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tinybirbwrites · 1 year

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Guilty Pleasure (Dick Grayson/Reader)

Hello, hi. This started as a vent fic, then it became super silly and fun and longer than expected. No warnings except for some swearing, just silly fluff and crack. Reader is gender-neutral. Also I had Gotham Knights Dick in mind while writing, the game really grew on me lmao.

You often wondered whether Dick had a sixth sense for your mood. Each time you were upset about something, he would either somehow end up finding out about it, or unknowingly comfort you in some way.

Watched a sad movie while Dick was away? Look at your phone; Dick either just sent you a meme, pun, or a sweet little message to brighten your day. Unhappy about what you saw in the mirror? Just you wait; Dick always seemed to have a heartfelt compliment ready for you. Lonely? Worry not; Dick already made plans to come over and glue himself to you for several hours.

This time was no different. Just twenty minutes after you saw something hurtful on social media, Dick plopped down next to you on the couch and wrapped a casual arm around your shoulders.

“Hey, wanna watch a dumb movie together and cuddle?”

Hell yeah.

The movie did turn out to be super dumb—a crazy woman summoning the spirit of her dead killer husband into a fake christmas tree, who then goes on a murderous rampage as a christmas tree? Really? But it was exactly what you needed at that moment.

You were crying and laughing through the stupidity of it all, switching between actually paying attention because of what was happening or because Dick was actively commenting on it, and thinking back to the post you saw that upset you in the first place. Dick didn’t ask, but he kept giving you comforting squeezes and rubbed slow circles over your back the whole time.

As the credits started rolling and you finally got over how weird the movie was, Dick stroked a careful thumb over the tear-trails on your cheek. “Alright, well, now that we’ve gone through all five stages of grief together… You wanna tell me about it?”

You leaned back with a shaky exhale. “Well, you know how I like to read and write fanfiction?” At his nod, you continued, “Well, there’s a subgenre called ‘reader inserts.’ They’re… basically exactly what the title implies. They’re written with you as the main character, and most of the time it’s with a romantic plot point at the focus. It’s something I like to consume for comfort, because it feels nice to read about yourself meeting your favorite characters and interacting with them, doing things together that you’ll never be able to in real life, right? And there’s a lot of well written fics out there that I enjoy a lot, but of course, as with everything, there’s also not so good ones. And the tragic part is, the not so good ones are the only thing that other people who aren’t interested in this subgenre see and know about, so reader inserts get a pretty bad rep. And I get it, I’ve also seen the bad ones, and there’s… a lot of porn, too. I understand it can be frustrating to see when you really don’t want to, but shaming people for writing and reading it just… hurts, you know? It really hurts.”

Dick was silent for a while, frowning. “Sadly, there’ll always be people who get upset about things they don’t like or don’t understand. Some are mature about it, and some aren’t. I’m guessing you saw someone complaining?”

You sighed and nodded, tiredly rubbing a hand over your forehead. “Yeah.” You didn’t feel like elaborating on what the person said specifically, it would only upset you more. Maybe you’d sent a screenshot to Dick later, but right now you just wanted to forget about it.

Dick hummed. “I’m sorry you had to see that. It really sucks when you’ve gotta deal with people hating something you love and care about. And I know it’s easier said than done, but… don’t focus on that negativity. Focus on the good stuff. You’ve talked about getting a lot of positive feedback on your own writing before, yeah? Focus on that. People love what you write, and you love other people’s writing, that means there’s a community where you can all share what you love with each other, and that’s a beautiful thing. Some people just aren’t into the same stuff, they don’t get it, so sometimes they’ll complain about it to feel better. It’s hurtful, yeah, but remember that they’re not targeting you specifically. It’s their problem, the issues often lie within themselves. From what you said, it sounds like they’re just shitting on something they don’t wanna see because they don’t like or care about it. They’re not offering constructive criticism, so really, you don’t have to concern yourself with them. Try to distance yourself from their words, be proud of what you do and who you are. Okay?”

You mulled over his words for a moment, digesting them bit by bit, and eventually, you managed a smile. “Yeah, okay.” You turned your head and leaned closer to him, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Thanks.”

When you looked at him, the expression on his face was almost shy. “You’re always welcome. I’m just glad I could help somehow.”

Days later, Dick came to you with an excited smile on his face, and you watched as he sat down and pulled out his phone. “So, since you told me about reader inserts, I’ve done some research to better understand what you meant. I wanted to know more about what you enjoy.”

Oh no. “Oh. Really?” you said, a lot calmer than you actually felt.

He grinned, unaware of your growing horror. “Yep! So, I wasn’t sure what to look for at first, but eventually I searched for reader inserts that included some of the media I personally enjoy. I found a few I actually liked a lot! But, uh, I get what you meant with there being a lot of porn.”

You hid your face in your hands with a chortle, feeling heat quickly traveling to your cheeks at the mental image of Dick reading smut fics out of pure curiosity to learn more about what you were passionate about. “Yeah…”

Suddenly, Dick brightened. “Also! You won’t believe it, but I found a lot of Nightwing reader inserts! Some got recommended to me because of my search history, and I got really curious, so—”

OH NO.

“I was so amazed at how many there are! Ah, of course, lots of porn too. Can’t really fault anyone for that, I mean, I know people love my butt, so it only makes sense. Still, feels kinda weird. I started reading a few because I just couldn’t help it, and isn’t it kind of funny? It’s like a story about me making out with myself! Anyway, I found a few really good ones, a lot of them were from the same author—”

Oh God, please, anything but this—

Dick scrolled through his phone for a moment, then turned it around to show you what he found. You felt your soul leave your body.

It was your very own profile picture that stared back at you.

It was your blog.

It was your writing.

Your Nightwing fanfics.

He went on, completely undeterred by your stunned silence. “I know it sounds kind of narcissistic of me to say, but you should totally give this person’s stuff a read! They’re really good! I felt weirdly immersed, reading about being in love with, well, myself. Pining after… myself. Never thought I’d feel so strongly about that, but here I am. There’s one story that I’m hoping will get a second part some day, actually. I’m thinking I should maybe leave a comment. You think it’d be too much to do that with my Nightwing account?”

Oh. Oh, thank God. Dick didn’t know it was you.

You subtly cleared your throat. “Uhm. Yeah, I think commenting as Nightwing would be a bit much.”

It was an older account—you actually hadn’t uploaded anything for a while now, but most of them were about Nightwing.

It had started off with the usual go-to scenarios of Nightwing saving reader while on patrol, something he’d actually done for you a few times now, which was what inspired you to scroll through the Nightwing x Reader tag in the first place. Then you decided you would give in and post some of your own for the public to see as well. Anonymously, of course. You’d never pin your actual name to that particular guilty pleasure of yours.

The more you wrote, the more you started to wonder about what if scenarios.

What if Dick Grayson was Nightwing? You’d noticed that they shared a lot of similarities; a love for puns, a charming smile, a kind heart, perfect hair, and, uhm… A nice body, too. You’d never written out this theory for the public eye, but in your head, you’d started imagining Dick being the one behind the mask, which fuelled your writing even more as you poured your feelings into them.

You knew it was kind of a No-No to write about actual, existing people. It wasn’t something you usually did, either, nor were you very proud of it. But you just couldn’t help it—you’d been pining after Dick and Nightwing separately for years now, venting about it in the form of self-indulgent writing, until you eventually figured out they were both one and the same person.

Of course you’d fallen head over heels in love with Dick, it was practically impossible not to; He had a stupidly big heart and a stupidly big butt. Finding out these two ridiculously attractive and caring people were actually one guy? That only served to intensify your feelings by, like, a hundred.

You hadn’t mentioned this realization to Dick, but it got more and more difficult not to as time went on. Until finally, one day, Dick confessed his vigilante identity to you, stating he trusted you and felt it was only fair if you knew. He felt bad about having to lie to you and keep making up excuses about his bruises and why he had to cancel plans every time something big happened that Nightwing had to take care of.

You were too scared to tell him about your feelings, especially after realizing you’d been writing reader insert fanfics about him all this time. It was one thing to just imagine Dick being Nightwing, but it was another to actually know it was him. You were lucky and very happy to even be friends with this amazing guy, and you weren’t about to ruin that by confessing your shameful sins to him.

You knew it was extra weird to write not only about an actual person, but about your friend. You’d never written any smut—that was something you just couldn’t let yourself do, it felt too wrong, even before you found out about Dick’s secret.

You knew he took all the sexually charged comments on his Nightwing persona in good stride. He actually seemed to glow from all the praise, even feeding into it by laying on the charm extra thick sometimes when on patrol, always insisting Nightwing should never wear a cape so his precious butt wouldn’t be covered up. You also knew that he himself as Richard Grayson was a very popular guy, handsome and charming, a “well dressed golden retriever,” as some people liked to describe him.

But you also knew that there was a line, and you felt like you were definitely crossing it by writing reader inserts about your best friend and crush. Though you did stop writing them after finding out about who Nightwing really was—it just felt too weird to keep posting more at that point.

Argh, who were you kidding? Either way, it was definitely still weird that you hadn’t immediately deleted your whole blog afterwards. It didn’t matter that Dick was currently unknowingly blowing up your phone with excited comments and likes on several of your Nightwing x Reader fics. You pulled it out and glanced at your screen as it lit up. Ah, he was also sending you all the links so you could read them for yourself.

Is this how Dick felt when people talked about Nightwing in front of him, not knowing it was him they were talking about? You certainly felt like you had a top secret persona now.

Despite your conflicted feelings on the matter and the rising shame in your chest, you couldn’t help but smile at Dick’s genuine enthusiasm. And his comments were all very nice, too.

Maybe… Maybe he would be okay with it, knowing it was you. Maybe he’d laugh about it. Maybe he’d even be flattered. You knew it would be impossible to keep this to yourself forever, especially since Dick was so easy to open up to. But not now. Definitely not now.

A few months later, Tim mentioned your username during a group conversation. In his defense, he probably thought it was common knowledge—you knew he wouldn’t reveal something as big as this on purpose if he thought it wasn’t a big deal. You were using the same username for several other accounts on other websites as well, all connected to your second email address, the one you hadn’t shared with Dick or the others, so you hadn’t actually expected them to ever look into it and find out.

How very foolish of you. You just hoped Tim hadn’t read any of your fanfics as well.

While you’d tried to appear calm and unaffected on the outside, you could feel yourself slowly dying on the inside, melting from the sheer amount of mortification you were experiencing.

You couldn’t look Dick in the eyes ever since.

While he hadn’t mentioned anything directly, you could tell the clogs inside his head had already turned enough for him to connect the dots. He knew. Fucking shit, he knew.

Several days went by. You kept casually sending messages to him, sharing memes and other every-day things like always, and he did the same. But you could tell he knew and wanted to say something, but didn’t because he could tell you were highly uncomfortable with him knowing.

He was nice like that. Goddammit.

And then, one evening, as you contemplated finally deleting your whole account and sending an official apology to Dick (you would definitely have to do that, you just didn’t know what to say and where to start), your phone lit up with a new message.

From Dick.

You stared at the notification for a long moment, dreading what you’d find once you opened it, until your eyes started to burn and you had to force yourself to take a few deep breaths and calm down.

Don’t jump to any conclusions now, you told yourself. Just open the damn message and see for yourself.

You procrastinated by going to the bathroom first. Then walked around the kitchen in search of something to eat, only to realize you were too anxious to actually eat anything.

So you took your damn phone and clicked on the damn notification, holding your damn breath as you read Dick’s messages.

(Dick) 21:32 : Hey, so, I had some ideas for a sequel regarding your last Nightwing story

(Dick) 21:33 : Hear me out

(Dick) 21:35 : What if Nightwing went over to reader’s place

(Dick) 21:35 : and then…

You waited for him to elaborate, maybe send a GIF or something else, but he wasn’t even online anymore. You frowned and started to type a hesitant, confused response, when there was a sudden knock on your living room window, making you flinch and shriek, almost dropping your phone in the process.

Looking up, you saw Dick in his Nightwing suit outside your window, grinning and waving at you.

You blinked at him for a moment, then quickly walked over to open the window. “Wha—”

“You haven’t posted in a long time,” Dick interrupted you with a smile. “I thought maybe I could help inspire you.”

“Ins— Inspire?” you repeated, stunned.

You stepped back a little when he started climbing through the window, taking in his appearance with a sense of awe. You’d seen him as Nightwing a few times now, but you never quite got used to it. He was a sight to behold—he always was, whether he was wearing the suit or just his regular clothes, but having Nightwing standing in front of you in your own home always felt a little unreal. It was so form fitting, showing off his muscles and curves, and the mask hiding parts of his face had its very own appeal that you could hardly put into words.

“I noticed a theme while going through your stories.” Dick’s voice pulled you out of your stupor, and you quickly shut your mouth, only now realizing you’d been gaping at him the whole time.

You cleared your throat. “A theme?”

“Yeah.” He stepped closer to you, slowly, as if he wanted to check whether you would move away or not. “Nightwing and reader never actually kiss in any of them.”

You thought your heart was going to burst out of your chest. Then you realized he was waiting for you to say something.

“Oh, uhm. Yeah. I, uh. I just felt kind of weird about that. At first I was just scared you’d maybe find out about my stories some day and be weirded out by them, but later on after you told me about being Nightwing, I also just— It felt wrong to write about kissing you because it felt… too personal? And then I just kinda stopped writing them entirely.”

“Mh-hmm,” he hummed understandingly, stepping even closer, close enough for you to smell his cologne and minty breath. “Not to force my own interpretations onto your writing or anything, but I think Nightwing would definitely be very much into kissing the reader. And seeing how strongly the reader feels about him, I’m guessing it’s something they would want, too?”

You gulped, then managed to croak out a weak, “Yeah.”

He smiled and leaned closer until the tip of his nose shortly brushed yours, pausing for a moment to give you the chance to pull away, then gently pressed his lips to yours. Your breathing hitched, an electrifying sensation running through your whole body, starting from the points where he was touching you. His hands were on your arms, slowly rubbing up and down while he moved his lips against yours just as slowly. Your muscles couldn’t decide whether to stay tense or relax and melt against him, so you did a weird combination of both.

Unsurprisingly, Dick was a very good kisser.

After a long moment, he eventually parted from you, leaning back a little to take in your reaction. You couldn’t help but let out a breathless little laugh, stunned by what just happened, and so very fucking happy.

Dick chuckled too, hands gently squeezing your upper arms as if he wanted to hug you. “Was that okay?”

“Absolutely,” you said, without hesitation. “I’m sure all the fics probably gave it away, but I have feelings for you. Strong ones.”

“Well, I didn’t want to make assumptions based on fiction alone,” Dick smiled. “But I’m glad, because I feel the same way. About you, I mean.”

Your chest warmed at that. Then you chuckled, an idea hitting you. “What, you don’t want me to write Dick Grayson x Nightwing fanfics next?”

He opened his mouth to retort with something sarcastic, but then his eyes widened. “Oh my God, that’s actually a really genius idea—”

You chortled and knocked your hand against his strong chest. “No, it really wouldn’t be. What if people connected the dots and found out because of it?”

He pouted. “Alright, fair point. But maybe you could write them just for me?” Aaand he was using his puppy eyes on you. Go figure.

“I’ll think about it,” you gave in. Only a few people were strong enough to withstand Dick Grayson’s charm, and you certainly weren’t one of them. “But, I gotta ask… Weren’t you super weirded out when you found out that I wrote all these stories? Didn’t it make you uncomfortable?”

If you ever found out that a friend of yours was writing romantic reader insert fanfics about you and publishing them… Well, you didn’t know what it would feel like, but it was definitely weird.

Dick chuckled and shook his head. “If it were someone else I knew, then maybe. But I know you—you’re one of my best friends. Knowing you wrote them, it just… doesn’t bother me at all, no. I understand why you wrote them, I understand why you published them, too. And why you stopped.” He shrugged. You felt a weight fall from your shoulders at his words, finally feeling yourself relax against him. “Anyway, did I manage to inspire you? You gonna write a kiss for part two?”

You snorted, then hummed, pretending to think for a moment. “I don’t know, I think I’ll need a bit more to really get the creativity flowing.”

Dick’s smile turned knowing. “I’d be more than happy to help.” And then he kissed you again, and it was even better than the first time.

#dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #reader insert #x reader #genderneutral reader

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zu-is-here · 1 year

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Zu, my brain died with your Greektale Au. So I tell you what he thought up ♪(๑ᴖ◡ᴖ๑)♪

(Already the design of Killer is just perfect, it suits him really well. I don't know if those red lines are energy lines that are connected to his soul, or if they are marks on his bones, but anyway he's stylish) °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°

Cross is a mortal sent by Thanatos to kill his brother except that he fell in love with his target and decided to spare him, but also to help him (nothing new for now) (•ㅅ•)

Now let's go to our little Killer. He is Nightmare's companion if I understood correctly, but hehe my brain said "that's cool Kross ship, and besides there can be so much angst" (ᅌᴗᅌ* )

So, Killer could have been impressed like Nightmare with the mortal's skills (it could even be him who told Nightmare about it) and he would have decided to observe him a bit (Killer is like a curious little cat too) v(=^･ω･^=)v

Except that Nightmare is going to send this mortal to kill his brother and he's not going to do it, besides deciding to totally change "sides" （⌒▽⌒ゞ

Nightmare is going to be in a black anger and is going to ask his companion to get this monster to take him directly to the Underworld, even if his time had not yet come (๏ᆺ๏υ)

Killer will comply at first, but he didn't expect Cross, who is a mere mortal, to stand up to him. Like, he can easily and quickly kill other mortals, but he takes longer with him. He's more curious about this little mortal, so he either kills him the way Nightmare wants (sad)... or he leaves him alive to see how he reacts. In this case, by observing him, Killer may fall in love with him, but this love may never be reciprocated ＼（Ｔ~Ｔ）／

Sooooooo, my brain bugged at this point saying: Killer can try to get the mortal back even if it means opposing the two twins, he can also decide to try to convince him to come with him... or he can just kill him to have him "by his side" (since he's a psychopomp) or to make sure that he doesn't suffer anymore because of the two twins (or so that Dream will never have him) へ（>_<へ)

Awww I'm so happy to hear you enjoyed it! (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)☆

(And thank you a lot! (〃ω〃) Those are "tattoos" he got—or carved on his bones himself?—after being cursed, and it looks like they can "activate" in a stage of rage...)

That's right! ♪ The problem is, Hypnos has a wife, and he may know about Cross' feelings and be teasing silent about it, so our fellow mortal suffers alone :') That's why he wants to help Hypnos though! (´；ω；`)

Exactly ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) I've been thinking a lot about the possibility of kross too, since dark cream doesn't work here, but Cross is already in love (poor boy) and it's not that easy when it comes to gods, especially the fallen ones...

Like a curious little cat! (๑>◡<๑) Awww I love this idea of yours! ★ I'm not quite sure about Hermes changing sides so quickly heh, but he would be interested in this mortal and "slowed down" at his own mission because of him indeed! (๑･̑◡･̑๑)

You see, both Hypnos and Hermes are cursed, and Cross might be the one to help them both? (the hero of the day >;D)

Hypnos is not an Olympian god, so they didn't really care, but when the Curse touched Hermes, the youngest of them, they just threw him off, and he ended up at Thanatos' mercy.

That's why Hermes serves him and trusts him only... until he meets Cross? Because lately, Cross could convince Hermes to change and try to help him, and he would really believe the mortal... (´；ω；`)

Hermes may indeed be interested in this mortal who has ~confronted a god~, but he's not quite himself yet, and Cross has to try real hard before he can save and face the real Hermes.

P. S. Considering how, um, free the gods are in terms of relationships, I don't think he would dare to bond with the mortal... Except to give him a child HA—

UPD:

That's it! ☆ This is the way he become invulnerable and bloodthirsty ;w; Ohhh he does indeed :')

#updated #ask #greek au #greektale #zu is happy #theory

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jokersmeowmeow · 3 years

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Apex Legends - affection hcs <333

Yooo y'all, I'm sorry I've been absent for quite a looong time, BUT I've been busy and unfortunately I still am, so here I can offer You some hcs with our lovely legends to recompensate my inactivity :3

Mirage:

Soft. Softer. THE SOFTEST!!!

Mirage is the most touch-starved person You've ever seen, but how can You possibly mind? He is an angel <333

He may make an impression of a laid-back alvaro, but he's actually really anxious about what he can and can't do with You - You have to state Your boundaries clear.

After You do this, he is STILL unsure about everything and in need of constant reassurance if this is okay if he touches You like this or kisses like that, but that only adds to his cuteness.

