran your hand through your tangled hair. “I parked it outside the school-- shit, I’m sorry, I-- I didn’t even think-- oh, fuck, they’re gonna find me--”

“Hang on.” Kuroo asserted, placing a firm hand on your shoulder as he hooked you with a steely, calm gaze. You remembered how his bright eyes grounded you somehow, how they brought you back to the present. “We can drive your car over here and hide it. Here, gimme the keys. Akaashi, wait with her-- Bokuto, come with me.”

“Huh? Why do I have to come?” Bokuto exclaimed.

“In case I run into whatever’s got her so scared, I don’t wanna be alone.” Kuroo shrugged as he stood, your car keys having somehow made it into his palm.

“Ohhh, scared, are ya?” Bokuto teased.

“Yeah.” Kuroo said, and that definitely sobered up his spiky-haired friend as the gravity of the situation settled uncomfortably around you four. Bokuto had cleared his throat, and then he had patted your head awkwardly.

“Don’t worry! We’ll fix everything for ya.” He had beamed at you, but you could only stare blankly back. Bokuto shifted awkwardly, then gave Indie a few pats. “Good dog! Okay, we’ll be back. Take care of her, Akaashi!”

The two boys had left about ten minutes ago, and here you were, now sitting in the spacious, cold gymnasium of your high school next to a boy you barely knew who gave you poptarts only a day before. Was it a day? It feels like weeks ago.

You look up at the high ceiling as the rain pitter patters against it soothingly, and you can feel Akaashi’s gaze land on you at your movement. You lick your dry lips, and glance at him.

“A-are none of them awake?” You whisper, and you’re referring, of course, to the number of other sleeping humans surrounding you and Akaashi. The sleeping lumps are unidentifiable, as far as you’re concerned-- you’re surprised there are so many people grouped together in one place. There’s some snores here and there, but no one besides you and Akaashi are awake.

Akaashi shakes his head. “These guys can sleep through a fucking typhoon.”

You laugh a little, and Akaashi’s chest warms up a bit. It’s nicer to see you smile instead of cry. He clears his throat.

“So, what happened?” He asks quietly.

You bite the inside of your cheek and glance at him. He seems to always have the same calm, apathetic expression on his handsome features, but his voice is comforting and tinged with worry. The two of you have been sitting in the quiet for some time now, and you’re sure you gave him quite a scare upon your sudden arrival, so you suppose he deserves an explanation.

“Well, I… went home, unloaded some of my groceries.” You clear your throat. “Then, um, I tried to text my friend Callie, but it wouldn’t send, so I fell asleep. And then I woke up around 3:30 and heard some guys in my house…” Biting your lip, you remember being grabbed by the red-head, and subconsciously wrap your arms around yourself, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Akaashi. “Um, so then I ran out and drove here.”

Akaashi hums and studies you for a moment. He can tell you’re troubled, so he doesn’t want to press the subject. But he doesn’t want you to stay troubled.

“What’s his name?” He asks, petting Indie behind her ear.

“Indiana, Indie for short.” You smile sideways at him. “And she’s a girl.”

“My bad.” Akaashi returns your smile, glad to see you relax just a bit. “She’s trained really well.”

“Yeah, she tackled one of the guys back there.” You say proudly, but after you think about it for a second, you hope she didn’t kill him. Indie looks up at you, panting happily, and you give her a pat on the head.

“Damn. Guess we shouldn’t mess with you, then.” Akaashi sits back, and you suddenly notice how close the two of you are sitting. Maybe it’s the extreme lack of human contact you’ve had recently, or the fact that Akaashi is insanely cute, but you feel a blush creep up your neck despite yourself. It’s also stupidly late. And you’re tired.

You glance away from him as you hear footsteps outside the gym, and the doors open to reveal Kuroo and Bokuto, the latter twirling your car keys on his finger.

“We have hidden your car!” Bokuto announces triumphantly, and you shush him, only to find that he hasn’t actually disturbed any of the sleeping people behind you. Akaashi was right, you think as you glance at him again.

“Getting cozy while we were gone?” Kuroo grins, looking between you and Akaashi as the two close the doors behind them and walk up to you. You stand abruptly-- it’s the goddamn apocalypse, you don’t need a crush. Still, yet another blush creeps up your cheeks. Akaashi rolls his eyes as he stands up beside you.

“Where did you hide it?” Akaashi asks.

“Behind a tree.” Bokuto gives you your keys back.

“I should add, we also put some leaves over your car for added security.” Kuroo says, and you nod appreciatively.

“Just so long as you parked it near the gym, it should be out of sight from the street.” Akaashi yawns. You feel a wash of guilt at your realization that you’ve kept these guys up really late, after they’ve done who-knows-what kind of hard work during the day. Not everyone has your fucked up sleep schedule.

“Thank you so much-- um, I’m really sorry for keeping you guys up.” You say sheepishly.

“Don’t apologize!” Bokuto exclaims. “We were up when you got here anyways. Hey, here’s a question-- if your leg gets cut off--”

“We should get some sleep.” Kuroo cuts in. “As much as I’d love to hear her input on that topic, it can wait until the morning.”

Bokuto sighs in resignation, but rubs his eyes tiredly. He wanders over to his mattress and flops down, burrowing himself into his pile of blankets. Kuroo stretches, then stops abruptly as he whips around to look at you.

“Oh shit, where are you gonna sleep?” He asks you, then looks to Akaashi, who frowns.

“Oh, I can just sleep on the floor.” You wave your hand dismissively-- you really don’t want to put them out of any comfort.

