#( ;; snatches his life and wears it like a cloak around myself. )

[penddraig]

being the same age as howl is so wild because what do you mean he's aged 27,   a homeowner,   and can perform grand displays of magic and divination and illusion,   and then there's me,   aged 27,   and the only thing i've accomplished in life is pretending to be him.

#( ;; snatches his life and wears it like a cloak around myself. ) #.゜–– ooc . * what a pretty fire blog .

[high-functioning-lokipath]

Strange Times - Dr. Steven Strange x Reader - Words: 2,225

A/N: Hope you enjoy it! Sorry if Dr. Strange is a bit OOC because I'm not SUPER experienced with his character but I wanted to give him a shot! Hope you like my other fandom references 😜 Let me know if you pick up on them!

"Y/N," Hawkeye said, walking up to you. "You've got a mission." Your eyebrows raised dramatically as you lifted your gaze from the bowl of cereal you were currently consuming. 

"Me?" You asked mid-chew. Clint rolled his eyes at your manners, or lack thereof, but nodded. 

"You're ready," He assured you. Him, along with the other Avengers, had been training you now for the past few months. While your control over your power had greatly improved, you still weren't completely confident in yourself. "All it involves is catching a guy who'd been working in Research and Development on one of Stark's projects. He apparently decided he could get more money if he stole it and sold it to the other side so we need to catch him before the deal goes through. He should be landing in Madrid now. The deal is set for tomorrow morning. You have until then."

"Okay," You said slowly. "I guess I'll get ready then?" 

"Yep!" He chirped, grinning brightly. You grumbled about the lack of prep time and stalked away trying to hide your nerves. You got dressed and left in record time. The small jet you'd been assigned for your mission had the location pre-entered, thanks again to Hawkeye, so you reviewed the file during the flight. 

"Great!" You groaned, going off on a rant to yourself as you kept reading. "He's stolen an unstable prototype of a personal time travel device! How was this guy not checked out before? Matt Smith doesn't sound suspicious at all!" The computer on the jet beeped at you and you saw that you were approaching the landing site. Quickly putting the file away, you prepared for the inevitable confrontation. Once you landed you carefully made your way to the small hotel Smith was supposedly staying in for the night. Your first obstacle, of course, was persuading the clerk to let you look at the guest list. Once you did, however, you quickly snuck up to his room on the 3rd floor and went in.

"Well well well," You heard someone say once the door closed behind you. You whipped around and saw a shadowy figure in the corner. "I mustn't have made a very strong impression if the Avengers sent me fresh meat. Poor girl. You have no idea what you're up against do you?" He flicked a light on and you saw the prototype in his hand. 

"You're right. I don't. But neither do you," You retorted. Concentrating on the barriers of the room, you lifted the gravity in it while keeping yourself grounded. "You have no idea what I'm capable of," You smirked. "So why don't we make this easier on the both of us and you hand it over now?"

"Well, you make a good argument. But how about no?" He smirked back. You felt a click around your wrists and were suddenly pulled back against the wall. "I have heard of you, my dear," He sneered. "So I was well prepared for any of you." As he revealed the small propulsion device he was wearing, he started gliding towards you, no longer affected by the lack of gravity in the room. "I don't really want to hurt you," he said. "I just want you to watch as everything you've ever known is destroyed!" As he continued monologuing, you noticed orange sparks appearing behind him. At first you thought he was activating the device. But moments later, the sparks turned into a circular portal and a tall man with a red cape stepped through. 

"Hand over the proto-whoa!" He yelled as he was inadvertently affected by your gravity manipulation when he entered the room. His cape though seemed to react and started flapping, pushing him back towards the ground. "As I was saying," He said, clearing his throat and trying to regain his dignity. "Hand it over." 

"Why should I, Strange? Of what use is it to you?"

"Doctor Strange!" You thought. "That's who he is!" You'd heard of him before but had never met or seen him. While you did wonder why he was there, you were awfully glad for the help. 

"I was bored and needed some entertainment," He shrugged. "Now if you don't mind, I'll be taking that now." Strange reached out to grab the device out of the man's hand but you noticed Smith was going to try to fly away. You quickly adjusted the gravity again, keeping everyone on the ground. 

"Hey!" Smith yelled. "That's not nice!" You rolled your eyes and Strange easily snatched the device from him. Smith struggled to reach for it but Strange smirked. 

"Be a dear?" He said to, apparently, his cape. The cape flew off his back and curled it's one corner around the device. It then hovered up near the ceiling, out of reach. 

"So that's why Stark said his costume was creepy," You thought, chuckling lightly. Strange glanced at you oddly but didn't address it. 

"Could you-" He trailed off, motioning slightly around him.

"Oh! Sure!" You replied quickly, letting the gravity return to normal. Smith immediately tried to get away but Strange pulled out an odd glowy rope and whipped it around him effectively restraining him for the moment. 

"Not so fast," He said to the man. Turning to you he motioned for you to come closer. He made short work of the cuffs on your wrists before transferring them to Smith' own hands. "Ok, off you go," He said, opening a portal in front of the man. He unceremoniously shoved him through and closed it behind him. "He'll be taken care of," Strange said to you, motioning for the cape to return to him. He then handed the prototype back to you.

"Thanks," You mumbled, feeling quite silly that you couldn't handle the mission on your own. "Why did you come here anyways? Did Stark or one of the others send you?"

"No, I came on my own. You see, I keep a watch list of individuals and beings from all realms that may be a threat to this world. When Mr. Matt Smith there stole that device, he jumped to the top."

"Oh," You said. "Well, I suppose I'd better get back. I'll probably need to debrief and should probably train a bit more so I can handle myself better next time."

"You did fairly well for someone without much experience although you certainly need more training." You rolled your eyes at his statement. Having heard of his reputation for being snarky, however, you weren't all that fazed. "Perhaps you would like to come to the Sanctum with me? I'm quite sure we have a book that could help you." Now that surprised you. You didn't expect him to be nice at all. Maybe he's not as bad as Loki said he was. 

"So, is the Sanctum a fancy library and you're the fancy librarian?" You joked. He laughed and shook his head.

"The Sanctum is much more than that and Wong is the fancy librarian!" He grinned. He opened a portal in front of you that, apparently, led to the Sanctum. Before stepping through it, though, you remembered your own transportation.

"Oh! Actually I have a jet I came in. Can we take that back? I just know I'll be read the riot act if I leave it behind," You said.

"That would be fine," He replied. "Besides, it will give us more time to get to know each other better." A light blush rose to your cheeks as you followed the Doctor out. 

"Am I crazy or is he flirting with me?" You thought. "Crazy, definitely crazy." As you kept walking, your internal monologue also continued. "He is quite handsome though," you mused. "Kinda looks like that guy from the tv show BFF/N watches."

"Nice cape," You commented, trying to make conversation. The cape seemed to bristle at your comment and he smoothed it softly at his side. 

"It's a cloak, not a cape. And it's the Cloak of Levitation, an ancient relic." 

"Oh," You said quietly. "Sorry."

"Quite alright. It's easily confused to the untrained eye." He paused for a moment before adding, "And thank you." You smiled slightly and continued walking in silence.

"So what's your name?" He asked, once you got in the jet. 

"My name-name? Or my made-up name?"

"Both," He replied, entering the Sanctum's address into the computer. 

"Well, my name is Y/F/N, but I go by Andromeda Nova, or Nova for short."

"Not bad," He said, sitting down in one of the chairs. "So tell me about yourself, Nova." He'd taken off his cape before he sat and now it was hovering near him. 

"Alright," You said nervously. You were slightly intimidated by the more experienced superhero who suddenly seemed to be interrogating you but you went ahead with telling him your story of how you got your powers.

"So you went to the Avengers for help?"

"Yes. I had no idea how to control it and, well, everyone that I had been friends with before were afraid of me except for BFF/N." You giggled slightly and smirked. "I guess you could say you met me at a very strange time in my life." He laughed heartily at your pun and you relaxed a bit. As you continued telling him about your training with the Avengers, you decided to take off your own cape and tossed it over a nearby chair. Eventually, however, you got tired of just hearing your own voice since he kept asking you questions rather than speak himself. "Do you mind if I put on some music while we talk?" 

"Oh not at all!" He replied excitedly. You grabbed the tablet that controlled the sound system and scrolled through the library.

"Any preferences, Strange?"

"Whatever you want." You nodded and scrolled a bit more before finally hitting shuffle on one of your favorite playlists. "And, you can call me Stephen if you want." Seconds after the song started, he smirked.

"Waka Waka, Shakera, 2010." Your jaw dropped, eyebrows raising comically. "Surprised?" You nodded, speechless. "Let's try another, shall we? Computer, next song." The next song started and now it was your turn to grin. Just before he opened his mouth, you beat him to it.

"Ride, Twenty One Pilots, 2015. Computer, next song." He raised one eyebrow, impressed, before closing his eyes to concentrate on the next song. 

"Just The Way You Are, Bruno Mars, 2010," You said at the same time. He smiled widely and let the song continue for the moment. Seeing movement out of the corner of your eye, you got up to look, almost doubling over in a fit of giggles. 

"Should we be concerned?" You asked the doctor, who seemed just as shocked as you when he walked over to see what you were looking at. Apparently Cloak had gotten the dancing bug and decided your cape would make an excellent partner. 

"I have no idea," He replied, biting back a laugh. "It's been a while since he's been with another cape, so," He trailed off, both of you laughing once again. "Wait, is yours a cape or a cloak?"

"Whatever it is, he likes it!" You exclaimed, watching the odd waltz continue. Once your laughter calmed, you noticed he was staring at you. You cleared your throat and looked at him questioningly. "That, um, that's a lovely dress. A, uh, very nice color," He said quickly, stumbling over his words. 

"Uh-huh, sure," You said, sarcastically.

"Really! It is!" He cried, embarrassed that you caught him staring.

"Yeah, well, my BFF keeps saying it's the same color as Sherlock's purple shirt of-woah!" You suddenly were thrown off balance as Cloak flew over and shoved you toward Stephen, who, of course, caught you before you fell. 

"I'm so sorry," He quickly said. "Apparently he needs a reminder that, while he is the Cloak of Levitation, he's not my wingman." He said the last part in almost a hiss, directed at the offending object. Cloak shrugged and, if it had eyes, you were sure it would have rolled them. 

"It's quite alright," You assured him. Realizing you were still in his arms you blushed brightly. "Maybe I should-"

"The music's still playing," He interrupted.

"And?"

"May I have this dance?" He smirked. 

"I suppose," You sighed. "But only because I think you'll be a better partner than capey over there." Cloak, who was still nearby, reached out to whack you for your comment. Strange quickly whipped open a portal instead in front of the fabric and you heard a yell from the other side before Cloak quickly retreated and he closed it. 

"Who was that?" You asked.

"Cloak may or may not have just accidentally slapped Wong's backside." Cloak crossed what you supposed was his arms and had the audacity to look upset. You shook your head and chuckled lightly. 

"I have a strange feeling we'll get along just fine," You smiled, holding your hands out to him for your dance. He smiled back and took your hands, swaying gently to the music. 

"Only time will tell." 

In An Unidentified Location Only One Portal Away

Matt takes a look around to make sure no one is watching him. "Well, it would seem my work here is done," He said, grinning to himself. "Toodle-oo!"

Marvel (all characters) Taglist

@bartv21

@another-crazy-fangirl

@whatafuckingdumbass

@ladylulu143

@lokislittlesigyn

@gaitwae

#marvel #avengers #dr. strange x reader #dr. strange imagine #dr. strange #strange x reader #doctor strange #doctor strange x reader #stephen strange x reader #dr stephen strange #dr stephen Strange x reader

[anothertimdrakestan]

Sweater Weather (Damian Wayne x Reader)

words: 1.4k

req from a lovely anon: “Could maybe please write a songfic for Damian and the reader? The song being Sweater Weather? It could be sfw or nsfw, whatever you're comfortable with. However, if you're not comfortable with this request, that's ok! I LOVE your writing and respect you as the author. Anywayssss, have a great day! 💞💞”

hi love!!! thank you for the req! i’m not very practiced at songfics but i tried and i stole all the inspiration for this story from my real life eheheh so here’s some insight to my messy love life lmao. also! for my songfics at least i don’t include lyrics because for me they pull me out of the story but if you know the song you’ll notice a lot of dialogue/descriptions are pulled straight from the song hehe! i hope you enjoy!

“I’ve got the taser, kick them in the balls if they try me, and scream” you repeated in your head as you made your way down the streets of Gotham, was it quite late to be going out for a bite to eat? Yes. But you’d been studying and felt that a midnight snack was well deserved. 

Bag of food in hand you were headed back, taking a familiar shortcut you used to get to downtown all the time. Unfortunately, you failed to remember that the alleyway on fifth was never safe after sunset, but your mind auto-piloted you that way and now you were about 85% sure you were about to have to beat some ass to defend your food in a few minutes. 

“C’mere princess gimme a smile” a deep voice slurred as you continued past, other deep growls of agreement and hoots echoed around the alley. “C’mon babe I don’t see anyone with ya! pretty gal like you’z should be snatched up” you cringed at his wording hoping there was no double meaning as you hurried past. “Tt, she’s with me” a voice hissed as a cloaked vigilante dropped in front of you. “Hey Rob” you smiled sheepishly, knowing he had probably been watching you for a couple minutes. “Y/n, come, let’s go” Damian’s slightly fake Robin voice always made you roll your eyes but you knew there was no chance in hell he was letting you walk away, so you let him loop his left hand around your waist and pull you out of the alleyway towards your favorite rooftop. 

Before your feet touched the rooftop you were getting lectured. “Y/n you know I’m a call away when you want to go out like this! It’s not safe here you know this!” you looked at him with a bored expression. “Dames I’m not a baby plus you trained the crap out of me I could’ve easily protected myself and you know it. So why the heroism tonight?” you asked, cocking your head to the side while Damian did his favorite move besides pulling out a sword: changing the subject. “It’s too cold, look, you’re shivering. Here.” he grumbled, pulling off his cloak and draping it around your neck as you clasped it, grateful for the warmth but angered from the lack of answers. 

You didn’t need to bug him, just give him a knowing look and he was soon sitting with you on the rooftop staring out at the skyline. And you just sat like that, in silence, for a little bit. Not that you minded- there wasn’t much for you to say while Damian clearly was deep in his own thoughts.

“I wanted to save you” he broke the silence. You turned to him, “you’ve been saving me since we were kids man it just hasn’t been a recent thing. What aren’t you saying?” you cut off your thought to see if he’d give you more. 

“Trust my y/n there’s nothing I wouldn’t want to tell you about” his whispered before standing up with his grappling hook. “You don’t want your food to get cold” he mumbled as you silently agreed, moving to take off the cloak. “It’ll be cold, leave it on” were the last words before he whisked you home, helping you sneak through your window like always. “Bye Dami” you whispered, meeting his domino mask covered eyes that just stared at you for a couple seconds, but with a little nod he was off. 

With a stretch you decided to leave the cloak on, it was surprisingly warm and you didn’t want to lose it as it was probably quite expensive. You got out your food, just a couple bites in when you heard a knock on your window. Getting up was Damian, this time without his mask on, sat with unreadable eyes that were searching frantically until they met yours. 

Sliding the window open you stepped back to let him in when he pulled you out of the window and onto the roof of your home. With a small yelp you stared at him, waiting for an explanation. 

Damian took a deep breath. “I didn’t finish answering your question” he said gruffly as you cocked your head to the side. “Okay?" you replied.

“I wanted to save you,” his eyes cast down and his tone quieted as he said “because I couldn’t imagine my life without you y/n” You felt your chest tighten, all the nights you spent wondering if Damian would ever feel the same way you did, the nights you spent writing Y/n Wayne on papers then erasing it with a giggle, and all the moments where you considered how difficult it would be to go from best friends to something else- all started flooding to the front of your brain. “Play it cool y/n” you chided. 

“Aw Dames you know I couldn’t either!” you nodded, giving him a soft smile which got wiped off your face when he shook his head. “No, not like that- god I am so bad at explaining this” he groaned, looking like he was going to give up. But he continued, “what I want is different, different from what we’ve got. I want a future, a person who wants me, a love, I want love.” his voice was strained as he paused to look at you. 

“You want those, with me?” you gulped. 

He nodded. “Yeah, i-is that bad?” you could tell he was holding his breath.

“Not bad, definitely the opposite. Good, very very good” you mumbled, watching his eyes fall down to your lips. 

“So if that’s what I want, what do you want?” he whispered, toying with the material of his cloak that you were still wearing. 

“I want you Dami” his eyes snapped to yours, like he was processing everything hitting him all at once. 

His hands had made it higher up the cloak now, and you felt him tentatively tug you forward, his eyes meeting yours one last time to confirm that everything he’d been dreaming about for months was really about to happen. 

And then he kissed you.

It was soft, and tentative, and careful. But it was also warm and overflowing with love. His hands moved to cup your cheek while you linked your arms around his neck, pulling him into the kiss. 

Pulling apart Damian’s lips were upturned into the tiniest smile, but it said more than a million words to you. 

“So you gonna ask me out orrrrrr” you teased with a wink while Damian rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry, was the moonlit kiss not good enough for you ms. l/n” he scrunched his nose while you laughed. “No I just wish I could’ve filmed your whole ‘I want love’ speech. It was very un-“i-was-trained-as-a-baby-assassin-with-no-emotions” of you! I’m quite proud wanna give it another go so I can show Bruce?” you laughed as Damian glared at you. “Don’t make me resend my offer, I could change my want’s at anytime you know” he said very matter-of-factly while you couldn’t help but snort. 

“Puh-leez you’d give the speech again if it meant you could steal another kiss” you tapped his chest knowingly when his hand shot out to grab yours. He laced his fingers in between yours saying, “from my knowledge you were the one of said you wanted me, and since I’m yours and you’re mine, I pretty much get a kiss whenever I want, it’s hardly stealing” he finished by pulling your lips onto his as he smirked into the kiss. “Hm whatever you say lovebird”

“You cannot call me that”

“I’m pretty sure I get to call you whatever I want lover boy” 

“Absolutely not”

“Love bird, lover boy, softie, cutie, baby bird, wow there’s like infinite nicknames here” you gasped with laughter.

“What have I gotten myself into” he chuckled as you grinned, diving in for a quick peck before you decided it was enough loving for one night, the cloak was warm but it was nothing compared to the sweater you’d stolen from Dami a couple weeks past. You’d been outside more tonight than in the last month and desperately needed something to warm you up. It was finally sweater weather after all.

#damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne x y/n #damian wayne x you #damian wayne x fem!reader #damian wayne fluff #damain wayne fanfic #batboys #batfam #bruce wayne #batboys x reader #batfam x reader #dc fluff #dc fanfic

[firstofficerwiggles]

Sending a Message

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader

Rating: T, there are sexy situations, i.e. touching, but no actual sex, one use of the f-word, but mostly fluff and some longing

Summary: Basically, you and Din are in a cantina and you need his help to get men to stop hitting on you. You have an established friendship with him but neither of you have expressed your true *romantic* feelings. Enjoy!

Word Count: 2900ish

Author’s note: I love fanfiction and have been reading it for a looong time now, but I finally decided to take the plunge and write one myself. What can I say? Din is very inspiring. It’s very self-indugent and I hope you like it. 

I wrote a Part 2 to this story (18+ version) (T version)

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

The child is a sticky mess having eaten his way through a bag of ripe berries as you were trying to keep him occupied so the Mandalorian could suss out information for others of his kind who might know where to find the Jedi.

It’s been roughly three months since you joined the Mandalorian’s crew to help out with the child. You were enamored with the sweet little green baby the moment you saw him with Din in that marketplace back on Tatooine. Stressed and exhausted, Din let you pick up the child and entertain him while he loaded supplies on to a cart. You accompanied the two of them around on the rest of their errands that day, offering helpful advice and somehow gaining the Mandalorian’s trust fast enough to have him offer you a job as the child’s caretaker by the end of the day. You surprised yourself with how quickly you agreed to the arrangement, but in the end, you knew there was nothing left for you on Tatooine but memories and an empty house.

So now here you were, fairly content with your role as nanny to the child, although not quite prepared for how risky travelling with the Mandalorian could be. There were days when you could not believe the situations you found yourself in, yet through it all, you knew you had made the right decision. This was largely in part to the Mandalorian himself. There was just something so undeniably compelling about him. He was an execptional hunter and frankly, a deadly assassin, but he always seemed willing to put his violent skills towards a good cause, no matter how hopeless it may have seemed. But yet, no matter how lethal he could be, he was also so heartbreakingly soft and gentle with his small son, demonstrating a fierce protectiveness that had spread to you too. At first, the Mandalorian wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but little by little, you had begun to get to know him and had fallen into an easy friendship of sorts with him. All well and good, but, the more you knew about him, the more you started to feel an attraction to him. It started slow, and you played it off as just a weakness for his handsome armor and, let’s be honest, his strong, fit physique underneath all that beskar. But then, he started to share small jokes with you, ask you more about yourself, and reveal details about his own life, including his name, Din Djarin. After that, you really couldn’t deny your feelings, but you kept them to yourself not wanting to upset the contented balance you had achieved nor wanting to put him in the uncomfortable position of having to turn you down. Still though, the longing was there, even when you tried to distract yourself.

“Wow, look at you! I think we have a new record, kiddo.” Din has made his way back to you and is gently teasing his son. He scoops him up into his arms and the child coos with glee but also puts his berry-smeared hands all over his father’s shiny armor.

“Oh no! I thought I’d have a chance to clean him up before you returned.” You apologize a little embarassed.

“It’s not a big deal; we’ll take care of it.” Din has accepted the messiness of fatherhood in stride, “Let’s head over to that cantina. We’ll get cleaned up and you two can get some food while we’re there.”

As Din heads to the back of the cantina in search of a fresher to deal with the berry mess, you spy two seats at the bar and carefully make your way through the crowd. Several people, mostly men it seems, smile widely at you as you pass. It’s packed in here, but the warmth of so many bodies together is welcome after the blustery wind that had picked up outside. You shed your heavy cloak and drape it over the back of one of the barstools both so you can save the seat for Din and, you think eagerly, give him the chance to see the pretty dress you decided to wear today. It’s one of your favorites but he hasn’t seen it yet, however, with the cooler weather on this planet you were beginning to think you wouldn’t get a chance to show it off. Not that you should be thinking like that, you roll your eyes at yourself and your silly crush on the stoic Mandalorian. You’re just getting yourself settled at the bar when the bartender places a brightly colored drink in front of you. Confused you say, “I haven’t ordered yet.” as he just points behind you to a burly looking man with a scruffy beard. The man is grinning confidently at you,

“My treat, pretty lady! We rarely get strangers like you in here!”

“Thank you,” you demure, “but I really can’t accept.”

“Nonsense! You go ahead and enjoy and then we can get to know each other.” He winks at you.

“Maybe she’d prefer one of these,” another man has sauntered over, this one a lanky man with a bottle of something in his hand, “I think she might prefer something with more of a bite to it.” His entendre not lost on you, you hold up your hand and shake your head to fend him off when yet a third man tries to get your attention,

“Don’t let these bozos tell you what you want; I’ll get you whatever your heart desires!”

“I can buy my own drink, thanks,” you cut him off, turn back to the bartender, and manage to order your own drink and some food for you and the child, but this last guy is persistent and sleezy, coming over and perching himself on the barstool you were saving for Din. “Hey, I’m saving that for my…” what should you call him? “friend,” you finish lamely.

“Well, no problem, I’m looking forward to meeting her too.” he waggles his eyebrows at you suggestively. Giving him a sarcastic glare, you retort, “I don’t think he’d be interested.”

Things are starting to get out of hand, but thankfully, Din has spotted you amongst your crowd of admirers and with a small, rather amused tilt of his helmet and a bit of a shove, he’s now by your side with the child cooing happily from his satchel. “How about a booth?” he suggests, and you swear you can hear the amusement in his voice.

“Great idea” you reply, hopping down from your stool and snatching your cloak back from the other one.

“Oh c’mon baby, that tin can can’t make you happy like I can” the guy who rudely stole Din’s seat calls after you. Your face erupts in a blush and you hope to hell that Din didn’t hear him amidst the noise of the cantina. The other men voice their frustrations too at your departure. You put your hand on Din’s bicep steering him away from these guys just in case. You don’t need Din starting a bar fight over you. You’re still holding his arm and following Din closely when yet another man comes up to you,

“This Mandalorian isn’t bothering you, baby, is he?” this idiot dares to ask.

“No. He is not.” you grit out as Din says, “She’s fine.” in his best don’t-fuck-with-me voice. It’s lost on this drunk fool though as he just lets out “Woo hoo! She sure is!” and tries to slap your ass, but thankfully you dodge him just in time.

You’re starting to doubt the wisdom in coming into this cantina but now that you’re making it to a booth with Din, you figure you should be all right. The booth has a curved seat following the shape of its round table and as Din places the child in the middle of the seat, he sits down to his right. You slide into your side of the booth opposite Din but before you can get fully seated, a man from the booth right behind you leans over, grabs your wrist and leeringly says, “I got a much better seat for you, mama.” and gestures to his crotch. Repulsed, you slap his hand away and head over to Din’s side of the table. That creep was disgusting but he did give you an idea.

“Will you do me a huge favor?” you ask Din, “Always” he replies instantly. Putting your hand on his shoulder, you climb into his lap while sliding one arm around his neck and then bringing your other hand to rest on his cuirass. You can sense his surprise, yet his arm wraps around your waist instinctively.

“Play along, please?” you whisper to him.

“What are you doing, exactly?” he wants to know.

“Sending a message.” You tuck your head in closer to his in a clearly affectionate way and place a kiss on his helmet where his cheek would be.

“What message would that be?” Din asks still a bit stunned by your actions.

