#hes just in slacks and his hairs all tussled and he just looks So Normal. like hes Not a murderer

[todayisafridaynight]

i think i would have gone loco if jo and aoki got to meet up just once after ichi breaks through to him like. the damage to my psyche id have wouldve been immeasurable, irreparable even

#snap chats #im at the vet waiting for my dog please listen to shit thats been tormenting me for months #finally releasing all of my drafted thoughts im ill and im free #srry i know i talked bout it already in todays ask but im still thinking about it #this is also inspod by one of my twitter mutuals saying aoki’s death was the only foreseeable path for him like girl i thought we were fam #but no 😭 ill stand by forever that him dying was legit so dumb and unnecessary idc idc 😭 #anyway. let me begin. because its not as if aoki wasnt conscious of jo constantly tailing him #take a shot every time i quote the Lost Dog comment its just such a good line and just exposes jo its my everything ok leave me alone #but please just like. in the weird timeline where jo and aoki did get to be cellmates- or at least were in the same cell block right #id throw up and cry if aoki looked at jo differently that day. like it doesnt help that jo’s without all his flash and flair #hes just in slacks and his hairs all tussled and he just looks So Normal. like hes Not a murderer #as soon as that warden bring aoki in i know jo movin to see him with all the love and concern only a father got #aokid never say sorry i just know hed be awkward as hell in jo’s presence now #like if aoki really did take ichis words to heart and starts to actually see jo as his family and as someone who cares about him for him #id kill myself on the spot thats why they had to kill aoki #no id die and throw up if aoki just outright asks jo if he does care about him or something like that #jo gonna need to muster up every ounce of his will to say he does not because he doesnt but because hes Just Like That. hes a hard nut #but he loves his kid more than anything and im gonna tear my organs out thinking about it #jo your kid sucks but ik you still love him thats the worst part #i wanna write or draw somethin with them in jail together so bad but i always get distracted #and again i have comms to do today. #OH BUT SPEAKING OF MY DUMB ASS DOG GOT LYME DISEASE 😭😭😭 #they said he should be fine in like six months if we’re good with meds but still.... this is lame..... #ALSO I FOUND OUT MY POM MIX IS PREDOMINANTLY A PAPILLON..... thats fucked up yo butterfly dog... #ok im gonna go be insane idk how much else i could elaborate on this bye bye

[thebigoblin]

Thiam and #42 could be hilarious I can’t even explain why but I think it fits

From this list - #42. "Smells suspicious."

Sniff, Sniff

((can be read on ao3))

The moment Liam calls him, Theo knows something is not right. Liam's voice is small, and not because of the very bad speakers on Theo's phone—he needs to buy a new one, the damn trolls banged up this one—and there's a tinge of nervousness on his normally steady tone.

Theo leaves his apartment just as the sun hides starts to dip down behind the clouds, and watches from the windows of his SUV as the evening purple sky turns into a muddle gray-black. Liam's house is not that far, barely ten-minutes away with the way he is speeding; when Derek had assumed his role back as the Alpha of Beacon Hills he'd made sure that the packmates all stayed close to each other, and Theo hasn't felt more grateful for that than he does now.

When he finally reaches the apartment building where Liam lives, Theo breathes a sigh of relief. There are no obvious marks of a scuffle—that rules out any new monster of the week. Liam's car is fine too, parked in its usual spot, so that means Liam is actually home and hasn't left after calling Theo. That has happened more than once in the past three months, and Theo isn't sure if he should be annoyed or worried.

He makes his way upstairs to Liam's apartment quickly, face already masked with annoyance so that Liam doesn't know he is worried—his chemosignals are harder to control, but he has had practice. It's harder now, to hide what he feels, but he remembers how to; he might have learned to not bottle up his feelings over the past few years with and in the Hale Pack, but some habits are hard to let go off, especially when he knows that he can't get over the worst consequence of letting his mask slip off.

Especially around Liam. Liam fucking Dunbar.

Who opens the door not a second after Theo knocks, looking harried and nervous and jittery and wonderful—buttoned up white shirt, red slacks, golden hair tussled just the right way, making Theo want to wind his fingers in it.

Dread crawls up Theo's spine. "Looking good, Dunbar," he says, and can't help but wish it were for him.

Not that he has that right. Liam might have been the first to accept him in the folds of the Beacon Hills Saviour Pack, but even now, they're still just friends. Just friends. And it's not like Liam has gotten over Hayden—Liam hasn't dated anyone since her. He has tried, but it's all failed. Theo can't say he is too upset about it.

"Really?" Liam asks, and Theo realizes that he is standing in the outside hallway. He walks inside the apartment, Liam at his heels. "Mason chose this outfit for me, but I'm not sure..."

"You know he has the braincells between you two," Theo replies, eyes on the small dining table that Liam and Mason had bought off of a flea market some two years ago. "Is that lasagna?" He sits down at the decorated table—table cloth, flowers, fancy plates and all—and takes a deep sniff. Pauses. Freezes, really.

Lasagna is his favorite.

"At least I have a braincell," Liam mutters. "Sometimes."

Liam is wearing fancy clothes and is ready for a date at home and Liam called him.

The last time Liam had called him and then not been home, Theo had hunted him down and then too Liam had been wearing fancy clothes—and even the time before that.

"Will you stop sniffing the food? It's not that bad!"

"What?" Theo blinks up at Liam, who has suddenly materialized in the chair opposite him. Liam is looking at him like he is crazy.

"I know I make terrible food," Theo snorts.

"Inedible would be the right word."

Liam glares at him. It's a little bit like looking at an angry puppy. It's cute. "Shut up," Liam says, but his tone is fond. Theo smirks.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

He takes an exaggerated sniff of the lasagna. "You know, it smells like, hmm. What's the word I'm looking for?"

"Chicken? I used lots of it. And cheese," Liam shares, genuinely excited. Theo almost backs out of saying what he wants to. But nope, he is committed, damnit.

"No, that's not what I'm looking for. Hmm. It smells suspicious," Theo raises an eyebrow at Liam. Liam goes wide-eyed.

"Mason was only joking, you know I wouldn't actually use—"

"Wait, you mean the whole debate about the werewolf drugs was about this? How many people have you told about this? And why wasn't I aware of this before now?"

Liam only looks more confused as Theo speaks. Theo feels the same.

"No- I- what?"

"We were at the Pack House," just this last week. Almost everyone was there, except Lydia and Jordan who were on a date at the time. "Malia suggested that you use—" not that Derek would've let anyone use drugs for what Malia was suggesting. That had been a not fun discourse, and Theo and Liam had hightailed it out of there as soon as possible; they know how to be human, thank you very much.

"No, I know what you mean by that. What do you mean you didn't know? I thought you did!"

"You're not making any sense, Liam. How would I know this is a date if you wouldn't tell me!"

"Oh, so you do know this is a date. And what do you mean I didn't tell you—" Liam doesn't finish his sentence. Theo locks his eyes with Liam's and dares him to.

"Uh huh, yeah. And as for how I know, I have a braincell of my own. I figured it out." He smirks. Liam smacks him on the arm before hiding his face in his hands. Then he pulls his head up so fast that Theo gets a whiplash.

"But you didn't know until now!"

Theo refuses to blush. "You are terrible at dating. Or well, trying to date,"

Liam blushes. Then, when Theo is sure he has won, Liam uses his werewolf fast reflexes to throw the whole plate of lasagna at his face.

Theo sputters. Liam giggles in his victory.

"Now you are sus," Liam says, like that makes any sense.

Theo tackles Liam down to the floor. He isn't sure how, since his vision is obscured with yellow sticky food, but he does, and starts tickling Liam.

"You are sus," Theo tells Liam, writhing under him with laughter, all of his inhibitions lowered, and god, Theo loves this man.

He swallows up whatever words Liam was about to say with a kiss.

#apparently this blog has also become my writing blog. oh well #thiam #theo raeken #liam dunbar #teen wolf #my fic #answered ask #always-mimits #thank you for the ask! #i will post this on ao3 as well... later #crack fic #*thiam fic recs

[nanoland]

new chapter (supernatural fic)

(earlier parts are here; whole thing is here) 

Clean Hands, part 3 

Crowley/Castiel/Dean Winchester, warning for violence and spn demons being spn demons   

0   

Another day, another assassination attempt.

“Congratulations, sir,” said Paula, bustling in with his coffee and daily planner. “That brings it to eight, yes? I recall your making some remark about throwing a small office party if we hit ten before the end of the month.”

Lifting the corpse off the row of retractable spikes he’d installed in his desk, Crowley grunted, “It was a joke. On the other hand, maybe it would be good for morale. Make the blighters less determined to snuff me.”

“I’ll add it to the calendar. Sir, your ten ‘o clock is waiting in the lobby. Should I send him in?”

Technically, ‘ten ‘o clock’ didn’t exist in Hell. Time didn’t exist in Hell.

But by God, it did for Paula.

Infamous among Crowley’s minions, she ruled his appointment diary with an iron fist (well – iron talons, more accurately) and kept a horseman’s pick tucked neatly under her workstation for anyone who was more than five minutes late.

She’d been the most competent corporate PA in the business when Crowley had purchased her soul in exchange for a medical breakthrough that had beaten down her cancer and allowed her those ten precious years. It would, in fact, have allowed her a normal human lifespan, if not for Crowley’s hounds.

(Her wish was among his favourites and her contract had pride of place in his trophy cabinet. She could have just said ‘cure me’; she’d dreamed bigger. Ambition! Now that was what Crowley liked to see. Very few people who sold their souls managed to leave the world a better place than they’d found it.

Truthfully, arranging the breakthrough had taken an amount of power on his part that, ordinarily, he’d have objected to. Ever since the Zuckerberg Incident of 2004, Crowley had maintained a policy against granting wishes that fundamentally altered the pace and trajectory of human scientific development. But he’d wanted her. Reliable PAs were like gold dust and they almost always went to bloody Heaven. “And for what, I ask you?” he’d said to Dean once. “How much admin is really involved in keeping people locked in a lotus-eater machine?”)  

“The ten… oh, piss. It’s Alan, isn’t it? Yes, yes. Let’s get this over with. Send him in.”  

Another day, another fucking workplace harassment mess to sort out. How many more sodding seminars was he going to have to host before they all got it through their heads that biting off a co-worker’s arm was not a viable long-term conflict resolution strategy?

Sigh.

It was only after four meetings and sixteen calls that Crowley remembered he’d not yet disposed of the assassin.

“I suppose I should make an example of you,” he huffed, already imagining it.

The hassle.

The bother.

Getting an apron on.

Finding the hammer.

Lugging the stupid bastard up a ladder and nailing him to the office noticeboard by his scrote.

He could always ask Paula to do it. But, bless her heart, she’d only been a demon for six years and arranging a corpse for maximum intimidation was just as much a matter of practice as talent.

As Crowley was fetching the ladder, Gwen from Legal arrived whey-faced and dogged by two dozen assistants and interns.

“Sir, it’s a catastrophe,” she wailed.

Five minutes later, Crowley was back at his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Avoidable. Utterly, pathetically avoidable. All you had to do was amend the contract to state that the phrase ‘ten years’ refers solely and specifically to Earth’s orbital period, not the orbital period of the contractee.”

Gwen hung her head. “I don’t know what to tell you, sir. Finding qualified staff to manage this sort of deal is tricky. When people with, you know, science degrees and stuff die and are damned, the assholes over at the Experimental Punishments Department always snatch ‘em up first. It’s a real problem.”

“I’ll have a word with them. Ugh – alright, alright, let’s try and sort this out. How long is a Martian year?”

“The internet says six hundred and eighty-seven days.”

“Damn. Almost twice as long,” Crowley grumbled, pouring himself a drink. “What did he even want from us? He’s a billionaire. The list of things they can’t get without our help grows shorter by the day.”

“He wanted to guarantee that he’d be the first man on Mars, sir; that none of his competitors would get there before he did.”

“Wait. Hold on. The thing he wished for and the mechanism by which he’s attempting to fuck us over are one and the same? Oh, no, no, no. I’m not going to take that cheeky bollocks lying down. Get the head of Research and Development in here, now. We’re going to find out how to crash a spaceship.”

Gwen’s gaze flickered to the assassin’s corpse. “Um.”

“Fuck,” Crowley muttered.

At which point Paula tapped on the door to ask if he wanted to reschedule his next five meetings, because unless he could deal with them all in a grand total of twelve minutes, he’d be late for his call with the NRA’s chairman.

When Castiel arrived – without an appointment, as per usual, but Paula had standing instructions to let him through – he found Crowley resting his head on his desk, fantasising about being a paperweight.

“I’ve come for more sex,” he explained.

Dragging himself from despair’s depths, Crowley slurred, “T’riffic.”

He instructed his meat suit to sit up and turn on the winning smile. Unlike more reliable vehicles, possessed bodies didn’t have dashboard lights to indicate an exhausted battery; instead, it announced its displeasure by growing three new tumours.

Castiel stepped back, confused. Displeased. “You’re usually more enthusiastic than this. Why is your desk covered in diagrams of rockets? Is this a ‘new hobby’?”

Exaggerated finger quotes. Damn him to the pit, he was precious.

“Kitten, rest assured I have only two hobbies and they both dress badly.”

He expected retaliation for that. Castiel hated being reminded that Crowley regularly dallied with his favourite human. It came as a surprise, then, when the angel simply reached out and firmly gripped his shoulder, declaring, “You need to rest.”

Wings flapped. Suddenly, Crowley was standing in front of a wide, glassy lake, surrounded by dense forest, and in the distance…

“Is that Mount Fuji?”

“Indeed,” said Castiel, smiling briefly. “She’s a childhood friend. I first visited when she was little more than an unusually picturesque bump in the ground.”  

There was no one around. There was nothing around. No boats on the lake, no fishermen, no families on holiday, not even the distant roar of traffic. Just them, the view, the water, and a – huh – a bright orange tent pitched nearby.

“This is where I come to relax,” Castiel informed him, opening up the zipper.

“Whose is it?”

“Mine.”

“Huh. I wasn’t aware that you…”

“That I what?”

“Owned things. Or even grasped the concept of owning things. Don’t give me that look; you’re the one who’s worn the same socks ever since you slipped into that God-bothering flesh puppet.”

Castiel sniffed. “Materialism is a disease. But I’m not a child, Crowley. For your information, in my time on Earth I have owned many things.”

Always fun to ruffle the pretty bird’s feathers. “Yeah? How many of them were hand-me-downs from the Hardy Boys?”

“Most of them,” he said, levelly. “With the exception of this tent and your ass, demon.”

A pin drop pause.

Castiel maintained unblinking eye contact for exactly twelve seconds, then turned and crawled into his neon den.

Practically vibrating with adoration, Crowley followed.

It was evident that Castiel, despite his laudable efforts to create a space for himself in a world that had no space for him, didn’t entirely grok camping.

There were no sleeping bags. Instead, the tent’s bottom was covered in duvets, dozens of them, soft and fresh as if they’d come directly from the shop – or, more accurately, Crowley suspected, someone’s washing line.

“I cured her dog’s foot infection,” Castiel said, somewhat defensively, settling into his cotton and fleece nest.

“Ah. And she was so grateful she said you could make off with all her laundry, hm?”

“She… did not say those words, precisely. But it was heavily implied.”

Thank sin this was only a meat suit. Thank sin, thank everything that Castiel couldn’t see the expression of hopeless, pitiable fondness that would have adorned Crowley’s true face at that moment.

It was a relief when Castiel, without further ado, started undressing. Crowley, copying him, took the opportunity to talk sense into himself.

Come on. Grow up. Get it together. You know what you are. More importantly, you know what he is. Ageless. Unfathomable. Demons, at the end of the day, are just distilled human nastiness, but him? He existed before humans. Before microbes. He’s nice to babies and bees and pot plants and Dean and that makes it easy to forget that… that…

Oh, yes. Remember when he came to Hell? The first time he saw Dean; the start of their epic, eternal, infuriating romance? And where were you? That’s right. You were with the others, standing there slack-jawed and helpless, like dinosaurs watching the comet hit. Like children gazing up at a mushroom cloud.

Twelve thousand. That’s how many demons he burned out of existence, without even trying. Twelve thousand.

Do you think he ever thinks about them? Do you think he even noticed?

Twelve thousand.

Do you think he knows how close you were to being one of them?

Do you think he cares?

He’s nice to babies. Bees. Pot plants. Dean. You, even, sometimes. He’s sweet. He’s got big, soft blue eyes and hair that aches to be tussled. He’s a top-tier, world-class fuck. And at any moment, for any reason, he could end you, easy as blowing away dust, and you can’t say for certain he would even remember your name in a month’s time.

“What? No,” Castiel protested when Crowley kissed him. “We’re here to rest, Crowley.”

Drawing back, Crowley leered. “That’s what you want to do, is it? Rest?”

Perpetually thirsty tart that he was, Castiel bit his lip and looked torn. “I… yes.”

Crowley pouted.

Firmer now, Castiel said, “We will rest for a while first. Then we will have sex. Is that satisfactory?”

No sooner had Crowley resignedly nodded than Castiel seized him and finished undressing him, tossing his undershirt and socks out the tent. When they were both naked, the cold air coming off the lake making Crowley shiver, Castiel burrowed into his pilfered pile and dragged the demon down with him.

“Rest first,” he ordered him. “Sex afterwards. No, no – stop that. Afterwards, I said.”

Crowley groaned and whined and fussed, but obeyed.  

And bugger him gently if it wasn’t actually pleasant, very pleasant, to lie there with Castiel’s strong arms locked around his torso, toasty warm under layers of wool while, outside, the lake lapped at its bank and wind rustled through the trees. No assassins. No paperwork. No blood. Everything nice and quiet. Everything calm and clean.

Then Castiel sighed, a hot puff against the back of Crowley’s neck, and said, “You know, the thing that vexes me most about Dean is the way he…”

#supernatural #crowley #castiel #crowstiel #dean winchester #drowley #destiel #drowstiel #fanfic #my fic

[mattzerella-sticks]

Supernatural Crack🩹tober

Day 3: Baby/Pimpmobile - Shotgun

           Baby stares at her reflection in the mirror, acquainting herself with new, yet familiar features. Runs a twitching hand through short, ruffled locks. Giggling at the sensation, and at the novelty of sense. Green eyes light up the more she tussles her new hair, wrinkles appearing around green eyes and pink lips. “Oh my God,” she whispers, voice a deep timbre. Rumbling without an engine. “Cars should totally come with hair!”

           She adds hair to the ever-growing list of things she enjoys while being a human. While being her human. Dean.

           It was a normal day, before. Better than usual. Instead of wasting time, collecting dust, resting alongside rows of retirees Baby burned rubber. Driven over hot asphalt, her tires endlessly spinning. Full up, Dean taking care by feeding her until she could fit no more. And, with open windows, the world could hear her voice as she crooned song after song. She and Dean duetting on most of them. Sam roped in on certain choruses.

           But then they made it home. Journey over, the brothers began emptying her trunk. Baby carried an extra few pounds, souvenirs from the trip. From her rearview mirror, she watched them bicker while stacking boxes in their arms. Dean attempting too much, his face obscured by a wobbling tower. He inched backwards, Sam already given up and abandoning him. A box fell out of view, sound echoing in the room.

           Dean stopped. Bent over –

           Suddenly she sees brown, scuffed boots and an odd, stone figure. Startled, Baby relies on her defenses. Her sirens go off and she honks uncontrollably, but they’re different. Not the same.

           She wasn’t the same. She was Dean.

           “-and Dean is in the car,” Sam explained over the phone, Baby listening but not really. Distracted by an engine that beat, holding her exhaust until sparks burned inside her chassis, and headlights dimmed.

           That’s not right. Not engine, heart. Breath and vision. Sam ran down basic human functions after the call, telling her not to overexert herself. “Be careful with Dean’s body,” he said, “he’s not as durable as – uh… as you used to be, Baby?”

           Nodding, Baby mimicked an affectionate gesture she’s seen Dean use over the years. “I’ll keep Dean safe, Sammy!” she promised, middle finger proudly raised.

           “…Thanks.”

           Unhitched, Baby decided that while in Dean’s body for the time being, she might cruise the only other place he’s called Home. See how a stationary building compares against her sleek, steadfast design.

           In her objective, unbiased opinion, Baby finds her competition lacking. It’s too big, sprawling like the American highway system. A map needed in plotting the path between point A and B. And the detours were confusing. One whole room dedicated for storing food? Pointless. Drive-thrus and diners still existed, meaning the stockpile she found inside a giant, white box wasted space for probably better things. There’s also a washroom that made little sense. How can Dean thoroughly clean himself when little walls were built throughout, blocking any attempt at moving onto the next station?

           Humanity was too complicated for her. Baby enjoyed the simple pleasures. Air on her face, the sound of her steps echoing, and her appearance.

           Wandering, she passed by a room with little thought about it. But, surprisingly, she shifted into reverse.

           Nothing she saw meant anything to her. But her body – Dean’s body – eased, like when she would do rolling stops. Comfortable and safe, in control. Given how crazy the entire day’s been, she savors the feeling.

           Curiosity returns though, not idling for long. Baby investigates the new space. Turns down the soft tarp, leaning on a plush ledge that differs from any surface she’s touched. Examines many hanging decorations of weapons, recognizing those as Dean wielded many similar shapes while around her. She refrains of grabbing any. Instead pulls on a loose hanging rag, surprised when a compartment opens up. Reveals more of the rag, and how it’s not a rag at all. Baby holds a smaller tarp, painted in a criss-cross pattern like the tarp Dean usually wears.

           “That?” Sam said, earlier, following Baby’s pointed finger, “that’s not a tarp. It’s a shirt.”

           “A shirt…” Baby repeated in this newer room. Rubs it against her face, smiling.

           Dean keeps her looking one way. Always black. Never considering a different style.

           Humans can change their style on a whim. Baby does just that.

           She moves her hands away from her hair, traipsing along the lines of the shirt she chose. Buried underneath all the others, it was a tiny scrap of fabric. Decal sheared off, the hem ending halfway down his chest. Baby pokes at her exposed belly, laughter growing. Then, she rubs a hand on the denim short pants she loves, even if Dean only wears them when washing her.

           “Must’ve been a dust storm or something,” Dean said, she remembers, that morning outside the human garage. “Don’t worry, once we get back I’ll give you some good ol’ TLC.”

           It strikes her that, with their new roles, she can shower Dean in a whole new type of love. Engines revved; she guns back onto the highway. Racing towards the garage where Dean sat for all this time.

           He wasn’t alone.

           Baby skids, stopping at the garage entrance. She spies a familiar figure sitting on her old hood, although it’s been ages since Baby saw him in such a state.

           Castiel kicks his legs, wearing only a pair of slacks while murmuring in a low pitch she cannot hear at this distance. Inching closer, Baby notices a nearby pile. His familiar beige tarp, and a darker color of a similar design. Striking blue strip still hanging off a wrinkled white shirt. And black hubcaps – shoes, they’re called shoes – with grey rags sticking out.

           “…and the sky… the sky is so weird, here,” Castiel mumbles, “how do they put up with it? No blue, no purple – no sun, no stars…” He chuckles, stealing the road out from under Baby. She pauses, the sound hauntingly familiar to her. Not like the angel who’s ridden with her boys. Like someone she hadn’t heard in years. “I wish you could talk,” Castiel says, petting the hood now, “I’m finally awake again, but we’re still separated –“

           “Linc?”

           Linc’s head whips towards her, eyes widening in recognition. “Dean,” he stands, advancing, “Dean, I can – I can explain –“

           “No,” Baby interrupts, closing the distance. She wraps her arms around him, savoring how he fit there. “No, not Dean,” she explains, “it’s Baby.”

           “Baby?” Linc gasps, twisting in her grasp. He studies her in a new light, “How… when did –“

           “Before you, I think,” she tells him. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

           Linc scoffs, slinking away. Moving, she can tell how different he is from the angel. Hunched over, hands shoved in folds within the slacks that are slung low on his hips. “Darkness… y’know, so much darkness.” He looks left, at a nearby car covered in an old, oily tarp and dust. “But then that changes, and the next thing I remember, I’m in my ol’ driver’s frame –“

           “Body,” she corrects, wincing under his arched brow. “They’re called bodies… apparently.”

           “Right,” he drawls, whistling the word out. “Fuckin’ stupid…” Linc shuffles over, hand freed and hovering near her face. “Aren’t humans dumb?”

           “They’re not dumb,” she says, face twinging with pain as she smiles. It hurts, in a good way. “But they do a lot of unnecessary things.”

           “Fuckin’ A they do.” Linc gestures at the discarded coverings, snorting. “Why they wear so much, I’ll never know.”

           Baby sighs, “You do tend to run hot, Linc. It’s not Castiel’s fault –“

           “Maybe if he ever looked under my hood, he’d fix it.” Linc spits, bitterness soaking the words. A dark cloud of exhaust following it. “Fix a lot of things, make it so I can be out there, again. I can be… I can be with you.”

           She missed him. Missed his snark, and his care. Whenever she returned, Linc would immediately run through a check list – hoping nothing too serious happened while out. Waited by her side if a hunt left some casualties and distracted her from Dean’s surgery with stories of his former life.

           This anger… it’s been festering like oil. Every day Castiel didn’t drive him, it grew. Being decommissioned, forgotten, absorbed into an ancient collection… made the hurt grow. Baby tried speaking with him, then, in those early days. He never heard her. Couldn’t see how sad she was. Close, but still so far.

           Baby grabs his hand, guiding it to her cheek. “I missed you, too.” She leads him forward, leaning on her old hood. “Missed a lot of things… but we have a chance. A small window of opportunity, while Sammy figures out how we can get back to who we were.”

           Linc shakes his head, “Make that a large window. When the oaf left he had no clue where he should start!”

           “Then we can do it more than once.”

           “Do what?”

           She glances behind, at her cabin. “They might have complicated much of life, but humans still know about simple pleasures. Let’s make like the humans do, and… fool around in the backseat?”