“No.” The two boys say at once, and you’re a bit surprised at their severity. Bokuto is already snoring, much to your surprise.

“I’ll sleep on the floor-- you can sleep in my bed.” Akaashi offers, already pulling a blanket off of his mattress.

“Please, you can sleep in my bed.” Kuroo asserts, peeling off one of his own blankets. The two boys look at each other, and you could swear they were glaring.

“No!” You exclaim. “You guys already helped me enough-- plus, it’s cold as hell in here and sleeping on this cold floor is bound to make you sick, and you can’t get sick during the apocalypse-- do you know how easy it is to die from the common cold, especially when there’s no doctors around?!”

The two boys are a little taken aback by your exclamation, and so are you-- this is the most emotion you’ve shown in quite a while. You bite the inside of your cheek and frown, crossing your arms. “None of us are gonna sleep on the floor.” You assert, and Kuroo tosses his blanket back onto his bed.

“What do you suggest, then?” He asks, crossing his arms right back.

“You could sleep with one of us.” Akaashi says quietly, like that has zero implications whatsoever. Your eyes widen, and you’re so glad it’s dark in the gym because you’re sure that your face is as red as a tomato. Kuroo snickers.

“I’m down if you’re down.” He says teasingly, and raises his eyebrows at you.

“Up to you.” Akaashi adds quietly. Clearly, this decision is in your hands-- and you don’t want them to sleep on the floor, and you certainly don’t want to sleep on the floor yourself, and sharing a bed with one of them couldn’t possibly be that terrible, could it?

You gulp, and glance at the floor. Kuroo is hot, you’re not gonna lie-- you’re sure he pulled all the girls in school. He also seems like he’d be really nice to curl up against, since he’s much bigger than you are. And Akaashi, he already makes you feel safe. Plus, his broad shoulders and undeniably fit body cross your mind as you imagine how it’d feel to tuck your head under his chin...

You shake your head. Even though you are touch starved, you will not make things worse for yourself by imagining how it would feel to cuddle with any of these boys.

You clear your throat, aware of how long you’ve been silent.

“Um, I’ll sleep with Akaashi-- if, if that’s okay.” You mumble, hoping to any higher power that they can’t sense your immense embarrassment. Akaashi nods, though you don’t miss the almost triumphant look he tosses Kuroo’s way. The latter only shrugs, flopping down on his own mattress a couple beds over.

You bite your lip, unsure of where to look as you slip off your shoes, then begin to peel off your outer layers. Akaashi undoes his belt, and you look at him alarmingly. He looks confused for a second, then seems to realize what that might look like.

“U-um, I’m gonna keep my pants on.” He says, and it’s the first time you’ve heard him sound nervous. You nod quickly.

“Yeah, me too.” You hate sleeping in pants, especially jeans-- usually it’s a huge tee shirt and undies for you, but you are not about to strip down to only that with a boy you’ve only just met, no matter how cute he is. You slip off your socks, then sit on the mattress with your back to Akaashi. You feel the mattress dip as he sits down too, and you take a deep breath before laying down on your side, facing away from the boy next to you. He does the same, and you can feel the warmth of his backside against yours as the two of you are just inches apart.

The rain falls steadily above your heads, and after a moment, you feel Akaashi shift behind you, and a blanket suddenly finds itself draped over your body. You roll over onto your back just as Akaashi begins to pull away, and he shrugs.

“You said yourself we can’t afford to be cold.”

“Thanks… You have a blanket too, right?” You whisper. Akaashi doesn’t answer, but that in itself is an indication that he doesn’t. You pause, then toss a portion of it over him, only to find it’s just a bit too small to cover the both of you.

...Unless you scoot closer together. The two of you lock eyes with that realization, and you know that he has to be blushing as much as you are. You quickly face away, and he does the same, as the two of you scoot closer together so that your backs are pressing against each other. You take a deep breath to try and calm your racing heart as the warmth from Akaashi begins to spread throughout your whole body. You feel his breaths, which even out rather quickly. He must have been really tired.

You, on the other hand, are wide awake. Your heart won’t stop racing, which is super annoying. Still, you screw your eyes shut in the hopes that you’ll at least get some sleep tonight.

The rain continues falling, and eventually, you are lulled to sleep.

[-]

The first thing you register is a pleasant warmth and an even pleasanter smell. You instinctively nuzzle your face closer to it, and in response you feel whatever sensation that’s wrapped around you tighten its hold. You’re properly wrapped up, though you don’t know what’s around you or where you are. All you know is you’re extremely comfortable and happy.

As consciousness slowly seeps in, memories trickle in one by one: running down your stairs, frantically gripping your steering wheel, wandering around your abandoned high school, dropping your hammer on the concrete outside the gym while staring at--

You furrow your brows, and your eyes flutter open against your will-- you haven’t gotten nearly enough sleep, but you can’t stop waking up as you take in your surroundings.

Your face is currently burrowed into Akaashi’s chest, your head tucked under his chin. Your hands are actually curled into his white shirt, and as you let go of it bashfully, you find that his arms are wrapped around you-- one laid flat on the mattress beneath you, and the other resting over your waist.

A blush once again lights up your face as Akaashi shifts in his sleep, unconsciously pulling you closer. He lets out a contented sigh, and you feel a foreign tingle spread throughout your whole body. You bite your lip-- as sunlight slowly filters into the gym, you’re sure that no one else is awake yet, otherwise you would’ve been woken up to the sound of Kuroo teasing you and Akaashi to no end.