Simple gestures are able to melt him completely, just cup his face and tell him You love him, kiss the tip of his nose, nuzzle against him, and he'll be all Yours, almost in tears.

He longs for such affection and reciprocates every single act of it; for instance, he adores hugging You from behind randomly and hide his face in the crook of Your neck to breathe in the smell of Yours and feel the velvet softness of Your skin.

His growth brushing against Your neck tickles You and hence causes You to giggle - listening to Your laugh soothes him totally.

He does his best to complement You, as he thinks You deserve it and he regards You as the most perfect person he's met, even more perfect than him ;DDD (seriously, because he really thinks that, he's gonna boast about You being his lady all the time so that the whole world shall know You're a couple)

B U T

He's bad with words, we know that. Stuttering ruins and at the same time makes everything more adorable when it comes to Mirage

"Oooh sweety, You look so so extrard-ext-extraordrin... Just amazing, You look amazing..."

His face turns blood red in seconds, but to be honest with You, that's the moment in which You want to spread kisses all over his face the most.

After a long day apart, prepare for being trapped in a makeahift cage of his arms and arms of his decoys.

He just runs to You excitedly with his arms spread widely, wraps them around You, and then You feel more and more of them snaking here and there. He missed You and can't imagine not exposing his longing for You to You.

He tries to do his best in Your relationship, he really does, but his anxiety hidden under the veneer of pride tells him he isn't enough for You, so talk to him about that, learn him how to cope with feelings and not be ashamed of them; he'll be more than thankful, nothing solves problems better than honest conversation.

Moreover, after a hard "psychology session", he enjoys sharing a hot, steamy shower with You.

He rests his forehead against Yours and closes his eyes; now You can see him as himself, no pretending, no fake confidence, no armor, just his bare body, naked mind and boiling water streaming down Your chests and backs.

Bangalore:

This woman. She is tough. She has no weak spots... Apart from You.

She casually looks as if she was ready for murder, but when she looks at You, she immediately softens.

You're like pain killers to her; You calm her down in split seconds and it's amazing to watch her features soothe, one of the corners of her lips travel up in a delicate, hardly noticeable smile.

She isn't an affectionate kind of person, especially in front of the others, but she is more than glad to receive affection from You.

She gives the best bear hugs and let me tell You, the feeling of the warmth of her muscular, womanly body, the plush of her breasts and hard abdomen... It's irreplacable.

She doesn't say it out loud then, but You can perfectly sense how devoted to Your relationship she is, she confesses her loyalty to You with her whole form embracing Your own.

One of her favourite moments during the day are early mornings; she usually wakes up just before dawn while You're still deeply asleep. Then, she can adore Your peaceful face looming up from under the duvet and graced with first golden rays of sunlight finding their way to Your bedroom through the window.

Before she leaves, careful not to wake You up, she watches You for a while and tries to picture this beautiful view in her mind precisely and keep there for the rest of the day.

She kisses Your forehead gently and silently gets out of the room, one last time glancing at You behind her back from above her shoulder before shutting the door.

She's keen to talk to You about everything and she's beyond recognition then; You can talk to her about everything and nothing, starting from Your own serious issues and ending on exchanging some girlish gossips.

Whatever topic You throw on her, she's always willing to not only listen to You, but also actively partakes in the conversation.

During such talks, she really does enjoy having her arm wrapped around You whilst You're resting against her on the couch.

She'll most probably be caressing Your shoulder with her thumb without even realizing it.

Your laugh causes her to laugh widely, which is a wonderful chain reaction as she rarely smiles on her own.

I must mention jealousy here; Bang hates seeing someone flirting with You.

Her face lines turn even sharper, she grits her teeth not to let herself lose control over her emotions.

But if she has enough, she'll most certainly approach You two steadily, pull You to her side and glare deadly at the motherfucker daring to flirt with You as if she was looking at a pathetic pile of horseshit.

It's likely she'll warn them to fuck off before she shoves a granade up their ass.

I know this is amusing and boosts Your ego, but spare her nerves, she just can't lose You and wants to be the best version of herself for You.

Pathinder:

Cinnamon roll made of metal.

He loves everyone as friends and because, unlike the most of the others, You actually reciprocate his affection, he WORSHIPS You in particular.

He's a hug-person, that's why often he forgots how painful it is when he wraps his arms a little too tightly around You.

When You politely tell him to let You go and state why, he's a trembling mess.

He asks You questions whether he harmed You, made You uncomfortable and if You're okay. Reassure him everything's okay, please, all he wants is to make You feel loved and appreciated.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so, so sorry, friend... Can I get a second chance? I promise I won't be uncomfortable anymore" 👉👈

You can't say "no" to him; he hugs You much more tenderly, he's calculating his every move when he slowly embraces You again.

He may be boxy and angular, but the metal he's build of is pleasantly warm, or at least it seems like it because of Path in general.

You press Your hands to his back and cheek to his chest, and when You open Your eyes, pink light radiating from the screen on his torso blinds You as a large, smiley face with heart-eyes appears on it.

This causes You to giggle, and then him; You two could stay like this for eons, him resting his head on the tip of Yours and just, laughing innocently like little children.

He's the number one comforter, this needs to be said. Whenever You feel blue, Path emerges near You out of nowhere and is ready to give his best to You.

His arm is instantly around You; he takes You somewhere peaceful and quiet, probably to Your bedroom, and sits You gently on the edge of Your bed.

He kneels in front of You, palming Your hands on Your knees and looking up at Your sorrow face.

"Hey, I don't like it when You're sad, it makes me sad, too. Path is here for You, and will be even when they break me apart. That'd be even better! There would be more of me to listen to You!"

His positivity, even in the darkest of times, is able to lift anyone's spirits in a flash.

While venting Your disappointment, anger, helplessness and other damaging emotions on him, he listens to You letting Your words sink in his mind and brushes single tears flowing down Your swollen cheeks every now and then with his thumb.

Surprisingly, he's more gentle than any man build of flesh, You wouldn't recognize whether it's the touch of his robotic fingers or soft human hands if You didn't know him.

He a l w a y s manages to make You laugh somehow, You actually don't even notice when Your mood changes from gloomy and suicidal to amused and happy.

"Low-five?" he asks, still crouching and showing his flat hand to You, so that You can give him low "high-five" and begin Your day again, but better.

Octane:

Speedy boi only You are able to slow down.

There's a significant spark of rivarly burning between You and keeping Your relationship sufficiently heated.

And that's why You enjoy competitive video games; You sit on the couch next to each other and follow the flying controllers in Your hands.

At some point You begin to interrupt each other's playing not only virtually, but in real life as well.

He nudges You with his elbow and You give it back by shoving Your smaller form towards him with the maximal strength.

Finally, You put the game aside and You start wrestling; it looks a little brutal, but You both know it's just fun.

You roll down from the sofa and fall on the floor, Your limbs tangled together, You two laughing and screaming at each other; an adorable picture of the pair of energetic fireballs.

You don't even care whether anybody remarks on Your playful joshing, at most You just stop for few seconds and simultaneously snap at them.

Then, You continue what You've started and what I must state here is the fact that Octane isn't merciful. He comes up with an idea of tickling.

You can't even attempt to grab his hand and stop him, he is already faster than You and he knows EXACTLY where to touch You to make You double up with laughter.

Only when he pins You to the ground by Your wrists and You officially give up, he lets You go, proud of his success.

He loves sneaking behind You and picking You up randomly during the day, making You shriek and swear in surprise.

He loves it when You swear at him in spanish, especially if it's him who taught You his native language.

You sometimes do this on purpose just to see him staring at You blankly.

He's also more than glad to give You piggyback; having You pressed against his back and giggle in his ear is pure bliss, what man wouldn't love that?

He may start spinning around or run with You on his back so be prepared, he's unpredictable, especially when excited, even without drugs.

Last, but not least, if You manage to somehow calm him down and sit him still, when You're snuggling against his side, he gets flustered by the view of Your leg caressingly sliding up and down his prosthesis.

"Ah, hermosa, eres mi mejor droga."

Fuse:

The daddiest daddy among all the daddies in the world. Lucky You!

He's the type of man loyal to You to the grave and he's more than pleased to show it; he rarely leaves Your side, places his hand on Your hip or loosely embraces Your shoulders with his arm.

He subtly establishes the boundaries of reciprocal contact between You and someone who might be potentially interested in You, but he's not possessive. This man doesn't lack finesse if he wants.

You kindle the flame of artistic creativity within him, thus he writes songs for You; he loves singing them and playing his guitar for You later.

He may forget to go on with the lyrics if You start swaying to the rhythm of his music. He knows You do this to purposely tease him and test his patience, but he's prepared for losing all of his attention divisibilty.

Focusing his gaze on Your effortless, wanton moves is enough to make his day.

When he's done playing, he expects appreciation with words ("Aaand? How was it, m'lady, eeh?") and with actions (he usually pokes his cheek and awaits well-deserved kiss).

For the first time, You fell for his little trick he pulled on You; when You were going to place a kiss on his cheek in rewarding gesture, he lightly grabs You by Your chin and makes You kiss him on his lips.

After that incident, every time You reward him, You intentionally "fall" for these tricks of his or it's You who pulls him for the kiss first.

You two giggle into each other's mouths and wordlessly swear to make that little game Your own ritual.

Often, when the situation gets heated, he finds his way to Your neck and the touch of his rough mustache on Your delicate skin sends shivers down Your spine - he loves it when Your throat vibrates because of Your sirenic chuckle.

You adore joking together; he's the master of pun and dad jokes, hence You two sometimes get trapped in a vicious circle of laughter.

Then, You just lean against each other and laugh so hard tears start flowing down Your cheeks, especially when each of You tell new jokes, funnier and funnier than previous ones.

Of course, You two enjoy a good, old game of poker, too; You sit opposite each other on the bed, legs crossed, and try so hard not to snort while glancing at each other's pokerfaces.

He attempts to distract You, make You laugh, cheat and make this card game the most ridiculous it only can be and You hit back, obviously.

If he wins, You throw cards in the air and make him pay for it; You jump on him, but he's quick to incapacitate You by lying his bulky body on Yours so that You have to haul Yourself up from under him to catch a breath.

If You win, it pretty much ends in the same way.

#apex legends #apex mirage #apex octane #apex bangalore #apex fuse #apex pathfinder #apex headcanon #apex hcs #apex game #apex fandom

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justateengirl99 · 2 years

Text

Let’s talk about: CLINICAL DEPRESSION.

Depression is a mental disorder that causes frequent depressive moods, loss of interest in daily life and loss of interests in activities. It is a persistent feeling of sadness that causes major depression and can possibly lead to a different ranges of psychological and behavioural issues, this could include:

Sleeping issues.

Change of appetite.

Loss of appetite.

Affect energy levels.

Concentration issues.

Affect behaviour.

Suicidal thoughts.

Anxiety… and more.

Depression is a silent killer, people who suffer with depression usually isolate themselves from the world and cut off interaction with people because they feel no motivation in life. People who suffer with depression often feel disconnected from the world and those around them, they feel it’s best to shelter themselves away and hide there emotion so no one suspects that there is something wrong. Depression can cause major feelings of hopelessness, worthlessness and guilt. We feel helpless, like it’s never going to get better and this sadness we feel is never going to go away, we feel like we’re going to be stuck in this pain for the rest of our lives and feel like there is no way up, only down.

Sometimes, it can be the complete opposite. Some people who suffer with depression have mastered hiding there sadness but have also mastered the skill of faking their happiness. Sometimes people completely hide there pain and don’t show it to anyone, they fake there happiness to keep a smile on everyone else faces, but there own. They go about their daily activities and they keep a smile on there face.

People who suffer with depression often put others feelings before there own to act as though they have no problems and live a “ happy “ life. We are usually people pleasers, we want to see others happy and laughing because we don’t care about ourself or the way we feel. We don’t care if we haven’t eaten in days or if we have ate to much, we don’t care if we haven’t showered or changed our clothes day, we don’t care if we haven’t cleaned our room for weeks, we simply just don’t care about ourself or our life. People who have depression often look at life as not worth living, what’s the point of being here if nothing is ever going to get better? That’s how we see the world. We just feel worthless, we hate ourselves. We can’t concentrate, we can’t focus, we don’t find happiness in doing the things that used to make us happy, we can sleep, we can’t think positive we just feel like there’s nothing that can help us.

We drown in our sadness everyday, sadly sadness is sometimes to overwhelming for some of us and we give up.. the people who are the “ happiest “ are always the ones who suffer the most, I know this from experience. I lost a dear friend to depression, he became so good at hiding is pain that none of us suspected a thing, but sadly his fight because to much and he lost his battle.

I want everyone to know that it’s not weak to speak, if you need help it’s okay to ask we all need a little help sometimes. Yes, depression is hard and it’s just as hard to find that motivation to get better but WE CAN DO THIS. we are strong and we have it in us to win this battle. Depression will always be with us, but all together we can stay on top 🤍

“ depression is hard and you may feel alone, but one day soon these feelings will be unknown. I’m losing my fight, there’s not a person in sight. I feel so sad, things are getting bad. It’s hard I know, but take things slow, because one day soon these feelings will be unknown. “

Written by: justateengirl99.

Beyond blue: 1300 22 4636

Life line: 13 11 14

Suicide call back service: 1300 659 467

Open arms: 1800 011 046

Men’s line Australia: 1300 78 99 78

Kids helpline: 1800 55 1800

#mental health #anxiety help #anxitey #mental health blog #mental health support #mental help #someone help #writing help #bpd recovery #mentalstrength #this is depressing #depressing poem #original poem #blog post

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etherrealoblivion · 4 years

Text

Chapter Five: The Something In His Eyes

Table Of Contents

Fic summary: Owning a bookstore in downtown D.C. came with its fair share of downsides. You never thought that being the target of a serial killer would be one of them. Luckily, a nice FBI agent by the name of Spencer Reid is assigned to watch over you. What's the worst that could happen?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Words: 1,963

MASTERLIST

Over the next few days, you fell into a rhythm. You’d work on schoolwork remotely from your room. It was pretty easy to keep up with all the free time you had.

So, obviously, the remaining time off was spent getting to know the enigma of a man

that was Spencer Reid. You formed a rather strange acquaintanceship with him, not quite friends but more than a protector and protectee. The real question was who was protecting who?

You discovered many things about him, some quite apparent, others not. For example, you assumed he was very into technology as most nerdy types were. In fact, it was quite the opposite. He despised all things electronic, from e-books to computers themselves.

“Do you even own a cell phone?”

“Yes!” he insisted, driving you to work for the third day in a row. “Sure, it’s not a fancy smartphone, but I can dial numbers so much easier, anyway.” He handed you his old-school flip-phone.

“How do you text people on this thing?”

He laughed politely.

“I don’t.”

You took the time to interrogate him on the nuances of text language, something he lovingly referred to as ‘dreadfully impractical’.

Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad.

Being constantly watched wasn’t as disconcerting as you’d expected. Well, being watched by Spencer wasn’t. You pretended you didn’t notice the dark blue honda with the tinted windows following you all the way to work and parking nearby. Strange that the FBI seems to need lessons in being covert.

Fortunately, rude customers and the smell of books managed to take your mind off your current situation.

What didn’t help was having to constantly stop Spencer from rearranging all the books in the shop.

“They’re categorized by the Dewey Decimal System,” he said, disgust in his tone making you stifle a giggle. “What? Everyone knows that the Library of Congress Classification System is far superior.”

“Maybe, but my workers have memorized the Dewey Decimal System. It’s easier.”

“But it’s too vague! When you’re categorizing books you need to work from all sorts of classifications. For example . . .”

It was amazing to see how passionate he was about sorting books. You’d never met a man that didn’t just throw a novel (or, more realistically, a comic book) back anywhere on the shelf when he’d finished it. Spencer treated each book like a separate piece of artwork, carefully placing them back in the correct spot without fail. He’d run his hands over the leather bound covers, caressing them as delicately as possible. You couldn’t help but notice the swiftness and gracefulness at which his hands moved.

“You okay?” you snapped out of your stupor and found him standing much closer, a gentle hand on your shoulder.

You took a step back and cleared your throat.

“Yes, ahem, sorry. I need to get back to work.”

Quickly, you walked back over to the front desk, starting to update the book index.

Maybe I should have requested Emily as my protector, you thought to yourself, dusting off a returned copy of Fahrenheit 451. Spencer was super nice and a huge dork. Maybe that was the problem. It was easy to start to think of him as a friend rather than someone just doing his job. Maybe if you’d met under different circumstances you might have been . . . friends.

But that wasn’t the case. Spencer was there to protect you. Any teasing or joking around was just a formality. But why did he have to be so damn enticing?

Around nine o’clock, customers started to peter out. Soon, the only people left in the shop were you, Caleb, your co-worker, and Spencer, who’d been sitting on the window sill reading book after book.

“Hey, I’m gonna clock out,” Caleb said, stripping out of his work shirt. God, that man took any excuse to take his shirt off. You didn’t blame him all that much. D.C, even in the dead of winter, was hot as hell. And when you had a chest like that, one couldn’t be blamed for showing it off.

“Okay, be in tomorrow at ten. I don’t trust Claire to come in on time.”

“No prob,” he waltzed out the front door into the illuminated street, the bell tinkling lightly.

You stood and stretched, glancing over to the windowsill Spencer had been sitting in.

Shocked, you saw Spencer exactly where he’d been about an hour ago, slumped up on the windowsill, fast asleep, using a book as a pillow.

Strange, though it was, that this man was an FBI agent, you couldn’t help giggling at the sight of him sacked out like a toddler.

“Spencer?” you hated to disturb him but you knew that he’d want you to wake him up. “Spencer, wake up.”

He moaned uncomfortably and stretched, jumper lifting up slightly to expose his lean stomach. It took all the self control you had not to stare.

“Whasitgonon?” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes and sitting up.

“You fell asleep,” you walked over to the loveseat in the center of the store and plopped down, sighing.

“Oh god. Sorry,” he stood, shaking himself awake and walking over to you, staring at the pile of books he’d devoured. “I guess I over-exerted myself.”

You scoffed.

“Oh, come on. I thought you were a genius,” you teased, tossing a pillow at him.

With a little fumble, he caught it and sat down next to you, smiling.

“Yeah, but after a night of restlessness, anyone’s an idiot.”

He said it with a sad smile, looking straight ahead. You decided not to ask about the restlessness.

“‘Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, and where care lodges—“

“—sleep will never lie,’” Spencer finished the quote for you. “Shakespeare.”

Without thinking, you looked at him, shocked to find he was already looking at you. There was something behind his eyes that made you freeze. Something curious.

And suddenly, in that moment, that split second, something shifted. You knew it and Spencer did too. You could tell by the sudden dilation of his eyes and the sharp intake of breath he let slip.

He recognized his mistake and broke eye contact, glancing away and clearing his throat.

“What, uh, what time is it?” he said, looking for a clock while nonchalantly moving farther away on the loveseat.

“Nearly eleven,” you said, glancing at the grandfather clock, smiling at the fact he didn’t wear a watch. Why is that so endearing? “We can leave now if you like?” You grabbed your purse and started locking up.

“Isn’t it closing time?”

“Well, usually customers stop coming in at around ten, but we close officially at eleven.”

“Then why stay? Why not just leave at ten?”

“I guess I like to think that if someone has a book emergency, it’s comforting to know that I’m here.”

You blushed. You’d never really told anyone that. Claire and Caleb probably had no idea that you stayed as late as you did. What was it that made you tell Spencer?

He hadn’t said anything so you looked at him.

The darkness of the shop made it so you could only see his silhouette. A tall figure against the light of the street lamps, he was poised and solid, staring out into the empty street.

“Spencer?”

“Get behind me,” his tone scared you. He spoke with urgency and you could see his hand on his hip where he’d concealed his gun.

Without hesitation, you stepped behind a bookshelf, slightly peeking around it so you could see what he was doing.

He moved like a shadow, slipping out of the shop and moving onto the street, towards the dark blue honda down the road.

Why is he sneaking up on the undercover car?

There was a screech and the car zoomed off and Spencer leaped into a sprint, running after it.

It finally clicked in your brain and you scolded yourself for not realizing it earlier.

That wasn’t an FBI car.

Becoming quickly aware of the danger you were in, you moved from behind the bookshelf to behind the loveseat, crouching as low as you could and trying to slow your breathing.

Your breath froze in your lungs as the soft sound of the bell by the door tinkled, alerting you that someone had entered the store. You snapped your hand over your mouth.

Praying it was Spencer but not actively believing it was, you stayed silent, waiting for the person to make themselves known.

“Y/N, it’s me. Are you here?”

It was Spencer.

