#BUT HE ALSO reminds me so much of my brother. hes so prickly too n so similar to kim in his absurd

[119sigh]

#kim kitsuragi #disco elysium #de #i've been reading up a lot on how kim's a prickly bitch. and honestly its true. but honestly i dont dislike it. #a part of me finds it extremely endearing #but i also know id get so annoyed bc hes such a spoilsport #BUT HE ALSO reminds me so much of my brother. hes so prickly too n so similar to kim in his absurd #and sarcastic unflinching humour. #so maybe thats why i find him so charming #anyways dont fuck w kim kitsuragi

[jonspurpleskirt]

Sharing Comfort

A/N: This is for @archivalpride. Prompt was “Sharing Clothes” and “Pre-Canon” so I wrote a fluffy piece to celebrate the quiet moments of trust. 1.7k in word length. No warnings apply.

___

Jon did not make friends fast. Most people he found to be too intimidating, boring or exhausting and not many knew what to do with his sudden info dumps and sharp comments that shot out of his mouth seemingly at random.

He'd been alone in Research for a long while because of it and happily so. Things had changed when Tim had joined the Institute, though. Tim had come into the library and sat down opposite Jon with a thunder cloud hanging over his head and pain in his dark eyes. He'd been quiet and snappy in a fake cheerful way that screamed undealt trauma. At least to Jon, who seemed to be the only one to feel the vibes of "Leave me alone" and "I'm grieving" that Tim gave off in a constant stream.

Having Tim as his desk partner was an intense experience despite the way they only ever nodded to each other in greeting at first. But it was also intriguing. A mystery. Jon loved mysteries.

The instances he had ever willingly initiated a conversation with a stranger could be counted on one hand. Which marked the day he tapped Tims shoulder - after roughly two months of co-habiting - to tactfully ask him what he was groaning about as a very special day indeed. They steamrolled into friendship from there, both personalities clashing in the best ways possible.

Jon pulled Tim into nerve wracking research expeditions, Tim flirted them out of being arrested a few times, they went out for drinks and karaoke and movies and stayed late nights to crack nutty cases of supernatural bullshit together.

This went on for months. A nice, comfortable new routine. Jon wasn't alone anymore. And Tim broke out of whatever had pulled him down so much, becoming more cheerful and flirty by the day. Which didn't matter to Jon because Tim would always come to him the most, would always seek out to partner up with Jon and would defend his prickly personality to his dying breath.

And then Sasha joined them. She came from Artefact Storage, which made her a prime target for every curious researcher in a five mile radius. Tim and Jon included. Alright maybe they were the worst of the bunch.

Although Jon only thought of himself as a partner in crime in this one. He had been dragged along by Tim, after all. Sure in the end he had been the one to ask the most questions, but that wouldn't have been the case if he had just been left alone to be antisocial in front of his laptop.

Sasha and Tim, much to Jons chargin, hit it off within the first few seconds. And ever since then their cozy two-someness had turned into a group effort. With specially leverage put on the word "effort".

"Morning Jon!"

Jon let out a deep, rumbly hum, voice not up to the task of supporting words this late in the- He glanced at the little clock at the bottom of his screen. Ah... early in the morning.

With a laugh that was far too cheerful however you would describe the current hour, Sasha sat down next to him. She leaned in to look at what he was working. He leaned away to get her out of his personal bubble.

Her legs brushed his and the rustling drew his gaze downward. She wore a thick wool skirt, long enough not to go against the dress code. It was a somewhat dull navy blue and fell down in enticing waves around her crossed legs.

It looked very soft and comfortable. Jon itched to touch it. Instead he rubbed against the stiff fabric of his own cream coloured dress pants.

"Would you mind?" He snapped at her.

"No. You spelled 'aboriginal' wrong."

"Thank you for your insight. Don't you have anywhere else to be?"

"Don't you?" She shot back, light and quick as though they were just bantering and not fighting over the right to sit at this table.

Sasha huffed at his glare and slid a cup of something steaming over to him. "You keep staying so late that I can buy you a drink at the asscrack of dawn and be sure you're still here to consume it hot. I'm not usually one to judge anyone's sleep schedule. But I'm judging your sleep schedule."

"And yours is any better?" Jon muttered, taking the offering and peeking inside. Black tea with a bit of cream and hopefully enough sugar to rot his teeth out of his mouth. He needed both the coffein and the sweet energy source.

"I'm getting at least two more hours of sleep than you do on a daily basis, so I'm good."

"Tim would have both of our heads if he knew."

Sasha put her hand on the table and stretched out her pinky. "I swear secrecy if you do."

With a snort Jon linked their pinkies. "I'll hold you to that."

So... Maybe Sasha wasn't that bad. She was a little aggressive in her befriending techniques, Jon mused. At least he hoped the early morning chats and cups of tea and coffee were that and not an elaborate plan to get rid of him via slow poisoning. But she was about as curious as Tim and Jon and her skills with computers were very happily exploited by the both of them. So Jon eventually had to admit that she was actually a very nice addition to the group.

Not that he could have ever said no to their friendship. Tim and Sasha put together were a maelstorm of affection, sucking Jon in with a force he had no chance to defend against. And before he knew it they had successfully gotten him accostumed to friday nights at the pub and saturday mornings in their flats, smashed together on a couch or a bed or a mattress depending on who had had the misfortune of playing host that week.

Jon hadn't been this comfortable since Georgie. And that wasn't only the booze talking. It was one of those nights where they ended up leaving the pub early to lounge around Sashas massive sofa instead. Jons head was swimming within a blissful haze of tipsiness.

He was slouching over one end of the couch, head tilted just so that he could watch his two friends bicker. The words didn't really register, but the noise was nice and their expressions were funny.

Without his conscious saying so, his gaze slid down to Sashas leg area. She wore a very eye catching, fluttery red skirt this time around and the way the warm glow of the ceiling lamp was reflected in the material was mesmerizing.

"Oh Jonny boy, don't you know staring like that is rude?" Tim half-joked as he noticed.

Sasha slapped him on the shoulder. "Shush you there's like zero sexual longing in his gaze, Tim. You don't need to go all protective big brother on me. He just really likes my skirts."

"They look comfy." Jon muttered, sinking deeper into the couch.

"Awww. Jon. Jon my love. My friend. My buddy." Tim scooted over to him, nearly face planting on the floor in his eagerness to slide into Jons side. "Is this jealousy I hear?"

"No. Did you just degrade me from lover to lowest friendship tier?"

"Oh I beg to differ." Tim sang, ignoring the question and making Jon scowl harder.

An arm got thrown over his shoulder and Jon was tugged into Tims side, relaxing into the tight hold against his will.

"You know if you didn't make it a sport to buy the most uncomfortable clothing ever, you wouldn't need to glare at Sashas fashion choices all the time. Making other people think things about your intensions."

"Fuck other people."

Jon waited until the surprised laughter of his two friends ebbed down to speak again. "I wanna be comfortable too..."

"Say no more. Sasha to the rescue."

Tim and Jon both whined as she hopped off and darted away into her bedroom. She hadn't been part of the cuddle pile, but her presence was still dearly missed. Thankfully not for long because a few minutes later she reappeared with a long, purple skirt.

"Here you go mister. Go on try it on."

Trading places with her Jon didn't hesitate to shug his trousers off and slip the skirt on. Tim wolf whistled behind him and Jon dutifully showed him a finger. The yelp he heard shortly after told him that Sasha must have taken more direct approach to disciplining Tim.

"Bad boy. I picked that colour for a reason."

Jon flushed at the reminder that Tim and Sasha knew. That they knew and accepted him and even went out of their way to make him comfortable.

"I may not be allowed to touch, but I can still appreciate beauty when I see it."

"Do you need glasses, Tim?" Jon couldn't help but ask while he settled back down.

It was his turn to be slapped on the shoulder. "Nu-uh! No self depricating jokes in my household!"

"Yes ma'am." He scooted over to Sashas side, marveling at the slide of the soft material against his legs. "Anyway. Touching yes. But no sex, only cuddles."

Sasha laughed in delight as she pulled him closer so he could stretch out, the two of them nearly shoving Tim off the couch.

"Wait, wait, wait Jon you're definitely not comfortable yet!"

"Hm?" He frowned at the renewed shifting, jeez everyone was being so squirmy today.

"Dress shirt? Really? Wait a sec."

Tim ended up finding a truly attrocious night shirt he had stored in one of Sashas cupboards. It was rainbow coloured, but at least it was made of a soft cotton and about a size too big on Jon.

"Awww Jon you're adorable!"

"Timothy Stoker don't you dare take a photo."

"Fine, fine. But I will remember this day forever."

It turned out that he didn't need to. The next time they were over at Sashas Jon asked to borrow their clothes again and the next time after, and the next time after that, too. It kind of escalated from there, clothes mixed together until it was hard to remember who owned what.

And that was perfect. Because the most comfortable clothes were always the ones that belonged to his friends.

#tma #archivalpride #my writing #jontimsasha #jonathan sims #tim stoker #sasha james #week one #prompt: sharing clothes #hope i'm doing this right #can be read as friendship #or platonic polycule #i honestly have no clue where to draw the line #fanfic

[certifiedskywalker]

Can’t Leave You - Diego Hargreeves

Anonymous said: Hi N! so idk if you watched season 2 so i don’t wanna spoil too much!! But maybe if you can pretty please write Szn2!diego falling for y/n in the 60s and trying to convince her to maybe come back with him? or idk! freedoms is yours to write! :) miss you and your talented writing!!! hope you’ll be back soon

AN: Alright so this is a SHE/HER fic and there is CURSING in this. If you guys want a gender-neutral or HE/HIM fic with Diego, let me know! I’d be happy to write! ALSO….TUA Season 2 SPOILERS.

“Shit!”

“Sorry! Has to be done!” Diego let out another grunt before he shifted away from you. “Hey, I’m not done yet.”

“Yes you are,” Diego returned, scooting to the far side of Elliot’s bed. He hated the fact his blood now soaked into the sheets. The spots of red were a reminder, sharper than the pain. His father’s face as the knife plunged into his flesh would leave a stain; one way or another.

“So you’re just going to bleed out slowly in my brother’s bed sheets? Or maybe it will get infected and that will take you first. Risky, but up to you. Personally, I’d just sit still.”

Slowly, Diego turned from his side to his back and looked up at you, unamused. He laid in silence for a moment, taking in your features. You met his eyes and Diego felt the hurt ebb. Reginald hadn’t raised the Umbrella Academy with religious leanings but Diego could only describe you in that moment, looking down at him with a stern kindness, as angelic. 

“For Elliot’s sister, you’re very-”

“Watch it,” you said in warning. You reached over to the wound on his abdomen. “He may be strange but I love him. And I’m not against doing this.” You pressed down on the raised skin around Diego’s wound. He let out a soft yelp and pushed your hand away. Perhaps not so angelic...not in the traditional sense at least.

“The Hell was that?”

“Follow through. Now hold still.”

When you reached over again, your touch was gentle. So soft that Diego wondered if you had undergone some sort of training. He would have asked but, with your bedside manner, he knew better than to speak up. Instead, he watched you to distract himself from the pain.

Gauze, slightly rough, rubbed against the wound as you worked. At times it felt like sandpaper scraping along his flesh. Yet, Diego kept all his attention centered on you. Since landing in the 1960s, Diego had seen an ugliness. Grime and crime lingered around every corner.

Or maybe that was just paranoia. Maybe his time in the, as Five so charmingly called it, ‘nuthouse’ wasn’t entirely unfounded.

Either way, your presence was refreshing. You were honest and, despite the prickly exterior, Diego could see that you were gentle underneath. With a brother like Elliot, gentleness was required. With an array of his own odd-ball siblings, Diego knew that fact well. Sadly, tender love and care was never a lesson included in Reginald's plan.

Diego wondered if it just came naturally to you or you had to grow into it. Just as, over the past few days, he had grown affection towards you.

“What is it?”

“What?”

“You’re staring at me,” you said softly as you continued to dress the wound. Diego tried not to shudder when your fingertips brushed against the skin near his hip. There was no hiding how his breath hitched slightly at the touch. You had noticed it too but, much to Diego’s surprise, did not say a word. Instead, he saw your lips twitch with the tiniest hint of smile.

“Yeah, I am,” he said softly, testing the waters. “What about it?”

In the few days he had known you, Diego had never seen you stall on a comeback. Your sharp tongue was one of the things he admired about you from the start. So, when all he heard was the distant ranting of Elliot and Five through the wall, Diego was proud of himself. He had stumped you at last; even if only for a minute.

“Some would consider it rude.” When you finally spoke, an unsteadiness seemed to line your words. Diego bit his bottom lip to keep from chuckling. Finally, you were cracking.

“What do you consider it?”

Careful hands stopped their movements and Diego couldn’t help but grin when you met his eyes. Silence weighed heavy between you. For a moment, Diego’s thoughts were still. There was only you and him in this strange tangle of time Five had made. Where he had felt shafted before, lost in time, now Diego was grateful. How could he truly live without knowing your eyes?

“I consider it.”

Diego’s brow furrowed and his grin faded. “What does that mean?”

“I consider you.”

“I consider you, too,” Diego returned with a renewed smile. A breathy, almost shy laugh fell from your lips; the sound was soft, not mocking. Without thinking, Diego moved to sit up. A sharp pang rose up with the movement and he winced. “Shit.”

“Easy.” You gently pushed on his shoulders to guide him back down but Diego didn’t budge. As they lingered, your hands cooled his warm skin. The two of you were close now, faces a few inches away. Diego could feel your breath against his skin and the feeling made him daring.

He lifted a hand and wrapped his fingers gently around your wrist. Your eyes never felt his as he brought your grasped hand to his lips. Delicate and considering, Diego pressed a light kiss to your knuckles. He could sense your resolve shaking. His own was beginning to tumble down. Every fiber in his being begged him to just lean forward a bit further, a bit harder.

Diego wanted to but he was not going to cave first.

Tenderly, he rubbed his thumb along your knuckles. Under the calluses of his fingertips, your skin felt shockingly soft. Diego marveled at the feeling for a select few seconds before he turned his gaze back to your face. There was the slightest of smiles playing at your lips; other than that, there was no sign that you were going to break the tension.

So, when you leaned in towards him, Diego was surprised. He closed his eyes, waiting to feel your lips against his. Waiting to take you into his arms, to hold you. You, how made everything, every problem, every ache, disappear; he wanted you.

Diego was ready but when moments passed and he felt nothing, he opened his eyes. There you were, so terribly close but still so far. You tilted your head and grinned. The movement caused your nose to brush against Diego’s ever so lightly.

“Careful,” you whispered, “you don’t want to push it.”

“Maybe I do.”

His challenge hung in the air, waiting for either you or him to act upon. Your bodies remained still and near. Heat was now shared, as were breaths. It was truly tantalizing.

In all his years, Diego had never wanted for something more. Even his will to prove his worth to the Academy, his siblings, his father, was minuscule compared to the desire he felt when faced with you. With you, Diego didn’t feel like he had to prove anything. You didn’t take his bullshit but you didn’t deny him like his siblings. Except now of course, with this teasing.

He had only known you for a few days but, and perhaps this was a ‘symptom’ of time travel, Diego felt as if he had known you for years. He wanted to know you forever.

Unable to stand it, Diego started to lean forwards. Every muscle in his body seemed to relax this close to your warmth. All he could feel was his own heartbeat and your warmth. Just as Diego’s lips were about to skirt along yours, a knocking at the door pulled you both back to the present.

You immediately backed away from Diego, surprise evident on your face. Diego felt a twist of regret and anger in his stomach as he watched you compose yourself. He was readying a retort, another challenge when the door to Elliot’s bedroom creaked open. Lila poked her head inside, caramel eyes glancing between the two of you.

“How’s the patient?”

“Horrible. No wonder they kept him in a straight jacket,” you replied snappily. Diego swallowed hard, luckily the tension still clinging to his frame went unnoticed by the laughing Lila.

“I know, right? He’s quite awful, isn’t he?” Lila jumped on Elliot’s bed and Diego winced as the impact jostled him. Defeated, he laid back down with his eyes still on you. He could still feel his heart pounding in his chest.

You stopped packing up the first aid kit and looked back at him. “The worst.”

With a smile, you grabbed your things and walked out of your brother’s room. Diego watched you go, the want resting in his gut. He let his head fall into the pillow. Longer now, his hair fanned out around him like a halo. He had wanted to get it cut but you, the first day Elliot introduced Diego to you, said you liked it. He hadn’t thought about cutting it since. Lila, bored by your walking away, played with the wavy strands.

“You like her.”

“You keep acting like you know shit about me,” Diego fired back. He was never one to talk about woman problems, let alone with another woman. Hell, Diego didn’t want to talk about his problems at all. Though, you weren’t his problem...and maybe that was his problem.

“Oh, but I do,” Lila continued. Groaning, Diego covered his face with his hands and tried to focus on the steady pulses of lingering pain that surrounded his wound. “And I know you like Y/N.”

“So what if I do?”

There was a long pause. Diego moved his hands away from his face and looked over at Lila. Her dark hair was tangled, her fringe nearly obscuring part of her face. Diego didn’t miss the sadness that rested in her doe turned lips.

“I wouldn’t know.” When she felt his eyes, Lila looked up to meet his gaze from where she laid on her side. Serious and wary, her eyes met Diego’s. “I’ve never liked someone like that before.”

Diego frowned at the troubled woman before looking up at the ceiling. In the blank space above his head, he thought of you. Your eyes, your smile and Diego sighed.

“It’s confusing. Confusing but...it’s like you’ve never seen more clearly before in your life. Everything feels right but nothing makes sense. You’ll take any risk but you’re almost scared to fall.”

“You? Scared?” Lila, ever willing to dodge her truth, let out a forced laugh. When Diego didn’t respond, she grew somber again. Wow...uh, it sounds awful.”

“The worst.” Though, Diego said this with a small smile.

“You should talk to her.”

“And say w-what?”

Vanya lifted her head from Diego’s shoulder. “She’s lost her brother...so have you, us.”

Diego nodded, Vanya’s soothing voice cutting through the haze of bitterness and exhaustion. Yet, the moment he looked back at you, standing alone in the snow that still littered the grass, he ached. You had lost...nearly everything. Most everything, really.

“Go to her,” Vanya pressed. Diego looked down at his sister and, beneath the seriousness, saw a warmth in her brown eyes. “Hold on while you still can.”

Nodding, Diego began to stand up. His legs throbbed with each step, still battle-sore. He couldn’t remember when he last used his powers to that extent. He was surprised he still could. 

The look of pure fear on your face as you curled up next to Five in the snow had been enough for him to try. Diego had held the deluge of bullets at bay so Five could vamp to some sort of refuge with you in tow. Near death was sweet knowing you were safe. Safe but hurting.

Snow crunched under Diego’s boots as he stepped towards you. The sound reminded him of winters in New York and snowball fights when the Umbrella Academy was young and Reginald was off on some secretive business. Back then, it wasn’t perfect, it was easier. It made Diego wistful. How he wished you could have been spared of the death that seemed to follow his family. 

“Y/N…”

“I’ve never seen the snow before,” you kept your eyes on the ground. “At least not in person. We don’t get much snow. When we do, it melts pretty fast.” Diego felt an ache in his chest at your words. “You like it?”

You dragged your foot in the snow, scraping the white flurry away from the dirt. “I think so, it’s a little cold though. Elliot saw it once, at least he told me he did, when I was a baby.”

Silence sat between you like an old friend. Loss was something Diego was no stranger to. He had gotten used to it, the heft of it on his shoulders; but he could tell the weight was fresh and heavy for you. Quietly, he reached out and grabbed your hand. 

Without hesitation, your fingers entangled with his. Diego let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding before giving your hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Y/N, I’m so sorry about all of this, about Elliot. I w-want you to know that I…” 

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his, as he spoke. Diego trailed off, getting lost in the features of your face. Despite everything, you were still looking at him with that stern, angelic kindness.

“This,” you began, squeezing his hand, “is nothing to be sorry about. You all saved that boy, saved the world. You can’t save everyone and Ellie...he knew the risk. I know the risk.”

“I- we shouldn’t have put you at risk. I should have considered you-”

Before Diego could finish, you leaned up and pressed your lips to the corner of his mouth. Diego tensed at the feeling, unprepared for it. The moment you pulled back, Diego took a step forward to close the gap. His hand, the one that wasn’t holding yours, moved up to cup your cheek. Dark brown eyes searched your face, trying to read you.

You gave him a smile, sad but proud. “You already did consider me.”

“I did,” Diego returned softly. “I do…”  He brushed the back of his fingers against your cheek. “Will you consider coming back...wait a minute.” 

“What? What is it?” Your brow knitted together in concern. Nervously, you glanced around and Diego let go of your hand to hold your face in his own. You met his eyes and he smiled shyly.

“No...no, nothing. I just got something now.” You raised a brow at his words.

“What do you get?”

“I can show you if you come back to the future with me.” You bit your bottom lip and blinked up at him. At your quiet, Diego’s stomach tightened with nerves. 

“That’s a lot to consider,” you said, a hint of jest in your voice. Diego grinned and shook his head. His longer hair tangled with the motion and you reached up to fix it. “I don’t think Five would like that. It would be playing with the timeline, right?”

“Five likes you, more than me. He’d leave me behind before leaving you.”

“I think you know your brother loves you. He wouldn’t leave you.”

Diego felt a swell of courage in his chest. “So you get why I can’t leave you.”

“Diego,” you whispered, letting the hand you had in his hair rest against his chest. At your tone, Diego let his hands fall from your face. 

“I know that it’s a big ask but I w-want, I need you with me. The thought of leaving you here, alone, I can’t stand it.” He was pleading, and he would beg if he had to. 

“This isn’t a guilt thing or a hero thing is it? You asked seriously, your voice pressing for an answer. Diego shook his head and lifted his hands from his sides to hold your hips. 

“This is a me thing, a selfish thing.”

“It’s not entirely selfish if I want it too,” you pointed out. 

Diego felt the nerves in his gut release. Wordlessly, he leaned down and, finally, captured your lips with his. He pulled you flush against him and deepened the kiss. Your hands gripped the fabric of his black shirt so tightly it was as if you were scared he was going to just disappear.

Diego wasn’t going anywhere. Not without you.

#diego hargreeves #diego hargreeves x reader #diego hargreeves imagine #diego hargreeves imagines #diego hargreeves fanfiction #diego hargreeves fanfic #diego hargreeves x you #tua #tua imagine #tua imagines #tua fanfic #tua fanfiction #the umbrella academy fanfiction #the umbrella academy imagine #the umbrella academy imagines #the umbrella academy fanfic #umbrella academy #vanya hargreeves

[colorseeingchick]

Onigiri and Second Chances

Pairing: Osamu Miya x Reader

Summary: The Black Jackals are hosting a Christmas party, and Osamu agrees to come. But there’s some details Atsumu forgot to tell him- 1, he’s supposed to mass-make Onigiri for the party, and 2, a figure from his past is making a reappearance. 

Warnings: Mostly Fluff, some Angst, suggestive content, swearing 

Word Count: 3.7k 

A/N: Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays everyone! This is far from my best work but I hope its fun regardless !

Osamu swears he can see his breath crystalize before him in his kitchen as he plots the murder of his damned brother. 

Well, plotting his brother’s demise is currently secondary to the molding of the  onigiri in his hand. It feels odd, the contrast between the soft, squishy rice warming his palms as he meticulously works at it and the prickly cold that bites his forearms, bare and at the mercy of the cold air of his kitchen, unprotected by his rolled up sleeves. 

Now, you probably have a lot of questions! 

Why’s Osamu Miya making some lip-smacking onigiri at 4 pm on Christmas Eve? 

Because his bitch of a brother tricked him.

Why’s he making 70? 

Ask Atsumu smh (if it’s not abundantly clear, my boy Osamu is VERY salty).

Has he been here for like, 3 hours already? 

Yeah, he sure as hell has. 

Will he be here for a good few more?

Uh huh. 

Why? 

Well, Osamu doesn’t take onigiri lightly. 1. If he’s gonna make em for Atsumu’s party, he was gonna do em right. Even though Atsumu forgot to mention that onigiri was gonna be the special dish to Osamu- the one making the onigiri- until 10 am the day of, (I’m sure y’all get why Osamu is mad now) there wasn’t a chance in hell he was gonna let his dishes fall flat, especially for a party this big. He has a bunch of specialty flavors he’s been wanting to showcase anyways, and in the process of making so many for such a large number, he knows it’s easy to get lost in a ‘quantity over quality’ mindset. No matter the amount, Onigiri Miya’s quality never wavers (A/N: period king as you should). 

But the AC being broken? That’s not a part of his plan. And it was just kinda, icing on his metaphorical cake of reasons why he’s pissed as hell right now. It makes him question if all this effort is really worth it, at least for tonight. 

Osamu’s initially thought that, because his brother’s the host for this party, that maybe he should try to spruce up a bit, come in lookin like an acceptable counterpart to his charismatic, showy brother. But now? He’ll realistically be here in this kitchen till the time of the party, so he’ll show up lookin a lil rough. Effort that should’ve gone into his looks is not being put into his food.  If Atsumu complains, Osamu will not hesitate to shove an onigiri up his-

It’s whatever. It’s not like he has anyone he needs to impress there anyways. He’s just the onigiri twin tonight. 

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

The party is in full swing when Osamu arrives. But unlike Atsumu’s usual parties, the music wasn’t blaring- it’s festive and moderate. And despite being ‘party’ attire, everyone seems a little less scandalous. I guess that’s natural when some business representatives and officials from the volleyball world are also present. Unfortunately, this does mean that Osamu is the most underdressed, but he’s come to terms with it. 

But knowing his brother, there’s no way a Miya party would be fully professional. There has to be some element of childishness or stupidity somewhere in this party-

And Osamu gets his answer when he looks up. 

Mistletoe. And lots of it. It’s not everywhere everywhere. But there’s more than one, and they are seemingly strategically placed. 

Osamu chuckles. Leave it to his brother to try and start shit. All this means is that he has to be careful to not end up in the wrong spot with some random person. He’ll be fine. 

Giant container filled with onigiri in hand, he maneuvers his way to the kitchen, nodding and smiling at his acquaintances as he goes. As he’s about to step onto the cold tile of the kitchen, he stops dead in his tracks. 

Fuck his brother. 

He didn’t say anything about you being here. Somebody’ll have to stop him from slugging his asshat of a twin across the face. 

“SAMMMMUUUU!!!!!” Speak of the devil. 

Atsumu slings his arm over his twin’s shoulder,  a cup in his other hand.

“Are ya drunk?” 

“Huh? No. Gotta keep it together! I’m the host after all.” Atsumu smiles wide, rather stupidly. 

“Great. If yer sober, that means I can beat the ever livin’ shit outta ya and yer gonna remember.” 

“Oi, oi, what did I do!? Ya just got here!” Fear shined Atsumu’s bright eyes. 

“If you could like, not beat my boyfriend up, I’d appreciate it a bit, Samu-kun,” a female voice gently chimes in. 

“Homura-chan, hello.” Osamu’s shoulders relax as his brother’s level-headed girlfriend pops up in between the two, giving Osamu a side hug only to watch Atsumu pout. 

“Homura…” Atsumu’s whine is enough for her to placate him with a tight hug, but she continues to face Osamu. 

“Why do you wanna kill him this time? Not that you’re wrong for wanting to. I’m just curious.”

“Hey!”

“He didn’t tell me they were gon be here.” Osamu’s eyes shift to you, laughing in the kitchen, talking to Hinata and Bokuto, while filling cups with hot chocolate. 

“Oh I thought you were gonna yell at him for not telling you about the onigiris till this morning.”

“That too.”

“HEY!” 

“But I guess it’s my fault they’re here. I invited them, they are my best friend after all. But I should have told you. I’m sorry, Samu.”

“No, no. Its fine Homura-chan. I just…” 

Osamu doesn’t know how to verbalize it. He’s had a crush on you since 2nd year, and it didn’t go anywhere even through college. You two knew each other pretty well, and he almost asked you out. Emphasis on almost. Being honest, he abandoned ship when he saw some guy kissing you after class one day- he figured he had waited for too long. He cut off communication with you soon after, despite your attempts to reach out. Homura had time and time again reminded Osamu that you didn’t hate him, and he did trust her. But that didn’t help him shake off the feeling you did, and always would, resent him. 

It also did not help that his stomach jumped the moment he heard your beautiful laugh resonate in the kitchen, or that his face heated up when he saw you warmly hug your cup of hot chocolate, sipping it so gently. So cute. 

He’s still whipped. Fuck. 