You can’t let the other guys see you and Akaashi like this-- you can’t handle the embarrassment. As much as you don’t want to wake Akaashi up, you have to. Biting your lip, you move to pull away from him, but almost instantly, he tightens his hold on you, and with a grunt, he rolls over onto his back, pulling you with him. You suck in a breath, trying to stay silent as you now rest on top of his chest, one of your legs between his.

You bury your face in his chest, completely unsure of what to do. He was so exhausted last night-- you don’t want to wake him up! Just as your mind begins to race for a flawless escape strategy, Akaashi groans and rubs one eye open.

“Mnf….” He says your name groggily, and you ignore how his gravelly voice sends tingles up your spine.

You decide to play dumb, and turn your head to the side with a big yawn.

“Hmm?” You answer quietly, and relax your body as much as you can. You feel Akaashi freeze in place beneath you, and he quickly removes his other hand from the small of your back.

“U-um… you’re… on top of me…” He mumbles, and you groggily lift your head to face him, making sure to keep your eyes lidded so that you can play this off effectively.

“Huh?” You furrow your brows as you meet Akaashi’s gaze, whose face is now bright red as the sun slowly illuminates the gym. You catch the subtle, perhaps accidental, glance he takes towards your chest, and realization hits you then.

You’re just in your undershirt… a tank top… and your chest is pressed against his… You can imagine exactly what kind of view he had just then as you quickly roll off of him, your arms crossing over your chest quickly.

You both stay very quiet, unsure of what to say to each other. You ignore how nice it felt to be held by him, and how much you didn’t really want to leave his embrace. God, how childish of you-- it’s just the fact that you’re starved for human interaction, that’s why you’re feeling like this.

Somebody yawns really obnoxiously a few beds over, and you look up just as someone hurls a pillow towards the offensive yawner.

“Can it, Shitty-kawa.” Somebody grumbles.

“I can’t even wake up without getting scolded, can I?” The yawner answers.

The gym slowly starts to stir as the sun grows brighter through the high, square windows. You sit up at the same time as Akaashi, and you both can’t help but glance back at one another bashfully. Reaching down, you pull your flannel over your now cold shoulders, and Indie gives your hand a good morning lick.

“Morning,” Kuroo yawns, and grins over at you and Akaashi. “Sleep well?”

You blush, and only mutter a “good morning,” back.

“Huh? Who’s that?” The yawner exclaimes, and you turn towards the sea of mattresses to spot a boy around your age-- also insanely cute, with somehow perfectly styled hair-- sit up and openly stare at you. “Hmm, nice one, guys. She’s pretty cute.” He grins, and you’re not quite sure how to respond to that.

“We’re just ignoring the social distancing rule now, huh?” The guy who threw the pillow sighs and sits up to look at you, as well. You feel like a deer in the headlights, so you look for any possible way to escape this conversation.

You shoot to your feet, and turn to Akaashi. “Where’s the bathroom?” You mumble, but Kuroo answers for him.

“Down that hallway, to the left. No-- sorry, right. That’s where the girls bathroom is. And the plumbing still works!” Kuroo grins, and you nod quickly, turning to rush off to the bathroom. Indie follows behind you loyally, and you hear the boys begin to talk about you openly as you run off.

“Yeah, we met her yesterday…”

“...showed up in tears…”

“...Call her cute again, see what happens, Shitty-kawa…”

You’re in the school bathroom before you know it, and you laugh wryly to yourself as the familiarity of it makes you almost feel like you’re back in school. Small groups of the dirty tiles are arranged in your school colors, and there’s still a very old flier hanging on one of the stall doors, advertising a school play that never happened.

You rush to the sinks, and turn on the cold faucet water. You grip the sides of the sink with ferocity, and dare to look at your reflection.

There was no way you looked cute in this moment. That guy was either extremely thirsty or a cruel liar-- your hair was matted, eyes drooped and tired. You’re sure that your dark circles never looked darker. A wave of embarrassment overcomes you at the realization that you slept next to cute Akaashi looking like this...

You shake yourself of those thoughts, and look at yourself with hardened resolve. You splash your face with cold water, and that wakes you up a bit. Deep breath in, deep breath out. This is only temporary, just until you can gather your thoughts, enough supplies, and enough courage to travel to Ohio alone. This is only temporary…

But it’s your life now.

[starlightfaltershere]

Geraskier - android Jaskier

@sirencipher and I came up with something wonderful today and thought we gotta share. (they're wonderful ya’ll please give them all your love)

- a post-apocalypse AU, in which jasiker dies. Geralt, heartbroken, and unable to tell their family and friends that Jaskier had passed; builds a droid Jaskier out of desperation (and desolation.)  ‘no one can take the anguish of losing anyone else’ he thinks. ‘but, they can assume this is the real Jaskier.’ Geralt, employing magic, pulls Jaskiers memories from his physical form, and stores them into the droid Jaskier. and for all the droid Jaskier knows, they’re real, alive. 

- it’s a profoundly morbid creation, a hollow thing, ‘but it keeps Jaskiers memory alive’. and for now, that’s enough for Geralt. 

- Geralt covers up that the droid is not real, just until everyone is ready to lose Jaskier he reflects, just a ‘little while’. 

- and droid Jaskier cannot die on Geralt, which offers some consolation. 

- but looking at them makes him feel as if he has betrayed original Jaskier, but somehow he can’t let it go.

- in some moments, it’s easy to forget they aren’t the real Jaskier. he always fails in the times the droid is with other people, they look so real. but droid Jaskier isn’t the same when they are alone; it’s like having Jaskier there, but any time Geralt moves to touch, he dissolves into dandelion fuzz. Geralt could program how Jaskier felt about anybody else. but, Jaskier had never confided how he truly felt about Geralt. “Jaskier had tried as he laid dying, but the bullet had gone straight into his throat. the sole thing that graced his lips was blood and ocean waves.” the part of Jaskier he needs desperately is missing. was rinsed away in the sea’s salt.