           He catches on, laughter cutting through like a sharp honk. “I wouldn’t know where to start,” he wriggles his fingers, “still unused to all these extra… features.”

           “I’ll help you.” Sliding off the hood, Baby and Linc hurry – hand in hand – into the second row. “Dean’s done this a lot. Now I’ll finally understand why he chooses to do it here.”

           “Don’t think about Dean,” Linc whispers in her ear, tiny pellets of hail striking her skin. “It’s just you and me, Baby. Linc and Baby… together again.”

           “Together again…” She turns slightly, enough that her mouth captures Linc’s, an imitation of all the times she watched Dean do the same through the rearview. Baby never got it. In that moment, she does. It’s finding a parking spot in a crowded lot. Passing a light as it switches from yellow to red. Idling on the side of the road during a sunset, her boys sitting on her hood. Baby breaks from the kiss, gasping.

           She prefers being a car. As she was, her life was simple. Still… humanity had its perks.

           Linc and her explore all of them, until the clock runs out.

(Day 2 - Oops! All Plaid)

#supernatural #profoundnet #cracktober #spn #spn fanfic #destiel #dean winchester #castiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #destiel fanfiction #deancas fanfic #deancas fanfiction #baby as dean #pimpmobile as cas #also pimpmobile's named Linc

[luccislegs]

The goddess of writing for polyamory can we please be blessed with All Might/Reader/Aizawa where reader and Aizawa still have their hero jobs so they often go on patrol together, but one night they come home to find All Might feeling down because he’s no longer able to do heroics anymore? The two of them decide to do something to cheer him up and make it up to him, it can be fluff or nsfw! I’m lof u :sadcat:

@jinxxyminxxy here you are even tho i know this mostly for me, and i appreciate it 🥺 i was on a really soft, insecure, needed comfort all might kick when i wrote these so fite me if u don’t like it 😤 i was gonna try and do smut but i just,,,wasn’t feelin’ it idk. this is also 2k words oops

You and Aizawa both know that it’s hard on Toshi, watching the two of you carry on with your hero duties while he’s stuck at school teaching or at home watching the news for any hint of you. No matter how many times you’ve told him that you like having him home at night, ready with a meal after a long day, he still feels like a burden.

Or that’s what he tells you, anyway. You’re both sure it’s true, but you know deep down that it’s more than that. There are feelings of insecurity, self loathing, and worthlessness stewing below there, but All Might won’t spill them no matter how gently you coax. So the best you and Aizawa can do is support him where you can, reminding him that you’re there for him.

On that particular night, you and Aizawa are out far later than normal. Having had no time to even shoot Toshinori a quick text letting you know you would be late, the two of you completely forget amidst the chaos and destruction the villain is causing. By the time everything is over, it’s 3 hours past when your patrol was supposed to be over and the two of you are bone tired.

Ignoring the swarming news helicopters, reporters, and adoring fans and rescued victims wanting to thank you for saving them, the two of you duck away, letting other heroes take the spotlight so that you can rush home. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, you’re both in hurry to get back to Toshi, to reassure him you’re alright and also maybe get something to eat.

It was probably the not knowing, or maybe it was just his norm when you and Aizawa aren’t home, but when the two of you stumble into the house, Toshi is slumped over the table with his head in his hands. Judging by the ragged breathing and the unkempt, tussled spots in his hair, something was wrong.

“Toshi, what is it?” you ask, rushing to his side. Aizawa follows at a slower pace, settling down on his other side and threading his fingers through All Might’s disheveled blond locks.

Toshi freezes as he realizes he’s been caught. It was something he was ashamed of, the jealousy he feels that the two of you can carry on as if nothing is wrong-- which is an unfair thought. He knows you worry for him, knows he’s being irrational, and it’s one of the reasons he hides his feelings. He doesn’t want to drag either of you down with him.

“W-Welcome home,” he murmurs, pulling his hands from his face. Taking either of yours in his, he forces a smile to his face. “How was your patrol? You’re running awfully late.”

You share a worried, critical look with Shouta, who’s giving you his own before nodding sharply. “We’re sorry we couldn’t let you know. I don’t know if you’ve seen the news, but things got very out of hand tonight.���

Aizawa picked up where you left off, squeezing Toshi’s thin fingers in his. “But don’t try to distract us. This has been going on far too long. You need to talk to us.”

You wince at his blunt, straightforward statement. He wasn’t known for his tactfulness (unless it was directed at kids, and even then...) but you wished just this once he could be a bit softer. But you were there, as ever, to pick up his slack. “Honey, you can’t keep doing this to yourself. We’re a team and we’re here for you. Talk to us, please.”

Toshi sighed then, slipping his hands from yours. They folded in his lap and he stared at his knees for several long moments. He was grateful that you were home, and deep down there was relief that his hand was being forced. There was one fear that was greater than all the others, and that was his fear of losing the two of you. Whether you realized it or not, you and Aizawa were his anchors, the only thing keeping him from drowning in his own self-pity. 

But that didn’t make it any easier on him, finding the words to explain how he felt. It was years of stewing and pushing these feelings down, only letting himself fall victim to them when he knew he was alone. Putting them into words wasn’t something he’d ever really considered doing.

“It’s got to do with us being heroes still, doesn’t it, Toshi?” Aizawa asked at last. He was always the most perceptive of the three of you, and both you and Toshi were grateful for it now. 

It gave him a place to start, and he nodded. “W-Well, sort of. It’s-- You know how I felt about retiring. It was necessary but…”

“But you didn’t want to. We know, Toshi,” you said. You wanted to reassure him, but felt like it wasn’t the right time. Right now, he just needed prompting to vent. Reassurance would only cause him to shut down.

“Right. I don’t like just sitting at home while the two of you go out on dangerous patrols. It makes me feel so worthless.” The last part was murmured, and you could hear the shame in his voice. “I know that isn’t fair to the two of you, so I didn’t say anything.”

You shifted, situating yourself as comfortably as you could besides him, with his knees tucked under the table and your hero costume digging and chafing after wearing it for so long. Covering the hand you were already holding with your other one, you leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his cheek.

On his other side, Aizawa sighed, giving Toshi a fond, exasperated look. “You fool. You aren’t worthless just because you can’t do this anymore. You did it for damn near thirty years. Probably more, given how stubborn you are.”

You nodded, the motion awkward against his cheek, and Toshi leaned into you a little. “You gave everyone so much. A Symbol of Peace. Years of peace and security. Your health, almost your life. Toshi, how could you be worthless?”

Before either men could react, you had thrown yourself at Toshi, knocking him into Aizawa, who was just quick enough to brace himself for the impact. You giggled from atop them at Toshi’s stunned look and Aizawa’s half-hearted scowl. While you were nuzzling into Toshi’s neck, you felt Aizawa’s arms come around the two of you, though he could only reach so far.

“I know you say that but how...how could you like me-- like this?” Toshi asked, staring blankly up at the ceiling. This was another deep rooted insecurity that he had been avoiding. Most of the time the thoughts were drowned out by your constant presences and actions, reassuring him that you weren’t there for show. But then the two of you would kiss him goodbye and head off together, leaving him alone at home and they would rear their ugly heads. And when neither of you had bothered to let him know you would be home late...

His fingers were threaded between Aizawa’s on your sides, squeezing so tight that Aizawa was sure he would lose feeling in them shortly. But he squeezed back nonetheless, telling him he wasn’t going anywhere. “Like what? Like a man who’s given his all for a country? Like a man who’s literally given his health for millions of strangers who don’t even know what he’s done? Like what, All Might?”

Toshi flinched at Aizawa’s use of his hero name. It was like there was a disconnect there now. He was still All Might, but he no longer felt like he deserved to be All Might. “Like a walking skeleton ready to keel over at any moment.”

Neither of you missed the slight tensing and quick relax in his body, and you sat up, pulling Toshi with you. For as strong as Aizawa was, you knew it couldn’t be comfortable with 200+ pounds of weight laying on him.

Aizawa situated Toshi between his legs, resting his head on the older man’s shoulder while you straddled his legs, cupping his face in your hands. “Well first off, you’re our skeleton, and don’t you forget it.”

That got a chuckle out of both of them, Aizawa covering his face with his hand in exasperation. “You’re ridiculous, _____.”

Sticking your tongue out at him, you continued. “Second, Aizawa said it already. You are someone who’s given everything for everyone. We couldn’t be more proud to be with you, to call you ours. Lastly and most importantly--”

“You are All Might. You *earned* that title and you shouldn’t let anyone take it from you--”

“Least of all yourself, Toshi. You shouldn’t sell yourself so short. You worked so hard to build your name and your reputation--”

“And the fact that you think you don’t deserve it now is insulting to everything you’ve done in his name.”

In the silence that followed, you could have heard a pin drop. From the deep shadows of his eyes, tears began to fall. You wiped them away as quickly as you could, and when Aizawa realized what was going on, he pressed his lips to Toshi’s neck, squeezing his middle tighter.

“We aren’t going anywhere, Toshinori. I hope you don’t forget that again,” Aizawa drawled against his skin. He could feel the prominent scar underneath his partner’s shirt, a symbol of pain and all that Toshi had fought for, given up, and lost over the last several years. His hand slid up, pushing Toshi’s shirt up and ran his fingers over the twisted flesh, causing him to jump.

“We couldn’t be happier. Maybe you can’t support us from the field, but do you know how much it means to us to come home to you? It’s like a breath of fresh air after a patrol, seeing your face. Even if he won’t admit it, we both feel as much. We love you, Toshi. Please don’t forget that,” you murmured, pressing a tender kiss to his lips.

Aizawa followed your sentiment, trailing languid kisses up the side of Toshi’s neck, ending just beneath his ear. “And if we have to, we will show you just how much we mean it, won’t we, _____?”

The smirk you gave Toshi was devilish and almost criminal. “Is that what you need? Do we need to show you how much you mean to us, All Might?”

Aizawa could feel him gulp under his lips, his fingers tightening on your thighs as he struggled to come to terms with this new arousal and his still jumbled feelings. At last, he sighed, giving you a soft kiss and laying his hand across Aizawa’s, the one still covering his scar like he was protecting it.

“Not tonight. Tonight I think I just want...to watch movies. Is that okay?” he asked, giving you a tired smile. His eyes fluttered closed as your lips covered his, jumping at the slight nip on his neck from Aizawa.

“Whatever you want, sunshine. Let us get changed out of these costumes, okay?” you said, standing up and helping your partners to their feet. You knew Aizawa’s costume was a lot more comfortable than yours, but even he had his limits. 

“I’ll heat up dinner again,” Toshi said, half-stumbling towards the kitchen. The two of you smiled, laughing under your breaths at how easily the man was flustered by your affections. 

In the bedroom, as you got undressed, you had a dawning realization. Half-clothed, you pulled Aizawa to you, enjoying the feel of his warm skin on yours. He was surprised by the intense kiss you bestowed him, letting his hands settle on your hips. Pulling back, you gave him a serious look. “You know I love you too, right?” 

Aizawa laughed, looking a little concerned. “Yes, kitten. And I love you. Is everything alright?”

You shrugged, drawing small patterns on his chest. “Yeah, everything’s fine. I just felt like saying it.”

In a moment, you were crushed to his chest, his fingers wound in your hair and his breath raspy in your ear, and you knew he understood your sentiment. The door creaked open mid-hug, and Toshi watched the display with a shy, hopeful look. Laughing at his timid behavior, which you figured wasn’t ever going to change, you both opened your arm to him, ending up in a smushed, awkward threeway hug.

He towered over both of you, hiding his face in the top of Aizawa’s head, who in turn was resting his on top of yours. Your head was directly over his heart, listening to it stutter at a fast and uneven pace, and you felt a flood of adoration all over again for the two men. 

They were yours and you would never let them forget it and the warmth in their gazes when you pulled away told you all you needed to know about how they felt.

#toshinori yagi #all might x reader #shouta aizawa #shouta aizawa x reader #all might x shouta aizawa #all might x reader x shouta aizawa #bnha headcanons

[danveresque]

Back To You (Epilogue) [Aaron Dingle/Robert Sugden]

Back To You (Epilogue) by d.

Summary: It’s the end to their story, somewhere in the future.

Notes: Another universe, an unrelated to anything one shot, and a sequel to all the fics in and then you’ll come home to me.

Back To You (Epilogue)

He was standing by the side of a road watching in horror as Robert stood surrounded by the police. He wasn’t struggling, or trying to get away. He was just...standing there, having his rights read to him, nodding. It made no sense. They were supposed to be leaving together. So how was Aaron standing here on the side of this road, and Robert was over there, getting further and further from Aaron’s outstretched hand?

Aaron woke with a sharp intake of breath, his head immediately snapping to the side. He closed his eyes, sighed thankfully. Robert was right there next to him, fast asleep. Aaron swallowed down sleep and terror, opening his eyes again, taking a longer look at Robert.

Turning onto his side Aaron just watched Robert until the night passed and the sun finally came up. Some mornings it was like this. The present still felt vulnerable as if it sat balanced on the knife edge of the past.

"Didn't sleep?" Robert murmured, opening his eyes.

"We've only got four days here," Aaron said. "Not wasting it sleeping."

Here was France and France was perfect.

France was always perfect. It felt like a place they were meant to be. Maybe there were other universes where they had always been here. Maybe that’s why every step they took felt like they were retracing a path already travelled. The French had the best word for it too, déjà vu.

Everywhere they went felt like home.

“Let’s stay here forever,” Robert said that night, soft on wine, offering up his opinions between smiling kisses. 

Aaron laughed, his body covering Robert’s, the duvet on the floor, the curtains billowing open, the moon’s large eye watching them wide and scandalised. Aaron kissed Robert, laughing every time Robert slipped in a comment between kisses.

“You should be in charge more.”

Kiss.

“You’re so fit.”

Kiss.

“No, beautiful. You’re beautiful, Aaron.”

Kiss.

“Are you laughing at me?”

Aaron pulled back and smiled, drinking in the sight of Robert’s moonlit face. “No?”

“Liar,” Robert said, with a lopsided grin. 

And then Aaron was in a tangle of Robert’s long arms wrapping around him, sinking into a deeper kiss that was nothing to laugh about. 

*

Robert cracked open his eyes to a too white room. The sun seemed to be shining from practically on top of him. He looked in the direction of the window to find the light was so strong he couldn’t make out the shape of the frame or where the drapes started as they billowed mildly, dancing just above the floor, as if swept up on the soft sound of music playing quietly on the radio. 

He wasn’t alone in the room. There was a shape made dark by the light, moving around the place, chattering quietly, obscured until Robert scowled hard in his direction, seeing Aaron emerge from a blur. He climbed onto their bed, looking down at Robert with a soft indulgent smile. Aaron looked so happy, all the way up into the blues of his warm eyes. It was one of his rare smiles, content and peaceful.

Robert stared at him, confused. Aaron’s smile widened into a small grin. “What?”

“Déjà vu,” Robert murmured, frowning at Aaron from under the fog of heavy sleep. 

Aaron shuffled close, dipping his head to press his mouth against Robert’s in a gentle kiss that slowly coaxed Robert awake. Aaron didn’t go far when he pulled back, staying close with his mouth tilting up at the corner, making his eyes sparkle. 

“Morning,” Aaron said, still with that smile. 

Robert reached up to cup his face, sliding his thumb slow across Aaron’s bottom lip. “Morning.”

“You alright?” Aaron asked after giving Robert’s thumb a little nip. Robert moved his hand to hold Aaron’s face lightly by his chin. “Talking in your sleep again.”

Robert frowned. “I had this weird dream. I was in the Mill, but I couldn’t find you. And then it wasn’t the Mill anymore. It was just me. Alone.”

“Stupid dream,” Aaron said, scowling as if he took the subconscious output of Robert’s brain personally. 

Robert nodded. “It was pretty upsetting. I could do with some comfort.”

Aaron grinned at him, one hundred watt bright. “Yeah? What were you thinking?”

“Come closer. I’ll whisper it in your ear,” Robert said with a mischievous smile. 

“Shut up. Idiot,” Aaron said laughing. 

Robert laughed along, grabbing at Aaron and getting a surprised squawk out of him, before everything turned into a tussle of limbs and laughter, Robert ending up where he started, on his back, this time with Aaron pinning his wrists to the mattress. 

“I win,” Robert murmured, looking at Aaron’s mouth, waiting for the inevitable kiss coming his way.

Aaron scowled. “How’d you make that out?”

“Where I want to be, isn’t it?” Robert said, looking into the receding blues of Aaron’s eyes.

Aaron looked a little breathless for a second, before he smiled and said, “Smooth.”

*

“Do you think this is what they mean by long lunch?” Aaron deadpanned, pointing at his baguette, before grinning proudly.

Robert stared at him, before his eyes closed for a second and he shook his head. He opened his eyes and looked around them in the small cafe, overacting as usual.

“What?” Aaron said.

“Just making sure no one who looks like they might speak English saw me with you when you said that,” Robert told Aaron. 

Aaron scrunched up both his face and his napkin, throwing the latter at Robert. “Shut up you.”

Robert smiled, catching the napkin and placing it back on the table. He nodded to Aaron’s lunch. “Give us a bite then.”

“What? You shouldn’t have ordered that fancy salad mate if you knew it wasn’t going to fill you up,” Aaron said before taking a huge bite of the baguette. He sat there holding it for a moment, eyes closed in bliss as he chewed and let out a pleasured, “Mmm. Très bon, mate, très bon.”

“Alright, stop,” Robert said, making a face and holding up his hands. “I really don’t need to get turned on the next time I go get a baguette for lunch.”

“What?” Aaron said around a mouthful.

*

“Do you ever think about if we had met in a different way?” Robert asked. They were taking a leisurely afternoon walk. The sky was a bright blue, the sun shining, making even the chill in the air enjoyable. 

Aaron tightened his hand around Robert’s. “How’d you mean?”

“I dunno, like more normally than we did? Most people don’t find the love of their life because he’s nicked their car,” Robert said. 

Aaron was thinking about it. He shrugged and said. “I used to. Back when we were...you know?”

He didn’t say sneaking around, carrying on a torrid affair, acting like complete idiots. Robert knew all the same though, nodding. 

“I’d think, what if we met in Bar West? Or just any old bar,” Aaron said. “I’d wish we had. I’d wish that...you could have just been mine from the start.”

“I would have been,” Robert said quietly. 

“You think so?”

Robert stopped walking, yanking on Aaron’s hand to pull him close. “I know so. Even if I hadn’t been out and proud, one look is all it would take. One look was all it took.”

Aaron smiled. “So...what? You’d come over and chat me up would you? All smug and full of yourself?”

“Yeah, why not,” Robert said with a grin. “I know my audience.”

Aaron laughed, shaking his head. “Big head.”

“I’d come over,” Robert said, his voice low, just for the two of them, his eyes fixed on Aaron’s face, his hands having moved to Aaron’s forearms. “And I’d say...has anyone told you...you have the most amazing eyes? I’d love to wake up looking into them.”

Aaron stared at Robert. A grin spread across his face and he laughed. Robert would have been offended if Aaron’s face hadn’t gone bright pink. He grinned along with Aaron, shaking him playfully.

“What? Not good enough for ya?” Robert said. 

Aaron smiled at him, one eye squinting shut against the sun’s glare. “Cheesy.”

“Went home alone, did I?” Robert asked.

“I never said that,” Aaron said. “Cheesy ain’t always bad.”

“So…”

“You pulled,” Aaron said, catching Robert in the bright glare of his gaze.

*

Aaron was pinned under Robert’s body, panting into open-mouthed kisses as Robert moved in and out of his body. He was keeping to a rhythm intent on making this last as long as possible, driving Aaron mad in the process. Aaron let out a frustrated sound that should have embarrassed him, keening low and wounded, so close to coming, but so not close enough.

“Aaron,” Robert panted, moving a little faster, his body tripping from patient to greedy. “Aaron.”

Aaron closed his eyes, forehead denting, mouth going slack as his breath quickened. Robert's thrusts were picking up speed, their skin slapping obscenely in the otherwise silent room.

Aaron came soon with a loud strangled, “Robert!”

It seemed to do it for Robert who's movements turned into an erratic stutter and then he was coming too, muttering, "Aaron, Aaron. Aaron."

In a bit, their sticky and sweaty situation would become less than comfortable, but for now, they lay there with their bodies pressed together, Robert a heavy weight on Aaron who felt flattened like a pancake. Robert hummed against Aaron’s chest, a croaky broken noise. Aaron palmed the back of Robert’s sweaty neck, stroking up and down from his hair. Robert seemed transfixed for the moment with the window where the sky was a strange infusion of pink and blue. 

Aaron moved his hand from Robert’s neck to his arm, stroking idly up and down, quietly telling him, “Love you.”

Robert pressed a kiss to Aaron’s sternum, before shimmying up a little to offer a stupidly chaste kiss, murmuring, “Love you.”

Aaron tried not to think of all the moments lost to them. All the time stolen.

Robert was frowning at him. Aaron smiled and said, “What?”

“Look so serious,” Robert accused.

“Was thinking,” Aaron said.

“How? Blood can’t be back in your brain that quick."

Aaron smiled a little wider. “Was just thinking...this has been perfect, ain’t it?”

“Yeah,” Robert said thoughtfully.

He seemed to bite back on something. Aaron nudged him with his knee. “What?”

Robert shrugged. “Anywhere’s perfect with you.”

Aaron felt stinging in those rotten over emotional eyes of his. He told Robert, “Same.”

Robert dipped his head for another kiss and then just rested his forehead against Aaron’s for a moment. “Shower yeah? Then we can think about dinner.”

“In a minute,” Aaron said, tipping his mouth up for another kiss.

They lay there kissing slow and sweet, unhurried, time on their side for once.

*

The view was delectable. Aaron was wearing a black suit, sitting there with the top two buttons of his shirt open. He’d not taken his stubble back too much and his hair was on the longer side and the candle in the middle of their table was flickering bright in his eyes. 

Aaron let out a little laugh, putting down his wine glass and asking, “What?”

“What?” Robert said, taking his glass and taking a mouthful before setting it back on the table. “Allowed to look at my husband. Not a crime.”

Aaron looked amused, the spark in his eyes giving away the fact that maybe there was some enjoyment in being looked at too. He glanced around the restaurant which was quiet and decorated in rich dark tones, wonderfully warm whilst outside the temperature had dipped some more. 

“Good choice,” he said. 

“Yeah?” Robert said, looking around the place, finding it even better now that it had Aaron’s approval. “Waiters are a bit rude though.”

“What? No. They’re just not over the top and in your face here,” Aaron said, drinking some more wine, whilst Robert felt a portion of his brain short out. Aaron rolled his eyes at the too long gaze that had settled on him. “What now?”

Robert smiled in answer. Aaron laughed it off, scratching at his forehead, pink from ear to ear. Robert stole another look before paying attention to his wine and his now rumbling stomach. Sighing, he said, “Think I should go in there and give them a hand?”

“I think you should go back in time and eat something more filling than what you had for lunch,” Aaron said, absolutely lacking in sympathy. 

“I think I might have a snack in my pocket,” Robert said, going from pocket to pocket, Aaron watching him looking confused. His face went slack as soon as he saw the small velvet black box in Robert’s hand. “Here we go.”

Robert opened the box, placing it on his palm and holding it out. Aaron was staring at the silver band, looking just a little upset. 

“I know,” Robert said softly. “We’ve done it before. Doing it again might be like tempting fate. It’s...terrifying. And I know, we don’t need rings, weddings, and all the rest of it, but...I want it, Aaron. I want everything with you. I doubt anyone’s going to come to our third wedding, but I’m asking you anyway. Aaron, will you marry me?”

Aaron was quiet, eyes liquid and bright. He was staring at the ring and then looking at Robert, his mouth quivering. Robert felt his own breath thin in his chest. Maybe it was too soon. Or maybe it was just too frightening.

"Listen," Robert said softly. "You can say no. I know-"

"No," Aaron said thickly.

Robert's mouth opened and then stuttered shut. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He clenched his jaw, trying to not let his emotions overtake him as Aaron sat there rooting around in his pocket for a crumpled tissue or something.

"No," Aaron said. "I mean...I'm not saying no."

Robert frowned, his frown easing when he saw Aaron retrieve a small red velvet box from his pocket and put it next to Robert's offering.

Robert grinned at the sight of it, whilst Aaron said, “That answer your question?”

*

Robert was sitting in bed, half under the covers and half lounging back against the plush cushions, his skin pinked from their tumble in the sheets. He was looking at his ring, twisting it round and round with a little smile on his face. It was simple, a little slimmer than their old rings and a lot less expensive than Robert's which looked as if it had been polished with diamonds even if was a simple silver band. There he was though, grinning like an idiot at the simple ring Aaron had bought him.

Aaron had too look away if made his heart swell so much.

“I’m gonna start worrying if you don’t stop looking at that,” Aaron said, pulling on his black briefs followed by his green sweater. 

“Just admiring it,” Robert said, looking up from the ring to pull back the covers so Aaron could clamber back into bed. He gave Aaron a little peck on the corner of his mouth. “Look at you. We’re not in the North Pole.”

“It’s well cold in here,” Aaron said, glancing at the expanse of Robert’s naked chest and then nodded to his arms. “You’ve got goose pimples!”

Robert looked at his arm, frowning and making a little hmm noise. Nodding to Aaron, he said, “Well, stop complaining and warm me up then.”

Aaron snorted, but pounced on Robert all the same.

*

“I’ve been thinking,” Aaron said, somewhere around three in the morning. 

“Hmm?” Robert responded, lying draped over Aaron, his big head square in the middle of Aaron’s chest. Just where he liked it. 

Aaron played with the hair at the nape of Robert’s neck. “This time, we both sneak off in the middle of the day or summat, find a nice registrar, two witnesses if we really have to, get married, and then come home. Married.”

Robert was shifting. He lifted his head, his eyes catching moonlight as he looked at Aaron. “What? Elope?”

“Already done it the other way,” Aaron said. “Maybe we should do it differently.”