You stood up from behind the sofa and ran to him, throwing your arms around him, hugging him tight and finally letting the tears fall from your eyes.

Feeling Spencer tense against you wasn’t the best feeling, but it was worth it for the way he melted into you after a moment, sliding his hands around your waist.

Breathing in deeply against his chest, you started to relax. His chest was harder than you’d thought. There were definitely some muscles he was keeping hidden.

Before you could enjoy the embrace too much, Spencer pulled back and looked at you.

There was a flicker of something in his eyes when you separated, but it was gone before you could analyze it, turning back to his professional demeanor.

“M-nine-L-D-G-seven,” he said robotically.

“What?” you said, removing your arms from around his neck and wiped the tears from your eyes, worrying that your brain had just short circuited.

“I got the plate but i’m sure he’ll replace it. It’s unlikely he’ll use that car again but I still need to report it.”

“I should have said something,” you murmured to yourself.

“What do you mean?” he said, whipping out his phone and typing rapidly.

“I saw the car following us earlier today. I assumed it was the protective detail.” Then, upon seeing the shocked look on his face: “I’m sorry, Spencer, I should have—“

His phone started to buzz and he answered it.

“Hotch? . . . Yeah just now. . . . Okay, I'll bring her in. . . . Yep, see you soon.”

He hung up and looked at you, a guilty expression on his face.

“I have to take you back to Quantico — uh — headquarters.”

“Okay.”

You stayed quiet the whole car ride. Spencer kept looking over at you, trying to be casual. Nothing felt casual. The way he held you in the bookstore wasn’t casual. The way he ran after a speeding car to protect you wasn’t casual. The way he’d stared into your eyes not long ago was . . . well, something, but not casual. You weren’t quite ready to explore that something yet.

The ride up in the elevator to the BAU was dead silent. Another instance where elevator music would come in handy.

Your reflection in the elevator doors was strange. Alien. It wasn’t you. It was as though a ghost was in your body, keeping you upright as you watched from behind your eyes, unable to do anything. It was terrifying.

Then, warmth flooded your hand, Spencer’s fingers intertwined with yours, squeezing gently.

Without turning your head, you glanced at his reflection. He was staring straight ahead, no expression, but his thumb was drawing soft circles on the back of your hand.

Before the doors opened and Spencer’s hand slipped out of yours, you caught a glimpse of yourself again in the reflection, only for a split second. It was still not a you that you’d ever seen before, but for an entirely different reason. There wasn’t fear or worry in your eyes, but something more. The same something you’d seen earlier in the bookstore in Spencer’s.

Stepping out of the elevator and into the bullpen, you found yourself wondering when this would all be over with.

And definitely, totally, not wishing it might never end.

Taglist: @aperrywilliams @mjloveskids666 @dolanfivsosxox @criesinreid @fanficsrmylife @racerparker @sammypotato67 @lukeskisses @reidcrimes @you-had-me-at-hello-dear @l0ve-0f-my-life @thatsonezesty13 @yourmisosoup

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fic #fluff #fanfiction #fanfic #mgg #matthew gray gubler #criminal minds

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argent-vulpine · 3 years

Text

A Gentle Voice

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Rating: G

Characters: Seteth/Byleth

Read it on AO3!

Jeralt was gone, and Seteth didn’t know how to handle comforting Byleth. She had entered a fugue state, the only tears shed being the ones she’d left on the field of battle. He needed answers, both from Rhea regarding whatever it was she’d done to Byleth as a child, and in terms of who it was that had attacked the students and ultimately killed the famed Blade Breaker.

Solon, or whatever his name really was. Monica, whose disappearance and sudden return after a year missing were suspect in hindsight. Who were these people? Who else had gone home themselves and returned something else? Or had they always been these other people? Too many questions and not nearly enough answers.

He sighed, rubbing his eyes. Back to long nights, though this time they were for the professor, and not because he mistrusted her. Seteth pushed himself to his feet, needing some fresh air to clear his head, and left his office.

He had intended to head downstairs and talk a walk, but he caught sight of the door to the captain’s office cracked open, a faint, flickering light casting shadows that drew his attention.

There was no doubt in his mind who was in there, but he still pushed the door open further, glancing inside to be sure. As he suspected, Byleth was curled up, her father’s coat draped over her as she read through what looked to be a journal.

She looked up as the door creaked, her eyes bloodshot and stark against her pale skin. The book snapped shut and was tucked away. Something from Jeralt, then, but he didn’t bother to ask. It wasn’t his place, and she would perhaps tell him on her own, eventually.

“Professor, it is late. You should be sleeping.”

“The way you’re sleeping?” she asked dryly. “I tried. I couldn’t. So I’m here.”

Well. She had a point. Sighing, he approached the small couch; she tucked her legs closer to make room so that he could sit. He wanted to reach out and hold her close, tell her that things would be all right in the end but… who was he to talk, really? He’d kept himself and Flayn hidden away for such a long time after his wife died, after all.

How strange, that this woman had been entrusted with such a large secret, when a few short months before he hadn’t trusted her at all.

Against his better judgment, he reached out and placed a hand on her knee, the gesture meant to comfort. She stilled briefly, but made no motion to remove it, no words telling him to stop. “I know the pain of loss, as you are aware… but to lose a parent like this…” He sighed, shaking his head. “That is something I do not know. Flayn does, and I would do anything to have it be different. No child should have to witness such a terrible event.”

She opened her mouth, about to say something, and then closed it again.

“I know you are no longer a child, but the sentiment is there. Flayn at least has me, while you… I am sorry. Just… know that you are not alone.”

The silence stretched for a long moment, and he was about to apologize when she reached out, resting her hand on top of his. “… thank you, Seteth.”

He flushed, shaking his head. “There is nothing to thank me for, Professor.” He turned his hand beneath her to grasp her fingers, giving them a soft squeeze before he pulled away. “You do need to rest, Professor. Would you like me to get you a tonic from the infirmary? I am sure Manuela has something…”

“No, I don’t… I don’t want to be made to sleep like that.”

He hummed an acknowledgment, understanding why she might dislike the idea. “Ah… I could… sing for you, perhaps?” he asked, cheeks flaring with heat. “That is, I used to sing lullabies to Flayn when she had nightmares or was unable to rest. I could… do the same for you.”

The coat rustled briefly as she shifted beneath it, but beyond that, all was still and silent. He thought perhaps he had overstepped, or that she thought the notion silly. After all, she was not a child, and perhaps did not find comfort in music.

“I think… I would like that,” she finally said, voice soft. “Dad wasn’t much of a singer… mostly tavern songs? But sometimes he would sing other things. He always looked sad, but they were such nice songs.” The corners of her lips twitched upward for a brief second. “Even if he did sound terrible.”

Seteth gave a low chuckle at the thought of Jeralt singing anything that could be considered soft. He’d heard the man sing before, on his way back to the monastery from the town’s tavern. Off-key would have been a polite way of putting it. “I hope that I am not a poor voice to your ears,” he replied, glad that some of the tension had eased.

He drew in a breath, considering what to sing, and began ultimately with a soft lullaby. It was a fable set to music, an older song, and gentle, the melody slow and soft. Byleth watched him, her entire attention on him as he sang.

She showed no signs of relaxing, instead coming perhaps more alert than before as he sang. In the back of his mind, he wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or not; the song was a lullaby, after all, meant to ease people into slumber.

Byleth shifted, turning on the sofa until she was leaning against him, their shoulders pressing together. His voice faltered briefly, but she seemed content to stay where she was, listening.

The song ended, and he began another, a hymn often sung by the monastery’s choir. To his surprise, she began to hum along, soft and even; he wondered if this was something that Jeralt had sung around her before, or if perhaps she had picked it up since arriving at the monastery. He had seen her with a few students from time to time during choir lessons, after all.

This, at least, seemed to have the intended effect; she stifled a yawn and settled closer against his side. He hesitated, briefly, and then lifted his arm, carefully draping it around her shoulders, and was rewarded by her turning slightly, her cheek resting above his heart. He hoped that it was not beating too erratically.

Seteth finished the song despite Byleth’s humming tapering off as she fell asleep. He sang another, certain she wouldn’t hear but not wanting the moment to end just yet. And when it did finally end, he found himself not wanting to leave her there alone. He closed his eyes and sighed softly, willing to admit – just a little, to himself – that he… had grown fond of the professor.

He ultimately fell asleep as well, willing to do away with propriety for at least this night.

--------

They never had the opportunity to talk about that night. Byleth had been gone by the time he woke up in the morning, stiff and a little sore from sleeping upright. He assumed she had made her way back to her own room at some point, and she had resumed teaching her class that day.

But everything after had happened so fast…

Finding Jeralt’s killers. Byleth and her class charging recklessly ahead to deal with them. He had to piece together what had happened in the forest afterward, but the green hair she sported on her return had caused a great deal of worry for him, though Rhea

had seemed delighted, spiriting the professor up to her rooms to care for her.

He heard her singing as he passed by her rooms, going still as he realized what she was singing. It was old, a song he hadn’t heard in a very long time.

And it was suspicious that she was singing it to Byleth.

Something just seemed terribly off about all of it, and while he had suspicions that Rhea had done something, he didn’t know what, or how. Even the why was a mere guess, but it was a concerning enough guess that he spent many sleepless nights trying to learn more. Rhea was not forthcoming any time he asked her, telling him only to wait and see, that all would be clear in due time.

When Byleth was well enough to return to her own rooms, she did so to a flurry of activity. Preparing her class for the upcoming rite, normal classes, adjusting to her new hair and eyes. If they were a shocking change to her students and others around her, what must it be like for her?

Any time he tried to get her alone to talk to her, she would be pulled away. Certifications, exams, students in need of her advice or her assistance. He suspected she was throwing herself into work more than ever before, taking her class out into the field to deal with requests that came in. From time to time, she would ask him along, wanting his assistance, but there was never a good time to ask her about what had happened in those moments.

He wondered later if she had suspected Edelgard’s treachery, had known that not all was as it seemed. Certainly the attack on the Holy Tomb had been dealt with swiftly, with Edelgard and Hubert sent fleeing.

And after that treachery had been revealed, the monastery was in a flurry of activity as non-combatants were sent away for their safety where possible, or fled into Abyss, or simply barricaded themselves behind the stout walls of Garreg Mach to ride out the upcoming battle.

Byleth and her students were a force to be reckoned with on the field; she saw them firsthand as they fought against the Adrestian soldiers, fighting their way through as they tried to reach Edelgard.

But then Rhea took to the field, brandishing her draconic form in a way he hadn’t seen in centuries, and there was Byleth, running toward her, to protect her – why?! – and then she was falling, falling and he couldn’t reach her in time to save her, wyvern or not.

Her loss rippled through the field, causing a chain reaction of loss. Her students retreated, following her last orders to them, fleeing into Abyss where escape routes had been prepared for them, though he found all this out only much later.

And then Garreg Mach had fallen. Rhea was nowhere to be seen, nor was Byleth. Seteth took Flayn and the Knights of Seiros and retreated, fleeing into the countryside while war raged on around them all.

#Seteth #Setleth #Byleth Eisner #Seteth Birthday Bash 2020 #day 3: song #fire emblem #Fire Emblem Three Houses #FE3H

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sunchascd · 3 years

Text

HOW DOES YOUR MUSE CARRY EMOTIONS?

rules: repost don’t reblog! bold and italicize what applies accordingly.

ANGER: jaw clenching, hands balling into fists, teeth grinding, yelling, going nonverbal, stuttering speech, rushed speech, slow concise speech, rambling, quiet, arms crossing, shaking head, tearing up, animated, expressionless, projects, internalizes, vents, withdraws, passive aggressive, direct, physical outbursts [ Cough WEED KILLER COUGH ! ], verbal outbursts

JOY: easy smiles, fighting back grins, suppressed laughter, loud laughter, giggles,chuckling, smirks, whole body laughs, covers mouth when laughing/giggling, throws head back when laughing, slaps leg, touches people around them when laughing, looks down when laughing, looks for eye contact when laughing, sparkling eyes, bubbly happiness, quiet subtle happiness, obnoxious happiness, wants to spread joy, quietly savors joy

SADNESS: crying, bottling it up, seeks distractions, wallows, meditates and processes, avoidance, seeks out comfort,withdraws, talks it out, internalizes it, sad smiles, depression naps, uses alcohol, uses drugs, seeks out sources of joy, fidgets with sentimental item, sits in silence, broods, gets moody, wants someone to share the misery, tries to hide negative emotions,nurtures others to make themselves feel better

EMBARRASSMENT/SHAME: blushing, looking away, rubbing at back of head, covering face, laughing nervously, laughs it off,overthinks, lets it go, self deprecating humor, deflects, gets irritated, smiles, withdraws, crossing arms over stomach, crossing arms over chest, hands in pockets, shoulders sinking, shrugs, falling into silence until comfortable again, talking a lot to compensate

GUILT: avoiding eye contact, shoulders sinking low, head hanging down, crying, chest aches, lashes out, internalizes, apologizes,deflects, communicates, withdraws, grand gestures for forgiveness, accepts fault easily, punishes themselves, martyrdom, victim complex, over-active guilt complex, healthy conscience, internalizes even after forgiveness, seeking redemption, moves on easily, denial, lack of guilt/conscience, sorry they got caught more than caused harm, can’t handle knowing they hurt others

FEAR/ANXIETY: trembling, crying, sarcasm/sass to cope, rambles, goes silent, gets angry, fidgeting, clenching jaw, picking at nails, chewing at lip, pulling at clothes, adjusting jewelry/clothing, swallowing thickly, eyes widening, over-reacts, under-reacts, calm, logical, panic, irrational, overthinks, carefully analyzes, talks to themselves, breathing exercises, flight,fight, withdraw, fawn

Tagged by: @seraphicwept love you blu <3

Tagging: @niopham ( Angeal ) ; @inmydrcams ( Fleur ) @mercyburned (Margo.) @hemoves @7theaven @femtale @femvoir @ofastereae ( TenTen. ) @vigilans @kisumshi

#[ SOPHIE; HC. ] — SHE WAS AT A LOSS FOR WHAT TO DO SO SHE CLEANED.#dash games

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fromthedeskofelizabeththird · 3 years

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Smile

Scoop of the day is a writing challenge with a difference. Each fic is built from a set of (for the most part) randomly generated prompts and could be about just about anything, from breakups to smut to found family. Let’s enjoy some ice cream 🍦!

More info about the challenge here

Pairing: None, really. This fic is about Reader telling the League of Villains a story. It’s a side chapter to Bad Reputation, but there’s no mention of Reader x Dabi specifically so you can enjoy it as a standalone and imagine whatever pairing you want.

Rating: Mature

Triggers: Blood and gore. Reader is a serial killer

Flavour(s): Cayenne

Prompt: 12, A Duel

Side Chapter: Bad Reputation

Notes: Reader-sama’s villain name and MO are inspired by an old Scots ballad about a man called Tam Lin who’s fleeing from the Fairy Queen. Every few years she pays a tithe to hell in the form of a human sacrifice and he fears he’s next.

——-

“Say, Big Sis,” said Toga, flopping down into the seat opposite you.

“What is it?”

You were sharpening your knives in one of the booths, only pausing to take a sip of your beer.

“Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

She reached out to pick up one of your blades, prodding the edge against her finger.

“You know… that you worked with Stainy on a couple of jobs.”

You set down the knife you were working on, rolling your eyes as Toga immediately set aside the blade she’d been holding to snatch it up.

You had heard these rumours before. They were inevitable. You and Stain were both villains, though had no ties to any particular group; you were both serial killers with an impressive headcount between you.

The comparisons had pissed you off to begin with. You had vastly different MOs, after all. Stain killed and grievously injured heroes, while you butchered the corrupt. Stain’s kills were opportunistic and random, whereas you tailed your targets for weeks before you killed them. Stain’s victims didn’t know he was coming until it was too late. Yours received a calling card the morning of the murder.

Now that he was in jail, you’d made peace with it. You surprised even yourself by how sad you actually were. In a lot of ways, it was like losing a colleague.

“You’re talking about the Sapporo incident,” you said, to which Toga grinned.

“It was all over the news,” she said, setting down your knife and pressing both hands to her cheeks. “I saw photos of the crime scene on the internet… so much blood…”

A year or so ago, there was a double murder in Sapporo; a murder that bore the hallmarks of two notorious killers, both of whom were known to be in the area at the time. Police detectives theorised that Hero Killer Stain and villainess Titania had joined forces, though had never been able to work out why.

You had watched the conspiracies flood the internet and laughed out loud at how wrong they were. Some claimed you were Stain’s lover; others tried to prove you were rivals and the murders a result of a duel.

You cradled your beer, chuckling to yourself at the memory.

“It’s true that we were both there that night,” you said, “but it wasn’t deliberate…”

You realised all eyes were on you. Kurogiri, who was wiping down the bar, slowed right down. Spinner and Shigaraki had been playing Mario Kart while Dabi lounged on the couch and all three of them looked your way, paying no attention to the chaos on the TV. Spinner looked especially wide eyed, though he was a Stain fanboy, so you couldn’t say you were surprised.

You supposed you were their teammate now. They might as well know the story.

“Well,” you said, leaning back in your seat. “A year ago, I was in Sapporo, tailing a mark. Anyway, it was the middle of the night and I passed a group of deadbeats who wouldn’t leave me the fuck alone…”

“Naughty, naughty,” giggled Toga.

You smirked.

———

ONE YEAR AGO

“Hey, baby, don’t be like that! Come talk to us!”

You dug your hands into your pockets and continued to walk in silence, concluding that these idiots weren’t worth your time. They’d catcalled you the moment you so much as passed them and continued to follow you for three blocks.

“Baby,” one of them called, “don’t be scared! We don’t bite.”

“Much!”

You frowned, mentally counting to ten.

These guys had no idea they were poking a rattlesnake. They were the bottom of the barrel, turning to villainy for the same reason big kids hit the smaller ones in the playground. They didn’t have a creed or any semblance of honour, just a deep seated desire to feel tougher than they were.

You turned a corner, the men behind you shrieking like hyenas as you reached a dead end.

“C’mon baby,” said the leader of the trio, “smile.”

You turned to look at them, taking in their hungry expressions as the leader pulled out a knife and ran his tongue along the metal.

You watched, bored, before activating your quirk

Your quirk was simple. You could turn people into your thralls and have them do your bidding. They would jump from tall buildings if you asked them; could commit a murder and immediately forget.

It was more than a little bit handy in situations like this.

“You there,” you said, turning to address the leader. “Kill the other two.”

The two lackeys laughed out loud, though it didn’t last long, for their friend turned to them with a vacant expression and slashed open one of their throats. He rounded on the second, bloodied knife held high and lunged closer, leaving his friend to stumble to the floor.

“Wait! Bro! Stop!” he cried out, screaming as his friend stabbed him over again in the stomach. “St-stop, please!”

You watched the blood spatter, took in the sound of the blade hitting flesh. You released your quirk when you were satisfied, watching as the light came back to your thrall’s eyes, followed shortly by recognition. He spotted one of his men bleeding from the throat, the other slumped against a set of trash cans with gashes through his middle, and turned to you, horror stricken and trembling.

“What did you do?”

You stepped forward, ready to make a snide remark, only to fall silent as a hero arrived on the scene, doubtlessly alerted by the screams.

You learned from his obituary that his hero name was Augur; a recent graduate of a hero school in the area. You got the impression that he was a good kid, which made his fate all the more tragic.

“Ma’am,” he said, eyes widening at the scene before him. You didn’t blame him, all things considered. He was a greenhorn and had wandered straight into a murder scene. “Ma’am, are you alright?”

He saw only the surface level of what had happened and on that surface level you were a beautiful woman in a dark alleyway, surrounded by bodies and a man with a knife.

Your final victim realised it at about the same moment.

“What the fuck,” he cried out, “she’s the one who… she…”

“Sir, thank goodness!” you cried out. “This guy’s crazy. I was walking with my friends and he pulled out a knife!”

“What the… you bitch, stop lying!!”

He reached to grab you by the hair and yelled as Augur made short work of restraining him, binding his arms and tossing his knife to the floor.

“What… are you doing… stop… she’ll kill you… fuck…”

He wriggled on the ground as Augur stepped closer, reaching out for your shoulder as a gesture of comfort.

“Thank you,” you said, playing your part well. “Thank you, s-“

You never got the chance to finish your sentence, for a shadow passed by you both. Augur reached up to touch his cheek, where a small cut had appeared.

Your eyes widened when you noticed the newest arrival on the scene: Stain, the hero killer. You’d heard he was in the area, though never dreamed you’d cross paths.

He raised his blade to his lips and ran his tongue over the blade, leaving Augur frozen to the spot.