-  Geralt had used as many of the memories he could pluck from Jaskier. but himself and the droid could not work out how the memories had threaded together to make up Jaskier. Jasker had always confounded the Witcher, now Geralt desperately wished he had made more of an effort to understand the man.  he’ll never wholly know now, with Jaskier - his Jaskier, his lark - changing into the larkspur flowers he adored so much in a small unmarked grave Geralt had dug him. 

- but Geralt fears that if he dies before he can admit to everybody about Jaskiers death, Jaskier grave will be lost to everyone. he’ll be forgotten. but he cannot risk putting a name to the unmarked grave, he can’t risk everyone finding out.

- ‘but when is their ever a right time to reveal to everyone of the crime he committed out of his own desperation?’

- he doesn’t know, so he vows to himself he will confess to them when he’s moved on. but it’s inconceivable, because everyday he wakes to almost Jaskiers face; it’s almost like the oil paintings in the museum’s Jaskier used to drag him too before the war. all the portraits of beautiful individuals, those individuals who were created perfect by other people. Jaskier was born perfect, and Geralt replication of him has far too many imperfections. it was all wrong.

- the droid stays for a long time. too long. 

- Geralt realises this was a terrible, terrible mistake. a lapse in his judgement - Jaskier caused a lot of those for him -but Geralt knew better. 

- one day he will shut the android down; Jaskier will die a second time. kill the ghost of his love, and that will weigh on his conscience until he’s back again with Jaskier. maybe even after that. 

- he questions why he really did this, did he honestly do this to save Ciri from losing another parent? no. it was a pitiful excuse for being selfish, this is the time Geralt had chosen to be selfish? he just could’nt handle remaining in a world where all his love could do is die. love is now a spear of larkspur, will someone rob him of that too? 

Geralt is pissed at himself for the situation he got himself into. how will he explain the droids death? its disappearance without hurting everyone? without hurting Ciri?

-he’s on a bed of knives, and any move will hurt himself and everyone else. he’s fucked himself. and he knows real Jaskier would be equally pissed as we as find the whole predicament hilarious.

- he can hear Jaskiers response just thinking of it.  “come on Geralt, what we’re thinking? that’s right, you weren’t thinking at all.”

- and perhaps the worse of all, he’s hurt the last remnants of the bard. he’s done a great evil against the android. lying to him about who he is and telling him will burst their mechanical heart. if they have one

- Geralt has gotten himself into a house of mirrors, not matter where he swings it’s going to hurt. he will not escape with no guilt. but it must end, maybe even soon. 'but not today’ he thinks.

- at some point, he finds himself sitting in Jaskiers room, surrounded by the parts of the real Jaskier that were left behind. Geralt had taken up caring for Jaskiers things. the droid couldn’t manage such a task. and they need to keep up appearances. 

- you see, real Jaskier is a fiddler, a tinker. he always had something in his hands. it’s one thing Geralt missed most. he always found broken lute strings tied in shapes and pulled apart pens and things around the house. he was constantly doing something. but all the android can do is hold them. blink at them slowly. they have no recollection of what to do with them.

- so Geralt decides that the droid will never see or touch another thing made by Jaskier hands. 

- the droid can’t even create any new songs, none that sound right. the soul just isn’t there. Geralt wonders why no one has noticed how pale the world is now. there are so many things amiss with android Jaskier. his eyes are the wrong shade of blue. his hair is wrong. passable. but wrong, and no matter how hard Geralt tried he couldn’t replicate Jaskiers smile. and worse, Jaskier sing-song voice. it seemed as if Geralt had hacked the soul from Jaskier. 

- a big part of him is furious that no one has realised the ruse, but they think Jaskier is just under the weather, maybe even heartbroken for the loss of the old world.

-but how could they imagine Geralt doing such a thing like building a fake Jaskier? great isn’t a liar. never. he was renowned for being ruthlessly honest. no one would think him capable of such a thing. but they forget he’s good at pretending. he did it around Jaskier for a long time. everyone. 

- Geralt eventually has a break down over android Jaskier not being enough, about what a piss poor copy he made of the man. Geralt questions if he even really knew the bard.

- he didn’t. and it will torment him until he dies. so he looks through Jaskiers notebooks, in hopes to touch some unexplored part of him. he finds songs, notes of Jaskiers thoughts

- he finally cries. 

- he cries when he sees Jaskiers drawings. he didn’t know the bard could draw. Geralt finds lots of doodles and pictures of him mingled amongst love songs and stories of Geralts heroism. 

- there are unsent love letters, years worths of them. unsent letters addressed to Geralt are tucked amongst the pages. some are sealed, ready to send. others not even finished. Geralt wants to read them, truly. but is it right for him to read them? Jaskier isn’t here to say no and none of this really matters. it doesn’t matter, he’s already surpassed considering morality. so he reads them. 

- It’s all too painful, and the realisation has been a creeping thing, and it hits him like a freight train. And here he is, sitting in the ashes of a man’s life, responsible for a fraudulent version of him.

 And Geralt decides then and there to get rid of the android. But it won’t be easy now, is it? it’s been weeks, months? And there’s so much he must explain. Even to the android. He may not be Jaskier. But he still wears his face.

- but he has to. so like every other night, he helps the droid to bed. but this one will be different. Geralt can’t help but take the droids to face in his hands - cradle Jaskiers face in his hands for the first and last time. and tell them the truth.