Homura nudges his shoulder, one hand intertwined with Atsumu’s. “We’re not gonna make you talk to them-”

“maybe...” adds in Atsumu.

“-But if they come up to ya, maybe it won’t be the worst thing.”

Osamu looks down, tightly gripping the strap attached to his container. “Okay,” he quietly agrees.

Atsumu slaps his brother’s shoulder with a smile and comments, “ya know where my clothes are, grab em if ya need em” before taking his leave to go entertain other guests.

“I’m assuming you have more containers?” Homura asks, standing by Osamu’s side.

“70 onigiris definitely do not fit in here.” Osamu smiles with his quip, and she smiles back. 

“Figured. I’ll help ya grab the rest. Go and put that down first.” She heads towards the front door, leaving him in the doorway. 

He takes a deep breath before recomposing himself, restoring his classic blank n’ bored expression. He strides into the kitchen, placing the black container down softly and attracts eyes in the process, including yours. He feels your soft gaze somehow dig into the back of his head once he swiftly turns around, walking away back to the front door. As he steps back into the winter breeze, he’s met with Homura’s knowing gaze. 

“They’re single, ya know.” 

Osamu huffs out cold hair, eyes closing at the sting of the wind. And somehow, the cold sting filling his lungs eased the fear in his stomach. 

“I look like shit.”

“Atsu said you could take his clothes. Let’s go pick somethin’ nice out for ya.” 

This is gonna be a long night. 

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

Osamu sits himself on the couch, a glass of champagne in one hand. Atsumu’s maroon button-up faintly smells like his signature cologne, and although he usually hates it, something about it helps Osamu channel his brother’s cockiness confidence, which feels very helpful right about now. 

But the confidence he’s tryna channel can only do so much. Suna and Akaashi are both worried as they watch Osamu space out mid conversation. Its far from normal. Suna knows exactly what’s on his best friend’s mind, while Akaashi is astute enough to make a guess. 

“Myaa-sam.” Akaashi gently calls to Osamu. No response. 

So Suna gives him a nice kick. 

“Oi!” Osamu rubs his shin. 

“Talk to them, before ya go crazy and take us all down with ya,” Suna’s tone is flat and bored, but the intensity of the statement is clear. 

“I dunno…” 

“Myaa-sam, don’t you think it's worth a try?” Akaashi’s approach is different, soft and coaxing. 

“Ya know how awkward it’s gonna be?” His leg is bouncing now.

He wants to. Very badly. But he can’t. It might only make things worse. 

“It’s only awkward if ya make it awkward. And that’s comin’ from me. Ya know, from both of our personal experiences, waiting too long is the worst mistake you can make.” Suna turns his gaze back to the kitchen, wistfulness is his voice. 

“We fucked up. But yer gettin’ a second chance. Don’t do it again.” 

Osamu knows Suna’s pain. He knows he’s right. 

“How the hell do I even start?” 

Suna’s gaze shifts to something, or someone, else before quickly locking eyes with Akaashi. 

“Don’t run.” He then gets up wordlessly and walks away. 

Akaashi brushes his pants off before standing, a small smile resting on his face. 

“Just remember Myaa-sam, you’ll only regret the things you don’t do. It’s best to be honest,” and with that, Akaashi also walks away. 

As Osamu’s eyes trace Akaashi’s path of escape, his eyes are caught by you, happily bounding towards him- a smile on your face and onigiri in hand. 

Yeah, that’s you for sure. Osamu is caught between the nerves in his stomach and the fuzziness in his mind as you come up to him. 

“Osamu, hello! Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, L/N.”

“Can, can I sit here?”

Don’t run. 

“Yeah.”

As you sit down, he notes the distance, he notes how your arms are in front of you, he notes your smile, and he notes how your eyes shine. He notes how cute you look with the onigiri tightly held in your hands. 

“Your onigiri’s are amazing! I always knew you were a great cook, but I’m so sad I never got to try them before!”

“Thank you, L/N. These definitely aren’t my best, Tsumu didn’t tell me I needed to make em till this mornin’ so… I was worried they weren’t as good.”

A lie. He knows they’re not bad. But he wants you to think they can be much better. 

“If this is bad then I’ll definitely have to come by and try more! Because this is the best onigiri I’ve ever had. But maybe that’s because you’re the one who made em.” You quickly move on from your comment by taking a giant bite out of your onigiri, and Osamu hopes that you don’t see how intensely his face heats up. 

Are ya, flirting? With him? Nah, yer just being you, all nice and all. But that doesn’t do anything to mitigate how much you’ve just stroked his ego. 

“Sounds like classic Atsumu, to forget to tell ya something important. What was your day like? Having to prep all this so fast.” You look up at him, expectantly, eagerly ready to listen to him.

Your undivided attention does illegal things to his heart, ya know. 

But just like that, you two fall into your usual pace, as if y’all had never stopped talking in the first place. He tells you stories, you add in charismatic quips, you both share laughs, and slowly the gap between you two closes. Osamu’s hand is now empty of any glasses and lounges against the back of the chair right by your head. You, on the other hand, have your legs pulled up under you, your knees gently pushing against his thigh. 

“Oh my gosh I should be at more Black Jackals games from now on, this sounds amazing,” you say as you wipe a tear from your eye after laughing too hard. 

“If yer goin, lemme know, I can keep ya company,” Osamu lets the words fall from his mouth before he processes what he’s saying. 

You pause, soaking in his words. “Really?”

Now it’s his turn to process his offer. “Uh.. only… if yer interested-”

“I’d love that.” You smile at him, excitement clear in your voice. 

As Osamu indulges himself in the sight of your smile, he realizes that some rice clung to the corner of your face. Out of instinct and enabled by proximity, his hand resting in his lap reaches out to you. His hand caresses your jaw while his thumb drags against the corner of your mouth, down over your bottom lip. Out of shock, you could do nothing but stare at him as his eyes meet yours. 

In this moment, in this place, time has stopped. Osamu has one thought on his mind as he thumbs at your lips. 

I need to kiss them. Now.

But then he didn’t. 

Osamu sharply retracts his hand, a “ah, sorry,” running off his tongue. 

“You’re, you’re fine.” You look down, flustered. “I’ll, be right back.” Osamu sighs and feels his heart start to sting as you walk away, head lowered. 

Fuck me. I fucked up again, didn’t I? I just didn’t want to do anything they didn’t want. 

 Osamu snaps back to reality as he feels a hard slap against the back of his head. 

He’s ready to fight when he turns around, only to see Homura and Atsumu behind the couch. 

“The fuck was that, Samu?” Atsumu aggressively yell whispers. 

“What doya mean!” He knows what Atsumu means. He hates admitting Tsumu is right, but he can’t admit that. 

Homura’s disappointed glare quiets him down. “Don’t do anything you don’t want to, Osamu. But if you want it, you can’t keep running away. And don’t lead them on either, that ain’t fair.” 

“I didn’t know if they wanted to…” Hasn’t that always been the problem? Osamu is a confident guy. He pulls a lotta people, pretty consistently too. But you were different, always had been. Osamu never wanted to hurt you, never wanted to make you uncomfortable. Never wanted to ruin your friendship. But in trying to do that, once it was too late, he knew that’s exactly what he did. And he couldn’t find it in himself to do that again. 

“They want it. I know my best friend. They want you as much as you want them, headass. So if you’re not gonna make a move, I will.” With that, Homura turns on her heels and walks away, Atsumu glaring at his brother while his girlfriend pulls him along. 

That’s definitely a threat. What does it mean? Who knows! But better to not find out.

Osamu’s eyes scan the room and he finds Suna leaning up against a wall, Akaashi standing next to him. Suna’s lazy gaze makes contact with Osamu’s for a moment before closing while sipping at his hot chocolate. Akaashi’s squint also feels more piercing in this moment. 

My boys are talkin’ shit about me? Incorrect, Samu. In case you have not realized, your boys are not the type to talk in the first place. 

I deserve it this time though. He rubs the back of his neck as he stands up to stretch. 

You do regret the things you don’t do. Dammit Akaashi. Time to talk it out. 

Osamu strides through the house tryna find you. He finds you stepping down the stairs, wiping at your face. His heart shatters and he really wants nothing but to hug you. But he resists, mind determined. 

“L/N.”

“Osamu! Hi um… I’m so sorry if I’ve been bothering you.” 

“L/N.”

“I’ll just let you go, I don’t wanna make you anymore uncomfortable.”

“Y/N.” Osamu grabs your arm as you try and walk away and gently tugs you to face him. “Please. Can we talk?” 

You pause, take a deep breath, and then turn to him, eyes still ensuring him that he has your undivided attention. 

With butterflies fluttering in his stomach, he calmly speaks. “I like you.”

Your eyes widen.

“I like you a lot. Since 2nd year-”

“In college?”

“High school.” 

You shudder and tears pool in the corners of your eyes. Instinct takes over Osamu as he pulls you forward with all his weight, throwing you against his chest as he wraps his arms around you. 

“I’m sorry I never told ya,” he whispers to you as he rocks you side to side, your face buried in his chest and your arms tight around his back. 

“I’ve always been so scared of, hurtin ya. You were one of my close friends, and I didn’t wanna mess it up over feelings. I didn’t wanna lose ya.” 

You nuzzle against his chest as he feels you start to shake.

“But when I saw that guy kissin ya one day, I thought… I thought I lost you anyways. I realized I waited too long and that I made a mistake. And then I proceeded to do everythin’ I never wanted to do, I hurt ya and I fucked up our friendship.”

“Osamu, I never wanted him to kiss me.” Your voice cracks. 

“...What?” His eyes go wide with concern and confusion. 

“He kissed me outta the blue. I thought we were just friends but he didn’t see it that way. I was just being myself, though. But right after that I told him there was someone else I liked.” 

Osamu internally hits himself. Maybe he should just ask Atsumu to punch him. How could he be so fuckin’ stupid? 

“I was gonna confess to you after that, but that’s when you dipped on me. I didn’t know what I did, and Homura told me to talk to you and find out for myself- she said it’d be fine if I talked to you, and that I should learn to communicate with you but I… I didn’t reach out. That’s my fault.”

Osamu pulls you closer to him, crushing you as much as he could. It’s his turn to shed a few tears, in frustration and pain. He coulda been with you all this time, but he was being a headass. Maybe Homura should punch him instead. 

“I’m...I’m so so sorry Y/N. I missed ya so much.” He cradles you in his arms, a calming (self-calming) sigh falling through his lips. 

“I’ve missed you too, Samu.”

You two look at each other for a good, long moment before small smiles crawl onto your faces. Osamu pulls you against him once more. 

“Let’s try this again. I wanna get it right this time.”

“Sounds good to me.” You say, sniffles stopping and giggles rising out of your chest. 

He buries his nose into the top of your head drawing in the sweet smell of your shampoo while his hands grab onto your fluffy sweater. 

“So cute! NOW KISS.” You and Osamu jolt out of your hug when Atsumu barks. All Osamu’s (and your) friends had now come to look at you two, smiles all around. 

Akaashi smiles fondly. Suna smiles lazily, and your favorite dumb Black Jackals (Bokuto and Hinata), who were unaware of any history between you two, are now in shock while also smiling like crazy. 

“Get it, Mya-samm!” Bokuto cheers out, causing everyone to erupt into laughter. 

“Wait, wait!” Atsumu runs down the hall, jumps, and then runs right up to his twin. He then proceeds to hold a mistletoe right above yours and Osamu’s head. 

“ I’ve been waitin’ for this shit to happen for Ion even know how many years. No chickenin’ out of it this time.” 

“Wasn’t planning on it, jackass.” 

Osamu’s hands find their way to your cheeks, gently caressing it with his fingers running up and down your jaw. His eyes take their time inspecting every inch of your face, mentally mapping every beautiful feature that adorns you. With the fire hot in his stomach and his lips aching, he pulls your face to meet his, lips gently massaging yours, telling you everything he had said earlier all over again, but this time with his actions. 

He likes you. A lot. For years. And he’s missed you so much. 

He slows the kiss down, taking his time to let you feel his lips against yours. When your hands reach up to hold his face he can’t help but try and pull you closer. 

As he pulls away after a mere 30 seconds, which did indeed feel like forever, his adrenaline is pumping and his smile is uncontrollable. The whooping and hollering slowly starts to die down, not that either of you heard it while so focused on the other. 

Osamu’s eyes find Suna’s. Suna has his camera out, as per usual, but his face has a small smile on it, and he nods to his best friend. With that, he nudges Akaashi and they walk back to to the family room. 

“Alright alright let’s get going boys. We have games that need to be played.” Homura grabs Bokuto and Hinata by the arm and collar (respectively) after giving a look to you. 

In that moment, Atsumu winked at Osamu while doing the ‘okay’ sign with his hands before walking to the room with everyone else. 

It was a signal the two had established way back in high school, when he and Homura started dating. It was their nonverbal sign of permission to the other twin for guaranteed privacy- which was important in a household of shared rooms and shared, well, everything. 

“What now Samu?” You look up at him, tugging him closer now that everyone else was gone. 

“I’m not done with ya just yet.” He smiles down at you, his eyes mischievous. 

You tilt your head in confusion. 

“I’m throwin ya over my shoulder, okay?” 

“Yes but why-” 

With that, Osamu sweeps you off the floor and throws you over his right shoulder easily.

“I messed up for years of my life, and now I have to make up for lost time. I told ya I’m not done with ya just yet.” 

Osamu proceeds to carry you up the stairs, giggles falling from your mouth. 

He’s gonna make sure you know much he really likes you. He’ll shower you in so much love, there won’t be a doubt left in your mind. 

He promises.

Epilogue- the next day

As the Black Jackals all slept like logs in their rooms, the smell of pancakes and coffee filled the air, attracting some of the other guests.

Some of the other boys, Suna, Akaashi, and Osamu, had all slept over, and were the among the first to find their way to the kitchen. 

“Samu, did Y/N get home ok?” Homura asks him while flipping some pancakes at the stove. 

Rubbing his eyes as he approaches her with a cup of coffee in hand, he nods. “Happy n’ safe.” 

“I’m very glad.”

“Homura-chan, I have a question for ya.” 

“Yes?”

“You knew both of our sides of the story from a long time ago. Why did ya never say anythin’? I’m not mad but I’m tryna figure it out.”

She smiles before saying, “It didn’t feel right. I love you both. A lot, obviously. But I think we both know intervening can... make things worse. A lot worse.”

A shared memory flashes through their minds. 

“And on top of that, I don’t think it would’ve solved the real issue both of you had. I wanted y’all to be happy in a relationship, but that meant y’all would have some barriers to cross. Y’all needed to grow before you could work as a couple. So I figured time would do its work.” 

“Although!!” Atsumu’s bright voice cuts in as he marches into the kitchen, wrapping his girlfriend in his arms, “us not telling you they were coming yesterday was 100% planned.” 

“And not telling me about onigiris?”

“Yeah that was intentional. Had to keep ya away from the house long enough.” 

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill ya, Tsumu.” 

A/N: I hope y’all enjoyed! The ambiguity with Suna, Osamu, and Homura was intentional, so stay tuned!!!

#haikyu #haikyuu #haikyu fluff #haikyu angst #osamu miya #osamu x reader #osamu fluff #osamu angst #haikyu x reader #haikyu oneshot #haikyu imagines #haikyu imagine #osamu imagine #miya osamu imagines #osamu miya x reader #osamu x you #osamu miya x you #osamu miya x y/n #colorseeingchick writes

[sometimesiwrite]

Steady As She Goes

Part 1

Fandom: The Witcher

Characters: Essi Daven/Lambert

Summary: Lambert begrudgingly insists on escorting Essi through Velen on her way to Novigrad. On their three days' journey, an unexpected bond is formed as the unlikely traveling companions encounter one another in new light. But will they get through unscathed?

Warnings: Lambert-typical language; pragmatic killing of a small animal (not a pet, for food); sexual assault (groping, not Lambert); reference to gore, head trauma; lethal self-defence; shock/trauma response, adrenaline crash; cliffhanger

A/N: A little while ago, I wrote a little letter to Lambert (you can read it here if you’re so inclined—mind the TW). I wanted to thank him, but more importantly, I wanted to offer him a place in my heart and my brain along with his brothers. This story started from a small prompt and has since turned into a 12+k proper-ass Story. This is part 1. Please join me in joyfully welcoming Lambert to the ranks with a wordcount he deserves with a character who has also become very dear to me. 

MASTERLIST

@morethangeraskier

Essi eyed the back of her travelling companion with curiosity as they rode North toward Crow’s Perch: the tight swing of his hips still keeping tempo with his horse’s cadence; the sharp alertness at the nape of his neck as his eyes scanned their surroundings; the subtle forward tuck of his shoulders; and every muscle in his body fine-tuned and ready for action in the blink of an eye. Even his silence seemed to radiate a low buzz that tingled the air around him and made Essi wonder how many thoughts and calculations were crammed inside his head at once. She’d found it charming rather than off-putting how irritatedly he’d suggested accompanying her through Velen. There was a genuineness about his prickly outward demeanor—she felt like a detail worthy of practical consideration rather than a damsel on the road and she appreciated it. Better than most alternatives.

The fact was, Lambert had insisted. Not because she was attractive (yeah, yeah, big blue eyes, blonde hair, yadda-yadda, who cares), not because she seemed helpless (there was something keen behind those big blue eyes, and he’d known better than to ignore it), but because it seemed like the right thing to do. She’d explained she was an experienced traveller, knew the roads well, had good relationships with the innkeepers along the way. She would be fine, and didn’t want to take him out of his way. 

“Sorry. Not happening. I’m coming with you.” Why? “Bandits.” 

He would know. He’d spent the last few days doing nothing but clearing out Nekker nests and trashing bandit camps all over Velen, and the last thing he needed was the innocent blood of some wide-eyed woman-bard on his hands. “Back to fucking Novigrad,” he’d grumbled, turning his horse back North. He sighed heavily and waited for Essi to catch up, “Fuck me, I need a drink—alright, stay close on my tail for the next little while. We’re taking a shortcut.” As they rode, Lambert gave his new companion a rundown of “ The Rules”.

“No chit-chat, I’ve gotta keep focused, plus I don’t like excess noise. If I say ‘duck’ you duck. And I mean get the fuck down and stay silent. If I say run, run and don’t look back. I’ll find you later. Do your best not to panic or freeze up on me, I need you to listen carefully and do exactly as I say.”

Essi nodded earnestly beside him, her big blue eye fixed on his lips, taking in every word. He wasn’t used to actually being listened to. It was nice. A little off-putting the way she stared, but it was... nice. 

On that topic, “One last thing,” he said, turning away to watch the road and check their sides, “Don’t get any ideas. I’m only doing this because no one deserves to die at the hands of heartless assholes except other heartless assholes. I am not Prince Charming, I am not a knight in shining armour, and I absolutely have no intentions of sweeping anyone off their feet. Capisce, bard?”  

Essi smiled elusively, turning her own eyes back to the road. “Good. I’m no princess or damsel, and I’m hardly looking to be swept off my feet. As far as I’m concerned, we’re merely travelling in the same direction at the same pace.” 

An agreeable grunt from Lambert signalled the end of the conversation and the beginning of “quiet time” which Essi did her best to honour. It was difficult at first. The poet was accustomed to conversation with strangers she met on the road—where they were headed, where they were coming from, how their journey had been. But Lambert was a witcher. Her usual litany of questions were either already answered or were none of her business to be asking in the first place. She was more or less quite content to travel in silence on an average day. But this was not an average day and her mind was bursting with curiosity, which made for a restless start to their journey. 

“What’s your horse’s name?” Essi finally asked as they stopped briefly at a stream for water. She decided it was an innocent enough question with a short enough answer to risk breaking the rules. 

Lambert gave her a disapproving look, a scolding reminder about ‘no chit-chat’ perched on the tip of his tongue. To her credit, she'd surpassed Lambert’s expectations for what he’d learned to expect from bards in the category of Not Talking. She’d only hummed a little and only then when she was lost in thought, large blue eye staring into the distance. She was an odd one, this woman, with her deep eyes that blinked too slowly sometimes. But his medallion was still and he didn’t have that gut feeling that usually told him when something was off. It was a harmless enough question, anyway… 

“Royal,” he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Never met a noble that wasn’t a horse’s ass.” 

Essi let out snicker, flashing her pearly teeth with an open grin. He was abrasive, sure, this witcher, but he was quickly proving himself to be animated and clever. She also believed him to be kind, despite his best efforts to prove otherwise. Whether or not Essi would earn a glimpse of his full capacity remained to be seen, but regardless she found his particular brand of panache refreshing. 

"Yours?" he asked with a nod back at the small Icelandic gelding currently occupied with nibbling at some honeysuckle.

"Ginger," Essi replied, kneeling to take her turn at the stream, refilling her waterskin and drinking from her cupped hands. She stared at her saddlebag. “Wait here,” she said, striding to her horse and extracting a bundle of fabric.

“Whoa, hey, where’re you going?”

“It’s alright, I’ll only be a minute,” she assured him as she headed for a thicket.

“Nuh-uh, can’t let you just wander off and get yourself killed before we even reach the first signpost. What’s the plan, Goldilocks?”

“I’m just…”

“Just…?” Lambert gestured impatiently.

Essi squared her shoulders to him, “Going to change my dress. It’s too hot, and I would like to feel Just Right.” 

Her sharp-witted comeback earned her a raised eyebrow. It was rather warm, the witcher had to admit. Early summer’s heat glared down with the midday sun, tempered only by an occasional cool breeze from the West. Lambert himself had pulled off his gauntlets, opened his jerkin, and tied a damp kerchief around his neck—witchers were less susceptible to heat stroke or hypothermia, but they were no less vulnerable to discomfort. It was only fair to allot his companion the same opportunity.

Lambert did a quick sweep of the area. Looks fine, sounds fine, smells fine… “Fine. Three minutes.”

He stood guard in front of the only gap in the dense bushes and waited for the sounds of rustling fabric to subside. After two and a half minutes, Essi emerged, hitching up her linen sleeves. She returned her former dress to her saddlebag and extracted two slender, ornately-carved whale bone sticks which she used to scoop her long, thick hair off the back of her neck and secure it in a twist. 

Essi squatted back down beside the little brook and let the cool water trace over the tender undersides of her wrists, cooling her veins and refreshing her as the breeze fluttered the light fabric against her skin. Much better, she thought, glancing up at Lambert. This new garment was more loosely-fitting, he noticed, save for the cinch that tied around her waist. 

She looked nice—comfortable. She looked comfortable. The dress looked comfortable. 

Essi smiled up at Lambert as she stood, pressing her damp hands to the sides of her neck and ooooh it felt nice. She thought she caught the smallest hint of a smile as the breeze wafted a bit of honeysuckle their way. He still looked tired, but he seemed lighter. Something new had come into his rugged, sun-tanned face. Boyish, maybe?

“Better?” Lambert asked. He barely waited for her to answer before he continued, “Let’s get moving, I want to make tracks before we lose our light.” Essi mounted without protest and they were on their way again, quietly riding single-file until they reached an acceptable spot to settle down for the night. Lambert left the travelling poet to make camp while he hunted for some dinner. Essi went about setting things up. She dug a small fire pit with a trowel she kept on hand, gathered kindling, and stacked it neatly to the side where it could be easily reached. Finally, she dragged two logs from the underbrush and placed them on either side of the small hole. It was, perhaps, a little domestic, but the witcher still seemed tired, and he was going out of his way to give her a safe escort through dangerous territory. She’d wondered earlier about offering him some coin for his trouble, especially seeing as he was doubling back and wouldn’t have any opportunity for new contracts. Then again, she’d thought, perhaps that might insult him, make him feel like a hired bodyguard. In the end, the very least she could do was help make the experience a little nicer. She could ask about payment when they arrived in Novigrad. 

A loud whistle caught Essi’s attention and she turned to find Lambert approaching with what looked like a squirming ball of fur. Upon closer inspection, it was a rather fat grey squirrel. “Dinner,” Lambert announced, looking pleased with himself. He held the creature toward her, “Care to do the honours?” He waggled his eyebrows facetiously. The witcher had always prided himself on his capacity to read people, to pick up on the little things that others might miss, second-guess, or excuse away. So far, after nearly five hours on the road with Essi Daven, Lambert still couldn’t get a clear read on her, and he decided (for whatever reason) the quickest way was to hand her a small animal. 

Essi looked down at the wriggling creature cupped in Lambert’s hand, her eyes devoid of any specific expression. The poet could have been feeling anything: shock and horror, stony rage, remorse, awe… casual hesitation. In fact, the only feeling that wasn’t in the running was glee, and while Lambert hadn’t expected it in the first place, it was still a relief to know he wasn’t sharing his camp with a psychopath.  But what was she going to do with it, this wide-eyed, innocent-faced, prim young traveler? Probably some tree-hugger shit like let it go. 

Essi lowered her eyes to the wriggling rodent. It had been a while since she’d had to procure a live meal. She could have declined, easily, graciously, and her witcher companion would probably have shrugged and thought ‘no surprise there’. But she knew a schoolboy’s smart-assery when she saw it—the audacious victory behind his bright citrine eyes told her everything she needed to know about what he was expecting from this brief-but-loaded exchange. A shriek, a gasp in horror, perhaps a distressed stomp of her feet and fitful shake of her gilded head? 

Essi reached a slow, dainty hand towards the squirrel, enveloping the soft, furry body as Lambert mentally prepared himself to go set another snare. There was no way this bard  would ever be the type to—

Crunch.

—Lambert’s face went slack as the now-very-limp squirrel was handed back to him. 

“I wouldn’t’ve thought a witcher would be so squeamish,” Essi remarked, casually wiping her hands on her skirt. Lambert said nothing but stared at her with a look of defeated befuddlement. She fired again, her sweet, melodic voice dripping with offhanded superiority, “Was that all? Or do you need me to clean it, too?” She blinked blankly once again as Lambert gaped, even less sure what to make of the young woman who had just snapped a rodent’s neck.

“No,” he answered petulantly. “I can do it.” He pulled his buck knife from its sheath on his thigh and went about his business. He was quiet and brief with her for the rest of the evening, and she was beginning to feel her own irritation mount. She had half a mind to bite back the next time he snapped at her for asking a simple question. Though, she admitted, he didn’t seem the type to back down easily. If she prodded at him, he might decide to leave her, and they were on a different route, completely unfamiliar to her. She’d be as good bear food without his directions.

No, she decided, it was best not to go digging and let whatever it was that was eating at him subside on its own. With no assurance of peaceful conversation and nothing but the crackling of their small fire to drown out the distant howls of wolves, Essi asked if she could play quietly on her lute—not too loudly, she promised, remembering what all she knew about a witcher’s senses, how sensitive they are. She’d asked in her usual straightforward way, her big blue eyes blinking slowly at him from across the fire. A simple request, and one that he couldn’t very well deny at the risk of being a Grade A Jackass. 

Ordinarily, he would have jumped at the opportunity to claim that title, but Essi didn’t deserve that. Stranger or no, she’d been quiet and courteous, and had shown herself to be witty and good-humoured to boot, laughing at even his crassest jokes. So what could he do but bob his head from side to side and relent, reserving the right to end it if he deemed it necessary. He’d met enough bards in his time to know that his and their definitions of “quietly” were rarely on the same page of the dictionary.

But Essi kept her word, and took up a slow, gentle melody that drifted airily through the fading twilight. The witcher might even have called it pleasant, as the dusky grey shifted to darker and darker shades of nighttime. Lambert took out his whetstone and, after a few strokes along his dulled steel blade, found his mind wandering. The poet’s voice was captivating without demanding attention—sometimes clear and bright, but never piercing or imposing; occasionally breathy, but always expressive. His eye drifted to the instrument in her hands, no longer content to merely hear the music, but wanting to watch its creation. The taut catgut strings pressed divots into thick calluses on her left hand as she fingered the fretboard, her hands flexing no differently than if she were playing at full volume. But how was she strumming so quietly? Shit, gotta keep focused. Stay on task. The whetstone once again returned to steel as Lambert pulled his mind back from its daze. 

It wasn’t long before curiosity got the better of him and he glanced back to the instrument cradled against the musician’s midriff. It looked delicate. Like something that could shatter if he held it wrong. Glancing to the hand nearest him, he could now see she was using the soft pad of her thumb to strum rather than her fingernails, which were long and carefully-shaped; well-honed in that sense, Lambert mused. He’d never paid attention to a musician this closely. They always drew crowds in the cities and experience had taught him that performers on the road were just as likely to pick a man’s pocket as they were to put on a show. But this was different. Essi wasn’t performing—on the contrary, she almost seemed to be in some kind of trance. She wasn’t even looking at her hands most of the time, and from the lyrics, Lambert began to wonder whether she was making it up as she went along. It was impressive, the way she knew her instrument so well. Despite his previous feelings of irritation at having had his ass handed to him, he couldn’t deny skill when he saw it, and Essi was clearly a master of her craft. 