The guy on the floor realised the danger moments later, screaming like a toddler as Stain advanced on Augur. You watched in fascination, so in awe that such a quirk might exist that it didn’t occur to you to feel guilty, much less intervene.

It was over in a matter of seconds; Augur the third and final person to die in the alleyway that night.

Later, people spent hours discussing the circumstances of that meeting. The leader of the trio swore blind it was a group effort- you had tricked him and his men into following you, knowing a struggle would alert heroes nearby.

You supposed the true story was rather disappointing.

You didn’t exchange a single word that night, didn’t acknowledge one other beyond a look.

Stain left as quickly as he appeared, leaving you alone with the sole survivor, who immediately tried to wriggle to his feet. You approached, deliberately slowly, only pausing to kneel down and pick the bloodied knife from the floor.

You turned it over in your hands, examining the intricate patterns on its hilt. It was beautiful, clearly expensive, and you kept hold of it as you returned to the guy on the floor, who by now was sobbing in fear.

“S-stop,” he said, pants darkening with piss, “please, I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.”

He thought you were going to kill him. For a moment, so did you.

Instead you tossed a calling card at his feet and crouched down to whisper in his ear.

—-

PRESENT

“What was it?”

“What was what?”

Toga pouted, poking her fingertip with the point of your knife. You watched as its patterns caught the light; as beautiful now as the night you found it.

“The thing you whispered to him!”

You smirked, reaching up to pinch her cheeks.

“Smile.”

#bnha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #mha #scoop of the day

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fishfingersandjellybabies · 4 years

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Shadows of the Neon Lights - fic

Characters: Jason Todd, Damian Wayne Summary: He didn’t know what was more surprising - that someone else had come after him, or that it was Jason Todd, of all people, trying to stop him from killing. A/N: For Patreon supporter Leydy! Happy birthday sweet human, and thank you for all your support and kindness! You’re amazing! This is obviously some time after the Teen Titans Annual 2 confrontation/after Ric and Alfred’s death.

He had the man right where he wanted. A wannabe serial killer who hadn’t found his stride yet, but already killed three sex workers. Each in a different way, so no one had found the connection yet.

But Damian had.

He’d followed him for days, and now he had him next to the dumpster behind the strip joint he was casing for his next victim.

The man was sniveling and crying. Begging for his life as Damian pressed the dagger against his throat.

Damian didn’t care. This bastard deserved it.

So he smiled, and pulled the knife back. Then spun it to grasp it in his fist, aimed it to plunge right into the man’s chest.

One less scumbag in the world.

But right as he began to drop his hand, a gunshot rang out, and the blade shattered in his fingers.

The man shrieked, and Damian jumped back with a curse. He glanced over as the Red Hood strolled out of the alleyway, dramatically blowing the smoke from his gun’s barrel.

“What’d he do?” Jason asked carefully, removing his helmet.

“Killed three women. Staking out a fourth.” Damian snapped. “But that doesn’t matter to you, he’s my ki-”

Jason’s gun went off again. The man jerked once, then collapsed to the ground, a hole between his eyebrows.

“Not your kill.” Jason hummed. “Robin doesn’t have kills.”

“In case you haven’t heard.” Damian drawled, kicking at the now-dead man’s leg as he stepped over him. “I’m not Robin anymore.”

“Yeah, B told me.” Jason shrugged, and that seemed to just make Damian more annoyed. “What’s up with that?”

Damian scoffed, crossed his arms and turned to look down the alley behind him. “Like you care.”

“I do, actually. You’re my kid brother, whether either of us like it or not.” Jason countered. “And even I’m not so stubborn as to ignore the fact that we’ve all been through a lot lately. It takes a toll.” Jason glanced down at him. “And no one’s checked in with you about it all, have they?”

Damian refused to look at him. “You said Father told you.”

“He did. But I don’t take his word for anything.” Jason smirked. “…I do believe him on the you not being Robin anymore, and also going on a killing spree thing, though.”

“It’s not a spree.” Damian hissed. “It’s what needs to be done.”

“But not by you.” Jason argued. “I thought Dickie got you off that path.”

Damian turned away from him completely now.

“…Ah. So Bruce was telling the truth.” Jason murmured. “This really is about what happened to Dick and Alfred.”

Damian didn’t answer. Stared down at the dead body.

“What happened wasn’t your fault.” Jason promised. Then he lowered his voice. “Especially not to Alfred.”

“I was there. I should have done something.” Damian whispered.

“You were tied up and unconscious.” Jason tried, stepping forward. “What were you supposed to do?”

“Fight back. Literally, anything.” Damian returned. “But what I didn’t do then, I’m doing now.”

“Killing them before they hurt too many, or anyone else.” Jason nodded. “In their honor, right?”

“I suppose.”

“You weren’t there for Dick’s situation.” Jason crossed his arms now too. Thoughtfully. “How were you supposed to stop that one?”

“Killed KGBeast when he became a known player.” Damian decided. “He would have been dead years ago, so unavailable to take the mission.”

“Sure, then someone else would have been asked to do it.” Jason sniffed. “And then they might have been a better shot.”

Damian didn’t respond to that. Didn’t move. Jason glanced him over, checked for any injuries or illness. Kid seemed fine at a glance. Just dirty, clothes starting to wear out. A few new holes that probably weren’t there when he started this little crusade.

Jason sighed.

“They wouldn’t want this for you, Damian.” Jason whispered. “Alfred or Dick.”

“Well, they’re not here to stop me, are they?” Damian snapped. His arms were still crossed, but now he seemed to bend in on himself. Hug himself.

“No, they’re not.” Jason agreed. “But I am.”

That made Damian turn around in surprise.

“And yes, before you whine about it, I’m fully aware it makes me a hypocrite.” Jason raised his hands in defense. “But we’ve lost enough this year. Excuse me if I’m not keen on adding you and your morality to that damn list.”

“…It’s what needs to be done.” Damian murmured sadly. “And Batman refuses to do it. That’s why, after all these years he’s been active, Gotham is still a hellhole. That’s why he loses those he claims to love time after time after damn time.”

Jason nodded. “Then I’ll do it. Not you.”

“I’m the most equipped to handle it!” Damian shouted now, stomping back at him. “I’ve been trained to do just this for my entire life!”

“And you shouldn’t have been!” Jason yelled back. “Talia should have protected you. Dick should have protected you better. Bruce should have talked to you about all this before he realized you’d already reached your fucking breaking point!”

“So then what else do you want me to do?!” Damian almost begged, tears welling up in his eyes. “Sit at home with the rest of you and grieve? Keep doing everything I was, like the only two people who ever cared about me weren’t ripped out of my life for no reason?!”

“I want you to slow down.” Jason said, tone instantly softer as he took hold of Damian’s shoulders. “I want you to let us take care of you.”

“Well I want to make sure no one goes through what we have.” Damian mumbled in return, the fight instantly leaving his system. “…What I have.”

“And I get that. I do.” He smiled and gestured to himself. “I mean, hello? I totally understand.” He let his smile drop. “But before we take care of everyone else, why don’t we try taking care of you first?” He paused for a second, squeezed Damian’s arms. “Why don’t we do it together?”

Damian just stared at him. “I can take care of myself.”

“Sure. Totally. So can I.” Jason winked. “But humour me. Just this once.”

Damian glanced down at Jason’s hands on his arms. “…You’re not going to let me go until I agree, will you?”

“You were taught better than to let your enemies get too close, remember?” Jason smiled.

Damian sighed and rolled his eyes. “Why do you care so much, Todd? What does it matter to you what I do?”

“Because as surprising as it may be, I don’t want you to end up like me.” Jason said honestly. A little too honestly for Damian’s taste. “You deserve better than… this.”

Damian looked him up and down. “…No I don’t.”

“A debate we can have later.” Jason laughed. “So, what do you say? Will you come home with me?”

Damian immediately jerked back in his hold, almost tripping over the dead body that Jason practically forgot was there. “No. No way.” He said immediately. “I am not going back to the manor.”

“Slow your roll, kiddo, you didn’t let me finish!” Jason called, reeling him back in. “You know I don’t live at the manor. When I say home, I mean come back to my home. A safehouse outside the city.”

Damian hesitated at that, eyeing Jason warily.

“I won’t even tell B that I found you, or that you’re with me.” Jason promised. “And I know you’re already itching to run. So at the very least, let me take you back to my place, get you a hot meal, a shower, and one decent night’s sleep. Then we’ll talk for real after that. Okay?”

Damian tilted his head, glancing up at the strip club in thought.

And it was a 50-50 chance that it would work. It could make the kid collapse in tears, or convince him to pull out that second knife Jason knew he had hidden on him and stab it into Jason’s throat. But he had to try. He had to.

“…It’s what Dick and Alfie would want you to do.”

To his surprise, Damian didn’t react immediately. Still kept his eyes upwards as he thought. Then, finally, he lowered his gaze to Jason. He blinked slowly, and Jason only now realized how tired the kid looked. Sad.

Lonely.

“Fine.” Damian said quietly after a moment. “I will take your food.”

Jason hadn’t realized his heart was tight with tension until it loosened at his words. He smiled and ruffled the kid’s hair as he stood, sliding his other hand down Damian’s arm until their fingers tangled together.

Damian didn’t even try to let go.

Jason glanced back at the dead man – who did deserve it, Damian wasn’t wrong about that – and made sure there was nothing around the body that would implicate Damian at least. When he saw nothing, he nodded and tugged the kid along behind him in the alleyway.

“Have any preference for dinner?”

“…Anything edible, I suppose.” Damian muttered thoughtfully. As if on cue, his stomach rumbled lightly. Jason smiled sympathetically.

“Well, that rules out anything I know how to cook.” Jason joked. He heard Damian snort a laugh behind him. That was as good a start as any. “So how about we find some nice, greasy takeout instead?”

Damian squeezed his hand, and Jason took that as silent gratitude. A thanks he was too embarrassed to admit. “That sounds perfect.”

#Damian Wayne #Jason Todd

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labyrinthof-fan-fiction · 3 years

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Try to Remember, When Life was So Tender

Part 6 of Try to Remember

Bucky X music teacher fem!Reader

Summary: Avenger’s tower relationship snippets.

A/N: I don’t know why I put part 5 as the final part of this on AO3, but look another part appeared! *Tosses pokèball recklessly into the inspiration pit that is my brain* I do not own Marvel, the characters, or the song “Try to Remember”

Warnings: Fluff, adult themes, lots of fluff.

Word Count: 1,535

It took a while for you to fall asleep, after Bucky’s reaction to sharing a bed with you, a sense of unease settled into the pit of your stomach. An insecure part of you thought that maybe he just didn’t want to spend a night in bed with you, his fears were just a cover. That’s why he had been putting off your meeting with the Avengers, that’s why he always left your place. As you felt those insecurities rise, his arms tightened and pulled you closer.You knew the history of the Winter Soldier, both from your own research and Bucky’s personal accounts. You would be lying if you said that part of him didn’t scare you. The killer who still haunted him. From what he had told you, the Soldier hadn’t made an appearance for a long time. No one quite knew why the soldier had been absent, but Bucky said that he was still inside him.

His heartbeat slowed and his breathing became even, the lines on his face faded. You watched him sleep, seeing his face at peace. You reached your hand up and brushed his hair back from his face. A small smile made its way across his face and you closed your eyes.

You wake the next morning with your back tucked into Bucky his metal arm gently wrapped around your waist. You shifted slightly and felt his arm tighten around your midsection, a quiet grumble fell from his lips before he settled back in, his nose nuzzling into your neck. You sighed and reached your hand out to rest on his arm, feeling the slight chill from the metal on your palm. Bucky’s fingers flexed slightly at the touch, then relaxed, remaining around your waist. You closed your eyes to try and lull yourself back to sleep, but you were already awake, there was no way your body would fall back into sleep. You glanced around the room, it was a warm grey, with the basic necessities. A dresser, closet, and bed connected to a personal bathroom. Your eyes wandered to the night stand, a basic chrome lamp sat on the top, you noticed a book with a bookmark halfway through the book. The Sorcerer’s Stone. You chuckled, you had told Bucky that he would not be able to watch the Harry Potter movies until he read the books, he had promised to start them.

At your chuckle Bucky shifted, his arms pulling you into further into his chest, “See something funny?” He asked quietly, you felt yourself melt at the gravel in his voice.

“Just a good reading choice.” You answered, giving him a tap on his arms, he loosened and you turned to face him. His blue eyes still clouded with sleep, but an easy relaxed air rested between you.

He smirked, “Have to keep up with my studies, wouldn’t want to be a bad student.”

“I would hate to call home and tell Steve you were failing class, I don’t think he’d take it well.” You answered, placing a hand over his chest, he reached out and intertwined your fingers with his.

“Mmmmm, he would be unbearable. Tony would be the worst though, he’d make me get a tutor.” He said, leaning down to place a gentle kiss to your hand. “We should probably get up.”

You sighed and glanced up at him, “But it’s the weekend, teachers get to sleep in on weekends.”

“Is that so?” Bucky asked, quirking an eyebrow, he removed his hand from yours and rolled so he was positioned above you. “What exactly does this sleeping in, entail?” He lowered himself so he was hovering just above your face, you could feel his breath on your lips.

“Well, usually, sleep until noon, maybe scroll endlessly on Instagram for a few hours. Stay in bed as long as possible.” You murmured. “Although I have heard of other activities.” You reached up and put your hand on the base of his neck, pulling him into a deep kiss. A moan escaped Bucky’s lips as he pulled himself closer to you.

You both exited his room a bit later, Bucky’s hand in yours, leading you to the kitchen. You heard the sounds of people talking and joking.

“I say we have at least one more hour before they get down here.” Sam’s voice called.

“No way, ten minutes, tops.” Tony snarked back.

“With that super soldier stamina, I bet we get him down here on his own, and teach gets breakfast in bed.” Sam challenged.

Bucky’s face was bright red as he halted in front of the door. “Y/N…” He started, embarrassment obvious on his face.

You placed a finger on his lips and removed your hand from his. “Just wait here.” You whispered, walking the rest of the way to the kitchen on your own. For a moment you were surprised by yourself, but you knew that you had to play their game. You walked into the kitchen alone, “Hello boys.” You greeted Tony and Sam, Steve was nursing a cup of coffee with Dr. Banner in the corner. Natasha was absent from the room.

“Where’s Buck?” Steve asked, a bit of worry in his eyes.

“Oh he’s still in the room. Figured I’d take him some breakfast, he was really worn out.” You smirked, pouring yourself a cup of coffee.

The boys remained silent for a moment. “Jarvis.” Tony murmured quietly, you heard the telltale opening of Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher.”

“Sir, I do believe that you and Mr. Wilson now owe Natasha $50 each.” A voice called from the sound system.

“Dammit.” Sam grumbled through his teeth as Natasha sauntered in.

“You better pay up.” She said, winking in your direction. “You can come in now lover boy!” She called, Bucky came through the door, a blush still apparent on his face. “Barnes, what ever you do, don’t fuck this up. She’s a good one.”

Bucky smiled, “She is.” He confirmed, meeting your eyes and reaching for a cup of coffee.

“Alright, I have got to get out of here before I get sucked in and start singing about love and the true meanings of life.” Sam muttered, putting his dishes in the sink, saluting Bucky, and rushing out the door.

“I second that.” Tony said, “If you need a change of close teach, just go in Bucky’s closet. Pepper always said it was important to make sure ladies have a set of things.”

Your eyes widened for a moment, “How…?”

Tony’s eyes moved up and down your body, “It’s a talent.” He winked then made a beeline for the door as Bucky’s eyes darkened and his shoulders tensed.

Dr. Banner’s eyes remained on the paper in front of him. Steve glanced at the two of you. “So what the plan for the day?”

Bucky’s eyes twinkled, “I think we’ll wing it, see where the day takes us.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, “Is that so?”

“I think it would make for an interesting day.” He answered, placing a quick kiss to your cheek. “I also think, breakfast in bed, is a perfect plan.” He grabbed a tray of breakfast pastries and nodded to the door.

“It was good to see you.” Dr. Banner said as Bucky led you out of the kitchen.

“You too!” You called back.

The two men in the kitchen met eyes and laughed. “Was he always like this?” Bruce asked Steve.

“He used to be.” Steve answered, a bit of sadness laced in the smile in his voice.

After that morning it became a regular sight to see you in the Tower, for movie nights and the occasional breakfast on Saturday mornings. Bucky eventually convinced you to start learning self-defense with him.

“I don’t want you to be unprepared, if anything should happen.” He murmured one night as you were curled against him. You nodded, knowing that it would bring him some peace knowing you knew how to take care of yourself, in the event of something. “I want you to be able to take me down if you need to, or at least be able to get away.”

You had shuddered at the thought, he was afraid of himself, of what he could do. He still felt uneasy when you went to sleep next to him. But, you had learned how to throw a punch and self defense, that you had been thinking of doing for year, but the added benefit was you were learning from your boyfriend. And learning from your boyfriend had its perks.

Bucky remembered his time with women in the past, but then he didn’t have his metal arm and the weight of the Winter Soldier. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder as he felt you drift off. He listened to your breathing as you slept in his arms. It had been a few weeks of you sleeping over, safe in his arms. He had gotten used to you being near him, being with him. He was happier than he had been in a long time. His eyes began to feel heavy, he buried his nose in your hair and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

#james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes x reader #bucky/reader

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lunarthedragon · 4 years

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Demon!Jaskier Part 4

Part One: here | Part Two: here | Part Three: here

+++

He falls in love. He’s done it before. Does it often. He doesn’t see why not.

He is familiar with his emotions, embraced them where his brethren shun. They drape themselves in hatred, like it is finery, as if it does not stem from anger-fear-sadness. As if that makes them better.

He holds on. Clings to his emotions. Crushes them to his chest and lets himself be devoured.

He is familiar with his emotions, but sometimes he is still surprised by their intensity.

Sometimes they burn hot, filling his ribcage with smoke, curling his fingers like a dead spider. Sometimes they stiffen, crackle through his bones like lightning, a scream without noise. Sometimes they crush, frozen, chilling, curling his muscles where they don’t belong.

And he has loved. Still loves.

He doesn’t find it beautiful. Not like mortals do. He finds the things he loves to be beautiful, but not love. Love is work. Love is a choice.

Love is torture.

+++

He still likes Yennefer.

All of the voices are his, but some speak out of turn in his head. Tell him he should hate her. Hate her for taking what was never even his. For taking what was offered to her.

He chooses love instead.

It burns his every breath like charcoal.

She keeps trying to find a way to return her womb. Each time, “conveniently,” Geralt is travelling nearby. He comes to her rescue when things get hairy or talks her down from doing something stupid.

Then they go off to an inn somewhere and Jaskier tears out his heart, his lung, his eyes, his liver. He rips out what hurts-burns-freezes, screams until his spine curls and the trees in the forest he hides in die.

The intensity of this pain – this rejection without the rejection – he does not know how to handle. But, he should have known better.

He has only ever been able to hold close the ones he’s loved when they did not know his true nature. But those that know… They hate. They hate. They smell like his brethren.

He is lucky Geralt and Yennefer haven’t completely left him, yet.

So he tears and rips at himself, cracking and twisting, until he comes back to himself and nothing has changed.

He’ll go back to town, a smile on his face, blue eyes bright, and play for the people, jovial and loved, if just for a moment.

+++

“You are a good person, you know,” Yennefer says, once, on a rare occasion where she and Jaskier met on their own. They drink wine and Jaskier can taste the years and tragedies it has seen.

“I’m not a person,” he replies, sipping at the wine.

“Point taken,” the sorceress shrugs, entertained by the back and forth. “You are still good, though.”

He pauses to linger on the chain. The tether. How it wraps around her neck and pulls, yanks, desires, and he put it there. That is his fault.

“I’m not that either.”

+++

“If you can heal from any injury, how come you have a scar on your thigh?” Ciri asks during one of Jaskier’s visits. It is winter and so many people hunker down and hide away. The winter does not concern him, however, and he travels to forbidden places. Forgotten places.

And sometimes he visits his friends.

“It was caused many lifetimes ago,” he replies, sitting on the edge of the young princess’s bed and trying to urge her to sleep. “A special kind of weapon did me damage, and now I carry it forever.”

“Even in new bodies?”

“Even in new bodies.”

“So…” Ciri twiddles with the edge of her sheets and furs, thinking. “When you die of old age and come back, I just have to look for someone with the same scar?”

“Astute observation,” Jaskier smiles proudly and Ciri beams. “Alas, I will not be exactly the same. With each life comes a new body. I fill it up and wear it like a suit, and sometimes actors take pieces of their characters home with them.”

“Even this body?”