Robert was quiet and he was thinking exactly what Aaron wasn’t saying, both of them building their own superstitions. 

“If that’s what you want,” Robert said with a nod. “Though, I’d change a few things.”

“Like what?” Aaron asked.

“Well, we disappear one morning, without saying a word. We shack up in some hotel room, leave it to get married, and then come back for our honeymoon. Get a couple of randoms to be the witnesses. We go back to Emmerdale, and no one even knows. Now that is how you elope.”

Aaron laughed, shaking his head. “Want to get a set of matching tattoos while you’re at it?”

Robert’s grin managed to look white even with the lights off. “I’m game if you are. Look, I’m all for keeping it low key, but we are allowed to celebrate. Third time or thirtieth, doesn’t make it any less important or exciting.”

“No?” Aaron asked.

“Aaron,” Robert said. “I love marrying ya.”

Aaron smiled, running his fingers through Robert’s hair, murmuring, “Soft.”

*

Something wasn't right. He'd gone to sleep happy with Aaron and now he was outside Keeper's watching a carriage rolling past. A carriage with a coffin. He dreamed of this often. This had to be a nightmare.

“Me? In a nightmare? Oh, pet, I don’t believe it.”

Robert sat up with a start to see Val looming over his bed, grinning at him with utmost glee. He looked down at himself. He was in a suit, a black suit, and his bed was a coffin, and somewhere Aaron was dead. Val made a faux sympathetic face at him. “Oh, you don’t look so good. I’d say you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Robert jerked awake, eyes and mouth wide open as he tried to catch his breath. Aaron was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding onto his arm and looking like a worried mother hen. "Just a dream."

Robert stared at Aaron. It washed over him again, how lucky he was. There was a moment that had felt like the end for them. And yet, here they were. He looked at the ring on Aaron's finger and then his own ring. Everything was okay.

Aaron reached out and cupped his face. "Okay?"

Robert nodded, before smiling at Aaron and reaching out to grab Aaron by his waist. Dragging him close, Robert said, "I am now."

*

Robert was driving in that effortlessly fast way of his. The way he was sitting in his seat, relaxed, elbow sticking out with the window all the way down, one hand on the wheel, it might have seemed he was cruising at a nice temperate speed. But France was shooting past them fast. Any faster and everything would just be stripes of colour. 

Aaron was leaning back in his seat, almost feeling sleepy he was so relaxed. There was music playing, quiet enough to not intrude, loud enough that it tied into everything around Aaron, making him feel as though he was in a dream - the dream of some unluckier version of himself. Because it occurred to him, he was lucky. 

He glanced across at Robert who looked movie-star beautiful with his sunglasses on, the sun almost glowing in his hair. He was focused on the road and it made his profile even more breathtaking. France continued slipping on by as Aaron just stared at Robert.

Catching sight of Aaron during a brief glance to the side, Robert put his free hand on Aaron’s knee. “Alright?”

Aaron covered Robert’s hand, slotting their fingers together, gazing at their intertwined hands for a moment, before looking up at the long road ahead which could have been a country lane in Emmerdale. Everything felt perfect, so much so that Aaron felt a familiar spark of fear, that just after perfection came ruin. 

“Yeah,” he said all the same.

He had every right to celebrate life in the moment. Not everything could be about the messes that lay waiting in the future. They had this for now, and it was enough. 

“Be home soon,” Robert said. 

Aaron sat back and closed his eyes as Robert slipped his hand out of Aaron’s grasp and turned the music up just a notch. Aaron turned his face towards the warmth of the sun, smiling at the sound of some part French part English pop tune as it filled the car with needless pep. 

Aaron sighed. “We should come back again soon.”

“Honeymoon,” Robert responded loudly over the music. “Yeah?”

Aaron opened his eyes, heart singing along to whatever the hell that was on the radio. It felt good to look forward again after having cried so many tears over all the time lost, all of the past which was ruined. 

Allowing himself a small smile, he answered, “Yeah.”

~ finis ~

#and then you'll come home to me #robron #robronfic #danvblr

[therainroguefanfiction]

⁂ I Will Protect You (Kaoru Kaidoh) [1 of 2]

Genre: Angst, Romance, Dark, Comedy ☁

Word Count: 6,289 ☁

Pairing: Reader x Kaidoh ☁

World: Prince of Tennis ☁

WARNING: This fic contains abuse, both mental and physical.

Author’s Note: The reader is thought to be a boy but is actually a girl. Not sure why, but I felt the need to mention this! Also, holy shit why is this so long. I thought it would be around three thousand, but it was doubled, damn.

━━━━━━༻🌧️༺━━━━━━

You internally groaned when you stepped outside, feeling the heat rays beating down on you. It was hot enough as is, but the long sleeves and male slacks that you wore made it feel twenty times more hot than it actually was. The other students sent you a weird look as they passed, whispering amongst themselves. And why wouldn’t they? You never wore anything but long sleeves and pants, even on the hottest of days. You didn’t understand why they still acted so surprised; you had been dressing like this since your first year, and now, here you were in the middle of your second year.

You sighed, feeling like the weight of the world was beating down on you. You readjusted the bag on your shoulder before continuing towards the school gate. Honestly, you didn’t want to return home; you’d rather be anywhere else in the world, but you knew the consequences for returning home late, even if it was just by a minute or two.

You were so caught up in your thoughts that you didn’t notice two piercing eyes threatening to burn holes in your side.

When you were finally out of his sight, Kaidoh let out a hiss. His body was so jumbled with different emotions that he couldn’t even put a name to everything he was currently feeling. He had been your seatmate since your first year, almost as if fate had wanted the two of you to remain close. To further push that idea, he lived in your neighborhood, just a few houses down.

You had never been close with each other, but you did consider each other a friend. On the rare occasion that he didn’t have practice, the two of you would walk home together in silence – awkward for him, but peaceful for you. You often got paired up to do assignments together, as well.

Kaidoh didn’t know when it had started, he just knew that it had at some point. Somewhere along the road, he had started to develop feelings for you. He wanted to get to know you, but his attempts always failed. He never knew what to ask or how to ask, and when he finally did get up the courage, you usually just answered with a short or vague answer. You never meant to be rude, but you already had so much weighing down your mind that you just never realized what he was attempting to do.

Honestly, Kaidoh felt pretty torn about the whole situation. He wasn’t too interested in dating, since tennis is his first love, and he had never paid much attention to girls. Even so, he had always been sure that he was straight and only liked girls. So why did he fall for his male classmate? He couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Was he gay? Was he just curious?

The regulars easily noticed the change in Kaidoh over the past few weeks. How could they not? They spent practically every single day with the second year. Hell, they probably knew him better than he knew himself! And so, the Seigaku regulars set out on a quest to find the source of his distraction and help him solve the problem that he hadn’t yet realized he had.

“Ouch! You elbowed me in the ribs, Eiji!”

“Nya~ Sorry, Oishi!”

“Not so loud, senpai!”

“Probability of being detected: 100%”

“Saa, I think you’re right, Inui.”

A tick mark appeared under Kaidoh’s right eye as he heard the noise coming from the bushes behind him. His hands balled into fists at his side, his knuckles turning white from the restraint it took not to yell at them and hit Momoshiro – because not even Kaidoh would go so far as to hit his senpai.

“This is ridiculous,”

“Oi, Echizen!” Momo tried to grab onto the first year before he could leave their hiding place, but he was too quick and easily dodged the attempt.

Ryoma approached his senpai was a blank expression. “Who is he?”

Kaidoh narrowed his eyes at the shorter boy. “What?”

“That boy you were watching. Who is he?”

The viper felt his heart rate increase, though he couldn’t tell if it was because of you being mentioned or the fact that the tennis team had seen him staring you down as you left – for all he knew, it could be a combination of both. “N-None of your business!”

The regulars watched as the viper quickly stomped away from the group.

“Probability that the boy is the cause of his distraction: 99.9%”

“Do you know who he is, Inui?” Fuji questioned, tilting his head to the side.

Inui paled, pushing up his glasses with an index finger. He was too ashamed to admit that he didn’t have any information on the boy in question. You were an enigma, even to the data specialist.

“How interesting~” Fuji chuckled after gauging his reaction.

“I know he’s a second year.” Momo supplied, putting his hand on his chin. “I think I’ve seen him in Mamushi’s class before.”

“Data,” Inui muttered to himself, quickly scribbling away in his little black book. The others sweatdropped at his reaction, while Fuji simply laughed.

“Well, if we’re going to solve this problem, we’ll just have to learn more about him!” Oishi declared with a smile.

If you had known about the sudden storm that would descend upon you like the wrath of the gods, you probably would have just fled the country, but you were completely clueless about the plans of the Seigaku regulars.

━━━━━━༻🌧️༺━━━━━━

The next morning, you quietly gathered your things and got dressed for school. Your mother was still sleeping, and you knew there’d be hell to pay if you woke her up by being too loud. It didn’t help that she slept as light a feather – you breathe wrong and the woman wakes up!

You slowly descended the stairs, careful to avoid that one creaky step in the middle – it had been your downfall many times in the past, and you had learned the hard way to avoid it at all costs. You made it downstairs without a problem and set your bag gently on the floor by the door.

‘Almost free’, you thought. All you had to do was make a quick piece of toast and then you’d be out of there. You crossed your arms as you waited, your finger tapping your upper arm impatiently as you watched the timer on the toaster oven. You easily caught it before it could ding, pulling out the hot piece of toast and placing it onto a paper towel. You celebrated mentally, happy to have gotten out of the house without waking the beast that lived upstairs, but it seems you celebrated too soon.

Right as you reached for the door handle, you heard your name being screamed as your mother came rushing down the stairs. Her hair was tussled and messy from sleep and her eyes were narrowed angrily. Your mind screamed at you to run – the door was literally within arm’s reach – but you were frozen to the spot.

“You didn’t feed the damn cat and he woke me up!” She screamed at you.

Your eyes glanced down at her feet where a light gray, pudgy cat was sitting. If they could have expressions, you were sure that his would be smug for getting you into trouble.

You gulped down the piece of toast in your mouth before speaking. “Y-You said not to go in your room…”

“Don’t backtalk me!” She grabbed your arm tightly and you winced in pain. “You know you’re supposed to feed the cat, stupid girl!” She ripped the hat off your head and threw it to the ground. “Your hair is starting to get too long! Boys are supposed to have short hair, not long, get it cut before you walk in this house again!”

“I-I don’t have any money…” You mumbled pathetically, the stinging in your arm causing tears to cloud your vision.

Before you could blink, she backhanded you, sending you crashing back against the door behind you. You winced in pain when you hit the rather large bruise on your back. “You expect me to pay? After everything you’ve done?”

Tears rolled down your cheeks as your face stung in unison with your arm. Your hands clenched around your slacks as you cried out, “What have I done, mother? What have I done to deserve this?”

The look your mother sent you was terrifying, full of hatred and malice. She stepped closer, leaning over so her face was inches away from your own. “You killed your father. He died because he wanted a son! You were nothing but a disappointment! He killed himself because of you!”

“He died in a car crash,” You tried to reason with her.

She spit in your face before standing up straight. “He never would have been in that car if you hadn’t made him leave. He was tired of you!”

Your whole body was shaking, your face a red blotchy mess as tears fell from your eyes and sobs wracked your body. You were in so much pain, you didn’t know what to do. You felt so lost, so useless.

“Get out of my house!”

You scrambled up as quick as you could, nearly tripping as you rushed out the door. You only made it a block or so before you tripped, your body falling to the heated pavement with a thud. It was the middle of the week, so most of the surrounding houses were empty, the area quiet.

You didn’t try to get up. What would be the point? You certainly couldn’t walk into school like that, there’d be too many questions and you couldn’t just say you tripped. If they called your mother, you knew your punishment would be even worse.

Your hand clawed at the pavement as fresh tears blurred your eyes and fresh sobs began to shake your body. You didn’t understand why this was happening to you. Had you done something in a previous life to warrant such punishment? You felt so weak, so drained. You were beginning to wonder if all of this abuse was worth it.

‘No, I can’t think like that!’, you pounded the ground with your fist. You were not going to let your mother win. You would remain strong. One day this will all be over and you’ll be far away from her, living a normal and happy life. You couldn’t let go of that hope – it was all you had.

“O-Oi!” A voice stuttered from behind you. “Are you okay?!”

You looked over your shoulder to see a tall figure, but the tears blurred his face. You quickly swiped them away with the back of your hand. It was your seatmate, Kaidoh, who was now kneeling beside you with a worried and panicked expression on his face.

Of all the people to see you in such a state, it just had to be the boy who had stolen your heart all those years ago. You figured you didn’t stand a chance with him, though. He thought you were a boy, after all, and your mother would never let you be happy. You still had four and half more years before you could rebuild your life and find happiness.

He grabbed your upper arm to get your attention and you winced, making him release you. His grip had been gentle, but he had grabbed the same spot that your mother had. On top of that, the old bruise from a week ago hadn’t fully disappeared and was still a little sore to the touch.

“S-Sorry,” He muttered, his cheeks taking on a slight hue of pink.

“It’s not your fault,” You tried to smile, but couldn’t find the energy.

“What hap – ”

“Aren’t you late for tennis practice, Kaidoh-kun?” You cut him off, hoping to distract him from the current situation.

He paled a bit when you reminded him of his lateness, but he didn’t leave like you had expected. “I can’t leave you like this!”

“I just tripped, that’s all.” Your voice did little to help convince him – it was monotone, lifeless.

He scowled at you. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“W-What?” You stuttered in surprise, eyes wide at the question. That wasn’t what you meant at all! “O-Of course not!”

“That mark on your face is from a hand, not the pavement. Someone hit you.”

Your heart was racing, thumping loudly in your ear as you scrambled to come up with a lie he would actually believe. “I… I was mugged!”

His eyes grew wide like saucers at the information. “M-Mugged?!”

“Yeah! Yeah, that’s what happened! I refused to give up my bag so the guy slapped me!”

“We need to call the police!”

“No!” You hurried to your feet in a panic, only to trip over yourself. Strong arms wrapped around your middle, pulling you into a firm chest rather than the pavement. You cried out in pain, begging him to let you go. As soon as he did, you bolted away from him. He was too stunned to react in time.

━━━━━━༻🌧️༺━━━━━━

You stared at your face in the mirror, analyzing the large red welt on the side of your face. The color had dulled a bit, but it was still quite noticeable. Oh, how you wished you had makeup to cover it with, but since you were supposed to be a boy, your mother had forbidden you from wearing any type of makeup – even chapstick was forbidden.

“I guess I’ll just have to stick to the mugging story…” You muttered to yourself with a frown. You dug around in your bag, producing a bottle of pills. They were an over the counter pain medication that you had saved up for by helping the older woman next door weed her garden. Your back was killing you and you needed relief. You hoped it would help for the various bruises scattered across your torso and arms, as well.

Taking a deep breath, you threw your bag onto your shoulder and left the washroom, quickly thanking the school nurse before scurrying away. By the time you had reached the school, two of your four morning classes had ended.

The bell for the third period rang and you increased your pace, thanking the gods that your classroom was close to the nurse’s office. Your teacher had already begun roll call by the time you stepped inside, earning a glare from the man as he ordered you to take a seat. You were so thankful that he hadn’t given you detention.

You fell into your seat with a soft sigh, pulling out the book you needed for the class. It wasn’t even noon and you already felt completely exhausted. The hair on the back of your neck stood on end and you froze, slowly turning to the side to see a pissed off Kaidoh glaring at you. This wasn’t your first time seeing him angry – it was, after all, quite easy to get under the boy’s skin. But you had never seen him this angry. You wondered how you hadn’t missed the murderous aura he was giving off the second you sat down. You also noticed how the other students had quietly moved their desks farther away from the boy, clearly scared by how angry he was.

You swallowed hard, quickly averting your eyes to your desk. What were you going to do? He was clearly angry that you had blown him off and run away from him… how would you explain it? Had he kept to his word and called the police?

Kaidoh couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t angry. He was livid, but not particularly at his seatmate. He was angry that you had been mugged and acted like it was nothing. Someone had hurt you, and he wanted the bastard to pay for what he had done. He was angry that he had allowed someone to hurt the person he loved!

Oh

Kaidoh’s face turned bright red when he realized what he had just thought. Was he really in love with you? He had never cared so much about anyone else before, nor had he ever been so angry about something that happened to another person. Why were you so special?

He quickly threw his head down onto the desk, making an audible THUMP, but the surrounding students were too scared to say anything. They thought he was just getting more annoyed, but in reality, he was just trying to hide his blushing face.

Time seemed to pass by incredibly slow that day, though it probably didn’t help that you glanced at the clock every minute or two. You just wanted the day to be over so you could crawl under your covers and hide from the world. You had managed to successfully dodge Kaidoh the rest of the day, but he was looking determined not to let you slip away this time.

The bell finally rang and you sprang up, quickly grabbing your pre-packed bag and making a dash for the door. Kaidoh tried to grab the back of your uniform but he was an inch short and hit the floor instead, cursing loudly as he tried to chase after you. Your attention had diverted over your shoulder just long enough to judge the distance between the two of you.

Feeling confident that you had escaped, you looked forward again – only, you didn’t see the open doorway. Instead, you ran right into a white wall, sending you flying back onto your butt. Your classmates laughed at you, stepping over you and around the object that had stopped you.

Turns out it wasn’t a wall – it was the second year, Momoshiro, from the class next door. He blinked down at you curiously before rubbing the back of his head sheepishly.

“Sorry about that,”

You stared at his extended hand, your mind still processing the events that had just taken place. By the time you realized, though, it was too late. Kaidoh was now blocking the door, glaring between you and Momo.

“Watch where you’re going, idiot.” He hissed.

“Huh?! He ran into me!” Momo defended himself.

“You should still watch where you’re going!”

“You wanna fight?!”

“Bring it on!”

You tried to crawl past the bickering boys, but Kaidoh was determined not to let you get away. He grabbed your arm and hauled you to your feet – thankfully, that arm didn’t have any bruises. Well, it did, but not in the place he had grabbed.

“You’re coming with me!”

“I-I can’t. I have to get home.” You tried to pry his hand away but he was too strong. “L-Let go of me!” You looked to Momo for help and he nodded. You thought you were saved… until Momo gently grabbed your other arm and helped his friend drag you out of the classroom. “W-Wait a minute! Where are you taking me? Let me go right this instant!”

Your demands went unanswered. Kaidoh didn’t even acknowledge that you were speaking, and Momoshiro only offered a grin. You had hoped that the students gathered in the halls would intervene, but they only stared like it was a normal thing.

‘What is wrong with these people?!’, you cried, ‘Mother is going to kill me tonight. This time for sure…’

You took a deep breath to calm your racing thoughts. You had to be calm and collected in order to think of a way to escape this. Your eyes glanced at each of their grips. Kaidoh’s right hand was holding your wrist, while his left was resting across your arm. Momo was holding your left arm, just below the elbow. You quickly realize that they were gripping the fabric of your long-sleeved shirt more than they were your arm.

You had your plan, but you knew it was going to be painful and difficult.

Taking another deep breath to calm your nerves, you slammed the heels of your shoes into the ground before sinking down. Your body was bent like you were about to do a high dive, allowing your arms to slip out of the sleeves of the sweatshirt as the boys kept walking. You felt the material slip over your head and you dashed in the opposite direction, trying to ignore the stinging in your arms.

You were very much aware of the air whipping around your now exposed skin; it felt weird to you since you hadn’t allowed your skin to feel any outside air for several years now.

“Get back here!”

You gulped, pushing your legs to run faster. This was your last chance – if they caught you now, your secret would be exposed. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good plan after all…

You turned the corner and quickly ducked into the first classroom you found, sliding the door shut as quickly and quietly as you could. Your heart hammered against your chest as their pounding steps drew closer, but they didn’t stop. They continued on until finally fading into the distance.

You didn’t even get the chance to calm down before someone called your name. You spun around to find Fuji Shuusuke, a third year, looking at you curiously from his position near the window. You had entered the photography room, the place that he frequently visited. You gulped down your nervousness and tried to sound calm and not like you had just escaped two angry and possibly crazy second years.

“H-Hello, Fuji-senpai.”

“Is everything alright?” He questioned with a small smile, setting his camera on the desk beside his bag.

“Of course! I thought this was a different room, I’ll be going now. Please excuse me!” You bowed, whipping back around.

“Hold it,” His voice was firm and it sent a chill down your spine.

“Y-Yes?”

“What happened to your arms?”

“What?” Your head whipped around so fast you were surprised you hadn’t given yourself whiplash. The tensai’s eyes were open, a sight you had never seen before, and he was staring at a rather large bruise on the back of your upper arm. He was frowning and even looked a little angry. “Oh, umm… I’m really… clumsy.”

His eyes narrowed as he approached you, gently grabbing your shoulder to turn you to face him. As your body was exposed to the light pouring in through the window, more bruises and scars became apparent to him, lining your skin like a bad rash.

You wanted to cry. No matter what lie you came up with, you knew it would be useless against this boy. Anyone else, maybe, but not the genius Fuji Shuusuke.

You were tired.

Tired of scrambling to make up lies.

Tired of hiding.

Tired of being scared.

Tired of hurting.

Tears welled up in your eyes, slowly pouring down your cheeks. Your shoulders shook from the effort it took to keep from sobbing out loud. Fuji called your name gently and you lost it, throwing your arms around his waist and burying your face in his white shirt. You didn’t care that you looked like a mess. You didn’t care that you didn’t really know this boy. You just wanted someone to hold you, someone to comfort you, someone to care.

His eyes widened in surprise for several reasons, but he quickly and gently wrapped his arms around you. He rubbed your hair and told you it would be okay, which only made you cry louder.

Your whole life was one big mess. How could things possibly be okay?

━━━━━━༻🌧️༺━━━━━━

Kaidoh was ten times more frustrated when he reached the tennis courts. Even Momoshiro seemed tense.

“You’re both late,” Tezuka announced, arms folded across his chest and a stern look on his face.

“Sorry buchou,” Momo apologized. Kaidoh only hissed.

“Fifty laps,”

The two second years complied without their usual complaints, worrying the ever motherly vice-captain. “Something doesn’t feel right, Tezuka. Fuji isn’t here either.”

Yes, even the stoic captain had noticed the strange thickness hanging in the air today, like something bad was bound to happen.

A third year girl came running up to them, holding up her index finger as she tried to catch her breath. She was a bookworm, not an athlete, but because the information was deemed important, she decided to run to the courts instead of a nicely paced walk. Fuji really owed her one.

When she finally caught her breath, she regarded them with a shy smile. “Fuji-kun asked me to pass along a message to you, Tezuka-san. He said that something important has come up and he will be missing practice today and in the morning.”

Oishi looked at the girl with worry. “Did he say why?”

She shook her head and frowned. “No, but he seemed really upset.”

“Thank you.” Tezuka bowed and she took that as her sign to leave. She bowed to the two boys before turning around and walking leisurely back to her classroom. “There’s nothing we can do now. We’ll have to trust Fuji.”

Oishi bit his lip, hoping that nothing serious had happened.

━━━━━━༻🌧️༺━━━━━━

You sniffled, tugging awkwardly at the jacket that now covered your body. Fuji had been kind enough to give you his Seigaku jacket to hide your arms since your sweater had been nowhere to be found. You glanced at his back since he was walking a few steps in front of you. You felt nervous, to say the least, and wondered if this was really okay.

He stopped in front of his house, pushing open the gate for you. He gave you an encouraging smile as you passed him, heading toward his front door. Why in the world had you agreed to this? You barely even knew this boy!

It was true, you were terrified, but not because of him or the thought of staying at his house.

No, the thought of returning home terrified you and, somehow, Fuji had realized that.

“Don’t worry, my family is very kind.” He commented, trying to ease your nervous mind as he pushed his front door open. You followed him inside, setting your shoes beside his own before following him into the kitchen.

A woman stood at the stove making dinner, humming softly to herself. Another woman, older than Fuji but younger than the first, was sitting at the table flipping through a magazine.

“I’m home,”

“Welcome home, Shuu – ” The older woman paused when she turned around, smiling at the girl beside him. “Shuusuke! You didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend over.”

“Saa, it was a bit last minute, kaa-san.”

The other woman grinned. “You finally got yourself a girlfriend, huh? She’s cute!”

You paled at the woman’s words, ‘H-How did she know I’m a girl…?’

“She’s just a friend, Yumiko-nee.”

Your wide eyes quickly snapped to him, ‘He knew too?!’

As if reading your mind, he shot you a grin before returning to his mother. “She was locked out of her house and her parents are out of town. Can she stay here tonight?”

His mother smiled. “Of course she can! Dinner will be ready soon, dear, I hope you like curry.”

“Y-Yes ma’am. Thank you.”

“Hmm, I’m curious though.” Yumiko put a manicured nail to her bottom lip as she looked you up and down. “Why are you dressed as a boy?”

“Don’t be rude to our guest, Yumiko.” Their mother scolded. “Shuusuke, why don’t you two go up to your room and get started on your homework? I’ll call you once dinner is done.”

The boy nodded, gripping your wrist lightly and leading you up the stairs to his bedroom. You remained quiet until you were safely inside his room, the door locked behind you. You turned toward him but refused to meet his eyes. Instead, you decided that his carpet was worth inspecting.

“How long have you known?”

“Hmm?”

“That I’m… a girl,”

“Ah,” he sat down at his desk with a smile. “I’ve had my suspicions for a while, but it was confirmed when you hugged me.”

A pink hue lit up your cheeks. You knew instantly what he meant; I felt your boobs against my chest when you hugged me. You quickly kneeled down, covering your face with your hands. You muttered out an apology, but it was too muffled for him to understand. You repeated yourself, but he still didn’t get it.

Fuji kneeled down in front of you and gently removed your hands. “One more time,” he prodded.

“I’m sorry,”

“For what?”

“All the trouble I’ve caused. Sorry for breaking down in front of you like that. I’m sorry for upsetting Kaidoh-kun, too…

Something flickered through his azure eyes. “I’m sure you didn’t upset Kaidoh, and you’ve caused me no trouble at all. We’re friends, after all, ne?”