“That I’m yours.” You pause as he absorbs this and then you tell him quietly, “I need you to be a little handsy.”

“Handsy?” he tilts his helmet at you “This feels like a trap.”

“No, I want you to. Be handsy.” You tell him again.

“Ok” he drawls out, “but don’t punch me.”

“I won’t.” You flutter your lashes at him to give the impression to this room of horny strangers that you’re flirting with Din.

Din gives a tiny shrug that you can feel more than see but then brings his free hand up to your face. His gloved hand slowly strokes your cheek as he then lets his fingers trace over your jaw and then down your neck and chest, slowing down even more as he reaches your cleavage and then just gently ghosts his fingers between your breasts before resting his hand just beneath them. You feel your breath hitch and get caught in your throat at the intimacy of his touch and you have to remind yourself that this is just for show, just to get these losers to stop hitting on you. Reminding yourself of the message you want to send, you wonder if this is too subtle. You need to make this definitive.

“Be a little more obvious,” you tell Din, the blush returning to your cheeks, I can’t believe I’m doing this.

“More?” Din tries to confirm, “What do you have in mind?”

“Put your hand up my skirt.”

“Ok, now that is definitely a trap.” he chuckles lightly.

“Do it. Put your hand up my skirt,” you practically demand.

“Well, I’m not going to say no to that,” he responds appearing to be amused by this whole situation. He takes his hand, starts to play with the hem of your dress, and then slowly starts to slide his hand up your thigh under your skirt kneading gently as he goes. You feel like you are dying, it is so sensual and so exactly what you have been dreaming of for weeks now. You knew he would be good at this and it’s killing you that it’s just an act. You squirm a little in his lap unable to help yourself and you think you can feel his own arousal, but you tell yourself you must be imagining it.

Din cannot believe this is happening, how is he this lucky? When he caught sight of the men hitting on you at the bar, he figured it was inevitable that you’d be surrounded by would-be suitors and he cursed himself for leaving you alone in a place like this even for a few minutes. A quick scan of the room showed him that you were absolutely the most beautiful woman there. Not that he was surprised, as he’s rarely seen anyone as stunningly gorgeous as you in his opinion. Plus, given this sexy dress you have on, he’s lucky he didn’t have to pry one of them off you. He noticed it right away before you left the ship earlier and had to put on your cloak, but he was hoping to keep that sight to himself. He knows he shouldn’t think of you that way, but he has given up trying to ignore his feelings for you. It’s not just your beauty, but who you are as a person. He’s never met anyone who’s so easy to talk to and who treats him with such respect and kindness. It shocks him how strongly he trusts you and the way he’s let down his guard around you. You might not realize it but you are the best friend he’s ever had, and although he wants more, he’s not quite ready to risk your friendship. If he messes this up, you might see him as just another jerk hitting on you.

Speaking of, Din figured his intimidating presence would keep the jerks away once he got back over to you, but these fools had clearly never met a Mandalorian before because they didn’t have the good sense to leave you alone even when he was standing right next to you. He had been sure he was going to have to punch the creep that grabbed you but then you were sitting in his lap before he had a chance to stand up and defend you. And now, now, he was cuddling with you in the middle of this crowded cantina, touching you in ways he hadn’t let himself dare to think about. He didn’t need the child’s powers to feel the waves of sheer envy coming off of the men in the room. He smirked to himself under his helmet, letting his hand slide up even higher on your thigh than he would have dared but just because he could.

You are becoming entirely swept away by Din’s ministrations on your thigh, and you hear yourself sighing his name, making him smile even more unbeknownst to you.

“Hmm?” he responds gently

“I--,” but you’re cut off by the waiter finally bringing the food.

“Here’s your order, sir” the waiter gives Din a look that is both impressed and jealous as you hide your face in Din’s neck mortified that you have gotten so carried away with this charade.

“Thanks.” Din tells him, slowly removing his hand from under your dress. You slide off his lap into the booth next to him so you can eat. Din keeps his arm wrapped around your shoulders though and you’re still pressed up against his side. You turn away slightly towards the child who has been amusing himself somehow all this time. You give yourself a chance to regain your composure as you focus on giving him some food. You had started to forget the kid was even there and you feel your face flushing again at your shameless behavior. You take a deep breath and remind yourself that this was necessary, and as you glance around the cantina, you can see that no one is paying attention to you anymore. Your message was clearly received. You sigh to yourself and start to eat your dinner.

Din is relaxed and is enjoying the feel of his arm around you. Every so often, his other hand finds its way to your forearm and brushes over your wrist and hand, not quite trying to holding your hand but almost just to remind you that he’s there. It’s flirtatious and romantic in a way that you both love and can’t stand because you know you just want him to keep doing it. You finish your food slowly trying to find a way to prolong this interlude as much as you can, even if it’s not real. Din notices when you’re done though and says, “Ready to head back to the Crest?” You nod at him, knowing it’s for the best and figuring he must be hungry too. You pick up the child and slide out of the booth following Din. He takes the baby from you and secures him in his satchel before reaching back to take your hand. Din threads his fingers through yours and leads you out of the cantina before the jealous eyes of all the other men who tried to claim you for their own earlier. He holds your hand all the way back to the ship and you let yourself bask in the moment, imagining the two of you as a real couple.

Once you’re back on the ship, you busy yourself with putting the child to bed. He’s already drowsy and practically asleep when you get him secure in his hammock. When you turn back around, Din is just watching you, standing there. You can’t imagine what he’s thinking. You suppose you should give him some privacy, let him have a chance to eat his own dinner, but before you do, you figure you ought to say something after all that.

“Thank you, for doing… for helping me out,” you feel rather flustered and it’s making you babble, “back there.” “I just couldn’t get those guys to bug off.”

“It was my pleasure,” he responds rather cheekily, “I figured I was going to get into a bar brawl, but I liked your idea a hell of a lot better.” He tilts his helmet at you and you can swear that you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Well, thank you, again” you say softly. He steps closer to you and you’re practically touching him as he looks down at you and says with a chuckle, “Any time you need me to feel you up again, just let me know.”

And before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “I will.”

He laughs and tips his head down to you, “Message received.”

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

#din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin #din dijarin fanfiction #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian x female reader

[lady-o-ren]

Never Will I Love Thee

CHAPTER ONE  // Read on ao3 HERE

//

CHAPTER TWO

The King of Scotia has yet to arrive in the land of his betrothed. Has yet to taint the crystal waters that separates the royal castle from the mainland, perched impressively high on an islet and surrounded by a lush forest below. The Princess of Albíōn has also made herself scarce from the eyes of her uncle's court and has taken refuge in the soft leafy hollow of a giant oak tree that grows crooked and wild with ivy, it's branches fluttering with birdsong. Above her the evening sky smolders like a brushfire and though she feels the heat caress her cheeks, her blood burns cold as she waits for a fate far worse than death. Claire can only hope with every beat of her bleeding heart that the lateness of her horrid husband-to-be means he's suffered the same fate as his uncle. But she could never be so lucky. Not twice. Even now she can hear her name echo in the faraway distance and feels her heart stutter beneath her tunic knowing what news awaits her. Wishes for nothing more than to vanish into thin air. When she hears the voices of the guards carry closer on the breeze, she takes off with the swiftness of a hare with her plum velvet cloak billowing behind her. She knows she's only delaying the inevitable. Doesn't care if her uncle must grovel in apology on hand and knee to the man who's known to have a heart blacker than the devils. ‘Damn them both!’ She seethes. But as her eyes gloss with ire, her foot catches on some protruding underbrush and she takes a small tumble down a grassy slope, landing flat on her backside in a patch of clover and lavender with her willowy curls a veil over her face. Slowly, she props herself up with her hands and feels an immediate sting that makes her wince and curse at the heavens above for not breaking her neck. . . Just as another calls to her, scuffling down the slope. "Are ye a'right, lass?" 

She puffs at a fawn colored lock sticking to her lips and dryly replies "Never better" then looks up to see which of her guards the unfamiliar voice belongs to and is shocked to find a man clad in the white fur of a beast kneeling before her.

Without a moment's hesitation, he gently takes her hand in his, scraped red along the back, as she marvels at the perfection of his features glowing a ruddy bronze, at the dear gentleness that beams from his eyes a shade rarer than a sapphire. Claire would've thought him the most beautiful creature she'd ever seen. Would've let her heart swoon imagining how soft his lips might be, where they'd wander to. . . were it not for the dark flame of his hair that marks him like the vile stain of blood.

Unaware of the storm brewing before him, his attention still on her hand, the man who ought to be guarding every ounce of his flesh (particularly the one no man can live without) instead pulls a handkerchief from the sleeve of his doublet. "Ye have a nasty scrape there," he begins to say, wrapping the cloth around her hand. "Best to tend to it now then. . wait. . ." His voice trails off as he finally lifts his gaze to hers bristling like a jackal. "Your name, speak it,” she says, and snatches her injured hand away, pressing it against her chest. A small sad smile mars his mouth before he speaks. "Must I tell ye?" He mumbles low, sounding ashamed. But still he stands revealing a man as great as the mountains that bore him and takes a step back to bow with the grace of a knight, hand in sincere reverence at his breast. “I come to ye humbly, my lady, as the last living son of Elhen and Bhrian Dhu of Clan Fraser but also as the unfortunate heir to the mountain throne and I'm sure a wretch to yer sight, James Fraser.” “You're bloody worse than a wretch,” she hisses through the bite of her teeth, and scuffs her heel against the earth that sends a wave of dirt flying towards her intended, who shields himself with his cloak now speckled like a sparrow's egg. "And I'm no lady of yours nor will I ever be.” She stands to her full regal height, hands fisted, shaking at her side. "Even when we marry, when I'm forced to be shackled to you, you'll have no claim on me. Now leave my sight. I demand it of you.” “I canna do that,” he says firmly, coming close enough to engulf her in his shadow. “I must and will speak to you." Her throat bobs as he towers over her but she juts her chin upward. “Speak to me like chattel again and I'll have your tongue.”

The Red King furrows his brow at her threat, how her eyes flare like two coals on fire, but beneath that anger she rightfully has towards him he sees fear prick at the princess's eyes, bleeding her face white and grabbing at her throat as if his hand were there squeezing tight. He knew his name had been tainted from the years of being his uncle's pawn but for this woman to fear him so. . . That struck him deep in the gullet, sharp and brutal. “Forgive me, Your Highness,” he says from his heart, wracking a hand through his hair as he takes a step back. “I've been a soldier nearly my entire life and have little experience in matters such as these." 

He waves an uneasy hand in the air between them.

“But that's no excuse for being so forward wi’ ye. I had only wished to convey to ye that I am as much a prisoner to this arrangement between our uncle's as you.”

She scoffs at that. “Says the king with more power than any mortal man should have.” 

“Yer’re right. But dinna speak as if ye ken what I've suffered under my uncle's reign. What I've had to sacrifice to keep myself and my kin alive.” 

Indeed, Claire can see the harsh toll of unspoken grief and torment cross his face and darken his eyes before he masters his emotions, breathes the sweet air, and continues on.

“That's why I've come to your kingdom, sought ye out here amongst the trees and away from the meddlesome tongues of court advisors, because I needed to speak to ye in private. To tell ye I think it only right for ye to have yer say on who ye marry, who ye choose to love."

Claire questions him. “What are you saying?” 

He smiles gently at her - a lopsided, boyish curl of mouth that could charm honey from a bee. Encourage a lass to say I do.

“That the choice for us to marry is yers and yers alone. I willna force myself on ye.”

His words echo in her heart that thumps with quiet hope yet she eyes him with suspicion, refusing to trust the King before her.

Refusing she could ever be so lucky. Not twice.

//

A/N: I tried to write more (I'm a pushover). Good or Bad?? Delete or not?? I'm still struggling with all this proper lingo. Think of this as a god awful WIP. 

Also I remember seeing some fanart for Jon Snow with some white fur draped around him and didn't know if it was a dire wolf or what. But that's what Jamie's wearing.

#jamie x claire #outlander fanfic #outlander fanfiction

[limerental]

Here we go, my first @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo fill, for the prompt, Romeo and Juliet

Relationships: Ciri/Dara

Rating: T

Content Warnings: referenced genocide, briefly assumed threat of sexual assault, minor head injury, canon typical fantasy racism & misogyny

Summary: Canon Divergent. Ordinary princess Ciri (no elder blood, no child surprise) is dreading her upcoming political marriage when she meets Scoia'tael Dara in the woods outside of Cintra.

Ciri urged her mount on through the tangles of the undergrowth, leaning to cling to the mare’s neck as she surged up inclines that scattered loose soil underfoot, leaning back again as they dropped into vine-choked valleys. 

The horse was sure-footed and hot and could sense Ciri’s rush of adrenaline and frustration, the overwhelming need to flee and flee fast. Whoever dared to chase her would not keep up, not with the reckless route that she took through the landscape. 

But no one was chasing her. Not yet, at least.

“Go take that new mare out,” her grandmother had said after Ciri’s frustration bubbled over into snide words unbefitting of a princess. Her lips had pursed with pale tightness, but the softness of her eyes said that she understood some of what Ciri was feeling. She and Queen Calanthe only fought so fiercely and so often because of how similarly stubborn and rebellious and bold the both of them were. “I trust that you’ll come back with a clearer head.”

She could pretend for a moment while hugging the mare’s muscled neck, that this headlong race was part of a much grander, more exciting adventure. That her life was not spiralling utterly out of her own control in ways that were so mundane.

Princess Cirilla of Cintra, having been of age for nearly a year now, was to be married off before midsummer. 

“We have delayed long enough,” said her grandmother. “If it were wholly up to me, I would not have you marry at all except for love. But the threat from the Scoia’tael increases by the day, and a marriage will strengthen the coalition of our allies. You have known your whole life this day would come.”

Ciri’s whole life made for a dreadfully boring story. Nothing exciting or interesting had happened to her even once or ever would.

Even a harrowing flight through the forest in defiance of her Destiny was nothing more than a cliche. The newest feminist literature told similar tales over and over. Stories of bold maidens who spat and brandished swords and cut their hair short and fled from the marriage bed were all the rage in the more forward-looking areas of the Continent.

But this was Cintra, and Ciri was not a girl but a Princess. No one would ever write a story about her except as a footnote to some arrogant prince, further noted in the lineage of her sons and grandsons. 

Probably her name would be misspelled. <i>Princess Serilla of Cintra</i>, it would say. <i>Producer of prodigious heirs and otherwise simply not of note even a little bit.</i> 

The rugged landscape suddenly opened up as the mare charged ahead, and Ciri found herself on a beaten track, cutting off a rider on a grey stallion who scrambled desperately to avoid a collision. 

Her mare skidded in a great cloud of dust and veered one way while Ciri veered the other. She soon found herself sprawled on the path observing just how much faster her mount could run without a rider as the horse disappeared around a curve in the path, her hoofbeats fading.

Something nudged Ciri in the stomach.

“Ow,” she said, touching the velvety nose of the grey stallion who snuffled at her abdomen. The horse’s face was fine-boned and dished along the curve of its profile, and it wore a bridle embroidered with intricate stitching and hung with tassels. The reins jingled with miniature bells. The horse’s ears were pierced with golden barbells. 

This was no Cintran horse and certainly no Cintran rider.

Mustering all her courage, she forced herself to squint up at the towering rider, the dappled sunlight through the trees casting a mottled glow on his figure. A young man dressed in earth tones, his skin dark and jawline bare of facial hair. He looked down at her with brow furrowed, as though confused by the series of events that had led to a girl lying flat on her back on the path before him, dazedly stroking his horse’s muzzle.

Most distressingly, he wore a cap sitting askance on his head, a squirrel’s tail slung across his right shoulder.

“You’re a--” Ciri wheezed to clear the dust from her lungs and sat up on her elbows. “You’re an elf.”

“I’d say so, yes,” said the young man. "Have been since I was born.”

“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” Ciri shoved herself up to stand and found herself much less fine than expected. The world spun.

“You alright?” asked the young man.

“No, of course not,” said Ciri. “What a stupid thing to ask.”

Her brain a bit addled by the fall, Ciri was not sure whether she should be more fearful that the elf would leave her alone in the forest or that he would take her with him. There were said to be Scoia'tael encampments scattered throughout the countryside, but she had not expected any so close to the outer wall. 

She didn’t notice the rider dismount until he was standing beside her at the stallion’s head.

“His name is Wyn,” said the elf, lying a gloved hand on the horse’s face, “and I’m Dara. How about you?”

“I’m--” She stopped herself. “I’m no one. I’m an orphan. A brigand. Nobody.”

“A brigand? Did you plan to rob me? By flinging yourself from your horse?”

“Well,” said Ciri, “I’m not a very good brigand.”

“That was a well-bred horse for an orphaned nobody,” said Dara. He was smiling, the slow sort of smile that touched his dark eyes first, though she didn’t know what exactly about this situation was anything close to amusing.

“I stole it.”

“I thought you weren’t a good brigand?”

“Suppose I just go lucky,” said Ciri. She drew a deep breath and felt a twinge in her ribcage. Ignoring it, she squared her shoulders and faced Dara with all the bold nobility she could muster. “Or not. I know all about that cap you wear. I know who you are. I know you hate my kind and want me dead. So go on, get on with it. Try to strike me down. I'll defend myself."

“Your kind?”

“Humans,” said Ciri simply. “You wish to wipe us out and claim our castles for your own and muddy our bloodlines.”

Dara bent over his knees to laugh, a startlingly loud noise in the quiet forest.

“I think you may have some things a little backwards," he laughed. “Is that really what’s being said about us these days?”

“Yes. In all the… brigand camps.”

“I didn’t know brigands cared about castles and bloodlines.”

“No but--” Ciri felt her cheeks turn pink. 

“You’re Princess Cirilla of Cintra,” said Dara, and Ciri’s heartbeat leapt in her throat.

“How did you--”

“You’re wearing the seal of Cintra at the clasp of your cloak. Your hair is as pale as they say. And you speak like a princess.”

“I damn well do not,” said Ciri. “Fuck you,” she added for good measure.

Dara laughed again, a sound both light and musical, a warming sort of laugh.

“Princess Cirilla,” he said, stepping closer to her. The horse between them seemed bored of the affair of standing in the middle of the road, his eyelids fluttering closed. Her head felt too muddy to know what she was meant to do in this situation. She expected that she should flee. Call for help. At any moment, a gang of Scoia'tael could burst from the trees and claim her for ransom.

“Ciri,” she corrected. 

“Ciri,” said Dara, smiling. “I’m not going to leave you alone in the woods.”

“Right,” said Ciri, suddenly dizzy. She found that it was not as gratifying as she thought it would be to be a part of a more exciting narrative. “You’re going to kidnap me and take me back to your camp and make my grandmother give in to all your sick and twisted demands for my safe return. Or worse, you aim to defile me and force me to bear your children which will ascend to the throne. Or you--”

Her dizziness overwhelmed her.

The forest pitched to and fro, and when she became aware of her surroundings again, she rode on horseback with someone’s arms clenched around her, the undergrowth a green blur and the horse’s pace swift and sure. 

Cold fear gripped her until she saw a familiar outer wall rise up from the forest. She knew if she craned her neck, she would see the glittering spires of Cintra’s main keep far away on the hill.

“You took me back,” said Ciri, her voice scratchier than expected. Dara’s grip tightened as she shifted to look round at him, and he reined the stallion to a halt. He had removed his cap, and she was struck by the strange urge to touch the line of his pointed ear. She realized a second too late that she had given to the urge and snatched her hand back, face burning. 

“I took you back,” said Dara. “I’m not an animal or a monster. I don’t kidnap or defile distressed maidens. None of my kind do. We want reparations, not slaughter. We want our relics returned to us and our history respected.”

“How boring,” Ciri mumbled. “The other story’s much more exciting.”

Dara dismounted and shifted to help her do so as well. Ciri swayed on her feet but managed to stay upright, distracted by the warmth of Dara’s hands on her arms.

“I’m sure you know there’s a gate not far from here. Follow the wall. I can’t go farther than this.”

He gathered up Wyn’s reins and turned to lead him back into the forest, and Ciri felt her heart clench strangely.

“Wait,” she called. “You saved me. You’ll be rewarded.”

“I don’t think that’s how this works, Princess,” said Dara and smiled his soft smile.

Ciri breathed deep, holding herself upright and summoning all her bravery, and strode with only some unsteadiness to stand before him. 

“Thank you, Dara of… the woods. For your service and protection.” 

“Very formal for a brigand.”

“Yes, as is taught at brigand school.”

Being almost of a height, Ciri needed only to rise slightly onto her tiptoes to brush her lips against the line of Dara’s brow. His fingertips touched the curve of her elbow, and she rested a palm on his chest. Small and lingering touches that she would remember with perfect clarity long after.

“Have you read any of the latest stories? With defiant maidens who flee from the marriage bed and learn to fight with swords and ride swift horses and cut off all their hair?”

“I can’t read,” said Dara simply, “but they sound like good stories.”

“Yes,” said Ciri, and with all the stubborn rebellion that was her birthright, she ducked forward to kiss him on the bow of his lips. 

#the witcher #ciri x dara #not yet posted on ao3

[eunoiaflow3r]

when worlds collide - h.p. x gn!avenger!reader

a/n: bahahahahaha no one reads harry x reader lmaoo you don’t have to tell me - i know. but still, i thought this was a cute idea and i went with it. hope you enjoy :)

not edited.

also: timelines don’t match up bc i don’t want to do the math so harry is like 20 - 21 and your like 19 - 20 in 2020. Civil War and everything on didn’t happen. Fred didn’t die.

gn = gender neutral

warning(s): “language!” - captain america.

word count: 3.1k

request(ed): no.

summary: stephen sends y/n to a strange new place with...wizards?

————————————-&—————————————

Never doubt Stephen Strange. That's something that pretty much everyone has accepted. Never second guess the wizard man. Usually you'd agree. Usually you'd just let the man babble about whatever he needed to and then go about your day.

Not now.

The fuckery.

Now you were here (wherever here was) after some flashes of orange and a "be careful." Did he even do the spell right? Is this really where you were supposed to be?

It was dark, and dirty and you just wanted to go home and not talk to anyone so you turned yourself invisible.

You were born with your powers - you think. You were adopted so you wouldn't know where your powers came from. All you know is that one day your parents couldn't find you, even though you were right there. Instead of thinking you were some kind of alien and throwing you out to labs, they helped you control it the best you could.

It was difficult at first, all things considered, but you got through. You discovered you had another power as well. Force fields. Those came in handy during the battles. (You helped where you could), and Tony Stark took you in afterwards as his own. He helped you create your suit, and your name, and discover more about your powers, he was basically a dad to you.

Your parents were a little hesitant letting you join the Avengers, but once they realized this is what you were meant to do, and you had people just like you protecting you, they couldn't keep you from that. They just couldn't.

So here you were, invisible, in some dark and creepy alley. There were doors either side of you, so you got out of the way considering they could open and smack you in the face at any given moment. You heard loud voices and laughing and cheering from both ends of the alley so you walked towards the one in front of you.

The voices were so loud and echoey that you really couldn't focus on anything else. Maybe that's why you didn't hear a boy behind you trip and fall into you from behind.

"I'm so sorry." he said helping you up.

You turned around to help him, he got awfully dirty, and searched for his glasses that fell off his face.

Once standing, he took out a stick, waved it over him, and all of a sudden the dirt and gravel was gone.

"How did you do that?" You were no stranger to magic, but this was something you've never seen before. And why would he do it in front of you? For all he knew, you were an unknowing human.

"What?" He asked eyebrows furrowed together, accent strong.

"With the stick."

He chuckled shoving the stick back in his cloak.

"The stick." He smiled and looked you up and down. "It's a wand. You must not be from around here."

"Yeah, what tipped you off?" You noticed the lightning bolt scar on his head. You wondered how he got it.

"The accent, the clothes, the inability to recognize a simple wand, the ability to be here, not recognizing me, and wait - where is your cloak?"

"Cloak?"

"You were just invisible a moment earlier but I don't see your cloak anywhere."

"I don't have one. I can make myself invisible without a piece of fabric or your fancy stick." You say sarcastically. Were you flirting?

"Handy." He grins. "The name's Harry Potter."

He holds his hand out for you to shake. "Y/N L/N."

He asks you if you want to talk somewhere besides a dark dirty alley. You agreed. It took some convincing though to let him use his stick to clean the clothes you had on, but to change your outfit to something less, standout-ish.

When you felt the witch hat on your head you immediately snatched it off your head and glared at him.

He just laughed.

Once out of the alley, you breathed in the now clean air, and was mesmerized. People were bustling in and out of small shops, animals were flying and chirping around their owners, children were running around with their friends and siblings, and people were waving sticks, or wands, just like Harry used.

"C'mon, this way." He smiled at your awestruck face. It reminded him of when he first arrived with Hagrid all those years ago.

He brought you inside a coffee shop, and sat you at a booth near the window knowing you'd probably want to still look outside at the new scenes.

After ordering, and a few moments of silence as you looked around, you decided to ask some questions.

"Where am I?"

"We're in Diagon Alley. It's like an outside mall."

"I mean like, planet? I guess?"

"Earth."

"Earth?"

"Well, more specifically London. Diagon Alley."

"London?! I'm in London?!"

"You've never been? To Earth? Or London?"

You rolled your eyes silently cursing Strange. "I'm from Earth. The United States, actually. I just wish he'd put me on a fucking plane or something instead of making it seem like I was going to Mars."

"He?" Harry was very curious.

You looked into his green eyes, your mind wandering. The guy in front of you was very attractive. His dark hair complimented his eyes, and his glasses made him even more attractive.

"You guys are wizards right?"

"Really? What gave you that impression?" He asks sarcastically. "The sticks, the pointy hats, or the big bowl with green liquid sitting outside?”