- the droid cannot cry, but if they could he know it would be. Geralt tells them he’s so fucking sorry. love - love makes you do stupid things. horrible things. but it won’t hurt, he swears, it’s just like going to sleep, you’ve gone to sleep so many times

-  Geralt slowly raises the droids shirt. pries its chest open - where Jaskiers heart should be. ha, Geralt thinks, this is not the first time he’s ripped Jaskiers heart open, he’s read the bards poems, songs, about how the Witchers hands had dug into jaskiers soul and tore it into two. but this isn’t Jaskier. with tears, Geralt pulls out wires and wheels that made up the droids heart. 

- the droid leaves him with the image of Jaskiers face permanently frozen half afraid, half sad look. not too much different from how the real Jaskier looked. just lacked the sea water and blood.

- Geralt catches the droid as it fell. something he wished he could have done for Jaskier. he sets them on the bed. makes it look as if Jaskier had passed peacefully. for his own sake and for their families sake. it’s what he deserved. 

I no one really asked what happened. a great many of the things could have happened. Jaskier finally gets a funeral. one he deserves. but Geralt asks to bury him alone. he dismantles the droid. and marks Jaskiers grave; it lays facing the ocean. 

[strawberry-skies-xx]

forget the bottle

C H A P T E R     T W O

tags: geralt / jaskier, yennefer, PTSD, post-s1e6, s1e6 fix-it, a fix-it of sorts, pyschological trauma, psychological torture, magical fuckery, mind manipulation, aftermath of psychological torture, emotional/psychological abuse, torture, nilfgaard, captured by nilfgaard, fringilla, fluff and angst, protective yennefer, yennefer ships it, idiots in love, love confessions, happy ending, solitary confinement

author’s note: scheduled tuesday + thursday posting.

main masterlist || story on ao3 || next chapter >>

-0-0-0-

Jaskier fell asleep seven songs later, woke up, and didn’t know whether he was even awake. The cell was still completely dark, there were no sounds, nothing to indicate if he was awake or in a dream. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to ignore the panic dancing at the edges of his breath, the edges of his vision and his mind, and focused on the way he shivered in the cold. 

He sat silently against the wall for several minutes, not knowing what to do. He didn’t know what they were going to do to him, but he had barely been here for two days and he was already longing for human contact other than that damned sorceress and soldiers. He wanted to see light, wanted to see the sky and the sun and the flowers. Jaskier couldn’t believe he’d ever taken that for granted. 

He felt too much, all the time, and loneliness was no different. Heartbreak was needles, fear was spiders, dread was cold. Loneliness was just empty, hollow. Something in him that was just… a void, filled with nothing. Jaskier hated the feeling of loneliness more than most everything else, most likely because he so rarely felt it he didn’t have any defense against it. Singing and talking to nothing only lasted for so long, and Jaskier knew his limits. He wasn’t going to last, no matter how hard he tried. He was going to break to Nilfgaard, tell them everything he knew about Geralt, and he’d become their slave, he guessed. There were rumors that Nilfgaard participated in slavery. Or, he’d become some noble’s songbird. That was also a fate he didn’t want, but he supposed he wouldn’t have a choice. 

Jaskier leaned his head back against the wall again, brought his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, and started singing again. 

-0-0-0-

On the fourth day, Jaskier finally roused himself to move, driven by his parched throat and cracking voice. He found a bucket of water in the corner, almost spilled it when he found it with his roaming hands, and found a cup beside it. The water seemed clean - and even if it wasn’t, Jaskier would take anything he could get. They certainly weren’t giving him food anytime soon, so this was all he had to survive on. 

He dipped the cup in the water, finding it cold, and pulled it back out before drinking his fill greedily, like he hadn’t had water in days - which, he hadn’t. 

He filled it up three more times, and even the water didn’t fill the void of loneliness spreading in him. The water didn’t help the heartbreak needling at him, the fear making his skin itch, the dread trickling down his spine like ice. He had nothing to defend against his emotions, nothing to distract himself with except for a bucket of water and a cup, and he could feel himself falling, slowly breaking. 

Jaskier sighed, feeling the exhaustion of being starved for days pulling at him, and set the empty cup down, leaned back against the wall, and let sleep take him. Or not. He had no idea if this was a dream or if he was awake, it was so dark and he was so cold and so tired. 

-0-0-0-

Jaskier’s voice gave out on the eighth day. 

-0-0-0-

Jaskier was curled on his side on the floor on the sixteenth day, silent and shivering and so fucking hungry. The cramps bit at him, devoured him from the inside out, and he was left with only his mind - which wasn’t even at optimal speed either. 

He gave a soft whimper and curled up more, felt the cold stone press against his too-sharp, bare shoulder and too-thin feet, cried out as the sharp hunger pains lanced through him followed by the heartbreak and loneliness and fear and dread. It was all too much, far too much, and the smell of his piss in one corner he had designated wasn’t helping. 

Jaskier was breaking, slowly but surely, and Fringilla and all of Nilfgaard was waiting for it. 

-0-0-0-

Come on, Jaskier, came Fringilla’s voice, in his fucking mind, and he jerked awake, eyes wide and darting around the room. 

He cried out, regretting the movement instantly as the hunger pains shot through his stomach and he returned to the fetal position, staying there after he realized it was all in his head. 

Come to Nilfgaard. We can help you, we will help you. All you have to do is open up to us, tell us the Witcher’s behavior, came the mage’s calm voice, magic weaving around him. 

Jaskier groaned quietly, burying his head in his knees. Fuck off, he thought. 