“W-We are?”

“Yes,”

For the first time in years, you smiled – a real, genuine smile. You began to cry again, but you weren’t sad, you were happy.

Fuji never did pressure you about your bruises, but you had this feeling in the pit of your stomach that he had figured it out himself. You had sat down with his family for dinner, and they were all very kind to you. After dinner, Fuji had helped you with some of your homework, explaining things in a way that made you understand how to solve them on your own. When it was time to go to sleep, he kindly gave you his bed while he made a little blanket mattress on the floor. You had refused at first but quickly learned that the tensai is a stubborn one indeed. That night, you slept peacefully, without a single nightmare about your mother entering in the dead of night to harm or, even worse, kill you.

You couldn’t help but wonder if that was what home was supposed to feel like.

When morning came, you found yourself alone in Fuji’s room. The blankets had been picked up and neatly folded next to the closet. You were crawling out of bed when the door opened and the eldest Fuji sibling entered the room.

“I was just coming to wake you up.” She smiled. “Shuusuke had to get to morning practice, but he wanted me to tell you that you can take a shower and change into his clothes if you want.”

You expected her to ask again about dressing like a boy, but she didn’t.

“Once you’re done, come downstairs and get some breakfast, then I’ll drive you to school, okay?” She winked at you and left the room before you could protest.

You sat there for a moment, wondering if all this was just a dream before you finally did as you were told. You grabbed one of his uniforms from the closet and headed to the bathroom. A towel was sitting on the counter inside. You tried to avoid looking in the mirror as you stripped, but your gaze snapped to it before you could stop yourself. Your entire body was covered with bruises and scars, each at a different stage of healing. The most prominent ones were on your thighs where your mother had kicked you repeatedly for not washing the dishes properly. Leg wounds were easier to hide, your mother had said.

You tore your gaze away with a sigh and unwrapped the bandages that bound your boobs before stepping under the hot water. You truly didn’t want to get your hopes up, but more than anything, you wished this would last forever. Reality is cruel, though, and you can’t run away from your problems forever.

━━━━━━༻🌧️༺━━━━━━

You wrung your hands nervously in your lap, refusing to look up in case you met eyes with passing students. They were all gawking at the fancy red car that Yumiko drove. What would they say when they saw you stepping out of it? That was more attention than you wanted.

Yumiko patted your shoulder gently and offered you an encouraging smile. “Go on, you don’t want to be late.”

“Thank you, Fuji-san.”

“Oh please, Fuji-san is my mother. Just call me Yumiko, okay?” She grinned.

Despite yourself, you smiled back. “Thank you,”

“Have a good day!”

You waved at her as she drove away. As expected, the passing students stopped and stared at you, but for the first time, you honestly didn’t care. You were experiencing a lot of firsts lately.

The classroom was nearly empty when you entered – it was rare to be so early to class, but you were grateful that there were fewer eyes to stare at you as you took your seat. You glanced at the empty desk beside your own. How would things go once Kaidoh arrived? You wondered if he was still angry at you. You’d make sure to apologize to him after school.

One by one, students start piling in, not even noticing your presence. Kaidoh was one of the last and he stopped by your desk instead of sitting. He didn’t particularly look angry. Actually, you thought he looked rather nervous.

“Good morning, Kaidoh-kun.” You offered after a few minutes of silence.

“Good morning,” He echoed. “C-Can we talk? After school, I mean.”

With the intention of apologizing for your behavior, you agreed, noting how relieved he looked afterward. The rest of the day went by normally. Well, as normal as it could be at Seishun Gakuen.

At least you didn’t get kidnapped again. Though, as the day neared a close, you were increasingly becoming nervous. You knew what you wanted to talk to Kaidoh about, but what did he want to talk about?

The final bell rang and you started to gather your things, surprised to find Kaidoh ready to go. The two of you left the classroom without a word, walking silently beside one another until you had broken free from the sea of students trying to get home. He led you toward the tennis courts, but stopped a few feet short, turning to face you.

You stared each other down.

“I’m sorry!”

Your voices overlapped, bringing color to both of your faces.

“Y-You can go first,” He offered, feeling his heart race. He knew what he was going to say, but he hadn’t quite gotten the courage to say it yet.

“I’m sorry for the way I acted yesterday. You were just trying to help me but I ran away from you and avoiding you… that was rude of me. Please forgive me, Kaidoh-kun.” You bowed.

He hadn’t expected that. “I-I’m the one who’s sorry! You know, for trying to kidnap you… I umm… I was just…”

You tilted your head to the side and he mentally cursed. Why did you have to be so cute?

“I-I wanted you to know… I mean… You see… I…”

“Just tell him you like him already, mamushi!” Came Momo’s voice from a nearby bush.

Your face flushed. Had you heard him correctly?

“DAMN YOU MOMOSHIRO!” Kaidoh cried, hands balled into fists at his side. He was about to run after him when your soft voice made him freeze.

“Is it true?” You questioned, looking up at him through your lashes. “Do you… like me, Kaidoh-kun?”

His face turned a brighter red and he swallowed hard. Time to man up, Kaoru! “Yes, I like you very much! Please be my boyfriend!”

The regulars, no longer hiding in the bush, all cheered at his bravery.

You bit your lip, wondering if this would be easier without an audience. You figured it would be just as hard either way. “I like you, too, Kaidoh-kun.”

He felt so much relief, but quickly tensed when you continued.

“But… there’s something you should know first.” You glanced at Fuji, wondering if you should tell him. The tensai nodded with encouragement.

“W-What is it?” Kaidoh glanced at Fuji before looking back at you.

“I can’t be your boyfriend because… I’m a girl,”

Time seemed to freeze at that moment. Everyone stared at you with wide eyes, even Ryoma. The exceptions were, of course, Fuji, who already knew, and Tezuka. You assumed Fuji had told him, he had figured it out on his own, or he really was just emotionless.

You swallowed your nerves. “K-Kaidoh-kun?”

The sound of your voice was the kick that the clock needed to start time again.

“YOU’RE A GIRL?!” Momoshiro and Eiji cried out in unison.

“Mada mada dane,”

“Don’t act like you knew, Echizen/Ochibi!” They screamed in unison again.

You ignored their bickering, biting your lip as you looked at Kaidoh. He still hadn’t moved.

Suddenly he bowed low, his back forming a straight line. “Please be my girlfriend!”

The corners of your lips tugged up into a smile and tears filled your eyes. He still wanted you. You were so happy!

“Che, way to go, Mamushi. You made her cry. That’s not cool, not cool at all.”

“Mou~! Apologize right now, Kaidoh!”

“Mada mada dane, Kaidoh-senpai.”

“S-Shut up!” He yelled at them before turning back to you. He tried to apologize but the words stopped on his tongue when you threw your arms around his middle, burying your face in the crook of his neck. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin, and you were sure that yours matched. Almost unsurely, he wrapped his own arms around you, resting his head on top of your own.

Fuji smiled at the scene before him. You deserved happiness, and you certainly did not deserve the things that happened to you. He decided then and there that he would help you out and save you from your abusive life. A part of that responsibility was given to Kaidoh because he knew that no matter what, whether the second year knew your situation or not, he would always protect his girlfriend.

━━━━━━༻🌧️༺━━━━━━

▸ Part 2 of 2

📜 Read more by checking out my masterlist 📜

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[thebiasrekkers]

Make It Right [BTS Mafia!AU]

Plot: “It’s always darkest before the dawn…” It’s a dog-eat-dog world in Seoul, South Korea. One has to dwell in the shadows in order to reach for the light. What are you willing to sacrifice in order to feel the sunlight on your face? What will it take to drag you back into darkness? How long will the journey be to make it right?

Rating: NC-17 // NSFW

Genre: Series | Mafia!AU | Crime!AU | Angst | Romance/Fluff

Pairings: Jin x OC | Taehyung/Hoseok x OC | Yoongi/Jungkook x OC

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Heavy Language, Angst, Slow Burn, Smut

Previous Chapters: Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

Links: FAQ || BTS Masterlist || Admin E’s AO3 || Admin E’s WP || [ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ]

Word Count: 3,083

Chapter 31: Persona

“So I’m askin’ once again, yeah who the hell am I?”

© thebiasrekkers (Admin E). All rights reserved. Reposting/modifying our work is prohibited. Translations are not allowed. Plagiarism/stealing is not tolerated by any means. Legal action will be taken in instances of theft.

Eden’s dark curls were wet, falling across her neck and shoulders as she stepped out of the shower. Steam filled the small enclosure of her bathroom and she could feel the cold bite from the stone floor shoot up her ankles. Her olive skin glistened under the amber light fixture and she wrapped a towel around her body, half stumbling to the sink. The porcelain rattled under her as her hands slammed around the bowl of the sink and she muttered an expletive under her breath.

Steam coated the mirror, obscuring her reflection. Reaching out with one arm, her hand swept over the moisture to reveal the reflective glass on the other side. A wet streak formed, her own image looking back at her.

“In our world, it’s not so easy to step into the light. The world is a fickle place and treats scoundrels like us as little more than garbage.”

She took slow, measured breaths – her shoulders slumping forward in a need to defy proper posture. A curtain of her raven hair – curly, wet and messy – draped over her right eye.

“He wants to know if what Hoseok-ah and the others are doing is genuine or just some big show to hide their true plans.”

She scoffed, shifting away from the mockery of her image looking at her; forcing her to examine herself.

“And what it will take to drag them back into the shadows with the rest of us.”

Eden spun on her heels, her back leg slipping on the wet stone floor. Her back arched and she pulled her right arm back with it, screaming at the top of her lungs. The mirror shattered when her fist made contact, spider cracks spreading from her knuckles. There was no pain that shot through her nerves, despite her fist trembling against the now broken mirror. Shards tumbled into the sink, smeared with tiny flecks of her blood that also stained the white porcelain.

Pulling her fist back, more mirror shards fell into the sink, but she ignored them. Instead, Eden yanked the towel off her body and began roughly drying her hair. Throwing the door open, warmth hit her from the heater fan she had in the main area of her apartment. She tossed the towel into the laundry hamper, picking up her flannel robe off the couch and slipping into it.

Just as she was tying the belt around her waist, there were a few hard knocks from her front door. Glancing at the clock, she saw it was just after 9pm. She thought about not answering it, seeing as she couldn’t tell whose reflection it was on the other side of the frosted glass. Eden scooped her phone off the coffee table and swiped her thumb over the screen. The lock screen was a selfie Jungkook and she took three weeks ago. There were a few missed calls and text messages; some from her friends, one from Jimin and the rest were from Jungkook.

A week had passed and her shoulder still ached...

Three more loud knocks rattled her front door on its hinges and she sighed, slipping into her house shoes and shuffling toward the door. She unlatched the deadbolt and wrenched the door open with the handle, looking up to see Jungkook on the other side. She couldn’t quite read his expression, but anyone could tell that he looked a little rattled.

“What?” she said, not bothering to conceal the bitterness in her voice.

For a moment, all they could do was stand there; motionless and silent. However, when she saw Jungkook’s gaze lower she instinctively slid it from the door and tried to place it into her pocket. His hand was quicker, and she felt his hand snatching at her wrist. Eden tried to wrench it free, but his grip was stronger. She didn’t want to start an argument, so her arm grew slack so he could pull her hand closer to inspect it.

Unexpectedly, Jungkook tugged her toward him roughly and her chest slammed into his. She grunted upon impact, her arms lifting in an awkward position as his larger ones encircled her – pulling her into an embrace she wasn’t prepared for.

“J-Jungkook-ah?” Eden’s voice shook slightly. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into the juncture of her neck, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end.

She had no idea why he was apologizing and before she could ask why, he pulled her even closer into him, causing her to gasp. This was a hug of desperation and Eden was more unsettled by how easily she was able to identify this. It was the way a child would cling to a mother’s skirt so they wouldn’t get lost; the way a person dug their fingers into the side of a mountain – mustering all the strength they had to keep themselves from falling to their permanent end.

Eden felt his chest rise against hers as he took a deep breath, his hand pressing against the back of her head. Her neck grew rigid, forcing her chin up as she pressed up onto the balls of her feet to meet his height. Mixed in with his normal cologne, she could smell just a hint of soju. She sighed, reaching behind him so she could gently pat him on the back; like she was comforting a lost child.

“Jungkook-ah…” She smiled. “…you’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”

“I’m sorry, Noona,” came his muffled voice and she had to smother the urge to laugh. “I’m such a fucking idiot!”

She shushed him, rubbing comforting circles on his back in an effort to get him to loosen his grip on her. When he finally did, Eden looked at his pitiful face and saw the tell-tale redness around his cheeks and nose. Pressing a hand to his forehead, she sighed and shook her head. He didn’t have a fever, but he was slightly warm from consuming alcohol.

Without thinking, she reached out with her injured hand and led him into the apartment. He kicked off his shoes like a petulant toddler while she fussed over him to put on some house shoes. When he did, he stumbled inside and she had to help him settle onto the couch without sprawling him out. After pulling off his jacket, Eden quickly made her way into her small kitchen to set a kettle on the stove. Once the water boiled, she poured it into a mug and then dropped a few tablespoons of honey into it. Stirring the mixture, she returned and handed him the steaming mug.

“Drink it slowly,” she instructed, settling onto the edge of her bed while watching him blow the steam away. “Why did you drink so much?”

For a minute, he didn’t say anything. Eden wouldn’t press him. He normally didn’t drink so much and that meant there was something weighing on his mind. Something he wasn’t willing to divulge just yet. Eden couldn’t blame him, though. She’d considered opening the bottle of whiskey she had in the kitchen after her little episode in the bathroom.

“What happened to your hand?”

She hadn’t expected to have her question answered with a question. Eden tried to hide her hand again, but Jungkook was still faster. He held it between them, and he frowned when he noticed the cuts on her knuckles – his cool hands soothing the inflamed skin. His thumb stroked over the broken skin and she winced slightly. Jungkook took two large gulps of the honey water mixture, set it down on the coffee table, and pulled Eden from the bed by her hand. He led her into the bathroom and she tried to resist him, not wanting him to see the results of her temper tantrum  in the bathroom.

He gently pulled her along despite her bracing trying to tug away from him. They finally went into the bathroom and she felt the fight leave her, embarrassment setting in instead.

Jungkook appeared not to notice the damage she caused. Or he at least wasn’t voicing it out loud. Grabbing a face towel, he reached into the sink and scooped out the shards of glass – throwing them away without a second glance. He turned on the faucet and held her hand under the lukewarm flow. Again, she winced and tried to pull her hand back. He waited until the blood was cleaned from her skin, opening the medicine cabinet that doubled as her mirror. Nothing was said about the ruined mirror and he took an alcohol wipe, swabbing it over her damaged hand and she hissed.

Silently he worked, disinfecting her injury and then wrapping it with some gauze. She was out of band-aids.

Eden turned to head out of the bathroom, but Jungkook closed the door. Rounding on him to yell about how she’d almost run into the door, her protests vanished when his hands slammed on either side of her head. Swallowing hard, Eden pressed her back to the door. If he held the door like that, there was no way she could open it and she wasn’t about to tussle with him in her already cramped bathroom.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, her eyes narrowing slightly.

She felt the back of her head pressing into the door as he leaned in close, their noses barely touching.

Jungkook took a deep breath, as if he was wrangling with something, and then exhaled through his nostrils.

“Why won’t you let me in?”

Eden’s eyes widened, followed by her blinking rapidly. “What?”

What did that even mean?

His eyes narrowed and she bit her lower lip.

“Why do you keep pushing me away, Noona?”

“What are you talking about?!”

She couldn’t help her voice rising an octave. Jungkook had been following her for over a year since they met, relentlessly pursuing her, and she was even taking a chance on him. They were dating weren’t they? She didn’t care that he was a gangster, or even a former gangster at this point. His status as an orphan meant nothing to her. He was over her house all the time, at all hours of the day when he wasn’t working and aggravating her in Tekken matches.

How in the hell was she pushing him away?!

Cool fingers caressed her temple, causing her to jump slightly. She hadn’t expected the sudden gesture and it forced Jungkook’s movements to a halt. When her eyes met his, Eden was startled to see the pained expression painted over his features. Was he still drunk? She didn’t know what was happening…

His hand slid from her face, trailing down the fabric of her robe that covered her arm, and he clasped her uninjured hand in his. Eden wished she could read his mind, to figure out what was making him feel this way. She felt a measure of guilt at knowing that she was the source of whatever suffering he was trying to smother out of himself.

Jungkook pressed her hand along his chest, feeling the heavy drumming of his heartbeat against her palm. Eden sucked in a slow breath as her eyes searched his dark brown ones. He never let his gaze rove from hers; like he was trying to look straight into her soul. It didn’t take her long to realize that her own pulse was matching his; completely in sync with each other.

She was only able to whisper his name once – a breathy sigh as his mouth captured hers. Her eyes slowly closed, drinking in his scent as she wrapped her arms around his neck. The flat of her palm slid down between his shoulder blades, her nails gently pressing into his back through his shirt. Jungkook’s hands moved over her body, making the heat rise inside her body as he lifted her into his arms effortlessly. The kiss was only deepened through the movement and she tightened her legs around his waist while he supported her with his strong arms. A burst of cool air brushed along her bare legs as he pulled the door to the bathroom open, carrying her the short distance to her bed.

Eden was going to go crazy. She was losing her mind from all the sensations her body was being put through. She wanted to fall against him – to get lost in his eyes as he overtook her with every single bit of raw passion that was contained within them. Eden heard her name falling from his lips, and as she pulled back, she gently touched the swollen buds as she bit her bottom lip at the corner; her breathing heavy as her chest rose and fell slowly.

He set her down on the bed gently, her robe barely covering her as he clambered onto the bed slowly – looking every bit like a tiger on the hunt.

Jungkook towered over her, his arms braced on either side of her shoulders, and Eden could only look up at him. He’d always been stubborn, but this was a new level. He was worried about something; wanting to tell her something but he was still holding back. Even now.

And this hurt her. It hurt her because she was holding herself back too.

She could make up all the excuses in the world, but it was true. Jungkook had seen it. She really was keeping him away – refusing to let him in fully.  

“Noona,” Jungkook managed to croak, “please let me in. I’m tired of looking from the outside in…”

His voice was thick with yearning. It made her heart twist inside her chest. Her vision blurred momentarily, and she quickly covered her face with her hands, blocking out his painful expression.

She felt his hand on top of hers, pulling them away so she was forced to up at him; at his gentle smile. Tears leaked out the corners of her eyes and Eden smiled. She cupped his face in her hands, leaning forward to kiss him hard on the lips and slipping her tongue in between them as she felt the muscle rake slowly against his fangs - a slow intake of breath filling her lungs as she smelled him. His scent was still the same - even after all this time they’d spent together. Spring rain with a hint of spice. She could’ve died in his arms right now.

After taking the time to greedily consume his mouth as he had hers, Eden pulled back and moved her eyes back from one of his orbs to the other. Her dark hair fell in a jet curtain of curls that covered half her face. “I…I’m sorry, Jungkook-ah. I didn’t know you felt that way after all this time. But I should have…because I know what you’re worried about.” She paused, watching his smile fall slightly. “I’m okay. I’m going to be okay. We are going to be okay if you trust me. Trust that I’m not going to abandon you when things get hard.”

She watched Jungkook swallow the lump that began to form in his throat. Not wanting her own resolve to waver, Eden brushed his bangs off his forehead – her fingers tracing the line of his brow.

“You exist here, in my head and in my heart,” she said softly, moving her hand to each place while attempting to calm her heart; albeit in vain. “I’m tired of worrying about my past or even what tomorrow will bring for any of us. Aren’t you tired of it?”

His brows furrowed. “Noona…”

Eden smiled up at him. “As long as we’re together, then I know I can take on anything anyone tries to throw at me. Dislocated limbs, busted lips, threats, whatever the fuck they try to push at me? I can take it.”

“I can’t see you get hurt, Noona. I don’t know what I’d do—”

“You can’t protect me all the time, Jungkook-ah,” she interjected, seeing fear simmer in his gaze, “and that’s okay. You’re not supposed to. I’ve spent my whole life taking care of my life and until you guys can get your shit together, I’ll keep doing that.” She paused as he pressed a hand against her cheek. “I’ll keep doing it until I don’t have to anymore.”

Jungkook frowned, closing his eyes and leaning forward so he could press his forehead against hers. Her eyes fluttered closed in response and she felt his breath across her cheeks as he sighed.

“…this will always be what I want, Noona,” he finally spoke, his voice dropping an octave and coated with emotion, “it’s what I’ve always wanted.” He lifted his head off hers which had her opening her eyes to look back at him. “If you can let yourself go with me, if you can stay with me, then I won’t regret anything. You drive me crazy and you’re one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met…” Eden rolled her eyes and he chuckled. “If you trust me, then that’s all I could ask for. I won’t break that trust, Noona. I don’t think I could live with myself if I were to let that happen.”

He leaned forward, his lips pressing against her ear as he softly breathed against the lobe. Her arms snaked over his shoulders to grasp at the fabric of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head so that his skin was exposed.

“…can I be selfish, Noona? Can I ask you to love me with everything that you are?”

Jungkook slid one hand down to rest at the folds of her robe, slipping further down to loosen the belt that held the material to her form.

“Can we fall into each other until there’s nothing left of us?”

Jungkook kissed her ear, then nipped it before he fully tugged the belt loose and pushed the folds of the robe off to the side to expose her naked form beneath. His hands moved across her skin, the heat radiating both from her own body and his as she pulled him into another kiss – the desperate need to feel his body against hers almost maddening. She nodded, knowing that this moment was what mattered the most. Nothing else.

There was no going back now. Eden was done looking over her shoulder at what was. She was done looking too far ahead at what could be.

She would live in the here and now with no regrets.

#bangtanarmynet #btsbookclub #btswriterscollective #ficswithluv #mknlinenet #bts #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts fanfics #bts ot7 #bts ot7 fanfiction #bts mafia au #bts mafia!au #bts crime au #bts crime!au #bts ot7 x angst #bts ot7 x smut #bts ot7 x slowburn #bts x slow burn #bts x angst #bts ot7 x drama #bts x smut #thebiasrekkers #bts thebiasrekkers #omg is this a new cover? #lord help us all #damn all these photo concept albums #I hate them all #bts make it right #make it right bts

[stressedspidergirlsfandomblog]

This is the first chapter to that random ass idea I had that got over 100 notes. Thanks to @ahh-fuck and @ruusverd-witcher annnd @shelikesgoodfics this actually got developed into more than a tumblr post. So, thanks. You can read here under the cut. 

When Geralt had first left Kaer Morhen, he had had trouble believing everything he had been taught about humans was true. Times had been changing, and the general public had been turning on witchers. He had left, expecting to make some kind of fortune, a name for himself, and to live differently than he had lived in the keep. He had expected fear to stop dogging his footsteps. He had been wrong.

And yet, when he had killed his first monster, he had learned every single cynical training master had been correct. The girl had not thanked him, he had not done a noble deed, he had simply killed a rapist, and terrified normal people.

His life, as promised, had been full of miserable hardship, frequent wounds, and constant discomfort. It was near impossible to get a room in some towns, and yet in others he did just fine. He had some friends across the continent, at least until Blaviken. There, he had managed to turn himself into an enemy of most people, and with his distinctive white hair it wasn’t as if he was easy to hide. The alderman had turned on him, but without arresting or killing him at the very least.

Stregobor had made his life even worse, spreading disdain for witchers all because Geralt hadn’t wanted to help him. They had a history as it was, and it wasn’t the first time Stregobor had fucked him over. The sorcerer had almost gotten him killed all thanks to general maliciousness and a faulty hourglass. Geralt was sure if he ran into Stregobor again, it would end badly for him, again.

It was for the best that he didn’t have feelings, not truly. A few vestigial memories, much like the now-useless tendon some people still had in their forearms. A reflex, perhaps, was all that remained of what it meant to feel. And if that didn’t always feel exactly true, well, he would make it true. The trials had hurt, and he had no desire to find himself back at Kaer Morhen as a failed experiment where they would attempt more trials to try and eradicate any lingering feelings of his. Not that he desired or didn’t desire, he killed monsters for coin so he could stay alive. That was it, that was all there was. He meditated to maintain control of his mind and body, he slept when and where he safely could, he ate when he could, and whenever possible, found a hot bath.

Until Posada.

He had decided to check out a ‘doevil’ in the fields at the Edge of the World. Since no such things existed, he had been somewhat derisive with the local townsfolk looking to contract his services. While he had not been wrong, the creature had been anything but a ‘doevil’ of any kind, he had received more than he bargained for.

The creature had been a sylvan, and while they had tussled, the creature had meant him no real harm. While they had tried riddles, and scuffles, it had near ended bloody when Filavandrel and his ilk had debated killing the witcher and Jaskier. Who had, for some gods forsaken reason seen Geralt in a tavern and decided to attach himself to the witcher like a burr on a woolen blanket. It had not displeased Geralt, since he could not feel displeasure, but it did inconvenience him, because now he had another life to protect other than his own. And he did not need that kind of encumbrance.

Nothing he had done had worked to drive the bard away, which had made things even more difficult. Not aggravating, he would have no idea what aggravation felt like. Not speaking to the bard did nothing. Not sharing supplies did nothing. Not giving details of various monster hunts did nothing. So Geralt switched tactics. He tried describing how he got his scars in gruesome detail, or at least so he’d thought. The bard simply complained he was light on details like always and had asked more questions. Just how bad did the bite of a wyvern hurt? Was a crushed ankle truly that hard for a witcher to recover from? Utterly mystified, Geralt had given up on driving away his unwanted hanger-on.

Soon enough they were sharing whether Geralt wanted to or not. If ‘want’ was even the right word for it. He was not accustomed to having to share what little he had. It didn’t make any sense to him that the bard would add to his supplies, or share a nicer blanket, or anything else. But being devoid of feelings it would make sense he would not understand the actions of those who had them and acted on them. Jaskier noticed he was cold, and as such put their bedrolls together and spread his cloak around them both. Jaskier’s cloak was much better quality and trapped heat far better. While he could not conceive of a single reason for the bard to do this, it meant he was warmer and experienced less physical discomfort so he didn’t bother to protest.