“Yes, princess.”

“Then, what are you actually like?”

A thrumming echo in your skull – nothing becomes something becomes nothing – the toll of war on a child – burning corpses dancing in the pyre laughing at the living – mourning a hated friend – the place between the ringing in your ear and the ringing in your bones – The figure in the corner of your sight – cut off the hand for a paper cut –

Jaskier tilts his head. “I don’t think you would like it.”

+++

It is rare Jaskier has to come to Geralt’s rescue. The man is capable beyond words, his flesh telling a story of survival, but sometimes even he needs help. More monsters than planned. Bigger monster than usual. Abnormal activity that throws them off.

Usually they both end up standing, side by side, afterwards, the stench of sweat, guts, and sulfur in the air.

Not this, though. Never this.

These are not mercenaries. They are too prepared. Too knowledgeable. Too specialized. They know too much of how to down a Witcher.

Jaskier feels the imprint of poison in Geralt’s abandoned tankard when he comes down from prepping to perform. Geralt had been waiting for him before, but now he’s gone, and Jaskier stares into the tankard for a long, long time.

It wouldn’t have had a smell. Nothing a living thing could detect. It is slow acting – wafting with lazy demise – and strong enough – the thrum of war drums – to put even a Witcher out.

He crushes the tankard in his hand, eyes turning black, and begins to pull. Pull the memories from the patrons’ minds, yank and rip and search for his answers until every, last human in the inn collapses under the weight of his demands – alive but silent.

He feels the veins spreading. Spreading. Spreading until his whole body bleeds black. He forgets his mold, forgets his limitations, and he steps out. The whole village is silent, bodies laid on the ground, chests heaving, eyes shut.

It takes him a moment to remember to move – too many hands, claws, feet, eyes, teeth – but then he is moving and he isn’t in the village anymore.

He relishes in the screams of the not-mercenaries’ souls as he tears them from their bodies. Their flesh melts, bones tumble, and he holds each of the eleven souls in a hand, savoring their torment as they witness what he is.

“ C̵̯̦̿́̏r̸̢̪̝̞͋̏̉̃y̴̤͙̽ ̸̙̠͎̻̓́ṱ̷̤́̓͝ȍ̶̰̈́̃ ̷̪̖͍́̓͝͠y̶̛̼͋ơ̸̗̩̰̑̀̈́u̷̲͛͗̊̇r̶̞̠̓͆̓͝ ̶̥̝̓̎͛͊g̶͕͎̊̔o̵̹̬͐̃̏ͅd̸̛̼̎̿͝ș̵̹̍̒," he shrieks at them, the sky shaking, the earth bending, the moon weeping, “ T̷͉̦͉͔̂h̶̬͔͍͊̀̇͘é̸̱̄̂ẏ̷̤̺͙ͅ ̷́̂͜͝f̶̝̼̔̕e̷͍̯̭̅͠ǎ̴͙̬̙͋ṙ̴̳̰͚̞ ̵̨̛̹̳̬ḿ̶̗̟͕̂͜ȩ̵̠̐͌̎ͅ ̶̤̹̅͘m̴̰̽ŏ̵̢̲͚͐͂r̴̙̓e̶̢̋́̕ͅͅ ̸͔̝͝ṫ̶̳̯͖͂͊̕͜ḥ̸̨͋̀̎à̷̟͛͒̀n̴̜̐ ̸͚̓ẏ̸̬̀̏ͅǫ̸̻̙̫́̒u̷̦̠̭̭̓͝.”

He devours them, encompassing their writhing souls in inky darkness, and feels himself pulse with the power. He hasn’t been hungry in so long, but this toes at the edge of temptation. He shoves it away in favor of more important things.

He crouches and he is suddenly underground, in a cell, beside a prone Witcher. Geralt isn’t moving, but his organs are working too quickly. Struggling to rid itself of the poison in his system.

He is dying, and the not-mercenaries took him to assure no healer could help him.

Jaskier raises too-many-hands and lays them over Geralt’s body, pulling at the poison, calling it to his palms. Geralt jerks, spasms, as the foreign presence shifts and moves within him. Jaskier pulls it up, up, up…

Then opens his own mouth and spits it onto the ground.

He pulls back, shaking out his wrist like it was cramped, and tries to remember what a face is supposed to look like as Geralt moves.

When the Witcher opens his eyes, Jaskier thinks he has his body back in place, back in the right shape and dimensions, and he offers what he thinks is a small smile down at golden eyes.

“Hello, Sleeping Beauty,” he whispers and Geralt squints at him, confused. “Oh, sorry. It’s a fairy tale from a few worlds over. Tell you all about later, though. How do you feel? Sick? Dizzy? What do you need?”

“You to be quiet,” Geralt grumbles, voice rougher than usual, but there is a twitch on his lips that tips Jaskier off to his teasing.

“Oh! Well! Next time I’ll just leave you to the mercy of the crazy Witcher-killers, shall I?” Jaskier huffs snootily, ignoring the answering smirk from the man still on the ground.

“You have too many eyes,” Geralt points out after a beat, still smirking, and Jaskier blinks seven eyes at him. Oh, right, humans only had two…

“Bloody hell,” he curses and shuts five eyes out of existence. One nice thing about Geralt knowing his true nature… was that he could point out when he was acting more bizarre than usual. Or had too many appendages. “What would I do without you?”

“I’d hate to find out,” Geralt groans, finally pushing himself up. His brows furrow when he sees the mushy corpse of one of the not-mercenaries in the corner, but Jaskier waves it off.

Yes, Jaskier thinks, he would hate to find out, too.

+++

Jaskier knows Borch is a golden dragon.

“I know you are a golden dragon,” he says to the man in his room in the tavern. Téa and Véa leap to action, clearly surprised, especially since he hadn’t been there a moment ago. Borch, also surprised, stays seated on his bed and offers a smile.

“And I know you to be an Angel,” Borch replies, motioning for his human bodyguards to relax. “Or is it Fallen Angel?”

“I am as much an Angel as I am a Demon,” Jaskier says, blue eyes crinkling. He liked meeting someone so much older than all the other mortals. They could reminisce, sometimes.

“How can you be both?” Téa asks, her eyes thinned threateningly.

“By being neither. They are simply the closest things you could use to describe me.”

“Then what are you, really?” Véa asks, one brow raised, and Jaskier tilts his head, smiling.

“----------” his mouth moves.

“You didn’t say anything,” Téa accuses but now both Jaskier and Borch are chuckling.

“He did... But our minds are incapable of accepting what we hear. Not even mine,” Borch explains helpfully and Jaskier clicks his tongue and shoots him two finger guns. Wait. No, finger guns aren’t a thing here. Oh, well, maybe he could “invent” them…

“A golden dragon on a hunt for a green dragon. I’m going to suspect there is more to that story,” Jaskier hums, suddenly sitting beside Borch. Téa and Véa jump, reaching for their blades, but Borch stops them again, smiling. He might be having as much fun as Jaskier is.

“You have heard the saying, ‘keep your enemies close,’ yes? This green dragon… she is my mate. And she…”

Jaskier looks to the mountain with eyes that don’t exist, feels the thunderous sound of its forming, of the lands that clashed like armies and surged like waves into the range it now sits in. A dragon soul is a mighty thing. Ancient, but not quite like Jaskier. More ancient than elves, with a history mangled and forgotten, brimming with sorrow and rage and survival.

Even a weakening dragon’s soul is bright against the backdrop of this world.

“She is dying,” Jaskier says, turning black eyes to Borch. Black, sad eyes. “She will be dead one night before we arrive, if the poison in her system continues.”

Borch scowls, but then takes a deep breath to center himself. “A man named Sheepbagger stuffed a dead sheep full of his poison. I wasn’t around when she…”

Jaskier sets a hand on his shoulder and smiles softly. “M̷y̴r̷g̴t̸a̸b̶r̵a̶k̸k̸e̵,” he pulls the green dragon’s name from the wind, from the fire, from her slumber. “I like her and I have not even met her! So much vibrancy! Oh, and the stories she must hold. I would love to make songs of them.”

“She would have liked that,” Borch agrees, seeming pleased to be talking about his mate in a more positive light. Téa and Véa have taken a seat at a table nearby, watching them both curiously, their brows furrowed.

“Uhg, past tense,” Jaskier sneers, “What is it made of, this poison, I wonder…” he reaches out and tastes it on his tongue, in the back of his throat, burning down until his spine bleeds into his stomach. “Hemlock, definitely. Sulfur – oh, yes, I am familiar with that – and coal tar pitch. Nasty stuff. Hellebore, belladonna, and…” Jaskier halts to hack, coughing up like a cat with a hair ball, until a small object dislodges from his throat and lands in his palm, dripping black.

He holds it up and hums. “And tacks, apparently…”

He turns a bright smile to a mildly disconcerted Borch. Apparently that little display had even been a bit much for the dragon. “Good to know!” he says cheerfully, standing, and offers the room a bow. “I believe that’s all I needed. See you on the mountain!”

He doesn’t wait for them to reply or demand he stay and explain his behavior. He is simply gone a moment later, standing now in a cavernous room at the peak of a mountain.

“Hello, Myrgtabrakke,” he says to the half-alive dragon curled around her egg, “So nice to meet you!”

+++

Despite moving body to body, allowing one to run its course before jumping to the next, he is still able to recall the shapes of his past. He could never fully forget, not when they burn a wound into his memory, a nostalgic trauma he invited onto himself.

They are never quite right, either. They are the memory of a memory of a memory. Things twist and lose focus in the transition and he can’t fully get them right ever again.

But he has been a dragon before, millennia ago, and that is all he needs as he soars over the hunting party, bigger than the mountain they clamber towards, a hundred shrieking roars bursting from too many mouths. Black ooze curls around bones too-white, too-big, too-many, trying to look like flesh but slopping off in chunks before it clambers back on, trying again.

He flies above, shaking the earth as he passes, trees bending like bowing knights, and he disappears beyond the horizon.

Then he takes a step and he is beside Geralt, a lovely human bard once more, a smile on his face as he watches the hunting party panic over what they have just seen.

“You’re a menace,” Geralt says without looking at him.

“And you’re no fun,” he replies back, still smiling, eyes sparkling when they meet Borch’s before he is distracted by Yennefer.

“I will pay you good money to do that over Aretuza,” the sorceress smirks, walking up to his other side. “No need to answer. We’ll talk numbers later.”

Jaskier smirks at her, but then pauses, flickering, and looks back at the remnants of the party’s camp. Oh, had he been gone for a full day or two? He’d lost track.

“Your knight is dead,” he observes, feeling the death lingering on Yennefer’s mind and a Reaver’s dagger. Murdered, then. While defecating. What a way for a pompous knight to go.

“Yes,” Yennefer says, not sounding pleased, and Jaskier tilts his head.

“I don’t even see why you needed him. You’re powerful enough as is.”

“Or, she could have come with us,” Geralt grumbles and Jaskier feels a rib snap and pierce his heart, digging and plunging until blood fills his ribcage and his throat.

“That is—” Yennefer begins, sounding like she is about to truly snap at him, but stops herself. She takes a deep breath and then simply… walks away, a conversation on her tongue that repeats and repeats but never gets said.

“You made her mad,” Jaskier hums and Geralt growls in frustration before storming off after her, using the distraction Jaskier created to get ahead of the other groups while they have the chance.

The dwarves and Reavers are attempting to decide whether they even want to continue, but Jaskier knows it is for naught. They have nothing to lose, everything to gain. Even with the possibility of meeting what already stands beside them, they will not stop moving.

A man like that is a frightening thing. A promise for monsters that wear their skin and speak their words and cry their beliefs.

The worst kinds of monsters.

+++

The Reavers lie as a pool of blood at his feet, his black eyes staring into the red ripples as if they still speak.

Geralt and Yennefer had gone off with the dwarves, Borch, Téa, and Véa on a “short cut.” Jaskier had smiled wide on his face and refused. The dwarves were not too far gone. They were desperate, but only to live. To be happy and comfortable. They could be reasoned with.

The Reavers were desperate for blood and their souls were already battling long before they joined the hunt.

Jaskier dealt with them before they could even be a whisper of a nuisance for his friends. They did not die in glory. They died in his grasp – agony and penance wasted on them – gasping for the lives they had ruined.

He reaches down and pulls out a blood-soaked flute amongst all the weapons that linger. He stares at it and feels regret, but it is not his own.

+++

Borch, true name Villentretenmerth, lays curled with his mate when Jaskier takes a step and is standing in their cavern. Myrgtabrakke, the lovely green dragon, raises her head at his entrance and her eyes crinkle, pleased.

“You’re both adorable,” Jaskier says and Téa and Véa nearly stumble from their hiding spots at the sound, ready to strike. They relax when they realize who it is, glaring at his appearance, and now both dragons are looking at him.

You have returned my mate to me, Jaskier hears within himself, the voice of the golden dragon clear as fog as if ripples through his many faces.

“I pulled poison out of her gut. It’s hardly romantic. I do it for Geralt more times than I’d like to admit,” he huffs, voice quivering from the rattles of the dragon’s presence inside his head.

Perhaps that is what makes it more romantic than you think, Villentretenmerth smirks, which looks odd on a dragon, and Jaskier huffs, looking away, veins curling low on his neck. The rest of our friends will be here tomorrow morning.

“And you all are here so early… why?” Jaskier asks. Tumbling, wind slicing at the ear, stomach and heart left above. He can feel the story in his temple, like a headache, but an interesting one.

“We fell off a cliff,” Véa says with a shrug.

“You’re almost as bad as Geralt…” Jaskier deadpans, but then smiles as he approaches the dragon, giving Myrgtabrakke as in-depth a description of how strong the soul within her egg feels.

A little girl, he realizes, and for a moment the green dragon isn’t a dragon, but a young woman, dripping in chaos she fears, bundled up in her core, turning sour, and the egg is a princess with a destiny bigger than her bones.

He wipes away the black tears and just keeps talking.

+++

The dwarves can be convinced to leave with a few dragon teeth. Myrgtabrakke pouts about it until Yennefer, stunned still by the egg in her periphery, can be convinced to help her regrow them.

The egg is a shock to Geralt, too, but Yennefer is troubled when she sees it.

Child-mother-family-life. It hurts her when she sees it. Hurts her because of the trick she’s played on her desires. A lie smothered in sweet-smelling truth and reasoning. Has lived as a fact for so long even it forgot it was never true.

Jaskier watches her sadly, wishing he knew how to help. She haunts herself with things she doesn’t need. With endeavors that draw her farther and farther away from herself. He feels her agony, her desperation, the burn of her past leaking into her present like molten rock, obsidian sharpening at her edges.

He wishes he could help, but then he is caught in the tether, a fly in a web, and he remembers what he has done and rips free, leaving behind his legs.

He hovers by Geralt’s side instead. It feels safe here; contained. The shriek of the void does not follow Geralt like he thinks it does. He is peace of mind, silencing the agony of the world. Or perhaps it is just Jaskier’s agony, he has forgotten how to differentiate them.

They stand together on the cliff, looking out across the mountains. Borch is approaching them – on two legs with a human voice that doesn’t shove at the folds of Jaskier’s mind – but he hasn’t even left the cavern yet, so they have a few minutes.

“These mountains were once plains, you know,” he says, voice distant as he looks not at what is, but what was. “Before that, an ocean. There are bones of whales deep beneath these stones. If spirits roamed these cliffs, they would swim instead of walk.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts, listening, but not offering further input. That’s fine. Jaskier is used to holding conversations with himself.

“I always love the ocean,” he continues, head tilting. “It always… felt like me. In every world, the ocean feels the same and it feels like me.” Geralt’s looking at him through the corner of his eye. There is a cloak of fading satisfaction over him, one that lingers on Yennefer’s skin, that makes their tether not pull too tight and Jaskier tries to ignore it. Ignore the way his hands want to dig into his own chest and rip.

“Why don’t we go to the ocean after this? It has been nonstop for us for a while. It would do for you to give yourself a break.”

Stay with me, he doesn’t say. Stay with me through lifetimes. Through hearts and flesh and souls. Stay with me.

But Geralt takes too long. He stares ahead, thinking, consideration on his tongue, when Borch cracks through their contained space and Yennefer, right behind, obliterates it.

He likes Yennefer, he reminds himself, choosing love for her and Geralt over and over and over again.

But love is not beautiful and love can fall apart.

+++

Geralt is so rarely furious, but when he is, he isn’t a storm. He isn’t a raging typhoon or lightning bolts. He isn’t a wildfire or an eruption.

He is an earthquake, mounting and rippling out, crushing everything, the aftershocks lasting for hours afterwards and a tsunami on the horizon.

“If I could have one blessing!”

Unfortunately, the tsunami was not him. It was a violent, crushing, enveloping response that he invited upon himself.

Jaskier refused to be the tsunami. He refused the pull of the tide as it turned red, his own blood pouring out until he runs dry. Until he gags on himself, black choking and crushing his lungs in retribution.

He refuses.

He chooses love.

“How disappointing,” he heaves, blood pouring from his lips, and Geralt looks back, an aftershock in his chest, but goes still as the words and Jaskier’s appearance process in his mind.

He sees how Jaskier cracks, black ooze pouring from the spine that arches out of his back, hands pushing him open from inside to escape-run-mourn. Eyes open along his chest, neck, tongue, arms, arms, arms, arms.

Geralt’s earthquake stutters, and there is still a tsunami coming, but it won’t be Jaskier. He refuses.

He flickers, sees Geralt’s mouth open, saltwater on his tongue, but then he is gone before more can be said.

He is gone and alone and he doesn’t stop from tearing himself to pieces in hopes he can find the part that burns-cries-loves and crush it into dust.

+++

“You shouldn’t blame Geralt,” he says when he inches himself back together again and follows after the pull of another soul.

Yennefer had opened a portal to a lovely field, alone, mourning yet another choice taken from her.

She sits now in a patch of grass, knees pulled to her chest, the firestorm turned into a deluge. Her eyes are rimmed with red while Jaskier’s are still black. His chest is still a gaping wound and he cradles his beating heart in his fist.

Yennefer doesn’t respond to his appearance. Just turns to wipe her eyes then motions for him to sit beside her.

The deluge is strong, but dwindling, the embers already visible in her lavender gaze. A moment’s weakness so closely chased by screams of the damned.

“He tied us together. Forced our stories to never come apart. And for what? Some… idiotic hero complex? Infatuation?” Yennefer snarls, her throat thick with lightning and misery, dripping down like a lethal cut. “How am I meant to trust my feelings? Everything we felt was because of an idiotic, selfish, cruel WISH!”

Across the field a bolt of lightning strikes, setting the grass ablaze. The two of them don’t bother to move.

“Not quite,” Jaskier admits cautiously, crushing his heart in his fist, red blood dripping through his fingers and down his black arm, before releasing it. It hesitates, uncertain, before beginning to beat again. “The wish tethered your destinies together, but that is all,” he explains. “It is up to you to decide what that tether means. Are you destined to love each other? Hate each other? Kill each other? Avoid each other? Better each other?”

”Destiny might lay the ground work, but you get to decide your own fate.”

“Destiny sounds flakey as hell,” Yennefer growls, watching with vacant eyes but churning soul as the fire on the plain begins to spread.

“Destiny is a living loophole mortals gave too much credit,” Jaskier shrugs, “It only has power because people give it power.”

“So, it’s not a living goddess I could convince you to go mangle for me?” Yennefer questions, an attempt for humor in the tilt of her head, but the deluge washing it away.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Pity.”

The fire is getting closer to them, curling around them like an army, attempting for a flank maneuver. Jaskier follows the flames for a moment, their chaos predictable and simple, and he does not see the appeal for magic-users.

He sighs and looks down, forcing his heart back into his chest with a crunch of tissue and cartilage. The jagged fangs of his ribs curl back into place and flesh mends itself over the chasm. His eyes remain black, but he tries to pretend that this is truly his body, not something unfathomable and vacant, while still familiar and all-encompassing.

“I’m the reason this happened,” he says quickly, before the churning bubbles of fear mute him. “I was worried for you after we first met. I asked Geralt to use his final wish to help you.”

“You asked him to tie our destinies together?” Yennefer asks carefully, balancing on a log over a raging river.

“No…” he admits lowly, “but I could have made it more abundantly clear to watch his wording. Djinn are assholes…”

“So, you didn’t ask him to tie our destinies together?” she asks again, still balanced, still teetering.

Jaskier looks to her, thoughtful, her hair and profile lit up by raging flames that surround them but will never touch them. She looks like a phoenix, raging and ever-burning.

“No. I didn’t.”

“Then Geralt made the wish himself and he needs to face the consequences,” her voice is firm, back on solid ground, resolute. Jaskier stares at her.