The whetstone had been silent for close to a full verse when Essi looked up, wondering if perhaps the witcher was growing tired of the noise. She found Lambert closely examining the hone of his blade, and so, thinking nothing of it, went back to her playing.  It took him longer than usual to sharpen his swords. Longer still to replenish his potions and oils. He should’ve made quick work of it. Would have, too, if it wasn’t for the fact that he found the music so… pleasant. It was difficult to meditate. Not because he couldn’t relax, but because he didn’t want to stop listening. He just—there was something about… It didn’t matter. It wasn’t important. Get the shit together for tomorrow, go to bed, get up, and hope you don’t have any trouble on the road. 

Lambert laid out his bed roll and the music silenced abruptly. “Oh, are you turning in? I’ll stop now,” Essi gently lay down her lute next to her saddle bags and started to get her own sleeping mat. It was thin, Lambert noticed, as he watched her set up. His long, tired body stretched out, hands beneath his head, as he stared up through the dense oak canopy above them. 

“Thank you,” Essi said, now standing by his head. 

Lambert craned his neck to try and see her properly and resorted to propping up on an elbow. “Yeah? What for?”

“For finding us food and for letting me play a little,” she said with that same matter-of-factness that made Lambert feel both comfortable and uneasy. 

“Yeah, well,” Lambert flopped back down on his bedroll, “Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep, we gotta keep moving in the morning. I don’t want to be out here longer than we have to.” He waved a dismissive hand in Essi’s direction, and she took that as her cue to leave him alone and be quiet. 

“Goodnight, Lambert,” she murmured softly before turning and crossing back to the other side of the fire. She settled under her blankets and, after some drawn-out negotiations with a few poorly-located lumps in the ground, she was able to lie still and close her eyes. The insides of her eyelids flickered orange with the fire as it danced beside her. Before sleep took her, she heard a muffled voice from across the flames. 

“G’night, Essi.”  ---- Essi rose early, but not early enough for her travelling companion. The fire had already been doused and buried, and Lambert’s things were all neatly packed away and ready to be loaded onto Royal. Both horses were still hitched, and sleepily nibbling on some dewy crabgrass as the grey mists of early morning lingered. The sun hadn’t risen high enough yet to burn away the moisture, and Essi bundled her blanket around her shoulders against the chill. Lambert, she presumed, was off doing something witcher-y—taking a leak more like, she wagered as her own bladder complained. The moment he returned, Essi shot up from her log and headed into the trees. 

“Just where do you think yo—”

“I have to piss!” she called back over her shoulder as she traipsed into the dense wood. 

“Heh, good morning to you, too!” Lambert scrubbed his hand through his scruffy brown hair and ambled back to the fireside to begin packing and saddling the horse. When he arrived, he saw Essi’s things were also neatly packed away and stacked by her own mount. He offered a brief nod of approval before stowing his things, making quick work of the well-practiced process. By the time Essi returned, not only was Royal fully-prepared and Lambert armed and armoured, but Ginger was also mostly packed with the exception of one bag and the lute, which was cradled in the witcher’s hands as he crouched near the ground. She paused a little distance away and waited, observing as she listened to the faint sound of strings being delicately plucked.

Lambert looked up, embarrassed. “I uh… sorry.”

“What for?” 

Lambert stood carefully as Essi approached and dropped his gaze, holding out the fragile instrument for it to be angrily snatched back. The musician paused for a moment, observing this gesture of cowed humility. It was a habit, she suspected, born from decades of harsh punishment without explanation, frivolous harm without justification. Essi could sense the shame as it rolled off his shoulders, the prickly-heat of defense building under his skin. She took the lute and a swell of sadness washed through at the stark evidence of the world’s cruelty—that a man should be ashamed for a little harmless curiosity only told one story: pleasure’s not for you. 

Lambert looked up to find Essi still standing there, staring at the lute in her hands. “Did… did I…?” he pointed to the instrument.

“No,” she smiled softly, “not at all. And I’m not bothered that you looked at it. If you like, you can look at it again. I can even show you a chord or two?”

“Ah,” the witcher scratched the top of his head, “that’s okay. It’s, uh… I mean it seems like it’s good—well-made. Never seen one up-close like that.” There was a lull in conversation as Lambert ran out of things to say. But Essi just stood where she was, smiling her little enigmatic smile and blinking at him. He turned back to the horses, and motioned for Essi to do the same, “I, um, packed up your stuff, well most of it.”

Essi took the hint and followed suit, strapping the few remaining things to Ginger before mounting. After a brief survey of the area to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything, the two were off, Essi following behind as Lambert continued on his shortcut through what mainly seemed to be wilderness for the first several miles. They finally emerged at a small footpath, though, and Essi finally got her bearings. They were back in familiar territory, at least for the time being, and it was proving to be a beautiful morning. Even Lambert seemed to be in a better mood, offering her things to eat along the way, and even starting his own little snippets of conversation. 

It was an hour or so after midday that Lambert’s ears pricked at the sound of hooves in the distance. Could be soldiers, could be travellers… could be bandits. After a few minutes, they seemed to fade, and the witcher relaxed a little as the path took them into a wooded area by yet another stream, though this one was deep and flowing quickly. Better keep my ears sharp, Lambert thought as they rode along. Water’s too loud. Can’t hear for shit. They stopped next to the water to stretch their legs and replenish their drinking vessels again. The rest of the journey would take them mostly through high ground without much shade, and swampland. Any water they wanted to have with them, it was now or never until they reached Novigrad the next day. 

Lambert relieved himself against a nearby tree while Essi washed her face and, having determined the coast was clear, gave her the go-ahead to have a squat in the underbrush. He was still on the alert. It wasn’t a high-traffic area, so in theory bandits would be less interested in diverting from the main road. On the other hand, a less-trafficked area meant less chance of a hideout being discovered. But it smelled okay, although the wind was coming across the water. And it sounded okay, although the water was so damn loud. And things looked okay, aside from the fact that there was only so far even a witcher could see without trees getting in the way. 

A twig snapped in the woods behind him and the hairs on the back of his neck bristled, his hand mechanically finding the grip of his steel sword. He chanced a glance back into the woods—Fuck it, what’s the point of modesty if you’re dead? Another twig, this time from another location beyond the line of trees. There was a flash of golden hair as Essi finished her business and stood up, straightening her skirt. She turned to Lambert, ready to scold him for looking until she saw his hand on his sword. Somewhere in the near-distance, a horse whickered. The witcher lifted his finger to his lips and the poet stood stock-still, her hand slowly reaching for the small dagger at her waist as her heart beat heavily in her chest. Something rustled to Lambert’s left, and he turned, stepping quietly as he stalked in the general direction of the sound.  It wasn’t wolves or Endregas, they were too high for Drowners, too woodsy for Nekkers. 

Essi watched with interest as the witcher’s body went on full alert, his senses sharpening, his posture shifting, muscles coiling to accommodate any number of reflexes. She scanned the trees in front of them then looked back out to the road, marking the location of her horse in the event Lambert told her to run. A large horse came to a standstill beyond the edge of the woods somewhere and Lambert froze, listening carefully for sounds of footfalls or rustling clothing.The gears started to click a little faster as Lambert entertained the possibility they were being surrounded. He flicked his left hand at Essi in the direction of the road: get out of the woods. Quietly. Without a second thought, she began to carefully make her way back to the road as silently as she could, Lambert following, his eyes still searching. 

Just as Essi’s feet met the smooth dirt path, a beefy arm wrapped tightly around her waist. But the brute was foolish enough not to cover her mouth first, and Essi let loose a loud, powerful scream that a witcher would have heard at least a mile away. Lambert abandoned his methodical retreat from the woods and came crashing onto the path, fixing his eye dangerously on his target as he circled his sword around his wrist. The witcher felt a rush of angry heat flare under his skin at the sight of Essi kicking and clawing in the bandit’s sweaty grip. He was large, reeked of booze and the funk of cured meat. Essi fought the urge to gag at the stench of his clothes as she did her best to keep her mind sharp, or else risk becoming collateral damage. Her best bet: keep her eyes on Lambert.

“Hands off the bard and you might keep your head,” the witcher barked as he approached. “Can’t make any promises about your other appendages, though.” He wanted to lunge, run him through, gut him and leave him to the wargs... but it was too risky. He was holding Essi too tightly, and there was no guarantee he wouldn’t snap her neck if Lambert took a wrong step. To make matters worse, the trees were full of footsteps. Eight, maybe ten men. Hmmm. 

“Oh-ho-ho, look what we got, lads!” the bandit called to his approaching comrades as they began to filter out from the woods. “Your plaything still any good, witcher? Or have you ruined the fun for the rest of us?” The man grasped roughly at Essi’s breasts and Lambert felt his stomach drop as her eyes met his. He knew the look that was waiting for him behind those eyes, that broken terrified look of “I trusted you.” But the look never came. Those big beautiful blue eyes were steely and determined in spite of the fear he knew was churning in the background and he felt a thrill of triumph. Essi was still with him in whatever this was about to turn into. Not only that, she was thinking something, devising a plan. Lambert hoped to Gods it wasn’t something stupid. What is it, Essi? What are you thinking?

As if in answer to his question, Essi tilted her head, seductively baring her neck to her aggressor as Lambert’s options quickly decreased, the other bandits starting to close in, clearly in no rush, confident that they could easily take one man even if he did have two swords on his back and eyes like a cat. Sure boys, that’s going to go real well for you. He did a quick circle, taking stock of their exact locations before turning back to Essi, watching carefully as her hand traced up the outside of the bandit’s right leg. Yes, Essi, come on, come on, come on… 

The man rasped something foul in her ear, but all she could hear was the sound of her ears ringing and her own heart beating out of her chest as she did her best to focus on the task at hand. She barely knew what she was doing, but the witcher was watching her every move intently, and that somehow made whatever she was about to do feel possible. She felt her thumb brush the cool handle of her dagger, and Lambert nodded almost imperceptibly. Do it. 

With a swift, fluid movement, she plunged the short blade into the man’s side and he roared in pain as his compatriots mulled around in confusion, their fisstech-addled minds still catching up. Lambert took the opportunity and sliced through the three nearest him with swift, clean strokes, focusing back in on Essi just in time to see her take a right hook to the face. She fell to the ground and blinked heavily, her vision blurry and head spinning. Her fingers found a large rock as a pair of meaty hands grabbed her legs, pulling her across the rough dirt road. She scrambled and turned, bringing the heavy rock squarely to the side of the man’s head with a sickening crack. He fell limply to the ground as the poet found her way to shaky legs, the makeshift weapon falling limply from her hand. 

From out of the chaos of grunts and screams and clanging weapons, Essi heard her name, “GET OUT, GO, GO!” It was Lambert. Without a second thought she stumbled the short distance to Ginger and mounted, bolting across the river and holding on for dear life. She rode until the horse slowed, until she wasn’t sure where she was or whether the river she’d stopped beside was the same river or a different one. Essi dismounted and only then noticed that her hands were shaking. Interesting, she thought, as she was overcome with trembling and heaving sobs. I suppose this is what they mean when they say ‘fear catches us later’. She sat on a boulder and listened to the clear water, waiting for Lambert to find her.

#Essi Daven/Lambert #Lambert/Essi #rarepair #thank you Lambert #and I'm sorry #more to come! #Stay tuned #The witcher #Lambert #Essi Daven #Bardcore: dark mode

[dorki-c]

The Three Cups: Cup of Caution

Characters: Villain Deku, (reader), Brief mention of Shigaraki, Kurogiri, and Toga!

Relationship: Villain Deku / Izuku Midoriya and Fem! (Reader).

Audience: 16+ ONLY please!

A/N: Two weeks and approximately 6 pages later- I bring to you the second cup: Cup of Caution. Thank you all for your support the past two weeks and the lovely comments, it really means a lot! I would be really thankful if everyone who read this would reblog and liked this!

But before anybody goes on and read this, PLEASE PLEASE TAKE CAUTION (No pun included) WHEN READING THIS. It handles some heavy things within the one-shot and I really don’t want anybody to be reminded of horrible experiences that they may have gone through. AS WELL AS! Please note that I’m not a health care professional or somebody who knows how to deal with first aid- so please do not use my one-shot as a correct and reliable source to deal with this situation! 

(ALSO! COME REQUEST A PROMPT FOR MY VALENTINES WRITING EVENT! CLICK HERE FOR MORE INFO!)

TW: Gun use (only very briefly), Mention of Self-harm (only if you squint REALLY hard), blood and bleeding, Self-deprecating thoughts, mention of bullet removal, unprofessional medical procedures and cauterization, implied forced enclosure, mention of alcohol.

[IMPORTANT: I DO NOT ENCOURAGE ANY OF THE TRIGGER WARNINGS!]

[<-- Previous Part | Next Part -->]

The midst of every night always had its unknown secrets basking in the twilight. They writhed and crawled scantly across the surface of the two villains hides like insects ready to rip and chew apart delicate layers of flesh.

Darting left and right from advantage points, your observant pair of eyes stayed forever locked on the green-haired man (boy) behind the heavy-duty mask that carefully- though quite excellently- tightened around the back of your neck and head with approximately four, maybe five, click-in locks.

You didn’t know what this arranged ‘meeting’ was about, frankly you didn’t care (like always), though as each minute of the task (in your mind) was wasted by each and every mother fucking curse you plan to yell at Shigaraki when you arrive back at the base.

That crusty asshole decided it would be (unadulteratedly) hilarious to set you up to ‘guard’ his younger brother’s puny smug (handsome) ass which in turn meant staring by squatting down where your unshielded knees may scrape against the harsh concrete of the building you stood on top of.

Obsessively gripping the bland black pistol in the palm of your hand, your nerves screamed at you to relax to the cold polluted air that ran warm in the blood of whoever isn’t dead tonight. With the narrowing of your eyes darting from Deku to the three men standing in front of him with a small flat line seemingly narrowing to an expression of annoyance.

When are they going to finish? You wished you could have said that, but that’s not allowed. It will never be permitted.

Screaming little nuisances echo out protests to rebel again Deku- like the previous time before- though both you and the rest of the audience resting in their seats know not to do that, again. The fresh crescent moon wounds encircled around a singular wrist (covered by a glove) alerts the subconscious bully lurking in the midst at the front of this theatrical performance of life.

But (focusing on the task at hand) what was that man holding? Crouching downwards to get a better look, your body moved on its own accord when shit hit the fan. Invisible gusts aiding in your descent as a small glance to the side can confirm what happened before three bodies laid flat in the closed off alley.

Packing the pistol into a holster at the starting line of your boots, itty-bitty footsteps reached to her colleague, though her form was turned away from them. “Get up, we need to leave before the police get here.” What? How much of an asshole is his crush? “I can’t, you idiot.” Pivoting on her heel, she glanced downwards to see the source of the other villain’s problem.

Oh.

(And here (y/n) never thought black dress pants could turn red…)

With a leg shot to frigging bits, the frayed edges of the dress pants curled upward and attempted to soak up the liquid seeping out of his body, although it was in futile. Alongside that, (y/n) didn’t have any other cloth or rope or… something to stop the blood flow.

However, that was a failed observation on her part.

Glancing at her own self, she noted the blazer that covered only a bare minimum of her shoulders and back. (Oh well, it’s not like I can’t buy another one) Sighing softly, she could feel those all-too-familiar green (laser) eyes observing the slow languid movement of the female taking off her blazer, drooping down to his level and tapping the leg with such delicacy that Deku could’ve had a small crisis about how close (y/n) was.

“Open your mouth.” When he did so, a side of (y/n)’s arm was barged in the clamp that is his mouth.

“Bite down on my arm until I tell you to stop.” This is going to hurt like a bitch, although she didn’t mind pain (it’s a friend nowadays), where in a second she felt the contraction of what might be millions of miniscule sensory cells curse a wave of spiky pain erupt along the bridge of her forearm, the female made quick work of wrapping her blazer into a tight knot around the upper base of Deku’s bloodied leg that certainly is comparable to a two-way circuit of agony that flooded both of their bodies.

When ripping the arm from his canine teeth, only flinching as she did so (her favoured shirt was practically ruined with slobber), a blackened satin hand extended itself upwards and was met with a sweet cranberry red hand.

“Come on, we need to get you patched up.” Said (y/n), where all Deku could do was nod in agreement.

(Why did she want me to go with her?)

(What’s this feeling in my chest?)

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

Kicking the door with only her heel, the leaning weight of what could’ve been a dead man laid heavy on her spine.

Grimly being reminded of the injury he held accountable on his leg, she laid him down on the ragged and worn couch- the fabric was tough and stale (it always caused an uncomfortable rub against naked skin) with the seams of the couch allowing small uplifting specks of thread-, though, she should’ve thrown this heap of shit outside for some DIY freak to refurbish, but (y/n) at the moment doesn’t have the money to afford another couch.

So, she’ll do with this one. Plus, it’s a good couch for staying somewhat clean when your flooding blood out of your fragile body.

In the moment of time, her shoes and mask were thrown off and a new pair of gloves were hastily applied onto her hands.

“Wake up.” Pinching the poor boy’s arm, vibrant green eyes, that match spring grass sprouting from a thick layer of dirt, had burst open in surprise of the ‘prickly golden needle’ sensation, however, the plain white ceiling was unfamiliar to his presence.

Huffing at his slow reaction, although helping him sit up in the process, the soft groan of lethargy slips from the (pretty) boy’s lips to crash and burn the depths of (y/n) terrified mind (about having somebody who isn’t a female in her apartment).

“Damn,” Rasp and smug his voice was, if he wasn’t hurt with a leg injury, then you would’ve tortured him to the full extent of your vexation, “is this my treat for being alive?” You suppose you knew what his innuendo implied, considering you were sitting between his thighs, “What?” Asserted Deku as he observed your facial cues.

“I’m not sucking your goddamn dick, asshole.”

Oh.

(And here Deku thought he could get laid tonight.)

“I need to wrap your leg,” Holding up a roll of dressings for him to see, “and to do that, I need you to take off your trousers.”  

“Well, you could always—” He notices one finger of your hand about to take off your purply-red gloves in a threatening motion, “—Okay! Okay! I’ll do it myself…” A pout was evident on his face, but he did as you asked (mostly because he was scared of your quirk).

A belt buckle jingled to the floor, “My offer still stands.” Then the ruined dress pants fell along with them. 

“I don’t want your offer.”

Grabbing the disinfection solution and a cotton gauze, the female opened the pungent liquid and tipped it upside down to gather it on the gauze, “This is going to sting.” Affirmed (y/n), “I know, doll.” Deku only managed to hiss out a response as the onslaught of a headache started to run towards him.

They both treaded this situation carefully and cautiously

As you clean the dirt out and rid the chance of infection to happen, your eyes started to frantically inspect each of the wounds as they still leaked blood every time your index finger very softly pressed on the skin around the wounds.

They still bled after applying pressure.

Fuck.

“I have to remove the bullets.” The male’s face paled. “Give me a second, I need to get some things.”  Deku saw her (rather sexy) form exit the living room and into one of the rooms (which he guesses to be her room) and then come out with a pillow, tweezers, and a brightly coloured (f/c) lighter. “What are…these for?” Those once bright green eyes gained a cloud of mistrust when narrowing at the objects, “The objects are for the bullet removal,” Staring horrified at her, she continued without paying mind to his facial expression, “I need to grab some plastic gloves and a rag from the kitchen, but after the procedure, I will need you to take a few pills.” (Y/n) wore a blank expression when announcing the news, but it further piqued his interest in this dark hour.  

Was she scared? Afraid?

When noticing Deku’s lacklustre expression, (y/n) snapped her fingers at him, “Are you aware of any allergies to any brands or medication?” Shaking his head in response, the female left him alone for a few minutes before returning with the rest of the things.

“Let’s get started, shall we?”

(Deku swore he heard the soft chime of ‘I’m sorry’ behind the curtains of (y/n)’s sentence)

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

Waking up to a soft drag of curtains opening, the green haired villain only remembers the white adrenaline of a few slick objects being dragged out of squishy tensed skin where the only thing keeping him awake was the soft murmuring of “you’re doing good…” as smooth plastic painfully slid across the red hills of his cheeks that began to form rivers from the nearby reservoir uphill.

Alongside the unknowledgeable lull of his drowsy head, he saw the heavily wrapped leg and small patches of gauzes strapped further down his legs, with the ability to only whimper in an attempt to alert you that he was awake.

The small widening of your eyes as your body spun around to see his groggy eyes open to the shimmer of mornings gift: the sunrise.

Shuffling towards the bed and sitting on the side, (y/n) wore some sort of expression that the green-haired villain had never thought she knew how to express. “Holy shit,” Started Deku, “What is it?” (Y/n) added, “Your actually showing-- I might as well dare to say this—your showing emotion for once!” Exclaimed Deku as his eyes looked like they could light up a million galaxies in just a millisecond.

But the moment didn’t last, the luminously concerned expression that Deku had (stupidly) pointed out fell into the deepest depths of hell, then, the usual cold and icy exterior had taken the throne as the new ruler.

“Fuck off.” Snapped (y/n) before making haste out of the room. You left before he could utter another syllable.

Damn it. He should’ve taken caution.

Pushing himself up against the bed, the breakfast that was once warm was already cold. Well, he might as well dig in and find out if you poisoned it. He wouldn’t be surprised, maybe you’ve already figured out the burial site and what colour his coffin could be…

Nevertheless, the small gesture of kindness presented by you had reached his heart. It’s been a long time since he’s actually ate something that smells and looks edible, alongside the small note next to the three white pills, informing him to “take these with the food”.

Wow, you have nice handwriting. The compliment rang through his mind like a ping pong ball emitting even more compliments than he couldn’t utter out loud because he knows the risk of rambling to his crush will be high.

That’s more of a reason why he has to take caution.

 -------------------------------

When was the last time he was allowed out of this apartment?

Sure, everyone has popped by to help him get around the place, but when was the last time he saw- and actually sat down on- his precious throne donning a wine glass in one hand and a roll of newspaper that had a crossword puzzle on the back.

But several things (these past three-ish weeks) have perplexed him to the edge of understanding and not understanding.

Like why hasn’t Kurogiri bothered to teleport him back to the base? Or why does Toga always giggle when seeing him stuck in your bed, additionally, if you truly hated and despised him, then why are you letting him stay bedridden on your personal bed? There’s too many questions and not enough answers.

Gosh, and somebody better not stop him from drinking more then three fucking wine bottles- all from the same brand- or else he’ll explode (not literally, he rather not be like somebody he used to know.)

Sighing at the state his thoughts were in, the timing of your arrival was always as impeccable as ever.

Holding a small bag containing some trinkets, the small smile he used around you allowed the torture of butterflies and (slowly) budding roses in your stomach to erupt into a full fledge garden when he began using a subtle approach when seeing you come back to your home.

Petite smiles became the norm, saying thank you and staying quiet when your gloved hands brushed soothingly on the tattered skin littered with scars as his breath softened to nothing but— “Deku?” Humming a respond to desensitise your harsh wrath, the headache medicine that you had given to him earlier this morning was absolutely making magic (cue the jazz hands in the background) happen in his head.

A soft (and holy) finger ghosted past his temple to simply brush a measly strand of green out of his face. “Are you okay?” Murmured (y/n) where she let her guard down long enough to let the (beautiful) green-haired boy see the glimmer of comfort that you discovered.

Leaning his head towards your unaware palm, he basked in the warmth of your hand that emitted on his cheek.

“Yeah…I’m okay with you, sweetheart.”

(If religion didn’t exist, I would’ve imagined Deku worshipping the ground (y/n) walked on.)

(If the overwhelming heat in your cheeks didn’t exist, I would’ve imagined (y/n) kissing Deku.)

Tag list:

@glitterfreezed, @in-this-house-we-stan-izuku, @haredabi, @orenjineki, @quietlegends

#TW:alcohol #tw: swearing #tw: implied death #tw: injury #Tw: Unprofessional medical procedures #Tw: cauterization #Tw: mention of self-harm #Tw: self loathing #tw: bullet wound #tw:bullet removal #Villain izuku midoriya #villain deku x reader #Villain deku Mha #Villain deku Bnha #villain x reader #Villain deku X you #Villain izuku midoriya x reader #izuku midoria x reader #Izuku midoriya #Mha AU #Mha X reader #Mha angst #Mha fluff #Villain deku AU #bnha x y/n #bnha x reader #bnhaxyou #bnha x you #bnha au #Mha X you

[toloveawarlord]

Ch. 2

Characters: Elaine, Arthur x Theo, Vincent

Pairing: Elaine x Isaac (eventually)

Tagging: @plumpblueberry​ @lady-moonbroch​

A/N: This chapter turned out nothing like the first draft XD Enjoy some Elaine spending time with her Uncle and she meets a boy!

Four days into her new job as Theo’s assistant, the mood in their home had drastically lifted. Elaine never complained and paid close attention to every task given to her, exceeding all expectations. She quoted things he’d said to her years ago and questioned smartly, craving the knowledge he had. Having her along had proved quite useful with prickly clients, smoothing over situations with a charming smile and sweet words, likely emulating Arthur. 

Theo enjoyed having time with her. In recent years, they’d grown strained. The teenager wanted more freedom and broke rules in place to protect her because she believed them unnecessary. Now, at nearly eighteen in only two days, she’d fought harder. Being able to keep an eye on her put the art dealer at little more at ease.

His daughter sat across from him, glancing at him out of the corner of her vision. Elaine hadn’t taken the news that she couldn’t accompany him today well. Instead of anger, she’d pouted silently all morning.

“I take it that you aren’t happy with today’s agenda,” Arthur piped up with an amused grin not quite hidden by his cup of steaming coffee. The previous night Theo had informed him of the impending unhappy teenager.

Elaine stuffed the fork full of pancakes into her mouth, enough to make her cheeks puff out to match her frown. She’d gotten up extra early and made pancakes and extra sweet coffee, but the answer remained unchanged. Now, she wanted to drown her sorrows in syrup and butter until she got sick.

“Vincent has asked for you to help him today while I’m gone.” Theo could easily see the motive behind his brother’s sudden request. He’d promised to make her do some work instead of spoiling her the entire day.

The teenager flinched at those words. She couldn’t very well turn down her uncle, as she adored him so much. Help isn’t the word she’d choose to describe what the day would entail. He’d likely ask her to do a small task or two, nothing that required much effort. “Fine. I guess I can do that.”

Working didn’t bother her. She assisted around the house with the chores without complaint. If Comte asked, she would readily agree. It irritated her that this client wouldn’t allow her entrance to his home, prompting this sour mood. No promises of being quiet or staying outside had swayed Theo. He couldn’t risk spooking the man.

“If you find yourself in need of something to do, I can have you proofread for me.” Her grimace only made the mystery writer chuckle again. Her disdain for that job well-known. Though she enjoyed his stories, playing editor didn’t appeal to her. A tedious thing.

Theo cracked a grin, rising from the table. “You better thank Vincent for saving you from that.” One check of his watch ended the conversation. He bid his family farewell before heading into town alone.

“Are you sure you don’t want to help your Papa with his work?” Arthur teased further. He had been a tad jealous that she eagerly wanted to assist Theo over the course of the week. Ah, but he was also grateful that the two were more understanding of each other.

Elaine stacked all the empty plates to carry them to the kitchen. “I love you but no.” Her curt reply still amusing. Setting the dishes in the sink, she licked the sticky syrup off her fingers.

“Off you go then. I’ll take care of the cleanup.”

The young vampire didn’t need to be told twice. Housework didn’t appeal to her either. She did her part, pitching in when needed, but if told she didn’t have to do it... the teenager bailed as quickly as she could.

Inside the mansion, the hallways were quiet and empty.  At this hour, everyone should be awake, except for Leonardo perhaps. Rapping her fist against Vincent’s door, she cast confused glances down the hallway.

“Goede morgen, Elaine,” Vincent greeted with a bright smile. He laughed softly at her confusion. Since Arthur and Theo had moved out of the mansion with her when she was only 4 years old, daily happenings didn’t reach their house as quickly as it spread through the mansion. “We’re the only ones here today.”

“I’m okay with that.” She flashed a disheartened smile, unable to shake the dark cloud hanging over her. Her normally mischievous and lively attitude disappeared. The others might have tried to make her understand. She understood perfectly fine.

That didn’t make it less saddening.