You rolled your eyes. "Very funny. It's not my fault you live into the stereotype of brewing potions in your cauldrons -"

"Oh well I can only assume you're one of those Avengers from the States, yeah?" He grins. "You guys are all over the news."

"Yes, sure -"

"And don't one of you wear capes and another shoot lasers or lightning or whatnot? Sounds very stereotypical to me."

You laugh as the waitress brings over your drinks and muffins. You thank her. "No, well yes, that's Strange and Thor, but that's besides the point -"

"Well of course it's strange." He grins and winks and you over his mug. He was purposely annoying you and found great joy in it.

"Anyway," you sigh getting back to the point. "Do you guys have a Wizard here, like a powerful, trusting, all-knowing kind of guy?"

His eyes dropped slowly and his smile dimmed for a moment before slowly widening once again.

"Had. His name was Dumbledore."

"Our guy is Stephen Strange. Or Dr. Strange. He sent me here, and I'm not sure why."

"Hmmm." He hums setting down his mug. "Are the states in danger? Were you sent here on a secret quest that would put you through tough trials that would risk your life but would ultimately save everyone you've ever loved so you just have to do it?"

You were in a silent shock. "Uhm. No, not that I'm aware of, no."

"Well then perhaps your Wizard Strange is playing matchmaker."

"Matchmaker?"

"Well you were sent here weren't you?" You nod. "Arrived outside the exact place where I was and I just happened to bump into you? Sounds like a set-up to me."

"Or a coincidence."

"I'd like to think it was fate that I bump into the most attractive person I've ever seen and they don't know who I am and won't judge me 'cause of my past." He took a bite of his muffin.

"Should I be worried?"

"I guess you'll have to figure that out yourself." He winks.

You decide to eat your muffin as well. It was a comfortable silence until you looked out of the window and noticed a guy crouching down behind a cauldron...with a camera.

"Harry?"

"Hm?"

"Why is there a man outside taking pictures of you?"

His eyes widened. "Oh shit." He whispered. "Here." He took out a baseball cap and put it over your head, hiding your face from the camera.

He gets out of his seat quickly pulling you along with him to the back of the shop but before you could say anything he had his wand pulled out.

Next thing you saw was a couch and living room.

"Wow." You panted. "What a way to bring a girl home."

"I apologise Y/N, I block them out so much I forget they're even there and now they've seen you, and have a story and -"

"Wait, wait, wait, are you wanted for murder or something?"

Harry walks over to his bookshelf and pulls out a rather large book. After opening up on the table, he waved his wand over it and beckons you over to read it.

'Boy who lived.'

'Golden boy defeats Voldemort'

'winner of Triwizard tournament'

And there was so much more… 'Harry Potter' in bold just strewn across the pages. His whole life story.

Your eyes widen at everything. "So both and neither. War hero. How come I've never heard of you? Or any of this?"

He smiles at the pages fondly, running his fingers across the letters and reminiscing on his times at Hogwarts.

"Unlike you Avengers, we like to keep our business private and quiet. We don't like prying eyes."

You scoff. "Not our fault we have alien invasions every year."

Harry agreed and for the rest of the night you sat on his couch talking and sometimes arguing, over every little thing. It felt like you two had known each other forever.

You're not sure when, but you fell asleep there and woke with your head on his chest and his arm wrapped around your waist. You're not sure how the two of you ended up this way, and you realized you were practically strangers, but you didn't want to move. You just wanted to tangle your fingers through his dark hair.

But you didn't. Instead you stared at his closed eyes, and focused on his long, dark, eyelashes that fluttered a little from time to time. You thought about how you could get used to this. Waking up with his arm wrapped around you.

You told him last night that if he was actually a serial killer, and wanted to kill you that you had a whole team of people who would rip him limb from limb. He had no doubts and looked actually scared of your threat.

You thought about what it'd be like to live here among people like you.

Stomach grumbling, you decided to get up and see if he had anything you could make for him. It's the least you could do. His face turned when you left his arms, but you quickly pulled the blanket over him so he would be able to sleep a little longer.

You found his bathroom, and washed your face. In your backpack was a toothbrush and some toothpaste so you brushed your teeth, fixed your hair, and got dressed.

By the time you got out of the bathroom, you noticed Harry was still sleeping so you went into the kitchen and tried to find anything remotely close to breakfast foods. By the look of his inventory, you could tell he was very good at cooking but hadn’t been to the store in a while. He did have some eggs and toast though so you decided to make that.

In the middle of it, you got a phone call from Strange.

“Strange?”

“Harry Potter.” he says.

“What?” you were so confused as to how Stephen knew ANYTHING.

“You’re in his place, we've been tracking you.”

“So I guess we should probably have a talk about privacy? I don’t know, it just seems like something we should discuss you know? Cause usually people can respect that - especially people who just DUMP you here in the first place -“

“Calm down that’s what the mission was. While you were sleeping, we searched the place with a camera we put on you and he’s not who we thought he was. You completed the mission L/N. Great job.”

“Is he a danger?”

“Not necessarily. Just making sure your fine is all.”

“What -?”

He hung up.

Why wouldn’t Strange tell you his intentions? Why would he let you stay here if he thought Harry might have been a bad guy? Why would he risk that?

Right as you hung up Harry Potter walked into the kitchen with his lenses in between his shirt - he was cleaning his glasses.

His dark hair hung over his eyes but his eyebrows were raised.

“You made breakfast?”

“It was the least I could do. I didn’t mean to fall asleep but thank you for letting me stay.”

He smiled and put his glasses back on. In doing so his gray shirt lifted and you could see his abs. You turned away a blushed.

“It was no big deal. Thank you for making breakfast, love. You didn’t have to.”

You didn’t say anything and instead placed both of your finished plates on the dining room table. He followed you and sat down immediately digging in.

“These are the best eggs i’ve ever eaten Y/N thank you.”

You smiled in response but then frowned remembering your conversation with Strange. You should probably tell Harry.

“So,” you cleared your throat. “You were wrong.”

He gave you a look that meant “about?”

“Dr. Strange - the wizard I work with - he likes to check out potential threats and make sure that ya’know - the earth stays safe and everything. Je can kind of see the future and its propabilities. He did the same thing with Thor and his brother Loki.”

“Okay, go on.”

You cringed. “And so he called me and told me that he sent me here so he could see you? I don’t know I guess he saw you as a threat and wanted to make sure you weren’t.”

You looked at Harry but his face was clear of any and every emotion. He just continued to eat his eggs. It was silent.

You ate a bit at your eggs too until he spoke up which made you look up.

“I can’t say I’m very surprised honestly. With everything you guys manage to fuck up there I’d wanna know if someone else was about to create shit problems too.”

You sighed with relief. He wasn’t mad.

“I’m sorry really Harry, I didn’t even know.”

“No yeah it’s fine. I get it. I still think he sent you specifically for a reason though. There’s just no way we aren’t soul mates or something.”

“Oh shut up Potter.”

He smiled. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Gee your head must hurt.”

He squints at you jokingly. “You should let me take you out. I can show you around today. Y’know, so you can see what wizards are like.”

“Is this a date?”

His face flushes red and he looks down at his plate. “Yeah, yeah it’s a date.”

And a date it was.

“What the fuck is wrong with you Harry! Again?!” You practically screamed. Harry called it aparation but you call it hell. You let it go the first time but damn. He barely even warned you, just took your hand, held it tight, pulled you close, and waved his wand.

It was teleportation. Something you’ve never ever done before.

“Fucking hell Potter I’m going to murder you.”

“And Strange was worried about your safety? This is like your 4th time threatening to end my life and besides, it wasn’t even that bad.”

You rolled your eyes.

Throughout the day Harry showed you all sorts of things you’d never ever seen before. This consisted of every flavor jelly beans (and by every flavor they really meant every flavor), a chocolate frog, and never ending bubble gum. And that was just on the candy side.

He took you inside this joke shop ran by two of his friends from his old school he called hogwarts. They were twins that went by the names of Fred and George. The only twins you had ever met was Wanda and Pietro but telling the story of Pietro’s death seemed to sour Harry’s mood but excite the twins. The fact that he sacrificed himself for a little boy made him a hero in their eyes. They begged you to tell them more stories.

By the end of the day you went back to Harry’s place and you were exhausted. You can’t believe all that you’ve seen and eaten. How was this stuff even possible? How was it all hidden? You were amazed.

Harry was glad to see you had a good day and glad that he had met you. When you got back, he told you that you could stay another night...and perhaps in the bed instead of the couch. He hadn’t meant it in a dirty way but that didn’t stop you from laughing until tears came out of your eyes. He was so awkward at times. Once he had to ask if it was okay to take your hand while you were in the street and it was so cute how he couldn’t really find the words even for something as simple as hand holding.

“Harry?”

“Hm?”

You both were laying in his bed facing the other.

“I had a lot of fun today. I feel like i’ve known you forever.”

He grinned from ear to ear and was glad that you couldn’t see him. He would have been beyond embarrassed if you’d seen how unmistakably happy that made him.

“I had fun with you Y/N. You’re great company.”

You were silent for a moment.

And another.

“Harry?”

“Yes?”

“Can I kiss you?”

You were scared of his response and your heart was practically beating out of your chest. What if he was just being friendly? What if he just wanted to be friends? You would have made a huge fool of yourself. You were going to turn away embarrassed until his hand came up to your face and slipped onto your cheek. He was so warm. His lips pressed against yours for a moment and then he pulled away.

After a moment he reconnected and moved his lips against yours slowly. Your hand went to the back of his neck and toyed with his hair. He groaned into your mouth. You smiled and scooted even closer to him. All you could hear was the sound of your breathing and kissing. You didn’t want to pull away but you had to.

“Harry.” you said practically breathless.

“Yeah.” he was breathless too.

“I want to show you my world. You should come see New York.”

“Yeah? You wanna show me those alien invasions and robot attacks?”

You laughed and snuggled into Harry. He wrapped his arm around you and kissed your neck.

“Mhmm.”

“I’d love to see it.”

Tags:

@romance-geek @gooseyhouse

#harry potter x reader #harry potter oneshot #harry potter #harry potter imagines #harry potter imagine #harry potter x you #harry potter x y/n #harry potter fluff #harry potter fic #harry potter angst #harry potter smut #harry potter marvel crossover #marvel #marvel imagine #mcu #marvel imagines #the avengers #marvel cinematic universe #draco malfoy x reader #steve rogers x reader #tony stark x reader #fred weasly x reader #thor odison x reader #ron weasly x reader #loki x reader #stephen strange #dr strange #hp #draco malfoy imagine #harry potter icons

[buckysboobs]

Damaged Finds Damaged

chapter 1

warnings: none

There was tension building up in the room, with alarmed eyes and nervous smiles being exchanged. Damon was stood towards the back, arms crossed, the flames lighting up in the fireplace casting yellowish hues over the side of his face.

"No." he stated, hinting at it being the end of the conversation.

"What do you mean 'no'? Bonnie's still stuck there with some guy who tried to kill you guys and apparently sucks the magic out of people, we can't just leave her there!" Jeremy stood up to make a move towards the older Salvatore.

Stefan held him back, "That won't be necessary. We'll find a way."

"This doesn't feel right guys," Elena cried, shaking her head. "We need to get her out of there, who knows what kind of a person Kai is, what if he kills her before we can—"

"Quick to judge people, are we?" Sarah, (who had always been on the receiving side of the gang's poor judgement) decided to butt in, raising an eyebrow at her. She glanced at Damon. "From the sounds of it, he had many opportunities to kill you and Bonnie when you two were stuck in that prison but he didn't, so I think she'll be fine. She's smart. And if he's been all alone, he wouldn't want to lose the only company he has."

"Stubborn ol' Sarah coming to the rescue with her condescending remarks." Damon commented, gulping down a glass of Bourbon. "We don't need advice from a hybrid."

"Oh really?" Sarah snapped, getting up from the couch and turning to the door. "Well in that case i'll just take myself and my advice somewhere else-"

Stefan blinked tiredly and looked at Elena for help. They'd be luckier if they had Sarah as an ally rather than an enemy.

"Sarah please!" Elena called out.

The hybrid stopped, chuckled and went back to her seat on the couch, but not before throwing Damon a dirty look, receiving an eye roll in return.

"So what is this Gemini Coven thing? It can help us, right?" Jeremy asked hopefully, awaiting answers. Before Damon could open his mouth, Stefan spoke up, exasperated.

"It's nothing, guys. It does not exist. I searched all over Portland for it but all I came across was empty land."

"Let's try again, then." said Sarah.

"It's not that simple." Stefan replied.

"Guys—" Elena tried to interfere. Jeremy looked back at forth along with the conversation when Damon decided to speak up.

"Yes it is." He said. "Now that Elena mentioned it, I don't want to leave Bon-Bon with that maniac." Damon was the kind of person who would do anything against what Sarah had to say because he's petty, and he doesn't like her that much. If Sarah thought Bonnie will be fine, he believed she'll be the opposite. He pointed at Sarah, "You, me, Stefan and Alaric. We're going to Portland."

"Where we'll find nothing." Stefan sighed.

"Don't be so negative, Stefan." Elena said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

|||

They found nothing.

They walked into the empty, green land, Damon's hopeful eyes turning slightly hopeless again as Sarah walked past him and gazed across the ground.

"Like I said 3000 miles ago, it's not here." Stefan said, walking right up to her. "Can we go home now, please."

Damon dropped the bag he was carrying and Alaric spoke up, "You know what, check the GPS again. Just because we don't see anything doesn't mean it does not exist."

Damon's coping mechanism was sarcasm, which is why he tried to tease Stefan to ease the tension.

"Not unlike Caroline's feelings for Stefan." he said.

Sarah, who had been quiet for the majority of the time they spent together, snorted at his comment.

Stefan sighed, done with those remarks. "Hilarious, keep 'em coming."

Damon pulled out Miss Cuddles and did a passable imitation of a high pitched voice, wringing the teddy's stuffed arms. "Oh no, is Stefan feeling sensitive for ruining his friendship with Caroline?"

Stefan glared at him as he continued, "She really liked him and he broke her heart."

Sarah was thinking when she heard Alaric add "See, Stefan? Even the bear knew."

She held back a chuckle when Damon went on in his squeaky voice, "I saw that coming from a mile away and my brain is made of cotton—"

A thought crossed her mind "Guys I think something's—"

"Gimme that." Stefan snapped at the same time, grabbing the Miss Cuddles from him and kicking it hard. It flew across the sky and before they knew it, there was a house right before them.

"—cloaked." Sarah finished, shrugging as she looked back at them. "Well atleast we're not going back empty handed."

Damon happily skipped past her and stood on the porch as he picked up the teddy bear. "Miss Cuddles, one. Invisible creepy mansion, zero."

Alaric, Stefan and Sarah exchanged shocked glances and made their way towards the door.

"Did Miss Cuddles just help us reveal something that I missed?" Stefan asked, looking down at the teddy bear in Damon's possession.

Sarah clicks her tongue, "I should have known." When they responded with a puzzled expression, she gestured towards the teddy again, "She sent this back with her magic in it."

"Wait, Jo did tell me something about how she stored away her magic in some object." Alaric mused, snatching Miss Cuddles from Damon.

"But why would she send it back?" Stefan wondered.

Damon looked at them with a grim expression, "To prevent Kai from getting out."

"Damn. He must be really brutal, huh." Sarah commented, trying to get past the door when she was blocked by an invisible barrier.

"We gotta be invited in." Damon said, banging his hand against the barrier. "Which means the owner of this house is still alive."

Sarah looked at Alaric, "Looks like it's your time to shine."

With a sigh, Alaric walked in.

|||

"Jo lived here." He stated, passing them a couple of photographs and newspaper articles. "We have baby pictures, pictures of Jo as a kid, as a teenager.." Alaric shuffled through them one by one with trembling hands.

"Hold on a second." Damon jumped in all of a sudden, "Rewind." He grabbed a photograph from the pile and held it in front of them, "This is Kai from planet 1994."

It was a picture of the said boy and Jo together wearing red christmas sweaters, their faces beaming at the camera.

"He's cute." Sarah commented, earning an eye roll from Damon.

"Does this mean Jo is Kai's sister?" Stefan asked, and Alaric examined the rest of the photographs, looking for more evidence.

"Either that or they both have a thing for Cosby sweaters." Damon replied.

They heard a voice call out "Didn't realize I had guests."

They all turned back to see a skinny man with grey hair and stubble walking towards them. "You've met Kai?"

Damon's mouth twisted, "Met him? Watched him die. Watched him come back to life. Why, you know him?"

The man looked at them one by one, his gaze on Sarah lingering longer. He chuckled, "He's my son."

He extended his hand out, "I'm Joshua Parker."

Damon shook his hand without a moment of hesitation. "Damon Salvatore."

Joshua nodded, "Invisique."

"What the hell just happened?" Damon heard Stefan cry, and he turned around to see his companions shuffling around.

"What's up with you guys?"

"They can't see you anymore, Damon." Joshua said and Damon gave him a questioning look, "Which means they also can't see this."

Next thing Damon knew, he had earned himself an aneurysm and was crying out in pain before things went black.

|||

Around half an hour passed by and they still couldn't see another sign of the house. Stefan was on the call with Elena and Alaric was questioning Jo about Kai. Sarah was listening to both their conversations with vamp hearing.

From what she had gathered, Elena was trying to tell some random guy that she was a vampire, and Alaric was asking Jo about the ascendant which she actually had with her all along. Her dad was a coven leader who couldn't let Kai out no matter what, and was willing to 'retaliate' if things went south. Her evil twin is a murderer who killed almost his whole family, and was stuck in the prison world 1994 as punishment. They really had travelled 3000 miles for nothing, and Damon's life was probably in danger. Which she didn't worry about much, if she was honest.

She jumped slightly when she heard Jo let out a yelp, followed by a few thumps and bangs. Alaric asked what was going on, worry striking his voice. Stefan and Sarah both walked up to him.

"Jo? Jo what's going on?!"

Next thing they heard was Elena's voice on the other side of the phone, "It's her dad, he—he's trying to kill her!"

"What do we do?!" Alaric said, "How do we stop him?"

"We can't see the house and i'm not invited in," Stefan added, "Jo invite us in—"

"Come in! Come in!" She cried in pain, followed by more coughs. She sounded like she was choking.

"We still can't see the house!" Sarah said. Elena carried the message and she heard Jo's throaty voice respond, "Ask them if they see an old tree stump in the yard!"

It was right there and they ran towards it, shuffling through the pile of dried leaves before Alaric pulled out a knife.

"What's this?" Sarah wondered.

"This is probably Jo's version of Miss Cuddles." Alaric replied.

Stefan grabbed it and shot it right across the empty land, where it stabbed into the wooden porch pillar.

Next thing they know, Stefan was saving Damon from the grasp of Mr. Joshua Parker who thought it was incredibly normal to vanish into thin air.

"I did not sign up for this."

|||

"So Papa Kai just tried scrambling my brain like an egg and you three are looking like someone shoved a stick up your ass?" Damon said, walking towards the car. "I did not get undressed at the airport for this."

"Jo had the ascendant all along." Stefan told him.

"It was 5 minutes away from home. And we travelled 3000 miles. How fun." Sarah wailed, walking up behind them. "This was so useless."

"Stop complaining." Damon said, rolling his eyes at her again.

Jesus Christ, she thought. "You were literally complaining 30 seconds ago."

"Stop fighting, you two." Alaric jumped in, "Now there is obviously no way we're getting the ascendant or letting her brother out—"

"We could just kill him if he escapes!" Damon argued.

"No, Damon." Alaric snapped, "I'm not letting another maniac kill my girlfriend."

"Girlfriend? You've been on like, 3 dates—"

"Shut up, Damon." Sarah and Stefan said in unison.

Damon however, didn't listen and decided to compel Alaric into stealing the ascendant.

"It's gonna come bite you in the ass." Sarah had told him, and he had flipped her off. Stefan had let him go with a disappointed shake of his head and that thing he did where his lips squeezed into a thin line to portray his disapproval.

Little did they know Kai was already out.

____________________

some of you really liked the prologue so here's the first chapter! please let me know if you like it heheheh.

#kai parker #kai parker imagine #kai parker x oc #kai parker smut #kai parker x reader #the vampire diaries #damon salvatore #damon salvatore smut #stefan salvatore #the vampire diaries fanfic

[handwrittenhello]

where the road then takes me

Prompt: Law of Surprise Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier/Renfri, Geralt/Renfri, Geralt/Jaskier, Jaskier & Renfri Rating: T Warnings: None Summary: When Jaskier runs into a pack of wild dogs while searching for his lost hen, he's lucky that Geralt is nearby to save him. But he has nothing to repay the witcher with except the Law of Surprise, and who do they find upon returning to the farm, but Jaskier's sister, Renfri, back early from marauding?

For @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo!

(ao3 link in reblog)

--

Jaskier, eighteen, had grand dreams.

They were little more than dreams, unfortunately, because seeing as how he and Renfri had grown up fending for themselves, stuck in a tiny village on the border of Creyden, he didn’t have much opportunity to go to school or learn to play the lute or anything, really, besides tending to the farm while Renfri got… freelance work elsewhere. That was all he cared to know about it—she would leave, and return home every couple of weeks with a decent bag of coin and blood-spattered clothes, which Jaskier would bitch about cleaning. She made enough for them to live, though not comfortably—Renfri had kept him fairly sheltered, but he knew that they were one of the poorer households in town.

Which was why Jaskier only dreamed of traveling the Continent, singing songs and weaving grand tales for the commonfolk. Instead, he was stuck here chasing down their old hen again, after the coop had blown down in the storm for the fourth time. Henrietta was a sneaky fucker, already gone by the time he woke up in the morning. He cursed but pulled on his boots and stumbled out into the cold morning air to look for her.

He cursed all the way to the edge of the forest, where she’d apparently disappeared into, judging by the tracks and the few scattered feathers he found. “Damned hen. Ought to just eat you and be done with it,” he muttered, pulling his cloak tighter around him before heading into the forest.

He followed her trail as the sun slowly rose, stopping when he heard barking in the distance. Fuck, he hoped that was the hunters’ dogs—he hadn’t thought to bring a knife to defend himself with. Whatever it was, he trudged onwards, because they couldn’t afford to lose a hen. Renfri would kill him if—when—she found out.

And then he heard it—familiar squawking, accompanied by those same barks, louder. He crept closer and saw exactly what he’d feared—a pack of wild dogs circled Henrietta, one of them darting in every so often to snap at her slashing claws. She was fending them off pretty handily, actually—Jaskier knew how vicious she could be firsthand.

But the dogs would no doubt attack in force soon, and then she’d have no chance. Without thinking, Jaskier picked up a rock and threw it at the nearest one, hitting it square in the nose. It recoiled and turned its attention away from Henrietta, which was exactly what he wanted.

Unfortunately, it turned its attention towards him, which was exactly what he didn’t want. “Oh, fuck,” he spat, and turned tail as the pack gave chase.

He dashed over tree roots and fallen logs, blind stupid terror coursing through his veins. He had no plan beyond don’t get caught—and he could only run for so long before tiring. He threw a glance backward and saw that they were gaining on him—and fast.

Not looking where was going, he was taken completely by surprise when he slammed into something hard, bouncing off it and landing with an oof on the mossy ground.

Dazed and still half-blind with fear, he didn’t even notice that he’d slammed into a person until they moved, stepping over him and taking on the dogs with an easy confidence, sword swinging with preternatural force.

Two swords, armor, incredible speed and fighting skills? As the man finished dispatching the last of the pack and turned around to reveal mutated cat eyes set in a heavily scarred face, Jaskier realized who the man was. He sucked in a sharp breath.

The witcher sheathed his sword, holding out a hand as if to calm Jaskier. “It’s alright,” he rumbled, voice full of gravel. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Jaskier picked his jaw up from where it had dropped. “I know that,” he answered, getting to his feet and half-heartedly brushing the dirt off himself. “You’re a witcher.”

“I am. Usually fight more dangerous things than wild dogs, though. Also don’t usually see unaccompanied kids running around being chased by them.”

“I had to get their attention somehow. Henrietta was—wait, Henrietta!” Jaskier, remembered, abruptly spinning on his heel and dashing back to where the pack had cornered her.

“Wait!” the witcher called from behind him, but Jaskier paid him no heed.

He was gratified to see that while he’d been running for his life, Henrietta had seen fit to begin making herself a nest right in the same spot. “Oh, aren’t we cozy?” he grumbled, creeping closer in an attempt to grab her. He was almost upon her when the witcher ruined it, crashing through the underbrush behind him and sending her clucking away just as Jaskier pounced.

Jaskier sighed and turned to face the witcher, who at least had the good grace to look a little guilty. The guilt soon disappeared, though, when Jaskier rounded on him and began to lecture. “Now look what you’ve done. It’ll take me ages to catch her,” he complained, watching as the witcher’s eyes grew incredulous.

“You risked your life for that scrawny thing?” the witcher asked, amused disbelief coloring his tone.

“That scrawny thing is probably the most valuable thing we own, so yes,” Jaskier snapped. He couldn’t stand it when out-of-towners looked at him like that, like he was a stupid farm boy who knew little more than dirt and chickens. Which, to be fair, he didn’t, but it wasn’t as if he wanted it that way.

The witcher’s face cleared to something more akin to understanding—thank the gods it wasn’t pity. “Then I suppose I owe it to you to help catch her,” he said, and in the blink of an eye he’d snatched Henrietta up. Jaskier accepted her into his arms somewhat stunned.

“Thank you,” he eventually managed to stammer. The witcher said nothing in return, and they stood there for a long, awkward moment, before Jaskier realized he was probably waiting for something. “Oh! I don’t—I don’t have anything to pay you with…” he trailed off, recalling all the old adages, that witchers never worked for free. Fuck. Renfri wouldn’t be home for days if not weeks still, and the only coin he had he needed to save for the market day after tomorrow.