You’ll see sense soon, she said, and retreated just as Jaskier felt the magic sharpen into singular intent and sleep dragged him down. 

-0-0-0-

He’s not coming back for you, Jaskier. Don’t you want to get revenge? He discarded you like trash. That’s all you were to him. A nuisance, an annoyance. Nilfgaard will help you. We will help you make him see the wrongs done to you. 

Get the fuck out of my head. 

-0-0-0-

Jaskier tried to sing again on the twenty-eighth day, but his voice gave out on the first syllable and Fringilla’s voice replaced his, strong and smooth and so, so persuasive. 

He never liked your singing, she said in his mind, magic twirling and weaving around him, fluid and easy. Jaskier envied it. Never gave it a compliment, never called it something good. He insulted it, despised it. You would do better just to be quiet, like he wanted, if you were ever to go back to him. 

Jaskier threaded his fingers in his hair and pulled, added the sharp pain of it to the pain of his hunger, the pain of his heartbreak and the numb of the loneliness, the ice of the dread and the acrid fear. No, he thought weakly. Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off. 

Fringilla didn’t pay any mind to his protests. He always told you your chatter was annoying. Didn’t you see what you were doing to him?

Jaskier gave a full-body flinch when the magic around him sharpened into intent, drove into his mind, and ripped out the scene he tried so hard to forget, forcing it to flash through his mind in vivid color and sound. 

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

The magic left as quickly as it had come, and Jaskier started to shake as Fringilla’s voice continued. He hated this, hated it all so much, wanted to cry and scream and rage, but he was stuck in a weak human body, being starved and isolated with nothing but the same fucking mage talking in his head for hours on end. He felt the hope still glowing inside him crack as he shook, splinter as tears started falling and he went limp against the floor. 

He never loved you. He is not coming for you. You can’t truly care about him anymore, not when he never cared for you. You annoyed him, you made it worse for him. Give up, Jaskier. He doesn’t care about you. No one is coming for you. 

Jaskier cried, and shook, and didn’t even have the energy to tell her to fuck off. 

-0-0-0-

Thirty one days passed, though Jaskier wouldn’t know that. He was stuck in a haze of near-insanity, mentally talking to himself when he wasn’t talking to Fringilla, startled by every noise - not that there were many - and his heartbeat pounded constantly in his ears, like a drum. The cell smelled even more strongly like piss, and it was a miracle Jaskier still forced himself to move enough to get himself water and use the bathroom in the same corner. He couldn’t distinguish the magical dreams put in his head, of being held down by man’s hands and forced to relive his worst, most painful memories, from being truly awake in the unbroken darkness of the cell. 

He didn’t hold back on crying, now. His emotions had taken over sometime in the darkness, and they rolled over him like waves, tossing him around and ripping through him, leaving deep wounds behind. He shook and cried and lay there, his hope slowly draining, curled up and slipping into unconsciousness more often than out of it.

Fringilla stopped talking to him, but her words echoed in his head often enough, and Jaskier was beginning to believe it. There wasn’t any evidence that Geralt loved him, in any of his memories. He saved his life because he was human and Geralt thought it was his duty, there was nothing more to it. Jaskier had been nothing more than a burden to the Witcher for all twenty-two years. 

He could feel the mage’s magic weaving around him still, and he could feel the darkness creeping up on him. He sighed, went limp against the floor, and felt all his thoughts and feelings and strength drain from him like water in a tub, until he felt numb. A shell, to be used and reused and filled with whatever they wanted. 

You win, he thought, just before sleep took him. 

I surrender. I’ll do what you want. Just please make this stop. 

-0-0-0-

Jaskier woke to the sound of screaming. 

It took him a moment to recognize it wasn’t his, and then he had to pinch himself to figure out it wasn’t a dream, and then he flinched at the loud clang of steel against steel coming from outside his door. It was too loud; his heartbeat pounded in his ears, the noise was too much from the silence he’d been in for a month. He curled up tight, covering his ears, feeling his breath come shorter and shorter. 

Fuck. He smelled smoke. Something was burning, there was a fire. He was going to die here, he thought hysterically, in a cell cold and alone and half-mad. He wanted Nilfgaard to save him; at least he knew they needed him, they were predictable. They wouldn’t kill him, and somehow that was a comfort to Jaskier. 

The door to his cell opened, the hallway glowed with fire burning orange behind his eyelids and Jaskier screamed, scrambling away from the intruder he could feel stepping towards him. It wasn’t Fringilla, he knew, and it wasn’t the Nilfgaardian soldiers, because the footsteps were too quiet. 

In another life, he might’ve recognized the strong scent of leather and sword oil, but he was too scared and everything was happening too fast, the light was too bright and everything was too loud, too much. 

Jaskier struggled against the arms wrapping around him, struggled with the blind desperation of a cornered animal. There came a displeased, confused grunt above him - good, he thought, they weren’t supposed to take him from Nilfgaard. Fringilla wouldn’t like it, and he had promised he’d be good for her if only to stop the isolation. He was so close to being free, as free as he could be, and now it was being ripped from him. 

Pain shot through him, but that was nothing new - he was starving, on the verge of panicking, nearly hyperventilating. He’d been in pain for a while now; it had become a fact of life to him. The strong arms fought against Jaskier as he thrashed in his blind panic, and it was only when they finally let him go that he scrambled away, to the far edge of the cell, until his back hit the bucket of water. He didn’t open his eyes, finding it hurt too much in the sudden light, and he covered his ears, curling up there. 