“Come here.” He’d barely open his arms and invited his niece to find comfort with him when the teenager stepped forward and accepted the warm hug. Vincent stroked his fingers through her copper hair. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but she reminded him so much of Theo when he was a child. “You know, he couldn’t stop talking about how wonderful you were on the job.”

“Really?”

It wasn’t that he hadn’t said so to her. Theo would give praise often, especially when she came up with new ideas. Telling the others about it, that was rarer.

Vincent hummed in response, a gentle smile on his lips as she peeked up at him. “I’d say he was outright bragging. I’m not surprised. You’re his daughter after all.” Placing a kiss on the top of her head, he laughed softly at her uplifted mood.

Elaine lingered a little longer before releasing him, soaking up his sunshine-like warmth. “I guess I could stop pouting about it.” Relenting her sad feelings, she sighed softly before questioning. “So, what was it you wanted my help with?”

“I finished the final painting and I thought I’d ask for your expert advice on where to put it in the gallery space. That is, if you want to.” His request was well-received with a glowing smile from his niece. Theo had mentioned that he’d given her the sole responsibility of choosing how to use the space to best showcase the art. The uncle looked forward to seeing what she’d done.

***********

The paintings on the wall were shrouded in black cloth, to hide the precious items from view until the day of the showing. Only a select few knew what was beneath, ones trusted by Theo to make this a success. Elaine had been gifted one of the only keys to venue, a testament to her importance.

“I believe I’m looking forward to this event more than any other,” Vincent commented, allowing the staff to hang the framed piece in its designated spot.

The heat in her cheeks caused the teenager to turn her gaze anywhere else. “It’s not much different from how Vader does it. I’ve been to more of these than any other event in the city.” The location changed but ever since she learned to walk, she’d been toddling around, observing, and learning how it works. Before she’d even realized, she’d begun understanding color theory and composition.

“It wasn’t too long ago that you were only a few years old and correcting patrons on the medium or style of the art. You always had this incredibly serious expression, much like Theo.”

“That was so long ago! I’m almost eighteen!”

Vincent chuckled with a loving smile. “Yes, I guess that’s right.”

The chime of the door timed perfectly with one of the staff calling to speak with Vincent. Elaine stepped away to investigate the newcomer. Violet eyes narrowed at the sight of a boy, likely no older than herself, attempting to take a peek at the portrait veiled by the black cloth. “Excuse me, but you can’t be in here.” Her tone less than polite, Elaine thrust her palms against his chest to push him away from the art piece.

“Oh, my apologies. I’ve been most curious about why there are staff entering but it’s never been open for business.” His emerald eyes filled with hidden intent that didn’t quite match the half smirk on his lips. The boy never resisted her pushing him back to the door and onto the street. “A secretive operation, I presume, miss?”

“Elaine and we don’t open for another two days.”

Her biggest fear was that he was a spy for le academia and all of her father’s hard work would go to waste if they were discovered. He didn’t fit the typical appearance of a high bred family, usually scrawny and uptight, and he wasn’t either of those things.

“I’ll have to pop in when you are open. My name is Leon Autry.” He flashed another brilliantly smug smile and winked. “Might I inquire your surname, should I have any future questions?” The reason lost on the recipient. He’d yet to ask anything relevant to the gallery.

Elaine turned on her heel to return inside. “It’s Doyle.” Even though she didn’t quite like the boy, she couldn’t risk turning away a potential buyer. Her cheeks were warm, and it wasn’t clear if it was from embarrassment or anger. The young pureblood didn’t have many friends her age, and that led to a bit of awkwardness when around humans her age.

“Ah, like the writer.”

The girl stilled, hand hovering above the door handle. Perhaps she’d heard him incorrectly.

“You might not know of him. He’s a British writer, mystery, I think.”

Or perhaps not.

“I believe it’s Arthur Conan Doyle. Any relation?” Leon asked as if he already knew the answer, like playing a game of truth or dare in order reveal a secret for confirmation.

Elaine relaxed her shoulders. Although she could hardly admit that she was indeed was the daughter of that very Arthur, albeit the vampire one, she wouldn’t allow him to glean that precious information from her. “No, but you aren’t the first to ask. But wouldn’t that be grand? Imagine being related to someone as talented as that.” Her dreamy smile fowled his for a moment.

“Imagine.” The façade of his grin had ghosted away for a split second, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Elaine, are you ready to head back?” A third party interrupted, much welcomed by the girl. Vincent approached the two, protectively a half step in front of his niece. The tension between the two children enough to worry him.

Her head bobbed once in response. “Yes, let’s go home.” The way Leon’s eyes followed her unsettled the girl. Elaine settled back on the seat in the carriage, mulling over the strange interaction. Was it so unusual for someone to draw a connection between her name and the human Arthur from this era?

Whatever the case, she now had a proper mystery on her hands.

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp arthur #ikevamp theo #ikevamp vincent #ikemen vampire fanfiction #arthur and theo have a child #elaine odette doyle #truth in simplicity #isaac is coming soon i promise

[transdonaldduck]

*KICKS IN UR DOOR* I would love to hear more about ur tmnt universe stuff

okay!!! you dont gatta ask me twice. I drew these last night at 3 am and lost steam halfway through and gave up on donatello bc i wasn’t happy with any of my sketches and that’s that! forewarning: im edgy so this is edgy

the rest is under the readmore

The setting: It’s new york babey! We’re following our protagonist April O’Neil, 17 years old, as she navigates the confusing waters of high school, first jobs, and accidentally stumbling upon a mutant underworld. This samples a lot from rotmnt and 2012 bc i have no creativity

characters i’ve thought out

Irma- 18, senior, about to go to college to major in Architecture. She’s aloof but she actually cares about people deep down, she just doesn’t like to show it. She’s trying to let her natural hair color grow out from the years she dyed it black. She likes documentaries, chess, hanging out at graveyeards, and writing horror short stories. Seems sorta doom n gloom but is more apathetic than negative. She’s the president of the journalism club (who runs the school newspaper and morning news segment.) She’s looking for someone to take over the club after she’s gone, and has the perfect candidate in mind… if only April had the skill to match her enthusiasm.

April O’Neil- 17, junior, and aspiring journalist and reporter. She’s upbeat, determined, confident, and a real bright spot ot the people that know her. Her favorite things to do are listen to music, sing, take pictures, and take walks in the sun. She’s a go-getting, very self driver to acheive her goals, and her ultimate goal is to be the greatest reporter that has ever lived. Unfortunately, april doesn’t have the knack for reporting, and every piece she’s submitted to her schools newpaper has been fluff pieces… Irma tasks her with writing a front page headliner for the paper so she feels confident passing the club onto her, and in Aprils attempt to come up with the greatest story ever, she sutmbles upon a gang war and 4 mutant turtles…

Casey Jones- 18, Junior, and barely passing. Casey’s the kind of boy no one really expects anything of, so he doesn’t bother trying bc at least then he won’t fail. April inspires him to be better. He likes bad jokes, terrible coffee, and hockey- he’s hoping that April will tutor him enough to be able to bring his grades up enough to be allowed back on the school’s team. He seems sorta prickly and rude at first, but he’s just got a spiky outer shell and he’s really sweet inside. He loves horror movies and extreme sports competitons. He makes a point to walk april home whenever she stays late working on school stuff,

turtle time

the setting: They still live in the sewers, Splinter is still their dad but he’s very old when he gets the turtles, making him even older now. He does a lot of meditating and watching tv and doing crosswords, yknow old people stuff. He relies a lot on Leo to be the head of the house now that he’s old enough. He still trains the boys to learn martial arts bc he thinks it’s important they can defend themselves, considering what they are. He can kick ass when he needs to, tho

leo- 19, red ear slider, silent and stoic leader, raised as a child to be responisble for his brothers. He’s pretty socially awkward and weird bc he was divided from his brothers at a young age and didn’t get a lot of chances to grow and play with other kids his age. He doesn’t do much outside of train, study, and chores, and April is appaled by the fact that he doesn’t have like, ANY hobbies. she takes it upon herself as a personal mission to find something for him to do. He doesnt know the meaning of the word fun, but he tries not to always be a stick in the mud (mostly by removing himself from the fun situation in a misguided attempt to make everyone happier…)

raph- 18, Snapping turtle, and he’s got a short fuse and a big appetite. He’s a bit resentful of his families situation stuck in the sewers and darkness, and he hates being looked down upon. He’s only rebellious bc of how confined and trapped he feels, and though he can act like a grump and lash out he has a heart of gold. He likes wood carving, it’s actually how he made his little sun pendant he wears, it’s something to remind him the sun will rise soon and he’ll be there to see it.

donatello- 17, softshell turtle, bookworm and tech wizard. he likes to read for fun and he’s super into mechanics and computers. smarter than his brothers but thinks WAY too much, often holes up in his lab for hours trying to work out some particularly tough programming problem and will only come out for tea or pizza. he can be snooty/superior in situations where his intellect can be flashed. the worst ninja of the bunch (he thinks more with his head than with his body and never practices)

mikey- 15, box turtle, goofy gooey heartfelt younger brother. He cant draw for shit but still tries because he thinks it’s fun. He’s good at writing and poetry, he likes words and keeps a daily diary he writes in every day. He also keeps a dream journal and a log on all the tunnels in the sewers they’ve explored. He like to keep notes. Comic books are his favorite reading material but he’s picky about the art styles he enjoys, and he is very naturally talented with anything physical. good at easing tension but has 0 common sense, just a round angel

Leo is the shortest and lightest, agile and quick. Mikey is second shortest but he’s fat, which doesn’t detract from his natural flexibility. Raph is second tallest and broad shouldered with big arms, a powerhouse. Donnie is tall and lanky, a little uncoordinated but still strong.

#tmnt #Anonymous #teenage mutant ninja turtles #leonardo tmnt #raphael tmnt #michaelangelo tmnt #donatello tmnt #my art

[hookedonapirate]

We Own the Night

Summary: It’s a shame she’s so bloody beautiful in her low cut, curve-hugging red dress and black high heels, her green eyes glinting with mischief and her golden hair cascading over her shoulders as she leans into him. It’s a shame how sexy she is while she flirts with him and how adorable she is when she giggles and whispers in his ear, almost marking him with her red lipstick as her hand gently caresses his bicep, the warm breath against his skin making his heart race. In ordinary circumstances, they’d be engaging in more enjoyable activities, but unfortunately, he has to arrest her. 

A/N: Wow, I can't believe I wrote the first part of this story in September! I'm sorry it took so long to update. Thank you @onceuponaprincessworld​ for letting me share ideas with her and for constantly being a cheerleader. This part has not been beta'd, only self-edited so feel free to let me know if I overlooked any mistakes. Hope you enjoy!

Also Available on: AO3 l FF.N

Rated: Explicit for crude language and multiple mentions of prostitution.

Read: Part One

Part Two/Two

“I hope you don’t mind, I invited someone to join us.”

 Liam cuts Killian a sideways glance, his brows climbing to his forehead as they make their way up the walkway of the bistro. “No, not at all, but when we talked over the phone, I thought it was just going to be us brothers celebrating over rum and wings at our favorite pub.”

 “Well, make no mistake,” Killian says, clapping his hand on Liam's shoulder, “we will be celebrating and there will be rum, but I thought we could splurge and come here where we can get an actual drink. There is someone who I would very much like for you to meet, and I think the top shelf rum is better suited for the occasion instead of the cheap stuff. But don’t worry, I’m paying,” Killian assures him, in case the cost is what he's worried about.

 Liam waves off his words as they reach the entrance and wait outside. “Nonsense, little brother. We’re here to celebrate your victory, so I think I can foot the bill.” 

 Before Killian can demur, he turns his head to see a gorgeous blonde in a radiant blue dress as she makes her toward them, her high heels clicking against the sidewalk and long loose hair bouncing around her shoulders in golden silk waves that he itches to run his fingers through. His gaze travels down her form, appreciating every curve and every inch of exposed porcelain skin, before returning to her face.

 “So, who is this person joining us?” Liam asks curiously before he turns his head to see what Killian is gaping so shamelessly at. Or rather who. “Oh.”

 Killian can hear the smirk in his brother's tone, but he's too fixated on those beautiful emerald orbs glinting in the soft outdoor lighting, and that great big smile which shows off her pearly white teeth, and can't seem to tear his eyes away from her to catch the expression on Liam's face. 

 “Hi, babe,” she says, kissing Killian’s cheek in greeting.

 Placing his hand on the small of her back, a low groan bubbles in his throat when he can feel her smooth, silken skin under his palm and realizes her dress is backless. “Hi, love,” he murmurs in her ear and lifts her hand with his free one, brushing his lips over her knuckles. “You look stunning.” He places a soft kiss to her delicate, supple skin as he takes in the sweet, lovely scent of her perfume. 

 “Thank you.” She giggles when his prickly scruff tickles her skin, and her laughter warms his heart. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

 A big grin takes over his face. “Thank you, love.” He releases her hand so he can wrap his arm around her hourglass figure and pull her against him. As he eyes her luscious lips and darts his tongue to lick his own, he has to refrain from kissing her senseless while they're in his brother’s presence. 

 Right. His brother's here.

 Reminding himself he's not alone with his lovely Swan, he turns his head to Liam, who is standing there awkwardly with his arms crossed, waiting for them to finish groping each other, or so Killian assumes. “Liam, I would like you to meet Emma. Emma. this is my brother, Liam.”

 It’s funny because Killian has never introduced him to her before; he hasn’t so much as shown his brother a picture of Emma because, based on his own experience, photographs don’t do her a bit of justice. And yet Liam’s eyes widen with recognition and he’s standing there staring at her for longer than what is appropriate and necessary.

 Killian clears his throat to gain his brother’s attention as he tilts his head toward her.

 It doesn’t take Liam long to understand what Killian is trying to tell him. He quickly amends his behavior and shoots out his hand, offering it to her. “Apologies, lass. Where are my manners? It’s very nice to meet you.”

 She doesn't seem to take offense as she shakes his hand. “Likewise.”

 Liam is still gawking and scrunching his eyebrows at her, and Killian’s afraid he’s making her uncomfortable, even though she doesn't appear to be. 

 When Liam doesn't release her hand in a timely manner, Killian gives him a nudge in the ribs. Is he seriously checking out his brother’s girlfriend?

“Ow, what in the bloody hell did you jab me in the ribs for?” Liam grumbles as he lets go of Emma’s hand to rub his ribs.

 “I was gently persuading you not to ogle my girlfriend,” he teases, though his tone is void of any humor and is loaded with sarcasm.

 “I wasn’t ogling your girlfriend, Killian. It’s just…” Liam scratches his head and seems to scrutinize every detail of her face.

 She arches a brow, waiting for him to explain himself. “Just what?”

 “Have we met before?” he finally asks her.

 Emma purses her lips and pinches her brows together in assessment for a moment, then she shakes her head. “I don’t believe so. I’m not from around here.”

 Liam lifts his hand, rubbing his chin in contemplation. “Hm, you look very familiar but I don’t know where I’ve seen you before.”

 “Maybe from a picture?” Emma guesses, looking at Killian for answers.

 “No, that’s not it. Killian never showed me a picture of you.”

 “Aye, photographs don’t do you justice, love,” Killian says, winking at his lovely girlfriend.

 A pretty, pink blush paints her cheeks and she smiles at him. She leans into him, wrapping an arm around his back as he snakes his arm around her shoulders and kisses her temple.

 Liam narrows his eyes at Killian. “Come to think of it, you haven’t even told me about her. Why is that, little brother?”

 Emma glances at Killian, equally curious about the question. “Yeah, why is that?”

 “First of all, it’s younger brother,” Killian corrects Liam before his eyes move to Emma, “and secondly, I didn’t mention you because I wanted it to be a surprise.” Killian balls his fingers into a fist and points his thumb in Liam’s direction. “Do you know how long this ponce has been nagging me about finding a proper girlfriend after the last one ripped my heart out?” He shivers at the mention of his ex. He’d told Emma about her, and the gory details, but didn’t wish to bring it up again, especially tonight because it's supposed to be a celebratory one.

 Liam frowns. “Oi, I haven’t nagged you about it, I gently persuaded you to get over her,” he says, mocking Killian’s earlier words.

 Killian rolls his eyes. “Uh-huh. Gently persuaded my arse.”

 Emma laughs and shakes her head at the two bickering brothers and loops her arm through Killian’s. The three of them head inside where the hostess seats them at a booth and passes out menus. Killian slides in next to Emma, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and caresses the warm, bare skin at his fingertips as they get comfortable in the booth. Emma molds into him and rests her hand on his knee underneath the table. 

 When their waitress arrives to take their drink orders, the guys order Bicardi Superior and Emma orders a Rum and Coke.

 “A lass who enjoys her liquor, I like her already,” Liam teases Emma, “even though you're ruining your rum by adding soda to it. I’ll let it slide, though.” 

 Killian leans over to kiss her cheek. “I happen to like her too.”

 The waitress returns with their drinks and leaves when they’re not ready to order their food yet. 

 While they’re browsing the menus and chatting about what to eat for dinner, Liam keeps staring at Emma every now and then, as if he knows her. “I swear I’ve seen you before, I just can't figure out where,” he says before taking a sip of his rum.

 Killian sighs, and Emma shrugs. 

 “Sorry, I’m not sure. I’d remember a face like yours.”

 Liam grins. “Oh, really?”

 “Yeah, I mean even though you bear a slight resemblance to Killian, you have one of those unique faces. I, on the other hand, have a familiar face.”

 “I tend to disagree, love. While you do have a friendly face, your beauty is far from common.” 

 Emma blushes crimson and moves her hand to his thigh, squeezing him gently as she leans in to whisper in his ear. “You’re asking for it, aren't you?”

 “And what exactly am I asking for, darling?” he murmurs quietly so Liam can’t hear.

 “As if you don't know.”

 The clearing of Liam’s throat indicates they weren’t quiet enough or maybe they’re sitting too close and practically pawing each other on the other side of the table. Or maybe they both share that look—a look that says they’re going to rip each other’s clothes off and fuck each other’s brains out once they’re alone in her cozy hotel room. 

 When Killian returned to his hometown to visit his brother, he’d invited her to stay with him at Liam’s but she didn’t wish to invade Liam’s space, especially since she hadn’t met yet. So Killian paid for a hotel room for the night in hopes she would come around after getting to know Liam a bit and be comfortable enough to stay at his place. But with the way Liam is creepily staring at her, Killian doubts she will warm up to him anytime soon.

 “Alright, get a room, you two,” Liam grumbles and returns his eyes to the menu in his hands.

 “We have one,” Killian says to his brother, “and believe me, we’re dying to use it.” He winks at Emma, and sees her blushing and smiling from ear to ear. She is bloody adorable when she blushes.

 “You got a room for the night?” Liam asks Emma curiously. “You could’ve stayed at my place. If my knucklehead of a brother told me about you, you wouldn't have had to pay for a hotel.”

 “That’s okay. I’m used to staying in hotels for work.”

 Liam sets down the menu and curls his hand around his tumbler. “Say that again?” he asks before draining his drink.

 “I’m used to staying in hotels. I get around a lot for my job.”

 Liam spits out the expensive rum, spraying it over the table.

 “What in the blazes, Liam?!” Killian yells at him as he looks at Emma to make sure the rum didn’t get on her.

 She quickly reaches for some napkins and wipes off the table. Luckily the rum only splattered the table and menus.

 “Sorry, lass,” Liam says while grabbing some napkins and frantically trying to clean up his mess. 

 Killian notices a change in his brother’s behavior. He seems nervous about something, but he's not sure why.

 “Are you two ready to order? I’m ready,” Liam says frantically and turns his head, seeking the waitress before Killian and Emma can reply. He raises his hand to summon her over.

 “I guess we’re ready,” Emma says with a laugh and glances at her menu once more before handing it to Killian.

 The waitress takes their orders and menus before leaving the table.

 “So, do you want to explain to me what your problem is, brother?” Killian asks in irritation as he glares daggers at him.

 “Nothing, I… I’m sorry, the rum just went down the wrong pipe is all.”

 “I’m not talking about that specifically. You’ve been acting strange all night,” Killian chastises.

 “It’s nothing. I’m fine really.” His eyes move to Emma. “I just realized where I know you from. I saw your picture online. While you were working.”

 “Oh god,” Emma groans, “I look terrible in that photo. I had pulled an all-nighter right before that picture was taken.

 “I disagree, love, you looked beautiful. You always do.” Killian grins at her, remembering that photo very well. He and Emma had busted an organized crime ring that trafficked women into the local sex trade, and it was plastered all over the news. The photograph of them making several arrests had been taken for a local newspaper, but he’s not sure how Liam had seen it since he doesn’t even live in Washington.

 Liam’s face pales as he glares at Emma with disdain. 

 Killian scowls at him. He will have a little chit chat with his brother later on about displaying proper manners around his girlfriend. 

 “So, tell me, Emma, how do you like your profession?” Liam asks, his expressions steely as he observes her pointedly.

 “Oh, well, it's very challenging at times, but at the end of the day, it’s very rewarding knowing I’m making a big difference on the streets. The day that photo was taken, I single-handedly took on fifty guys at the brothel. I was so exhausted if you can even imagine.” She sighs as though experiencing that same exhaustion she had felt that day. There was so much paperwork from all the arrests they had made.

 “You were brilliant, love,” he compliments, leaning in to kiss her cheek. He was so proud of her that day. But for some reason, he can feel the burn of Liam’s stare which feels nothing like pride. He tilts his head to see him glowering conspicuously at him, appearing to be both mystified and disappointed. And Killian doesn’t understand why. 

 “So you're okay with her occupation?”

 What in the bloody hell? Here, Killian thought his brother would be happy he found someone as amazing as Emma, especially since Liam had been encouraging him to get back in the saddle after Milah broke his heart.

 “Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?” he asks, irritated by his brother’s crude behavior. “I'd be a hypocrite if I weren't okay with it, don't you think?”

 He can feel his lovely Swan stiffen at the topic, her jaw tight as she glares at Liam. “Excuse me, but even if he weren’t okay with it, no one's going to tell me what I can or cannot do for a living. Believe me, my brother has been trying since I was nine,” she says bitterly before sipping her rum and coke through a straw.

 Liam’s eyes pop out of his skull, shock washing over his features, and if Killian’s not mistaken, a hint of pity. But he has no bloody clue why. “Nine?! Wow, that's young.”

 “Well, obviously it was only a dream of mine at the time. I wanted to follow in my adoptive mother's footsteps.” 

 “Your mother was one too?” Liam asks, completely appalled. “No wonder you took to this lifestyle.”

 “Oh yeah, and thanks to her talking some sense into my brother, he came around to the idea, and now I work for him.”

 Liam claps his palm on the top of his curly-haired head. “You work for him?!”

 Emma furrows her brows at him from across the table, not sure why what's so shocking about growing up around people who were in the police force, but thankfully she doesn’t take offense, and seems okay about being hammered with so many questions. Killian supposes it’s because she was nervous about meeting Liam and was worried about whether he would like her. Killian had been quick to assure her he would absolutely love her, but now he’s thinking maybe he didn’t know his brother as well as he thought he did. 

 “Yeah, but believe me, he shows me no nepotism; he rides me hard all day, every day. In fact, he's down my throat more than anyone else,” she says, rolling her eyes at David’s constant need to dictate and tell her how to perform her job.

 Killian can actually hear his brother gasp as he slaps his hands over his cheeks. “Oh my God, your own brother?!” he blurts out, loud enough to gain the attention of other diners. “That's bloody appalling!”

 Emma wrinkles her nose and narrows her eyes at Liam’s response. He seems to take everything she says way out of proportion. “Look I know it's a dangerous job, but I'm just as qualified as any man in my field.”

 Killian agrees with a nod and strokes her back as he regards her with genuine pride. “Aye, she's a feisty lass. She has no problem taking on a heavy load.”

 “Lass, I didn't say you weren't qualified, I mean you're very… attractive—”

 “Wait, you think I got this job because of my looks?!” she demands, cutting him off. She’s clearly pissed. For good reason.

 Liam shrugs, not seeing what the big deal is. “Well, yeah. I mean I assume you get work based on your body, not your brains.” 

 Emma audibly gasps, her eyes popping out of her skull. “Excuse me?!”

 Liam raises his hands in defense and speaks casually, as though it's a typical Tuesday and he's not being a misogynistic tosser to the woman his brother loves and adores. “Well don't get me wrong, lass, I'm sure you give fantastic beejers too. Any man would be happy to have you.”

 "What the bloody fuck did you just say?!" Killian demands hoarsely. He's completely aghast, and he can see the rage spiraling through his girlfriend, he can feel her anger as she taps his shoulder, urging him to move. He feels his own anger bubbling up inside of him. He clenches his jaw as he glares at Liam, letting him know he’s not happy. Why the fuck is Liam speaking to her like she’s a prostitute? What's worse is he doesn't even appear to be apologetic.

 “Can you let me out, please?” she asks Killian in a cold, rigid tone.

 In other circumstances, he would’ve attempted to defend Liam despite his childish behavior, he would've begged Emma to say, but what his scoundrel of a brother had said was not okay—not even close. Killian slides out of the booth and steps aside so Emma can leave. Once she slides out of the booth and stands up, she goes over to the other side of the table and smacks Liam hard in the face. 

 It’s not until he feels the sting of her slap when he appears to be apologetic. As he lifts his hand to soothe his cheek, she picks up his drink and throws it at him. 

 “Oh whoops, it looks like I ruined your rum by adding a big sexist pig to it!” The bite of her tone and sting of her slap (based on how loud it sounded) are much stronger and bitter than the cheap rum at the pub. She bolts away from the table as Liam wipes off the cocktail from his face with a napkin and sighs.

 Apparently they've gained an audience because all the female customers and servers are glaring daggers at Liam, all of them ready to kick his arse. And despite being a cop, Killian wouldn't bother to stop them. Not after the way Liam spoke to his Swan.

 “What the fuck is your problem?!” Killian barks out, but doesn’t stick around long enough to hear the answer, and instead follows Emma out the door. “Emma, wait,” he calls after her as she heads to her car. “Please…” His voice is cracked with worry. He hates that she’s so upset and hurt. Even worse, he hates that his brother is the culprit.

 She stops and turns around, and his heart clenches when he sees tears sliding down her cheeks. He just wants to hold her in his arms and make everything better. His jaw twitches as he lifts a hand to wipe the tears from her face. “I will kick his bloody arse for talking to you that way. I am so sorry, baby. He’s not normally like that.”

 “It’s not your fault, Killian. I just don’t understand how he’s your brother,” she says, pointing at the building in the direction he’s probably still sitting in the booth. “He’s nothing like you.”

 Killian cups her cheeks in hands and speaks softly. “Please, just let me talk some sense into him.”

 “You can do whatever you want.” Her voice cracks as she wipes at her glistening eyes. “I’m going back to the hotel.”

 Killian nods and raises his hand to swipe some stray locks of hair behind her shoulder before wrapping his arms around her. “Can I come by later?”

 Relaxing in his hold, she rests her forehead against his, allowing a small smile to tilt the corners of her mouth. “You better.”

 “Of course I will,” he reassures, kissing her forehead before lowering his gaze to hers. “I love you,” he whispers.

 “I love you, too.” Fisting her hands around the collar of his shirt, she brings her lips to his. 

 His arms tighten around her, both hands resting on her back, pulling her flush against him as his tongue parts her lips and they lose themselves in each other. His heartbeat quickens as he thinks back to their first kiss when he was posing as a john and she a prostitute. The kiss was intense, fierce. Full of heat and raw lust. But this one is so much different. It’s passionate, slow, tender. Full of love. He combs a hand through her hair and takes his time, enjoying the hint of alcohol and soda coating her mouth. The combination is sweet and smooth against the heat of her breath, and he savors every second of her. 

 Though Emma had said she didn’t date colleagues, they both had chemistry neither of them could deny. They plotted strategies together, and how they would bring down the biggest crime ring the county had ever seen. They had met for coffees and lunches for a few months before he finally gathered the courage to ask her out on a real date. She was so relieved and said she was tired of them dancing around their feelings for each other. They went out to dinner and talked for four hours, and then he brought her home and they talked all night, just curled up in her bed holding each other and talking. That was one of the best nights of his life, and every time he’s with her gets better and better.

 When she pulls away, he does his best to keep her there for a few more precious seconds. He knows she’s ready to get away from his brother as far and fast as she possibly can. As her mouth closes, he bites down gently and drags his teeth over her perfectly pink bottom lip. A soft moan escapes her mouth, and he smiles and slowly releases her from his hold as he licks his lips.