The witcher began to speak—what it was he was going to say, Jaskier didn’t know, but he interrupted as an idea struck him. “But I can offer you the Law of Surprise!” he suggested, recalling the ballads of children promised to witchmen. “We’ve a bitch due for pups soon—perhaps we’ll return home and you’ll find yourself with a companion to warm the long nights on the road!”

“Hmm,” the witcher replied, but it wasn’t a no, so he figured that it probably meant he wasn’t about to be forced into the witcher’s debt. Humming, he led the way back to the farmstead, the witcher a silent, hulking protector at his back.

Once they arrived, Jaskier was quick to secure Henrietta in the barn, where normally there would be pigs, but now, after sickness had taken their only sow, there was only dust and hay and the occasional mouse. He left Henrietta to her mouse hunting and led the witcher to the cottage, throwing open the door, excited to see what surprise he might find.

“Jaskier, why the fuck have you brought a witcher home?” asked Renfri, perched on the table and cleaning underneath her fingernails with one of her many knives.

Jaskier paled. “Renfri! You’re—you’re not meant to be home yet,” he choked out.

“What, you’re not happy to see me?” she drawled, eyebrows knitting together. Jaskier, helpless, threw a glance back at the witcher, who was wearing a thunderous expression. Shit.

“I—not in this case, no,” Jaskier said tersely. “Fuck.”

“Some welcome,” she said faux-calmly, hopping down off the table. Jaskier recognized the tenseness in her form that spoke of a predator preparing to pounce. Sure enough, she lunged a moment later, her knife held a half-inch away from the witcher’s throat. Jaskier yelped. “Did he hurt you, Julek?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the witcher’s face.

“No, nothing of the sort, now put that down,” Jaskier hissed, tugging ineffectually at her arm. “He saved me, in fact, and…”

“And?” Renfri asked lowly.

“…and I may have promised him the Law of Surprise in return,” Jaskier finished all in a rush, wincing. “I swear, Ren, if I’d known…”

“That’s the thing about surprises,” the witcher interjected. “But you needn’t worry. I have no plans to claim your—sister?” Jaskier nodded. “As I said before, I need no payment.”

Renfri lowered her knife, and Jaskier breathed a bit easier for it. Renfri was a formidable fighter, but Jaskier doubted even her strength against a witcher. If a fight had broken out, he’d have had to—well, not help, because he was rather useless in a fight, but it was the principle of the matter.

“I suppose I could do worse for myself,” Renfri mused, looking Geralt over critically.

“Wait you’re—Renfri, he said he wouldn’t claim you, you don’t have to.”

“And what if I want to?” Renfri answered. “He seems a decent sort. And not too hard on the eyes, either.”

The witcher, looking uncomfortable, stood there and said nothing.

Jaskier threw his hands up. “You’re insane. And you!” he said, turning to the witcher. “Are you agreeing to this?”

“The life of a witcher isn’t well suited to… companionship,” the witcher replied, face twisted. “Walking the Path is difficult.”

“And if I promise that I can handle myself?” Renfri asked, twirling her knife in one of the many tricks she was proud of. “I’m no stranger to the road. It’s Jaskier you’d have to watch out for.”

“I resent that,” Jaskier said mildly, mostly out of principle. But the prospect was too exciting to dwell on it for long—was Renfri truly proposing that they set out with a witcher? “Ren, do you mean it?”

“If your witcher is fine with it, then I don’t see why not,” she replied. “What do you say, witcher?”

“Geralt,” the witcher corrected her. “If we’re to travel together, you ought to at least know my name.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier repeated. It rolled off the tongue wonderfully. “Oh, this is so exciting! I’m going to write so many songs, just wait,” he gushed. “The Witcher and the Shrike—I can hear it now.”

Renfri pulled him out of his thoughts with a cuff to the shoulder. “Ow,” he said mildly. “Wait—you are planning on sharing, right?” he interjected. “Because, I mean, look at him.”

“Am I a toy to be shared among siblings?” Geralt asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Is that a no, you don’t want to sleep with both of us? Because I’ll respect that, I will, but also, not to objectify you or whatever, but dear gods please, I think my poor heart might break if I didn’t get to fuck you at least once.”

“Jaskier! Leave my Husband Surprise alone,” Renfri said, shoving him away. “Go get packed. Essentials only!”

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” Jaskier placated, raising his hands in surrender. “Don’t get up to anything while I’m gone, you lovebirds.”

As he left, Geralt turned to Renfri. “Is he always like this?”

“Yeah, he’s chronically stupid. Gets it from our father.”

“Remind me again why I agreed to this?”

“Don’t know, but it’s too late now. You’re stuck with us, witcher,” Renfri replied, looping an arm around Geralt’s.

Geralt made a show of sighing, but in truth, he wasn’t annoyed as all that. At least it would make life more interesting.

#the witcher #witcher fanfiction #geraskier #geralt/renfri #geralt/jaskier/renfri #geralt/jaskier #witcher rarepair summer bingo #wrsb #geralt #renfri #jaskier

[scribble-blog]

Changeling Fae AU? Changeling Fae AU.

I feel like I start every post with an apology so I won’t do that but I mean to update!! And then I don’t or I can’t write and it all sucks!! But have 3000 words of something brand new instead!!!!

Her parents had been bakers; blessed with a babe after years of believing themselves barren. Sabine had wept to hold her child at last in her arms, and Tom had brought their whole village to celebrate her birth with his wonderful sweets.

Of course, they had named her Marinette. One who rises. They had no intentions of guiding her towards higher connections, the way some thought they might when they glimpsed the child; surely, between her beauty and kind disposition, Tom and Sabine could marry her to some lesser title, and leave their child in comfort for the rest of her life.

But as the child grew older, whispers surrounded her. People wondered about her seemingly small stature, her odd grace paired with her clumsy movements, the way she could inspire and move you with words and then flail and mumble after.

“Fae child,” people started whispering. 

“Changeling.”

Tom and Sabine didn’t let it move them. Their daughter was theirs, oddities and eccentricities and all. For her clumsiness, she could sew and mend with more skill than the tailor two streets over. For her size, she was able to learn the trade of the bakery and helped her parents every morning as a good child should.

And if some mornings, Sabine woke to find the kitchen just cleaner, the bread rising just better, the smells just more aromatic, she had no problem setting out a small bowl of milk, tucked behind counters, for whatever creature was slipping in to check on her daughter and helping them on their way out.

After all, Sabine had been small and awkward and graceful and different once too.

It is on the cusp of Marinette’s twelfth birthday that Tom stumbles down in the morning, ready to start the bread for the day, and finds the being sitting there. 

In the dark of the morning, lit only by the fire in their hearth, the woman glows. She has the same short stature as his girl, the same bright blue eyes that she had not gotten from either himself or his wife.

“I owe you a boon, Thomas Dupain,” the Faerie says, sitting on his counter and swinging her legs slightly, oddly child-like. “You and your wife, Sabine Cheng. For raising-“ her voices rises and falls melodically for a moment. It almost sounds like Marinette. It almost sounds like the crackle of the fresh baked bread. It almost sounds like the rustle of cloth as his daughter sews. It almost sounds like she has said ladybug.

Such a small thing, to bring luck and joy.

“You have done so well with her,” the faerie says. “And so compassionate, has she become. The kindness displayed by your wife to my lesser subjects also cannot go unrewarded.”

Tom swallows, then bows his head. “You are here to take her, then?”

The creature regards him. “Call me Tikki, Tom Dupain,” she says. She makes the sound again, this time rushing waters and warm sunshine and Marinette and ladybug, “must join me. I cannot tell you what will happen when she does.”

“My boon,” he says, reckless to the face of this powerful being, in the knowledge that it is his child she is here for. “My boon. You must not let today be the last I see of my girl. The last time I hold her. If only for a day, an hour, a minute- you must return her to me.”

Tikki tilts her head, smile dazzling. “A good man, you certainly are. A good parent, without doubt. I can grant you this boon. And as your reward- nothing will replace your Marinette, of course. But a new pair of hands to help in your bakery. Expect her soon.”

Tom nods; there are more rules then sense about dealing with the Fair Folk and he’s certain he’s already broken some. What else can he say without angering her? What else can he do without causing unintentional offense? “Would you like breakfast?” He says instead of heeding his thoughts. 

“No,” she laughs, a tinkling glass bell like the chirping of birds. “I shall return for her at high noon.”

Tom nods, throat tight. He starts the bread and he goes through his morning until daylight starts to peek into the windows, and then he sighs and puts the last loaf in the oven, and he goes to wake his daughter and wife.

Marinette stands in the kitchen, hands clasped tightly, staring into the embers of the fire. She wears her best dress, with the pink trim, and she does not have tears in her eyes as she looks at her parents. Anything to say had been said; anything left over was just going to hurt more. She had a small bag, slung over her shoulder, with paltry things her parents hoped might help.

Tikki sat before her, perched on the counter. The flimsy sheer overlay of her clothing was resting in the flour.

“Marinette,” Tikki says to her, but it’s not just her name. It’s something deeper that echoes in her heart. “I’ve come for you.”

“I thought something might eventually,” she laughs nervously. 

Tikki extended a hand. Marinette reached for it, hesitating before the contact. 

Tikki smiled gently and took her fingers. “This isn’t a bad thing, Marinette. Just a change.”

Marinette tightened her grip. “I’m ready.” She gave her parents one last look, trying to burn their faces into her mind.

“Then come, Marinette, of the Orders of Creation and Luck. Come and claim your birthright as my heir.”

Marinette did not expect this much walking. “Is it... is it far?” 

The town was hours behind them. Marinette’s nicest dress was ragged at the hem, snatched with brambles and in one spot, torn by a branch that had wanted blood. She hefted her small pack higher on her shoulders, waiting for the Fae to break the silence.

“It is less about the distance,” Tikki told her, “and more about the time and your intentions. Anyone could walk this road into these woods and continue happily onto whichever small village next offers a meal- but to walk it in the hours before dusk, with the intent to find home, with myself at your side-“ 

Tikki stopped. The tree ahead of her was worn and old and stooped, but still vibrant in its flowers and leaves. Tikki traced the whorls along the bark, watching them glow with an internal light.

“We still have hours til dusk,” she said. “Come.”

Marinette rubbed her eyes. 

Tikki had been just before her. She knew it, had heard the small footsteps and the cheery whistle and then she had turned a bend and Marinette was alone.

“Tikki?” She called out. “Hello, Tikki?”

The woods were green and ethereal around her, the warm light of evening streaming through the foliage and dying everything alive and almost thrumming with energy. She kept walking forward, waiting for the path to turn against and she’d see the Fae ahead, waiting with a raised brow and a small smile. Marinette broke into a run. 

“Tikki??!” She called again. The road ahead of her seemed endless, and it changed as her heart beat faster, until everything had focused into the tunnel of branches and roots she sprinted through. “Tikki!!!”

She came to a rough halt, stumbling over a root as the road diverged. She caught herself on the tree, not quite tumbling. 

“So you’re a changeling as well?” The voice was cool, and dismissive, and challenging all at once. Marinette tensed, meeting the eyes of the stranger.

“I know you,” she said instead of any of the instant rebuttals she can think of.

And she does. Leaning up against the tree that marks the split path is the Bourgeois daughter; she’d fixed one of her dresses once, and her parents were often entreated to come and work for them. Marinette had never actually spoken to her though.

“One would hope.” The girl flips her hair, and Marinette takes a second to actually take her in. She isn’t wearing a dress like Marinette, or anything remotely expected. Instead she’s dressed in pants and layered shirts, a cloak over her arms and a pack on her shoulders. “I am Chloé Bourgeois, after all.”

“I’m Marinette,” Marinette offers. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

“Did I ask?”

The girl was getting on Marinette’s nerves. “Did you see anyone else come through this way? I’m looking for-“

“A Fae.” Chloé shrugged. “I know what you’re looking for. It’s part of the whole trial.”

Marinette squared her shoulders. “If you’ve got something to say, say it. I’m trying to find someone.”

Chloé’s expression remained smugly disdainful. “The trial? You have to make your own way into the Other World in order to prove yourself as rightful heir. The Fae that led you here? Their gone. Face it. You’ve been abandoned to die in the woods. At least my Fae told me what was happening before dipping out.”

Her blood felt icy in her veins. “No. They wouldn’t.”

“They’re Fae,” Chloé said coolly. “They lured us out here with promises of being special of whatever and then left us for fun.”

“No.” Marinette closed her eyes, and then turned left. “Tikki said it was about intentions. Well, I don’t intend to die here. Come on.”

She grabbed Chloé’s arm and yanked, pleaded to see the blonde sprawl and lose her composure with a squawk.

“You little peasant, how DARE you! I’ll-“

“You’ll do what, Chloé? Call your Father’s guards?” Marinette laughed. “Come on. I’m not letting either of us die in here.”

Chloé looked around for any other choice and Marinette could see her face fall when none presented themselves. And then she hardened her expression. “I’m certainly not following around a dirty little baker’s daughter. I’m a Bourgois. I’ll find my own way.” She spun and started stomping down the other path.

Marinette eyed the path she’d chosen. It had felt right to turn left. She was sure when she chose it that it was the right way. And Chloé was being rude enough that Marinette would love to consider leaving her.

But she turned to the right. If it was intention, then she would make sure she and Chloé both made it. She had enough intention for anyone and everyone.

“Chloé!” She called, and Chloé actually did stop and wait for her. “I’ll follow you, if you don’t mind.”

“And why would you do that?” Chloé squinted suspiciously even as they started walking. “Well, obviously, because I’m right and everyone should follo-AEEEUgghh,” she squawked as she fell and groaned from the forest floor.

“I figure you’re a decent warning system for problematic roots,” Marinette grinned, holding her hand out. 

Chloe grit her teeth and took it.

They walked in silence for a while, Marinette thinking and Chloé seemingly fuming.

“Is that the best dress you could muster for the occasion?” The girl finally spat. “One faerie prances up to your door and you pull out all the stops? I’ve got dresses that would make yours wrinkle with envy.”

“Where did you get those clothes?” Marinette finally voiced what she’d been thinking for a while. “It doesn’t seem like something you’d just have on hand, and they all look pretty ill-fitting-“

Chloé self consciously fixed the collar of her vest. “If you must know,” she sniffed, “my Father thought the Fae was full of shit. So I stole these from the washroom and I figured I’d find out myself.”

“And?” Marinette giggles.

“Yeah, this is pretty shitty still,” Chloé grimaces. “I’m- sorry. Pollen said I had to work on my temper.”

“It’s-“ Marinette stopped. It wasn’t okay, but she didn’t want to alienate the only companion she had. “I can understand, I guess. As long as you’re trying to be better.”

Marinette was getting the feeling now that she should have taken the other path. Not because of Chloé- just- it had felt right. And the longer they walked this one, the wronger it felt. 

The trees seemed longer. Sharper.

“So Pollen was the Fae who came to get you?” Marinette asked. “Mine’s name was Tikki.”

“Don’t see how it matters.” Chloé pointed up. “Light’s starting to fade. It’s nearing dusk.”

“Then we need to go,” Marinette said. 

Chloé sighed. “I suppose if we must.”

Marinette started walking faster when the light started turning pink. And then when it started losing the vibrant color, she started running, Chloé in her heels. She could almost feel it when the sun set, the last ray burning over the horizon as she stopped.

“That’s it, Dupain-Cheng.” Chloé dusted herself off. “I’ve known it since Pollen took off. We weren’t changelings, we weren’t special- just the next fun human toy to throw out in the woods.”

“You’re wrong,” Marinette spat, whirling around, suddenly furious as she tried desperately to suppress the fear climbing in her throat. “Tikki promised I’d see my father again!”

Chloé gave her a contemptuous look. “More fool you.”

“No!” Marinette stomped up to her. “It’s you, isn’t it! With your bratty attitude and your cynicism. Tikki said it was about intentions and you’ve been doing nothing but try to irritate me since I found you!”

“Oh, since you found me?” Chloé barked out laughter. “You were just as lost as I was! I was better off sitting there than walking even further into the Fae forest!”

“You’d still be sitting there without me!” Marinette shouted. “You’re ready to die just because you’re afraid you aren’t as special as people say you are! Well guess what! You aren’t special!”

“I could be!” Chloé yelled back. “I was going to be a Fae Queen and I was going to rule and then you and Mother and everyone would see it!”

Marinette stopped short of the next ugly thing she was ready to say, watching the tears bead up in Chloé’s eyes. “You don’t need to be special. Pollen didn’t want you because you’re Chloé Bourgeois and your special. Pollen just wanted Chloé Bourgeois.”

Chloé angrily wiped away the moisture. “I’m fucking special, fuck you.”

Marinette looked around again, the dim light starting to cast the shadows grey. And then she saw a tree, weathered like a worn brow upon the forest’s face.

She walked up to it and reached out her hand, watching the way it reacted, lights sparking beneath her fingers, beneath the bark.

“It’s about the intentions,” she murmured. For a moment she looked at Chloé.

“The light isn’t quite gone. You’ve got to try, Chloé.”

Chloé’s lips trembled, as of about to speak, but instead she just nodded, jerking her chin forward. Marinette took the first step, listening to Chloé behind her, concentrating on somewhere she’d never been.

And then there was a corner and she rounded it, and Tikki was there. Marinette rushed forward, throwing herself into the Fae’s arms.

“You made it, Marinette. My Ladybug.” Tikki caressed her cheek. “Welcome home.”

Marinette looked back first. “Where’s Chloé?”

“Subjection’s girl?” Tikki paused. “You’ll have opportunity to see her soon enough, I suppose.”

“Then she made it,” Marinette could feel the tension drain away from her.

“Come,” Tikki said, amused. “And I will show you your world.”

Marinette faced where Tikki gestured and gasped.

They were on some sort of balcony, framed in by the branches of the trees she had just exited. She could see the grounds below rolling out forever, hills and plains and farmlands and forests and small towns. Right below them sprawled a city, and she realized that she was standing on a tower, and looking around her, she saw the scope of the castle.

“This way,” Tikki said, leading her to one side and opening up a vine covered door Marinette hadn’t realized was there until that moment. “The castle is, of course, yours. You must feel free to roam as you wish. Those who work here will serve you as they do me.”

“Huh?” Marinette felt dazed. The hallway progressed into a larger hall, into a larger one, until they stopped at a door.

“Your room, of course,” Tikki said, pushing the doors open. “You should find everything you might need here. In the morning, I shall have you escorted to breakfast, and then you will join me in my study. For now, I will send up food and drink. Rest well, dear one.”

Marinette took a step in and had to resist the urge to faint.

The room was spacious, with small corners carved out for what looked to be a study and a small sitting area. The bed dominated the room, with two doors leading out from either side. 

She turned to Tikki, to protest, and found the Fae already gone.

She sat on the bed, finding it plusher than the bed at home, which had lumps, but she knew the lumps and she could sleep around them. She laid down, sinking in and trying not to cry at the sudden overwhelming wave of homesickness and exhaustion. The day had seemed so long, how could she have said goodbye that morning? How could she have been with Chloé, not half an hour ago?

Eventually she wiped away the tears that had sprung up and moved towards the sitting area.  She imagined it to be for sharing secrets with the kind of close friends one might invite into your room, but she had never truly had anyone who didn’t whisper about her behind her back other than her parents.  The chairs were soft too, in the plush way she was now coming to associate with this life.

The study held more interest. The bookshelf was already full and she let herself browse titles for a moment. The Miraculous and Children of the Miraculous caught her eye, as well as one that seemed untitled, but when she pulled it out she found a hand written journal in a language she didn’t know.

The desk was grand, but the drawers held other treasures. A set of needles, each finer alone than her parents could buy in a year. A small selection of fabrics. She clutched them to her chest and let out a muffled dry sob before composing herself. 

The first door led to a bathroom and she gave it a perfunctory look over, sure that it would matter much more to her later. The final was a closet, and -

“Highness?” A small voice asked. Marinette’s eyes opened to see very wide hazel eyes, just in front of her. 

She had fainted upon seeing the open closet, filled with clothing she could only ever have dreamed of. 

The servant was a small girl, with mousy blonde hair and the widest eyes Marinette had ever seen. She was also carrying a covered platter which Marinette assumes would be her dinner.

“Let me take that,” she offered, hands reaching, but the girl stepped back.

“No, Highness,” the girl said, taken aback. “Simply direct me-“

Marinette blushed. “If you would set it on the desk then?” 

The girl did so, and then curtsied. She held her pose, as Marinette watched, long enough that Marinette realized she was waiting for Marinette to dismiss her.

“Oh! Sorry, yes, thank you.”

The girl spun and walked briskly out, and Marinette groaned. That was a bungled first impression if there ever was one. The smell of the food beckoned and she gave the closet one last longing glance before lifting the lid.

Steaming rich stew, with warm bread and butter and honey. A glass of milk. Marinette sat down and ate it without thought, trying to settle her mind. 

She went back to the closet when she’d finished. It would make sense to know her own wardrobe.

She proceeded to spend the next two hours attempting to try on dresses. It was rather difficult as several were clearly designed to be put on her by a second pair of hands but she managed.

In the end she found a soft linen shift on the bed and put that on, before crawling into the bed and closing her eyes. Sleep fell upon her immediately.

TAGLIST:

@ash-amg @vixen-uchiha @redscarlet95 @dramatic-squirrel @athena452 @novaloptr @bee-wrecker @constancetruggle @pr-y-sha

#maribat #changeling!marinette au #fanfic #this WILL be maribat im just #...not sure if it will be daminette yet. #might be chlonette tbh mari is giving off big crush energies in my rough drafts #but also im kinda. wanting it to be jasonette. #oh god. oh fuck.chlojasonette. #NO PROMISES #EVERYTHING IS IN THE AIR AND UNDETERMINED!!!!

[twosidesofthesameidiot]

Fall

Word Count : (1735) Characters: Merlin; Gwen; Will; Lancelot Summary: A series of autumns in Merlin's life Warnings: angst A/N: Fill for a5 "campfires" for @merlinbingo AO3 link

“Come ooon,” a brown haired boy shuffled his feet as he stood outside his best friend’s home, resisting the temptation to go in and drag him out.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, I just need - hah!” a boy with black hair tumbled out of the hut with all of his usual grace and enthusiasm, which is to say, none and, in the first boy’s opinion, an unhealthy amount.

“What did you almost forget this time?”

“Doesn’t matter,” the shorter boy grinned, “I remembered it, and that’s what’s important.”

His friend rolled his eyes, “I swear you’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached to you,” he knocked his knuckles against his friend’s head.

“Oi, rude,” he stuck his tongue out in retaliation.

The brown haired boy just snickered.

The fallen leaves crunched underfoot as they made their way into the forest. The black haired boy kicked some at his companion who retaliated by throwing a hastily snatched handful back at him. Squirrels gathering last nuts into their hoards retreated to the safety of the trees as the boys rushed by stirring up the leaves. From above, the birds watched the forest floor spring to life in their wake. Leaves leaped and reached for the trees from where they had fallen, the mingling colours mimicking a fire like the one they sat near now.

The black haired boy’s eyes were wide, the light of their campfire making them appear a deep blue.

“... they’ll take your soul, the very warmth from your bones.” The brown haired boy paused, “ They say all that’s left is an icy corpse. Freaky, right?”

An icy wind cut through the otherwise still night and both boys start before moving closer to the fire.

“That’s creepy as heck, why’d anyone want t’go and do that for?”

“Dunno, don’t recon there’s anyone who would though, even if it could happen,” the taller boy shrugged.

“I thought campfires meant fun stories, not Samhain come early.”

“We ain’t little kids anymore, ‘sides you liked it,” he stuck his tongue out, recalling his friend’s childish tendency.

The boy just rolls his eyes before grinning and rummaging through his satchel, “Speaking of not being kids anymore - Happy birthday, Will!”

He holds out something carefully wrapped in a plain cloth.

“Merlin, I told you not to -”

“If you don’t accept it, ma’s gonna be upset,” Merlin cuts him off with a grin, “‘sides, you’re really gonna like it.”

“Insufferable, you are,” Will fakes a grimace before accepting the offering.

“Ooooh, big word there, maybe with age does come intelligence,” Merlin fakes wiping a tear away, “and here I had almost given up hope.”

Will ignores the comment, staring at the delicately shaped pendant in his hand. “Merlin, I,” his voice is thick, the words slow to come, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” his smile softens for a moment, “I told you you’d like it,”

“And the moment’s gone,” Will rolls his eyes even as he slips the cord over his head and tucks the pendant into his shirt, “just for that you get first watch.”

“No fair, i just gave you the best present ever, you should take first watch,” Merlin protests, completely forgetting the fact that they have never kept watch while camping.

“It’s my birthday though,” Will shrugs, biting back a laugh at the look on his best friend’s face.

================================================

“In hindsight, maybe I should have kept watch, when we got up the next morning the squirrels had gotten into our food,” Merlin grins, recalling the walk back to the village with Will chasing after every squirrel he found.

Lancelot laughed, “So, what I’m hearing is that we definitely should keep watch.”

“Can you imagine what Gauis would say if we went back without what he needs,” Merlin shuddered, “And I’d have to tell him what happened, too. I need to maintain some dignity, please.”

Lancelot only laughs harder and both men shift closer to their campfire as a cold wind cuts through the night. The flames flickered causing the shadows of the half bared tree limbs to shift eerily and the fallen leaves rustle softly welcoming their freshly fallen comrades.

Noticing his friend’s nervous scanning of the area, Lancelot nudges him gently, “You worried the blue ghosts are gonna pop up?”

Despite the teasing tone, Merlin can sense his concern and he shakes his head, “It’s fine, ‘s a bit stupid, but that story always freaked me out.”