“We both wanted to help, not just Geralt…”

“And you are actually trying to take responsibility for what you did,” Yennefer shoots back and Jaskier is confused. Why wasn’t she responding the way he’d expected? She should hate him just as much as she hated Geralt. Probably even moreso.

“But—”

“Jaskier,” Yennefer says sharply and a flame rises in her eyes. Just for a moment. “Just… let me be angry at Geralt right now, okay? I’ll be angry at you later.”

“Okay…” he breathes, surprised but grateful in a way he never expected.

“Sit with me for a bit?”

Jaskier tilts his head as he feels the deluge wash over him once more. It cries out, like a lost child, and he feels a kinship to the storm. He feels the pull to start ripping dull to an ache. A memory.

He sits a little closer and she rests her head on his shoulder. She doesn’t sob, doesn’t make a sound, but the drops that fall from her eyes are sharper than the rain in her soul.

His own screaming dulls, a faraway reminder of agony-rejection-getitoutofme, and they watch the flames around them roar, the grass beneath them turning to soot, but never close enough to burn them.

They both choose love.

+++

Yennefer says she needs time alone after that and portals away.

Jaskier takes a step and laughs as horses startle around his sudden appearance, Roach the only one unaffected. She neighs at him and he smiles, approaching the red mare to pet her and give her treats.

It has been a few days now, with the mountain just behind him. Plenty of time for the Witcher to make his way down.

Jaskier doesn’t know what he wants to say – which is a first – but the feeling from sitting with a friend, surrounded by a field of fire, just crying, still lingers in his skull. It is a good feeling. A protective numb from the ripitout that bombards his heart with grief.

He hums a tune to Roach, petting her in all the spots she likes.

He’s seen many Roach’s while travelling with the Witcher – all red mares, all named Roach – and he could taste the anguish Geralt hid whenever one of them died. After the first death, Jaskier had sworn to always be present for the future ones. To sit with his friend through the grief.

Then, after the third, he pulled out the horse’s essence – what made her Roach, her soul – held it in the bars of his ribcage, and then planted it into the next red mare Geralt saw. It left even him weak and fragile, run thin with the effort, but always worth it when the new mare approaches Geralt like an old friend. Like she knows.

Jaskier thinks Geralt suspects his involvement, but he never, ever, voices it. Just walks a little closer when Jaskier stumbles or even lets him ride on the “new” mare.

These are bittersweet memories, but Jaskier can’t remember if they’d been before, or only now, with an earthquake still rocking his marrow.

“Jaskier?”

He looks away from the horse, hands stalling on her neck, and his blue eyes narrow.

Geralt looks more haggard than usual, like a simple trip down the mountains could have ever been considered a challenge, and he’s staring at Jaskier like he’s seen a… well… Jaskier.

“Hello, Geralt,” Jaskier says, sounding more human than he thinks he ever has before. “About time you came down.”

“You’re…” Geralt pauses and just looks at him, looks him over, concern dripping like wax from his body, and Jaskier remembers how he saw him last. Coming apart at the seams and drenched in his own pain.

“You’re here,” Geralt finally settles on.

“I am,” Jaskier nods, standing up straighter. “You told me you never wanted to see me again… so, I figured, the best way to get back at you is if I didn’t leave.” He feels petty and haughty and powerful, smirking pulling sharply on his face, thinner than normal.

His expression tightens, however, because there are still aftershocks in Geralt’s veins and a tsunami is still coming and Jaskier refuses to be it. “Unless you’re not done throwing a tantrum, in which case we can go back to the cave and have the unhatched egg teach you the proper way to beha—Oof!”

Jaskier is cut off from his rambling as a heavy weight collides into him, nearly knocking him off balance, except thick arms are curling around his back and pulling him in close.

He stares into Geralt’s shoulder, his white hair tickling the side of his face, and his hands hover, uncertain. Geralt was hugging him – crushing and pulling the pieces back together, envelope-compress-adore – and he was doing it on purpose.

Geralt was hugging him on purpose.

The anguish rolling off Geralt hurts more than when he loses another Roach and it has Jaskier finally moving. Finally encircling. Finally hugging back with a power his body shouldn’t have. Geralt lets out a huff of air from the force but doesn’t complain. Just hugs tighter. Then his anguish cracks.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt whispers. Begs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier presses the side of his face against Geralt’s, nuzzling, loving, adoring, hurting-but-healing. “I know, Geralt.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. I know, it’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“No, it isn’t,” Jaskier agrees sadly and runs his hands over Geralt’s back, “But it will be… eventually.” Another nuzzle and a press of his lips to Geralt’s jaw.

“Don’t think this gets you out of the lecture I had building for you, though,” he warns as an afterthought and Geralt squeezes him, crushing and cracking and hoping and mending. Slowly. Slowly.

“Can’t wait,” he doesn’t sound sarcastic.

They both choose love.

+++

No tags this time because it’s on ao3 now! Here

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #jaskier #geralt #geraskier #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #geralt of rivia #demon jaskier #creature jaskier #nonhuman jaskier

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lawandorderforevercsi · 4 years

Text

One and Only Heart Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own FBI, the show belongs to Dick Wolf, and CBS do.

A/N: There's a nod to Law and Order from Season 17 onward, see if you can spot it.

Mention of/Spoilers for: Most Wanted (FBI Season 1 and Episode 18 and FBI: Most Wanted Pilot) and Closure (FBI Season 1.18)

Meanwhile, Jubal was upstairs taking it easy.

He just wanted to rest following a severe case where a judge was forcibly taken across state lines into New Jersey. The abductor threatened to hurt the judge if his demands weren't met. In the end, they got the judge freed, and the criminal captured without further incident. He now planned Sunday go up to Scarsdale as a special surprise visit and spend time with Tyler and Abigail.

Following a quick meal, he turned in but was feeling restless. So, he picked up a book and began reading. However, he couldn't concentrate as there was a person on his mind. Isobel. While they had that argument, he still cared about her and was worried about being with the guy she was with. On his own time, he had done a background check on Axel, and while he did come up clean and no records, it was his photo with a smug smile that worried him on how badly Isobel could be hurt.

He had noticed Isobel from the first time that his team met up and met with her team at the time, the FBI Fugitive Task Force, to catch the killer. To him, it felt like he saw her somewhere before or they had worked together in a previous life, but couldn't place it. He had pushed that thought aside, and they got to work. When the case was solved, and they never crossed paths again. Until, of course, Dana resigned and retired, and Isobel became their Special Agent in Charge.

Fast forward to the present time. When the case concluded, he had noticed how Isobel left in a hurry. He didn't see her in her office, which was odd; she was usually the last to leave though she may be in a meeting. But when he asked around, he got the same answer, there were no meetings. He began to worry about her and hoped that something wrong wouldn't happen.

Fruitlessly trying to read the same page three times, he gave up and got ready for bed. Just as he was about to get in bed when he heard a knock on the door, he thought, who could that be?

Not sure what to think, he headed to the door. He set his weapon aside and opened the door when he checked the peephole and saw who it was. There stood Isobel Castille in a heavy overcoat. Instead of looking stoic, she looked sad. Her mascara was smeared, evident that she had been crying. Sensing something was wrong. Jubal pulled her in and closed the door. Sensing she needed a hug, he pulled her in and asked, "Isobel, what's wrong?"

Isobel bit her lip and replied, "It's over with Axel. I went home, got dressed up and over to our usual meeting spot, and caught him red-handed kissing a buxom strawberry blonde. I had a feeling that he had been unfaithful for some time."

When he heard what Isobel said, Jubal ground his teeth. Axel. Axel Whittaker. That SOB. Jubal knew he had been all wrong for someone as fierce, reliable, and independent as Isobel.

He led her to the couch, and they sat next to Isobel. As a friend who cared, Jubal wrapped his arm around Isobel's shoulder. While she stiffened at first, it wasn't long before Isobel had her head on his shoulder. The two of them remained silent and Jubal let Isobel talk when she was ready to. A short time later Isobel began talking, "How could I have let his personality and charm sway me? We have faced people who are just as slimy, and we were always on guard. Yet with Axel, I let my guard down. I feel stupid. I should have pressed the issue."

Hearing her, sniffle broke his heart. Though he had been divorced for a little while now and hadn't seen anyone socially, here was the one woman he loved her the first time he saw her. However, he stayed away following their heated discussion. Until now, that is.

He reached for the tissue box and handed it over to her. She took a few and wiped her tears, and along with that, her smeared mascara. Jubal breathed in and out; he hoped that now was as anytime an excellent time to reveal his secret.

Clearing his voice, Jubal began. "Isobel, if you had pressed the issue, he would have hurt you even more. A strong woman like you deserves someone better than that punk. You deserve someone better, baby."

Jubal realized what he had said. But before he could take it back, Isobel sat up straight, looked straight into his eyes, and asked, "Jubal, did you call me what I think you called me…baby?"

Like a schoolboy who was caught staring at the prettiest and popular girl he thought oops, way to go Jubal, you are so busted. You'll be lucky if Isobel doesn't do something to subdue you.

Seeing Isobel stare at him, he turned around and faced her and said, "Isobel, here's the truth. Since the time that we first worked something to stir within. I wanted to talk to you, but I had my problems and we had the case to solve. After the case I thought I would never see you again, then when you came in after Dana left I was doing a mental happy dance that you were back. Byt then I knew I was ready to ask you as my problems were settled. Then suddenly you began dating that jerk, and I will admit I was jealous. I wanted to say something, but after our discussion, I stayed away as you had asked."

Now she knew the whole story, Isobel was touched. She had no idea that Jubal felt this way about her. The truth was she liked him too. Since she was apt not to let anyone in on her personal life, and suddenly she was involved with Axel. She hadn't meant to make Jubal jealous, or did she?

Making a quick decision it was now or never. Isobel leaned in and, with their lips a mere inch from each other. Knowing what would happen next, he placed a hand on her cheek and caressed the gently and asked, "Are you sure Izzy? Cause once we cross the line, there’s no going back."

Isobel loved the way her Jubal name just rolled off his tongue. Now she needed to figure out how he found her Jubal name. Leaning even closer, she whispered, "Yes, I’m sure. Just shut up and kiss me already, Jubal."

Jubal replied, "As you, my wish, my lady."

Jubal tilted his head, and when their lips collided the stars aligned. Their first kiss was sweet and unhurried, promising of what was to come. As they continued kissing, alternating between slow and passionate as she placed her hands on his face, and eventually on his neck. Just as their hands began to roam around each other's clothed bodies when suddenly he broke the kiss, causing Isobel to groan, "You better not be having second thoughts I swear I will hurt so badly that…"

Jubal smiled, "No second thoughts."

Taking her hands in his, relishing how skin felt soft against his rough skin. I just realized I should be doing this the right way. I would love to take you on a date first and before proceeding to um extracurricular activities."

Isobel softened. She loved Jubal's sense of being the proper gentleman. Caressing his jaw and framing his face with her hands, she said, "We could, but with our cases and my meetings, it could take a long time before that happened. Plus, I have something that I want to make good use of."

She stood up and took off her coat to reveal a sequined dress with a v-neck dress and a slit that showed her legs. Isobel pulled him up and asked, "Do you like what you see so far?"

Jubal couldn't take anymore. Now he wanted her. He stood up and answered in a low growl, "You bet I do Izzy."

He led her to his room. Once they were in and the door was closed and locked, he turned around and walked to her.

Taking her hands, he pulled her into his arms. Isobel had always imagined what it would be like to be in his arms. Now she never wanted to leave. He went in for a kiss, which started at a steady pace. However, as the intensity of the kiss grew he let his hands roam her body. Isobel's hands moved up into and soon tangled in his hair with his arms wound tightly around her waist. As they continued making out, Isobel let her fingers move in under the shirt to roam his body. The sensations that her fingers left caused him to groaned at her touch, leaving hot sensations on his skin. Soon his hands found the zipper on her dress, and he lowered it.

When the air became a necessity, they broke the kiss and breathlessly backed up and removed their clothing. Jubal pulled off his shirt as she pulled dress down and expose her scantily clad body. They both got a look at each other, each getting turned on even more than before. There stood Isobel in a blue lace bra and panty set. A set that hugged her body so well it looked like it was a second skin. He never thought he would be able to see Isobel in lacy lingerie. All he remembered was wow, she’s so stunning.

Meanwhile, Isobel thought the same thing. Never in her wildest dreams would she ever have felt that she would see Jubal in something more casual than what he wore at work, hence his shirtless look.

Breathe Isobel. You’re not be going to do much if you can't get your heart rate lowered enough.

Jubal came closer to her, and he whispered, "Izzy, you’re so beautiful and so gorgeous. I want you so bad."

Isobel replied in a voice dripping with desire, "Take me and make me yours."

He took her back into his arms and kissed her. He briefly pushed her against the door. But instead of starting another kissing frenzy, he leaned in and began lavishing kisses on her neck. As he continued to let his lips roam everywhere, Isobel sighed in pleasure and tilted her head to give her lover more access. As the ministration continued, she once again threaded her fingers in his thick curls.

When he came up and met her gaze, she slyly grinned and knew what to do. Jubal smiled. He swept up Isobel and carried to the bed. He got on and laid down, he pulled her down to him, and soon their lips touched off another passionate and heated kiss in which their tongues dueled for dominance. Not long afterward, they helped each other out of the remainder of the clothing and made love deep into the night.

-x-

Early the next morning, as the sun rays, shining through the curtains and Isobel stirred from her slumber. Try as she may, she didn't want to wake up as that would mean the end of a kind dream she was having where she spent the night with the man she truly was meant to be. She tried to move but felt a strong arm around her and a warm body that spooned against her. She turned her head and saw a sleeping Jubal holding her close to him.

She thought to himself, what did she do deserve a man as special as Jubal. Their passionate lovemaking last night was filled with so much desire and hunger. While she had wanted to show him how much she wanted him, he had insisted on helping her heal and making her feel loved. They had alternated in slow and languid and wild and frenzied. The way his hands roamed her body touching and caressing her caused the nerve ending in her body to go into overdrive. Isobel shivered just thinking about it.

Not able to resist anymore she leaned in and kissed him on his nose, she kissed it a couple more times which got Jubal to stir. Jubal didn't want to wake for he was having the best dream where he was making love with a beautiful brunette, but when he couldn't hold on any longer, he awoke and saw Isobel smiling at him.

Jubal thought quickly, so last night wasn't a dream. It was for real, and dang Isobel looks sexy even with bed head.

Jubal leaned and kissed his lover on the lips, which led Isobel to deepen the kiss. When they parted to get the air, he smiled and said, "Good morning, beautiful."

Feeling her heart miss a few beats, Isobel placed her hand on his face and whispered back, "Good morning to you too handsome."

A few more smooches later, Isobel said, "Last night was incredible."

Jubal responded with a gentle kiss on the forehead. He switched from his right side and laid on his back and pulled Isobel and held her close—he was amazed at how their bodies fit together perfectly.

Wrapping his arms tighter around Isobel, he asked in a low voice, "What do you want to do this morning?"

Isobel snuggled closer to Jubal and answered, "All I know is I want to be with you."

A/N 2: Thanks for reading chapter 2 of One and Only Heart. As always reviews are appreciated.

#CBS_FBI #isobel castille #Alana de la Garza #jubal valentine #jeremy sisto

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givemequeen · 4 years

Text

i’m shot! ; john x reader

request: can you please write some quality Johnny angst a/n: ‘m guessing this isn’t what you hoped for but here it goes... it was kinda hard to write but i was so sad when i started writing it pairing: john x reader summary: John gets shot. warnings: shootings? no death tho, blood year: 1980 word count: 1506

“Goodnight.” you murmured as you passed the man leaning against the wall.

“Night Mrs Lennon,” he answered but you took no notice, your eyes were closing up.

Just as you were about to open the door of the building you heard 5 ear-rupturing shot being fired. You spun around and saw John standing very still. “John?” you asked, his face had gone pale, you looked down and saw a 4 specks of blood on his chest. His looked down as well and held them as blood started pumping out. “John!” you cried as you ran to him, you held onto him as he collapsed in front of you.

“I’m shot! I’m shot!” he croaked. A man emerged from the building to see what was going on. The guard stepped outside and froze at the sight. Behind John stood the killer, his gun held high and a proud grin on his face. You let your mouth hang open. “John!” you cried, your throat closing up. “SOMEONE CALL AN AMBULANCE.” you screamed holding onto his wounds. “CALL THE POLICE.”

Your screeches snapped the two men back to life. The building's guard rushed into his cabin and dialled the police while the man behind you called an ambulance. You cried and cried onto him but you had to remain strong. Your hands were full of blood now, his coat was gone dark due to the blood pouring out of him.

“John, love, it’s going to be okay. Alright? I promise.” you cooed. His mouth was hanging open, eyes wide, skin pale. “Stay awake for me, you can do this.” you encourage but you did not even believe yourself.

“yn...” he managed to choke out and grabbed your hands. “I love you,” John whispered as you shook your head and cried. “Tell Julian... and Sean... I love them so much.” he coughed out some blood as you let out a chocked cry. “And Paul, George and Ringo... I was so petty, so so petty... yn, my love... I love you. I love you more than anything... I want you to be strong...”

“No! John! John you don’t get to say goodbye!” you yelled, his chest was across your lap as he bled out. He smiled gently and nodded softly.

“It’s going to be okay.” his voice was so thin and low you could barely hear him. “It’s okay, I’m ready.” you shook your head angrily looking around. Your sight was clouded by tears. In the background, the wailing of an ambulance and the police could be heard. You tore your eyes from his to look at the car that had backed into the building. The back of the truck opened and two men jumped out with a bed. They managed to pick John up and lay him down before putting him inside. You climbed behind them and sat on the side, your hands cupping his.

“Hold the wounds!” ordered one of the men. “Mrs...”

“Lennon, Mrs Lennon.” the man looked away from his activity and his mouth slightly fell open.

“Holy fuck! DRIVE FASTER, IT’S JOHN LENNON HERE!” the other man rushed to help you. All his wounds were covered, a breathing mask over his face. His glasses were full of blood and on the side.

“Is that a Beatle song?” John hoarsely asked between breaths, he was referring to the song playing on the radio, a song Paul and he wrote back in the 60s.

“Yes, Johnny. And you heard what they said?” you asked pulling his hair back. “You can’t die, not now. We need you, this world needs you. You’re going to do great things.” you assured him rubbing his hands, the men had taken over the wounds for you so you could be by his side. The ambulance came to a stop and the door flung open.

John was dismounted from the truck and rolled into the hospital, you jogged by his side and the doctors talked to the men that had helped you on your way here. They asked you a couple of questions and you were now by the door that you could not pass. “God, John, I love you, you’re going to be fine.” you quickly kissed his forehead and watch them roll away.

You stood very still, a slow buzzing noise in your head and when a nurse came to your side and touched your side you jumped. “Mrs Lennon, come this way.” she led you away from the eyes of the people in the emergency room and took you to a private room. “Your husband will be fine, he’ll come here after his surgery.” You nodded slowly and sat down on a chair in the room.

Hours passed but you did not notice, a couple of nurses came and went offering you food and water but you decline despite your dry throat. A sudden thought popped into your mind; your sons, Paul, George and Ringo. Your sons must be sleeping safely back home. What will they do once they wake up and their parents aren’t home? You rushed to the bed’s side and dialled a number on the phone.

It ringed a couple of times before someone picked it up and talked into it. “Yes?” Julian said, you pictured him in your head rubbing his eyes.

“Julian, love.” you sighed, your voice trembling.

“Mum? Where are you?” he asked.

“I’m at the- the hospital,” you said breaking down again.

“What is it, mum? What’s wrong? Who’s hurt? Is it you? Is it dad?” Julian shot questions at you but did not give you enough time to answer. “I’m going over there, what room are you in? I’ll bring Sean.”

“Julian, don’t! It’s your father...” you sniffed.

“What is it?” his voice was softer now but much more nervous, he dreaded the answer.

“He got shot, he’s in surgery.” you cried.

“Mum I’m on my way.”

“Please bring a bag with your father’s and my stuff,” you asked him. Before hanging up you gave him the room number and dialled a new number.

“Hello, Paul McCartney speaking.” you frowned at his happiness, you were going to ruin it. “Hello?” he asked when you did not speak.

“Paul.” you finally said.

“yn?”

“Paul... John- John got shot.”

Silence.

“Oh... Where is he? When can I visit him?” he quickly asked.

3 hours had passed since John had gotten shot, you had called all the Beatles and Julian and Sean where by your side. Sean had fallen asleep on your lap and Julian had gone down to get food. George, Ringo and Paul were all on their way. They were all surprisingly in the states and George had called you not long ago saying he had gotten into New York.