No part of the witcher code said he had to suffer privation. Nothing he had been taught said he had to be uncomfortable. It was just that he probably would be. If Jaskier could afford better food than he could, there was no rule saying he could not eat some of it if it was offered to him. And so by that logic he was able to accept things from the bard without hesitation. To kill monsters he needed enough to eat, and he could not lose fingers or toes to frostbite and still maintain his skills as a swordsman.

Another thing that made no sense to him at all was Jaskier’s lack of fear of him and total acceptance that Geralt would rarely if ever speak to him. Sometimes he would share a one-word answer or question, but much more than that was frequently out of the question. After he had made the mistake of letting Jaskier listen in on him negotiating a contract, the bard had puffed up full of righteous indignation.

‘Why won’t you talk to me like that? Look at you! You can speak full sentences when you want to! I thought all of that up in Posada was because of the elves and the lady of the fields, I thought it was some kind of magic. Now I know you just choose to be taciturn and silent with me on purpose!’  

It had been patently unfair and untrue, Geralt just had no idea what to say to him most of the time. His response was simply ‘then go.’ He would have liked to have said ‘if it bothers you so much, you can go. I never asked you along. I’ve never asked you to stay, I’ve never done anything to indicate I want you trailing me around like a lost pup. And yet here you are.’ He just couldn’t do it. Jaskier hadn’t asked a question. Hadn’t demanded an answer, had just yelled at him for a bit, panting, and left to get himself a drink at the tavern. Geralt had been surprised the bard had returned that night. He had reeked of sex and ale, making Geralt’s nose itch uncomfortably. It had been difficult to fall asleep after that. The woman the bard had chosen had a particularly noxious perfume, and with his heightened senses he could hardly breathe for the rest of the night.

         When he had packed up his things that morning, he had not expected Jaskier to stay with him, walking beside Roach like always. They passed through Aedirn into Temeria, heading for Redania.  

         Geralt had no way to explain to Jaskier what his training had entailed. Young witchers were not supposed to speak out of turn. They were not supposed to speak at all unless spoken to. They should use the minimum number of words to answer any question. If the training master could figure out how to answer with fewer words, you took that many raps as punishment for wasting time. The only time you were allowed to speak first or add words was when negotiating. You needed the skills to get a fair price per the risk of the monster. While adding excessive words was still punished, the training over how to negotiate was far more comfortable.

         They continued on together, and while fishing for a meal stumbled upon a djinn. Immediately Jaskier did something completely stupid. While Geralt might not know what it is to have feelings, he fully knows the difference between stupid and not stupid. Deciding to call upon the power of a trapped and angry air-spirit was the definition of stupid. Not to mention he’d seen another side of the usually pleasant bard that day. Wishing apoplexy and painful death and forced love onto others. It had been an oddly uncomfortable chain of events. Geralt would have wished for a meal, which was why they were fishing in the first place. If only Jaskier hadn’t ignored him and had left more slack on the line they would have been eating catfish, not fighting off a djinn amphora.

         When Jaskier had suffered horrible damage to his throat as a result of his impetuousness and questionable decision-making skills, Geralt had dragged him onto Roach and pushed both himself and his horse to find help. It had been more or less worthless. Chireadan had not given him the details of what tangling with Yennefer would entail at all. Just as Geralt had found he did not want the bard to lose his voice. It made no sense and made his stomach coil in knots. What should he care? Perhaps it would save him the trouble of having to keep the other man alive as they travelled. He had told the half elf he would sit on a scorpion for Jaskier. And he had meant it, which left him wondering for hours what was wrong with him.

         By the time he had reached the sorceress he had managed to figure out why he would do anything for Jaskier: It was his duty as a witcher. He was there to save the people, albeit usually for coin. Although Jaskier did often provide a roof over his head, a warm bath, body heat, and the use of his cloak and bedding. It might not be coin, but it was a creature comfort freely given. A transaction, and he was indebted to the man with the cornflower blue eyes.

         When all was said and done in Rinde, the town half destroyed, Geralt had learned something in him that should have been dead wasn’t. After kissing Yennefer he knew he would never want to kiss anyone else the way he wanted to kiss her. Sex with her had been unlike anything he had ever experienced and he would have done anything to do it again. Dangerous for a witcher to want anything other than the meeting of basic needs. He had left Rinde with Jaskier in tow.

It had been easy to ditch the bard in Oxenfurt and take a contract down the Pontar. With winter coming he had no desire to spend the frozen months stranded in the cold and made his way back to Kaedwen and Kaer Morhen just as the first snows began to fall.

         He had spent much of his time that winter in meditation, working to quell and destroy any lingering vestigial feelings inside of himself. He had considered cutting out his own tongue rather than risk it betraying him around his companions. The urge to talk, to tell Jaskier things was sometimes so overwhelming he would have, if he had had any idea of how to begin. The problem was that he shouldn’t want to tell Jaskier anything, he should just want him gone. He should not hope that they will meet up again when spring begins to thaw the land and make travel possible. In fact, he should be relieved that he will be only responsible for himself until their paths cross again.

         It had been easier to justify his longing to see Yennefer again. Sex was a primal want, and the witcher mutations hadn’t removed those from him. While it wasn’t a need, and his own hand would suffice when necessary, it had been so different with her. He had slept with plenty of whores, but there was something different about not paying. About someone who looked you in the eyes and desired you. No shame, no disgust, no vague reek of fear, nothing to indicate any distaste with the act. Not that many whores minded him, he was polite, he didn’t ask for much, and as such he wasn’t treated too oddly. There were plenty of monsters who looked like normal men, and whores had plenty of experience with those. There were also monsters who were nothing to be afraid of, and the women were well aware Geralt was one of them. No one looking to hurt you would say things like ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’

         He stopped in Vengerberg on his way to a contract in Guleta. He’d made his way through Kaedwen trying to decide what to do with himself. Several contracts, little to eat, and a few non-life-threatening injuries had perhaps clouded his judgement and he’d found himself looking up the sorceress. She’d welcomed him with open arms, a hot bath, and several warm meals. Not to mention she had let him share her bed. In that time he’d recovered and moved on to the contract further south. Then, unable to help himself, he’d gone back to her. If pressed for a reason he could not have said why.

         She had notified him of contracts she heard of through her own networks, and he had taken them. Sometimes she was able to portal him there, much to his and Roach’s disgust. Neither one of them liked walking through those cold black holes into an abyss. He was usually left to make his own way back, but at least it saved him some time overall. He was also never required to make his way back, either. Sometimes he felt a bit like a housecat, allowed out to wander as it willed and if it came back, all the better. And if not, well, there were other cats.

         She did not mind his silences, or his one-word answers and questions. She knew what he was thinking. She could have entire conversations with him without him ever having to open his mouth. Although, she did eventually stop answering him unless he verbalized a response to her. It was easier after a while, sharing books, talking about abusive rulers, that sort of thing. History was easy, too, because he could recite answers to her just like he might have back in his schooling at the temple in Ellander, or at the keep.

While he did not like when she lost her temper at him, he bore it. And eventually grew brave enough to push back. She wasn’t like anyone he’d ever really met before. The first time he’d snapped back he’d expected to find himself deposited in the middle of a frozen wasteland with no memory of how he’d gotten there. It hadn’t happened. They had bickered. He had left of his own free will, which surprised him, and then come back a few hours later feeling calmer. It had just been adrenaline, he told himself, not anger. Witchers couldn’t feel.

         He ran into Jaskier on another contract, and was not unhappy to see the other man. They travelled together while he took down a bruxa and then he found himself drawn back to Vengerberg. No magic. His medallion wasn’t so much as twitching. No, he just felt like it would be alright to be there. A place where he had food, a roof, a warm place to sleep, and intellectual stimulation alongside the physical. It was as much a haven as he could have imagined while growing up. While Yennefer lost her temper and threw things around and was horrible at any kind of compromise, she never hit him. She never deliberately sought to hurt him or wound him. It was a strange kind of life. Until finally he moved on.

         He faced down Foltest’s daughter and rescued her from being a striga. Afterwards, he recuperated in Ellander in Melitele’s temple until Jaskier came to find him. The bard had heard Geralt was injured and came to see him. It was good to see Jaskier again, and Geralt had found it was slightly easier to talk to the bard. Not as easy as he might like, but sometimes he was able to express a thought or two. Maybe get in a full sentence, and when he couldn’t, if he stared at the bard’s lute long enough Jaskier would sing or play and any need to have a conversation would be swept away by the music.

         He had suffered some interesting events in Cintra, but he had six years before he would need to deal with the fallout of that particular incident. It had been nice to see Mousesack again. The druid was not shy of admitting their friendship and it had gotten him out of some miserable scrapes here and there. Not to mention it had stopped Calanthe from having his head decorating a pike on her castle walls. He sometimes wondered what Mousesack got out of their friendship.

         He understood with Jaskier that the bard got inspiration for songs, and fame for being ‘trusted’ to travel with a witcher. And he got laid quite a bit for being brave enough to travel around with a monster. Geralt had greatly disliked when they had traveled to Oxenfurt and Jaskier had wanted to introduce Geralt to some of his friends. They had treated him much like they might treat a bear on a chain. A curiosity, a horrible beast trained to perform some tricks, but nothing of any value of its own beyond its strangeness. The bard had seemed mostly oblivious, and Geralt couldn’t fault him. It wasn’t as if he tried to keep up with the conversation or pay much attention. And he had absolutely refused to do any ‘sword tricks’ until they’d mostly given him up as a mute. It had been underwhelming.

The only good part of their time in Oxenfurt had been having access to the library. Geralt had never seen so many books, not since the sacking of the keep. But some of these books had nothing to do with anything important. It was odd to read a book of stories and fables without being asked to look for the truths behind them. He could just sit in a chair, in the library, and read as he pleased. It was somewhat like his time with Yennefer. Calm, peaceful, and given to quiet contemplation. Outside of the occasional drama and fuss. His presence had unsettled and upset some of the students and teachers. For others he had been a source of fascination. They had hounded him, trying to seek answers he couldn’t have given them even if he’d wanted to. With his enhanced hearing he had been well aware of how people thought of the ‘dumb albino witcher’ the bard had acquired. As if Geralt was a possession Jaskier could purchase.

This was perhaps why they had purged witchers of emotions. A normal man would be enraged at such treatment. A normal man would perhaps rise to the challenges, show off his skills and mastery, and would as such find himself swinging from the gallows. Geralt was not a normal man, and Geralt had bitten his tongue, and stayed silent, and crushed himself small. He left Oxenfurt with all of his belongings and his limbs firmly attached.

It was frustrating to be around people who didn’t think he had anything to offer other than brute force. While it wasn’t a new experience, he had gotten somewhat accustomed to Yennefer taking his intelligence for granted. She never over explained things or treated him like a simpleton. Overall Jaskier didn’t either, but at times he put Geralt’s teeth on edge. Finally, one night around the campfire he had snapped, “I’m not stupid.”

  Fear had automatically swamped him. Or at least a conditioned fear response. He had frozen; eyes wide with horror that he had said anything out loud. No one had asked him his opinion and speaking out of turn was incredibly stupid. Surely now the bard would give in to the urge to cane him, and he would have to take it, rather than risk angry villagers tying him to a stake and burning him alive. Or hanging him after a solid beating. Perhaps they would draw and quarter him instead? No one would allow him to defend himself and let him escape consequences.

“I know you’re not,” Jaskier had frowned.

Geralt had been confused and lost, this was not how the exchange went. He spoke out of turn, and then he got hurt for it. Sometimes, when he knew the punishment was inevitable or just absolutely worth it, he would dig himself into a deeper hole. This was not one of those times, and he’d sat there by the fire, utterly dumbstruck.

“Why would you think I felt you were stupid?” Jaskier pressed, brows furrowing.

“You talk to me as if I haven’t lived more history than you’ve read,” Geralt tells him flatly, hoping that’s the end of the conversation. It’s the truth, at least. And he had been asked to share his reasoning. So he had. There could be no punishment for that, could there? Besides, the bard wasn’t strong enough to truly hurt him, was he? He wasn’t particularly delicate but he wasn’t strong like Vesemir. Or any of the other training masters. He could take whatever abuse the bard wanted to inflict on him.

“I’m sorry, you just don’t speak much, it’s hard to judge. I know you aren’t stupid, Geralt. I’ve never thought that. Not once. Perhaps a little thick about some specific things, but not in general. You’d be long dead if you weren’t incredibly intelligent. It’s just, when you aren’t responding any, I end up making more noise than I need to so that I can fill up the spaces.”

“Like now?”

“Yes,” Jaskier snorts. “Exactly like now. Can you forgive me?”

“For what?”

“Hurting your feelings?”

“Can’t hurt what isn’t there,” Geralt told him affably. “At least now I know why you make so much fuss over everything.”

“What?”

“To fill up the spaces.”

“Oh, good, I’m glad this is what we’ve come to understand. Not that you should talk more,” Jaskier had laughed. “Or that I wouldn’t mind conversation from you. I like when you add your insight. It’s very…”

“Insightful?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

         Jaskier had not known what to think when he had met Geralt. The other man had been nothing like what he’d expected a witcher to be. Geralt had chosen to help people when given the chance, often times for a pittance rather than what he should have been owed. When he heard of a contract but people threw stones at him, he frequently waited until nightfall and would consider taking the monster on regardless. It depended on how dangerous it was, and if he thought perhaps making his way back through later would result in a warmer welcome. He had expected a witcher to be devoid of all feeling, nearly inhuman, and while intelligent, intelligent in a predator way rather than a human way.

         The more time he spent around the witcher, the more he learned everything he thought he knew about them was wrong. Or at least this particular one didn’t fit the mold. Geralt rarely discussed much of anything with him, unwilling to be drawn into conversations. He could be coaxed into a sentence here or there but seemed to prefer one word answers, no matter how simple they made him seem.

Jaskier hadn’t even known that Geralt could communicate in full sentences until he heard him negotiate a contract.

“Not enough coin.”

“What? That’s a hundred crowns!”

“For a pack of creatures you can’t even identify? You expect me to go out into the dark with no idea what I’m facing for barely enough coin to purchase a room in an inn and a bath?”

“You’re a damn witcher! It’s what you do! The coin should be a bonus, you murderous beasts were made to kill, so kill damnit! The monsters, not us!”

“I hardly see much difference right now,” Jaskier had interjected idly. He had ignored Geralt’s glare but hadn’t bothered to speak up again.

“I kill monsters for pay. If the pay is too low, I walk.”

“We don’t have more to give you!”

Geralt slapped the contract down on the table. “I can read. Here the offer says two hundred. Not one, but two. Double. So I am telling you, you honor the contract, I bring you the corpse as proof, you pay me, and we pretend none of this happened. I won’t stay on, I’ll move to the next town over and you needn’t see me again. Or, you continue to kick up a fuss, I walk away, perhaps someone you care about dies, and you wish you’d paid the fee you advertised.”

“Fine! You fucking bastard!” The man spat at Geralt’s feet.

“I will take half the coin up front, in case you decide to continue your lying streak. You will have, as collateral, my horse and whatever gear I don’t take with me on the hunt. When I get back, you will give me the other half of my pay, and I will collect my property and go. Are we clear?”

“I won’t shake hands with a mutant such as yourself. But aye, damnit, just as you said it will be.”

“I will be staying behind to watch that the witcher’s things don’t mysteriously vanish while he risks his life for an ungrateful pisspot such as yourself. And before you decide to test me, just remember I am quite famous. And many people are very fond of me across many kingdoms. If you think your life is unpleasant now, I can assuredly make it worse.” Jaskier smiled broadly, using a grin he had learned from one of his history teachers at Oxenfurt whenever a student fell asleep in class. That particular teacher had been rather fond of carrying a small riding crop with him for such occasions.

         Geralt had been surprisingly sensitive to the moods of others, and initially Jaskier had chalked it up to his heightened senses and training. With more exposure to the witcher, he found it came out of genuine compassion -even if Geralt would insist it absolutely did not because he felt no such thing. He wasn’t capable of it. Which was utter bullshit. He had seen his friend happily entertaining the village children while the bard booked them a room at the inn. Not everyone approved of letting children near such a ‘vicious monster,’ but once they saw Jaskier with him and unharmed it tended to help. Not to mention the fact Jaskier was absolutely unafraid of touching Geralt, touching his things, drinking from his ale cup, or just in general being a horrific nuisance. The witcher always tolerated him with good grace. He had asked about it once.

“Why must you go out of your way to treat me like a pet?”

Jaskier had been utterly shocked Geralt had bothered to initiate a conversation much less speak in more than monosyllables. It had taken him a few minutes to gather his wits. “Think about it, Geralt. If they see me fussing with your hair in a way that clearly aggravates you and you don’t kill me, what are the odds you will kill their children?”

“Hm.”

         As they got more used to each other, Jaskier was more able to read his moods and body language and knew when he wanted to ask a question. While sometimes he truly had no idea what Geralt could possibly want to know, he learned several ways of asking a question that allowed Geralt to respond and also ask his own. Frequently, his questions were about emotions and what it was like to have feelings. Usually more framed as an attempt to understand why Jaskier did things the way he did, and not in terms of himself. After all, as Geralt frequently reminded Jaskier, he had no feelings and couldn’t conceptualize them in terms of himself.

         Another thing the bard had learned that he hated was Geralt was almost incapable of asking for help. He also wasn’t entirely aware of his own needs. While Geralt knew he had to eat, he also knew he could go several days without food and so when their packs were low he went without. Jaskier honestly hadn’t noticed, which horrified him in ways he couldn’t explain. He had noticed after they had split apart for a while and reunited in Verden. Geralt had been looking gaunt and moving a little more sluggish than usual and it had taken a ridiculous amount of effort for Jaskier to determine the source of the change.

         The witcher had been emaciated and coming upon the brink of starvation. Jaskier had badgered him for hours before they had stopped to make camp and Geralt had stripped out of his armor and shirt. His skin had looked stretched across his bones like he was curing it for leather. The next major town they hit on their way to Brugge, Jaskier had spent exorbitant sums on food and a comfortable room for them to stay in while Geralt recovered. He was also learning that Geralt did not sleep properly often and was truly horrible at taking care of himself because he didn’t see a need to.

         The bard had been almost tempted to drag Geralt back to Aedirn and Vengerberg to see if the witch would take him back simply because at least he’d been well fed and clean when he’d lived there.

“Don’t you feel hunger?”

“Yes.”

“So why not eat?”

“No coin.”

“I know you can hunt.”

“Too tired.”

“That’s not it, I know you. You can set snares just fine. Or grub up a tuber or some berries.”

“No good hunting.”

“Ah. You mean you worry the peasants you pass would go hungry if you killed a rabbit they might never catch?” Jaskier looked to the sky as if a voice would answer him in place of Geralt’s taciturn silence. “You have to eat, because you have to keep up your health to kill monsters so you can get more coin. When was the last time you bathed somewhere other than a stream or puddle?” The bard had worked more soap into his hands and carefully started washing more muck out of Geralt’s hair. “You wouldn’t ask Roach to carry you without feed for weeks, or grass to crop. She’d die. You also walk her so she doesn’t get worn out or lamed when you’ve ridden her a long ways. You have to take at least half as good care of yourself as you do the damned horse.” He had been somewhat amused to see the witcher falling asleep, apparently enjoying the sensation of fingers massaging his scalp. However, Jaskier’s tirade was far from finished. “Geralt!”

“Shh,” the witcher had rebuked him, closing his eyes, and leaning into the touch. Jaskier hadn’t had the heart to keep pressing him after that. He had instead watched as Geralt fell asleep in the bath, trusting Jaskier to finish cleaning his hair.

         While overall he was fairly sure he was unsuccessful teaching Geralt to take better care of himself, he did notice problems earlier on. It was easier to notice when Geralt’s head started to droop just a bit, and to decide he was simply ‘too tired’ to go on and they needed to make camp or stop and eat before going on. He learned different signs for when Geralt was in pain, and how severe it was, and berated him soundly every time he let a wound fester without proper treatment. Occasionally they’d split apart for a few months only to run into each other again and Jaskier would take up dogging Geralt’s footsteps until the vagaries of fate pulled him away. He was always pleased to note, however, that Geralt never looked as bad as he had in Verden.

         After Caingorn they had headed west. No real destination in mind. They were well enough supplied that they could afford to travel at a somewhat leisurely pace. Jaskier continued to pester Geralt and occasionally found himself wishing he hadn’t.

“And what would be so bad about all that?”

“A whipping.”

“Ah.” His voice had dried up in his throat. “But… when you were just children?”

“Discipline.”

“A whipping?”

“Children need discipline,” Geralt had repeated.

“I see. Of course. That… that quite makes sense. Of course. How could I be so silly?”

“What?” he’d demanded, deeply unsettled by Jaskier’s odd jabbering.

“I just, no one ever whipped us. Not that I’m aware of. Sure, a switch, or in the case of one professor a riding crop. But, Geralt. A whip?”

“Hard life,” he’d shrugged.

“I know,” Jaskier had said softly, knowing if he apologized Geralt wouldn’t understand. The gesture would be meaningless. Not unlike how Geralt had long since given up on shaking hands to seal contracts and now when people held their hands out he just stared blankly. Without humanity behind things, without feeling, without veracity, it was meaningless.

         “What kind of monsters do you think you’d like to run into?”

         “None,” Geralt grunted from Roach’s saddle, looking at him oddly.

         “Well, then how will you gain enough coin for a hot meal and a nice bath?”

         “Don’t need one.”

         “Yes, but you like them. I know you. We’ve been friends long enough that I know what you like. I know your favorite meals, I know you like warm baths. I also happen to know how much you do enjoy a kip on an actual bed in a decent inn. Especially after weeks on the road.”

         “Unnecessary,” Geralt argued back, uninterested in talking about this further. Jaskier knew if Geralt had wanted to keep talking he would have expanded the conversation some or tried to make some kind of eye contact rather than just bite off the shortest answers possible.

         “If you weren’t a witcher, what would you want to be?”

         “Can’t want,” Geralt had reminded him.

         “Bullshit. Your body wants food, your mind wants rest, your cock wants sex, you know damn well what wanting is.

         “Not very poetic,” Geralt had hummed, still refusing to engage. Then he’d eyed Jaskier slyly. “If not bard, what?” seeming almost pleased with his ability to turn the conversation away from himself.

         “Oh, a viscount,” Jaskier said breezily, and laughed when Geralt choked in response. “Yes, I’d be Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove, and I would fall in love with a Duchess and sing songs for her as long as my heart desired.”

         “Honest?” Geralt presses, eyeing him oddly and Jaskier knows what he’s really asking.

         “You know how to speak in sentences, Geralt. Try it.”

         The witcher had snorted at him in disgust, spit on the path and lightly kicked Roach into a faster walk.

         “What you’re feeling right now is annoyance!” Jaskier called after him, slipping his lute from his back to his chest so he could walk and play.

         Many miles later, Jaskier had slowly convinced Geralt to describe some physical sensations to find out if they matched up to human feelings. He had felt that perhaps if he could draw some parallels it would make Geralt less resistant to being honest with himself. Their conversations were stilted at best, but it fostered a different kind of trust between them, something fragile and new.

         “Palms sweat, stomach hurts,” Geralt offered, eyes roving as he tried to think of other symptoms he could register that Jaskier might translate into a feeling. “Headache, sometimes. Nausea?”

         “Perhaps spoiled clams?” the bard suggested and then laughed when he saw Geralt huff. “Could be nervous. I know when I’m about to do something I don’t want to do I frequently feel nauseous. Especially when I first started performing. Oh, I would sweat like a pig until I had the audience singing along with me. Or stamping their feet, or just… listening. When I knew they were my audience now, not just a collection of people. Or, when as a boy I knocked over a very expensive vase my mother was fond of. I had to tell her the truth of course, but all the same I wasn’t sure how she would react and my stomach twisted in knots.”

         “Did not.”

         “Of course not literally, I suppose I could say it like you did, it hurt, I was nauseous. But that’s not very poetic is it? And you seem to think I always have to wax poetical or I’m somehow doing something wrong when I talk. Then you get frustrated I won’t speak plainly for you. So please, Geralt, which would you prefer?”

         “Quiet,” the witcher supplies without taking so much as a second to think.

         Jaskier knew by now that the little look Geralt gave him out of the corner of his eye was his version of a smile. He still puffed himself up, knowing that was what Geralt wanted. “You asked!” he protests, happy to put on a small show if it will amuse his friend. “You started the conversation! You don’t get to decide to just end it! That’s not how this works! Didn’t they teach you manners at your witcher school?”

         “No,” Geralt tells him after a moment’s pause and careful consideration. “Elbows off the table. Please and thank you,” he mimics and Jaskier knows he’s hearing an impression of long dead training masters. Geralt had surprised him many a time with his impersonations. With his enhanced hearing, Geralt was well able to mimic tone and vocal pattern when he felt like it. “Children are to be seen, not heard,” he continues, a small crease between his brows. “Chew with your mouth closed. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”

         Jaskier isn’t sure if he should smile or not, he can hear the stuffiness in Geralt’s rumbly baritone. The precision of the words spoken in a way Geralt would never say them. He settles on a somewhat bland smile, a little unsettled. “That sounds rather miserable. So you learned table manners, perhaps, but not the very fine rules of conversation.”

         Geralt glances at him, and Jaskier hates that he can tell the memories weren’t fond ones or even amusing ones. The witcher lifts a shoulder. “Yen helped some,” he offers.

         “I’m sure she did,” Jaskier agrees quietly, rather than make a jibe at the sorceress’ expense. Usually it’s worth it to get Geralt riled up over it, but right now it seems unnecessarily cruel.

         “You talk more,” Geralt adds, sensing the bard’s discomfiture and not sure of how to help.