Lancelot frowned as he draped his blanket over Merlin's boney shoulders, "It's not stupid. It is kinda freaky, but I don’t think they’re anywhere near this mortal plane, and even if they did somehow appear” he smiled reassuringly as Merlin glanced at him, “I’d fight them off.”

Merlin looks at him for a moment before a smile replaces the frown, “Really living up to the chivalrous code, aren’t you,” he lets out a small laugh, “gonna keep being my knight in shining armor?”

Lancelot grins at him, “Yes, and as such, I’ll even take first watch.”

“It’s fine,” Merlin protests, extracting himself from the blanket, “I can take it.”

“Merlin.”

“Seriously, Lance, you don’t have to - you’ve been training non-stop and I know how Arthur can be -”

“Merlin, go sleep, I’m taking first watch,” Lancelot rolls his eyes, “I’m used to this, and you deserve a break.”

================================================

“Merlin! The filling is for the pie not you,” Gwen laughs as she smacks his hand away from the bowl.

“I know that,” Merlin sniffs exaggeratedly, “ I am merely testing it, gotta make sure it’s safe for everyone to eat. And, you know,” he carefully snatches the bowl off the counter, “I really don’t think it is, I should prevent a disaster and eat it myself, spare everyone else.”

“How selfless of you, Merlin,” Gwen snickers, “But, I think everyone will be just fine, as long as you put that into the crust now.”

“Don’t say I didn’t try,” he sighs, complying with Gwen’s order.

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

The sky was clear and the campfire crackled softly, sending up translucent streams of smoke that curled into the pale tree branches.

“This is amazing, Gwen”, Morgana’s soft voice tugged Merlin out of the brief reverie he had slipped into, “Next time, you should let me help you?”

Merlin could hear the smile in his friend’s voice, “I’m going to be making another one tomorrow, you’re more than welcome to come,” she giggled softly, “I’m sure today’s assistant could stand to learn some things from you.”

“I am a perfectly lovely assistant, thank you very much.”

“Of course you are, Merlin,” Gwen patted his arm consolingly, still giggling.

Merlin’s reply was cut off by the sudden sound of clattering armor.

Morgana stiffened, then sighed, “I guess that’s my cue to return before I’m missed.” She stood, smoothing out her dress, royal mask sliding back into place, “Thank you for a lovely evening, I’ll see you tomorrow, Gwen. Goodnight, Merlin.”

“Goodnight, Morgana.”

As she slipped into the crisp autumn night, Merlin stared into the familiar flames, absently running his fingers over a pendant rubbed bright by continuous wear, reflecting the amber glow..

Gwen watched him for a moment before gently placing her hand on his shoulder. Turning slightly, Merlin rested his head against her shoulder, taking her smaller hand in his own.

A little ways off, at the end of a faint path a woodmouse happens upon a feast. Two slices of pie and two cups of apple cider, laid out side by side under a willow tree.

================================================

Lancelot feeds another log to the fire and the flames seem to burn a bit brighter for a moment. Their light makes the pendants hanging from Merlin’s neck glow, and the rings from Gwen’s glitter. The red of the fire makes the red of his cloak, draped over their shoulders, a deeper, warmer shade.

A wreath of Aster and Sedum lie under the willow tree with the woodmouse’s feast.

================================================

It’s not a campfire, not really, but it is a fire and it’s autumn and Lancelot recalls uttering these same words under similar, yet vastly different circumstances.

“Merlin, go sleep, I’m taking first watch,” Lancelot cannot mask the worry in his voice, “I’m used to this, and you deserve a break.”

Over the blanket Merlin has wrapped himself in, Lancelot has draped his cloak, but Merlin is too on edge to find his usual comfort in the gesture.

There is one bed in the little house they entered, and it is occupied by the frozen remains of its former owner. But the fire is warm, casting its protective glow to the corners of the room.

They are jerked out of a light sleep by the shrieking of a dorocha, Merlin immediately bringing the fire back to full flame before they run out of the house.

The dragon is a shock to Lancelot, but he takes it in stride, or at least he hopes he does.

After the immediate danger has passed, they feel lightheaded and Merlin starts to laugh.

Sensing Lancelot’s confused look, he manages to blurt out, “Will really was right after all.”

Confusion gives way to laughter, “On both counts, too. Should have kept a better watch.”

If had Kilgarrah cared to listen, he would have heard the hysteria laced through the sound.

================================================

For the first time in years, Merlin lights the campfire completely alone.

Gwen is safe in Ealdor and although he knows she probably has done it for herself, he still sets out her gifts under the willow tree.

The wind cuts through his thin clothes and Merlin shivers. He’d forgotten to bring a blanket and could not bear to touch Lancelot’s cloak. He cannot stop the tears that escape as he lays down the Sedum and Aster flowers he has gathered.

Tonight, the sound of happy harvesters cuts him more than the cold wind and he feels as lost as the yellow leaves it flings around.

================================================

The fire is warm, and a blue eyed man adjusts the camping kettle hanging over it. There is a soft clinking sound as he moves and for a moment something shines brightly as it reflects the flames, before it is covered again by his red scarf.

There is a container on the ground next to him with a slice of pie in it. On top of the container rests a heap of aster and sedum, which he is slowly braiding into a wreath and around him red and yellow leaves fall.

#lance writes #bbc merlin #merlin #lancelot #gwen #will #bbc merlin fanfic #fanfiction #merlin bingo

[carewyncromwell]

“When the cold of winter comes, Starless night will cover day... In the veiling of the sun, We will walk in bitter rain. But in dreams, (But in dreams) I can hear your name, And in dreams, (And in dreams) We will meet again...”

~“In Dreams (cover) by Peter Hollens

x~x~x~x

Atticus Lestrange @cursebreakerfarrier​ and Robert Bellamy were confident the night before their presentation for History of Magic. The two had spent a good two hours at the Three Broomsticks organizing everything -- not only did they keep finding helpful information to add to their presentation in the books Madame Pince provided, but they also couldn’t help but keep taking light, amiable jabs at both the material and each other the entire time. Atticus honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun doing homework, aside from perhaps the essay he’d done earlier that year for Professor Lupin on banshees. Lupin had actually gone so far as to say Atticus would make a fine Defense Against the Dark Arts professor himself someday, which made Atticus feel very proud indeed.

The night before the fifth year class’s History of Magic presentations also happened to be Halloween, so Atticus allowed himself to indulge in a few more sweets than he might have otherwise. His father always tried to curtail his sweet tooth whenever possible, but it was a little harder for him to do that at school, and after how good of a weekend he’d had, Atticus couldn’t resist spoiling himself a little. He noticed Robert and Cecelia Crouch sitting with Barty Gilbert over at the neighboring Gryffindor table instead of their own tables -- Barty was gesturing animatedly as he spoke, but his voice was too soft for him to tell what the three were talking about. Atticus did, however, briefly meet Robert’s eye, and the curly-haired Chaser smirked and gave him a short, offhand wave. Atticus gave a weak wave in return: as soon as Cecelia and Barty turned around, though, Atticus found himself averting his eyes again, unable to look at Robert’s best friend. He felt a little guilty thinking about how Barty had apparently worried he might be lonely...but that, strangely, also made him feel rather sour. Barty Gilbert was the only son of a wealthy Pureblood family -- he would know full well what Atticus’s life was like, if he actually bothered to care about his family’s expectations of him...if his parents didn’t spoil him and let him do whatever he wanted...

As fate would have it, however, that Halloween night -- October 31, 1993 -- did not go the way any student or teacher at Hogwarts had thought...all because of the escaped convict, Sirius Black.

The boys of the Ravenclaw fifth-year dorm were abruptly woken up by their Head of House, Professor Flitwick, who informed them that everyone would be heading down to the Great Hall immediately. Atticus noticed Robert dawdle slightly behind the others -- the Chaser had had to pull on an old, slightly-too-small white undershirt with some holes around the neck, since he generally only wore pajama pants to bed.

When the Ravenclaws all arrived in the Great Hall, they found everyone else from the remaining dorms there too, and the news soon spread -- Sirius Black had actually made it inside the castle and had attacked the portrait guarding Gryffindor Tower trying to get inside. While the teachers searched the school and grounds, the students would remain in the Great Hall and sleep in comfy purple sleeping bags on the floor.

Atticus had never been a very good sleeper -- he’d had insomnia since before he arrived at Hogwarts, but the stressors at school only seemed to make it worse. This was why he noticed right away when -- after the teachers were out of earshot and view -- Barty and Cecelia crept past his sleeping bag, toward the open doors of the entrance hall.

“And where do you think you two are going?” said Atticus very coolly under his breath without getting up.

Part of Atticus cynically thought they might be sneaking out for some sort of late-night tryst...but Cecelia was Hufflepuff Prefect, so Atticus thought, she really should know better, especially with a wanted criminal loose somewhere in the school.

Both Barty and Cecelia gave a start. Upon realizing who had spoken, however, their faces suddenly became much more serious.

“Atticus,” said Barty, his soft voice oddly urgent, “have you seen Robert? Did he come down to the Hall, with you?”

Atticus blinked, taken aback. “Yes -- that is, he did come down with us...”

He looked around. Sure enough, he didn’t see Robert anywhere in the Great Hall.

Despite himself, Atticus felt concern prickling at the inside of his chest. It must’ve shown on his face, since Cecelia said anxiously,

“Will you help us look for him? I mean, you’re a Prefect too...if we get caught out of bed, you can help me vouch for Barty and Robert...”

In that moment Atticus couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less than cover up for Barty Gilbert breaking the rules and putting himself and others in danger...but at the same time, he was only doing it because he was worried about his best friend. And Atticus had to admit, with Sirius Black on the loose, he was a bit worried about Robert being out there, too.

Barty wasn’t about to wait around for Atticus’s answer -- the taller boy had already darted across the rest of the Hall toward the double doors, determined to find Robert. Exchanging a look with Cecelia, Atticus exhaled heavily and nodded, shuffling quickly out of his sleeping bag and putting his muted blue slippers back on so that he could follow Cecelia after Barty.

Barty barrelled down the hallway, overtaking the other two with his much longer strides. It took Atticus at one point dashing forward and grabbing the back of Barty’s gray Weird Sisters T-shirt to pull him behind a column, just to keep a patrolling Professor Sinistra from seeing him.

“You’re going to get all three of us caught, if you do that,” hissed Atticus.

Barty shot a guilty look over his shoulder at Atticus. “Sorry...guess I’m just a little tense...”

Cecelia caught up with them, bringing a hand on the back of each of their shoulders.

“Any ideas of where he might have gone?” she whispered, her hazel eyes full of concern.

Atticus contemplated the matter. “...Maybe he went back up to our dorm. The shirt he threw on did look a bit too small...he could’ve wanted to go get his robe...”

“He wouldn’t have a robe that fits either,” said Cecelia with a shake of her head. “Rob outgrew a lot of his clothes over the summer -- he’s just too stubborn and proud to let either of us buy him larger robes and such. I reckon it’s only because the school pays for everyone’s Quidditch robes that Rob’s Chaser robes still fit...”

Atticus blinked in surprise. “...So that’s why he’s always wearing his Quidditch robes, instead of his usual school robes?”

Noticing Atticus’s expression, Barty actually fixed him with an unusually sharp look. “Rob isn’t the sort to want pity -- and I hope you’ll agree that he also doesn’t deserve any condescension.”

Atticus’s eyes narrowed. “I would never condescend to him for that! I merely...never considered that his family was that bad-off, is all...”

Robert’s rather disheveled appearance did make a lot more sense, though.

Barty’s expression softened visibly at Atticus’s reassurance, instantly becoming much more patient again. He peeked around the statue, watching as Sinistra talked to Professor Sprout.

“I wish I’d thought to bring my Cloak,” he muttered under his breath to Cecelia.

Atticus frowned deeply. “Your Cloak?”

Cecelia shook her head dismissively. “How do you get up to Ravenclaw Tower from here, Atticus? Maybe Rob still headed up that way, even if it wasn’t for a robe...”

Still frowning, Atticus nonetheless pointed. “Up the grand staircase, to the left. It’s not very far from Gryffindor Tower actually, if I’m not mistaken...it’s by the Prefect’s Bathroom.”

“That is close,” said Barty.

Cecelia peeked around the statue and gave the two boys a very pretty, broad smile. “Brilliant, they’ve moved on. Let’s go.”

It didn’t take long for the three to find Robert, fortunately. Ravenclaw’s Star Chaser hadn’t gone all the way back up to Ravenclaw Tower -- instead he’d merely snatched up his sleeping bag and stowed it underneath one of the smaller staircases on the second floor so he could sit on it by himself in the dark. He was very surprised to see that Cecelia, Barty, and Atticus had come after him, and not exactly happily so.

“I’m all right, Barty,” said Robert lowly. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Of course I do!” said Barty. His quiet, charming voice was oddly hard as he towered over his best friend sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Rob, that madman Black ended up just outside my dormitory not too long ago -- sure, I never saw him myself, but he’s still out there somewhere! You think I could’ve lived with myself, if he hurt you?”

“I think I can more than take out a man without a wand,” Robert said coolly. “Reckon Black wouldn’t be expecting anyone to try punching him straight in the mug.”

“That’s not funny, Robert!” said Cecelia, looking very upset.

Barty looked almost more upset, to the point that it was bordering on anger.

“Rob, you know the dreams I’ve had!” he said lowly under his breath. “You know how scared they’ve always made me -- for you to disappear without a word, when you know that -- you have to know that hurts me!”

Atticus glanced at Barty out the side of his eye, confused. Dreams?

Robert suddenly looked very guilty. His dark eyes had fallen to the floor.

“...Barty, I...”

He swallowed.

“...I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I -- I wasn’t trying to disappear. I just...needed to be alone. That’s all.”

Atticus fixed Robert with a very reproachful look. “Under the circumstances, I’d say that’s the last thing you need.”

Robert looked at Atticus as his dormmate bent down to get down on his level.

"Black is dangerous,” said Atticus. “I realize rules have never been sacred to you, Bellamy, but you’re not invincible. I cannot believe you’re really dumb enough to think you could handle Black single-handed -- you’re no show-off Gryffindor -- ”

Barty raised his eyebrows.

“Excuse me,” Atticus muttered, before moving on. “I just mean that you better have a good reason, to want to hide away from everyone else.”

Robert’s dark eyes on Atticus’s were narrowed, but not angry. He looped his arms around one of his knees absently, interlacing the fingers.

“...I just didn’t want to disrupt anyone else sleeping,” he muttered uncomfortably. 

Atticus raised his eyebrows. “Why would you think you’d do that?”

“I can’t cast Muffliato on fat air. It works on bed curtains and walls, but if I’m in a sleeping bag in a wide open room, I don’t have anything I can cast it on. I figured I could at least use it on the bottom of the stairs, sleeping under here.”

Cecelia suddenly looked shocked and dismayed as she bent down on her knees next to Robert. “Rob, have your nightmares come back? Is that what this is about?”

Robert avoided her gaze. Atticus looked from Robert to Cecelia, his eyebrows furrowing.

“Nightmares,” he murmured. “You mean like the kind you used to have in first year, when you claimed you were homesick?”

Robert kept his eyes locked on the floor. He clearly did not want to be having this conversation.

Barty, however, looked from Atticus to Robert and got down on his own knees, wrapping his arms around his friends’ shoulders.

“We’ve...always had weird dreams -- all three of us,” the tall Gryffindor admitted softly. "Sometimes they’re bad, but most of the time, they just don’t make sense. And sometimes, when we meet or interact with certain people...with each other...the dreams become clearer.”

Atticus felt a chill run down his spine. The description sounded scarily familiar. His own dreams where he woke up sobbing in the middle of the night -- that bizarre feeling of deja vu that he experienced around Barty and Robert -- sank their claws into his brain.

“Cecelia thinks that they might be some kind of premonition,” said Barty. “She’s got some Seer blood in her family. But my family doesn’t have any, and Rob’s family obviously doesn’t either. And...well, again, the dreams are weird. We’re often older in our dreams, but the scenarios we’re in don’t make any sense...and even if some people and places appear the same, something’s always off about them. And that’s not even counting the dreams where nothing’s clear at all and you don’t remember any details, except how it made you feel...”

Atticus's face had lost most of its color.

“You’ve...all had these dreams?” he whispered.

His blue eyes darted from Barty to Cecelia to Robert. Robert once again avoided Atticus’s eye.

“Do you...see anyone else in them, besides just each other?” Atticus couldn’t help but ask. His heart felt like it was stuck in his throat.

Barty glanced at Robert, whose shoulders had tensed visibly. He squeezed his best friend’s shoulder in an attempt to show support.

“...Sometimes,” said Barty lowly.

“Who?” Atticus asked, his voice a little more insistent than he’d intended.

Atticus didn’t even realize that his hands were shaking until Cecelia reached out to rest a comforting hand on top of them.

“Atticus,” said Cecelia, her eyebrows knitting together over her eyes in concern, “...have you...had strange dreams too?”

Robert looked up for the first time in minutes, his dark eyes flying up to Atticus’s face and searching his expression. Atticus felt himself swallowing back a lump in his throat -- he couldn’t hold eye contact with Robert too long, and soon his gaze fell down to Robert’s purple sleeping bag.

“...Yes,” he said at last, very softly. “They’re...not that clear, most of the time. I forget most of the details when I wake up...but I remember the feelings. And...when I’m awake, I remember pieces of them again, sometimes, in random situations. Sometimes people seem familiar, or something about them seems familiar...even when we don’t even know each other at all. Sometimes they’ll seem so familiar, and yet one little thing will just be...wrong, somehow...and I can hardly explain why.”

Both Barty and Cecelia looked at Robert. Robert squeezed his knee a bit closer to his chest, his dark eyes locked on Atticus’s face and rippling deeply. He was clearly thinking hard.

“...Have you seen us?” Robert murmured. “In your dreams?”

Atticus winced. He couldn’t look at Barty, so he kept his eyes downcast.

“...I’ve seen Gilbert,” he muttered. “At least, I think so -- it looks a lot like him.”

Barty looked taken aback. “You’ve seen me?”

He shot Robert another covert look.

“...That’s weird,” he murmured.

"I’d say this whole situation could be considered a touch weird, Barty,” said Cecelia a light, but crisp voice that seemed to put an end to the current line of conversation.

She too shot another quick look at Robert before looking around at all of them.

“It’s getting late. We should try to get some sleep...especially with our presentations for Binns due later today.”

Although his brain was still whirling so fast he doubted that he’d be able to sleep a wink, Atticus nonetheless nodded.

“...Yes...we should be at our best.” He tried to offer Robert a smile. “...We are supposed to be Professors Lestrange and Bellamy, in about nine hours.”

Robert despite himself couldn’t help but smile. “...Right.”

“‘Professor Bellamy?’” repeated Cecelia, and her hazel eyes sparkled in delight. “Oh, I’d love to see that -- you’d look awfully handsome in a pair of spectacles, Robert.”

“Maybe I’ll try to borrow Percy Weasley’s,” joked Robert.

Neither Barty nor Atticus could bite back a laugh.

“Rob, lay off,” said Barty in soft amusement. “Just because Percy’s Head Boy doesn’t mean you have to tease him...”

“No, but it does put a lovely target on his back,” said Robert rather cheekily. “Or rather, on his lapel.”

Atticus shook his head, even while grinning from ear to ear. “I take back everything I said before -- you’d make a horrible professor.”

Robert laughed loudly as Atticus used the Geminio charm to duplicate Robert’s sleeping bag three times, so that all four of them could settle themselves down under the staircase together. Once all of them got tucked in, Robert used the Muffliato Charm on the stairs so that any sounds they might made were deadened, and soon they all fell asleep. Even Atticus, tucked into the corner closest to Robert, found himself nodding off.

Amazingly, although Robert had suffered from nightmares constantly for almost five years, he ended up sleeping peacefully until after daybreak. Even more amazingly, Atticus -- who never slept well -- woke up feeling more refreshed than he had in a long time...all thanks to a dream he only half-remembered upon waking up that included a soothing male singing voice and a pair of oddly gentle scarlet eyes watching over him.

#my art #my writing #hphl #hogwarts legacy #golden era #reincarnation!au #bartholomew varney #atticus grimsley #cecelia crouch varney #gahhhh I'm actually really happy with how this drawing turned out! #robert's hands actually turned out so much better than I'd hoped hahaha #but yeah now these four know they have this weirdness in common... #the mystery deepens... #cecelia's pajama pants are based on van gogh's starry night painting since she's an artist! #and barty's wearing an old concert tee and pajama pants with a dragon printed on them #because barty's a magical creatures kind of guy and honestly everybody needs a pair of dragon pajama pants #I'm sure charlie weasley has some #also yeah robert is *toned* hahaha #quidditch star baby

[laserdog10]

Fading Snow in the Flames

Whitley’s entire body screeched in pain, raging fires around him licking the structure of the horrid home he grew up in with wreckage surrounding him. One of his sister’s friends trying to tend to the large wound in his abdomen caused by a large piece of shrapnel, for the life him of he barely recalled her name, Yang was it? Yes that was it, a frankly gorgeous woman of blonde hair and stunning figure in addition to her shining personality or what little he saw of it. His ringing ears managed to pick out her face amongst the white noise.

Yang: Just stay with me okay, I’m gonna get you outta here!

Whitley: Miss Xiao Long... *COUGH*

Yang: Don’t speak, save your energy! I’m gonna...try to remove this.

Doing so made the younger Schnee cry in agony, an ugly sound that had Yang’s heart lurch.

Yang: Alright, pointy metal’s staying in...!

Whitley: Probably for the best, I’d bleed out faster anyhow, heh. *cough, cough*

Yang: How can you be calm about this...

Whitley: Truth be told, I’d honestly take a near death experience over the treatment of my father any day. Seems I bargained more than I wished for.

Yang: ...

Whitley: Guess humor wasn’t meant to be my strong suit. Doesn’t matter much now if my only audience isn’t laughing.

Yang: Please stop, I’m getting out of here. *starts to pick him up*

Whitley: Miss Xiao Long-

Yang: I’m getting you help, Jaune will fix you up just fine.

Whitley: I’m-

Yang: You’re going to see your family...things will be better now that he’s gone, you and your sisters are going to talk...

Whitley: Yang-

Yang: I AM NOT LEAVING YOU BEHIND!!!

He jerked out of his fading vision from her outburst, the warmth of her tears pelting his arm.

Yang: I let too many people leave me...I’m not letting you be the fourth, dammit!

Whitley: Well aren’t you a bleeding heart? *cough* To think that’d someone who barely knows me would care this much.

Yang: *sniff* Grew up with little sister myself, y’know. I’d go to the ends of Remnant for my sister and so would yours.

Whitley: How do I-*winces*-know you aren’t trying to sugarcoat this?

Yang: Take a wild guess who sent me in here to get you.

Whitley: ....but...

All his life he felt his sisters abandoned him in their prison of a home, alone with their awful father and neglectful mother...yet they went above and beyond to do this? It seemed unbelieva-

*CRASH*

More ignited wood fell around them, signaling the brawler to get the hell out of the office and into the hallway accidentally jostling him around some. Hissing in response Whitley clutched his stomach, feeling blood color his hands while Yang caught her breath from nearly being crushed to death.

Whitley: Yang, listen to me, I need you to-*wheezing cough*- take this...*deep breath*...key. Winter told me it was for a surprise for if I were ready, or in case of an emergency. Guess we’re in the latter of it now.

Reaching for his pocket he pulled said key, a small white-blue piece of metal with the Schnee Family Symbol engraved on it. Handing it over to her she took it with curious confusion.

Yang: What’s it for!?

Whitley: Winter said a safe is behind a painting in her room by her dresser, you won’t miss it.

Yang: Okay...*deep breath* I’ll be back, just hang on!

As Whitley lay in the hallway watching the blonde sprint off, giving him time to relax and his adrenaline wearing off. The pain of his wound accompanied by the chill of his lack of blood seeping out without restraint, vision blurring until fading almost entirely.

Whitley: Good...at least now...she won’t have to...*inhale*...see me go.

---

Yang: Here!

Having tossed aside the pointing and opening the safe her eyes laid upon a katana in its sheath, engraved on it was Whitley’s initials, thinking it was for the off chance Whitley chose to become a Huntsman. “They really did care about you ya’ shrimp,” the blonde thought to herself as she snatched the sword.

Yang: Hey, I found the sword, what did you-...

Falling to her knees, all sound around Yang had ceased. The flames, roar of Grimm outside, her breathing. The only thing she could mutter was a single pitiful statement.

Yang: .....at least let me say goodbye, dammit. *sob*

---

Ruby struggled to breathe in the clutches of Salem, furiously kicking the witch in vain to be let free. Her friends pinned by a Grimm in the cold snow and badly beaten from tussling with Salem herself, the latter chuckling at the sight of the “warriors” still trying to fight back.

Salem: You did well in your attempts, girl, but I fear my dear Ozma hadn’t taught you lot much at all.

Ruby: *scoffs* You can take your stupid bragging and shove it uAAAGH!!! *throat gets squeezed harder*

Salem: Have you any inkling of the hell I endured to get this far you insolent child!? If you even think you worthless gift from the God of Light can help you now then you-!

Salem’s speech would’ve continued had it not been the rushing noise of what sounded like a ship engine coupled with the roars of a dragon, lo and behold it was a dragon. Cloaked in the golden-yellow flames of her Aura whilst raging red eyes beamed within the column of fire, a flowing mane of hair whipping in the wind and heat like a candle flame, a gray-blue sword clenched in the teeth of her maw. The snow around the enraged dragon evaporated from the searing heat midst of her warpath, as did her metal arm now replaced with one entirely constructed of a gold light tipped with a claw.

Yang: *growls*

Salem: Just who might you be?