The footsteps came closer, slower this time, yet Jaskier could sense the edge of anxiety on the movements - makes sense, he thought. They were in a burning building, after all. Though, why they’d want to save him while risking themselves was beyond him. 

“Jaskier,” came the deep rumble, and something in Jaskier knew that voice. But - no, this couldn’t be real. This was like - it was so similar to another time he’d been kidnapped. Some bandits, a dark cell, a burning building, the Witcher he didn’t know anymore coming to rescue him just like this. This had to be a dream. Nilfgaard was fucking with him. 

He shook his head and curled up further. He was so tired of this, these dreams of things he’d been through, all the pain and hurt. Fringilla was effectively disillusioning him, ripping away all optimism he may have had about the world with cold, clean efficiency. He just wanted it all to stop. 

Jaskier felt the tears coming on, and he didn’t stop them. He started shaking, silently crying - he’d stopped talking around day twenty-eight. What was the point of talking or singing, anyway, when all it got him was a sore throat. No one cared about his thoughts or opinions anymore. 

This time, he didn’t fight against the arms that picked him up, even curled into the broad, armored chest that he found his body pressed against. He inhaled the scent of leather and sword oil and blood, and somewhere deep in him felt safe, like he knew this person wouldn’t hurt him. 

If only I knew his name, he thought before he shook weakly one last time and fell into unconsciousness. 

-0-0-0-

“What did they do to him?”

Jaskier was on something soft when he woke up, and there was talking around him. There were people around him, too, standing around his- 

His bed?

He pushed himself up without opening his eyes, suddenly panicking as the memories came back. He had been taken from Nilfgaard, taken from his only shot at relative freedom, and now he was going to be taken and tortured by whoever else wanted information from him. The same vicious fucking cycle, he just wanted out. They already broke him, what more did they want? What more could anyone take from him now?

Hands came to rest in his hair, and Jaskier realized he had fallen back onto the bed and was panicking, he couldn’t breathe. The hand went back and forth, threading through his hair roughly but gently, and a voice that something locked away deep in Jaskier found soothing came with it. 

“In, out. Breathe, Jaskier. In, out.”

He couldn’t help but follow the instructions, slowly dragging his breathing and his heart rate down until he could slowly open his eyes, adjusting to the light and the noise. It was a shock to his body from spending so long in utter darkness - but, he was still in the darkness. This was a dream, brought on by Nilfgaard. Fucking with his head, as always. 

Huh. This was a different dream than Fringilla had ever given him, he thought as he looked around at the small, sparsely furnished cabin they were in. And, Fringilla had never allowed him to get to the actual escape when she made him relive his kidnappings and various tortures. She usually cut it off when he thought he was out, only to find himself back in the cold darkness of the Nilfgaardian cell. It was a brutally effective method of making him lose hope, he had to give her that. 

There was a Witcher right next to him, someone that seemed familiar, and somehow that didn’t strike fear into him like it should’ve. Well, he always had terrible self-preservation instincts. The sorceress with violet eyes standing near a wooden table didn’t strike fear into him, either, though they both looked as if they could snap him in half. 

Maybe Fringilla was ripping away his hope by giving him entirely new scenarios. It wasn’t necessary, he thought. They’d already broken him; she was wasting her energy. 

“Jaskier?”

That was the Witcher. He turned his gaze on him, staring into golden eyes and white hair and a face he should’ve recognized but really didn’t. He commended his past self, though, for managing to become friends with such a handsome man. Or, whatever they were. He didn’t care for deciphering the general feeling of safe that the Witcher gave him, underlaid by the faint needling of heartbreak. 

He didn’t say anything, either. Fringilla had taught him he needed to be quiet. No one cared about his thoughts and opinions anymore, and whatever Fringilla needed from him she could simply rip from his mind anyway. So could the violet-eyed sorceress, too, he figured. His voice wasn’t necessary - not that he wanted to talk, anyway. Thinking about talking and singing, being so loud and carefree, made something in him shrink away in fear and anger. He’d been so careless about others' feelings before, he hadn’t known just how to be quiet and good for them so he wasn’t annoying and a burden. 

“Jaskier? Can you hear me?”

He gave a soft hum and closed his eyes. That was all they needed. The darkness was better, anyway, softer and easier. Much less to think about in the darkness - he could already feel sleep tugging at him once again. 

His eyes flew open when there was a sharp pain in his side, and the sorceress was standing next to the Witcher. Her violet eyes burned, but they were also soft, holding compassion and sympathy and-

Jaskier didn’t want to think about that. It wasn’t his place to figure out others’ feelings - he was there only to give information and do what they’d like with. Something in him still rebelled at that idea, pounded against the door he’d locked it behind, but Jaskier paid no mind to it. It was locked away for a reason. 

“Jaskier,” the sorceress said sharply, and he resisted the urge to sigh. Of course he wouldn’t be allowed to sleep. 

The Witcher looked concerned. “What did they do? He’s not talking.”

The sorceress’s attention turned to the Witcher and Jaskier closed his eyes again, listening to their conversation in the background of the fuzziness of his head. 

“I don’t know. He doesn’t seem to recognize us.”

There it was again, that recognition. Both of them seemed familiar, but their names and the memories of them were behind that locked door, and opening that locked door was too difficult. It would make it worse for him - he remembered fighting when that door was open, being hurt, screaming, unimaginable pain ripping through him. 

It was better to keep the door closed. 

“Can you fix him?”

Jaskier wanted to laugh. Fix him. As if he needed fixing. He had broken for them, just like they wanted. He didn’t need to be fixed. 

“I’m not sure. Fringilla’s magic is powerful. She could have done any number of things to him and we’d never know unless I can get to his memories.”