 He walks Emma to her yellow bug and kisses her one more time before she gets in her car and drives away. Now that she’s gone, he can focus on the matter at hand—figuring out what crawled up his brother’s arse and died. Anger surges through him and he clenches his fists as he marches back inside the bistro. His heart is racing again, but for different reasons. He’s not a violent person but he feels his brother deserves a good ass-kicking. That is if he hasn't received one already from the other patrons who witnessed such an atrocity. He finds their waitress and tells her to box up his and Emma’s food and he pays for their drinks and dinner entrees, but not Liam’s. Then he storms into the dining area and is shocked to find Liam in one piece. He's working on his third glass of rum, not including the one Emma threw in his face, his hair and clothes still damp with soda and alcohol.

 Killian slides into the booth across from him and gives him a deadly stare. “So, you wanna tell me why in the bloody hell you’re being a fucking wanker?”

 Liam sets down his drink and sighs slowly and deeply before lifting his eyes to Killian and crossing his arms on the table. “Why don’t you tell me why you felt the need to pay a hooker to be your girlfriend? So I wouldn’t harp on you anymore, is that it?”

 Um, what?! Killian's temper spikes again, and he has to refrain from throwing his drink in Liam’s face. Or throwing a punch. Emma was far too kind to him. “Excuse me, what the fuck did you just say?”

 Liam reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “You heard me.”

 “Emma is not a hooker,” Killian snarls. He’s vibrating with rage as he stands from the booth with clenched fists.

 “Oh, really?” Liam pulls up something on his phone and shows it to him. “Then how do you explain this, brother?”

 Killian grabs the phone from his hand and has to rip his angry glare from his brother to study the photo. 

  Oh.

 Liam had snapped a photo of Killian’s computer as it displayed Emma’s picture and fake ad from the Cinderella Escorts website. The website solely designed to lure men who were looking to buy sex. Confusion washes over Killian’s face. Was his brother looking to pay for a prostitute? Please tell me I don’t have to arrest my own brother. On second thought, with the way Liam behaved to Emma, he'd be happy to throw him behind bars for a night or two. “How did you find this website?” he demands through gritted teeth as he lifts his eyes from the phone to look at Liam. The man he thought was honorable. But there’s nothing honorable about buying sex. 

 “I should ask you that. That is your computer, Killian. It was in your browser history. I just found it and snapped the photo.”

 “Why were you snooping around on my computer?” he asks angrily, although he should be relieved this was just a huge misunderstanding. But he’s kind of bummed he doesn’t get to arrest him.

 “I wasn’t snooping,” Liam claims as he snatches his phone back and tucks it into his pocket. “You had left for work and I was bored so I got on your computer and found it by accident.” Liam looks him in the eye, his features softening. “Look, Killian, I know it must be lonely being away from home all the time, but a hooker?” he asks, his nose scrunched up in disgust. “I thought you were better than that.”

 Killian’s jaw clenches as he stares hard at his brother, then slaps him upside the head. “Emma is not a prostitute. She’s a cop, you prat.”

 Liam’s face pales, his mouth falling open. “She’s a what?”

 “You heard me. She’s not a prostitute, she'd been going undercover posing as one.” 

 Killian sees the transformation in Liam’s expression. He sees him processing and putting all the pieces together. He sees Liam going through his conversation with Emma in his head, and it’s now clicking with him that she was referring to arresting johns for buying sex, not sleeping with them. She was referring to her job as a cop, not a prostitute. 

 Killian sighs and reclaims his seat in the booth. “We wanted to tell you we met while going undercover. She was posing as a prostitute and I was posing as a john, so when I met her at the hotel and pretended to pay her, we tried to arrest each other.”

 Liam stares vacantly across the diner in pure and utter shame. “Wow, that’s hilarious,” he says, but there’s no amusement in his tone, his face pale with humiliation. “That would’ve been a great story to tell.”

 “I know, that’s why we wanted to tell you, but then you started asking her ridiculous questions. That night we decided to team up. We worked together to take down the biggest  organized crime ring in King County, and that is why I invited her to celebrate with us.” She and Killian had celebrated in Seattle with all the officers involved in the operation, and of course, the man pulling all the strings, Emma’s brother (he was amused upon learning how they met, but far from it when he found out they were dating. He slowly came around to the idea though). Being a thousand miles away, Liam wasn’t able to attend at the time, so Killian and Emma had planned to have a small celebration of their own where she would finally get to meet his brother. And Killian had been ecstatic at the idea of introducing his brother to the woman he’s been doting on for months. But of course, Liam ruined that when he spoke to Emma the way he did. 

 “Think about it, Liam, I’m responsible for taking down a huge sex operation, saving hundreds of women from human trafficking and getting them into programs so they can live a better life, so why on bloody earth would I be paying one to date me?” 

 “In my defense, you never told me what kind of operation you were involved in. You just said you took down a big crime ring, you didn’t mention what crime.”

 “Does it matter? I’m still a cop, an honorable one at that. And so is Emma. We both work for her brother, who is the Sheriff of King County.”

 “Oh, boy.” Liam scratches his head and suddenly goes into panic mode, realization finally sinking in. “I accused her of getting work because of her body, not her brains.” His eyes snap to Killian’s. “I thought her brother was a pimp?!”

 “Aye.”

 He buries his face in his hands, mumbling into his palms. “Bloody fucking hell, I am so sorry.”

 “No need to apologize to me, I’m not the one you thought was a hooker.”

 He lifts his head and nods. “Right. I need to apologize to her. Did she leave?”

 “She went back to her hotel room.”

 “Take me there, please?”

 Killian shakes his head. “Liam, I don’t think she wants to speak to you right now.”

 “Please, I need to explain myself to her. She needs to know this was a big misunderstanding.” 

 Killian shoots him a warning glare. “Okay, I will, but you better be prepared to do some serious groveling.”

 Liam nods furiously. “I will.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. “I’ll pay for your meals and have them boxed up.”

 “I already paid for mine and Emma’s.”

 “Okay. How much was it?” he asks, digging out his card.

 “Liam, it’s fine.”

 “How much?” he repeats. 

 Killian sighs in defeat and tells him the amount. He supposes Liam deserves to pay since he’s the reason Emma stormed away.

 ~*~

 Emma is beyond fucking furious at the audacity of Killian’s brother! He accused her of becoming a police officer because she gives good blowjobs! Emma had worked hard to get where she is. And she didn’t gain the respect of her fellow officers because her brother is King County Sheriff either. No in fact, at first they treated her like his kid sister. It took time and dedication to gain the same respect and trust they had for David. So to have someone accuse her of becoming a cop based on the way she looks or the outrageous idea that she performs sexual favors is a crock of shit! And here she was so excited to meet the reputable brother Killian always goes on about. She had no idea he was a chauvinist pig!

 Emma’s blood sizzles under her skin as she unzips her dress and pulls it off. She can’t believe the things he'd said! And to think she had bought this perfectly nice dress to wear tonight, one that was, of course, approved by Ruby.

 Oh well, she’ll just have to wear it again when she goes out with Killian. He doesn't think she’s just a piece of ass. He loves her for her mind and for who she is as a person, and she loves him for that. She still can’t believe he’s related to that fucking douchebag.

 She changes into her pjs and grabs her phone to text Killian and invite him over. After that parting kiss, she needs him, and after that terrible dinner with his jackass brother, she needs to feel her boyfriend’s warm arms wrapped around her. Emma places her hand on her stomach when it growls mercilessly. Thanks to Liam, she didn’t eat, and now she’s starving. She wonders what the restaurant downstairs has. She grabs the menu and plops down on the bed to scan it over. She had ordered ravioli at the Bistro, and that's not an option at the restaurant downstairs, but she could really go for a burger right now.

 She picks up her phone to ask Killian if he ate yet. She’s hoping he didn't stay and have dinner with his brother, because that would feel much like betrayal. She begins typing out the text but is interrupted when there’s a knock on the door. Raising a brow, she stands from the bed and strides over to the door. It must be Killian. Just in case it’s not, she peers through the peephole, but she doesn't see anyone on the other side. Her instincts as a cop tell her to grab her gun, but she can’t help it. She’s encountered many creeps while posing as a hooker, and her vigilant attitude was kicked into high gear when there was a knock on her hotel door while she’s staying in an unfamiliar city, and no one appears to be at the door. Emma grabs the gun from her bag and returns to the door, keeping the weapon at her side just in case. 

 She cautiously cracks it open, and can’t believe her eyes. 

 Kneeling on the floor in front of her is Killian’s sorry excuse of a brother holding a bouquet of buttercups, his face etched with shame and apology. Oh, and there's a sign on his forehead that says I’m a donkey in black marker. In other circumstances, Emma would’ve laughed, but the sight of him fills her with rage and she slams the door in his face. She marches away when she hears him yelling through the door.

 “Emma, wait! I can explain! You’re really gonna laugh when I tell you this. Maybe not right away but someday.”

 She scoffs and replaces the gun in her bag before making her way to the bathroom where she’ll be able to tune him out.

 “I didn’t know you were a cop, I thought you were a prostitute.”

 She stops in her tracks and waits for him to continue.  

 He pauses for a beat and speaks in a quieter voice, his words laced with apology. “I was using Killian’s computer the night you met him and saw your photo on a website on Cinderella Escorts.” 

 She contemplates opening the door to hear more of what he has to say. She did post her picture on a fake escort website after all.

 “Emma, I cannot tell you how sorry I am.”

 Emma turns around and slowly walks over to the door, hauling it open and placing her hand on her hip as the other one lingers on the doorknob. Her face remains steely though as she looks down at him. “A pig is more accurate,” she remarks, referring to the sign on his forehead. 

 “You’re absolutely right, lass.” He pulls out a black marker from his pocket, removes the sign and scribbles out the word donkey and writes pig above it before replacing it on his forehead. 

 She allows a small laugh to escape her throat, which ignites a hopeful glint in his eyes as he looks up at her again. And damn, she really wishes he didn’t have the same sea-blue eyes Killian does. Because then she might find it easier to slam the door in his face again. “Get up. You’re making a fool out of yourself.”

 “I've already done that and then some,” he says solemnly.

 “You’re not wrong about that,” Emma remarks in a sassy tone.

 Liam gulps and pushes himself up off the floor. “I’m not actually like that—I don’t view women that way, I really don’t.”

 “So you only view me like a piece of ass?” Emma says with a nod. “Good to know.”

 “No, lass, you see I was just looking out for my brother because I thought he had paid you to be his date since all I do is harp on him about not dating.” 

 “Really?” she says sarcastically. “Why would Killian pay someone to be his girlfriend? He can get any woman he wants.”

 Liam’s lips twitch into a small smile. “Aye, and that’s what I told him… after you left… before I knew you were a cop.” 

 Emma sighs and purses her lips as she leans against the doorframe. She doesn't know if she should accept his apology or not. She supposes he has a valid reason for acting the way he did. She would be concerned too if she thought someone close to her, say her brother, had paid a prostitute. Emma certainly wouldn't stand for that, but she doesn't have to worry about that, considering he's the one who started the Women’s Justice Program and is leading the initiative to reduce prostitution and human trafficking in the county. Plus he’s happily married and constantly reminds Emma of how much in love with Mary Margaret he is. He’s the last man who would seek out the company of a prostitute. Well, he and Killian of course. A thought suddenly occurs to her, and she scowls at Liam, fighting off the urge to slap him again. “Wait, you thought my brother was my pimp?!”

 “Aye.” He hangs his head in shame. “Look, I don’t expect you to forgive my behavior, but I want you to know I am truly sorry.” Liam bends over and, with his free hand, he picks up two bags he had brought with him. “I brought your dinner and ordered you dessert. Killian told me you like Tiramisu.” He hands her the bag from the bistro and Emma accepts it, peering inside. She does love Tiramisu. And she’s completely famished, so she’s not about to turn down free food. Though it wasn’t exactly free; she paid the price when she was accused of being a hooker. Liam holds up the other bag. “I also got you a bottle of Bacardi Superior and a two-liter of Coca Cola.”

 Her lips tilt into a small smile. “Thanks.”

 He shakes his head, looking down in shame. “Please don’t thank me, Emma. I really don't deserve it.” 

 The expression on his face almost makes her heart hurt. Almost. She steps back inside and opens the door wider to let him in. She goes over and places the bag on the table as he does the same and hands her the bouquet he’s still holding. 

 “I’m guessing you don’t have a vase to put these in?”

 Emma brings the flowers to her nose and inhales their fresh scent. “No, I don’t even have a vase at home.”

 “That’s okay. If you like I can keep these at my place and you can stay there for the remainder of your week here in town. I’ll make you and Killian breakfast every morning, I'll even escort you to wherever you need to go.” As soon as those words leave his mouth, his eyes squeeze shut, his features twisting with regret. He claps his hand over his forehead, where he's still wearing that ridiculous sign, which wrinkles under his palm. “Sorry, poor choice of words,” he sighs, opening his eyes again and dropping his hand. 

 Emma folds her lips in to keep from laughing. In all honesty, though, she can see the sincere apology in his eyes. She reaches over and pulls the sign off his forehead with her free hand, crumpling it up into a ball and throws it in a nearby trash can. 

 “What do you say, lass, can you give this pig a second chance? Can we start over?”

 Emma mulls it over for a moment. She supposes giving him a second chance wouldn’t hurt. She sighs and points a warning finger at him. “Okay, but that’s all you get—one shot to redeem yourself, got it?

 “That’s all I need,” he says, a grin lighting up his face as he sticks out his hand. “I’m Liam.”

 Emma dons a smile and switches the bouquet to her other arm so she can shake his hand. “Hi, Liam, I'm Emm. It's nice to meet you.”

 “Likewise. I can’t wait to get to know the woman my brother is madly in love with.” He raises her hand and plants a chaste kiss on the back of it before encasing her hand with his other one.

 Emma smirks, blush warming her cheeks. Now this is how a lady should be treated.

 As if on cue, there’s a knock on the door, she opens it to let Killian in after she sees him through the peephole and greets him with a sweet kiss on the lips. He's carrying a bag of what she assumes is his and Liam's dinner after he informs her they didn’t eat at the restaurant. Instead, Killian drove his brother to her hotel hoping she would be willing to hear him out.

 Killian curls his free hand around her hip and turns his head to look at Liam. “I just wanted to make sure my girlfriend didn’t murder you,” he chuckles.

 “What if I did? Would you arrest me?” Emma challenges, placing her free hand on his warm chest.

 The corner of his mouth tips into a smirk as he looks at her. “No, I’d help you bury the body.”

 “Oi,” Lima frowns at him. “I said I was sorry.”

 “I know,” Emma smiles sheepishly. 

 She invites them to stay for a movie, and after the three of them nuke their dinners in the microwave, she and Killian eat in the king-size bed, leaning against the headboard as Liam sits in the chair. After the movie is over, she decides to sleep there for the night, and Killian stays with her. Liam does make good on his promise though and makes her and Killian breakfast every day she’s in town.

 When she gets to know Liam more, she finds out he's not so bad after all. In fact, she’s able to look back at that night and laugh hysterically.

 ~*~

  One year later...

 “That, ladies and gents, is how my brother met the woman of his dreams.” Liam glances over at the happy newlyweds, pointing his champagne flute in Emma’s direction, “and how I thought this lovely cop was a prostitute.”

 The crowd laughs softly as the best man takes his seat.

 Killian leans over to speak into the mic in Liam's hand, “And how the best man lived to tell our story.”

 David, who is sitting next to Liam, rips the microphone from his hand, scowling at him as he adds, “And how he thought I was a pimp.”

 Another roar of laughter fills the banquet hall, this time louder and more prolonged; even David's wife, Mary Margaret who's heard the story a dozen times, is cackling hysterically. David, however, is still unamused.

 Emma is usually able to laugh about, but not on her wedding day, even though she knew it was coming. She blushes deeply, burying her face in her hands as Killian leans over and wraps his arm around his bride, kissing her temple. She’s going to kill her brother and brother-in-law once she and her husband return from their honeymoon.

 “It may have not been the best of beginnings but I wouldn’t trade meeting you for anything,” Killian whispers in her ear, instantly calming her. 

 She lifts her head, smiling at him as she rests her forehead against his. “Me neither.” She takes the ends of his undone bowtie in her hands and pulls him to her, capturing his lips and wrapping her arms around the back of his neck, eliciting an eruption of cheers and whistles from the guests and wedding party. 

 When they break the kiss, she tips her champagne flute toward her husband. “Here’s to our happy beginning.”

 Killian clinks his glass against hers. “To our happy beginning.”

  They drink to that, looking forward to their future together as husband and wife.

A/N: This was inspired by a post on Tumblr about an undercover cop posing as a john. He arrested someone for prostitution who turned out to be another undercover cop. Legend has it they got married a year later. When I heard about this post, I just had to write it for cs. Thanks for reading!

#cs ff #cs ff au #undercover cop au #deals with prostitution #crude language #misunderstandings #we own the night #my fic

[the-hidden-writer]

A Second Chance: Chapter 4

An Ace Attorney fanfic. Read on both AO3 and FF.net!

Summary: Miles learns the identity of his “dead” mother, and the aftermath of that revelation is a tricky one. Especially when his newfound little sister is trying to turn him into a spirit medium.

AKA Miles is a Fey. Miles also doesn’t really know how to family properly.

[Chapter 1] | [Chapter 2] | [Chapter 3]

Comments make my day! :D

The Great Beverage Debate

It had been one hell of a day. Early in the morning, Maya had made a bet with Phoenix to see if he’d get a new case by noon since he was an “unstoppable famous lawyer hero” now. Or something like that. Point is, they didn’t get any new cases, and Maya won the bet. 

At first, Maya had begged to be fed fancy meals for a week. Phoenix had ended up refusing that one (his funds were slowly dying…) and agreed to clean the office’s floor instead.

He didn’t mind too much. It was oddly therapeutic. 

So when Edgeworth appeared at his door, wearing something other than his prosecutor’s suit for once, he’d been immediately taken off guard. Since his face was already flushed from scrubbing so hard, he’d hoped that he wouldn’t notice him blushing. He thinks he got away with that one.

He never saw the reveal coming. Again, he felt like an idiot for not even suspecting it a bit, but he should've taken the news a bit better. Thinking back, he might've sacred Edgeworth off with the way he reacted.

That luckily didn't happen though, and that's how he'd ended up sitting opposite the man at a small table in a café known as "Sugar & Spice". 

Since Edgeworth had offered to get the drinks, and judging by the way he had begun to sip it almost desperately, Phoenix had a suspicion that he'd ordered tea after all.

They'd walked from Wright & Co. Law Offices, barely talking to one another as he led the way. Phoenix had noticed that Edgeworth looked slightly confused when they passed more local coffee shops, which would have saved half the walking time, but he had his reasons for going the extra distance.

"Mia used to come here a lot." He said, snapping Edgeworth out of his window-gazing trance.

"She'd bring me along often enough but I'd see her in here almost every day." He continued wistfully. He missed her.

Edgeworth took another (more gentle) sip of his cup. "It would make sense." He muttered. "She used to work at Grossberg's, correct? It's probably a habit from then."

Ah, trust Edgeworth to always think one step ahead of him.

Now Phoenix was a bit stuck. When he'd offered to get coffee what felt like ages ago, he wasn't sure what he was expecting. To get to know each other better? To spend some time together? Maybe he was just being polite. It was just… seeing him appear out of nowhere like that…

"You look good." He blurted out suddenly. Edgeworth raised an eyebrow. 

"N-No, I mean," he gestured in the prosecutor's general direction, "It's nice to see you wearing something other than a suit for a change. You look great like that."

And he did. His white shirt surprisingly didn't clash against his pale skin, and his pants complimented it perfectly. And he still managed to look so professional. Honestly, he never understood work casual before now.

"Believe it or not, Wright, but I am a human being as well as a lawyer." Edgeworth said in a dry tone that betrayed how tired he actually was.

"Really?" Phoenix replied sarcastically. "I never would've guessed."

Despite his attempt to lighten the mood, Edgeworth didn't smile. In fact, his frown only deepened.

"You know Maya, don't you?"

The only problem with Miles always being ahead of him, is that Phoenix had no idea where their conversations would go.

"Um, yeah? You know her too, though."

Edgeworth shook his head. "No, I mean… you know her well. You're the living person that's closest to her." He paused, and sighed quietly. "What are her interests? Her favourite foods?"

Those were probably rhetorical questions, but Phoenix felt like it would be too awkward if he didn't answer anyway.

"Well she's way too obsessed with Steel Samurai and will eat literally anything that's edible. But she does pester me for burgers most of the time."

He could've sworn Edgeworth smiled, just for a second, but it disappeared so quickly that it was hard to tell.

"See?" He said, as if proving a point that was obvious to only him. "I should know these things! Being a brother comes with responsibilities, and I've neglected those for what, 19 years?" He groaned in frustration. "I wish this had never happened…"

Phoenix looked at him with determined but soft eyes. "You can't neglect something if you didn't know it existed." He stated firmly. "Don't bring yourself down over something you can't control."

The man just sipped his probably-tea.

“When did you find out?” He asked eventually, once Miles was reaching the end of his… British-beverage.

He just frowned, then let out a small sigh. “It was only yesterday evening, but it feels like a year ago. But no, it still hasn’t settled.”

“You told Gumshoe before me?” Phoenix teased, half-joking.

Edgeworth scoffed. “He’s the one who found out first, believe it or not. I’m…” He paused for a moment, not meeting his rival in the eyes. “I’m rather glad that it was him first.”

“Yeah, he’s good at that sort of thing. Breaking news, I mean.”

“If not for anything else.”

For the first time since leaving the office, both men laughed. Phoenix felt a stab of guilt for making fun of Gumshoe, but if Miles was even slightly happy then he was happy. He was still playing host after all, even if he wasn’t the one paying for the drinks.

"I'm sorry, I'm not the best person to talk to about sibling stuff." He admitted. “I think he has a sister? Gumshoe. You could always talk to him.”

There, he felt a bit better now. He could sleep peacefully.

“N-No, that’s alright.” Miles answered, though still sounding quite unsure. “He’s done enough already.”

“Hey, speaking of Gumshoe…” Phoenix had been meaning to bring this up since the moment it was mentioned, but knew that Edgeworth would be too prickly to answer. Hopefully the definitely-not-coffee had softened him up.

Miles waited for him to continue, but Phoenix noticed that he looked nervous. And he knew when Edgeworth was nervous, from all the time they spent as kids- not to mention in court.

“...he said something about a letter.” He finished, before hastily adding: “It sounded important.” when Miles almost broke his cup in surprise.

“I-It was nothing!” Miles spluttered.

“Yeah, sure.” Phoenix said. “And I guess this is the part where you forget that I have a magic stone that tells me when you’re hiding something?”

Sure enough, ever since Gumshoe’s… dramatic arrival back at the office, a large red psyche-lock had encased itself around Edgeworth. It wasn’t the first (when he’d used his magatama on others, he’d always notice the large number of locks surrounding his friend but never knew how to bring it up), however it was the first time he’d watch one form right before his eyes. Which meant it was purposely being hidden from him specifically, and not one of the many things that Edgeworth bottled inside of him.

He almost felt horrible after he saw the horror flash across Edgeworth’s face in that moment, and his posture suddenly became defensive. 

...Again, he knew too well what that looked like.

“Damned spiritual nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense, and you know it.” Phoenix countered before draining the remains of his actual-coffee.

“I mean, you literally used it the other week, didn’t you?”

Edgeworth said nothing, which he took as a confirmation.

“It’s weird, right? Sometimes I wonder if Mia ever used it. I mean, she wore one around her neck, and mine had to be charged for me to be able to use it because I’m not a Fey or anything-”

“Hold on,” Miles interrupted, suddenly alert. “For you to be able to use it?”

Now Phoenix was confused. “Yeah? I think? Pearl taught me how to use it, but even then it kinda took some practise.” He smiled fondly at the memory. “Even now I still have to remind Maya that not everyone was born with spiritual powers, y’know?”

Edgeworth waited.

“Oh, you mean-”

“Just another reason I should have realised the obvious sooner.” Miles said, his tone dripping with exhaustion. “I was shocked when they appeared out of nowhere.” He scoffed. “Thought I was finally going mad.”

The excuse that Edgeworth had been working late came to Phoenix’s mind, and he felt a pang of guilt. The guy had gone through a lot, and had probably not slept, and now he was interrogating him. 

“I’m sorry for asking.” He sighed, trying his best to sound genuine. Because he was.

“No, no, it’s okay.” Said Miles, before putting down his cup and sitting up straight. 

“The letter was in the box that Detective Gumshoe found, along with those photographs. It was addressed to me, and-”

“To you?”

“Don’t interrupt, Wright. Judging by the tone of the letter and some of the specifics mentioned, it seems like it was written by Misty Fey quite soon after DL-6. It was a vaguely detailed account of her expressing her sympathies and telling me the truth about who she was, though by the way it was stored it appears she had no intention of ever sending it.”

That wasn’t what Phoenix had been expecting. Alright, so he didn’t know exactly what he was expecting, but it was not this.

“So…” He said, trying to stop his new grin from spreading, “...no forbidden love letters from your parents? Romeo And Juliet style?”

He regretted that comparison as soon as it came out of his mouth, since he had no doubt that Edgeworth would have read Shakespeare at some point. But fortunately any deeper meaning flew over his head for now, since his frown had gone. Miles still wasn’t smiling, but it was a start.

“Ever the optimist, aren’t you Wright?”

“When’s the last time you called me Phoenix?”

“I’m going to go home.” He said, avoiding the question completely. Or maybe just choosing to ignore it. Probably both.

“Oh, okay. Get some rest.” Was Phoenix’s slightly dejected reply.

“Thanks for the coffee-” 

“Thank you for the co-”

They’d both spoken at the same time. Phoenix felt the heat rushing up the back of his neck as Edgeworth’s eyes widened and he stood up from his chair and turned to leave, obviously quite embarrassed too. 

“HOLD IT!”

...and he turned again to face Phoenix, who had found a sudden determination.

He was going to expose this faker once and for all.

“You think you can fool me that easily, Miles?”

Miles looked dazed.

“Well, I know the truth. You just said ‘Thank you for the coffee’ which is polite, and I appreciate it, but you got the coffee for both of us. You’re a tea person! You’re freakin’ British! The way you sipped at it with the same look on your face, the way you carefully kept your hand on the cup until it was finished so I couldn’t see properly, the way you tried to disguise it with the amount of milk added… you ordered tea. It’s the only explanation. So TAKE THAT!”

Edgeworth was stunned, his face blank as he presumably processed the demise of his deception. 

And then he smiled. Then the smile cracked open, and Edgeworth laughed.

It had been so long since Phoenix had heard him genuinely laugh. Sure, he’d had his fair share of smug/maniacal laughs in court, but this was a soft, dorky-yet-still-classy, laugh. One so rare that Phoenix wished he could record the sound.

And it was perfect.

Once the laughter died down, Miles exhaled. “Guilty. You should really think about becoming a prosecutor, Phoenix.” He said, still smiling, as he turned on his heel and walked away.

Phoenix felt warm inside as he leaned back in his chair and watched him go. He was so happy with his win, that he completely missed exactly what Edgeworth had said to him.

...It was only when he stood up to leave himself did he notice the remains sitting inconspicuously inside of Edgeworth’s cup.

A thick, dark sludge of coffee grounds.

“Motherf-”

#ace attorney #phoenix wright #miles edgeworth #wrightworth #narumitsu #maya fey #mia fey #a second chance

[elesianne]

A Lord of the Rings fanfic, chapter one of two

Story summary: Lothíriel felt prepared for everything that happened at her and Éomer's wedding in the mead hall but at the end of the feast, in the privacy of their bedchamber, she knows less of what to expect and do. Fortunately her new husband is patient in this, if not in many other matters.

Chapter length: ~4,300 words; Rating: Mature audiences

Some keywords: arranged marriage, wedding night, virginity, mild sexual content, post-war of the rings

A/N: This is rated M just in case, but is very light on smut.

AO3 link

*

Midyear’s night: Chapter I – Night

Seated in front of the mirror, Lothíriel takes off with gentle fingers and for the last time her pearl and diamond diadem. Tomorrow – for a bride must be both wedded and bedded, the Rohirrim believe, before she can be declared his lord's lady – she will be crowned queen, and Éomer will give her a new crown.

She takes the diadem to a table next to the door. She will give it to her brother Elphir to give to his daughter, the next eldest unmarried daughter of Dol Amroth. Her niece is only three months old, so the diadem will wait unused for many years. Lothíriel will miss it: it has been the finest, most beautiful thing she owns, and she has been proud to wear it on feast-days and other important occasions.