The witch got her answer via a full force punch square in the face. A plume of fire followed Salem in her free-flight backwards into the ground, Yang leapt in the air using her one gauntlet then taking the blade and running it through Salem before she had a chance to recover. Screaming from her partially melted bloody face Salem extended the black nails on her hand and swiped the blade in half, Yang taking the chance to lunge back then immediately follow through striking the Witch of Grimm with the pommel of Whitley’s katana sending her reeling in pain.

Yang: You know, for someone who’s immortal your pain tolerance is shit...

Salem: *spits blood* I’ll flay the skin from your very body, brat!!!

Yang: Try me.

A small fleet of ships overhead signaled the cue to retreat and recuperate which made Salem scowl in fury. Calling off her beasts they disappeared into the foggy blizzard of the night leaving the teams to the frigid night, ships touching just by them as the Ace Ops and Winter dispatched on scene.

Winter: Is everyone all-*gasps*

Yang: ...

Winter: No...

Yang: I tried everything I could, he just... *clenches her fists along with the chipped sword in her Aura hand*

Weiss: Yang? Where’s Whitley!?

Her friend collapsed to her knees clutching the sword of the youngest Schnee, his sisters losing all sense of the need to speak any further.

“I’m so sorry...”

#rwby #ruby rose #weiss schnee #yang xiao long #winter schnee #whitley schnee #salem #rwby frozen dragon #angst #merry christmas everyone and have a good cry from this

[thetorturerwrites]

Puer Deus: Scars

This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @faestae-writes​. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

***

Captured / Hurricane / Sustenance / Liar

Summary:  You stand accused of something impossible.

A/N:  18+ only.  Physical violence; sadism; references to abuse; smut; cutting; biting; bloodletting; lots of blood, ok; lots.  Please take the content notes seriously, and thank you for coming with me on this ride.

Word Count: 7.7k

Day Five

At the Supremacy, Ren marched you from the shuttle and into the bustling hangar.  It was unlike anything you’d ever seen, the sheer scope of it dwarfing entire star systems.  The docking bay teemed with life, with a never-ending bustle of activity. It looked to be anarchy, but you could see order in the disarray, repairs being carried out, orders being given, shuttles and ships so close but quite unreachable.

Ren hooked his great hand around your arm, whirled you in between two ships, and pushed you at a waiting black guard.  Lifting your eyes to this new person, all the blood drained from your face. It was one of the Knights of Ren, the most well-known, blood-thirsty body guards in the galaxy, and they towered over you.  You were dumbfounded, eyes round as saucers, and trembling when the cold voice you knew so well broke through your haze.

“Take her to med bay and then my quarters. YOU are on her at all times.”

Your eyes swung between the two warriors, brow furrowed.  Finally, you understood he was leaving, and you panicked because he’d fixed it so you couldn’t reach for him, couldn’t even stomp your foot to get his attention. He’d taken away every option you had to communicate in this moment except the one he wanted. He had rendered you a muted object to be seen and not heard.  

Your mind reeled, and you balked at this new potential reality.   You could endure his torment because it was him, because he’d been there with you every day, building it up.  But what did it mean that he was turning you over to his thugs? What new torture were you being delivered to now? Groups of angry men together did bad, bad things, and you were a ripe target, a trussed-up gift from their leader.  

The onyx void of a visor swiveled around to look down at you, and you shrank from what you knew to be ice in the gaze behind it.

“And have her sanitized,” his detached tone and robotic voice cut through you.

Your head jerked up and you glared at him, fuming.  He’d all but fucking bathed you himself; and now, he was sending you to be sanitized like a filthy prisoner just come in from the desert.  You did stomp your foot, irate and finished with being ignored, only for your knees to buckle as the pain shot up your calf and into your hip.  Ren didn’t catch you this time, and you collapsed onto the hangar floor, barely able to stare at his boots.

Then, he was gone.

Ren was gone, and you were literally feet away from space with no way to get there, to get away.  Benumbed, you stared at the gaping mouth of the landing track, unable to even put up a fight when your new guard manhandled you into standing.  Somber, you stared at the stars just beyond your reach and wondered what it meant that you weren’t trying to fight your way out of this predicament. 

Ren had left you here, confident that you weren’t going to get away.  Was he equally confident that you wouldn’t be able to bring yourself to even try?

The guard’s gloved hand felt along your arms, working out where and how they were tied behind your back, and you winced at the rough pinch over the still-aching bite marks.  Settling for a grip at your shoulder, they used it to walk you away from the departing crafts. You fixed your eyes upon the brightest star in the narrow field and held it until you were hustled around the corner and away, pleading with the unknowable that this wouldn’t be the last time you’d see stars.

The next hour was the most humiliating you’d endured in your entire life, and you knew, with absolute certainty, that this was punishment for your insolence.  

At the med bay, you were inspected but never untied.  The attending physician blushed beet red at the state of you, but she never spoke as she checked over and cleaned your wounds. Bacta patches were adhered to the soles of your feet; and then, she fled the room as fast as she could.  You sneered in her wake, angry that she didn’t ask about the bruises, cuts, and spots littering your body, angrier that she accepted your imprisonment without so much as brief indignation on your behalf.

From there, you were dragged through familiar territory, the cell block.  The expanse was shocking, dominating, and you felt tiny, wholly irrelevant in comparison.  This was the sort of prison, you thought, where people disappeared, swallowed up by misery, never seen or heard from again.  Sobered back into survival mode, you picked out details, making a list of where the door was, what numbers were painted on the walls, how far you’d come from med bay.

Jarringly, you were tossed into a processing room, and a team of cleaners descended upon you like scavengers.  The chemical smell was overpowering, the very air infected by it, and your eyes and nose burned. Untrussed and untied, you were chained to the wall and blasted with a water cannon so strong you choked at the frigid punch.  You were thoroughly, harshly cleaned from stem to stern, hair and teeth washed and brushed, and checked for stars-only-knew-what. You seethed with contempt, though, when the razors descended, shaving away all hair save what sat upon your head.

Fucking sanitized.

Your Knight guard brushed away the paper uniform brought for you to wear and re-tied you in the same manner Ren had left you, tucking the cloak back around your shoulders.  

You boiled with rage, ready to murder every single person on this galaxy-sized ship and dance on their bones.

You were led through a staggering number of turns before being jostled through the door at the end of a long hallway.  It was blessedly dark on the other side, and you sagged slightly, relieved. You were becoming more dependent upon the dark than you liked, but the harsh overhead lighting of the ship proper made you queasy, as though it cast too much light upon your lack of modesty, the way you unfurled under Ren’s hand.

Hastily, you were pushed into a chair and tied to it, the reprieve on your wrists and arms was so brief you barely had time to wiggle your fingers before being anchored down.  Taking their orders very strictly, the guard posted at the door, standing right at its center on the inside of the chamber. Any hope you had of doing, learning, or stealing anything withered. 

The guard stared straight ahead, the helmet visor betraying nothing, just as Ren’s betrayed nothing.  The Knights of Ren were legendary for their destructive ability, but you didn’t know that they would anticipate their Commander’s will so exactly.

The rest of the day passed exactly like this.  You couldn’t speak, and your guard didn’t speak.  From your observations, you couldn’t even positively say they breathed.  The only aberrations to this stand-off were when you were released to eat and relieve yourself, which you had to ask for by pointing to the adjoining room, the very gesture feeling foolish.  It was allowed, but you were shadowed into the bathroom like a fucking child, and you bristled with humiliation.

You were finally dozing, chin tucked into your chest, greedily snatching whatever bit of respite you could, when the door slid open with a faint buzz.  Not a single word was exchanged between Ren and his Knight; and a moment later, the guard was gone.  

Drawing in an already exasperated breath, you lifted your head to fix a defiant stare upon your captor, prepared to refuse and deny and fight, ignited by the need to kick and snarl after what he’d put you through today.

The sight of him astonished you to utter stillness, however, stealing any desire you had to rampage your way out of here.  He’d come in without his helmet entirely, and his shock of jet black hair was swept across a flushing, red forehead.  

And his face, his beautiful, magnificent face, was bisected by dark surgical tape, running from forehead to cheek and disappearing down into the neck of his shirt.  Your eyes trailed it, and his lip quivered when your scrutiny lingered there.  

But it was his eyes, his wild eyes, that strangled your breathing.  He was seething, barely containing the war within, and his pupils were blown wide, the only thing marking his turmoil.

“You did this,” he sneered.

You were thunderstruck.  How could you have done this when you’d been right here the whole time?

He moved further into the room, setting a small kit down onto the table, and you tracked him, already fortifying your mental wall and willing your breathing into an even pattern.  You pressed your lips into a firm line at his silence, biting down on your tongue as he neared, invading your every sense with his presence. His smell, that smoky tinge of death, was tainted by something medicinal, foreign; but then, you thought, so was yours.

You lifted shining eyes up at him when he stepped in front of you and wrapped naked fingers around your throat, unable to stop the immediate gulp his touch kindled. You could feel him tremble with barely-repressed rage, and you clenched your fists tight, refusing to show him how his unnerving silence affected you.

Loud, wailing Kylo Ren promised a beating.  Silent, stalking Kylo Ren promised to flay you alive.

You stared, eyebrows drawn together as you studied this new accentuation of his face, wanting to reach out to touch it, trace it.  It occurred to you, suddenly, alarmingly, that with a wound like that, he was hurt elsewhere also. You had no earthly idea why you should care if he was unharmed, but you sought the reassurance anyways, wide eyes seeking evidence of further injury hastily.  Your gaze lit upon a hole in his shirt, but the skin beneath seemed to be already patched. 

He was intact, mostly unharmed, solid and strong as ever you’d known him to be.  Visibly relieved, you dropped back against the chair. When you looked back into his eyes, he was studying you, a strange look upon his face.

“The only wounds I’m bearing right now, trader, are this one,” he gestured at his cheek, “and yours.”  

His voice was liquid acid, and you knew that your face relayed your confusion because you had no idea what he was talking about.  Arching a brow at you, as though annoyed by your stupidity, his long, agile fingers tugged his shirt overhead, and you stopped breathing.  Your mouth dried out completely, remembering the last time you’d seed him shirtless and the graphic thoughts you’d had trapped beneath him as he force fed you.

He pulled the dark fabric away from his shoulders and tossed it across the room. You followed it with your eyes, watching it slide against the floor.  Your thighs clenched tight to quell the ache already building, and you bit down hard on your tongue. You were absolutely convinced, terrified, that if you looked back at Ren, you would be lost to the world, content to let this statue of a man consume you in every way he saw fit.

Ren reached for you, tucking his fingers around your cheek and pushing his thumb into your watering mouth, the idea of his naked torso having tempted your glands to respond. Your chest buckled, torso hunching slightly, because that action, that simple thing, set your cunt to throbbing, never ceasing to electrify you.  He used that crude handle to turn your face to his and stroked the underside of your tongue, playing in the pooling saliva. You still looked away, eyes fixed on the jumble of fabric in the corner.

With any other person in the galaxy, you thought, this could have been a tender moment, something delicious between lovers.  His low voice could be promising the stars, demanding sinful sighs and moans. But he was talking to you, and you had defied him the last time you were together.  You had also, apparently, wounded him in battle.

“Look at what you have done.”

He crouched before you, and the command in his tone brokered no resistance.  You obeyed, blowing out a nervous breath as you fixed your eyes upon his face, unwilling to concede more than this, idiotically defiant.  Ren slid one hand up your neck and into your hair, fingers curling tight against your scalp. He tipped your head down, forcing you to his will, to look where he wanted you to look.

Ren had lain his forearm in your lap, the lightly-freckled underside turned up to your survey; and on it bloomed a large, mouth-sized bruise, punctuated with small squares of red and purple.  

Teeth.

The thought dropped on you like a bomb. Horrified, you wrenched out of his grasp, but he simply switched one harsh hand for another and showed you the similar affliction on the other side.

You’d never gotten the chance to inspect your own arms, but you knew, to your bones, that his bruises perfectly matched the ones he’d left on your body.

"One blow to this arm," he spat, "one fucking blow was all it took for you to do this to me."

He shoved his face into yours, and you could feel his feverish breath.  You lifted your unbelieving face towards the ceiling, tears suddenly trailing down into your temples with the emphatic shake of your head.  No, you thought, you hadn’t done this.  This was one of Ren’s manipulations, a ploy to get you to concede you should be punished for his failing in battle, that your very existence somehow distracted him from a world away.

You jerked against the tight lashes at your wrists and tried to stand.  If he wanted to take his ire out on you, you would endure it, but it wasn’t your fucking fault, and you weren’t going to accept his blame. 

“Is this why they sent you here? Infect the First Order from the inside and wound me before I ever set foot outside my ship?”

His voice faltered in its ire, and he stood, tearing bits of his own ceiling away, baring a beam that could be wrenched apart and manipulated into a hook. Absent his attention for the moment, you were trying to push against the polished floor to scoot your chair away, but you couldn’t gain enough purchase on the overly-polished tiles.  He turned his eyes back to you and halted your plan with a malicious look.  

A tight grip into the cloak tore it away from your body, and you jumped, flooded with mortification at everything that had been done to you today.  Your body flushed from ears to toes, and every inch of you tightened under his perusal. You pressed your knees and thighs together, hoping to hide the melting of your insides, but your breasts swelled high and tight, sore and starving for attention.

He stepped behind you and untied your arms, the rope sliding against each groove left in the sore skin until you hissed.  Circling, Ren planted his boot upon your pelvis, forcing your thighs apart and pressing down into your pussy. You grunted and contracted under the weight.  

Flustered by his nearness and your body’s response, you pushed at his knee, twisting beneath him, only for him to capture both of your hands and re-bind them.  In seconds, you were hauled onto injured feet and hung from the new metal hook in the center of Ren’s chambers, toes barely sweeping the floor.

Eyes glazed and head tipped back, you grappled with self-control, your body familiar with this pose, this swirl of anticipation and dread.  You forced your chest into a pattern of deep breathing, preparing for what came next. You knew, too well, there was nothing you could tell him to satisfy his paranoia. He would take his proof, his retribution, from your flesh.

When Ren next stepped into your line of sight, he was wearing only loose trousers, all hard form and vigor, having abandoned anything else that could impede his destructive impulses.  Charcoal tresses framed his pale face like a halo, and the tape splitting the skin only amplified the sculpt of his nose and brow. 

He was wide, hulking, long, and lean, a gorgeous, gruesome monster. You drank him in openly, brazenly, knowing that this might be the last time you were offered the option.

You could all but smell it in the room, hanging in the air like heavy spice.  Kylo Ren was about to lose himself to his sinister desires. The Child God was coming to demand your invocation, your absolute worship.

Drawing in a steadying breath, you met his assessment head on, watching as his dark, angry stare travelled over every inch of you and flushing crimson in its wake. He grazed the backs of his fingers down your arm, over the tight tip of one breast, across the soft swell of your belly.  Holding your stare, he slid his wide hand between your thighs and cupped your newly-shaven sex. You were convinced he could feel the clutch of your pelvic muscles, but you dared not look away.

His nostrils flared, and he drew in a shaky breath, fighting to maintain his discipline.  He didn’t look away, fixing his eyes upon your parted lips, and your insides smoldered, dripping down onto his fingers.  

His upper lip curled, and he leaned in, his face hardly a breath away. You desperately wanted to hear his voice, knowing full well it would only be a threat, a promise of the persecution to come.

“Today is the day you break.”

He all but whispered it in your ear, and a bolt of terror shot fissures through your calm veneer.  Kylo Ren had never lied to you, and your guts twisted with that absolute fact. You tried to wiggle away, but only swayed in your bondage. You tugged and tore at the column of rope lashing your wrists, desperately attempting to yank down the bit of rebar he’d hung you from.  

Futile; all of it was completely futile.  

Abruptly, Ren sank to his knees, and you gaped, confounded and mesmerized by the sight of him there.  He was exquisite, and he looked up at you with such a hunger it stole your breath.  

His fingertips skimmed up the calf of your right leg, and you shuddered, skin raising in gooseflesh, shocked he was capable of such a soft touch.  You watched as he lifted your leg and pressed his mouth to the inside of your knee, inhaling the scent of you and trailing his lips in until they lingered at the inside of your thigh.

You couldn’t think, couldn’t process. Kylo Ren was kneeling before you, his face inches from your hot, leaking core, and you could do nothing but watch in abject horror.  

No part of you thought what came next would be pleasant, but your body still hoped for it, yearned for him to bury that angelic face between your legs and suck the life from your body.  

Your breath hitched as he bent your knee over his shoulder, shame diffusing your body a new shade of pathetic as a long bead of arousal dropped onto the floor.  His lips parted, hot breath dancing; and suddenly, your instinct kicked in, and you knew what was about to happen.  

Ren’s mouth opened wide, and he sunk into the vulnerable flesh of your inner thigh, all teeth and jaw.  You had to look away, it was too tantalizing, the sight of his dark crown latched onto your body tempted you to wicked thoughts, and you shook. 

Tipping your head back, you wailed, gruff and warbled, as he chewed on your trembling leg.  You could feel the pulse of your heartbeat amplified by his dental perimeter and him lathing his tongue across it before spreading his jaw wider to suck in more of your battered flesh. Tears that would only fall at his bidding rose, and you thought he would absolutely tear the offending chunk from your body.

When he finally pulled back, you ripped your leg away, barely suppressing the urge to kick at his shoulder.  Heaving, you hung from the ceiling, a bruised and battered tapestry to decorate his otherwise drab surroundings. 

A troubling haze slipped over you and settled, familiar and scandalizing; your body burned for him, blossomed beneath his brutality as though you were created for it.  You turned your face into your arm, hiding the scarlet flush as a new surge of your arousal perfumed the air.

“One more, girl.”

Nononono.

Shocked back into awareness, you shook your head, looking down at him through a watery lens.  Your mind was screaming, straining to comprehend. This wasn’t even the planned torture. Your face darkened, brow knit, as you realized that you were still making up for yesterday’s escape.

He knelt there, silent and watching you, waiting for the comprehension to spread across your face and stroking the mark he’d just left on your thigh with his thumb.  Concentrating on his features, you realized you couldn’t feel his touch. The area was so lost to numb throbbing that you couldn’t pick out the slide of his flesh, and you lamented the loss.  

Biting down on your tongue, you looked up at the ceiling, gripping the pieces of rope you could get to tightly, bracing yourself for the next punishing bite. There was no escape, only endurance.

He tugged your left leg into position, and you squeezed his shoulder tight, unable to stop yourself from trying to change his course, to beg out a few more seconds before the unthinkable happened.  As with your arms, knowing what was coming made it worse, and you tried to use the leverage of his shoulder to lift up, push away, anything to prevent him from claiming the skin with his vampire kiss.  

Impatient, Ren captured your body in both hands, sliding one to the outside of your thigh and gripping tight.  The other ventured between your legs, and he nudged his thumb into the searing wet of your slit, crooking it in.  He splayed large fingers over your ass, pushing your body forwards.

Your brain stuttered, discerning that he’d hooked his thumb into your pussy to hold you the same way he often hooked it into your mouth. Your reaction to this obscene restraint was immediate, consuming.  You whimpered and gulped in air, open-mouthed and laboring. You were suspended in this building vortex, both electrified and gutted.

The storm was coming, but you were already soaked to the bone.

The ferocious bite rocked you to your core; it was violently intimate and shockingly effective.  You wailed, knee squeezing his shoulder tight, body fighting to decide whether to draw him in or kick him away.  You were entirely untethered and floating, lusty and lost to all else but what was happening at your legs. His relentless teeth pulled at your skin, tugging it taut.  You could feel his growl when the skin tore, offering up pinpricks of blood to appease his appetite.  

The sum of your existence was reduced to the parts of your body under Ren’s assault, thumping and pulsing with what could only be his heartbeat.  Yours was lost, silenced with all the rest of the world.

In suffering...

You heard the loud snarl as he wrenched back from your leg and shot to his feet, but it was far away.  He wrapped angry, tense fingers around your throat and squeezed, his stare bitter and demanding, but you were on the way to gone.  

Four days of build-up, four days of unsatisfied lust and anticipation of violence had tipped you into flight, and you blinked up at him dazedly, drifting to where he could not reach, wholly apart from your body and tucked far down deep into your mind, where the darkness was your savior.

There is… 

“You haven’t suffered nearly enough yet, puppet.”

Trading one slit for another, he hooked his thumb, tart with your taste, back into your teeth and jerked your head forward.  He slid long, thick fingers against your tongue and into the back of your mouth until your body wretched and heaved of its own volition. You spat onto the floor on a pained wheeze, and he dropped his hand to your chest.  Pushing on your back to arch you up, Ren ground punitive knuckles into your sternum until you cried out and thrashed, your mouth impotently begging him to stop.

When he was satisfied that you were here and present, Ren snatched your chin into a harsh grip, forcing you to look at him, groggy and shivering but aware.

“You’re staying right fucking here.”

The venom in his voice stoked your panic, but there was no place to hide. Your body throbbed from chest to heels, every inch of you bearing Ren’s stamp of ownership.  

Shaking away the last of the reverie, you drew in a fortifying breath, closing your eyes to concentrate on rebuilding your dark wall, separating what he wanted from what you needed.

His large fingers stretched across your cheeks, squeezing and pressing in until your teeth parted; he shook your head until your eyes opened and pinned you with his stare, shooting daggers when your eyes strayed to the surgical tape.

“This body is mine,” his voice was steady, quieter than before but full of sharp edges, rattling you.

Your lips quivered, but you couldn’t respond.  Every inch of you was at war, and it played across your ruddy face. You wanted to be near him, to have his callous hands on your body.  And you wanted to be away from him, to be free of men who would use and abuse you.  

He would never understand, you reasoned; and further, he would never care. 

The little black case he’d brought in flew into Ren’s outstretched hand, and he produced a single, silver scalpel. Your eyes flitted to its curved tip and narrowed, dulled, too acquainted with what came next.  Closing off, you slumped against the rope, abandoning all desire to feel, to be here, to struggle.  

You should have known better; no man wants an object that fights back.  You’d given him more credit than he deserved; there was nothing new here.

You had thought that Kylo Ren was unique, his ability to ignite you different, unexpected, and unnerving, but he was just a man, exactly the same as all the rest.

“You’re disappointed,” his voice slid over you, caustic, surprised.

He tucked the very tip of the blade into your chin and forced your face up, looking down at you with dark scrutiny.  You didn’t look away, but you also didn’t give him the fear he wanted. You couldn’t; he had played his hand, and you’d already survived 100 scalpels.  

Lifting the blade tip from your chin, he wiped the drop of blood against the swell of your lower lip, washing it red. He studied your face, leaned back to further inspect your body. You saw it in his eyes, the moment his decision solidified in his mind.

“You remember who gave you every one of these scars, don’t you? Every moment?”

He knew that you did; this was just another manipulation, a calculated move to draw you out. Ren’s warm hand stroked the largest scar at your thigh, the battle-tough pads dragging. It was a gentle touch, meant to stir you back into responsiveness, but you had nothing else to give him.  You looked away, not wanting to see his beautiful, bitter, frustrating face.

“Who gave you this one?”

His voice was low, nearly a whisper as he brushed the puckered skin at the front of your thigh, fingers tracing the edges.  You jerked your chin away, eyes pinching tight shut, your brain overrun with the image of Santcha and his hunting knife, the first time he’d hobbled you for displeasing a customer.  You spent every day and night fighting to keep the images from bubbling over, and Ren was now dredging it all back up.

“Look at me,” he crooned, clearly aware you'd remembered, exactly as he wished.

Grimacing, ready for him to get the fuck on with it, you lifted your eyes to his just as his scalpel broke skin at the bottom of the scar.

Your lips curled on a curse, but you were unable to move lest you do greater damage yourself. He held your leg in place and opened the scar from knee to thigh, retracing the path of the original wound. You felt the viscous heat well up, bulge out, and spill over to slowly trickle down your leg. 

He captured your face, smudging blood onto your chin, and growled out the word.

“Mine.”

You suppressed a shudder and chewed the inside of your cheek, dark lashes sweeping down against mottled cheeks. You were certain it would be weeks before you could walk properly again, so fixated was Ren upon your thighs.  

In the next breath, bloody fingers pushed past your lips and flattened your tongue, catapulting you into a sputtering cough. Jerking your head back, you shot an angry look at your tormentor, gnashing your red-stained teeth.

“You fucking look,” he snarled, pressing his thumb into the freshly-made wound until you whimpered and twisted.

Gasping as his grip loosened, you fixed your eyes on his ebony nimbus, tracking individual curls and waves to blot out the idea that perhaps you’d been wrong.  Ren wasn’t intent upon making new scars, contriving some nonsense excuse for hurting you. He was hurting you because he wanted to, because he delighted in watching you suffer; and he was doing it in exactly the way he had been since you arrived. 

He was using your body against you, corrupting what was already there and claiming it for himself.

At your back, he traced the most prominent scar jutting along your shoulder blade with his fingers, drawing your mind to conjure its origin. You didn't want to think of the time Santcha had stabbed you with a piece of twisted metal, but you were unable to force down the memory. 

Burning tears raced down your cheeks, emulating the blood that now ran down your back, Ren’s blade having claimed a new patch of your skin.

The terror you’d lost came trickling back in.  You were covered in scars, head to toe; and if he meant to cut each and every one open, you certainly would not survive the endeavor.  

Your chest seized, and you had to fight to breathe, panic rising up into your mouth, swelling your tongue.  His hand settled on the ripe curve of your hip, his touch somehow steadying, galvanizing, and you realized you were also brimming with something unknown, unnamed.

Who better to offer this bloody supplication to than Ren?

You quaked with the internal conflict, wanting him to stop this pain, this pointless exercise, and wanting him to free you from the burden of your past. He would never make you clean, but he could wash away the memory of every man before him by spilling every drop of your blood on his shining floor.  If you died here, at his hand, you would be free of them, free of him.