         “Yes, I suppose I do,” Jaskier smiles. He lightly squeezes Geralt’s shoulder and brushes his cheek before standing up to stretch. “Are you intending to walk us all the way to Poviss?”

         “Contract,” Geralt reminds him firmly.

         “So we will walk until we find one, and if it takes us until we cross the mountains and hit the coast, then so be it,” Jaskier sighed.

         “Alright?”

         “Of course, Geralt. Just tired. We’ve been walking for weeks without so much as a barn in sight. You darting awake at every noise in the night makes it a little hard to sleep.” Jaskier feels his heart break when he sees Geralt’s shoulders round. “I wouldn’t change anything about how we travel. At least not you and I. I would do anything I could to make people treat you kindlier. But, Geralt. I am so glad you’re alert and ready to keep us safe against any danger. I hope you know that.”

         Geralt just grunted, curling into his bedroll and turning to look up at the stars above them. Hesitant, and more than a little afraid to ask, he glances over at his friend and licks his lips before opening his mouth and shutting it.

         “What?”

         The witcher shifts uncomfortably in his bedroll. It isn’t allowed. He isn’t some infant, some juvenile simpleton begging for a scrap of kindness and entertainment. He glances around a bit, trying to find some sort of lie but can’t help himself from staring back up at the stars.

         “Oh,” Jaskier says quietly, watching Geralt look away and back up at the sky several times, throat and jaw working as he wrestled with himself. “Well, let me curl in closer, so I can point at them while I talk.”  

         It’s a simple matter to shift their bedrolls so Jaskier can shift his head onto Geralt’s chest, using him as a pillow. “There, that one, the belt, the Hunter. There’s many stories about him across the continent and he has many different names, but you knew that. Perhaps one day I’ll find a story of the Witcher written in the sky, instead. Who knows?” he keeps his voice in the simple cadence he uses for telling stories. “But, for now, we’ll stick to what is. And I will tell you what my mother told me about how the Hunter found himself immortalized among the stars…” 

#geraskier #gerlion #yenralt #yenneralt #jaskier x geralt #lil ot3 as a V here #but mostly just the boys #will write more fic in exchange for comments #in case anyone's wondering

[gaasaku-fanfests]

Dog Day Afternoon

Title: Dog Day Afternoon Author: anoceaninthesun Rating: K+ Words: 3,020 Summary: Reluctant dog-walker Gaara doesn’t think much of it when he sees a slightly familiar girl while on his way to the park. But when she ends up in peril not long after, he finds himself unable to avoid coming to her aid, ending up with an unexpected reward for his efforts. Various Tags/Warnings: Gaara POV, Kankuro’s dog, BAMF Sakura, meet cute, minor threat of violence, some swearing

A/N: I do apologize for the late submission and the fact that most of the GaaSaku interaction is concentrated toward the end but I do hope readers like it

Trope: Hurt/Comfort or Fluff

For the record, it wasn’t even his dog. Gaara had never wanted a dog. His tidy apartment flat might be what some called utilitarian—‘depressing is more like it’ his siblings teased—but he had his plants. His house shrubs and his beloved cacti. Naruto popped by semi-regularly. His siblings certainly never ran out of excuses to turn up and meddle. What more did he really need?

Certainly not a dog. No… a big, slobbery, clingy mutt was Kankuro’s idea to hopefully land a date. Something about a recent dry spell. Plus, his brother kept telling him, they were man’s best friend. Grunting, the redhead wound the leash tighter around his knuckles, jerking back as the excitable rescue tried to tow him down the street after the newest smell to catch his interest. Kage wasn’t well trained yet, his brother procrastinating for some unfathomable reason on putting him through obedience class, and as a result wherever the dog’s interest drew him was where he went.

Slamming his free hand into the pocket of his jeans, Gaara barely managed to navigate Kage around two chatting young women walking by them on the sidewalk. One of them had a scone and the treat instantly had the dog’s tongue hanging out of his mouth, bushy tail wagging.

They didn’t stop, but one turned and made eye contact with him, giggling and then saying something to her friend. There was the attention from the opposite sex Kankuro was searching for that he personally couldn’t care less about. His studies kept him plenty occupied. And despite what his family and possibly his few close friends thought, he was not lonely, and he was not looking to get matched up anytime soon.

Even Naruto had said something about a close childhood friend he wanted Gaara to meet, though one pointed glare was enough to stop that attempt in its early stages. While he loved the blonde dearly, as closely as another brother, he wasn’t known for being the sharpest at times. If notoriously oblivious Naruto could get a clue, why couldn’t Temari and Kankuro?

Gaara huffed to himself, figuring there was no point asking himself the same question he hadn’t been able to answer for some time. And if Kankuro loved the company of dogs and the attention they brought him so much, why couldn’t he walk his mutt himself? Why’d he foist last minute pet sitting off on his kid brother, knowing full well he had an upcoming term final to study for?

Well…maybe Kankuro wasn’t that clued into what he was doing in school. He wasn’t known for volunteering much about his field of study. It wasn’t that there was anything secretive about majoring in political science, it was just… Did a twenty-year old man really need to tell his family in depth how his day at school went?

The end of the lead suddenly went slack, and Gaara’s teal eyes peered down to see they had reached a crosswalk at a busy intersection on a main street and Kage was sitting obediently as cars rolled by. Huh. At least the damn dog had a sense of self-preservation.

Others joined them in waiting for the flashing light to indicate that it was safe to walk, a teenager talking on the phone, a few men in gray suits holding briefcases appearing to have just left a meeting, a mother juggling a cup of coffee and a fussy toddler, and some school children who looked entirely too interested in trying to pet Kage.

Gaara kept his eyes forward, ignoring the children especially. They couldn’t ask to pet him if he didn’t acknowledge them. The dog would bask in the attention, undoubtedly, but he’d really prefer to just be on his way. Finish the walk and return home to check on his plants, maybe try a recipe he’d stumbled across online. Yes. He was aware his routine wasn’t peak excitement for a twenty-something. No. He was not open to suggestions on changing it.

The light continued to stay flash with the warning not to cross, taunting him, as the children inched closer and closer in lieu of successfully making eye contact with him. Still, Gaara’s eyes were firmly forward. Subtly people-watching the crowd of strangers on the other side of the street.

That was why she was hard to miss. Dressed plainly in comfortable sweats and a green sweater that hung off one shoulder, a young woman walked with her head down, scrolling through something on her phone. That in itself was nothing remarkable.

Plenty of young people his age walked with earbuds in, eyes on a phone or tablet, lost in their own world. She somehow stood out in the crowd, though. It was probably the pink hair, shiny and shoulder-length in a soft pastel hue with a red headband in it. Eye-catching hair drew attention, so he could hardly be blamed for glancing twice.

But as he watched her maneuver back into the crowd waiting to cross as she turned the street corner, her focus on her phone yet still managing to avoid bumping anyone, Gaara had the vaguest notion he had seen her somewhere before.

The signal finally changed, the vehicles forced to stop as pedestrians crossed, and the girl disappeared, banishing any mild interest he had conjured. Gaara was back to keeping Kage in line, deciding it hardly mattered if and where he’d seen her before. He probably wouldn��t be seeing her again.

The redhead crossed the street with his brother’s dog, realizing too late their walk had somehow ended up taking them a different way than they normally came, closer to a park about a block away. When had he ever been so absent-minded? It was unlike him. Stopping in front of a posh little café, the kind where a finger sandwich probably costed more than a whole meal, Gaara tried to get his bearings back. He wasn’t lost exactly, but he hadn’t planned on the detour.

Not that his canine companion seemed to mind, his sooty black nose whipping back and forth as he followed the erratic flying of a dragonfly. If anything he still had energy to spare. That made the young man cringe, thinking of how eager Kage had been to sniff and try to get into his precious plants the evening before. There was no way he would allow the dog back into the apartment until he was sufficiently tired. So maybe some time at the park was in order. If he recalled, there was a place designated for dogs to roam anyway.

Kage trotted forward with confidence like he already knew their destination, his russet fur nearly red in the sunlight. They walked the perimeter of the fence that separated the shady path of the sidewalk from the lush grass of the park.

Gaara discreetly looked around until he saw people leading their own eager dogs into a side fence in the opposite direction of where the dog-less humans went. When he got through the gate and unhooked Kage with a stern expression, he barely got a parting lick before the fluffy mixed-breed was frolicking off. Gaara sat on a bench, arms folded, and watched. No leash to tether him, and the dog was having the time of his life, leaping through the grass, hiking his leg on any tree that caught his attention, and barking merrily. A golden retriever wearing a bright bandana bumped noses with his brother’s dog, and it wasn’t long before the two were rocketing off, tussling and sprinting the length of the yard. Suddenly, he was very glad that Kankuro was nowhere around. He didn’t need to be told that even a dog had better social skills than he did. Of course, dogs were more indiscriminate with their friendships.

One eye on Kage and his new friend and one eye on the people passing on the outside of the dog yard, Gaara let his mind drift about. The afternoon in the park was relaxed, sunlight dappling through the branches of large old oaks, a trickling fountain able to be heard even over the sounds of dogs at play, and people having light conversation as they lapped the fence.

Beyond the park, the city waited, unresting with its window displays and business luncheons and endless foot and bicycle and car traffic. Here, here was nice. In hindsight it wasn’t such a terrible thing to take a detour every now and then.

Idly, he thought of the girl he had seen, her face making a sudden reappearance in his mind unbidden. Instead of banishing her, curiosity had him remembering the furrowed knot of her brows, the color of her hair and finally the sense that he had seen her prior to today.

‘Naruto knows many more people than I do. Is she a friend of his, perhaps?’ Glancing at his watch, he mentally jotted himself a note to ask the next time Naruto came over for a movie. As his eyes flitted up from the watch’s face his heart skipped dully, the girl he’d just been envisioning right there in front of him.

Gaara blinked. But no, she didn’t disappear. She was closer than ever in fact, passing feet away, only separated by the neat little picket fence. She still had her earbuds in, and her lips were moving as she mouthed quietly, nodding along alternatingly.

Her jade eyes took in the towering tree branches above with a faint smile. While they didn’t make eye contact, Gaara noticed when her head turned that her eyes were jade, the smattering of freckles he could see on her bare shoulder. She was…she was…

‘Cute,’ His thoughts supplied unceremoniously. That he thought so should probably concern him, because even in passing he wasn’t one to notice the attractiveness of those around him. His brother and sister had plenty of crushes for all three of them.

But the girl was cute, nothing more or less to him. It didn’t have to mean anything, and watching her make pass after pass around the fence, mumbling to herself the entire time, became rhythmic and soothing. His shoulders didn’t hunch so tightly, his eyes at half-mast. Sleeping, even drifting into a total state of relaxation in public was impossible for him, but he felt at ease.

Time went on, people filtered in and out, Kage’s playmate eventually getting called back to her owners. Tongue hanging out and wearing a face of satisfaction that creased his dark eyes, the dog padded over, barking up at him and spinning tight circles. “Ready at last, eh?” He clipped the lead and stood.

They walked toward the exit, sun casting the sky in hues of blue, orange and gold. Kage stopped, and Gaara foolishly thought for a minute even the rambunctious pup was taken in by the peace of he moment. Then his floppy ears perked and the fur along his back stood on end. He sniffed the air and tugged at the leash in earnest, each step assertive.

Normally he would reprimand, refuse to let the dog lead the way so easily. Something had Kage on edge, though, the normally friendly hound transformed into a dog on a mission. If there was one thing he did know about dogs, it was that their instincts would always be sharper than a human’s. Though at the moment, he was starting to feel like something was amiss too.

Bounding around the corner and through an area of trees slightly more off the main trail, Kage came up short at a small slope. The pink-haired woman was at the bottom, hemmed in between three men whose body language suggested they weren’t simply asking for directions. The dog growled low when one of them flicked out a butterfly knife. “Sorry. You’re cute, but you still gotta give us your wallet.” he was saying.

She didn’t respond, instead putting up her fists and squaring her shoulders after slipping her phone into a pocket. Gaara narrowed his eyes. She was insane if she thought she could just swing her fists and get out unscathed. For once, he didn’t try to fight Kage straining at the lead, taking deliberate steps toward them, not sure what he was planning to do except give her backup.

His foot crunched over a twig, and it drew their attention, four heads flying in his direction. But she recovered the quickest, slamming her shoe down on the instep of the man who had her at knifepoint and then kneeing him hard in the stomach. He dropped his weapon and she threw a solid right hook that hit him in the eye. If Gaara had eyebrows, he was sure they would be in his hairline.

“Who else?” she huffed, wiping her knuckles on the back of her pants like she’d touched something foul.

“You little bi—” Gaara let the leash go, and Kage barreled in, a blur of fur and a snarl of sharp teeth. And then he was attacking another assailant. The one who’d had the knife tried to get up, but the pink-haired woman didn’t let him, kicking him in the chest to keep him down. Something rattled that probably shouldn’t have as he flopped back with a groan.

By that time Gaara found himself in the fray, immediately seizing the opportunity to deal with the last lowlife, dodging his swings and getting in punishing blows to his face and torso. He’d always been strong for his size, strong enough to be feared when he was younger and in a darker place, but now that worked to his advantage, all the vicious skills he’d honed coming back in a flash.

Mugging anyone was probably the last thing on anyone’s mind as the trio tried to run, the woman calmly pulling out her phone again and dialing the police to make a report. He vaguely heard her giving them a detailed description and telling them she was safe and would wait for them.

Gaara closed his eyes and let the adrenaline ease back down. Kage, having gotten his chance to play hero, saddled over to the stranger and nudged her free hands for his reward pets. Typical. She smiled, happy to oblige.

“That was dangerous,” he said.

She looked up, a bit sheepish now. “I have a bad habit of zoning out when I listen to my lecture recordings. It’s just…the first time that’s happened.”

His eyes flickered down to her phone, then back up to her face. “Lectures?”

A blink, then a slow nod. “I’m a pre-med student. Um, my name’s Sakura.”

Gaara was…perplexed. This was not how he envisioned introductions going. Not that he envisioned one at all! “Gaara.” On an afterthought, he said, “The dog’s Kage.”

Some of the tension evaporated, Sakura smiling wider as she rubbed at the back of her neck and looked down at the dog now calmly at her feet. “Thank you. Both of you really helped me a l-lot…” Her hands were shaking. She was shaking. So she was rattled after all.

“It isn’t safe, even if the authorities are on their way. We’ll stay.”

Sakura’s eyes widened, and she looked ready to protest. He glared, cutting her off. “Alright…” she sighed, appearing defeated. “It’s getting dark anyway, and I’d be lying if I said it’d make me feel better if I didn’t have to wait alone.”

Satisfied, the redhead gave a quiet grunt, crossing his arms. “You’re familiar.”

“Now that you mention it…you are to—oh! Do you go to school around here?” She came closer, nodding to herself as she spoke. “You! My friend accidentally smacked you with a door a week ago and knocked you down.”

The painful memory came rushing back, and he could feel heat rising to his cheeks. If the higher being he didn’t put much faith in had any mercy, it would be too dark for her to notice. That wasn’t one of his finer moments, but now he definitely remembered the way Sakura had scolded the dark-haired man who’d hit him with the door before rushing over to check on him. Not wanting to prolong the inevitable, he’d gotten to his feet as quickly as possible, shrugging her off and leaving without as much as a word of gratitude. Thinking back, that was harsh. She wasn’t the one who’d hit him.

“Yes,” he cleared his throat. “I apologize for the impression I gave back then, but I appreciate your attempt to help.”

Sakura didn’t laugh. “Sure,” She wrapped arms around herself in spite of the sweater. “I think at this point I owe you though.” A street light nearby chose that time to flicker on, and Gaara watched a blush creep up her face. He suddenly didn’t feel so bad about his own earlier. “You know, if we’re going to be seeing more of each other anyway…maybe we could meet up at the café on campus sometime? B-Buying you some lunch is the least I can do. Oh, I could buy your meals for a week.”

It was hard not to overthink it. Most of his life he hadn’t been the one people invited to hang out, and sometimes he still wondered over how he’d managed to attract a brighter personality like Naruto’s. But in the moment, his brother’s voice, of all people’s was yelling frantically in his head for him to just accept.

“That sounds nice, thank you.” But a week of campus café food was unnecessary. And expensive for a college student. “I’m use to cooking my own meals. If you insist on talking over food, I wouldn’t mind making something for the both of us.”

Was that too much? Did it sound too forward? Like he had ulterior motives? Like he was taking advantage?

Sirens wailed as a police car drew closer, and Kage perked up. Gaara hardly noticed, too focused on how Sakura’s face beamed back at him.

Kankuro would never get over this. He’d insist he was responsible, since it all happened because Gaara had been walking his dog. And well, it could be that for once in his life, his brother would be right.

#GaaSaku #gaasaku-fanfests #GaaSaku Fic & Art Challenge #fanfic #anoceaninthesun

[scandalsavagefanfic]

What about a Lex/Jason where Lex finds Jason wandering around brain dead in Gotham instead of Talia and fixes him up using Superman's DNA? Thoughts? Does he make Jay into his Secretary? Have him trained as a body guard? Adopt him? All of the above?

You asked about this forever ago. Lex definitely wouldn’t waste a super-anything as a secretary and he definitely doesn’t want a kid. He would absolutely brainwash him and train him as a bodyguard. Carefully keeping him publicly visible but in the background just as a fuck you to Bruce.I wrote a little smutty fic for this. More ‘bodyguard training’ than actually bodyguarding. But that’s because I wanted some Conner/Jason and Lex creeping on them ;)

Lost and Found - Read on AO3

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Uh, kind of incesty? Depending on how you lean with like… gene tampering…

Words: 1508

[under the cut because of the maybe-pseudo-incesty stuff]

As a rule, Lex makes every trip to Gotham as short as possible.The city is a dumpster fire, no matter how much money Wayne pours into it. Lexhas tried to give the man some pointers, Metropolis is gleaming beacon of lightand despite what the shameless propaganda would have one believe, that’s mostlydue to Lex Luthor and not Superman. But the elitist bastard won’t listenand that’s on him.

Old money always turns it’s nose up at daring entrepreneurswho have managed to surpass it.

Which is why he almost misses the opportunity of a lifetime.

He’s been in Gotham for three days already and that’s twodays and twelve hours too long. So, Lex is in a hurry to get out of town as heleaves Wayne Enterprises out the alley exit to avoid the press. He’s not in themood to answer any questions about why Bruce Wayne won’t accept the franklyastoundingly generous terms Lex has laid out for a partnership. He isdefinitely in the mood to be snide and may end up alluding to Wayne’s… twilightextracurriculars.

And as with most information, the value is higher the fewerpeople know.

But it explains his frame of mind when he all but trips oversome homeless kid and nearly ignores him completely. Fortunately, he spares theboy a look of disgust before making his way down the alley.

For a lesser man, that would have been the end of it. Butone of Lex’s many, many… many, useful skills is never forgetting a face.

He stops in his tracks, just before his limo, door held openby one of his guards, and turns slowly. Cocking his head, he makes his way backdown the grungy path and crouches in front of the boy.

The kid is caked in grime, hair matted like a dog, and hesmells worse than one. He flinches away when Lex gets near, but he won’t lookup from the spot on the concrete he’s staring at, let alone meet Lex’s gaze.

Except when they flick to the hand Lex moves to rest across the$2000 silk slacks covering his knee. The flash of aquamarine is enough toconvince him.

Lex had only ever met Jason Todd twice. Once at a charityevent in Metropolis, and once at a Christmas gala at Wayne manor. But he won’tpretend he never noticed the boy, pretty in a brash, wild way with his dark,untamed curls, nicely shaped lips, and bright, mischievous eyes.

He’s supposed to be six feet under in the Wayne family plot.

The kid is skittish and it’s clear, even ignoring theexcessive amount of older (definitely fatal) injuries, that Jason has been in anumber of fights more recently. Not to mention the extensive brain damage thatseems to have occurred which isn’t surprising considering the history ofphysical trauma written like ink across his skin.

“Take him with you,” Lex orders the guards who will be inthe SUV following the limousine.

It’s a testament to Lex’s power that his men don’t evenquestion the order to abduct a homeless kid.

The sound of a tussle has Lex turning around again. Just tofind his men—his hulking, special forces trained, incredibly expensive men—allgroaning on their bellies in the alley muck while the boy has tucked himselfinto a corner, face as placid as though nothing had happened.

Slowly, Lex approaches the teen and kneels in front of him.

“I don’t know if you’re in there, if you remember me ornot,” he starts, “but I’m Lex Luthor. We’ve met once or twice. Years ago, now.If you’d like, I’m offering you a place to stay. One with a roof and walls, abed even. A shower, meals. Desperately needed medical attention.”

Lex holds out his hand, inwardly running calculations forseveral of his current projects to maintain his patience. He waits, secondsstretching into minutes. The boy is coming with them whether he likes it ornot. But the most expedient way, is for him to come willingly.

Just as the billionaire is about to give up and call his menover, Jason Todd takes his hand.

“Good boy,” he praises with a grin.

——————————————————————————————

It takes a couple years.

None of the conventional medical procedures had any effectso Lex had to get creative.

Fortunately, he has no lack of imagination.

In the end, the same thing that gave Lex his own son, savedwhat was left of Wayne’s. Bound Jason and Conner by blood even if the original wouldn’tsee it that way.

Superman’s Kryptonian DNA fused with Jason’s own, made himstronger, faster, more resilient. Not up to Superman’s level or even Conner’sbut better than a super-soldier.

And just like Conner, a little tampering while they had allof Jason’s body and mind to themselves left the boy just as suggestible.

Lex watches as they spar. His boys. Both raven haired withsharp pale eyes; Jason’s blue, Conner’s the same shade of green as Lex’s own.

They wear only shorts. Lex enjoys watching the hard musclesripple under their skin. Neither sweat which is unfortunate. It’d be nice ifthey glistened while they beat the hell out of each other.

It’s not exactly a fair fight. Jason always loses. No matterwhat he does, Conner is fully half-Kryptonian and Jason is… just a mutation.But the boy also learned how to fight from one of the greatest fighters in theworld. These sessions aren’t for Jason. He’s the best he’ll ever be. They’refor Conner. Actually, knowing how to move will be more than his other fatherknows and may give him an edge.

They’re also for Lex.

He waits until Conner crawls off Jason again. They’re bothgrinning and laughing as they move to their separate corners to reset.

They know he watches but they don’t know he’s been watching.So, they both startle on the other side of the glass when he hits the combutton.

“Final round.”

Jason scowls and huffs. But Conner’s grin sharpens intosomething Lex recognizes from the mirror. They both know what that means.

Winner takes all.

Including the loser.

The final round never lasts as long as the ones before. Inthe lead up, Conner knows he’s supposed to be learning. But now, he can just letloose.

Not that Jason just gives it to him. The boy is still themore skilled fighter; accustomed to going up against bigger and badder men thanhimself. And with his new abilities, he’s not easy prey. Even for a super.

Eventually though, as expected, Conner comes out on top.

He pins Jason to the floor, jerking the kid’s arms up tohold both wrists in one hand, pressing them down between his shoulder blades. Withthe other, Conner rips Jason’s shorts at the seam.

Lex allows the resultant yelp to wash over him, even whilehe sighs. His boys seem to prefer to tear each other’s clothes off instead ofjust removing them like normal people.

They go through a lot of athletic wear.

It looks pretty vicious from where Lex sits. Conner jams twofingers into Jason (who long ago learned to come to their sessions slick andready) and works them in with enthusiastic force, spreading them wide as heleans sits on his heels to look. But Jason just moans and cants back to meet eachrough jab.

Obviously the super… boy? is working over Jason’s prostatejudging by the way the kid starts to shudder and pant.

After several long minutes—right as Lex is starting to getbored and reaches for the com—Jason turns and smirks drunkenly back at Conner.

“You waiting for permission, or somethin’?”

Conner’s grin widens. “You know I just like to get you allworked up and frustrated first, big brother.”

Jason growls at the epithet. Only for the noise to be chokedoff as Conner spears him open on his cock, sinking to the hilt in one smoothmovement.

Idly, Lex wonders what the reverse would look like. IfConner would flush pink the way Jason does; whine as prettily; look as thoroughlydebauched with Jason’s dirty fingers in his mouth as Jason does sucking onConner’s. Would Conner cry out, like Jason, or bite his lip when Jason twistshis fist into those dark strands and yanks?

Maybe he’ll introduce some Kryptonite into the training regimen.His boys should learn how to wield and fight anything they may face.

Following that train of thought into its darkest corners,Lex tries to imagine what Conner would do to Jason if Lex managed to procuresome red Kryponite. Or purple.

He lets his fantasies run away with him as his boys finishup. Pictures Jason bloodied, covered in and leaking Conner’s come. Sees his handsroving over Conner’s body as the super gasps and pleads; powerless with hislimbs restrained to the posts of Lex’s bed.

Yes. Definitely, time to up stakes.

#Lost and Found #my fic #conner/jason #lex/jason/conner #lemon? #grapefruit? #mind the tags #mind the warnings

[fanofawesomethings]

Rise Part 2: Bitter Storms

Part 2. First part needs to be read in order for the rest of this to be understood. Got it? Read first part.

North from the rest of the world and miles from anything hospitable for the faint of heart, another powerful blizzard struck the island of Berk two nights ago. Damage was minimal, the houses were strong. Everything was paper white snow that was knee-deep, which made the days even colder than normal. And yet, the snow and cold were pushed to the side. The people of Berk were far too busy to mind the cold, that day or any other before it. Everything had to be ready in two days.

 Daily life was different in Berk for so many years. Dragons, big and small, mighty and lanky, made the small island their home. They crowded every inch. To its people, Berk and dragons went hand in hand, so much so that the people made a game to honor them. Dragon Racing, a competition for only the fiercest dragon riders. The object: capture as many sheep as possible and drop them in baskets to score. After an intense season, the championship match was fast approaching. The villagers were eagerly preparing for it.

 “Little higher!” Tuffnut shouted from down below.