From the door she looks around the bedchamber. During the day servants have brought all her things here from the room where she stayed before. The books and scrolls she brought from Dol Amroth lie in neat piles on a side table, the only such objects in this room; beside them, the chest of her writing things; in the corner her harp, which had survived the long journey better than she'd dared to expect; and piled on top of each other and next to each other, many trunks full of clothes and fine fabrics and silk thread. She brought a lot of fabric and thread for the works of future years.

The room is cluttered with her possessions, more of them here than there are Éomer's things. For a king, he appears to have little need to surround himself with many fine, expensive things, or else he keeps very few of them in his bedroom.

She can still hardly believe that he left her here alone. After he brought her to this room – his room – and closed the door behind them, he just gazed at her until the drunken cheers outside the door died out. He then pointed at her hair and mumbled something about having her maid undo it. Then he was gone, and Lothíriel was left in a man's bedchamber for the first time in her life.

Well, she'd thought, it was her bedchamber as well now, and she had better become accustomed to it.

She had looked around the tidy room for the first time then, taking notice of the large fireplace with a fire crackling merrily in it. The next thing she noticed was that the blankets and furs on the large bed were already turned aside neatly by servants. And though that should not have been surprising or startling, startled she was, and she went and sat down quickly before the mirror that someone had also brought here. It is hers too.

At least there she only has to look at her reflection and not this… man's room around her, devoid of the man.

It does not seem like an auspicious beginning for a wedding night.

A feeling of dread in her stomach after her second time looking around the room, Lothíriel sits back down at the mirror and starts undoing her complicated hairstyle herself. She doesn't know what is taking her maid so long, if Éomer indeed did go to fetch her and not do something else.

Does he regret marrying you? an insidious voice in her head asks. Already?

She looks into her own eyes in the mirror and tells herself sternly to not think such foolish thoughts. Éomer appeared to be in a good mood all day, showing no sign of reluctance or regret when he said his vow to her, and many times she thought she caught him looking at her with something more intense in his eyes than respect or friendly interest.

She must be patient. Picking hairpins out of her hair helps her not to think too much, so she does that. A hairstyle like this, with braids and curls and pins and pearls, isn't meant for a woman to disassemble herself, and trying to do it takes concentration and rather more dexterity than she possesses.

She'd been expecting Éomer to take it all out of her hair.

Perhaps she had been looking forward to it: feeling his fingers running through her hair, on the back of her neck, his body close behind hers –

Lothíriel startles as the door opens, and turns at once towards it.

'The king said you needed help', says her new Rohirrim maid Guthild in her heavily accented Westron.

Guthild has rather too much of an expression on her face and as Lothíriel turns back to the mirror again she says briskly, 'Yes, with my hair. Come help me with these twisted braids.'

Guthild chatters the entire time she works Lothíriel's hair free of adornments, undeterred by the meagre responses she receives.

She talks about how splendid the wedding was, how good the food – even the stranger, Gondorian-style dishes – and how handsome the king looked, and the visiting lords of Rohan and Gondor, and how beautiful and finely dressed was the queen Arwen Evenstar of Gondor! What times they lived in, having elves visit every year…

Lothíriel hardly hears it. She looks at herself in the mirror. She looks pale and young. The day has been long which explains the paleness, and she is young. She has often told her family that she is not as young as they seem to think she is, but right now, she feels young and alone. Guthild is little consolation; Lothíriel met her six days ago.

She wishes her own maid from Dol Amroth was here, but Hemmoril didn't want to come to Rohan. She has a sweetheart, a vintner in the city, who she is going to marry soon. Lothíriel gifted her a diamond brooch for her to have as a dowry.

Lothíriel sits up straighter. Hemmoril would tell her, gently but firmly, to not be silly.

It is just that – for everything else that she has done here in Rohan so far, she has felt prepared for and capable of. Meeting scores of new people, learning their titles and their families and their relevant peculiarities, and already giving her opinion on a great many things concerning the household, and the ceremonies of a Rohirrim marriage: she has felt equal to all these tasks.

For this, for waiting for her husband to come to her and take her virginity, she feels utterly unprepared for in a way that she hadn't anticipated. What exactly is expected of her in this matter?

And Guthild finishes brushing out her hair, and Éomer is still not here.

'I wear my hair in a braid at night', Lothíriel reminds Guthild when the maid puts down the brush and steps away. She might as well get as ready for bed as she can, Lothíriel supposes.

Guthild purses her mouth. 'It is not my place to say, I think, but I will say it, my lady: the king will like it better unbound.'

'Indeed it is not your place to tell me how to wear my hair', Lothíriel snaps and instantly regrets it. She turns to her maid. 'Do you believe so?' she asks her. Guthild is about ten years older than her.

Guthild nods. 'Men like touching women's hair. And your hair especially, my lady…' she takes a lock of it and lets it go, looking at it as it falls, as if to demonstrate something. 'It is like black silk.'

Lothíriel takes a deep breath, trying to cling on to the shreds of her dignity, and decides not to ask how her unmarried maid knows what men like. 'Very well. The rest of the jewellery, then.'

Guthild takes off Lothíriel's pearl and diamond necklace and brooch (which she will get to keep, happily) while Lothíriel removes her bracelets and her rings other than the golden band Éomer gave her. She feels fairly certain that that she should wear to bed.

It is nice to be certain of one thing at least.

'Such fine jewellery', Guthild says, admiring, as she locks them all in Lothíriel jewellery chest. 'Similar to what queen Arwen wears, but she wears no pearls.'

'I am from the sea-shore', Lothíriel says, thoughts elsewhere, as she stands up from the stool. 'Pearls, the treasure of the sea, are traditional for the ladies of Belfalas.'

She takes off her belt. There is a heavy set of keys on it, pulling the slender silver girdle slightly askew. As part of the wedding ceremony, Éomer gave her all the keys of the household.

She sets the girdle on the dressing table, and the ring of keys on top of the chest of jewellery, and takes off her own overdress without waiting for Guthild's help or her opinions on whether she should wait for Éomer to undress her.

Lothíriel knows that she is being prickly but she's feeling too vulnerable to be anything else.

She turns her back to her maid and says, 'Petticoats next, would you help me with them.'

Lothíriel is very grateful when Guthild unties the three petticoats without commenting. Together they take off her stockings, and Lothíriel is left in only her stays and her shift. The wooden floor isn't cold under her feet like the marble in her room in the citadel of Dol Amroth.

'The stays, please, Guthild.' Lothíriel turns her back to her maid again.

The women of Rohan don't wear stays. Guthild has been learning how to lace and unlace Lothíriel's back-lacing stays for six days now, and has become quite adept at it. She has quick fingers and wit and tongue, and Lothíriel is on the whole rather satisfied with her. That is a relief for it would not be a good beginning to have to dismiss a servant chosen for her by the stern woman who has been keeping the king's household.

It is enough that there are dozens of traditions and customs that Lothíriel has to decide to embrace or to reject in favour of the way she is used to doing things. Wearing or not wearing stays is one such thing.

Guthild has only unlaced her halfway when the door opens and Éomer enters, and closes the door but stays there at the door.

He looks at Lothíriel and she looks at him. His hair gleams golden in the light of candles and the fire, and the plate and mail of his armour catch the light too, and she is in her underwear.

Guthild's hands have stilled as she waits to be told what to do.

After a few heartbeats Lothíriel gathers her courage, clears her throat, and says, 'Thank you, Guthild, you are dismissed for the night.'

Guthild doesn't move. 'My lady, the laces –'

'I can do it.' Éomer comes closer. There is something glinting in his eyes.

Guthild curtsies, leaves and closes the door behind her.

Éomer locks it, and then comes to Lothíriel. She looks at his face, her heart in her throat for several reasons.

The first thing he does is touch her hair that is all hanging beside her face to be out of the way, and then he moves behind her.

It is a relief not to have him right in front of her barely-covered breasts. How is she supposed to hold on to her dignity and pride when he can see her nipples through the sheer silk?

'Hmm', Éomer says. 'I may have overestimated my ability to undress you. I am not familiar with… this.'

'I'll guide you.' Lothíriel reaches behind her back to show him. 'Pull here, and hold on here.'

But instead of doing as she says, he puts her hands around her waist where the stays are still rather tight and says, 'You have a wonderful figure.'

Her voice wavering, she tells him, 'The stays flatter my figure. Wait till you see me without them to give compliments, my lord.'

She thinks she hears him muttering, 'Oh, I can't wait', and clearer he says, 'Don't call me your lord when we're alone. I am Éomer now.'

He begins unlacing her and in no time at all, the stays fall free. Lothíriel catches them and the cord that Éomer hands her and puts them on top of a chest, and then she turns back to him clad only in her low-cut, nearly see-through shift. He is still wearing all his clothes and armour.

Oh, how she hates feeling so vulnerable and unprepared. Her mother talked to her about the wedding night, of course, and then a day later her aunt Ivriniel came to her and said she wanted to have that talk too because, as she said, 'Your mother is a good woman but she is a prude'.

Lothíriel knows the… basics, and thanks to Ivriniel some other things that might happen, but she doesn't know what exactly Éomer wants of her, or how she will feel. And here before her tall, strong, eight-years-older, foreign husband, she feels young and stupidly inexperienced. He must have lain with many women, as handsome as he is, and a lord since birth.

She lifts her eyes back to his face to find him studying her; and not her chest, but her face.

'Are you well, Lothíriel?' he asks.

'I am – nervous', she says.

'That is natural, I think.' His hands wind about her waist again. 'You are quite unexperienced with men, are you not?'

There is no pity or anything like that in his voice, and that helps. Lothíriel replies, 'I have – I once kissed a boy. That is all.'

She surprises herself by putting her own hands on his upper arms, as if to steady herself perhaps, and then by starting babbling. 'It was my cousin Amdirgan years ago. I was fourteen, I think. He's three years older.' Horrified by her loss of control of her tongue, she keeps explaining nonetheless. 'He always called me pretty and didn't tease me like my other cousins so I thought it might be nice, but it was only strange and awkward for both of us. I suppose that he was too much like my brothers after all.'

Éomer grimaces. 'I met your cousin Amdirgan today. I would have preferred not to know that about him.'

'I… I am sorry?'

'No matter. We'll forget about him now. It will be all right, Lothíriel, this wedding night of ours. I don't mind your virginity. I expected it.'

'I never thought much about it before now', Lothíriel says. 'I never fell in love with anyone or anything like that that would have made it – difficult. Virginity was just one duty of my station among others.'

'And you are a dutiful sort of girl.' One of his hands rubs circles on her back. Even through her a layer of fabric, it makes her shiver. 'But would you prefer to wait a little, drink some mead perhaps, or sit and talk?' he asks.

Her pride could not bear making him wait. 'I don't want to wait, my l– Éomer', she says, lifting her chin, and then blushes at her own words. She said it because waiting would not make it any easier. But perhaps she also wants to see if his shoulders really are as broad as they look under his clothes, and she wants to find out what he wants to do to her – if it includes any of the things that aunt Ivriniel talked about that made Lothíriel blush scarlet.

'Just – please don't laugh at me if I do something wrong', she finds herself begging of him, ashamed of doing so even as she speaks the words.

Éomer frowns. 'I am not going to laugh at you.'

She can't look him in the eye. 'I do not know how I should do things, and you must know, you must have so much more experience –'

'I do', Éomer interrupts her rambling, and his words hardly make her feel better. Then he adds, 'But this is new to me too. I've never lain with my wife before.'

She buries her face in his chest, her need to hide greater than her reluctance to take such intimacies. He wears a chest plate of steel, and it is cold. But he puts his armoured arms tight around her and says, 'Lothíriel, I promise you that I will do my utmost to not hurt you, and to give you as much pleasure as I can. More pleasure than pain, though it is your first time.'

If he is a good husband, her aunt Ivriniel had said, he will give you pleasure of a kind you've never known before.

She draws back and he lets her, though he keeps his hands splayed on her back still.

'Thank you', she says. 'Thank you. I will stop – being stupidly nervous now.'

'That is hardly something you can decide, is it? Though you have determination enough to try, I know.' A small smile plays on his lips and in his sky-blue eyes. One of his hands comes to cup her cheek and then, his fingers following the arch of her cheekbone and the curve of her jaw and the line of her neck, he says, 'The people of your country say that there is elven-blood in the lords and ladies of Dol Amroth, much more than in others of Westernesse blood.'

His fingers are on her collarbone now. 'According to the tradition of our house the mother of the first prince of Dol Amroth was Mithrellas, an elf-maiden from Lothlórien', Lothíriel says, half-breathless.

Éomer hand drops lower, caressing her arm and side before dropping down to her waist again. His hands are warm and large and somehow reassuring though he touches her like no man ever has.

'It is easy to believe', he says. 'You have an elven-fairness about you.'

Flattery is only to be expected on a wedding night, Lothíriel decides, so that she will not fluster too much.

Yet fluster she does when Éomer bends his head the little that is needed and kisses her. His lips are softer than she expected and he tastes of the honey-mead beloved by his people, and it is easier than she thought it would be to lean into the kiss and to learn how to kiss him back.

It feels nothing like she remembers the kiss with cousin Amdirgan feeling even though she doesn't love this man either.

He is her husband, though, and Lothíriel is determined to do her best with him in all things and all ways. She raises her hands to his shoulders, touching his fair hair at last. Unlike his lips it is less soft than it looks.

But she forgets all about comparing textures when his tongue coaxes her to part her lips, and they kiss in a new way. It is still soft and sweet but much deeper, and for all its strangeness it makes her lose much of her self-awareness and to cling to him tighter.

He tangles a hand in her hair and bends her back a little, supporting much of her weight on his hands.

The only thing she can think of as they keep kissing for a long moment is that she wishes that he wasn't wearing so much armour and clothes. Her own thin shift doesn't protect her from the coldness of metal against her. How much nicer it would surely be to feel his bare skin close to hers.

It turns out that Éomer's thoughts have been on the same thing for when they part to breathe, he says, 'I am wearing far too much.'

He touches her cheek and then starts on the clasps of his cloak, taking two steps away from her to get some space to undress. As he steps back, he bumps into one her clothes trunks.

He looks around. 'There are too many things in this room', he says, as if noticing it only now. Sounding a little out of breath, he decides, 'We'll have much of it moved elsewhere. There's an empty room next to this one. It has been used by the queens of Mark, and most recently by Éowyn. It is yours now.'

'Your housekeeper showed it to me yesterday', Lothíriel says, a little dazed herself. She raises a hand to her lips and finds them sensitive.

Éomer's lips are red, too. 'I should have asked my squire to help with this', he says, irritated, as he tosses his cloak aside and starts on his armour.

'I can do it.' Relieved that there is something she does know how to do, Lothíriel explains, 'I have helped my brothers and father sometimes. Just the armour, though, of course. Not the – clothes.'

'But I will gladly accept your help with both.' His eyes sparkling again, Éomer stands still without her having to ask when Lothíriel comes to him and works out how to take off all of his armour that has been polished to a high sheen for his wedding day. It is a little different from what she is used to but not too much, and she is confident she does it faster than he would have himself.

Piece by piece Lothíriel takes it all off and puts it to where Éomer tells her to, and the clothes under the armour too until eventually he is left in only his undertunic, and something on his lower body that Lothíriel doesn't dare to look closely at.

'You make a good squire', Éomer says as he steps close to her again. 'And you're much prettier than Garwine.'

She smiles at him. 'Yet I'll let your squire have his work, and I will be content to be your queen.'

Éomer's light smile fades as he cups her cheek, a more intense and intent look taking its place. 'I am glad', he says, and then he is kissing her again, rougher this time, with a little less care.

Lothíriel doesn't mind. She likes the strength in him: she can feel it in his arms, and the muscles of his back that she can now touch through his tunic. She explores them, and his arms, and finds that she likes the corded muscles of his forearms in particular. She raises her hands to his face and is fascinated by his beard, the conflicting roughness-softness of it. It scratches her face a little as they kiss, making her skin tingle.

His hands are, as he keeps kissing her, no longer soft and sweet but rather hurried and… passionate. Less careful, too. They explore her back lower, below where her hair ends at her hips; he caresses her bottom and she jumps in his arms a little, making their teeth clack together very uncomfortably. But he soothes her by kissing her cheek and asks, 'Did you find that unpleasant?'

'No', Lothíriel says, no doubt blushing again, if she has stopped at all. 'I was only surprised.'

'Good.' He puts his lips back to hers and his hand to her bottom, cupping it and kneading a little, and isn't it strange how nice that feels, Lothíriel thinks in some distant part of her brain where she is still analysing everything.

She finds her own hands at his waist, bunching up his tunic to find bare skin.

Éomer breaks their kiss to tell her, 'Pull it up. My shirt.'

Lothíriel does. Pale skin and light brown hair and several scars cover the muscled expanses of his chest and stomach, and his shoulders are as delightfully broad and strong as she has imagined. She puts her hands on them and, encouraged by Éomer, explores downwards. By now she has gained some instinct for what would be good to do: for what she would like, and he too.

And he does seem to like her touch. Though when her fingers flutter on his stomach, close to the fabric that covers him below that, he grasps her wrist and pulls her close and says, low, 'Not yet', and he kisses her so hard that she cannot keep up.

He nibbles on her lips and then kisses her jaw, and her neck, and at the same time his hand, more gentle than his lips, caresses her side and stomach. She doesn't startle at it anymore, and she doesn't startle when his gentle hand moves up and cups her breast through thin silk.

It feels even better than when he did it to her bottom. She inhales sharply, and Éomer's lips return to hers, and as they kiss again, that exploring hand caresses and kneads and altogether begins driving Lothíriel crazy. She can't concentrate on the kissing so she pulls her lips from his and lays her head on his shoulder and gasps while in the small space between their bodies he continues lighting her body on fire.

After a moment – half a minute, a minute, or half an hour, Lothíriel could not tell – Éomer drops his hands, and drops quick kisses on the part of her chest that her shift leaves bare, and then she feels his hand on her thigh, drawing the hem of her shift upwards.

She raises her arms and lets him pull it up. He drops it on the floor and she doesn't even mind, even though it is silk and very expensive and she made it especially for today.

She doesn't mind it because he didn't take his eyes off of her for even a second as he undressed her, and she likes that, prefers it to careful handling of her clothes.

'Elven-beautiful but not otherworldly or unattainable – you're all mine to keep', he says after a moment of looking at her. His voice is low and sends delightful little shivers down Lothíriel's spine. Pinned by his gaze, she does believe that he finds her beautiful.

He is beautiful, too, in a masculine, dangerous way, his body built to perfection by years of practising the skills of war and then scarred by war.

'I want you to touch me again', she tells him, finally bold.

He laughs, delighted, and his golden hair catches the light again. 'I am glad, and will gladly do it', he says, and he grabs her and carries her to the big bed, pinning her down with his body as well as his gaze.

It is a good thing that thoughtful servants had set the covers aside earlier because Éomer wastes no time in exploring her body anew, now without even the shift in the way of his hands and lips.

He keeps both halves of his promise, making sure that she is so ready that he causes her very little pain that passes soon in the onslaught of sweet, overwhelming pleasure, making Lothíriel lose control of herself in the best way ever.

*

A/N: I would like to note that Lothíriel's stays are not the same as what we usually think of when we think of a corset. Stays predate tight-lacing corsets, which were a Victorian thing. Lothíriel's stays have shoulder straps and they are not laced tight and aren't very restrictive. Something like this. Her shift is like this but made of sheer silk.

It was probably clear in the previous fic already that I don't employ modern gender roles in my fics about Éomer and Lothíriel so I hope that you will not judge them by those. I try to write them close to how I imagine Tolkien intended their attitudes, experiences and expectations to be.

Housekeeper feels too modern a word for Rohan but I couldn't think of another one for a female head servant.

On our wedding night my husband had to take 49 hairpins out of my hair and he hated it. It wasn't a sexy activity like Lothíriel imagines, lol.

There'll be a shorter second chapter about the morning after.

#tolkien fanfiction #lord of the rings fanfiction #lotr fanfiction #eomer #lothiriel #éomer #lothíriel #eothiriel #éothíriel #midyears' night #my éomer/lothíriel fics #<--- my series tag #my fics #elesianne's fics

[lokidokiliteratureclub]

Frostbitten (Chapter Three)

Y/N L/N is a child of a Jotun and an Asgardian. She spends her life hidden in the dungeons of Asgard, with no one to talk to other than one of the princes- a man who seems completely incapable of leaving her alone and entirely unable to give up on helping her. Y/N and Loki Odinson have always been inseparable, it seems- even when there is a cell wall, or a village, or an entire kingdom between them.

Even when he disappears, even when you run away, and even when his world falls apart; you are inseparable.

Previous Part

I’m gonna pretend that this didn’t take me way too long to write and I’m just gonna,, leave this here,,

This part of the story is mainly just exposition so that you have an idea of the baseline for the rest of the story. Romantic development starts very, very soon.

Tags are open! 

"If you were king, what would you do?"

Loki peers up from his book at the question, frowning sideways at you through a curtain of dark hair. His desire for the throne has always been evident, but he rarely ever talks about it. It always seemed like something he was.. afraid to mention. "What do you mean?”

"Oh, you know," you wave your hand dismissively, "how would you behave? What would you change”

He sweeps his hair behind his ears, and sighs. "Well, aside from an inevitable war or two, I'd, well, first I’d free you. Then, perhaps set up a system of trial- one that involves more than just the king, since we’ve seen how well that works out. I'd allow more children to study magic if they'd rather not partake in physical battle practices. Create a public library or two.” He shrugs. “I'd marry, probably have a child to pass the throne onto... You know, the very basics. Change the kingdom to focus less on glory and more on intelligence- wisdom. Strength is good short-term, but knowledge lasts forever."

You nod approvingly. "How very noble of you. I’d love to live under your reign.” That much is true. “But, really? No bragging? At all?" That part is a joke, mainly.

He grins, looking back down at his book. "You asked me what I'd do as a ruler, not as a man."

"My apologies. So, then, what would you do as yourself?"

"Everything I mentioned before, but I’d also create a very, very large statue of myself. Just as a constant reminder to Thor, since he never fails to remind me that because he is older he will inherit the throne.” He pauses. “Oh, and several very, very dramatic theatrical pieces. Community theatre would return in screaming colors.”

You snort. “There he is! There’s the Loki I know and love. Always one for drama.”

“What? As if you wouldn’t do the same.”

“I would.” You add, “but you know you’re allowed to exceed my expectations, right? You have full permission to be better than me.”

He scratches the spot just underneath his jaw with two fingers, turning the page of his book. “Why raise your expectations when I can drastically lower them and therefore have to work less to achieve appreciation?” 

Your eyes give a slight roll. “You’d better be glad there’s something keeping me from you right now. If I could, I’d snap your spine.”

Loki turns the page again, looking back up at you in between the motion. His grin flashes into a smirk. “I’d like to see you try.”

-

“What the hell?!” Thor bellows, stomping over to his brother and ripping him away from you by the shoulders. “You are not supposed to be here, brother!”

“Says who?” Loki retorts, feigning cluelessness. He takes a few heavy steps, his armor tight enough not to be shifting around, his boots soft enough to not make a sound on the hard ground. Unintentional mental rhyming. “Oh, my,” he gasps, lifting a hand to his mouth in shock, “did father explicitly tell you that I wasn’t to be here? That may be an issue. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried to tell you, but you cut me-” he breaks off and releases a loud grunt of frustration. "You tricked me!”

“He’s the god of mischief,” you speak up, standing up and taking in the cool atmosphere. Bits of jagged ice prick at your bare feet, but for some reason they don’t hurt you. Your head feels lighter in the new environment. You feel more awake. More... at home. “You should expect that of him. He’ll never fail to disappoint you.”

Loki rolls his eyes but smiles faintly. “I think you all need to lower your expectations.”

“Why can’t Loki be here, anyway?” Asks Sif, her green eyes glassy in the cold. “What’s the issue with that? Why not him instead of I? The point of this affair was to prove our sense of diplomacy, wasn’t it? Thor came along to prove to Jotunheim that Asgard unequivocally cared about the reform. Why not two princes rather than one?”

Thor runs a troubled, angry hand through his shoulder-length hair. “I’m not sure, but father made himself clear. Besides, he’s a total pain in the-”

Suddenly, the Bifrost closes. There’s a whoosh of wind followed by an awful, earsplitting silence. The others in the group look at you, then their eyes shift to Thor, then Loki, then Sif. There is a notable absence of trusted adults in the area, and you feel the collective blood pressure of the group begin to rise.

“Where’s Arvid?” asks Sif stiffly. She slowly turns her head toward Loki, who stares confusedly back. “Loki,” she takes a stride toward him, her hand inching toward the hilt of her sword. “What did you do to him?”

Loki frowns, putting his hands up in surrender. “I’ve not touched him. If I killed every man I opposed, I'd never be able to get away with treason the way I need to, even though I’d love a chance to see him suffer.”

Thor starts pacing around the area, moving in heavy, quick steps. “Heimdall!” he shouts at the sky, voice echoing across the terrain. “Heimdall, open the Bifrost!”

You straighten your back and pull at your tattered clothing, shifting your gaze to a dark formation of pillars and spires behind you, some collapsed and some upright- about fifty steps away. It bears a bit of resemblance to Asgard’s palace, but it’s much smaller. It’s beaten down- unrepaired after a history of war. Loki told you about his father’s experiences here, about the casket that resided in Odin’s treasure room. That casket- that war was both the thing that ensured your creation and the thing that took your life away. You should not feel a sense of pride for Jotunheim, but for some strange reason, you feel the urge to protect it. Or, at least, let it die of old age rather than in the heat of battle.

“Are you alright?” whispers Loki, moving closer to you. You think that Sif hears, because her head turns toward the pair of you for a second too long. You don’t really care. “You look shaken.”

You don’t respond. A prickly, steady sense of fear travels through you, crawling up your spine and nesting in your chest. 

“Heimdall!” Thor shouts a final time, raising his fists at the sky, before slouching, defeated, in a fit of anger. “We’re stranded!” he announces. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Why did you bring me here?” you say in hardly an echo, turning your back to what remains of the Jotunheim palace and looking out at the group. “Whatever your reason is, I assume you’ll have to go through with your intentions, with or without him. I’d rather I find out now if you don’t mind.”

Thor stops pacing to stare you in the face and then starts to approach you, practically fuming. Your fight or flight reflexes start to kick in, but instead of reacting you stand your ground, keeping your face set, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “If you believe for a second that it’s within your rights to speak to me, you-”

“Brother, I hate to remind you, but we’re in her realm,” Loki states firmly, just before Thor reaches you. When he freezes, you calm a bit, releasing a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “Besides, she’s a princess, now, is she not?”

I’m not Laufey’s daughter! You think, raising both eyebrows. The fear is joined by subtle exasperation.

Thor turns to tower over Loki, but despite being quite a bit smaller he doesn’t flinch. “Watch your words. Neither you nor her need to know of the plans, especially now that they may not be set in motion. Now that Arvid isn’t here to perform the-” he breaks off, groaning loudly. He raises his fists to the sky. “This is all going to Hel!”

“I read the plans, brother. And I still have many questions. So should you.” Loki steps forward and lets his arms hang at his sides, staring daggers into the blue eyes of the older prince. “Until someone explains why this ordeal is to take place in the first place despite the obvious inhumanity, I’d suggest you stop acting as though you’re in control. As if you know what the Allfather has planned.”

“Loki, you know not of what you speak,” offers Sif, her breath fogging in the cold air. “Give it time.”

He turns to her, his lips parting into a somehow-menacing smile. “I’m sorry, is this not a sufficiently appropriate time?” He lets the words ring out, and then scoffs. “No, then? Sif, the two of you need a magician, correct? Are you going to ask me next to sew her lips shut and heal the wounds? To drain the thought from her mind, the soul from her body?” he points to you, and you blink in horror at the thought, shoulders tensing. Loki did make a move to warn you about what might happen if you didn’t escape, but this just sounds... very un-Asgard like. 

It makes you think there’s something else going on. Odin is covering something up, or he’s scared. Maybe both. Your legs, weak from lack of use, begin to shake under your weight, and you try to steady yourself, pressure building.

What could an all-powerful being have to be afraid of? 

Unlike before, Loki seems to be completely unaware of your mental state at the very moment. “Would you like me to take Arvid’s place as the puppeteer?” You’re going to lash out. You’re going to lash out. You’re going to lash out. “Speaking for her, moving for her, breathing for-”

“What in the Allfather’s name is happening?!” You snap, balling your hands at your sides. You glare at Loki, despite your intent to remain calm, and it takes him aback. “Assume we’re stranded here, how about! Assume we’re stuck on this frozen ice-land, and Heimdall and Arvid have been killed by some unknown force of nature. We’re stuck in Jotunheim, not Asgard. I don’t believe the rest of you have any means of surviving here, so perhaps it’s a good idea to tell the one person who can possibly keep you alive what you’re here for!” 