These two were weird, Jaskier thought distantly. Acting as if getting to his memories was so difficult, when he knew she could just rip them from him with a flick of her fingers. She seemed to know Fringilla, she must know that Jaskier was theirs to do what they’d like with. It’s not like he had the power to defy them, anyway. His defiance was behind that locked door with the rest of his memories, and he wasn’t planning on opening it anytime soon. 

“Jaskier,” the sorceress said. He opened his eyes reluctantly and looked at her. “Can I go through your memories?”

He hummed again in affirmation and returned his gaze to the ceiling, studying the wood of the rafters and the beams crossing above him, bracing for the pain of having his memories searched through. The sorceress shared a worried look with the Witcher that Jaskier still didn’t understand, before two fingers landed on his forehead and the cold, icy feeling of magic washed over him. 

The sorceress’s touch was… gentle. There was none of the pain ripping through him that Fringilla had given him, he didn’t so much as whimper as he felt he’d magic poke and prod at his mind. He did twitch, though, he flinched and tensed up despite himself. 

The magic poked at the locked door and Jaskier gave a full-body flinch, jerking violently away, eyes widening as he shook his head. He felt her magic retreat instantly, and she gave a small gasp when she saw his visceral reaction. 

“Okay, okay,” she said soothingly, hands put up placatingly. “I won’t go there.”

Jaskier relaxed, though he was still wary, and the Witcher looked at her. “Go where? What did you see?”

The sorceress’s face fell, eyes grave and sad. 

“That’s the thing. I found nothing.”

-0-0-0-

“Nothing?”

Geralt frowned. He wanted to hit something, kill something. Jaskier had left him on the mountain, and now he was here after being tortured by Nilfgaard, and it was all his fucking fault for yelling at him on that damned mountain. 

Yennefer shrugged. “I didn’t find anything. He doesn’t have memories of us, or anything really. It’s just… cold and dark in there.”

Geralt sighed and resisted the strong urge to hit something right then and there. “What the fuck, Yen? How are we supposed to fix this?”

Yennefer looked at Jaskier, who had his eyes closed again and was unnaturally silent, like he had been since they found him in that cell. “I’d say he was guarding against his feelings.”

“What does that mean?”

She sighed and returned her gaze to Geralt’s worried golden eyes. “It’s a defense mechanism. People who are excessively tortured retreat into themselves. For some, it’s to prevent them from saying anything - if they don’t remember, they’re not useful. For Jaskier… I think it’s because of his feelings.”

Geralt stayed silent, though Yennefer could see the guilt flood his eyes, and she fixed him with a firm look. “What did you say to him on that mountain?”

He glanced down. “I told him… I wanted him gone.”

Yennefer watched him, but he didn’t continue and she didn’t push, though she knew there was more to it than that. She sighed. “Your bard has always felt too much. Far more than other people. Other people may be sad, but Jaskier is devastated, or lonely. If he’s happy, he’s not just happy. He’s ecstatic, joyful. You’ve seen him when he’s happy and you’ve seen him when he’s not. There’s a very visible difference there.”

“So whatever is said to him, or whatever he says himself, he feels on a far deeper level than anyone else I’ve known. And, I suppose, in that cell, he didn’t have anything to defend against his emotions, so he locked them away completely. Everything that made him feel pain was locked away, and everything that made him feel joy, or anger, or despair, was dragged with it too. We went with the rest of his memories.”

Geralt sighed. “Fuck.”

Yennefer nodded. “The Jaskier we know isn’t gone, just buried. And I can’t pull him out with magic.”

Geralt frowned. “Why not?”

“You saw him flinch, right? That’s when I touched the wall his memories were behind. He’s the one who locked away his own memories; I can’t just undo another mage’s magic here. It would be extremely painful, and also risky, to try to force him to open the door. We have to make him want to open it.”

Geralt deflated and groaned. “And how do we do that?”

Now Yennefer smirked, and Geralt knew he wasn’t going to like this. “Be nice to him. Treat him as a friend, not as someone you tolerate.”

Geralt could sense the bard’s breathing had evened out into sleep. “I don’t tolerate him,” he said defensively as Yennefer walked to the other table. 

“You have to show him that,” she replied.

Geralt frowned harder, but he looked at Jaskier laying on the bed, face peaceful in sleep, and knew he was going to do it. He’d do more things than he’d like to admit for Jaskier. 

“Fuck.”

“Swearing won’t heal him, Geralt.”

author’s note: because i’m paranoid that people won’t understand how jaskier broke, i’m going to explain it here. next chapter i’ll explain why he won’t come back because this kinda turned into an essay 😅

the whole premise of the fic is that jaskier feels too much. he could be completely overwhelmed and controlled by his emotions, or he could cope with them, like he does normally. nilfgaard found out that emotions were his weakness when fringilla rifled through his mind, hence the reliving memories, especially the most recent, freshest, deepest wound - the mountain.

without coping mechanisms, without light or human contact or even food, jaskier had no defense against his emotions. nothing distracted him from thinking about what geralt said, thinking about everything in his life that someone said he was annoying or too much, or left him because of it. so his memories brought on emotions and he had no defense against them.

so he locked away his memories, for two reasons. one, memories means that he fights for something - getting out of nilfgaard, getting back to geralt, etc. fighting means nilfgaard hurts him more, and solitary confinement is harsh torture. so no memories means not remembering what he’s fighting for, means no fighting, means no pain. and two, memories means he feels everything the memories brought on, and no memories means not as many feelings, like numbing a wound, hence no pain.