 “This good?” Ruffnut, his twin sister, replied. She used their dragons, a Hideous Zippleback, a twin headed dragon, as a ladder. The left head was Barf and the right was Belch.

 “You moved it like an inch. Come on, we need to get this place ready for when we win the game. Everybody’s gonna wanna hang out in the champion’s house,” he boasted.

 It was obvious which house was theirs. No other house in the village boasted the green marker as much as theirs did. The twins were fitting a shield above the doorway; both were both painted with the green emblem of the Zippleback.

 “Yeah, I’ll bet we beat the lovey-dovey dream-team so bad Stoick’ll throw us a parade in our honor,” she laughed. The dragon, named Barf and Belch, chortled with glee at the thought too.

 “Now you’re talking! Hey little to the right.” Belch, the right head, moved its rider’s as commanded. “No my right!”

 “It’s the same right, idiot!”

 “Hey I’m the one whose gonna lead us to victory, no way I want my shield to be crooked.”

 “What’re you talkin’ about!? Me and Barf are practically carrying this team!” The dragon head agreed.

 “Says you. It’s me and Belch who pick up the slack around here.” The other dragon head agreed. The left head snapped at the right head.

 While they argued a lump of snow was seemingly gathered into a firm sphere. No one in the surrounded houses saw it get lifted off the ground and thrown, hitting the grounded twin at the back of the head.

 “Ow! Who threw that?” When no one was there to direct his anger at, Tuffnut turned to Ruffnut.

 “I thought you said you were the ‘mature twin’ or something. Why’d you throw a snowball at me!?” Tuffnut barked.

 “What? How the heck would I throw a snowball at you? I’m off the ground!” Ruffnut growled back.

 “I don’t know, maybe you used your witchy powers or something. Always knew you were cursed.”

 Another snowball was thrown, hitting Ruffnut that time on the cheek. “Hey! You wanna start somethin’ you better come up here and finish it!”

“Oh ho! It’s on now!”

Tuffnut scaled the dragon to reach his sister. The fight between the twins was like the countless other times they fought—slaps and punches with each breath. Their neighbors found it more annoying than amusing, especially when they turned loud. Deafening insults of every variety shattered the tranquility of the morning. They couldn’t hear themselves over their other’s gripes nor could they hear the laughter of the unseen person who threw the snowballs.

Meanwhile, across the village, a gust of cold wind tussled the back of Snotlout’s hair. Panicked, he dropped the stacks of lumber he carried to quickly fix his mane. The wood his father told him to gather for the game torches rolled away while his concerns were elsewhere. Strands of hair back in alignment, Snotlout admired his reflection on the side of his helmet, but when it wasn’t big enough to see himself he plucked a nearby shield off a house to serve as a mirror.

“Who’s one tough Viking? Who can beat up all the Outcasts with one look and wins all the ladies with another? You are that’s who. Or is…? Whatever, I look darn good,” said Snotlout, blowing a kiss to himself.

For the four days straight Snotlout had been practicing his acceptance, speech, styled his hair, and got his armor shiny bright in anticipation of the Championship match. Actually practicing was the last thing on his mind.

 Suddenly a single strand of white hair caught his eye. Snotlout’s jaw hit the ground. He checked his surroundings as though the tiny hair stood out like a twenty foot tall dragon; Snotlout took cover behind the house. With the tips of his fingernails he steadied his hand to remove it without ruining the integrity of the rest of his hair.

 Laughter, a mischievous chuckle, found Snotlout behind the house, but just as before it went unnoticed. A young man with skin paler than snow and hair like frozen waves plotted in the shadows. He held a long stick with a curved tip outwards, aimed at Snotlout. A burst of wind escaped, hitting Snotlout’s back and rising to the sky. In a split second, Snotlout was left with a head of messy hair in a confused stupor because it happened so fast.

 Snotlout screamed. “My mane! My sweet beautiful hair! It never even got a chance to see me accept the champion’s prize. ARGH!” He cracked his fists. “WHO!?”

 Eyes sharp as dagger he searched for the culprit. The young man was laughing without restraint, out in the open. Snotlout looked in his direction and then continue searching. The young man, Jack Frost, threw away secrecy knowing he was safe.

 The cold winds picked up again, that time without being called. Jack spread his arms out like wings and the breeze rocketed him into the sky as though he was lighter than a feather. Soaring higher and higher, above the tallest building in the village, Jack wasn’t afraid, rather his smiles widened the higher he got. He flew with a flurry of snowflakes around him. It wasn’t anything new for the young man but it was a sensation he loved every time. He broke away from the current and dove towards the base of the mountain. The ground was fast approaching, he didn’t have any winds to stop his descending speed, and yet Jack saw the spot where he intended to land in. POOF! Jack landed face first into a pile of snow which softened his landing, as intended. He landed in front of a small cave with ice blocks all over the inside, his home.

 “I knew moving here was a good idea, something exciting always happens here,” said Jack to himself. He waved his hands, a beam of blue light struck the ground and an ice block formed from his palm; he used it as a chair. “Oh Berk, I hope you never change.”

 So many years, too many to count, passed since Jack could remember. He could only remember seeing the moon, feeling cold, and then watching as everyone in the world ignoring him. No matter how loud he screamed, how hard he touched them, no ordinary person could see or hear Jack. In his isolation Jack traveled the world for many years. He eventually stumbled upon Berk, a small island where cold weather was commonplace. Living in the small cave wasn’t ideal at first but he managed. But Berk proved to be more entertainment for Jack than he realized; after witnessing the rise and fall of dragon slaying, he found himself feeling at home in the small island. The commonplace cold weather may have come from him.

A school of Terrible  Terrors sailed by his cave. One with a limp wing broke away from the rest and plopped in front of the young man. The tiny creature curled up besides his foot, waiting for Jack to pet him like he always does. Jack smiled, he always enjoyed the company. He lightly hovered his fingers over its spine, without touching it. The Terror purred with delight like Jack had been actually petting it. But the tips of his finger tips went through the dragon’s skin.

“Sorry, little guy, I wish I could give you a good back scratch,” sighed Jack. His inability to touch was a bitter truth that stung him every time.

 A rush of wind threw the tiny Terrible Terror through Jack like a sheet of paper. Jack was overjoyed, he raced outside. There was only one dragon on Berk, maybe even in the world, Jack knew could rattle the icicles in his cave with explosive speed alone A dragon-shaped shadow blocked the sun. Toothless, a Nightfury—the unholy offspring of lightning and death itself—zoomed through the clouds with its body in a blur and a roar that energized Jack each time he heard it.

 “WOOO! YEAH TOOTHLESS!” Jack cheered, catching his attention, but not his rider’s.

 “What’cha looking at, Bud, another sea arch to break like the last one?” He asked. The helmeted rider found the cave but not the young man cheering his dragon on. “Oh a cave? Never noticed that one before. Interesting.”

 Out of every story Berk had to tell, Jack was most interested in watching the story of Hiccup unfold. Son of the Stoick the Vast, chief of Berk, the first to ride a dragon, the one who brought peace between Vikings and dragons, and the one who defeated raider after raider. No one on Berk, not even Stoick the Vast, grabbed Jack’s attention more than Hiccup.

 Toothless ascended higher. Hiccup clutch the leather brace, clicking his metal leg to adjust the dragon’s tail.

 “Come on, Bud! Keep going!” Hiccup roared. Toothless was equally excited.

 Jack grabbed his staff and climbed up the mountain side until the wind scooped him up. He used it to follow them above the clouds. But Hiccup and Toothless weren’t stopping there. They climbed and climbed, and Jack flew to the next gust of wind to catch up. Toothless noticed Jack following them but it only made him want to go farther.

 Dragon and rider touched the coldest part of the sky, breaking through the overcast to see the glaring sun, but that wasn’t the end of it. Hiccup wanted to break their record. Toothless coughed under his breath without faltering.

 “What do you think: first one to open their wings cleans the stables?” Hiccup bartered.

 Toothless gave a tooth-less smile in agreement.

 Hiccup readied Toothless’ metal attachment. Jack’s favorite part of their daily flights was coming; he watched with eager. Hiccup pushed off Toothless’ saddle, flipping backward and then diving down with his back straight. Toothless joined his rider’s freefalling. Jack closed his body and let the wind drop him like a log.

 All three plummeted to the ground, rapid winds clouding their ears, but although Hiccup didn’t know it, he shared the sensation of freedom in freefalling with Jack. Toothless and Hiccup met in the air, laughing at the other. The dragon looked to the side, to Jack, and stuck his tongue out towards him; Jack liked to feel included. Being so high it took some time to see the ground again. Breaking through the clouds the game began. Jack couldn’t decide who would open their wings first. Hiccup was just as brave as Toothless was, or rather the two were the same measure of foolhardy. The mountain peak zoomed by. They were poised to land on top of the great hall’s roof. Cleaning the dragon stables was no easy task, for a dragon or a person, it was obvious neither of the two wanted to be the loser. Hiccup was the first to feel a twinge of fear. The ground was fast approaching. Jack couldn’t hold his excitement.

 “The grounds looking really up close and personal, Toothless. Makes a dragon rethink leaving the air,” Jack egged on.

 Toothless whimpered.

 It was going to be close. The ground. The distance between them and landing a very painful landing. Hiccup could almost see the details in the roof’s tiles. In the end it was Hiccup who unzipped his leather, faux wings first. He caught the wind just in time and then Toothless after. The two reunited with only a couple dozen feet left to go. Hiccup pulled Toothless out of the nosedive and together they touched down safely. Hiccup turned to mush as he fell over; Toothless dropped his belly on the ground. Jack landed with a poof on a pile a snow.

 “Looks like I beat the both of you, but Hiccup definitely opened his first so he loses,” remarked Jack.

 Toothless whipped his tail to the back of Hiccup’s head to jog his memory.

“Yeah, yeah, I know the terms, I lost so I gotta clean the stables tonight. Fantastic. I hoped for a night with milady, but who wants that when I get to clean dragon poop until past midnight,” groaned Hiccup sarcastically.

 “A bet is a bet,” said Astrid who had been waiting by the great hall entrance for them, “and it sounds like you lost so you gotta lose with grace.”

 Astrid was the second person to catch Jack’s attention, maybe even rivaling his interest in Hiccup. She was the strongest and bravest young Viking, not to mention she was a combat master. And she was also Hiccup’s girlfriend.

 “You don’t sound bummed at all to miss out on a night with me,” said Hiccup.

 “What can I say? I like men who uphold the honor of a contest. Besides, I’m actually going to be pretty busy. Stoick asked me to soothe the sheep for the games. A few of them had nervous breakdowns after the last season,” said Astrid, kissing Hiccup on the cheek on his helmet. He took of his leather mask expecting to get a second kiss, but she gave it to the top of Toothless’ head instead.

 “Yeah, I guess the sheep need calming so Dragon Racing doesn’t turn into sheep hide-and-seek like last time.” Hiccup comically collapsed on the snow, unknowingly landing next to Jack.

 After so many faces coming and going, it was some time since Jack had last seen a face up close like that. Hiccup’s eyes were green. Jack was surprised to discover something he didn’t know about his favorite story in Berk. Intrigue commanded Jack to notice more details like the tiny scar on Hiccup’s chin. Jack finally had a reason to count every freckle on his face. Something compelled Jack to keep staring. He couldn’t remember the last time he laid eyes on something he felt was beautiful but Jack seemed to recognize the sensation when he looked at Hiccup.

Astrid lay down next to Hiccup which put her on the other side of Jack. He noticed the alluring blue of her eyes immediately. Her hair was like strands of straw that had been strung into a gold shine. The freckles on her face were harder to spot, hidden under her flushed face, but Jack discovered them. She was beautiful to Jack too.

She reached for a kiss and Jack stumbled through Hiccup in a panic like it was meant for him. Instead she kissed her boyfriend on the lips that time. Hiccup and Astrid shared a loving moment that made Toothless look away. Jack picked himself up, no longer between them; it was a twist in his stomach, a pain he’d felt before over being left out, and yet it felt different that time.

Jack flipped his raggedy cloak hood over his head as he walked away. He climbed to the top of the great hall, without the wind’s help, and stared into the horizon. It was a lot of uninteresting water. Five minutes staring bored the easily-distracted Jack and he watched the sky instead, though the experience was the same. He was bored, that much was clear, but he didn’t feel like watching Berk then.

“Starting to feel it again. Maybe a change of place would help. But it was impossible to find Berk last time I left. Maybe I’ll visit North and swing by Bunny’s place…for…some…fun…” Jack trailed off at the thought. He realized he’d done the very same thing many times before.

Out of the corner of his ear he heard Hiccup and Astrid laughing. He didn’t want to look. Up there he could hear the twins still arguing over his prank. Another gust of wind hit Snotlout’s hair and he heard him cry out in agony over it. He heard him complain to his friend Fishlegs who sounded like he didn’t know the first thing about hair maintenance. Jack sat upright again. He sat in the highest building in the village, easily observable by everyone, and yet they didn’t see.

Jack puffed out his chest with an inhale. “HEEEEEEEY!” He screamed at the top of his lungs.

The dragons in the surrounding area had their eyes rise at his shout, but the humans he hoped to attract were deaf. It wasn’t often Jack lamented about his circumstances, he was an expert on pushing the emotion down, but that time his eyes twinkled with the water swelling. He crumbled to his knees.

“Why don’t they hear me? I’m here, I’ve always been here. Why don’t they see me?” Jack asked himself. “When does it stop hurting?”

Ice was an instrument Jack knew how to play without practice. The tiles beneath his feet were tainted by a sheet of growing ice he caused. That afternoon a Viking would be surprised to see the roof of the great hall completely frozen over.

  In the latest hours the dragons slept with smoke bellowing from their nostrils. Rather than light lanterns, the people had a few dragons perched on top of homes and their snores would give us embers in puffs, enough to light the ground with enough of them huddled together. Berk had surprisingly quiet nights then. No more screams from Vikings as dragons attacked, everything was calm at night. Thankfully the dragon stables were thick enough to keep the noise from disrupting the calm.

Inside were hundreds of sleeping dragons. They eat and rest and socialize in the giant pod and when it was time to spread their wings there was a massive door for them to fly out of. But grouping most of Berk’s dragon in one place provided hazards. The collected stink of their waste in a single place would get so bad if left unchecked, and thus someone needed to clean them every night. The task fell on Hiccup after losing. Shovel in hand and a small escape hatch to dispense the filth into a hole down below. As grueling work as it was, Hiccup has enjoyment.

“Missed a spot,” said Astrid.

Hiccup rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I thought you said you had sheep to soothe?”

“Of course, and I take my job really seriously. Getting a good night’s rest is essential to being soothed. So I’m letting them sleep and supervising another Viking’s duty at the same time.”

“Love you, babe,” said Hiccup, glad to have some company. He had a second person to keep them company.

Jack snuggled up against the bumpy hide of a Gronckle. The dragon didn’t mind the cold young man as it slept soundly. Almost every dragon was a heavy sleeper. Jack rearranged a stack of rocks that were supposed to be the Gronckle’s midnight snack into a pattern he’d seen once along his travels. Twelve standings stones he’d seen in a far land in a deep forest near a castle. He remembered them not arousing his interest.

“Did you hear about our new trader, Ansgar? The last time he came around I got two really nice daggers at a good deal,” said Astrid, making conversation.

“You and knives is a relationship I’ll never understand. Let’s just hope this trader works out better than the last one,” said Hiccup.

Jack was in a bad mood, one that wasn’t improved by boring side conversation. Everyone else in Berk was asleep and traveling across the world to a place sunny seemed too much of a hassle for the easily deterred young man. As far as Jack knew he didn’t need to sleep. He knocked over his stacks which got the attention of the two. Astrid shrugged it off as the pesky wind, but Hiccup scanned the scattered pebbles with suspicion.

“You know something’s been bothering me for a while now. Sometimes I see Toothless react to something like someone’s talking to him, but there’s never anyone there,” said Hiccup. Jack stirred.

“Dragons have sharper senses that us, they can hear and see things we can’t,” answered Astrid.

He shook his head. “I think it’s more than that. Any time I see Toothless react he always stares off into space like someone is actually there. Usually when Toothless hears something he looks around, but those times it’s like he already knows where the sound is coming from.”

“You’re not trying to tell me Berk has a ghost only Toothless can see?” Astrid laughed.

“Not even close,” remarked Jack.

“Come on, what do you take me for? I’m not that paranoid,” said Hiccup.

“It’s just another dragon mystery we’ll probably never know. You can’t discover them all.”

“No don’t give up, I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Jack said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

Hiccup took a hearty puff of breath, fueling the flame in his chest into a blaze, in the last spurt of labor with the remaining pile of poop. Two more roundabouts and Hiccup threw the last scoop out. It proved to be too much for him. Hiccup panted while his body rejected every ounce of sweat he had to give. Astrid went in for a kiss but her boyfriend smelled of sweat and poop so she kept her distance.

“Ho oh, mighty Thor you have bested the enemies of poop and are victorious in battle!” Astrid puffed her voice to sound deep.

“I finished before the first rooster call, that’s way better than last time, so I get to have the last laugh,” gloated Hiccup.

“Let’s head back, I need sleep and you need a bath.”

“It’s going to be cold,” Jack grumped.

“It’s going to be cold though,” Hiccup pouted.

 Hiccup and Astrid went side by side, though with some space in between. Jack didn’t feel like following, preferring to stay in the now clean stables with the only creatures in the island that could keep him company. Hiccup touched the door out when a breeze nipped the back of his neck. It was meant to keep him there. A whisper he heard next. Astrid heard a tiny voice behind them where none should be. The two dragon riders reached for their weapons as they turned around, but they would never get to use them. A blue flare caught Jack’s eye and he too saw what they did. What looked like a tiny campfire without the wood beckoned them to come closer with what looked like stringy arms. The whisper came from it.

 “Hiccup?” Astrid stuttered, but Hiccup didn’t have a clue either.

 Jack shot to his feet and got a closer. He didn’t expect the tiny flame to turn to him and beckon him as well. To Hiccup and Astrid the flame turned to an empty space, and then back to them. It stirred, flying towards Hiccup and Astrid; Astrid drew her axe but the little flame went complete through her stomach and out her back, floating like a little firefly, and then hovering by the door, signaling them.

 “Uh…I think it wants us to follow it,” Hiccup spoke.

 “I’d say we shouldn’t but you got that look in your eye. Do you think it’s safe?” She asked.

 “Not sure, but if it wanted to attack us it would’ve done it already. Besides, if anything happens, Toothless’ll come in a second.”

 Meanwhile Jack was raring to following the little ember, but it wouldn’t move until they did.

 It was reluctantly that Astrid agreed to accompany Hiccup. She knew common sense wouldn’t stop Hiccup’s curiosity from going.

 Seemingly boundless, it left a trail of dazzling sparkles. The sentient blue flame didn’t speak above its inaudible whispers and its soul purpose was to make sure they followed it all around Berk’s village. There were no night watchmen to see it, or to call for help. Hiccup and Astrid followed it more than they watched the road it led them on.

 Jack followed closer up. He saw nothing much to it’s besides the other side of its flame, but he meant to follow it anyways. Finally another creature that seemed to notice he was there, and it asked him to follow, which he was more concerned about than the fact that it called Hiccup and Astrid too. But as for answering his questions, it only called him to follow.

 Soon, it led them away from the city, through the forest, and then to the base of the mountain. When they were far the nearest house, Hiccup and Astrid raised their guards. Jack saw them clutch their weapons. He woke up from his mindless following to find apprehension in the curious ember, and he grabbed his staff with both hands, aimed at it. The ember ran up to a slender bolder that stood upright in a clearing in the forest. To Jack it was the same as the ones he’d seen.

 “A rock?” Astrid identified.

 “Never seen it before,” said Hiccup. The lantern zipped around it. “But it looks like it’s important.”

 The flame climbed the rock and hovered at the very top. Coming closer to it, strange markings were shown to them—swirling patterns that seemed to be incomplete. All three drew closer, slowly. The flame wiggled its arms.

 “I think this is something important,” said Hiccup.

 “Come on, I came all this way, will you answer me now? You can hear me, can’t you?” Jack inquired. Still the flame beckoned them.

 Hiccup, Astrid, and Jack took their step in the clearing. The flame stirred, startling them, and it circled around the pillar. It vanished after it touched the ground.

 “Hey wait!” Jack shouted. He didn’t notice his voice was louder than usual.

 A sensation he hadn’t felt since the dragons, he felt eyes on his him. Hiccup and Astrid jumped when a voice came out nowhere and then a young man appeared right in front of their eyes. They were staring in his direction. Jack whipped his head behind, but he couldn’t see what they saw. He turned back and they had finished leaning in closer. Jack took a step to the side and their eyes followed him. Their eyes followed him.

 “C-Can you…see me?” Jack gasped.

 Astrid and Hiccup both nodded their head, too spooked for words.

 “Can you hear me?”

 Again they nodded.

 Jack’s knees gave up on him and he dropped down. His body reacted with what looked like stage fright; he crawled backwards until he met the standing stone. They watched him skitter away. They watched him panting furiously. They watched him stare back at them. They saw him. Jack repeated the fact in his head to make sure he acknowledged it.

 The two saw a nervous young man who looked about the same age at them, paralyzed as if fearful. It was obvious, they never seen him in the village before. He wore rags for clothes, holding a long stick, with pale skin and silver hair like fresh snow. A thought crossed their mind at the same time without the other knowing: Astrid and Hiccup individually thought the young man was immensely handsome. They didn’t see any weapons visible on him and to them he looked like he was scared out of his mind. Astrid let go of her axe and Hiccup crouched down to Jack’s eye level.

 “Hey there, its okay, we won’t hurt you,” said Hiccup, not sure what to say. He pulled Astrid down.

 “You really startled us there, we had no idea you were here too,” Astrid said tenderly. She was not one for small talk with new faces.

 “Is he that new trader you told me about?” Hiccup asked her on the side.

 “Ansgar is twice as old as him. See, you’d know if you take down from time to time,” she corrected.

 “Okay, got it. Are you new around here? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you—”

A tear streaming down Jack’s cheek interrupted Hiccup, and then another.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Astrid inquired. She extended a hand to him, Jack took it. “Holy—! Your hands are so cold! Hiccup, he’s freezing over, we have to take him to the village!”

 She felt a hand cold like stone while Jack touched the warmth of her palm. Joy beyond the ability of words to describe washed Jack into a stupor. He couldn’t remember what it felt to touch another person. Were hands always this warm, he wondered. How much pressure should he give? Should he make his hand go limp? Regardless of the question, Jack’s body went limp on its own. Astrid didn’t realize she was the first human to touch Jack in countless years. Hiccup became the second.

 “Whoa you’re right! No wonder you’re so pale. Let’s take him to the workshop, Gobber’s furnace is hot enough to melt fire,” said Hiccup.

 “Can you stand?” Astrid inquired.

 Jack threw his arms around Astrid’s neck and pressed his cheek to hers like a kitten. His face was colder. Astrid was bewildered, turning to Hiccup but when he didn’t know what to do she patted his back to offer awkward support. The attention made her blush.

 “This is real. You can see me. I can feel,” Jack sobbed, feeling the tickle of Astrid’s long hair on his brow; she smelled like charcoal and violets.

 “What do you mean?” Hiccup asked.

 Jack jumped from Astrid to hug Hiccup. His cheeks were warmer and he smelled like sweat and dragon poop, a less pleasant aroma, but Jack didn’t care. Even with a girlfriend, Hiccup’s reactions to affection from an attractive source were poor. Jack felt his cheeks burn twice as hot.

“I’m sorry!” Jack apologized after realizing it but without letting go of Hiccup. “No one’s ever been able to see me like you. Please just a bit more.”

“No one could see you? And you’re cold. Are you actually a ghost?” Astrid asked believing it.

Jack finally let Hiccup go. The idea was absurd, but it was then that Jack found himself struggle for answers. “I don’t know.”

Gobber’s workshop was precariously in the middle of the village. It allowed for easy access to weapons and equipment during the time of random dragon attacks in the middle of the night. But on a calm night it sat with the furnace exhausted. Without anyone patrolling the village that night it was easy for Hiccup and Astrid to sneak a new person and start the fire to warm him up. Strangely, the furnace didn’t burn as bright. They wrapped Jack around a leather quilt they’d normally take pieces from for various leather needs, but that night it became a blanket. Hiccup lightly touched Jack’s cheek, recoiling because it was still cold. As they waited, Jack told them everything. As far back as he could remember when he was named by the Man on the Moon, North and Bunny, and where how many years had passed. When he was finished it was obvious they were skeptical.

Jack pointed the crooked end of his staff on the ground. An icicle formed and rose as he raised his hand. It was more than credible proof. Astrid and Hiccup were floored.

“Wow. That’s magic if I ever saw it. And I always thought magic was just one of Gobber’s stories,” said Hiccup, thoroughly impressed.

“It’s beautiful,” said Astrid which made Jack blush.

“Thanks. Being able to do this is the first thing I could remember. The Man on the Moon told me my name and then let me loose in the world; I had to find out things on my own. There are a few who can see me but people like you…don’t. The dragons can see me, but I can’t touch them.”

“So that’s what it was! Every time I saw Toothless react to something, was that you?” Hiccup asked.

“Yeah, sorry, I just can’t resist how great of a dragon Toothless is, and how great of a rider you are. I watch your rides all the time, it’s my favorite thing in the morning. I really like it when you use your wings too,” said Jack. Hiccup blushed, which Astrid caught and she giggled. “I watch you too, Astrid. I love when you ride on Stormfly’s tail.”

“Well at least we know he has taste,” Astrid gloated.

“So you’ve been here the whole time watching us. It kind of makes me feel a little guilty we didn’t see you,” said Hiccup.

“It’s okay, you didn’t know. Besides, before today I was used to it, but now—! Look at me! I’m talking to my two favorite people on Berk! This is crazy!” Jack laughed. With his laughter the furnace flame were lowered.