“I don’t believe you’d be of much use-” Sif begins, scowling, but you cut her off.

“Was your intention to take over my body and use Laufey’s belief that I’m the heir to the throne in your favor? That’s what I’m gathering, and I hate to break it to you, My Lady, but if Arvid was meant for that job, and he’s gone, your best chances lie with me.” You glare harshly, and then, noticing the jagged ice stemming from around your feet, take a deep breath in and try to relax. It barely does anything. “I have no intentions of hurting any of you, despite what you might have forethought.”

Sif is offended, but firm. “Do you think that we’re feeble-minded enough to trust you with the throne? Your word means nothing. You’d have us all killed if you had the chance.”

You laugh, the last of your patience fading away. “Would you like to test that theory? I’ve plenty of methods to prove you wrong, and plenty more to prove you ri-”

“Asgardians?”

It’s a cold, rumbling voice from behind you, familiar and foreign at the same time. You turn toward the noise and lay eyes on several Jotun soldiers emerging from behind the large, jagged bits of rock and ice that sprout from the desolate ground. In the midst, a large, guarded Jotun glowers down at you and the others, looking amused and angered

Your aggravation fades and leaves only the prickly, paralyzing fear. The Jotun speaks again. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Did he hear you speaking earlier? He had to have heard Thor screaming for Heimdall. Did he hear you and Sif arguing? How much does he know?

You find yourself backing up, and you stop when you feel Loki’s hand, outstretched slightly, press against the covered surface of your back, gently steadying you. When you look at him, he seems to be at a loss for words. You can’t say you feel any differently.

Thor, who had spoken loudly and boldly just moments earlier, is silent and pale. Sif, stepping silently and shakily forward, is the first to speak.

“King Laufey,” she utters, doing her best not to display signs of despair, “while the circumstances of our visit could very much be better, we come to return a prisoner.” The last word is a threat toward you, a reminder that previous plans have been canceled. She is going to get rid of you.

The giant, his face lined with intricate, deeply marked lines, looks quizzically at her, then at you. “Small for a giant’s offspring. ” He speaks slowly. It sounds like an insult. You take in a deep breath, refusing to look away. “Twenty years of age.”

“We understand that you believe her to be your daughter,” starts Sif, but she breaks off suddenly, sounding as though the air has been pulled from her body.

"We bring your daughter here in a gesture of peace," Loki says, and you notice that at the same time Sif lost her breath, Loki curled his fist, as if he had been the one to stop her talking. She looks at him accusingly but doesn’t do anything else, probably terrified. "Asgard's rulers have come to the conclusion that our quarrels with this realm ended inefficiently. We'd like to take some time to organize a proper treaty."

Oh, he's good.

Laufey chuckles, amused. He doesn’t seem to notice Loki’s magic. "And three of you? What well-dressed expandables Asgard must have."

Loki smiles faintly, signaling to Sif. "This is Lady Sif, one of our fiercest warriors. This is my brother, Thor," he signals to Thor, who is still looking a bit flabbergasted, then to himself "and I am Loki. We two are the Odinsons."

That piques his interest. He steps forward, and the four Jotuns surrounding him follow his movement. "The princes?" Laufey turns his gaze back to you. "And you, child. You're my daughter?"

You freeze for a moment, waiting for someone to speak for you, but they don't. You clear your throat. Your voice only shakes a little when it comes forward. "I certainly don't believe there to be any other undersized Jotuns my age, dead or alive, that were taken during the battle. It's not a very popular title."

To your relief, the answer seems to satisfy him. "Then they've kept it from you?" Laufey stares down the princes, lingering on each of them for far too long. Thor looks as if he’s going to speak, but Loki’s fist clenches tighter, and his lips seal shut. "They have locked you up, kept you from the truth, and even now, they restrain you." The handcuffs, frozen but refusing to break, feel heavy on your wrists. "If you were to one day sit on my throne, I wonder, how would you have these men pay for their crimes against you?"

Sif is giving you a cold, silent warning stare, and Thor looks like he might pass out- he does not appear to be breathing. Loki, on the other hand, edges closer to you, growing calmer with each passing moment.

"Well," you say, staring straight ahead. "Lady Sif has had no part in these doings. She hardly ever went down to the dungeons. So, even though I'm certain she'd have me hung if she had the chance,” the soldier is holding her breath, frozen, “she's technically innocent. Her only crime is disrespect." You practically feel the surprise bouncing off of her, and then her face contorts into an expression of suspicion. Loki is controlling her ability to speak- she must think he’s controlling yours as well. "Thor was arrogant, bothersome, but like Sif, he has not tried to harm me. The two of them live in Odin's shadow. They have no knowledge of what to do aside from what he instructs."

Laufey doesn't move, he just shifts his eyes between them, thinking. You don’t dare wait for him to speak, practically tripping over your own tongue in haste for this conversation to be over.

"Loki is so kind that he’s hardly even Asgardian.." You look over at him, asking silently for permission to go more into detail. You don’t want to spill your lifelong secrets if he doesn’t approve. He glances back, holds your gaze for a moment, and then nods wistfully, looking toward the ground. You turn your eyes back to Laufey. "He snuck down to the dungeons. Taught me how to read, how to speak, how to go as many places as I could without leaving my cell. I'd have gone mad without him.”

“They’re all innocent?” He furrows a brow, frown deepening. He’s testing you. “You don’t wish to put them through an inch- a fraction of the pain they put you through? Not even for a moment?”

“You asked me what I’d do as a ruler,” you quote, trying not to smile when Loki’s eyes light up at the familiarity. It’s always a joy to know he remembers your conversations. “Not what I’d do as a man.”

He barely registers any physical reaction before speaking again.

“How amiable. Unfortunately for them, I’m not quite as generous.” Laufey’s red, beady eyes sweep the four of you a final time, and then he turns, beckoning the lot of you, plus the soldiers, after him. “I’d normally have them chained to the walls and beaten to sod. However, your kindness has inspired me.”

Guards move behind you, pushing the other three forward, quite forcefully. Sif breaks free of Loki’s spell and unsheaths her sword, swinging toward the giants, but one of the guards closest to her grabs hold of her wrist, and she drops the weapon before she gets a chance to strike, holding her wrist close to her chest and stumbling back with shock. Two Jotuns seize her by the shoulders and steer her back with the others. She struggles against them, and Thor, alarmed by the sight of the wound, moves to help her, but the giants swat him aside just as easily as they did her. Loki doesn’t bother fighting, resisting. He seems to already be thinking of a plan. He looks calm. He doesn’t look at you.

“I’ll leave them alive. They’ll live what time they have here in the dungeons. And as for you,” he turns around once more, and you freeze, watching the three Asgardians as they’re shoved toward a downward stairwell, leading into a lightless below. “You’ll join my other children in their quarters. They will be awaiting you.”

He walks out of the room, double doors closing loudly behind him.

Frostbitten Tags:

@natalia-rushman @what-inspirational-name@jessiejunebug@fandomdestroyer @a-new-schematic @iris-suoh @pandacookieowo @givememyskittlesback @awesomefandomsunited @itsanallygator @arttasticgreatnessoftheawesome77 @fire-treasure-iii @strangerliaa @for-the-love-of-the-fandom @woohoney @itsanallygator

#Loki Laufeyson #loki x reader fluff #loki x reader #loki #tom hiddleston #loki (marvel)

[justaramblingromantic]

cross my heart

Characters/Pairing: Kobayashi Rindou and Tsukasa Eishi/EiRin

Type: Canon compliant, Pre-series, Peerless-verse, Freestyle

Word Count: 1903

A/N: Been wanting to write something like this since elementary-school!Eishi made his debut in the manga. This is obviously a ‘what-if’ fic, featuring erherm budding-artist!Eishi and bug-catcher-entomologist!Rindou. 

xXxXxXxXxX

He met her for the very first time under an impossibly blue, summer sky.

There was a meadow, lush and verdant, there was a tree, and then there was her.

“What are you doin’?”

Seven-year-old Eishi jumped slightly, startled by the inquisitive chirp that had rang out beside him. He had been so engrossed in his artwork, he hadn’t even noticed that someone had wandered over and had been peeking curiously over his shoulder for quite a while now.  

The white-haired boy anxiously eyed his canvas, meticulously making sure that he hadn’t accidentally streaked paint over the painting that he had painstakingly labored on for the last hour or so thanks to the scare.

“Hey, hey! What are you doin’?”

The kid who had popped out of nowhere nudged him this time to get his attention, much to his alarm. He quickly pulled away, very careful to keep his paintbrush from his painting. There was no way he was going to mess up and undo all of his hard work.  

“What are you doing?” he retorted back with ruffled agitation, frowning a little. Eishi turned his head to find the source of his problem, only to pause in hesitant bewilderment when he abruptly realized that the other was not anyone he had seen before from class. A stranger.

“That’s my question!” the other child mirthfully informed him. “I asked first!”

Eishi had never seen hair that color ever. So vivid, so red. It was cropped short to the other boy’s nape and barely covered his ears in a pixie cut, and it was very fluffy. He stared. The other boy’s eyes were sharp and bright and gold, and the shape reminded him of a cat’s. He had never seen anyone like that before, with those weird pretty eyes. The redhead looked like he was also a second grader, dressed plainly in shirt and shorts and flipflops, and he was also staring at him with such friendly, eager inquisitiveness, Eishi was a bit bowled over by all that positive attention.

Most of the kids their age tended to avoid him once they got to know him, so…

The white-haired boy slowly, bewilderedly, replied.

“I’m…painting…?”

The other boy’s face lit up with interest.

“Cool! Izzit fun? ‘Coz you look like you’re havin’ loads of fun! What are you painting? Do you paint a lot? What d’ya like painting the most-” Eishi was promptly overwhelmed by a barrage of enthusiastic questions, and the other kid crowded over once again to look at his progress so far. This time, Eishi didn’t seem to mind as much, though he still made sure to put his brush down and his palette away from his random, strangely boisterous companion just in case the latter knocked the paints onto his canvas.

He pointed slowly at the large tree just a bit in front of them, at the same time, feeling a bit flustered and pleased that someone his age was paying so much attention to his work. “…I’m painting that.”

The kid squatting beside him followed the line of his finger and squinted at the tree just a short distance away. His fascinated expression grew animated with excitement once he noticed the likeness of the painting and the subject.

“Oooh! I see it, I see it!!” the boy exclaimed and whipped his head around to gaze at him with awe. “You really did that all on your own? How wicked is that? It looks just like the real thing! D’ya have more? What else have you drawn? I wanna see, I wanna see! Show me!”

Eishi blushed at the effusive barrage of praise that his new companion was piling on him. It was impossible not to feel flustered.

“I-I didn’t bring my sketchbook,” he stammered, suddenly a bit shy.

“Aww…!” the child beside him wilted a bit with disappointment, but then he picked himself up again quickly enough. “Hey, show me your artworks next time, ‘kay! Show me your favorite! I bet it’s gonna be a super fun, super cool one!” he suggested, and Eishi hesitated briefly, a confused look briefly crossing his features. …Super fun…super cool?

“I’ll try…” he agreed dubiously, and the bubbly redhead beamed at him so delightedly, the white-haired child could not help but feel his cheeks flush pink.

“Do you…do you paint too?” he asked.

The chirpy boy shook his head. “Nope~! I’m not allowed to ‘nymore! Rai-nii’s still mad at me for fillin’ up water balloons using his school paints last week, so I’m not allowed to touch paints anymore. Mama scolded me soooo much!” He was pouting something fierce at the ban, and Eishi had the strangest look on his face.

“…Why…would you do that?”

The other boy shot him an incredulous stare. “For water balloon fights, of course! Haven’t you had water balloon fights with your brothers before? It’s super fun!!”

He shook his head slowly, reluctantly intrigued. Water balloon fights…? That actually sounded like kind of fun. “I don’t have brothers…or sisters. Only me.”

“…Oh.” The other second grader looked at him like he was trying really hard not to feel sorry for him. “What ‘bout your friends? Those kids painting over there are your friends, aren’t they? Why don’t you play with them?”

He pointed curiously at the cluster of students at the edge of the meadow all working on their own artworks as well. Sensei was there overseeing the class, and every once in a while, she came over to make sure that Eishi was alright, too. Nobody else in class had wanted to work on their paintings near him once he had decided to wander a bit further from the main group to paint his tree. Sensei had tried to convince him to paint something closer to the rest of the group but Eishi had quietly insisted otherwise, so there was that.

“…They’re my classmates,” Eishi shared quietly. “I don’t think they like me very much.”

Golden eyes watched him with interest. “Why not? You draw so good, and you’re kinda funny, too! You’d make a great sidekick- I mean, friend!”

Eishi shot him a mystified stare. He also hesitated, wondering if he told the truth, this boy would go away, too.  

“…They say that I’m selfish.”

The boy’s head tipped to the side inquisitively. His gaze was open, unhesitating, transparent. There was no wariness whatsoever, no doubt. And he did not look like he was going to go away.

“Huh. Are you?”

Eishi shrugged slowly, a strange look crossing his face at the question. No one had asked him that, before. “I guess…I am.”

The other boy started to snicker, shoulders quivering with mirth. “You guess? So are you or are you not?!”

And so the story of how he had ‘borrowed’ the paint of another classmate just because he decided that color would look good on his own painting sheepishly spilled out.

“Wow, you really are kinda a handful!” the smaller redhead declared when he finished, lips still tipped up with irrepressible amusement. He also laughed rather obnoxiously. “No wonder your classmates don’t like you!”

Before Eishi could slump at the insensitive but truthful declaration and go right into a depressed huddle, his companion reached behind and slapped him on the back of his shoulders in encouragement. It was sort of painful, but he was too distracted by the other’s cheerful demeanor to be upset anymore.

“Hey, I got an idea! Next time, why don’t you try asking first before taking people’s things?” Those golden eyes squinted at him up and down consideringly. “And you’re really cute, too! So if you ask nicely and politely, I bet your classmates will help you out for sure!”

Eishi blushed, again. He had never met someone his age who was so friendly and nice and warm. “You really think so?”

“Uh-huh!” the redhead nodded, resolute and confident. “I know so!”

“T-Then,” he stammered as he gathered his courage. “Will you be my f-friend?”

The other boy stared at him. And then he broke out into a large smile, bright as the sun. “What are you talkin’ ‘bout? We’re already friends, aren’t we!”

A warm glow grew in his chest. His first friend.

“Yes.”

His new friend beamed at him. “And I’ve got just the thing for ya!! It’s my most precious thing at the moment but I’ll give it to you-”

He watched curiously at the boy rooted about in the small sling bag that he wore slung over one shoulder. The redhead’s face brightened as his hand closed around whatever it was he had been searching for. He beckoned excitedly to Eishi- “Your hand, gimme your hand!!” -and grabbed the white-haired boy’s hand and pulled it nearer to him.

“Don’t let go, ‘kay? I worked really hard to find it! Promise!!”

Eishi was very bewildered. But his new friend was trusting him with something that was very important to him and so Eishi nodded his head. “Okay. I promise.”

The other second grader was peering at him a bit suspiciously, still. “Promise, promise? Cross your heart and hope to die, promise?”

He nodded again. “Cross my heart and hope to die.” He even did that thing and solemnly drew a cross over his heart with his finger, just to show that he was completely serious. His new friend beamed.

“’Kay, I believe ya!” And without hesitation, he pulled his hand out from within the confines of the bag and plopped the thing that he had been holding right on the palm of Eishi’s hand. “Hold it properly, don’t let go!”

The thing on his hand felt a bit prickly and ticklish against the flat of his palm, but hard and smooth against his fingertips. It was also moving. Eishi gaped down at his hand in shock when the other boy moved his hand away and revealed the mystery thing that he had been given.

It was a bug. It was a very huge bug.

Black shelled and shiny and possessing an enormous rack of ominously looking horns, it was the biggest bug he had ever seen in all seven years of his life.

And he was holding it in his hand.  

Eishi turned white.

His companion glowed with happy pride.

“He’s a beauty, isn’t he? It took me days just to find and catch him!”

“…It’s a bug.” He sounded like he was going to faint. He started to tremble. “You gave me a bug.” Was he being bullied?

“Oi! S’not just a bug; it’s a Rhinoceros beetle! D’ya know how rare they are?”

“B-But what am I supposed to do with it?” Eishi was stiff, everything was screaming at him to pitch the insect as far away as possible and then run away screaming down the meadow, but it was in the spirit of his promise to his friend that he was currently frozen solid as the enormous beetle slowly crawled on his hand.

“You can keep it as a pet!! You can make it your new friend, too!”

“…I d-don’t want t-to…”  

“Oh, c’mon! You really don’t hav’ta be such a girly girl, ya know! Insects are cool!”

Eishi turned his head mechanically to the redhead, brow furrowed in confusion. Something was not right…

“…But I’m not a girl. I’m a boy…like you.” And insects were not cool…

His companion frowned back at him, equally baffled.

“Hahh? But I’m not a boy! I’mma girl, like you!”

…Eh…?

xXxXxXxXxX

#Shokugeki no Soma #Food Wars: Shokugeki no Souma #EiRin #Tsukasa Eishi #Kobayashi Rindou #EiRin: Peerless AU #my fics #freestyle

[artistic-writer]

Fragments of Home :: CS AU :: E :: Chapter 11

Title: Fragments of Home by @artistic-writer

Summary: Emma Swan must return home to her childhood town of Storybrooke when her mother dies and stays in the house left to her and her brother, David Nolan. Emma must juggle a temporary job at the hospital with her loss, something that has made her feel smaller than she ever was. When a tall, dark, handsome stranger comes into her life in the most unexpected way, and she begins to fall in love, will she stay in Storybrooke, or return to her new life back in New York?

Rating: E

Previous: Ch 1 - Ch 2 - Ch 3 - Ch 4 - Ch 5 - Ch 6 - Ch 7 - Ch 8 - Ch 9 - Ch 10

Also on: AO3 - FF

A/N: Here is the moment you have all been waiting for - David finding out! This chapter is dedicated to the lovely @thislassishooked for beliving in my writing :D Many thanks to my lovely beta, @kmomof4 who persuaded me that this would work as a CS fic in the first place <3

Taglist: @kmomof4 @resident-of-storybrooke @thislassishooked @hollyethecurious @deathbycaptainswan @branlovesouat @delightfully-difficult-pirate @flipperbrain @wordsmith-storyweaver @jennjenn615 @doodlelolly0910

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The darkness outside enveloped Storybrooke, its streets quieter than a few hours before. David's office building was warm, a contrast to the chilled evening outside, the silence only broken by the rapping of the rain against the immaculately clean window pane that stretched from floor to ceiling. Condensation has appeared against the glass, forming tiny, cool droplets that rolled in fluid lines down the screen. David sat hunched in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight as he leaned back and stretched a little. The day was drawing to a close, the business hours long in the past, and so when his intercom buzzed, David jumped a little in his seat.

With a sigh, he planted a foot firmly to the thick carpeting and pushed, spinning his entire bulk around on the executive leather backed recliner. David's jacket has been discarded hours ago, now hanging lifelessly on his coat rack by the door. His shirt was crumpled, the folds etched into one another despite his massive bulk stretching the material taunt against his chest. David had messily rolled up his sleeves, folding the material against itself awkwardly and letting the bunched cotton rest below his elbows. David reached forward, pulling his chair towards his huge, wooden desk and pressed a thick, blunted fingertip to the flashing white button.

“Mary Margaret, it's after nine,” David scolded lightly, his voice tired and weary. Mary Margaret was dedicated, staying much later than she needed to on such a distasteful evening. David made a mental note to make sure her bonus was increased at Christmas time, but her words quickly shook him from his thoughts.

“Mr. Nolan,” she interrupted quickly, almost a pant. “It's the hospital on line one, and you have to take this,” she gulped, a hint of sadness in her sigh. “It's Emma.”

David scooted forward in his chair, grabbing the receiver quickly and pressing it to his head so quickly that his ear began to sting and burn. His heart skipped in his chest, pounding the blood through his ears and flushing his entire body with prickly heat. David stabbed at the worn button and the line clicked, the instant hustle of the hospital background noise filling his ears. “Nolan,” he whimpered impatiently.

“Mr. Nolan, this is,” The womanly voice chimed, but her softness was cut off.

“What's happened to my sister?” David pressed eagerly, his fingertips turning white against the cold, black receiver. “Emma Swan. Is she okay? Where is she? What happened?” He blurted sporadically, repeating himself clumsily.

“We’ve been trying to contact you for hours. She's okay,” the voice soothed and David relaxed a little. He felt the yellow stained armpits of his shirt turning damp again as well as a bead of sweat ripple down his back. “She listed you as her emergency contact but you must have changed your number. I'm afraid that is all I can tell you over the phone.”

David exhaled audibly and rubbed his clammy forehead with shaky fingertips. Emma was all he had left in this world, his last remaining reminder of his mother and his only family. He couldn't stop his mind racing, contemplating what had happened and how he could be receiving a phone call from a hospital. Had she been in an accident? She obviously couldn't call him herself so it had to be serious. How badly was she hurt? David could only think the worst.

“Mr. Nolan?” The voice echoed and David suspected it hadn't been the first time his name had been called.

“I'm sorry, I just,-”

“It's okay, I understand this is sudden. How about you come to the hospital and see her? Talk to a Doctor?” the voice suggested timidly.

David nodded hurriedly and pushed himself up from his chair. The leather bound cushioned seat bounced upwards and flew backwards, spinning away from David's body. “I'm on my way.”

--

Killian smiled sweetly, his eyes turning up at the corners as he did so. His fingers interlaced with Emma's, their palms pressed together as he clutched her hand in his desperately. Lifting their balled hands, Killian pressed a soft, closed mouth kiss to her knuckles, soothing her skin. Relief washed over him and he relished in the feel of the warmth of Emma's touch once more.

“You scared me.” He smiled at her, rolling her hand around on his cheek so he could feel more of her against his face. His stubble scratched at Emma's hand but she didn't care. It made her feel awake, in the moment and reality of now, instead of the dull echo in her ears she had heard whilst in the induced comatose state. Emma pulled her hand from his weakly, returning it to the side of his prickly cheek and trailing her fingertips down his beautiful features, a silent combination of apology and reassurance.

Emma's eyes felt heavy lidded and stung from the tears that had been falling. Her chest burned, her lungs still holding some fluid, only eased by the oxygen she was receiving. A thin, clear plastic two-pronged device sat in her nostrils and was attached to a tube of the same colour. It stuck to her face, trailed across her cheeks where it left a pink hue against her skin and was tucked loosely behind her ears. Resting on her chest was the rest of the tube and a quick intermittent hiss filled the room from an oxygen canister.

“Why are you smiling?” Emma croaked, her throat scratchy and sore from the breathing tube that had now been removed. Emma gulped, the lump sticking to the side of her windpipe and her nose wrinkling slightly with the pain.

“Am I?” Killian smirked, peeling his eyes open to look at her once more. He toyed with her hand in his, patting it softly and tenderly like he might break her if he held on too hard.

“You are.” Emma forced a smile back at him, letting her tired eyes flutter closed. She was sitting up in bed, the white sheets thick and harsh against her skin that pinned her weakened body to the mattress. Again she swallowed a dry mass down her throat and let her head fall back against the high mountain of pillows behind her with a groan of exhaustion.

“Here.” Killian reluctantly let her hand go and reached over for a small cup of water. The tiny clear plastic cup rustled in his hand as he picked it up and offered it to Emma with a thin, black straw. “Take a drink, it will help your throat.” He nodded at her, noticing the visible pain she was in with every sip.

Emma closed her dry, cracked lips around the plastic straw and sucked weakly. Ice cold water trickled into her mouth and down her arid throat, soothing the burning sensation there. Emma's throat still hurt, irritated by the lack of hydration the water offered, but she forced a tight lipped smile for Killian nonetheless.

“That’s it, love, all better,” Killian said beaming and replaced the cup back onto the light wooden veneer of the overbed table. An awkwardly comfortable silence fell between them and Emma laid her head back upon the hospital pillow, rolling her head sideways to look at Killian once more.

“You are a good man, Killian Jones,” Emma said, her voice cracking with her words. She reached out a pale hand and laid it over Killian's, gripping delicately at his long, lithe fingers. If Emma had still been home alone, who knows how long it would have taken anyone to find her body heaped behind her front door. She was thankful for Killian's quick thinking in getting her to the hospital so swiftly and she was thankful things were not a lot worse than they already were.

“I have my moments,” Killian whispered smoothly. He reached forward, unable to contain his hands any longer and pushed a stray hair from Emma's face. Her cheeks were slightly flushed now that her body had begun to warm up, and she fidgeted shyly under his touch. Killian's ocean blue eyes bore into Emma's green pools, dancing across the features of her face lovingly. He couldn't stop himself from thinking about their unborn child, barely changing Emma's body yet, and he smiled wider.

“What are you thinking about?” Emma asked quietly with a slight cough. Emma had heard things. They say a patient has the ability to listen and hear what is said around them, and some of her fellow colleagues had made the mistake of thinking it impossible. Emma knew she was pregnant, and it burned at her insides.

“Nothing,” Killian lied sweetly, snaking his palm across her body and flattening his palm out over her stomach. “Have you spoken to the doctors yet?”

Killian's intent was to mention the baby, but he was petrified. The whirlwind that has been their relationship so far was far too fragile to handle that sort of information right now. Killian only wanted to know Emma was healing well and understood what had happened to her. Over the last few hours, Killian's mind had been racing with thoughts of the future and how he had discovered something he never knew he had wanted but was sure he never wanted to lose.

“I have,” Emma confirmed with a small nod. “I feel so stupid,” Emma admitted quickly. “You'd think a doctor would recognise pneumonia when she sees it,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes at herself. They were still bulging and sore from all the crying she had done not that long ago, and her vision was still a little blurry.

“You thought you just had the flu,” Killian reassured her, rubbing his fingers lightly over her belly. Emma watched his hand contently with a smile and laid her hand over his. “You’re a good doctor.”

Emma laughed, her creaky voice echoing into the room and her whole body shaking the bed. “I can't be that good of a doctor,” Emma jeered, looking away from him sadly.

“Emma-,” Killian began but she cut him off quickly with the words or realisation he was hoping would wait for a time when she was a little stronger.

“I missed my morning sickness too.” Emma gulped hard and looked back to Killian with a watery stare. She held his gaze, watching the colour drain from his face. Killian's tongue darted out to moisten his lips, a nervous habit Emma had noticed he did on occasion, and he sucked in a deep breath. The silence between them was deafening, each consoling the other with just a flicker of hope behind their eyes.

“You know,” Killian said softly, his words a statement rather than a question. He suddenly felt embarrassed and ashamed that he hadn't already told her.

“I heard you,” Emma breathed, grabbing his hand roughly like she might never let go. “And a doctor confirmed it when you went to get a coffee.”

Killian sighed and offered her a weak smile. “I'm sorry, love, I should have told you.”

Emma shook her head slowly, her hair sticking to the pillow from static. Emma offered her own sigh and slipped her hand from his. “I was stupid,” she said croakily and winced as she sat herself up in the bed. Emma's whole body ached, her joints burning and throbbing with pain as she struggled to sit up. Killian sprang from his chair, loosely hooking his hands under her arms and helping her with a gentle apology.

“We were stupid,” Killian corrected her. “We should have been more careful, Emma. We are both adults here.” Killian placed his hands to Emma's face, cupping her cheeks in his warming palms. Leaning forward he pressed his lips to her nose, letting the softness of his lips linger against her skin. Killian didn't know how to make it right and it killed him, his heart pinching in his chest.

Emma shook her head against his face, pressing her forehead against his and lifting her heavy hand to palm his cheek. “No,” she whimpered. “The first time, in the shower,” Emma gasped, her tears threatening to fall hot and burning down her cheek.

“Emma, it's alright, really,” Killian leaned down on the bed, kneeling next to her, his weight causing her tiny frame to roll towards him. Emma reached up her hand, her fingers quivering as she pressed them to his lips, silencing him with a sorrowful look.

“I tried to take the morning after pill,” Emma confessed. “I couldn't. I lost it, and now look!” Emma turned away from him, her anger towards herself evident in her words. “I didn't mean for this to happen, Killian, I'm sorry.”