6 hours had passed and three nurses had updated you, they couldn’t give much since they did not have much but at least George, Olivia and Ringo were here with you. Julian had also fallen asleep on one of the chairs and Sean was still out like a light. All you had to do now was wait, Paul was on his way with his wife and kids.

“yn,” Paul said as he opened the door. You stood up and ran to his extended arms. Sean was sleeping on the pull-out couch now with Julian. You buried your head onto his shoulder and cried, his hand went up and down your back to console you. You stayed like that for a while, everyone was silent. “How long has it been?” he whispered once you pulled away.

“6 hours,” Julian said, you looked behind you and saw that he was up.

“Julian...” Paul whispered as he went to hug your eldest son. “Linda had to stay with the kids but they will be here soon.” he explained once he pulled away.

“That’s okay. George is on his way and so is Ringo.” you crossed your arms over your chest and nervously bit your nail.

“Sit down mum, do you need anything?” Julian asked guiding you to your chair.

“Julian, go get your mum and me a coffee please,” Paul said stepping in when you couldn’t say anything.

9 hours later everyone was in the room. George and Ringo had arrived also along. Paul had popped outside to smoke even though he had quit years ago. He was taking a long time so you headed out to check on him. You found him sat outside the building with his back against the wall smoking and crying.

“Paul...” you said shocked to find him this way.

“I- yn, I’m sorry.” he sniffed and went to stand up but you stopped him.

“Pass me one.” you slid down and took a cigarette from him, you had also quit but you needed one right now. He lit it for you as your head fell against his shoulder.

“It’s all going to be fine, yn, just you wait,” he whispered.

You hoped with all your being that it was because you had no idea what you would do if he died.

tag list;

@thebeatleswritings @beatlevmania @i-love-queen-3000 @brians-metaphor26 @honimello @julessworldd @storiesfrommirkwood @beatles-babee @geostarr @thiccjelly17 @crab-king-69 @in-the-frap-of-the-gods @psychosupernatural @fiesta-freddie

#the beatles #the beatles x reader #the beatles angst #john lennon #john lennon x reader #john lennon angst

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xadoheandterra · 4 years

Text

Series: Semblance Title: Patriciate Fandom: Jak and Daxter Chapters: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | XIII | XIV | XV | XVI Characters: Jak, Daxter, Samos, Keira, Kid!Jak, Ashelin, Torn, Tess Tags: Worldbuilding, Accidentally King of Haven!Jak, hurt/comfort, things go wrong, things get better, things get worse again, slow build, slow burn, slow to update, cross posted, fantasy racism, canon divergence, been meaning to share this here Summary: “It’s yours,” Jak said softly. “Keep it…remember where you come from. At least one of us should remember….”

If Jak knew the consequences of that one, selfish choice...well, he'd probably have made the same decision either way.

Jak breathed out a slow sigh of relief when the burn of dark eco finally worked its way out of his system. He rubbed his temples in a vain hope to push back the throbbing migraine the shift back gave him, and straightened his back slowly. He could hear his spine pop, and in a way the sound felt like music to his ears. Jak twitched his neck from side to side, and tried to return his focus to the world around him.

“JAK! LOOK OUT!” Daxter screeched. Jak jerked his head up in time to see the remains of Kor begin to crash down into the ground. The head of the metal head queen bashed right into the active rift ring. Jak cursed. He twisted around to dodge and saw the kid, free of the bubble Kor put him in.

“Precursors!” Jak hissed between his teeth. He dove for the kid and the stone, and then rolled them both out of the way. The body crashed down scant inches from Jak’s back and knocked the stone from his hand. It bounced and came to a stop a few feet away; dust and metal head remains, practically showered Jak in dirt and grime when the body fell. When the destruction stopped Jak pushed himself upward. He looked down at the kid, who stared back with wide eyes.

“You okay?” Jak rasped, ears slanted in concern. The kid nodded quickly and gave Jak a thumbs up. Jak sighed. “Oh thank the precursors.”

“Yeah, let’s thank the guys who got us in this situation in the first place,” Daxter grumbled. He wriggled his way out from under Jak’s leg. “Yes, let’s thank them. Let’s not worry about Daxter who just got squished by your big ass. You ain’t light you know! And I’m small!”

Jak chuckled. “Sorry Dax. You okay?”

Daxter shot Jak a grin back and waved his hand tiredly. “Nah, I’m good. Let’s just not do that again.”

Jak nodded once. He stood to his feet and dusted off his knees, then reached down to help the kid up and check him over. He couldn’t find any wounds, no scrapes. It honestly looked like Kor didn’t bother to hurt the child given everything, but Jak decided not to look a gift yakow in the mouth. Instead he just smiled, a sort of half quirk of his lips, and rubbed at the kids head.

“Glad you were out for most of that,” Jak murmured. “Pretty scary stuff there.”

The kid nodded, and then looked over to the stone. Jak turned to help out Daxter. He checked over his friend—even if Daxter said that nothing broke Jak needed to be certain. It didn’t help that, despite a year of having Daxter on his shoulder, Jak still worried the dark eco aura he gave out and how it might affect the teen-turned-ottsel.

“I’m fine, Jak. Quit ya fussin’,” Daxter grumbled. He shoved Jak’s hand off of his head and scampered up Jak’s leg with practiced ease. Jak sighed in relief.

“Good,” the teen mumbled.

“’Sides, I’m the hero, remember?” Daxter cheered, and Jak’s lips quirked back up.

“That you are, Dax,” Jak agreed.

Neither teen noticed the kid toddle on over to the Precursor stone at first, not until little hands touched the crystalline shape and a flash of light swallowed the world. Jak paused. His breath hitched; the light felt warm and safe and a part of him hadn’t realized that warm and safe weren’t things he’d felt anymore. At first he closed his eyes, fought back the feeling of tears that threatened to overwhelm him. Then the light left, along with it the feeling, and Jak found himself hollow, drawn out and carved thin. His throat felt dry, and he opened his eyes to find the source of the distburance—

The rest of whatever breath Jak had left him in a rush of, “Oh man…a Precursor,” spoke so faint that Daxter alone probably heard what he said. The kid backed up, stared at the glowing, tall elfin being. Jak quickly wrapped a hand around the child’s shoulder to steady him. Both stared in awe at the creature with identical looks. Even Daxter found himself struck oddly silent.

The Precursor tilted its head. There weren’t eyes, but it glowed like a miniature sun of pure eco. A second’s pause settled between the four before it even started to speak. It’s ‘voice’ reminded Jak of the Oracle in the water slums, of the idols back before the invasion that he’d romped around with, with Daxter. It sounded rough, but understanding. Cryptic, but clear. Jak couldn’t breathe.

“It is finished…” the Precursor rumbled, and Jak swallowed heavily through his dry throat. “Our ancient enemy is no more.” Kor, the thing meant Kor. Precursors Jak felt a bit faint at the thought. He’d finished an ancient war; not once, in all this time, Jak thought about the fact that the war with the metal heads went on for far longer than Haven’s history. He ducked his head and pressed his lips.

He’d ended a war.

“Take hope brave one!” the Precursor continued and Jak’s brow furrowed. “The terrible darkness inside you is now balanced by a glorious light.” At the word ‘darkness’ Jak snapped his head up. As the Precursor continued he felt himself pale. A light? No, within him Jak felt no light. Dark eco; all the remained, even now—the things that the Baron did to him. The pain. The suffering. His limbs burned with the substance faintly even in his day to day life. Jak breathed out slowly. The Precursor; it was wrong.

For a moment Jak got the feeling that the Precursor frowned at him, like it sensed his thoughts and was disappointed. It felt like all of the beings hard work, all of its guidance over the years—the years in Sandover and then the year here of fighting and bleeding and hard work—meant nothing if Jak didn’t listen. Jak licked his lips, opened his mouth to apologize, but the being shook its head.

“We will meet again,” it promised. The words rang almost ominously in the air before it turned and flew straight into the rift gate.

From his shoulder Daxter hunkered down. His ears shifted flat and he glanced to Jak. “Weeeeell…” he dragged out slowly. “That happened.”

Jak nodded, gaze focused on the ring, eyes wide. He didn’t notice when Brutter’s lurker balloon landed down with Keira, Samos, and Samos. The rift rider thankfully remained intact during the journey, and when Jak did notice—after a yell of, “Jak!” from Keira—he felt thankful that the thing survived at all. Thankful, and sad.

He glanced down to the kid.

“Jak, we haven’t much time!” Keira said quickly. She moved into his space and Jak frowned. He glanced from her to the ring and noticed how little of it seemed left. No, there really wasn’t any time left, was there? “I’ve set the coordinates back to our village. Let’s go home, everyone!”

Jak didn’t want to burst Keira’s bubble. A part of him longed for it, longed for the beach of Sandover and the simplicity of life—longed for what had been and not what was now. He couldn’t have it though. Not anymore. Not after everything that he’d done, seen, faced. Jak looked down at his hands, and then at the kid who looked back up at him.

Could he condemn a child to the future that awaited him? Could he give the boy a scant few years of happiness, knowing that when he was fourteen he’d come here, to this hell and suffer at the hands of those who should have known better? To face Erol and Praxis and to become a killer and a monster? Jak closed his eyes, he breathed out slowly.

“Keira…” he said, voice soft. The roughness of it eased away as he thought. “We are home.”

‘Dax, this…horrible place. It’s…our world!’

Jak grimaced and then slipped past Keira before she could say anything more. He tuned out Samos arguing with himself and instead helped the Kid hop up onto the platform that held the rift rider. He gave the boy a small, almost sad smile.

“You stay safe when you’re there, okay?” Jak murmured. “Remember to protect this scrawny little blabber mouth that you’ll meet. You’ll know him when you see him, and he’ll need you as much as you’ll need him.” The kid nodded his head, face set into serious lines that Jak himself wore.

“Hey!” Daxter whined and when Jak arched an eyebrow in his direction he mumbled petulantly, “’m not scrawny.”

“Sure you aren’t, Dax,” Jak chuckled softly. His ears twitched as he noted that the conversation between the two Samos’ almost grew to a close, especially when Keira started to chime in entirely confused about the situation. He glanced to Daxter, who gave a short nod, and then the ottsel darted off to help continue to distract the three just long enough that Jak could finish his goodbye.

Jak’s attention drew back to his younger self when he heard a snap of the cord from around the kid’s neck. The kid held out the seal to Jak, eyes wide and face stern. Jak stared down at it. This, this was his. This was something that was a sign of who he was, that he was the heir to this city. Jak swallowed. Did he want it? Did he want that responsibility?

No. No, it wasn’t fair to take it. Jak closed his eyes and swallowed resolutely. He reached out and curled the child’s fingers back around the seal. He shook his head softly and opened his eyes. The kid looked up at him, confused.

“It’s yours,” Jak said softly. “Keep it…remember where you come from. At least one of us should remember….”

The kid stared down at the amulet, and then back up at Jak. He nodded resolutely and tucked it under his overalls. Jak smiled, and then blinked.

“Oh! Right, and stay away from any whumpbee nests on your ninth birthday,” Jak added quickly.

“Yeah! That wasn’t fun!” Daxter chimed in. He jumped back up onto Jak’s shoulder.

“And whose fault was it that we even got in that mess in the first place?” Jak shot back, arms crossed over his chest.

“Well I don’t know why ya lookin at me like that,” Daxter replied absentmindedly, but Jak could read the faint hint of nervousness in his best friends face.

“Sure you don’t,” Jak chuckled.

“Now boys! Enough yammering! My younger self has to get going before it’s too late!” Samos interrupted, ambling over to whack both Jak and Daxter over the heads with his stick. Jak jerked and rubbed at the spot with a scowl. Apparently not even saving the world, again, got him free from getting whacked over the head by Samos.

Jak backed away from the rift rider and gave a nod to the small kid, who nodded back before he climbed up onto the seat, the younger Samos already settled down. Jak watched them leave, a small part of him sad. He knew what future awaited the child, and a part of him wished he just stopped this before it even began.

“It’s funny,” Samos murmured from next to Jak, “but he won’t remember any of it.”

Jak glanced to Samos out of the corner of his eye. “No…” he mumbled. “I remember the light.”

Maybe he would remember more than just that. Jak hoped so.

It’d been a while before Jak exhaustedly got back to Haven. Exiting the nest had to take time; Jak and Daxter needed to protect Keira, Brutter, and Samos on their way out. Metal heads, even without Kor, were still a vicious threat and attacked on sight; although now they were uncoordinated. They had to rest frequently, curled up in hidden alcoves once they were free of the dank, twisted caverns that Kor built up. Samos hadn’t aged well and if Jak knew anything he knew that he couldn’t push Samos. Besides, Keira would have his head if he even tried.

Most nights, as they worked themselves back within communications range, Jak spent awake with Daxter snoozing away in his lap. His morph gun rested against his shoulder within easy reach just in case any metal heads surfaced while Brutter, Samos, Keira, and Daxter slept. He spent those hours with his eyes focused out on the world, watching, and his fingers gently carding through Daxter’s fur. The few times where he did sleep, he only did so when he felt assured in their safety. Even then Jak didn’t sleep for long, only an hour or two before he went back to his watch.

When they reached Mar’s gun Jak paused for rest. Daxter pulled out Ashelin’s communicator and tried to hail the Underground, tried to hail Ashelin, anyone. They were met with static and silence and a part of Jak worried that the metal heads inside Haven had taken over. Without Kor they weren’t organized, but there still remained a veritable hoard within the city when Jak left. Lips pressed thin, feeling the despondency of his companions, Jak decided they should press onward. They air train had dropped him off a ways away and maybe they’d be able to contact someone there, or even better maybe someone already sent it on ahead to await their return.

They found the site empty, no air train, nothing but torn up ground and metal heads. Jak made quick work of the beasts and focused on the others. He built up a basecamp against the craggy rock, double checked their rations with Daxter, and set up a round where everyone would give a go at the communicator in hour intervals. They just had to wait, Jak thought. Someone would come for them. The fact that Samos agreed with him at least rallied Keira to his side. Brutter didn’t doubt him one bit, and Daxter—Daxter rambled in the way he did when worried.

It took three days more before communications came back. Three days of hardly sleeping, three days spent checking the perimeter Jak set up and rationing off the rations he had with him. By the time three days passed everyone, even Samos, began to feel like they’d been abandoned. Then the communicator, for the first time, gave something other than static.

“Jak? Jak can you read me?” Ashelin’s voice came through. It crackled and popped and some of the words were dropped, but the basics of what she asked where clear.

Jak snapped up the communicator from Keira, whose turn it was to try and get into contact, and responded. “Ashelin. What the hell is going on?”

“The communications tower was hit sometime after you went into the nest,” Ashelin said through broken static. “We couldn’t be sure you were alive until we got it back up. It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Yeah,” Jak mumbled. “Kor’s dead.”

For a moment there remained silence, and then suddenly instead of Ashelin it was Torn. “Are you certain?”

“Yeah,” Jak growled out. “I have his head if you want proof.”

“…no, I’ll trust your word on this. It explains the sudden erratic behavior of the mess in the city.” There was a pause where Jak breathed out a sigh of relief. “How are you holding up?”

“Low on rations,” Jak said. “We’ve also got Keira, Samos, and Brutter here.”

“The Shadow’s with you!?”

Jak paused. He’d almost forgotten that Samos, the younger Samos, was the mysterious ‘Shadow’ that lead the Underground.

“Er, yeah,” Jak mumbled. “I thought you knew?”

“No! We’d been searching for him for days. For Mar’s sake, what was he thinking?!”

Before Jak could even answer Samos grabbed the communicator out of his hand and decided to voice his own response, words filled with the condescension Jak and Daxter were so familiar with.

“I was thinking that I had important matters to take care of once Kor was dead! Matters that could only be handled in the nest!” Samos ground out. “Matters such as specifically ensuring that young Jak got to a place of safety so that he could grow up to eventually save this city!”

“Jak’s there with you,” Torn said, voice pitched low. Jak winced. “What in Mar’s name are you talking about?”

“Are you that blind, Commander?” Samos grumbled. “Even I noticed the similarities when I first saw them together!”

“You did?!” Jak blurted out suddenly. “You never thought to tell me?”

“I knew you’d learn the truth if you just opened your eyes,” Samos grumbled back. “But of course you’d forget what I told you. In one ear and out the other, never listening to your elders!”

Jak scrubbed a hand through his hair and growled back, “Well telling me ‘find yourself, Jak!’ was extremely cryptic given the circumstances.”

“It was perfectly clear!” Samos defended.

“Perfectly clear my a—”

Ashelin, at some point, apparently got hold of the communicator again because her voice wafted over sharp and clear, interrupting Jak before he could even finish the sentence. “Explain. Now.”

“Jak is the heir to the city,” Samos said bluntly. “The child we protected was sent to the past to keep him safe from his enemies. He grows up to be the,” here Samos harrumphed out of annoyance, “hero to save Haven from Kor and the metal heads.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then, “Can you prove it?”

“Of course! Jak has the seal to the House of Mar, don’t you Jak?” Samos turned and peered at Jak determinedly. Jak looked away. “Don’t you, Jak?”

Well, shit. Jak hated that voice. Jak hated when Samos used that voice. He winced, and for a moment questioned his own decision to let the kid keep the only thing that was truly his. Maybe it’d been selfish of him, but Jak always wished he had something from his family, something from before living with his ‘uncle’ in Sandover.

“Answer me, boy!” Samos barked out and Jak winced again.

“I…don’t have it,” Jak mumbled. “Must’ve lost it back in Sandover.”

Or, more likely, he never had it in the first place. Jak didn’t tell Samos that, though. Let the old man think he hadn’t, possibly, changed a bit of history on a selfish whim.

Samos, predictably, exploded. “You what?!”

Jak curled in on himself, ears falling back as he let the admonishments wash over him with a grimace on his face. Disappointing Samos had always settled wrong with him, and even know he didn’t like the lecture and the berating that he received. Perhaps he’d never get used to constantly screwing up in the old Sage’s eyes. As Samos continued, Daxter quickly rose to Jak’s defense and suddenly there was a cacophony of noise loud enough to burn his ears. Jak clamped a hand over them in an attempt to drown out the sound, especially as Ashelin and Torn joined in on the conversation.

It was Keira who put a stop to everything. She whistled loudly, loud enough to pierce Jak’s ears and leave them ringing. He almost couldn’t make out what she said, but he followed the flow of the conversation well enough.

“Even if Jak doesn’t have this seal thingy that doesn’t mean he isn’t the…heir…to the city,” Keira said, and she stumbled over the words enough that Jak remembered she hadn’t known who the kid was to the Underground. Despite all the times that Jak had dragged him over to her garage to hide out from KG patrols when he was babysitting not once had he told her about the boy being a, well, a prince.

Fuck. Didn’t that mean Jak was a prince, too? His head hurt from just thinking about it, already with the pounding migraine that threatened to put him flat on his ass from all the yelling earlier. Exhaustion, too, wanted to overtake him. He drowned out the rest of the conversation and settled himself against a wall. He curled down and dug his fingers into his hair, ears pressed back and down. He didn’t want to be the heir to the city. He didn’t want the responsibility. If people knew, if anyone but the Underground knew—Jak feared the consequences. He feared being put into power, being forced to have the lives of thousands on his hands, forced to command people who had so easily before broken, tortured, changed him.

Somehow, through all the arguing and fighting and Keira calming down risen tempers Samos squirreled out of Ashelin and Torn the promise of an air train to come pick them up. At some point Daxter wound his way around Jak’s neck and began soothingly running clawed small fingers through his hair. Keira carefully got Jak up and lead him towards the air train when it arrived, shushed her father, and amidst it all Brutter remained blissfully silent.

At some point, during the ride, Jak passed out.

It was weird to see the city so cheerful when all Jak remembered of it was the oppression and darkness. Heads were down and people shuffled about quickly, determined to get through their business and then return home, out of the watchful eyes of the KG. They kept quiet aside from the sound of zoomers and the KG talking of their radios, or the Baron’s propaganda commentary, the city had always been eerily quiet.

Now, though, it bustled. People cheered and moved freely. They embraced and laughed. They mourned through parties, rejoiced at the end of a war that had spanned centuries. They praised Praxis, Ashelin specifically as the Baron’s death and his crimes had been reported shortly after the clean up—and Jak felt like it’d been a kick to the teeth to find out it’d been a full week and a half before they’d even been thought of and rescued.