Suddenly, the argument you’d been having over whether or not it was cowardly to die in this captivity was ended.  If Kylo Ren wanted to snuff out your life by obscuring every person you’d ever known, every painful moment of your life, you would willingly let him do it.

Your Child God demanded a sacrifice, and you would answer that demand.

“Child God,” he mused, lips at your ear, “Is that what you see?”

Sternly, you shook him from your head, determined to die just as you’d lived for so long, alone with yourself.  

As though he felt your wall go back up, Ren picked up his pace, slicing all of the scars along your upper arm open one after another.  He didn’t care who gave them to you now, only that he would annex every single one into his bloody kingdom. You wept, feeling that every new cut, every new gash inched you towards the divine, the unknowable.

Sluices of claret life ran down your arms, legs, back, dropping onto the floor with a tick tick tick.  He brushed his hands through it, caressing the sticky curves of your body. He nudged the tip of his nose into it, inhaling the rich scent and groaning in return.

When you could bring yourself to look,  you gaped at the ravenous look rolling across his features. He looked to be starving, long-parched and empty, and your offering, your pliant suffering was the only thing to satisfy his famine.

Reaching up, he pressed the whole of his blood-stained hand at your face, the stick of his palm settling over your lips. You shuddered, the heady iron scent overpowering your senses.  Choking on a sob, you arched up, pressing your face against the demanding cover with a groan, remembering how he liked to feel the vibration of your lips.  

You were drunk on his brutality, his absolute ownership, a delirious fog settling over you, and you nodded against his palm.

Yes, keep going...

An appreciative sound rumbled in his chest, and you opened glassy eyes to stare at him.  His scalpel and fingers were covered in your blood, and you watched them lift up to the delicate flesh of your inner arms and carve open each indentation he found, first right and then left.  You moaned and shook, a wave of heat surged through you from toes to eyelashes, and you yearned for it.

Please...

Ren was meticulous. He and his demanding lancet searched out every crater, every scratch that had ever been made upon your body and reclaimed them, anointed them with his will.  

Your blood pooled on the overly-polished floor, crimson and slate blending together to make raven puddles through which he trudged, leaving inky footprints wherever he stepped. 

He made your body holy, carving out every sin done upon you until there was only him.

Kneeling, he brushed away crimson trails to uncover the large scar at your abdomen, and you jerked awkwardly, a modicum of strength rising and making you suddenly alert and fearful.  You couldn’t give him that, couldn’t have him know that, and you tried to twist away. 

No, please no...

He demanded that you look again, but his voice was muffled, far away, and you blinked slow and heavy, trying to focus as he expected.  His thumb brushed the distorted, puckered scar, and the memory of your Master plunging the hot knife into your young belly, purposefully ending any chance you would ever have at bearing fruit, sprang to your mind.

The world stilled, and you watched Ren blink at your middle for a moment, as though he were startled by it. You thought that he was the most beautiful you’d ever seen him, kneeling in and covered by your blood, weapon in hand, ready to obliterate you.

Turning your face into your bloody arm, you bit down upon the abused skin, flooding your mouth with liquid iron, just as the blade stabbed into the corner of the first and most difficult of your punishments.

You concentrated on the track Ren’s blade took, searing the picture of him on his knees before you into your mind, imagining that, in another universe, you would lay your hand upon that scar and think of him and not what was taken from you.  

You screamed into your arm, wailing in utter anguish until you could only heave for breath. Your head fell back, and you sagged in the bonds, struggling to remain conscious in the face of such overwhelming torment, feeling, and blood loss.

Why did you...No god wants a broken thing… 

You hadn’t noticed that he stood, nor had you felt that he was pushed up against you, flush against your gory mess. His strong hand slid into your hair, cradling your scalp into his rigid grip.  Ren lifted your head and nudged your dirty chin with his nose. His dark eyes searched you over, barely clinging to reality and so far down the deep cavern of yourself.

“Look.”

He commanded softly, almost reverently, and you struggled to comply, letting the weight of your head fall to him completely to support. You had no strength left to obey bodily, but you did manage to open your heavy, heavy eyelids and look at him. The pleased sound you were rewarded with vibrated against your breast and bolstered your desire to stay here in this moment, to wallow in this depravity a little longer.

You marveled at him, at the way such torture ignited him.  His eyes burned charcoal black, and his cheeks were flushed, sweat prickling his hairline.  He was brushed and spattered with your blood, and it was stark against his white skin, as though you’d bled upon priceless marble. He nudged your chin again, cupping one large hand around your backside and tucking the length of your body into his.

“One more,” he murmured, eyes falling to the stretch of marked skin at your throat.

You swallowed on reflex, but you were too far gone to tremble, to be afraid. This was the moment, you thought.  

Yes, you offered, slit my throat, end all of this.  

Yes, you begged the unknown, make all of this go away, spill my traitor blood and let me slide into the void.

You pictured Ren cleaving open your throat from ear to ear and wondered if he would finally be satisfied.

Staggeringly, you could still feel the scalpel, feel it rest at the juncture of the two slash marks stretching over your larynx. You pictured Santcha holding you down, staring at you with hate-filled eyes and spitting into the gaping hole he’d just left at your throat. 

Your lower lip trembled anew, curled up with emotional upheaval, and you breathed out a tremulous breath, somehow grateful you were going to die at this madman’s hand instead of anyone else’s.

The sharp edge pierced your skin, and you broke, just as he said you would, wracked with sobs that reverberated as little more than raspy hiccups.  Every single moment, from that day to this, had been excruciating, exhausting. You had learned to survive, to endure, but every single day had been so interminably hard.  

And here was the end, you thought, and you were relieved, eager.

You howled your pain, heartbreak, and anger out into the air, abandoning all desire to be strong, to hold back.  You were about to expire, and this was your death rattle, this expulsion of everything you’d been forced to swallow down.  You gave it all back to the universe.

Accepting your fate, inviting it, the last vestiges of your fortitude bled away, rolling down your body in thick droplets, mingling with sweat and tears.  You had been rendered, completely, a dirty, crippled, pathetic wretch of a thing.

Kylo Ren had annihilated you, and you were grateful to him for it.

Wrecked, you collapsed, hanging limp and nearly lifeless from Ren's rafters.  You skirted the edge of unconsciousness, vacillating between light and dark, sound and silence.  Your body, your spirit, was ready to let go, but Kylo Ren, it seemed, was not ready to allow it. 

Tossing the scalpel to one side, Ren wrapped both hands around your hips and lifted you into his body. He curled your legs around his waist and instructed you to hold on, repeating himself until you registered it and squeezed, slowly hooking your feet together behind him. Standing on his toes, he lifted your bound hands from the bar and draped your bloody arms around his neck, bearing the slump of your weight against his chest.

The feel of the bed at your back was both wonderful and disastrous.  Your exhausted, aching body wanted to sink into the mattress forever, but your traumatized, flayed skin didn’t want to touch another thing ever again.  You grimaced and grunted softly, displeased by all of the jostling but unable to do anything about it.  

You felt Ren’s fingers at your cheek, smudging already bloody skin with new streaks, and you wondered if he would burn your body, hold you a funeral, or just toss you into the compactor.

“Come back here, puppet.”

The feel of his hard knuckles on your sternum again pinched your face into a crumple, and you choked on a breath, recently mobile hands coming up to clutch at his wrist, trying to push him away.  You huffed, panting and wheezing until you realized he was knelt between your thighs, looming over you and blotting out everything else.

I’m here. Fuck, I’m here...

You pushed at his hands again, not recognizing that you were throwing your thoughts out for him to catch, or how his eyes flashed something dark, demanding. You looked up at him and watched as he licked his lower lip, smearing red into pink.  

He reached for the rope still binding your wrists together and slowly lifted them over your head.  Your heart rate kicked up, lips parting on a shiver.

Ren shifted so that he was lying beside you, one hand stretching the rope high over your head, taking note as each movement of your body spurred a cut into a new line of angry red.  His eyes raked over you hungrily, and you pressed your legs together tight, willing yourself not to undulate or beg for more of his touch.

His hand came down at your chest, fingers pressing into a gash just beneath the collarbone until it produced a new offering For him, and you hissed, squinting in an attempt to process the sting.  

Scooping up the viscous reward, Ren dropped his hand to your breast, brushing bloody fingertips across your nipple, lubricating the hardening tip so it rolled and slid between his fingers.  You gasped and arched upwards, abandoning your decision to not do exactly that, and pressed further into his touch.

“You do suffer beautifully, puppet.”

His voice was nearly tender, and you stilled at this new name.  He had said it before, but you had been too enthralled to notice.

Again, he pushed down on your weeping laceration and gathered up the thick fluid. Lifting two fingers to your mouth, he slid them past your chapped lips, feeding you the very blood from your veins.  Your hips did rock for him this time, your eyes rolled back into your head, and your tongue curled around his fingers ardently, mouth reverberating on a moan. 

Stealing his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop, Ren dipped his head and licked at your lips, drawing a lewd whimper and a jerk against your restraints that you didn’t get more than that.  He practically purred at your display and brushed your nose with his. 

It didn’t occur to you that he was distracting you until you felt the fingers that had just been in your mouth push into the gaping wound at your thigh.

It was sinful, vulgar, and you shook with the realization that he was stroking the wound slowly, up from the bottom, the way you imagined he would stroke your pussy. You surged forward into a shameless arc, straining to be nearer to Ren’s chest, his face, anything that was right fucking there but so far way.

Please…

The growl rumbled in his chest, and your hips danced for it, punching down into the mattress to create a perfect cradle for his body, his hand. His strokes became more insistent, fingers pushing into the wound’s edges, and you grimaced and twisted, imagining the way his fingers looked dipping down into your blood. 

He had done nothing but torture you since he’d returned to this room, and you were practically coming undone beneath him, the exquisite agony of it all inching you nearer and nearer an orgasm you were certain would eviscerate you, empty you of everything but Ren’s perilous legacy.

Each brush and push of his fingers loosed a new surge of blood, until you were sure his whole massive hand was covered.  He was watching you shake, your eyes wide as you descended down into this frenzy with him.  

He leaned down to your ear at the same moment his bloody fingers pushed between your swollen labia, sliding into your aching cunt with no resistance at all, slick from your debauched need and the blood he’d fucked from your thigh.

“Cum for me, puppet. Now.”

Shot into the heavens, there was nothing for you to do but obey on a cracked, scratchy wail. Hot sparks sizzled across your brain, and your body spasmed, clenching impossibly tight around his thick, pumping fingers. Battered thighs spread apart, the neglected chasm of your pussy opening wide for his command, and you quaked in deference to his order. Your hips rode that manic wave, circling and bucking until the tempest crested, leaving you to stunted tremors and spotty vision. 

You slumped against the mattress, debased and exhausted.  Tears burned your eyes, and you shook your head, positive you couldn’t endure any more.  Ren’s fingers slid from your core, and he fed them to you again, coated with your slick and gore, the pungent, coppery taste sliding along your tongue. 

He tucked a finger beneath your chin, lifting your face and gaze to him, and waited, still and patient, until your throat worked and you swallowed. You burned with humiliation and lusty abandon, wondering if there were no limits to which this man could push you.

You blinked at him, eyes crinkling, concern blossoming. You couldn’t really see him clearly anymore, the details blurring to just a shadow, a figure hovering over you.

You were fading fast to darkness.  Part of you wondered if this would truly be death this time, if Ren would actually let you go.

“No. You are mine."

His voice, his claim, was the last concrete thing you registered, and you nodded your agreement, let loose a satisfied sigh, and slipped into oblivion.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo x reader #kylo ren #kylo ren x you #kylo x you #puer deus

[incorrectunrulyprincesses]

Underland’s Unruly Princesses: March of the Witch Hunters (aka the crossover) chapter 7

Ember IV

Later that evening Rosalind, Mum, Stayne and I gathered in the great hall for our usual "family" meal. We were hardly family, well, a perfectly functioning family, that is. Rosalind took her usual spot to the left of Mum, Me to her right. Stayne sat across from us, sided by all the courtiers.

As we ate, Mum and Stayne got into conversation about possibly raising a Red Armada of warships and sending them off to other lands, in hope if overpowering them, taking them over, and adding them to Mums Underland empire. I listened carefully, as it had always been an interest of mine to learn to sail the seas.

After a while, Mum, being as unobservant as ever, took notice that neither Rosalind nor I were wearing our royal jewels.

"Girls, where are your cwowns?" she asked. Ros shoveled food into her mouth to avoid answering the question.

I eyed Rosalind curiously.

Clearing my throat, I filled my fork full of tadpoles. "I set them off to be polished, is all," I said, the quickly shoving my mouth full of food. "My rubies require a good shining," I added. Rosalind swallowed, patted her mouth daintily with a napkin and nodded in agreement.

Mum nodded. "Always assuring you girls look your best, well done, Ember."

Thankfully she had not noticed our gown change. Soon dinner was over and she was heading up to her chambers, Stayne in tow. Rosalind and I watched them as they ascended the staircase.

"Disgusting," Rosalind remarked. "We'll probably have another sibling soon." There was utter disgust in her voice.

I cringed. "Dear Underland, I hope not. I think we are all she needs," I explained. The idea of Mum having any sort of intimate contact with any man turned my very stomach. "Let Mum have her fun, but I forbid there be another child in this castle."

Rosalind laughed.

With a couple hours left until nightfall, Rosalind and I went to my chambers and began a heated card game.

"What do you think she'll do when she finds us gone in the morning?" asked Ros. "I couldn't live with myself if Mum hated me."

"If you that concerned about it, you don't have to come. As much as I'd like you to go with me, you don't have to," I explained to her.

"No, I want to go. I want to stop the witch hunters and save Auntie Winnie. I can't let you go on your own."

I smiled. "Alright then. I'm glad your up for it. And Mum won't hate you, if anything she'll probably wonder where I've run off with you. I may lose my head when we get back," I teased. I loved my Mum.

"If she hasn't killed Aunt Mirana yet, she won't kill us." Rosalind reminded. "And she hates Mirana. Besides, you're her heir, and I'm her baby."

That was true. As much nonsense as Aunt Mirana had put her through, Mum still managed to curb her temper and not have her executed. However, that did not mean that Mum was completely level-headed when it came to family. Her first husband, the King, Bertrand, had been a bastard to her, and she had had him killed long before she even started relations with my father. He had been her own husband, he misbehaved, she killed him herself. It wasn't as if she hadn't thought about executing Aunt Mirana, it's that she harbored enough self control to not actually go through with it.

Besides, she needed me and Rosalind.

When the dark swept over Underland, and we could tell that the castle was quieting down, I went to the window and opened it. Sticking my head out, I surveyed the ground below me. The torches that lined the castle had all been lit, but there were no guards in sight. Quickly I snatched my cloak from its rack and threw it around me. I grabbed Aunt Winifred's spellbook from my bed and shoved it down my corset as far as I could.

"Tie the bedsheets, sis," I instructed.

Rosalind tied the sheets to each other to make a ladder so we could leave out the window.

I tied the very end of the sheets around my waist. I would lower myself down first. "I'm going to go first, Ros. Don't come down until I say it's safe."

Ros nodded.

I had done many a risky things in my lifetime, but lowering myself from a fourth story castle window was something I never dreamed of doing. The whole time I descended down the side of the wall, I bit my lip nervously. I held my breath in until my feet touched the flat of the ground.

Once I was sturdy, I gestured up to Rosalind. "C'mon, Ros, your turn." Rosalind gingerly lowered herself down the tower.

As soon as Rosalind was safely beside me on the ground, I gestured to the stables and I took off at a jog. Rosalind followed, running as fast as she could laced up in Nellie's corset. I whipped open the stable doors and I headed in, not caring that the building was dimly lit by only a few lanterns. A few of the horses made a small nicker at our presence but otherwise hardly made a peep.

My black mare was in the very last stall. We had no real time to tack up properly so I hoisted myself onto her back right in the stall. I walked her out into the aisle way while I watched Rosalind struggle up onto the broad back of her grey and white stallion.

"Got it, sis?" I asked.

"I think so," she replied, finally mounting her horse.

She rode out next to me.

"Are you ready?" I asked. She nodded.

"Then let's shred some dirt," I said, wailing my heels to my mare. She bound forward.

Her hooves pounded heavily on the cobblestone. Rosalind got her horse to canter out of the stable as well, her blonde ringlets flying behind her as she rode. I held my breath as we rounded the outer courtyard, and headed for the main bridge out of the castle. At one point I thought I heard a guard yell something behind us, but I swallowed hard and hoped for the best.

After awhile, we reached my father's house. Ros hesitated as she dismounted. "Are you sure we can trust him, sis?" she whispered.

My father lived in an old windmill out in Trotters Bottom. It was rather dark out, the only light source being the candles that flickered in his windows.

"I trust him more than I trust Aunt Mirana," I told her.

"Fair enough." she shrugged. She rapped sharply on the door. "Hat man! Wake up! Open the door in the name of the princesses!"

I knocked on the door myself with a hard fist. "Father! I need you!"

It actually got to the point where Rosalind and I were both pounding on the door simultaneously. Our rapping became so intense then when the door opened, we both fell face first inside the windmill.

"Dear Underland!" my Father cried. "Ember? Rosalind? Have you any notion of what time it is?"

"Owww," Rosalind said.

"Father," I said, pulling myself off the floor. "I am well aware of what time it is. But I need your assistance right now."

With his big brows, he gave a curious look. "With?" he asked.

"We need to get out of Underland to stop a bunch of witch hunters from destroying the realm as we know it," Rosalind explained.

"Yes, father," I declared. Without asking, I went into my father's sitting room and plunked down on his settee. Rosalind sat in a chair next to me.

"Now, tell Me, what are you babbling on about?" My Father asked us.

Sighing, I relaxed in my seat. "Aunt Winifred informed Mum that there are Witch Hunters afoot. They are determined to end anything magical, alien, anything wondrous. You know how unique Underland is compared to Above. If the Witch Hunters get the upper hand, all of Underland will be lost." Ros put her feet up on the ottoman.

My Father moved across the room and sat beside me. By all means, he wasn't the sanest person in existence, but he had a good heart, and that's all that truly mattered to me. He hadn't known me my entire life, only the last five years or so, but he had done his best to be the best Father he could. That was more than I could say for Stayne. Stayne was Rosalind's father, and a bad one at that.

"You need to get Above, is that it?" my father asked after a few moments of silence.

I nodded. "Yes."

"And what of your mother?" he asked

Rosalind and I looked at one another.

"She doesn't know," I stated.

"We're not supposed to leave the castle until further notice." Rosalind clarified.

He took another few minutes to ponder. Somewhere on the second floor of the windmill, a cuckoo clock sounded off. Finally, he let out a big sigh.

"Although I detest you running off and getting into Underland knows what, you are twenty-two now, and I suppose I can't ask you not to do what your heart tells you to." He eyed Rosalind for a minute and I saw her possum in her chair. "If you want to go Above, then I will show you how to get there. However…" he rose from his seat and he towered over me. His vibrant green eyes shifted to the dark red they took on when his temper spiked. "You are not to tell your mother who took you," he said in his thick, scottish accent.

"Deal," Rosalind and I said in unison.

#fanfiction #the crossover #march of the witch hunters #into the night #princess emberess #princess rosalind #red queen #iracebethofcrims #knave of hearts #ilosovic stayne #mad hatter #tarrant hightopp #alice in wonderland #alice through the looking glass

[searchingwardrobes]

Early Leaf’s a Flower: 4/11

Now we reach the part of the story that has me nervous even though I am immensely proud of it. Emma and Killian will be separated for a bit here in the middle, but I just need ya'll to hang with me and trust me, okay? This is where the "fate" part of the summary begins to come into play.

This is also when Emma meets Neal and Killian meets Milah. I am writing these relationships more along the lines of being young and making immature decisions rather than villainizing Neal and Milah. In canon, Neal and Milah were both significantly older than Emma and Killian (which is an interesting parallel I have never thought much about before, come to think of it), but in this story, all four of them are the same age (17). There is no relation whatsoever between Neal and Milah in this story. Neal is also just Neal, not Bae. In other words, he has no connection to the fairy tale realms. He's just another runaway teenager.

I have to once again thank the mods of the @captainswanbigbang​ , and my betas @shippingtheswann​, @distant-rose​, and @optomisticgirl​ for believing in this fic, especially this section and for encouraging me when I doubted myself. I especially want to give a shout out to Ro who encouraged me to write Milah in the way I had envisioned instead of changing her character to please the fandom.

So, fingers crossed, here we go! Got your tissues ready?

Summary: She saw eyes that were the blue of the forget me not peering at her through the cracked door of the wardrobe. He saw hair as gold as the buttercups. Why does the wardrobe keep bringing them back to one another, if fate keeps tearing them apart? Or maybe fate has her reasons …

Rating: M for eventual sexy times, violence, canonical character death, and attempted rape

Trigger warnings: vague references to child abuse (physical and sexual), violence, and positive Millian

Words: Around 7k in this chapter (all chapters will be rather lengthy from here on out)

** Complete and updated every Monday** Also on Ao3

Emma: Age 17

Emma wipes at her cheeks, frustrated with herself for crying. Those people don’t deserve her tears. She plops down on the bench in front of the bus stop in downtown Bangor, Maine, the one bag she always keeps packed at her feet. She’s fully aware of what running away at seventeen means.

There will be no more chances.

That makes her frustrated with herself, too. The fact that a tiny part of her still clings to hope, even now. Even after the words her foster father spoke just this evening.

“We have to think of our children, Emma, if you’re going to act this way.”

“Our” children - and that didn’t include her. They didn’t even wait to hear her side of the story. They never asked why she got into the fight in the first place and never once thought that maybe the pot in her book bag wasn’t even hers. It was clear how they saw her - a screwed up orphan who couldn’t be trusted.

She sees the bus coming towards her, and she snatches her bag. She’s not sure how far she can get on the cash she’s got, but any place is better than here. She never belonged in the suburbs anyway.

All she has in her pocket is a little cash that she lifted from her former foster mother’s purse. Portland - that’s how far the cash gets her, with a few bucks left over. She blows it all on a grilled cheese and onion rings in a greasy diner next to the bus stop. She gets as many refills of her soda as she can before the waitress starts to get suspicious.

A year in the suburbs has made Emma rusty, and she wastes way too much time wandering around the city. She hopes that she’s at least walking with a purpose. The most important rule on the streets is to never show vulnerability or weakness.

It begins to rain, and she needs a place to sleep. The corner of her mouth kicks up in the hint of a smile when she sees what’s a block ahead near the pier. It’s a carnival, closed for the season. Better yet, there’s a gap in the gate of the chain link just wide enough for a slender girl to slip through. Surely there’s a warm, dry place to spend the night somewhere on the grounds.

As Emma walks around the silent carnival, she has to admit that it’s a bit eerie. The swings move subtly in the breeze, their chains clanking. Rain pelts the colorful awnings and drips down the boarded up booths. The rain starts to come down harder, and Emma dashes across the grounds with her hoodie over her head. It’s getting dark fast.

“Hey! Hey, you!”

The voice is jolting in the abandoned setting, and Emma’s feet move faster. She clambers aboard a dark carousel just as the pouring rain turns into a full blown storm. The wind whistles around the still carousel, and lightning illuminates the immobile faces of horses, zebras, and unicorns.

Emma hears the shouts again, almost inaudible over the storm, and she drops down on all fours. She scrambles beneath the feet of the wooden menagerie to the very center of the carousel. She presses her back against the wood, heart pounding.

The beam of a flashlight cuts through the darkness, and Emma claps her hands to her mouth as if that can help cloak her from the light.

“Who’s there?”

Emma’s hands slip from her face as she realizes that it isn’t the voice of an adult. Still, she looks around frantically, hoping to see a service door somewhere. A security guard would call the cops, but another teenager might do something ten times worse to a girl alone out here. Emma can’t see a damn thing between the flashes of lightning, so she crawls along the edges of the center of the carousel, hands groping for an opening.

“Hey, stop!” the voice shouts again, and the light of the flashlight blinds Emma. Hands reach out, but she fights against them. “Stop it, I’m not gonna hurt you!”

The only reason she believes him is because he releases her. Her eyes blink open, but all she can see is a shadowy figure leaning over her. The flashlight is rolling away on the floor of the carousel. The lightning flashes again, just long enough to show her the face of a teenage boy. They’re plunged back into darkness, however, just as quickly.

“You a runaway too?”

“Too?”

“Hey listen,” he says, gently touching her arm, “I’m gonna go get my flashlight, okay? Don’t run off.”

Emma isn’t sure if it’s his youth or her fear of the storm that keeps her where she is. He comes back, shining the flashlight at her feet so he doesn’t blind her again. When he hunkers down in front of her, the light fully illuminates him, and she’s able to get a good look at him: extremely thick, slightly curly brown hair that falls into his dark brown eyes, a boyish smile, and a nose that’s a tad too large for his face. The hoodie he’s wearing is stained, ripped, and soaked from the rain.

“I’m Neal,” he tells her, “Neal Cassidy.”

She simply regards him suspiciously.

“This is the part where you tell me your name,” he adds with a grin.

Emma turns away from his gaze and crosses her arms stubbornly. He sighs.

“I get it, I really do, but you’re gonna have to trust me.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” she snaps.

“If you want to survive, you do,” he replies solemnly. “Now, do you wanna see where we sleep or not? Cause it’s a lot better than this carousel.”

“We?”

Killian: Age 17

“Man overboard!”

The crew of the Jolly Roger rush to get ropes as soon as the words leave Curly’s mouth from where he stands guard in the crow’s nest. It’s a mission they’ve been through many times, fishing lost boys out of the water.

“Starboard!” Curly yells, and they hurry to that side of the ship.