Emma rolled over in the bed, the act itself agonizing and racking her body with pain as she shuffled down into the rough hospital sheets. The breathing tube dug into her face and her tears hit the pillow when she turned her face into it, away from Killian and away from his beautiful lamentable stare. So much had happened since the death of her mother and Emma suddenly felt lost and alone. She had always imagined being married, pregnant with a husband at her side to share in her joy of becoming a family, but now Emma only felt cold and broken.

“Why are you sorry?” Killian's brow furrowed.

“Killian, you've known me five minutes,” Emma coughed out a laugh, her words ragged and spiteful. “This isn't what you want,” Emma told him flatly, staring blankly at the tiny bubble in the oxygen meter beside her bed. The small green ball bobbed upwards each time the pure oxygen whooshed from the canister and then dropped back down to the bottom of the plastic bell shaped vial.

Killian took in a sharp breath, biting back tears of sorrow he never knew were even fighting their way to prick as his eyes. He blinked rapidly, clearing them from his vision and sniffed quickly, rubbing a palm over his face. Frozen to the spot, he didn't know what to do. Two parts of his being struggled internally against each other and Killian swore he could feel the battle in his heart.

“What about what you want?” Killian offered poignantly. He took a tentative step back towards the bed until he felt his thigh bump the harsh plastic edge.

“It doesn't matter,” Emma heaved, clutching the bedsheets to her face and letting her sobs rack her tiny frame.

Killian's heart finally tore in two and he couldn't stop himself from climbing onto the bed behind her. He positioned himself against her body and felt each of her cries vibrate through him every time Emma heaved a breath. Killian enclosed her within his arms and held her tight like he would lose her if he let her go. Emma grabbed onto his forearm, holding it to her bosom as she wept.

“Shhhh, love,” Killian soothed with his own low toned sob. “Of course it matters,” Killian smoothed the hair that had fallen across Emma's face back with his palm and kissed the back of her head. “Emma, if you want this, I want this too,” Killian cried into her hair, inhaling the faint scent of her that lingered there.

Emma reached behind her and held Killian's head to her neck, digging her fingernails lightly into the back of his scalp. The urgency of her touch told Killian she wanted this. The pain resonating from her every word told Killian that she wanted this. A baby wasn't what they planned for, but it didn't change anything about how they felt. The silence between them was all Killian needed as an answer. Killian loved Emma more than anything he had ever known before and doubted he would ever feel anything as strong until the day his child was safely in his arms.

“Please don’t push me away. You don't get to do this alone,” Killian whispered sweetly. He propped himself up on his elbow, hooked a crooked finger under Emma's pale chin and tilted her head towards his. Emma's eyes flickered over him, searching his face and etching his perfect features into her memory. “Gods, Emma,” Killian heaved a relieved sigh and stroked away her tears with his thumb. Suddenly his adrenaline faltered, his own tears threatening to fall, and for the first time in hours, he let himself feel. “I thought I'd lost you.”

“I'll always come back to you,” Emma wept, offering a forlorn smile as Killian pressed his lips to hers for an unsteady kiss.

“What the hell!?” David's voice shook them both from their kiss and Killian tore his body from Emma's, jumping to his feet beside the bed. Emma's head snapped towards her brother when she recognised the low, possessive grumble in his voice and her eyes went wide with shock.

“David,” she panted, unable to form any other word than her brother's name.

David's face was stony, his expression shifting quickly from shock to anger as his eyes fell on Killian. Darkened by rage, David's eyes bore into Killian who shifted uncomfortably under his stare, jaw twitching, his teeth grinding together so hard he thought they might crumble against each other. His fingernails hurt as they ground themselves into his palms when David formed a fist at his side, his breath leaving his body on an angry bull-like snort through his nose.

“David,” Killian offered sympathetically, stumbling backwards into the chair that he had previously been sitting on. The offending furniture skidded backwards into the wall next to the window, but Killian was too pale faced and frightened to tear his eyes from David to see what had stopped his retreat. “Dave, mate, calm down.”

“Calm down? Calm down?” He yelled, his volume increasing each time. “You’d better have a good reason for kissing my sister.” David spat and Killian held up a hand to offer penance for his words.

“Alright, alright,” Killian gulped quickly. Now his heart was pounding in his chest for an entirely different reason, the adrenaline surging through his body as Killian fought his fight or flight reflex. “Listen-,” Killian panted hurriedly but his words were cut off.

“I thought I told you my sister was off limits,” David growled at Killian, his ears turning red as his anger rose within him. David was usually calm, collected and reserved. It took a lot for him to get angry enough to find his inner rage, but when he did, it never ended well. David had only genuinely lost his temper a few times in his life and now his college friend and business partner was stoking the fiery coals of his fury once more.

“David, stop!” Emma screeched hoarsely, struggling to lift herself up in the softness of the mattress. Her plea fell on deaf ears and David took a step towards Killian.

“Wait,” Killian flinched, stepping sideways around the chair and inching his way around the room. Killian's back pressed against the glass of the huge hospital room window, the cold Storybrooke night chilling his skin through the glass and through his thin shirt. “I can explain,” Killian offered.

“Of all the women in Storybrooke! In the world!” David bellowed, motioning to Emma. “My sister!”

“David, please!” Emma begged again, her voice unable to break through the walls of David's rage.

“I didn't know Emma was your sister until that day in the office,” Killian conceded honestly.

David snorted, shaking his head from side to side. “The day I warned you,” David confirmed, pointing an accusing finger towards Killian. “And you still-,” he closed his fist with his words, tensing his jaw even harder.

“David, this isn't Killian's fault!” Emma snapped at him and he finally turned to face her. His little sister was weak and fragile, tucked neatly into the oversized hospital bed beside him. “I didn't tell you either.”

Killian shot a look between David and Emma, relaxing his frame against the wall in the corner of the room. David was scary, even Killian had to admit that, and Killian was trapped in this room with him and no way out. Old Killian would have wanted out, wanted to run for the hills, anything except facing the burly beast before him. New Killian was duty bound by the life inside Emma to fight for what he knew and felt was right.

“Emma, do you even know this man? Because I do,” David snarled, turning back to face Killian. “He's a womanizer and a cheat and he is no good for you!”

“Hey!” Killian objected, his own ire evident. “I am not that man!”

“What about at college, eh?” David scoffed. “What about all the times women swooned and threw themselves at the great Killian Jones!” he spat, stepping even closer and prodding his short finger into Killian's chest.

“I didn’t sleep with every girl who wanted me.” Killian batted away David's hand, arched forward and almost pressed his forehead to David's. “So don't touch me!” Killian growled, his entire body shivering with rage. “You haven't got any idea what we are!” Killian extended an arm out towards Emma, her tiny figure only visible in the side of his vision as he locked eyes with the pitch black eyes of David. “We love each other!”

“Please,” David scowled, biting his bottom lip painfully and throwing his head back as he let out a menacing laugh. “Save me the Romeo and Juliet shit. You don't know what love is, Killian,” he chuckled sadistically.

Killian's skin flushed hot, each tiny hair on his body standing to attention and digging into his skin like a heated needle. “And what do you know?” Killian bit back, slapping his hand to David's shoulder and pushing his massive bulk back.

“Killian, don't!” Emma begged, her sobs almost inaudible.

“You think you know me, but you clearly have no idea who I am. Emma does,” Killian ground out, pushing David again.

David shook his head and bit his tongue, leaning sideways and rolling his shoulder before springing back before Killian. “You don't want to do that, mate,” he spat, his breath inches from Killian's face. A vein pulsed in David's forehead, signaling the building of his fury, and his eyes were wide and manic.

“Or what?” he raised his voice, antagonising David with each word. “You hid the fact you had a sister from me for our entire friendship and we found each other anyway. It’s fate. Why were you so scared of me finding out about your sister? Why, Dave? Maybe you are the one that we don’t know.” Killian took a step forward so their chests bumped together. He was absolutely not going to back down from this. A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets, and Emma was worth fighting for. “Show me! Show Emma! Show the world what kind of man you really are!”

Killian did not know where his courage had come from. There was a fine line between confidence and arrogance, and before he had time to move, David showed Killian on which side of the line he had been standing. David grabbed Killian's shirt, bunching the thin material roughly between his fingers, pulled the slighter man towards him, twisted them a little and then pushed, slamming Killian into the thin wall behind him. Killian's body hit the wall with a shake, his own hands coming up to grab at David's shirt and push back against the bigger man's bulk.

“Come on, Killian,” David sneered, his biceps rippling beneath his shirt as he pulled Killian from the wall with a grunt. Killian let out a bold cry. Hitting the wall had sent a shooting pain through his shoulder and as he grappled with David in the shadowed corner of the room, his muscles began to burn. Killian's brain barely had time to register the pain rippling down his spine when a new, piercing affliction shot through his skull as David headbutted him, splitting his eyebrow open and forcing ruby red blood to drip down his face.

“Enough!” Emma coughed, her lungs burning as she gasped for breath. “Please,” She gasped, gripping the crisp white bed sheet as she spluttered. Emma's face began to turn red and she lurched forward in the bed, slapping her hand to the side of her legs to grab their attention.

“Emma!” They called out in unison and pounded their feet against the tiles of the room as they rushed to her side.

“Get away from my sister!” David growled, barging his shoulder into Killian with a contemptible grunt. Killian stumbled sideways, gripping onto David's arm to stop himself from falling and smearing the crimson heat of his fresh wound across David’s work attire.

Emma shot David a look, a pleading glance to just, for one second, calm himself down. For her. David softened a little, reaching her bedside and plucking her hand from the bed. Emma closed her eyes and tried to drown out the fighting around her with slow, deep breaths. She snatched her hand from David's, disgusted at his behaviour, but she couldn't catch her breath quick enough to scold him. David's heavy hands adjusted the breathing tube on her face as she gasped with a rattling wheeze.

“Emma,” he began, stroking her cheek with the back of his rough knuckles. Emma held up her hand to silence him, the muscles in her jaw clenching as she focused on her breathing.

“Breathe, love, slowly,” Killian calmed, standing shoulder to shoulder with David. He felt the warmth of a trickle of blood rolling down the side of his head, the blood darkening as it rolled further towards his jaw. Killian rested his hands over the hospital blanket covering Emma's legs and caressed her knees lovingly. David shot a sideways glance at Killian and batted his hands from Emma's knees.

“Get off her!” David snapped lowly.

“Shut up!” Killian barked back, a congealing drop of blood falling from his stubbled jawline and stretching itself into the fabric of Emma's hospital blanket.

“Guys!” Emma roared, her sudden volume taking both men by surprise. Emma's eyes flicked between them and she pushed David from her gruffly and weakly kicked her legs, bouncing Killian's hand from her skin. Both men stood back, waiting for what seemed like forever for Emma to talk. “Get out,” she mumbled, her head hanging low and her body hunched over. Emma used all of the energy she could muster to shout at them and it had taken its toll. “GET OUT!” She screamed a final time.

--

The hospital halls were quiet, only a few footsteps sounded down the halls at this time of night, bouncing off the walls where Killian and David waited. They stood at opposite ends of the short hall, each basked in a dim white glow of light. David rested his massive bulk to the wall, the pale green paint behind him worn and browned from other nervously waiting family members. His hands were pressed behind him, flattened to the wall behind his hips and his head rubbed lightly at the paintwork.

Killian sat not ten feet from him, perched on the edge of yet another identical cloned hospital waiting chair. His elbows rested painfully on his knees, digging in from the weight of his head in his hands. Killian steadily gripped at his head, pressing a sterile gauze pad to his eyebrow painfully and stared at a scuff mark on the floor between his feet. Killian lightly tapped his fingertips to his skull and one of his legs bounced up and down as he waited.

“I'm sorry,” Killian offered, not looking up. What did he have to lose now? Emma had thrown them both out, so as far as he was concerned, he was in the same boat as David.

“Shut up, Jones,” David growled, peeling his eyes open to stare blankly up at the fireproof ceiling tiles.

“We didn't mean for this to happen,” Killian turned his head sideways and flicked his eyes towards David quickly. The man before him remained unmoved, but Killian saw his chest rise and fall with a deep sigh.

“Funny,” David chuckled sarcastically. “What did you do? Trip and fall into her bed?”

“It's not like that,” Killian sighed frustratedly, letting his hands fall from his head and leaning back in the uncomfortable chair. It groaned under his weight, its flimsy plastic twisting and bending against the wall behind it. Killian's eyebrow had stopped bleeding but was caked in blood, tiny flecks of dried crimson falling to the floor when he grimaced and arched his brow.

“Come on, Killian,” David's words stung Killian like a bee pricking at his skin.

“We are both adults,” Killian started, his frustration lacing his words. Killian jumped up from his seat and turned to face David, a desperate look gracing his features. “Why is this so hard for you?”

David held his breath and pushed himself from the wall. He turned to Killian, his shoes squeaking against the tiled floor, and plunged his hands into his pockets with balled fists. David figured if they were confined to his pants, his hands wouldn't feel so tempted to strangle the man who had just been kissing his sister in her most fragile state.

Killian waited for David's answer on bated breath. He lifted his hand to his head, quickly dabbing a fingertip to his eyebrow to see if he had stopped bleeding completely. The cut stung when he touched it, and he closed his eye a little with the pain but was relieved to see just some sticky, clear fluid had oozed onto his finger.

“She's my baby sister.” David exhaled wearily. “I’m the only protector she has left.”

“And she's also a grown woman who can make her own choices,” Killian said guardedly. “And you have to respect that. She’s not a nobody, and she doesn’t need anyone to protect her.”

“I know,” David murmured reluctantly. He took a deep breath, sighing. “I know.”

“I love her.” Killian's words were a gamble, tumbling from his lips before he had time to stop them. His revelation would go one of two ways, and the skin behind his ears seared, sizzling with tiny beads of perspiration as he awaited David's reaction.

David did not answer because he knew Killian wasn't lying. He had seen the way Killian held Emma, gentle and tender, careful not to hurt her as they cuddled on the hospital bed not five minutes ago. David gritted his teeth, angry at himself for wanting to admit what he had seen was indeed what Killian had said it was. Love. David had only ever seen it up close once before and that was when his parents were happy and together before his father had died. If Emma thought she had found that, even if it was with Killian, David would not take that from her.

“She loves you too,” David shook his head, hardly able to believe his own words. A small smile crept onto Killian's lips, tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So if you hurt her, so help me, Killian,” David warned, pulling his hand from his pocket and pointing a stiff finger towards Killian.

“I won't,” Killian promised, laying a flat palm over his calming heartbeat. “I give you my word.”

#fragments of home #foh #ch 11 #the penultimate chapter #doctor!emma #architect!killian #cs ff #cs fanfic #cs au #captain swan #captain charming

[noplanlife]

Consideration

Summary: Prince Osomatsu can be surprisingly considerate, when he wants to be.  

--

This is the eighth chapter of a multichapter fic!  Please find the rest here!

--

The dream is the same, yet not, because this time you know that you’re dreaming.  You cannot change the course of events that you know will inevitably take place in this dream.  As before, as always, you will carry a bouquet of red roses that you cannot afford to drop, and yet you will drop them all the same.  The flowers will burst into coins, and you will awake screaming and fearing punishment for your failure.

This time, you know that you’re dreaming, but still you cannot jolt yourself out of your nightmare.  Following the projected course of this dream is an obligation.  You always meet the obligations given to you.  

Then, the dream changes, just slightly.  

The thorns on the red roses cut into your palms, sending blood coursing down your wrists and onto the billowing skirts of your white dress.  As you step into a multi-colored ray of light cast by a circular, stained glass window somewhere behind you, you come to the belated realization that you are in a chapel.  Your distraction makes you lose your footing, and the toe of your shoe catches on your bloodied skirts.

You tip forward, tripping like you always do at this part of your nightmare.  Crimson petals burst into the familiar, chiming song of scattering gold coins.  

The dream changes, more drastically, now.

Two hands--one male, one female--seize you by a wrist each and wrench you back and out of the light.  A shadow moves forward, and Osomatsu steps into the place where you had been standing before.  He doesn't even look your way as he falls to his knees so that he may gleefully scoop the steadily growing pile of gold coins into his hands.

A pair of large doors slam in your face, and you wake up.  

--

You awaken to the dark of either the very late night or very early morning.  A cold sweat has your skin slick and uncomfortable underneath your nightclothes, and the pitched void bears down on you like a weight upon your chest.  Your scrambled thoughts race in a frenzy towards the familiar comfort of logic, though it takes far too long for your liking for you to finally realize you are under no real threat.  

It was a nightmare.  The same nightmare as before, mostly.  And nightmares could not hurt you.  

With an exasperated groan, you drag your hand up across your face and over the top of your head, pushing your damp hair back and away from your brow.  It’s difficult not to be frustrated with your subconscious for pulling you from your valuable sleep for something as silly as some figment of your imagination.  You know that some people believe that nightmares are the product of what you truly feel in waking, but you’ve never cared for silly superstitions.  Anything, even your fears, could be conquered if you worked hard enough and focused on your duties.  

Still, your knees are shaking when you finally manage to drag yourself out of bed.  You startle at your reflection in the mirror when you go to rinse yourself off, and your heart simply refuses to stop pounding against your ribs.  Annoyed, you resolve to distract yourself with busy work and make way towards your now familiar office.  

You make it about halfway there before a hand lands on your shoulder and nearly sends your soul fleeing from the mortal coil in your terror.  A scream catches in your throat, and you ungracefully flail your arms until your elbow collides with the face of the mysteriously corporeal spectre.  The ghost lets out a pained grunt, and a familiar voice whines,

“Owwww, what was that for!?”    

One hand clasped over your chest, you whirl around to find Osomatsu ruefully clutching his nose and sending you a particularly wounded look to match his injury.  For whatever reason--likely that he’s not some ghost, not that you believe in such things--seeing who it is truly sets you at ease.  The tension melts out of you, and you heave a relieved sigh as you reach out and grab at Osomatsu’s arm.  

“You scared me!  Please, have the decency to warn someone before you sneak up on them in the middle of the night!” you chide him, though without any malice.  Osomatsu is still rubbing his nose and sending you pitiful looks as he replies,

“That’s the whole point of sneaking up on someone in the first place.  Sorry I scared you, though.  As an older brother, I just can’t pass up that kind of opportunity when I see it, you know?”

You shoot him a flat look.

“And your brothers react less violently than I do?”  

Osomatsu laughs heartily, and shakes his head.

“Oh, no, way more.  But they also scream louder than you do, so it’s totally worth it.”  

You feel as if the fact that Osomatsu is not deterred by his brothers’ violence in the slightest tells you something important about his character.  Perhaps that he is deterred by very little if there is a substantial chance he’ll be amused.  Or, maybe, that he’s just learned to ignore negative reinforcement.  You’re leaning towards the latter.  

“Anyway,” you decide to change the subject, eager to move away from this incident before Osomatsu may choose to seize on the opportunity to tease you mercilessly.  “What are you doing up so late?”

You appraise the prince before you, and note he is still wearing the same clothes he wore earlier in the day.  Loose strands of red and black hair are falling out of his typical, slicked back style in excess, indicating that he’s made no effort to re-apply whatever gel he uses when he gets ready in the late morning.  Unthinkingly, you reach out with both of your hands and begin trying to smooth his hair out of his face right when he starts to answer your question.

“Well, you know, I had things to do and-hey!  What’re you..?”

Osomatsu flinches back, unprepared for the abruptness of your hands on him.  You offer him no chance to retreat further, fixated on your task as you are.  It’s something small you can focus on--an easy distraction from the fear you’d felt earlier.  Once Osomatsu seems to realize that you mean him no harm, he stops trying to get out of the gentle hold you have on his face.  You don’t notice the way his eyes widen, or the fact that he’s started enthusiastically leaning into your touch until he says,

“Soft, right?”

You meet his eager, bright gaze as you push back his hair.  It is soft.  Unbidden, you imagine combing your fingers through his dark tresses, your nails dragging across his scalp, and the prince staring up at you with a lidded gaze as he practically purrs under your attentions.  You yank your hands away from him as if they could betray your thoughts via your touch.  

“Messy,” you answer back, refusing to give him the validation.  You are rewarded for your stubbornness with another whine, and Osomatsu seizing one of your wrists so as to place your hand on his cheek.  The skin is just a bit prickly.  For whatever reason, it’s never occurred to you that he probably shaves.  Maybe you never thought he actually tried to take care of his appearance.  Not that you think he’s unattractive, but-

“Noooo, don’t stop.  Your hands are soft, n’ they feel good and stuff,” Osomatsu whines without shame, nuzzing his nose against your palm.  You flush, frowning at him, but don’t make an effort to try and take your hand back.  Once Osomatsu realizes you don’t mean to leave, he drops your hand from his hold.  For a fleeting moment, you think he’s releasing your hand because you gave him what he wanted.  You are thus unprepared for when he throws his arms around you in full and holds you close.  When you try to pull away, Osomatsu only squeezes tighter until you give up and slump against him.  You’re trying to will away the flush on your cheeks when you hear Osomatsu murmur against your ear, “So, why’re you up so late, Princess?”

“I, ah…”

Osomatsu sets his chin atop of your shoulder, his temple leaning against yours as he muses, “Unlike me, you’re boring and go to sleep at a normal time.  But now you’re up.  Much as I like the idea of havin’ all sorts of time after dark with you to myself, I can’t help but wonder what’s got you out of bed.”  

Through your clothes, you can feel him dragging his fingers down across the dips and rises of your spine.  You clench your fingers into his shirtfront, focusing on repressing the goosebumps rising across your skin and answering his question at the same time.

“I just...had a nightmare, is all.  It was silly,” you admit in a rush.  Osomatsu pulls back to assess you, his expression surprisingly concerned.  You’d expected he’d leap at the chance to tease you for something like this.  

“You gonna tell me what it was about?”

Your mind conjures the image you’d had of him greedily gathering up your coins back in your nightmare.  Shame curdles your blood, so you purse your lips and shake your head.

“Gonna be stubborn about it?” Osomatsu accuses you airly.  With lowered lids, he gives you a knowing look.  “Fine, fine, I get it.  Don’t tell old Osomatsu.  But you’ll change your mind.  My brothers always do.  Or did.  Man, they’re so uncute nowadays.”  

He has a wistful look in his eyes that makes you feel warm.  You’re glad that he knows he’ll be able to reunite with his brothers soon.  

“Really, it was silly.  If it was serious, I’d tell you.  We promised we’d be honest with each other from now on,” you remind him.  You set your hands against his chest and lean back to give him a reassuring smile.  Osomatsu immediately leans down and bumps his nose against yours as he breathes,

“Okay, honestly, I think you’re super cute.  Especially when you try to lie because you’re really bad at it.”  

“I am not-”

“Buuut, you just gotta promise to tell me when you’re ready.”  

You take in a deep breath and lean to the side so that you can press your lips to his cheek.  Osomatsu jolts as soon as you kiss him, a gust of air rushing past your ear as if you’d sucker punched him.  You pat him on the chest, once, and pull away as he gapes at you.

“I will make sure to do just that.  Thank you, Osomatsu.”

#osomatsu san #osomatsu #osomatsu x reader #garbage fic for garbage boys #i hope you liked your personal space while it lasted

[hogwarts-memery]

Alone (Platonic Merula x Reader)

I don’t love my writing but I had a lot of feelings so here you go

please comment if I said he or she instead of they for Y/N I tried to keep it gender neutral but I’m not great at editing, so let me know and I’ll change it right away. Also please feel free to give constructive criticism and feedback (on the art or and the writing or both), I haven’t done fanfic in a while and I’m trying to improve

(Could be romantic if you squint)

Y/N had found early in their second year that after midnight the only one patrolling the halls was Filch, who was easy to avoid if you knew his routes. Now, halfway through their third (with much help from Tulip and Rowan), they had memorized the path he took and found exactly how to continue the search for the vaults after hours.

They had snuck up the stairs and around the corner to find Merula Snyde sitting on the steps to the Astronomy tower. Y/N was about to turn back and avoid the most likely unpleasant encounter, before they noticed her pink-tinted face in her hands, and her shaking shoulders. They looked back down the corridor, knowing Filch was likely on his way, before sighing and silently sitting down next to Merula on the cold metal steps.

She didn’t seem to notice until she lowered her hands from her face and glared at them with bloodshot red ringing her pink eyes. “What do you want Y/L/N?” she sneered, wiping her tears and attempting to hide any evidence of her crying.

“Apparently I’m enough of an idiot to try and help even you from getting a detention.” They said with an eye roll.

“I could’ve told you that.” Merula scoffed with a harsh laugh.

“But,” they shifted a bit closer to her, “I’m not enough of a prick to leave you crying here.” She opened her mouth, likely with a venomous retort on her tongue, but snapped it shut and turned her gaze back to the ground. Y/N took a deep breath “Tulip told me-”

“Oh, I’m sure that little traitor told you plenty about me. Every single thing I confided in her, she turns her back and tells it all to the next person who gives her the time of day.” She curled her hands into tight fists as hot, angry tears rolled down her pink cheeks.

“She told me your parents are in Azkaban.”

Merula paled for a second, just a second, before returning to her usual prickly demeanor. “Surprised it took you this many years to figure it out. Most knew before our first year even started because they actually read the paper instead of using it as bedding for their toads.”

Y/N sighed. “I just wanted to tell you that you’re not alone. I’ve lost family too, and-“

“Oh please don’t act like losing a sibling is anything like losing your parents. You lose a sibling, you go to the funeral, you cry, you get your own room, and you get over it. With your parents, you don’t get to get over it. You get cruel classmates who like to remind you of what your parents did and call you ‘Voldemort’s Golden Child’. You get foster parents who shout at you and starve you and beat you for what your parents did and call it justice. You get pompous pricks who think picking on a bad person’s kid makes them a good one. Or, even worse, you get the kind who like to pretend like they’re your real parents, like they care and they’re not just taking care of you for the check. And no matter how much they ask about your day or how many nice warm meals they cook you they’ll always just be a reminder that you can’t have the warm loving family that they have. That your family is gone forever… and you…” she sniffed, tears welling up in her eyes again.

They sat quietly on the step while Merula cried.

“My dad died last year.” Y/N whispered, feeling a lump in their throat forming. Merula was silent. “I was still here, at Hogwarts, and I didn’t know- I had no idea he was even sick. He was apparently too weak to write to me, and my stepmum never knew how…” Merula stared at her fists, processing their words. “I went back for summer holidays, and when I opened the door, she-my stepmum she just collapsed in the middle of the apartment and started crying. And I didn’t know what to do-I didn’t…” Y/N’s tears finally spilled over the edge, dripping down their cheeks. Their breathing quickened, they felt their heart racing, they felt their chest tighten and their face get red hot, until they felt a hesitant brush against their shoulder. Then it was a firm, reassuring hand. Merula silently comforted them and let them continue.

“My- my real mum, my birth mum, she’s been at St. Mungo’s since I was 4 years old. And I can’t ask my stepmum to adopt me, she’s already having to figure out how to raise two sets of twins on her own. So...I’m not sure what I’m going to do.” They trailed off, the horror of no longer having a family finally hitting them.

“It’s...it’s not so bad. Your parents were probably good people, so any foster parents you have will probably leave you alone.” Merula grumbles.

“Ah, but how could you forget my mad brother who nearly destroyed all of Hogwarts?” Y/N said with beyond obvious sarcasm.

“Right…” Merula whispered, frowning to herself in the palpably uncomfortable silence. “You know, as much as I tease you about Jacob, I do hope he’s alive, for your sake.” Y/N looked at the normally angry girl with wide eyes and genuine surprise.

“Why’s that?” Y/N asked, preparing themself for a joke about him being crazy or a jab at their own mental problems.

“Because Y/N Y/L/N, I know what it’s like to be really, truly alone. And no one deserves that.”

Filch caught them a few minutes later. The next day in detention, instead of a glare or a snide remark, Merula gave a tight-lipped smile before sitting in the opposite corner of the room, far away from everyone else. And Y/N got up from her seat, practically in the middle of the most social children there, and sat next to Merula. She gave them an odd look, and by the end she’d put her walls back up and continued to sneer and make jabs at their brother and make snide remarks, but Y/N smiled, and shrugged off every rude word she said, but most importantly they didn’t move from that spot. And the day afterwards, they sat next to her again, and endured all of her comments and insults, and the day after that as well.

Because Merula Snyde was a girl who knew what it was like to be really, truly alone. But for at least one night, and one week of detention, she didn’t have to be.

#hogwarts mystery #harry potter #merula snyde #jacobs sibling #fanfic #big oof #not sure if ill post or even write fanfic for hphm #but im trying it out so bear with me #tulip karasu (mentioned) #rowan khanna (mentioned)