Tess had at some point gotten Ashelin to give her the Hip Hog, and then she’d promptly handed it over to Daxter. They’d conspired for a day or two and then the Hip Hog debuted as the Naughty Ottsel with a loud, cheerful celebration of the end of a year of hell. Jak let himself relax, let himself revel in being surrounded by friends and comrades. He tried not to think about his position, his status in regards to the city despite that it followed him around like a lurker shark biding its time for its prey.

As Jak moved back indoors, settled down with Sig and Daxter—Keira and Samos wandered off to another section of the bar with Keira eagerly discussing what she was going to do now that they were going to live in Haven permanently—and Tess brought them a round of drinks. Daxter and Sig started off right away with Daxter telling the epic story of how they defeated Kor for Sig. Each dramatic wave of the ottsel’s hand and each exaggeration of the story brought a smile to Jak’s face as he carefully nursed the drink in front of him.

Jak never drank before. The entire thing felt like a novelty and a taboo all at once. The alcohol burned, but it burned pleasantly unlike the burn of eco that shifted around under his skin and through his muscles. Jak said nothing but Haven hurt. Breathing pained him, the air stagnant and corrupted, touch by the dark eco that the city used as a power source without abandon. Drinking water often burned down his throat, and even spending hours fighting despite that his muscles protested, that his heart and the beat of his own blood felt like fire, took its toll eventually.

The alcohol, amazingly enough, washed away a bit of the pain. It left behind a dull sensation of warmth that Jak sorely missed, but it didn’t fill the empty feeling that burrowed deep in his chest. Still the feeling was pleasant, and a reprieve from the pain. For the first time in a long time Jak felt himself truly relax. He leaned against Sig, let himself just let go of everything. His worries washed away in a pleasant buzz and hum of Daxter’s voice and the warmth of Sig’s skin.

Luck reared its ugly head quickly enough when Ashelin picked her way gingerly over to Jak who dozed lightly against Sig. He felt his job was done, he was done. Ashelin felt otherwise.

“Jak,” Ashelin said carefully. “May I speak with you? In private.”

Jak blinked, and quite suddenly everything came rushing back. He tensed, pulled himself from Sig, and turned to face Ashelin. The pleasant hum of the alcohol beneath his skin kept him at least lightly relaxed, but the realization, the knowledge of what Ashelin probably wanted to speak about, now hovered back into his conscious though.

Daxter, at the table, fell silent. Sig looked at him in concern.

“Now, Jak,” Ashelin said softly. “Please.”

Jak swallowed heavily, nodded once, and got up from the booth.

“You okay, cherry?” Sig asked.

“Want me to come with you?” Daxter perked up, ready to clamber onto Jak’s shoulder. Jak shook his head towards Daxter and told Sig he was fine. Silently he followed Ashelin towards the back. He wasn’t surprised to see Torn there as well, leaned against a table, arms crossed, face set into a scowl.

Jak scrubbed at his face tiredly. The pleasantness of the alcohol left his system in a rush. He held up a hand to stop either of them from talking for a moment. Jak needed to get his bearings straight, his thoughts in order. Show no weakness, show none of the signs that you are afraid. Jak grit his teeth.

“Would you like to sit?” Ashelin asked. She took a seat herself up on the table, legs crossed.

“I’ll stand,” Jak said back and focused his gaze onto the two of them. “What is it.”

Torn huffed. “What is it, he says,” the Commander grumbled. “We need to figure out what to do with this mess.” Torn waved one hand, gesturing at the metaphorical mess he spoke about. “Without the kid the Underground’s claims of being fighting for the people suddenly become the talk of traitors. The kid was the lynch pin, Jak. With him we could be seen as people trying to take back the city.”

“Weren’t you?” Jak shot back, brow furrowed.

“Of course we damn well were!” Torn snapped and slammed his fist down onto the table. “Without a real source of backing though we’re nothing but a bunch of traitors, fighting against Baron Praxis! Even with Ashelin’s support—” Torn cut himself off with a curse.

“What Torn is trying to say,” Ashelin continued, voice even and calm, “is that to the council and nobility I’m not a known ally of the Underground, and they’re quite aware that I’ve been ignorant of the majority of my father’s crimes. Even if I vouch for the Underground the majority will only see the harm they’ve done. Without the heir to the throne they’re nothing more than traitors, and more than a few would be all too happy to pin the blame of the metal head invasion on the Underground’s shoulders. They don’t have a legitimate claim to force change.”

Jak scowled. “But they helped this city!” He waved his hand out, exploding suddenly with anger. “They did what Praxis didn’t. They fought against the metal heads and kept people safe!”

Torn sighed. “It won’t matter. We’re still traitors in their eyes. The most we can hope for is banishment to the wastes and a slow death, the least would be a quick death.”

Jak clenched his fists and grit his teeth. He wanted to say that such a thing wasn’t fair, but he remembered this was Haven. This was Hell. Of course it wouldn’t be fair, of course nothing would be fair here. All those people, everyone in the Underground—Torn, Tess, Samos….Jak breathed out explosively and ran his hands through his hair. He slumped down on himself.

“What can we do?” he asked plaintively, and for all the world he actually looked sixteen, bordering on seventeen. He looked like a lost and confused kid. He didn’t notice when Torn swallowed heavily, or how Ashelin stared at him with wide eyes like they both suddenly saw something that neither expected to see.

For a moment nobody said anything, and then Ashelin spoke up firmly, “We just have to prove you’re the heir to the city.”

Torn twisted, his eyes snapped open wide as Jak’s head jerked up.

“Ashelin you can’t be serious!” Torn growled out. “Anything we do to actually provide irrefutable proof would mean reinstating the—”

Ashelin held up her hand and cut Torn off. “I know what it means, Commander, and if that’s what it takes…” she breathed out slowly. “Perhaps, in the end, it is for the best.”

Jak’s gaze danced between them, lips pressed thin. What would come would come, Jak figured. Right now he had to keep his friends safe, he had to keep the heroes safe, the innocents, and all the people who only wanted to do right by Haven. Jak straightened out, squared his shoulders, and nodded once.

“What do I have to do,” Jak asked, and that was the end of that.

#fanfic #jak and daxter #cross posted #accidentally king of haven jak #canon divergence #fic: patriciate #fic: semblance #i wrote this a few years ago so its not quite up to current levels #wip #seriously still a wip #i'm still writing this shit

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hey-hamlet · 4 years

Text

‘BANHA’ Fic

aka, my friend who hasn’t watched bnha got really pissed when I told her about Bakugo and Izuku’s old middle school. So pissed, in fact, that she wrote almost 3000 words of a character created solely for this purpose beating the tar out of Bakugo.

Shes my idol.

(I edited the names for spelling and edited the dialogue for speech patterns in exactly two scenes. See if you can pick all 3 edited lines)

“Happy birthday Arlea!” Arlea Hunter started from where she was sitting and chewing on cereal like it was going out of style. Aunty Chitose placed a small cake on the table by Arlea’s bowl, a single candle on top, she gave her a bright smile.

“Thank you! You didn’t have to get me anything,” Arlea said, looking at the cake, it looked delicious. With white frosting that was layered thickly and the words ‘Happy birthday’ scrawled in purple icing. Arlea blew out the candle. Putting her hands together. Squeezing her eyes shut to make a wish. Her Aunty ruffled her hair.

“What are you saying? Of course I’d get you a cake, although it’s a bit little, you can’t share it with your friends.” She said.

“It’s ok, I wouldn’t want to share it either way.” Arlea pointed out. “Except for you of course,” she added, standing to pick up the knife from the counter. proceeding to cut it into quarters.

“Oh, thank you very much, and I’m going to eat three pieces then?” she asked.

“Alright fine, Uncle Hideki and Hanabi can have some too.”

“You two will have to pack it then, since you’re almost late for school.” My aunt pointed out, moving back to the kitchen. Arlea glanced at the clock and almost swore. Scrambling to pick up her lunchbox and carefully pack the cake.

“Hanabi come on down! There’s cake here for you!” Arlea’s Aunt called. it was accompanied by the sounds of frantic footsteps. Eventually Hanabi made it down the stairs, with school bag in hand and her blonde streaked brown hair bouncing around her heart-shaped face. The little princess of the family, with sharp bright blue eyes and a killer smile. Arlea really took time to reflect how different their families were.

Her cousin was a year younger than her, and had an outgoing happy personality, cute sized, whereas Arlea was willowy, with straight drab hair that looked almost black, black eyes. and while she had a quirk of an infectious smile. Arlea’s dove wings wasn’t exactly as useful. It’s not as if she could use them. she reflected ruefully

“Thanks mum!” Hanabi squealed, sitting at the table. “Not now, pack it or we will be late.” Arlea commented. Hanabi glancing at the clock and jumping up again.

“I can’t be late today! I promised Haru I’d help her paint one of the school festival posters.” Hanabi grabbed her back and bolted for the doorway. Arlea shifted past, letting the girl go past her without knocking both of them over. She turned back and packed the second piece for Hanabi, placing both lunchboxes in her bag. She was used to her airheaded cousin forgetting things, and definitely loved her for it. Hanabi made Arlea feel good and reliable. Isn’t that a sad realisation? She mused. heading out the door at an angle and calling her goodbyes to her aunt.

“Come on! move those wings, if we’re late I’m blaming you!” Hanabi called, she grinned at Arlea without any malice. Setting a brisk pace along the sidewalk. Arlea caught up easily, she was taller than her cousin by a couple centimetres. Arlea wasn’t exactly new to Japan, her mum had been from here, and she’d been born here. but growing up in a different culture entirely, and coming back at the age of 15, 12 years later was an… experience.

Specifically the school life, ending up going to Aldera middle school wasn’t exactly fun. It wasn’t a great school, but her area wasn’t a great area, and it would be expensive to send two near-high schoolers to a private school. Public schools weren’t a problem though, after all, if Arlea could survive a public school in Woodridge Australia, she could survive anything.

The school gates loomed ahead and Hanabi called out to her friend Haru. A small girl with curly dark hair, glasses, and a shy personality. Haru smiled, waving at us both.

“Good morning Hanabi, Senpai!” she greeted. Arlea gave her a smile, Hanabi was already dragging her off however.

“I’ll see you at lunch!” She called back. Arlea gave a little snort, unlikely, until she figured out Arlea had her lunch. She didn’t blame her cousin. They had only gotten closer over the past year Arlea had been here, but that probably wasn’t entirely by choice. It’s been a year since Arlea’s mother died, and she had to move to this second-rate school. At least she could get into a better high school.

She was sitting with her friends when Hanabi came running over. A slightly panicked look on her face. I smiled at her.

“Forget your lunch today?” Arlea asked her as she reached where Arlea and her friends were eating lunch, a small little side-hall that was open enough to have cool air come through and bright enough for a nice atmosphere. But as she drew closer Arlea’s smile fell. She looked absolutely terrified. Pale faced, on the verge of tears.

“The- that kid in your grade! They’re… beating him up.” She said between sobbing breaths. Hanabi reached her too. She was crying.

“That’s Deku, leave him be, it happens.” One of Arlea’s friends commented. Hanabi cousin looked at him, her face starting to get blotchy as the redness of running took over her straight panic.

“They look like they’re beating him to death! They’re not stopping!” Hanabi rushed out. Arlea looked at her, then stood up.

“Where are the teachers?” Arlea’s friends watched her silently, a few of them staring at their lunches, but no longer eating them. There was something wrong about this situation, sure people were bullied in Australia, but it tended to stop once a teacher was in view.

“They’re just watching!” Hanabi half-shouted. Arlea turned an accusing eye on her friends. Seeing no support on the kid’s side. no cry of outrage.

“Where?” She asked seriously, ignoring the slight shake of her friend Satoru’s head. Hanabi took off though, and Arlea went after her. Haru following them from behind. Taking a couple shortcuts through empty classrooms Arlea could see where people were gathered on the second floor above one of the yards, staring down at the commotion. Hanabi was slowing down. Arlea slid to a stop next to the furthest student, hearing someone shouting.

“I’m doing you a favour Deku, you’re better off dead than quirkless!” The voice below called up, loud enough to be heard from here. Arlea felt a cold snap of rage, gripping the windowsill she jumped up, Hanabi turned back, calling her name. Arlea leapt out, aiming for Bakugo. One of the popular kids in her grade. He had a cascade of sparks, ready to use it on the kid that was already bleeding from most of his face. His shoulder looked dislocated too, he looked up at Arlea through one eye, the other puffed shut, his lip was broken and bleeding, and he had a serious burn mark on the right side of his neck.

Arlea heard movement and turned her attention. Bakugo stood up, disorientated, Arlea looked at him, gripping her hands into fists, temper, temper. If she lost it now the teachers might actually do something.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” one of the ones holding the boy asked. she turned on him.

“Let him go, or I’ll cut off your creepy salad fingers.” Arlea said. he let the boy go, he crumpled to the ground.

“Get lost, or I’ll give you the same to you, shithead.” Bakugo replied coldly, walking over threateningly. Arlea looked at his face, altogether much too perfect, maybe a broken tooth might teach him a lesson. She decided. He reached her and she rounded a hit on him before he could see the fist coming. The wet slap of her flesh against his face satisfyingly echoing in the semi-empty yard.

“Bakugo!” Someone called from behind, Arlea turned as one of the less active of the bullies ran at her. She gave a cold laugh, before leaping on him, wings outspread in a terrible arch as she twisted into the air, bringing the entire force of her body and slamming into him.

“That’s enough!” someone shouted, Arlea stood, the bullies standing back as a teacher walked this way.

“Oh, is it? And was it enough when they were beating this kid in front of you? Or are you so piss-poor at your own fucing job you couldn’t be bothered actually interfering?” Arlea shouted at him. She stuttered through the Japanese, not exactly fluent, but good enough that the meaning came across strong. The teacher went red faced, walking this way in angry strides, Arlea looked at him, temper ticking so close to being officially lost.

“You’re lucky I’m letting you off for this one, but you’re going to detention for this-“ The teacher stated. He grabbed Arlea’s wrist.

“For what? doing your job for you?” she asked. The teacher turned to look at her.

“How dare you.” the teacher hissed.

“The fuck is wrong with you, why would you waste all your breath on a quirkless bastard?” it was Bakugo again. Temper officially lost. With a swipe, she took the teacher’s legs out from under him, before turning on Bakugo, he put his arms up in defence, seeing the attack this time but not counting on the amount of force behind it, people never did. But wings were extra body mass, no matter how hollow the bones. The two of them fell.

There was only a short scramble, before Arlea was sitting on his chest, hands wrapped tightly around his throat. His eyes bulged. Gripping her wrists, trying to ease the pressure.

“Unfortunately for you, my mother happened to be quirkless. She’s gone; because of scum like you.” Arlea said, a smile on her face as she strangled the boy. “Call this your official warning, if you ever mention that little quirkless thing again, you or any of your little boys. I’m going to hunt you down, slit your throat from ear to ear, and watch you bleed out with a smile on my face.” Arlea wasn’t joking either. She’d almost killed people for less. Bakugo’s struggled became desperate, tears and spit rolling down his face.

“Stop it,” A hoarse voice croaked. Arlea glanced back. the kid was sitting up, looking this way, barely conscious. Arlea turned back. She let go of Bakugo’s throat, not before giving him two more solid hits to the face, one of them crunching at his nose. She stood up, turning back. The teacher must have hit his head, because he was sitting up with a dazed look in his eyes. Arlea turned to look at the kid who was staring back at her with fear. “Don’t - Kacchan’s going to be a hero, it’s only because I’m-” the boy stuttered.

Arlea turned to look at the people on the floor, the two still standing watched her with fear. She turned back to look at Bakugo, who was coughing and staring up at her.

“Quirkless?” She ground out, teeth audibly grinding against each other in her rage. “It’s ok because you’re weaker than him?” She turned back to Bakugo, snarling. “Newsflash asshole, heroes help people weaker than them. You’re no hero, just a twobit jackass with too many people fawning over your flashy quirk.” Arlea turned back, grabbing the boy by his good arm and wrenching him up. Taking him towards the infirmary, the kids gathered gave her a wide berth, except for Hanabi, who walked forward, and helped support him on the other side, being careful of his arm.

“Are you ok?” she asked softly. the boy looked at her. but she was looking at Arlea. Who’s jaw was ticked tight, fury in her eyes.

“I’m going to burn down this fucking school.” She replied coldly in English. Hanabi winced,

“I’m sure… that if he knew, he’d not have talked that way.” Hanabi responded softly, Arlea felt her anger cooling. Her cousin trying hard to calm her down and making an effort to speak in English made her feel better.

“If he knew and actually had the audacity to say that, I’d have already killed him.” Alrea pointed out. reverting back to Japanese.

Hanabi gave a shaky sigh, “Mum is going to be furious…”

Well, that she already knew.

Surprise, surprise, Arlea was called to the office. She walked there, blood still on her uniform, sitting down politely on the waiting room chairs. The woman there was tense, not looking at her. After a while, the phone rang, and the woman picked it up, putting it back down.

“Please make your way through.” she said, giving Arlea a tense smile.

Arlea stood up, taking a breath. Inside was a furious principal, the concussed teacher, two police officers, and someone who looked like he was a hero. She stopped at the door, looking at the hero and freezing. Well, that didn’t bode well.

“Arlea Hunter, I am appalled by what I’ve heard this afternoon. You were a good student, top of your class, an outstanding reputation. But today you not only attacked 3 of your peers, but a teacher as well. These men are here to escort you off my campus, you’re hereby expelled. I’ve called your aunt to tell her that you’re being escorted to the station. Honours exchange student or not, I will not tolerate that kind of violence on my campus.” The principal, who Arlea was shocked didn’t run out of breath halfway through, was red-faced. Furious, the teacher was watching her with a smile.

Arlea turned to him. “Really? Not only will you let another student burn Deku’s face off, but you’ll stand there and smile when the only person willing to stand up for him is being sent off?” She asked. The teacher paled.

“She’s lying!” he immediately cried. Arlea crossed her arms.

“Bakugo told Deku to kill himself because he was quirkless, then went ahead to hit him again, and everyone stood around and did nothing. This student who had the audacity to think he was going to become a hero.” Arlea was enraged now, walking to the desk and slamming her hands down.

“What the hell is wrong with your teaching staff? A single boy was being beaten to death on your school grounds by four people and your staff did nothing! What kind of sicko school do you run?” She was screaming now. then turned to the police.

“You want to take me to the station? Good! I’ll be a valuable witness, and I’ll proudly stand against Bakugo, what kind of sick psychopath burns the face off one of his peers?” She rounded on the principal again. “I’m also surprised that you called my aunt, you should have kept quiet, because you know she’s just going to come here and take my side. And when there’s an internal investigation? You’ll find me watching you burn to the ground with all the rest of your staff. You run an institute that’s supposed to support your student base, and watch them grow. Their parents are relying on you to keep their children safe, and you’re sending one of them home with injuries nearly every day!” Arlea pulled herself to full height, looking down at the man sitting there, getting paler and paler at her accusations. “You should all be ashamed of yourselves.” she hissed out finally.

There was a tense silence, neither the teacher nor principal would break it. Arlae had just gone and blurted out their failures in front of two cops and a hero. If that didn’t scream ‘doomed’ she didn’t know what did. The hero spoke up first.

“Today has been quite the eventful day for everyone involved. What I suggest happens is that Principal Satoru runs an internal investigation into this matter. Bakugo will be flagged to watch for quirk abuse on U.A records. I also suggest you discuss a solution with Arlea Hunter’s aunt when she arrives, so that expulsion can be avoided.” The hero said calmly. Arlea blinked at him.

“How can you speak reasonably in this situation?” She asked, outraged. The hero pinned her with a steady gaze.

“You were also using your quirk maliciously in body slamming a student. If this Bakugo is punished. You will be also, if the student who was injured decides to go ahead and press charges, then we will do something about it and bar him from entering our academy, if what you say about him wanting to become a hero is true. You may find yourself with the brunt of the punishment however, the student you attacked was not Bakugo by the sounds of it, which means you didn’t use your quirk for self defence either.” The hero turned and walked to Arlea, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“In this instance, it would be logical to just let it go. It would be a shame to lose a potential student with such a strong motivation for justice.” The hero nodded his goodbye to the principal and left. giving Arlea an encouraging smile. She didn’t feel it, wanting instead to throw her fists around and continue her angry outburst. Trying to attack a hero would be a tad ambitious. It also made her feel worse that he thought he saw justice. But it was just selfish, bitter anger. Just piss-poor timing for Bakugo to be an asshole. A year ago today her own mother killed herself over the same words. You’d be better off dead than quirkless. Arlea glared at the two people left in the room. before turning and walking out again. she needed a good cry behind the furthest building, at least before her aunty arrived.

#not my fic exactly but it sure is fic

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