The Jolly Roger, despite being captained by a boy of seventeen, is still the finest ship to sail the seas in any realm, just as it was under its other name - The Jewel of the Realm. And despite its crew ranging in age from twelve to eighteen, her familiar outline shimmering on the horizon is already enough to strike fear in the hearts of the most experienced sailors. For one, the Jolly Roger with its pegasus sail has been known to drop upon a ship from the skies above. Then there are the tales of the demon pirate children and their one-handed captain, stories that have almost reached the status of legend. Enough so that Hook and his crew have to shed very little blood. Their intent is to avenge the death of Liam Jones, and to that end, crippling the navy of King George is enough.

Killian Jones is no longer the navy's disciplined sailor he was a year ago, but more importantly, he also is no longer a boy. Plenty of sailors underestimate him because of his age, but few seventeen year olds carry the experience or the tragedy of Captain Hook.

As for Pan, Killian hasn’t forgotten the day he slashed his brother with dreamshade. Though Captain Hook longs for a more violent revenge, the best he can do for the moment is rescue Pan’s boys from thinning, and occasionally, save a boy from Pan’s shadow. Not all boys come to Peter willingly, and many used to perish in the waves around the island until Hook started fishing them out of the water. Both practices have caused The Jolly Roger’s crew to swell over the past year.

On this particular day, his crew is fishing their latest recruit out of the water. Two in as many days? Pan doesn’t usually send his shadow out that frequently. Then again, he’d thinned a few recently. No matter how hard the pirates try to save them, not all Lost Boys realize the intent of their leader until it’s too late. Hook’s current cabin boy also fought off the shadow just yesterday. Killian grins as he thinks of Pan’s frustration. He lounges against a few barrels, crossing his legs at the ankles, and casually watches his crew work the ropes. He arches a brow as the wet figure flops to the deck.

“Looks like it’s a pirate’s life for you, boy,” he says. As the “boy” stands, Captain Hook finds himself speechless, something that hasn’t happened in well over a year.

The entire crew gasps, for standing before them, dripping wet, chest heaving, and fire in her eyes is not a lost boy but a lost girl. She wears a corseted dress that shows off an ample amount of her bosom, and Hook’s been in enough ports to know a lady of the night when he sees one. Yet she is, indeed, a girl. Not a woman. Anger flashes clearly in his suddenly darkening eyes. His crew misinterprets it as frustration towards the girl herself. They all eye her warily and step a few paces away from her.

Hook draws closer to her, removing his long leather duster as he does so. She lifts her chin defiantly, almost hiding the shiver that courses through her body. He swings the duster towards her, the words of a gentleman on his tongue, but she slaps his hand away. The crew murmurs nervously, but all Hook does is smirk at her.

“You are cold, lass, I was offering my coat.”

“I don’t need your charity,” she spits, “all I need is to find someone, and I’ll be on my way.”

Killian’s brow arches as he regards her. “I see. Unfortunately for you, that will be rather difficult to accomplish without the aid of me and my crew.”

She props her hands on her hips and scowls at him. “Doubtful.”

He draws closer and leans forward to whisper in her ear. “No. Fact.”

She narrows her stormy gray eyes at him, and he’s close enough to see the swirls of blue in them. Some of her dark curls have stuck to her wet face, and he wants to reach out and brush them away, but he refrains. She strikes him as the type of lass who would not welcome such a gesture.

A sudden, high pitched shout of delight breaks the tension, and the girl lets out a cry as she shoves past Killian. She falls to her knees in front of Hook’s new cabin boy, a lad of only six, and envelops him in her arms.

“Mason!” she says, her hard facade slipping away as she holds the boy tight and cries with joy. “I’ve been so worried ever since that shadow -”

“It’s okay!” the boy interrupts with childish exuberance. He rushes over to his Captain and tugs on his hook. “Captain Hook let me join his crew! I’m his cabin boy!”

Those eyes of hers become tumultuous again, and Killian regards her in contemplation. The boy is six, the lad told him so, but surely this girl can’t be his mother. He knows, however, that not all the girls in the brothels are of age, nor are they all there by choice. He guesses the young lady before him would have had to give birth at the age of only thirteen, at the most, if she truly is the boy’s mother.

“What have you been doing to him?” she snaps.

“Taking care of him,” Killian says calmly but with authority, “and a thank you would be in order that we fished him out of the sea.”

“And kept him hidden from Peter Pan,” Starkey, his first mate, adds.

Killian kneels before Mason. “How about you go below and get some hardtack from cook while I talk to your -”

“Sister. And her name is Milah.”

Killian lets out a small sigh of relief. “Yes, your sister.”

“Okay!” Mason chirps as he skips off. Killian watches him go fondly. They normally don’t take on boys as young as he is, but Mason had fought the shadow tooth and nail where most lads his age are eager to see The Neverland. He sees a jadedness in the boy’s eyes that is much too familiar.

Killian stands and turns to Mason’s sister. He bows. “Milah, I believe it is?”

“Yes,” she says coolly.

“If I may have a word with you, m’lady?”

She tosses her hair saucily over one shoulder, yet takes the arm he offers her anyway. He glares at his crew and shouts for them to get back to work. He and Milah stroll to the ship’s bow.

“May I ask,” he begins, knowing he must proceed with caution, “how you managed to follow your brother here?”

Milah sighs and lets go of his arm. “A week ago, Mason told me about the shadow coming to our window. He said it whispered to him about a place where orphan boys can be free. I’m ashamed to say that I brushed it off as a dream.”

“But it kept coming back.”

Milah nods. “It began to frighten Mason, too. He said that the shadow wanted to take him away from me. I told him to keep the window locked. I have to work nights, you see . . . “ Milah trails off, a blush rising to her cheeks as she looks away from him in shame.

“Hey,” Killian says softly, turning her chin gently towards him, “I was sold as a slave when I wasn’t much older than Mason. I know what it means to just survive.”

She holds his gaze for only a moment before turning away, her hard demeanor back in place. “Anyway, I came home one night to see the shadow for myself, but it already had Mason. I lunged for my brother, but it was too late, the shadow was flying away with him.”

“Then how did you get here?” He glances up at the pegasus sail fluttering above them. “It is no easy feat, lass.”

Milah smiles with a bit of pride behind her eyes. “I went to a sorceress in the village square. It took far too much of my coin, but she had the information I sought. She said if I stood before my open window and said I believe, the shadow would come for me.”

“And it did,” Killian says, unable to keep the admiration from his voice.

She nods. “Aye, but the sorceress warned me not to let the shadow take me all the way to the island. I wasn’t sure why, but figured I should listen, so -”

“So here we are.” Killian leans against the railing, admiring the way the sea air rustles her curls. She shivers again, and he once again offers his coat. This time, she accepts.

“Here we are,” she says, suddenly shy. He sees now a hint of her real age.

“How old are you?” he asks gently, hoping she won’t take the question as anything more than genuine curiosity.

She bites her bottom lip as she clutches his duster tighter. “Seventeen.”

His cheeks dimple with the force of his smile. “So am I .”

“Are you serious?” Her jaw drops. “The fearsome Captain Hook is just a boy?”

“A boy!”

She laughs teasingly, then cocks her head at him. “So, does the offer still stand?”

He tilts his head. “Offer?”

“You know, a pirate’s life for me.”

He reaches out and adjusts the heavy coat that rests on her slim shoulders. “Yes, Milah. I think you’ll make a damn good pirate.”

Emma: Age 17

Emma stares out across the dark carnival grounds, pushing the swing around idly with her foot. She hears chains clink behind her and sighs wearily.

“Hey,” Neal says, grasping the chains of her swing and spinning her to face him.

“Hey.”

He searches her face and gives her a boyish grin. “Don’t let them get to you, Ems.”

She says nothing. She searches his eyes, for what she isn’t sure. He tugs the swing forward and captures her lips in a kiss. She kisses him back for a moment, then pushes gently on his chest.

“I’m still mad at you,” she grumbles.

He shakes his head and chuckles, which causes Emma a tiny prick of irritation. He lifts the metal bar of the swing nearest her and sits, his long, awkward teenage legs sprawled out on either side of hers.

“They were just messing with us. They know we’re a thing, so -”

“It was my first time, Neal!” Emma snaps before he can finish.

“It’s not like I planned it or anything,” he shoots back, still with that infuriating grin on his face, “one thing led to another -”

“I was there, Neal,” she tells him dryly.

“My point is, I didn’t mean for it to happen that way.”

Emma blushes as the memories of the night before come back to her. “You said they wouldn’t be able to hear us.”

“I didn’t know you were going to moan that loud.”

She kicks him, but can’t help smiling shyly at his teasing. He leans forward and yanks her swing close to his until their noses are brushing.

“I also didn’t know you were going to cry out my name like that.”

She bites her lip at the heated look in his eyes. Honestly, she had yelped his name more than crying it out. It had hurt at first, but she’s too embarrassed to tell him that.

“I . . . “ she swallows thickly as he presses a kiss right at the corner of her mouth, “Neal, I . . . “

“Yes?” he mumbles against her neck.

Emma stops the explorations of his lips with her hands to his cheeks so she can look him in the eye. “I think . . . that is, I . . . I love you, Neal.”

He smiles brightly then, pulling her close and kissing her with incredible passion. He doesn’t say anything back, doesn’t say he loves her too. She tells herself that’s okay, though. After all, they’re only seventeen.

*************************************

Lily is the leader. Emma isn’t sure exactly how that came to be, though she guesses it has something to do with Lily’s intimidating demeanor. There’s something darkly intense about her, an edge behind her dusky eyes that makes everyone in their crew afraid to question her authority.

There are seven of them, including Emma, forming a loose sort of family. Neal had been correct that first night - the supply warehouse they’re squatting in is a much better place to crash than the carousel. It’s a slightly macabre final resting place for anything broken or out of use, from rusted coaster cars to broken haunted house furniture. There’s even an old red sleigh and a troupe of ten-foot tall nutcrackers when the carnival had apparently been open for the holidays.

Neal was also telling the truth that they’re all runaways. Emma, however, is the only actual orphan. Truth be told, she secretly thinks the rest of them are all a little self absorbed in their reasons to leave home. Neal’s dad apparently had become angry and bitter after his mother’s death. Emma has to keep from rolling her eyes every time Neal tells her how the man “just didn’t understand him anymore.” Claudia and Jamie felt overlooked in a big family, Sam just longed for adventure, and August chafed against his father’s rules. Then there’s Lily, adopted as an infant by parents who she claims never loved her and - naturally - didn’t understand her. The whole “they don’t understand me” thing is a constant refrain, and one Emma is frankly a little tired of hearing.

When Neal had brought her to the group that first night, he’d gone straight to Lily who had regarded Emma, shivering and dripping water on the concrete floor, with casual disdain. Then her mouth had ticked up into a smile that Emma couldn’t quite read.

“Welcome to the family,” she’d told her, and only then had the rest of the group even approached her. They’d each carved out space amongst all the junk, using bits of this and pieces of that to make beds. There wasn’t really a “bed” for Emma, though, so Neal had offered to share his. When Jamie, who is only thirteen, snickered, Emma had blushed and said she’d figure something else out.

“Oh don’t be such a baby,” Lily had snapped with a roll of her eyes, “we already know he wants to fuck you. Emma’s staying with Neal, and that’s just how it is.”

She’d said the last as if it were a royal proclamation, and everyone had scattered to go to bed for the night. Neal’s face had been bright red, and he’d not only mumbled an apology, but had been a perfect gentleman that first night.

But only the first night. And now here she is, in the first real relationship of her young life, and five other kids heard every word of it. It’s humiliating and degrading. Yet Emma knows better than to mess this thing up. Lily’s crew means protection, it means seven kids pulling cons and picking pockets and sharing the spoils. And it may not be the family she’s spent her whole life dreaming of, but it’s better than being alone.

Emma isn’t sure where Neal is at the moment. She’s attempting to get a moment to herself, hidden behind the broken down cotton candy machine that makes one “wall” of the “bedroom” she shares with Neal. Claudia had swiped a pad of paper and some pencils from a discount store yesterday and hadn’t minded sharing with Emma. It’s been years since she’s sketched, but inspiration struck. Her pencil flies across the paper, and when she’s finished, tears sting inexplicably at the corner of her eyes. It’s the wardrobe. She bites on her lower lip and swallows back a sudden lump in her throat. She remembers the sparkle in Killian’s eyes and a bit of sadness sweeps over her as she wonders where he is right now. She shakes her head and crumples the paper in her hand. Why the hell is she thinking about that wardrobe today?

“Emma?”

She jolts and turns to see Jamie standing there. “Neal wanted me to give you this,” he tells her as he hands her a piece of paper.

Emma rolls her eyes as she takes the paper from him. “You can wipe that shit-eating grin off your face, Jamie.”

His grin only gets wider. “Did Claude tell you she swiped some ear plugs for me? She doesn’t want your sex noises corrupting me.”

She jumps up to smack the kid across his smug face, but he darts away laughing before she can reach him. Letting out a frustrated huff of breath, she opens the note he’s given her.

“Meet me at the spot where we first met. xoxo Neal”

Even though the xoxo postscript is a little middle school, she can’t help the smile that fills her face. She heads eagerly for the carousel and finds Neal waiting for her. He grabs her around the waist and kisses her in greeting, and when they part Emma has to catch her breath.

“Where have you been all day?” she asks him.

The grin he gives her fills his face and lights up his brown eyes. “Working on a surprise.”

She smiles back, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. “A surprise? For who?”

He shrugs teasingly. “I was thinking maybe Claudia would like it - ow!” He rubs at where she punched him in the arm, though her indignation seems to only make his smile broader. “Just kidding, Ems, you know it’s for you. Come on!”

Neal pulls her across the carnival grounds almost at a run, and Emma is breathless again when he stops in front of an office door. She quirks a brow at him.

“What’s in there?”

He shuffles his feet back and forth, nervous for the first time. “Um, just close your eyes.”

Emma eyes him suspiciously.

“Please?”

She shrugs and complies. She hears the door swing open, and Neal tugs her hands gently to lead her inside. The door shuts behind her, and she feels Neal pressed up against her back. He leans forward and whispers in her ear.

“Keep your eyes closed until I say.”

“Okay,” she agrees, letting her breath out in a huff.

“I’m really sorry about how our first time went. I should have planned it - made it special. So . . . maybe this will make it up to you?”

He tells her to open her eyes, and when she does, she sees a small, modest office with wood paneling, filing cabinets, and a musty smell. However, there’s also a couch along one wall that Neal has scattered with rose petals and on every flat surface in the room, tea candles flicker.

“Well?” he asks her, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

“I . . . I . . . “ Emma swallows around the sudden lump in her throat. “How did you even get in here?”

She worries that maybe she’s hurt his feelings, but Neal just shrugs. “I picked the lock. It was a simple one with no deadbolt, so . . . “

Emma wanders around the small room, taking in every candle, reaching out to touch some of the rose petals.

“They’re fake,” he tells her apologetically. “The convenience store didn’t have real ones. Oh, and I got you something else!”

Neal reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a key chain which he dangles in front of her. Emma reaches out to take it, smiling down at the round pendant.

“It’s a swan.” She throws her arms around him and gives him a brief kiss. “I love it!”

She wraps her arms tighter around him as he pulls her close. She buries her nose in his shoulder and revels in his embrace. Then, suddenly, a bright fluorescent light catches her eye. Just over Neal’s shoulder is another door, and through the square window in its center she sees something she remembers from her past.

“What’s that?” she whispers as she steps away from Neal and draws closer to the door.

“Oh, that’s the arcade,” Neal tells her, “this office must be for the manager.”

Emma turns the knob and is surprised to find it unlocked. She steps out into the dark arcade, drawing closer to the glass cube that pulses with a neon glow.

“I wonder why that one’s still plugged in,” Neal muses.

Emma presses her palm to the glass and draws closer. Voices from the past drift to the forefront of her memory. Now, decide which prize you want, and focus. Emma remembers the way the game had sparked, how Sarah hadn’t seemed fazed at all. The claw in this machine hangs immobile, and Emma gives a soft gasp as she sees the prize right below it - a stuffed white rabbit with a pink ribbon around its neck.

“Emma?” Neal asks hesitantly.

What if you did have magic, Emma?

I travel to you through an enchanted wardrobe, Emma. And you think magic sounds crazy?

“Emma?” Neal tries again.

“Do you believe in magic?” she whispers, her hand still pressed to the glass, her gaze still fixed on that stuffed rabbit.

Neal laughs. “I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention, but this life of ours ain’t no fairy tale.”

A tear slips from the corner of Emma’s eye and rolls down her cheek. “But there are things that can’t be explained. Aren’t there?”

Neal steps closer and grasps her loosely by the elbow. “Emma, what’s wrong? You’re kind of freaking me out.”

Emma shakes her head, swiping at the wet spot on her cheek. “Nothing.”

Neal turns her to face him, his eyes searching hers carefully. “Is this still about the sex thing?”

Emma can’t help it, she blurts out a laugh. “Don’t worry, Cassidy, you didn’t waste all those candles.”

His pupils widen as he grins eagerly. “Well, I’m relieved to hear that. Although I stole the candles so . . . “

Emma shakes her head and throws her arms around his neck. “It’s the thought that counts.”

“You know,” Neal says softly, rubbing her arms, “everyone’s on edge because the carnival’s off season is almost over.”

Emma sighs and presses her forehead to his. “I know. Lily wants to have a meeting tomorrow to talk about it.”

“What if we . . . took off on our own?”

Emma rolls her eyes. “You can’t be serious. Where would we even go?”

“Well, don’t tell Lily this,” he says, looking around nervously as if Lily might be hiding behind the pinball machines, “but I’ve had a few big scores that I’ve kept to myself.”

“Seriously? How much?”

“Enough to get us pretty far,” he tells her confidently, then he’s yanking her hand eagerly back inside the office. He stops in front of a map of the United States hanging next to a small desk. Grinning broadly, he sweeps his hand across the expanse of it. “Come on, Emma, dream big. Where do you want to go?”

She shakes her head. “You’re crazy.”

He wraps his arms around her waist. “Only about you.” Then he releases her, and turns her towards the map. “Go ahead, pick someplace, and it’s yours.”

“Mine? Or ours?”

“Ours.”

Emma smiles, her cheeks flushed, then she closes her eyes, extends her hand and walks blindly towards the map. When her finger collides with its surface, she opens her eyes.

“Tallahassee,” she reads aloud, then she spins to face Neal, “is there a beach?”

“It’s Florida.” He shrugs. “It’s all beach.”

Emma rests her hands on his shoulders and gives him a slow, tender kiss. “So we’re doing this?”

“Yeah. Tallahassee it is.”

****************************************

Emma really doesn’t like riding in the back of this van. Or more specifically, her stomach doesn’t like it. She moans and rests her head on Neal’s shoulder.

“Are you okay?” he asks her.

“You two aren’t naked back there are you?” Jamie asks in a loud, obnoxious voice.

“Shut up, you little shit!” Emma yells back.

Correction, Emma doesn’t like being in this van at all. This ugly, avocado van from the early 80s that smells like a sickening combination of pot and urine. Neal had said they were going to head off on their own once the crew left the carnival, yet here they are. They’d had a fight about it, but Neal had insisted that they needed a bit more cash. Lily had a big con planned, and once they pulled it off, getting to Tallahassee would be child’s play.

Emma’s stomach roils, and she scrambles over the three rows of bench seats to the front passenger seat. She almost pukes all over Jamie, which would have been great karma, come to think of it. She plops down next to Lily, who’s driving, and quickly rolls the manual window down. She sighs in relief once the cool air hits her face.

“Car sick?” Lily asks.

“Yeah,” Emma sighs as she presses her temple against the side of the window.

“Well, you can stay up here with me.”

“Thanks. Where are we going, again?”

Lily grins as she glances at Emma, then back to the road. “All the ski resorts up here are closing up for the summer. The people who own cabins up here are loaded. We can squat in style until fall.”

Emma narrows her eyes. “But Neal said we’d be flush with cash.”

Lily gives her that icy look that says she finds Emma incredibly naive. “Of course we will. Before we head out, we’ll clean the place out. We’re talking major electronics - TVs, gaming systems, DVD players.”

“Okay,” Emma says warily.

“Just you wait,” Lily assures, “it’s gonna be incredible.”

****************************************

On her third night in the vacation home in the mountains, Emma wakes up to a flashlight blinding her eyes and questions being shouted at her. As the cops escort her down the stairs and out the front door, she sees that the others have cleaned the place out already. Nothing but wires stick out of the wall in the family room where the tv, vcr, and gaming system had been connected. She’s barefoot and in a pair of pajamas that she’d found in the master bedroom drawer, but none of the cops seem to care as they put her in the squad car. She’s not handcuffed, though, maybe because she was too disoriented to resist.

Emma sits there in the back seat, cursing her stupidity. She should have seen this coming the moment Lily smirked at her that first night. There were so many signs that the girl was a complete narcissist, and Emma had missed them all. How could she ever think Lily was her friend?

Emma reaches into the pocket of her pajama pants and clutches the small white stick she’d slipped inside before going to bed. Why she’d put it there, she doesn’t even know. She shouldn’t be surprised that Neal bailed on her after the way he reacted when she’d told him. He’d literally recoiled from her, his face pale.

Well, they’d taken care of her, hadn’t they? The expensive silver from the dining room slipped into her bag was an especially nice touch. A clean break from the girl who was nothing but a burden.

After all, what crew of teen runaways wants a pregnant seventeen year old?

Killian: Age 17

Killian’s eyes blink open drowsily, and he doesn’t feel particularly ready to get out of bed. He shoves his pillow under his chest, groans, and then reaches out to pull Milah close. All he feels is empty sheets. He rolls over to look around the cabin, and there she is, clad in her shift, her dark curls a riotous mess down her back. She’s standing in front of the wardrobe, running her fingers over the intricate carvings that cover the doors.

“How did you get this?” she asks.

Killian hops up out of bed, wrapping the sheets around his waist. “It’s um, always been here, even back when this was a naval ship.”

“What do you even keep in this thing?”

“No, don’t!” he shouts, slamming his good hand against the door before she can open it. He isn’t wearing his hook, so the sheets he was grasping tumble to the floor.

Milah looks him up and down appreciatively and smirks. “Though I like the view better without the sheet, why are you so jumpy about a piece of furniture?”

“I um . . . I just . . .” Killian snatches up the sheets and holds them in front of himself while he turns and presses his back to the wardrobe. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. This wardrobe - it’s magic.”

Milah’s eyes widen. “Magic? How?”

“It opens a portal to another realm.”

“Really?” she replies, skeptically. “Prove it.”

Killian blinks rapidly, his brain scrambling for a reply, but all that comes out is one word. “No.”

“No?” Her hands are on her hips, and her glare could curdle milk. “What are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything!”

“Then why are you blushing?”

He feels his cheeks heat even more under her icy stare. What’s he hiding? Only that he checks the wardrobe every day? That despite the fact that he cares deeply for Milah, he still sometimes wonders where Emma is and if she’s okay? He feels so nervous under Milah’s intense stare that he stumbles sideways when she shoves him in the shoulder.

“Milah!” he shouts as she flings open the wardrobe. He lets out a relieved breath when all that’s inside is an empty rod for hanging clothes.

“Is this some kind of joke?” she demands when she whirls back to face him.

Killian collapses on the edge of the bed and reaches out a hand to her. “Come here, and I’ll tell you.”

She eyes him warily but sits anyway. He runs his hand nervously through his hair, unsure where to begin. He finally decides to just start at the beginning when he was ten. Once he starts talking, he can’t seem to stop, and he tells her everything: his crush on Emma, the white rabbit, even the kiss. When he finally finishes, he looks at Milah sheepishly.

“I’m sorry.”

Milah smiles softly and cups his face gently. “Why? Because you loved someone before you met me?”

Killian blinks rapidly. “Loved?”

She shrugs. “I mean, it was puppy love, maybe, but it was real. And pretty cute, actually.”

He tilts his head in surprise. “Really?”

She brushes a kiss to his cheek. “Really.” She looks back over at the wardrobe. “So you were nervous that I might end up face to face with her. With Emma?”

Killian rubs his face. “Aye, I suppose.”

Milah laughs. “I guess that could have been awkward, especially since you’re wearing nothing but a sheet right now.”

Milah’s eyes turn a darker shade of gray as she runs her hands over his chest and pushes him back down on his cot. He was nervous six months ago when their relationship first turned physical. Milah was obviously very experienced and was used to men, not boys. Yet she told him as he held her close in the afterglow that before him, all she had known were men who took from her, often violently. He was different.

Still, there was a part of Milah he felt that he could never quite reach.Her homelife had been difficult and became worse once her mother remarried. However, she had never told him exactly what life had been like with her stepfather. All she would say was that the man had planned to marry her off to a local farmer when she was fourteen, so she’d run away. The thing was, she’d taken Mason with her. Killian knew there had to be more to the story than that.

It felt as if Milah was holding back when they were making love, too. She was definitely teaching him things, and he certainly didn’t mind that. It was more that she seemed to get uncomfortable anytime Killian tried to initiate anything. She wanted to be in control, so he let her. As long as she felt safe, that was all that mattered.

Besides, it wasn’t as if he had much to offer her. A seventeen year old boy with a mutilated stump instead of a left hand leading a crew of kids. Milah took to being a pirate naturally, however, wielding a sword and fighting just as well as the rest of them. There was even a type of manic joy on her face when they overtook a crew, as if she were getting vengeance on every man who had ever touched her.

Emma had always been a mystery to him, but it was because her entire existence felt like a fantasy. Milah was a mystery to him in a different way. She confused him and fascinated him in equal measure. She was a deep well, jaded and wounded, that he wasn’t sure he could ever plumb even though he wanted to. Thoughts of Emma Swan, though they still plagued him at times, seemed to belong to an entirely different boy. A boy he wasn’t sure still existed.

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#cs ff #csrt #captain swan rewrite a thon #cs neverland au #cs canon divergence #magic wardrobe #soul mates #angst #childhood sweethearts #slow burn