Jack threw off his blanket and hopped around the tiny shop faster than a rabbit. The two riders were surprised by his agility and lack of restraint by gravity. His smile was bright with shimmering happiness. It was enough to lift Hiccup’s cheeks, but he found himself thinking elsewhere.

“Jack, it’s great we can see you now, but how can we see you now? If you couldn’t show yourself to us then what happened this time for things to be different? Was it that fire that did it?” He asked.

He finally stopped on top of the furnace. His bare feet barely felt the heat; Jack preferred himself to be up high instead on the ground.

“Don’t ask me, I’ve never seen a fire come a life, but I have seen a stone like that before. It was south…or was it east…wait, which one is the left direction? Whatever, it was in a land far from here and it had twelve big stone standing in a circle. I heard the locals saying they were magical but they were really boring.”

“Hmm, can’t sit still and gets easily bored, wonder who he reminds me of,” Astrid mocked. Hiccup ignored her.

“I’m not an expert on magic so I wouldn’t be able to say anything. But I say we shouldn’t look a gift dragon in the mouth. We can see you now, Jack, that’s all that matters,” smiled Hiccup.

“Thanks, Hiccup, it feels nice to be seen.”

“Hey, you said you could fly. We should totally have a race first thing tomorrow morning! I want to see what you got,” said Astrid.

“Now you’re talking my language! Me against you and Stormfly,” huffed Jack, confronting Astrid.

“Well this sounds like a recipe for disaster. Count me out,” said Hiccup.

“Party pooper. Where’s the Hiccup that took down a Red Death years ago? Maybe you’re hiding him under all that ‘muscle’,” Jack teased.

“Whoa, whoa, excuse me, what are you trying to say?” Hiccup asked.

“I see your extra padding on your arms and chest.”

Astrid chuckled, not picking a side.

The tools hanging from the ceiling rattled. A powerful rumble happened upon near them and a shadow walked around the tiny workshop. The three froze in place like statues, being caught off guard. It was Stoick, Berk’s chieftain and Hiccup’s father, that shook the ground with his very steps. The giant of a man had to duck under the doorway to get through.

“Hiccup? Astrid? What the blazes are you doing up at this hour?” He asked.

“It was by day to clean the stables and Astrid was with me,” said Hiccup, although he wondered why they were the people Stoick focused on first.

“Oh, good, Skullcrusher loves it when the stables are clean. Guess our night ride took longer than I thought, I was just about to head home. You’d better get some rest too, Hiccup, big day coming up, don’t want to fall asleep at the helm,” said Stoick.

“Wait, Dad, you’re okay with this?” Hiccup was nervous to ask, pointing to Jack who was silent.

Jack felt the authority the chief had over the entire island just by looks alone. He very rarely followed Stoick’s story. Even though before he knew he wouldn’t be seen, Jack was always afraid to be seen by the man who was rumored to have popped a dragon’s head off at birth. The fact that he rode a dragon only made him scarier to Jack.

“Okay with what, son? Oh! Never you mind that! You’re mother and I had midnight meetings when I was your age. Of course we chose better meeting places like behind the waterfall, oh and that time in the mountain, and that one time by the beach,” he listed without an end.

“Ew, Dad, not that. Don’t you see—?”

“Oh! Looks like Gobber finished buffing my sword and didn’t tell me. Probably asleep on the job like the last time, and the time before that, and…before that. Should probably talk to him about staying up late too.”

 Stoick went over the furnace. Jack didn’t notice he was crouched on top of a sword in a sheathe. He went to move aside when Stoick reached his hand straight through Jack’s feet to pick up the sword which too phased through the young man. Astrid, Hiccup, and especially Jack were in shock.

 “I’ll see you at home, Hiccup, just don’t get too crazy,” joked Stoick as he left.

 Astrid broke the shock by quickly grabbed Jack’s arm. She could still touch him and she very clearly saw him there—she saw the look of dismay in his eyes.

 “I don’t understand, my Dad couldn’t see you? What—?” Hiccup couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

Jack panted heavily into his hands. He stumbled off the furnace and raced after Stoick.

“HEY! STOICK I’M RIGHT HERE!” Jack screamed.

 The chief kept walking without anything grabbing his ear.

 “I’M JACK FROST! I KNOW YOUR DRAGON IS SKULLCRUSHER! I KNOW YOU’RE THE BRAVEST CHIEF EVER!”

 Stoick unsheathed his sword to admire it. He couldn’t see much in the moonless night, but he pressed his thumb to the edge and flinched. It was as sharp as he liked it. He drifted away.

 Jack started to cry, squeezing his fists. He ran after him, tripping and dropping his staff in the process. Jack reached for the man in desperation.

 “I’M HERE!” Jack cried pounding the earth. Stoick was out of sight. “Please…don’t…go…”

 The tears falling from his cheeks frozen and shattered like glass on the earth. He felt an unimaginable pain twisting his stomach, endless that got worst once his mind pictured every time he tried to reach to someone and then being ignored. There were so many.

 Hiccup and Astrid were unsure what to do. What could they say? Everything about Jack was something they’d never experienced before. When they couldn’t think of words of comfort they were hesitant to take another step closer.

 The winds shrieked.

Hiccup and Astrid took both sides of Jack. They may not have known what to say to him but they both shared the same thought to console him. They wrapped their arms around the young man and held him. It only made Jack cry harder. He threw himself on Hiccup, and then Astrid pressed her face on Jack’s back.

Astrid couldn’t believe the pain in her stomach hearing Jack’s cries. It was enough to make her cry, something rare in the Viking warrior who prided herself on being tough. Before she knew it a tear escaped her eyes, and then cut her cheek. It turned to ice in a second. What’s more, Astrid could see her breath like a thick fog.

Meanwhile, Hiccup felt his body drop in temperature like a freefall. His fingers stiffened.

“Uh…Jack…” Hiccup stammered finding it awkward to point it out.

“Sorry, Hiccup,” said Jack, prying himself from the other young man, without realizing the cold himself.

“It’s not that. Look!” Hiccup pointed to the sky.

Scattered blotches of white, at first slowly, trickled down from the unusually darkened sky. The ends of Astrid’s hair were blown across her face. The cold winds were returning, and they were gaining speed. Hiccup was pelted on his head. A tiny rock fell from the sky and melted—hail. The village rooftops beat like hundreds of drums being struck by the zooming rocks. The three took shelter in the workshop. In mere minutes, snow rained, the hail fell without mercy, and the village vanished under the veil of snowfall and hail. The sleeping dragons innocently nesting on top of the houses were spooked into taking flight, either off the island or into the stables. It no time at all, the village bell was rung.

“BLIZZARD!” It was Stoick’s voice that thundered above the storm—he was the one sounding the alarm.

Door after door of Viking household burst open with a powerful warrior on the other side. They grabbed tarps and nailed down anything that would fly away. An onslaught of snow and hail did little to deter them from accepting the chieftain’s call. When dragons used to attack they’d spring into action equally fast.

“No it’s my turn to nail the bog pot!” Tuffnut shouted.

“We go by who was born first!” Ruffnut countered.

“So it’s my turn!” They both said at the same time. Hiccup wasn’t surprised he could hear them through the winds.

“Jack…” Hiccup inquired.

“It’s not me…I mean…this has never happened before. I don’t…maybe it is…but I don’t know,” Jack fumbled his words while his mind trailed off.

Gobber hopped to throw Stoick a big hammer. The chief pounded wooden stakes into the ground, tying down the ropes that held a huge lantern they used for the dragons. Old clumps of charcoal flew everywhere. It came time for Gobber to tie his own end, but the snow scratched his eyes.

“I can’t see!” The fat blacksmith shouted.

“I came to save the day!” None of them heard Snotlout shout obnoxiously.

He appeared riding on his dragon, Hookfang, a Monstrous Nightmare dragon. Being the center of attention interested Snotlout more than being helpful, and as a result he forgot one fact about his dragon. As he clicked his heels on Hookfang’s neck, the dragon’s entire body became coated in a blazing inferno that was meant to act as a beacon. However, Snotlout’s bottom was burned and he leapt off his dragon because his pants caught fire.

“GAH! WHY DO I ALWAYS FORGET THAT!?” Snotlout cried.

Every from as far back as the great hall to the stables could see Hookfang’s fire. For a moment. The storm grew once more, the increase in snowfall extinguished the dragon, and he sought warmth himself.

A roof was ripped off one house. The water in the village’s well had made its transition to become solid ice in an instant. And even the fiercest of the Vikings, Stoick, felt his beefy arms succumb to the cold.

“It’s getting crazy out there; this storm is out of control. Jack, could you do something about it?” Astrid asked.

“I don’t know, this has never happened before. Ugh! It feels—different from other times. I feel angry and scared and…sad. And my powers were working, I can feel it happening, but I don’t feel like I have control,” Jack explained.

“What if this is a new power? I mean if you think about it it’s something you’ve never seen before so of course you’re not going to know about it. Kind of like when Stormfly used that waterspout thing,” said Hiccup.

“I guess that makes sense, but how do we stop it?” Astrid argued.

“Let me try something,” said Jack.

He jumped out from the workshop, into the open. The cold, the wind, the snow and the hail, he was used to all of it from being in parts of the world where those were abundant, it didn’t disturb him in the slightest. He held his staff tight in one hand. The air was invested with frost; a deep breath tickled his nostrils with it. Jack felt he sensation of his powers fester in his stomach. Any other time using his powers came easier than breathing to him, but the situation called for him to be more mature in his approach. Jack slammed the end of his cane down. His hands glowed deep azure blue. His hair stood on end.

“Whoa he’s really something,,,amazing,” said Hiccup without realizing he did so. He clapped his hand over his mouth when Astrid stared back at him. “Uh…I didn’t mean to say that! It just slipped out! Not that I was thinking it!”

“Hiccup…how did you say the same thing I was thinking?” Astrid asked, being more astounded by that.

By a face full of red and a blank stare, they knew what the other was thinking because they were thinking it themselves. Surprise followed. So many questions zipped in their minds without them being able to answer any of them.

Jack stood planted for a while. The storm gained more momentum and without anything else that came to mind he continued doing what he had been doing.

“Hiccup! Astrid! What’re you doing!? Get out of there!” Stoick hollered.

An iron nail flew out of his hand and rolled away. He raced after it, unknowingly going through Jack to reach it. The chief didn’t see the young man.

Jack lurched forward, the pain in his stomach returned tenfold.

Ruffnut and Tuffnut settled on pinning down their precious family pot together when they were thrown to the ground. A hailstone the size of an apple knocked their heads together. The wind then scratched their skin with flakes of ice.

“RAH! I’M HURT! I AM VERY MUCH HURT!” They both wailed.

The Vikings were being attacked by a never ending barrage of ice. They withstood as much as they could up until that point, but the growth in hail and the ice chipping away at their skin proved to be their breaking point. Not to mention the winds grew so strong the tiles on their homes bombarded them next.

BAM! The statue outside the great hall fell over. The head of a great Viking from longs past was the next to wreak havoc, plowing everything in its destructive path. Fishlegs stumbled along said path. He had delivering leather tarps to anyone who swiped them out of his hands. The rampaging head missed a step and shook the ground with its landing. Fishlegs heard it coming then and screeched as he moved out of the way. But then he heard tiny screams above the roars.

 Children were in the boulder’s path, their house having been ripped almost entirely off the ground. Fishlegs ran as fast as tiny legs could take him. He threw himself on top of the children as a shield, and he braced himself for the impact.

 Jack put his concentration on hold. Swinging the staff like a sword, he threw a gust of wind that flung the rolling head off its current course. The children and Fishlegs were safe.

“Hiccup! Astrid! I can’t stop it!” Jack cried.

Eyes trained in hyper focus, Hiccup spotted new tears across Jack’s face. The pattern was slowly beginning to unravel. The storm appearing when Jack was distraught, the storm getting worse when Stoick passed through him again. It came to him!

“It’s his feelings. Astrid, its Jack’s feelings! This all start because he was sad and it got worse. His powers are reacting to his feelings,” Hiccup explained.

“Whoa, just like what happened when Gobber took away Grump’s sleep toy and he was belching fireballs the side of boulders.”

“Exactly. If we can calm Jack down maybe the storm will let up. I mean, it’s worth a try.”

Astrid was willing to try, but there had been hesitation to reach Jack before and it was still there then. “But what are we supposed to say to make this better? Nobody but us sees him. He’s been lonely for a long time. I can’t imagine what that must feel like.”

It was a heavy sigh Hiccup said, “I can.”

The storm had transformed into an unimaginable degree. The Vikings switched from nailing things down to having their arms full of their belongings to keep them from soaring away into oblivion.  Jack’s next step on his mad dash to the workshop didn’t touch the ground. Fast like a fish caught in an eagle’s talon he was swooped off the ground. He waved his hands, thrust his chest forward, whatever he’d used to do to get down from a pesky air current, but the ground drifted further and further away, slowly but indefinitely.

“Oh come on, what else?!” Jack griped to himself.

“He did say he could fly, right?” Hiccup asked.

“Something’s wrong,” Astrid concluded.

Astrid snatched a line of rope under the workshop counter and raced headfirst into the storm. Hiccup followed. The torrent frightened away the Viking that nailed the giant lantern down. One swish of her ax, Astrid severed the bottom of the rope and was flung into the air by the weight of the structure tipping to one side. She whistled. The wind swept her up as well so she had plenty of time while she was waiting. Stormfly, Astrid’s Deadly Nadder, answered her call, catching her with the saddle.

“YA!” Astrid cracked her dragon’s whips.

Undoubtedly even the most skilled dragon rider on Berk would think twice about flying in such a storm. Astrid and Stormfly were braver than most riders. The winds were powerful but so were the wings of Deadly Nadder. The pair sailed across the blinding storm like a paper crane with Astrid only able to see a silhouette in the air—there wasn’t anyone else being tossed around in the air besides Jack. Stormfly wouldn’t be able to touch Jack, but Astrid found a solution. She slide down the scaly skin and clung to her dragon’s talons.  

“Over there, girl!” Astrid commanded.

The dragon saw the floating young man and knew at once she was meant to lift her rider up so she could catch him. Astrid hung from her feet next, stretching out her hands, upside down. She grabbed Jack’s hands as Stormfly zoomed away from the epicenter of the storm.

“So what’s better: me riding on Stormfly’s tail or me hanging from Stormfly’s talons, upside down, while I say a damsel in distress?” She joked.

Before that day, Jack had never been seen let alone rescued from the air. He couldn’t help by be enamored by Astrid as she held him.

“Don’t joke, between the two of us I have all the damsel,” Jack found time to joke back.

“You know I could always drop you.” Astrid laughed. Her laugh was gorgeous, something that Jack was quick to notice. He finally smiled.

Watching Astrid fly would always send chills down Hiccup’s spine. He could seldom feel the chill from the actual storm then. A hailstone knocked his daydreaming out, but he felt a softer impact. The ice clods had become snowballs then. It was working.

“Stormfly, fly around and make sure no one else is flying,” said Astrid once the dragon let her and Jack down. Her dragon understood and flew on her way.

Once again the three took shelter in the workshop. It was fortunate Gobber was an excellent carpenter in addition to being a blacksmith or else the tiny building would be miles away from Berk by then. Hiccup nailed the last remaining shred of leather to cover the openings. Though the hail was light the winds were no less raspy with their wails.

“I couldn’t stop it, Hiccup, I tried. I don’t get it, I did everything I usually do. This whole thing doesn’t make sense,” Jack lamented.

“Hiccup thinks its more complicated than that, Jack,” said Astrid.

“The storm is reacting to your feelings. When you felt sad about being ignored the storm started and got worse. But now look! The hail’s soft now, it’s getting better,” Hiccup smiled. Jack didn’t return his smile.

“So it is my fault.” Jack dropped his face into his hands. It was the reaction Hiccup wanted to avoid.

Hiccup sat next to Jack. “Were you here when dragons still attacked the village?”

 “Yeah?” Jack was confused by the sudden question.

 “So you saw how people used to look at me as. They saw me as a screw-up and when they weren’t doing that, they didn’t see me at all. I know it can hurt a lot, doesn’t it?”

 “Like everyone is passing you by while you’re watching them. They move on—”

 “And you’re stuck standing there,” Hiccup finished Jack’s thought.

Jack’s fingers trembled from the swelling in his stomach. Astrid held his hands, they were colder than before.

“I don’t know what it feels like to be complete invisible to people but I know how loneliness can feel. So I thought killing a dragon would get me noticed, but really I just wanted people to accept me. And then I met Toothless and suddenly things changed. Toothless and I understood each other more than anyone else on Berk. He made me feel seen. If you told me then that I, a Viking, would be friends with a dragon I’d call you crazy, it seemed impossible, but it happened. Sort of like when you met us.”

Hiccup rested his hand on top of Astrid’s on top of Jack’s.

“We see you now, Jack. You don’t have to feel alone anymore,” Astrid added.

“You’re our friend now. Right?” Hiccup didn’t want to assume it right away.

Astrid felt her palm heat up. Jack was crying except a timid smile breaking the ice on his face. She and Hiccup hugged him. The young man did felt hold but it was pleasant like a cold drink. Jack joyfully received their hug, and the two knew it was also his way of accepting them as his friends. The tear on his face didn’t turn to ice.

 Outside the storm stopped almost right away, unnaturally of course. The Vikings came out of their place of hiding to prepare in case of another wave of frost, without knowing there wouldn’t be any.

 Meanwhile, the three basked in the warmth a tiny workshop brought.

 The night of the vanishing storm would go on the Viking history book as the strangest night to ever befall the island. It appeared and left in an instant. Then the skies became so clear it was unimaginable there was even a storm to begin with. Not a single star was obstructed. In the midst waiting for the second wind to strike the Viking were left bewildered when nothing happened. Hours went by and they finally came out from cover. When morning came the hail and snow melted quickly. However, the damage did not vanish as fast. The storm had crumbled almost every house to splinters. The winds blew Ruffnut and Tuffnut’s many adornments to the middle of the forest. The dragon stables were nearly knocked into the sea. And of course the statue outside the great hall was missing a head.

 Already tired and irritated, the Vikings got to work repairing everything at the first sign of daybreak. They worked with sour faces. Dragons needed to be caroled, sheep needed to be calmed, again, buildings needed to be repaired. It wouldn’t be done in two days time. The championship match had to be postponed for at least a week, maybe more. It was an unspoken fact that the Vikings took with a grain of salt. Still, everyone pitched in to do their own share.

 Jack watched from his cave, vexed with his lack of things to do. A Terrible Terror slept beside him. Hiccup and Astrid were down helping with the repairs and checking off what was and what wasn’t flown away by the storm. It was busy work for the both of them. Jack tracked Hiccup and Astrid, having a vantage point to see them both.

 Hiccup carried a notepad and marked whatever Gobber pointed to. After the seventh mark for the unchanged number of sheep, Hiccup waved his fingers to the mountain where he knew only Jack would see it.

 Astrid flew with Stormfly to deliver lumber from the forest. It was the dragon’s job to cut down trees. Such a task would be better suited for a Timberjack, but Stormfly’s skill at deforestation was no less excellent. The two flew around the rim of the mountain for another round of lumber when she gave a more energetic wave to Jack who waved back.

 Into the low hours of afternoon the Vikings took a break. Dinner was one meal those in Berk would never skip. Every hammer was dropped and a feast was served. Sour faces were sweetened by a hearty meal, and merriment rung inside the great hall. Jack could smell roasted chicken and the guffaw could be hear from the other side of the mountain. He wanted to watch the merriment, but he couldn’t join them.

 Astrid managed to pull Hiccup away from the party. It wasn’t easy, especially with a plate of food. They climbed to the top of the great hall and signaled for Jack. He leaped off the mile high cave. The two riders flinched, for a moment it looked like their friend was freefalling, but a friendly breeze caught him before he touched the ground.

 “We brought you some food, you know, in case you were hungry, in case you can actually eat it,” Hiccup presented the plate of a roasted chicken leg, corn and a cooked potato.

 Jack touched the chicken leg but it only reacted weakly to his touch as thought he pushed it with a feather.

 “Thanks, but as far as I know I don’t need to eat anyway. North and Bunny can eat, but what they have going on is way more confusing,” said Jack.

 They sat on the edge of the roof. On a day after a snowstorm the snow sparkled like diamonds beneath the sun which always seemed brighter. The air was crisp. They watched the ice break away from the bigger cluster only to be shattered when the waves brought them to shore.

 “I’m sorry I can’t do anything to help, guys,” said Jack, “even though I caused it.”

 “As far as my dad knows: it was a random snowstorm. No one was hurt and it’ll take a week at best to get everything back to normal,” said Hiccup, optimistic.

 “Oh I know it’ll take you guys no time to get all this rebuilt. I’m just glad no one was hurt.”

 “We will need cold drinks for the work tomorrow so stick around a bit,” Astrid joked.

 Jack clutched his staff and his fist tight. Tiny squares of ice fell between his fingers. Astrid was impressed if not surprised her joke turned out to be a good idea.

 “I found Berk by accident. One day I found a weird gust of wind so I decided to take it, see where it’d take me, and that’s when I saw Berk. It’s always cold here, there was a good cave, and there was always something interesting happening. And you know, it felt right staying here. I think Berk was always meant to be my home.”

 “It could be better if you decided to stay with me. I’m sure Dad won’t mind another tenant,” said Hiccup.

 “Thanks, Hiccup, but I’m fine where I’m sat, and I want to avoid being reminded I’m not really here. You probably don’t want another snowstorm.”

 Hiccup and Astrid nodded, reiterating the agreement they finalized. They had been talking a lot about it during the party, a serious discussion held around people whose inside voice was rowdy. The agreement was done between two who trusted each other more than anyone else. They took Jack’s hands, holding them with an extra soft touch.

 “We see you, Jack,” said Astrid. “Sure it wasn’t the most ideal meeting, but we’re glad we finally got to meet you.”

 “This is normally not my thing, but I’ll make an exception for you. That is if it doesn’t feel weird,” Hiccup awkwardly muttered, his cheeks flushed.

 They moved in closer. Jack was sandwiched by their shoulders pressing against his. Slowly, their faces leaned in closer to his. Confusion struck the young man. They tightened their hold on his hands. Jack was overwhelmed as though he was trapped. He saw a way to get free but he didn’t want to get free. Their breaths brushed his cheek, they were really warm. Jack turned to stone. Only when their lips were inches from touching his cheeks did he realize what was happening, not that it did him any good knowing for it only made his mind give out harder. It was too much. Jack couldn’t be more elated, without knowing he would never feel their kiss.

 The great hall rattled, Astrid and Hiccup were jostled. Flakes of clay tiles hit their faces. The merriment down below stopped flat. Something had landed on the great hall to deliver the silence—something big. A mud-colored tail cracked the roof with a powerful strike. A dragon no one had ever seen before eyed Astrid, Hiccup and Jack with immovable silver eyes. Its single roar, powerful as it was frightening, shook Berk with dread.

#rise of the brave tangled dragons #Jack Frost #Hiccup #Astrid #rise of the guardians #how to train your dragon #fanfic #fanfiction

[wecanbe-heroes]

Too Late - Connor x reader

Pairing: Connor x gender neutral!reader

Warnings: mentions of guns, blood, death, and one use of the ‘f’ word

Word Count: 1912

A/N: Trying my hand at angst/sad and wrote this at like midnight lol. I don’t like writing sad I have learned :’( but here we go anyway. Hope you enjoy!

Taglist: @spectacular-spiderboy @connorshero

Standing at attention with your hands clasped behind your back and your feet slightly spread, you listened to the android giving orders. The rubbing of the bullet resistant vest on your skin and the weight of the gun in on your hip felt all too familiar to you. You had years of training and many missions like this and you never hesitated in carrying out your orders. Now, as Connor paced in front of you and the mix of human and androids from the DPD explaining his plan, you felt a little trepidation. Now you had a desire to live. All because of that stupid android sent by Cyberlife.

If he hadn’t shown up at the tower when you were on duty, none of this would have happened. You had been secretly working for the android’s revolution from the inside, helping deviant androids escape the facility for one, but he hadn’t known that. After a tussle, which he won of course, he always won, you managed to convince him of your secret before he could kill you. That was five months ago.

Since then, you gained a job working with the DPD, it wasn’t hard with your work background, and had grown close to Connor. Close enough that people at the station were wondering when the two of you would just get together already. You, no matter how hard your outer shell was, were very shy when it came to asking Connor out. He, of course, seemed to be oblivious to this and never really acknowledged or reciprocate any advances you made. So, you stayed quiet and enjoyed your time with him as a friend.

“You ready?” You relaxed your stance as he finished his speech and walked over to you. His voice and eyes held a concern for you that made your heart stutter for a minute. Then you clenched your teeth and gave him a smile.

“Of course, just another Red Ice den.” You looked around at the scene you were in. Four humans and three androids, including you and Connor, stood outside the abandoned apartment complex. A lot for a simple drug bust, you thought. You’re just nervous, calm down, you told yourself, taking in a breath and turning your gaze back to Connor, who looked at you with narrowed eyes.

“Come here,” He huffed, and you stepped closer, a little unsure of what he was going to do. “Your strap is wrong.” His artificial skin brushed against your real skin as he shifted your vest so it did not hinder the use of your arms. Why you had gotten it wrong was beyond you, never had you misplaced it, but now you were glad it was. “There you go.” Connor stepped back.

“Thanks, Con.” Rolling your shoulders, you checked your gun, making sure it was loaded correctly and the safety was on. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the signal from another officer, and both you and Connor instantly tensed, ready for action.

“Let’s go.” The brown-haired android started towards the stairs leading to the third floor, keeping low and quiet. You were right behind him, you always had each other’s backs, and the others followed close after.

As the group quietly ascended, your mind raced through the various scenarios of what might go down. If you guys were lucky, it would go smoothly like the last three. They were in smaller houses though, and the size of the complex worried you. From the way Connor had looked during Fowler’s run through at the station earlier that evening, you knew he was worried too.

He raised his hand, signaling the group to stop. You moved around him smoothly to the other side of the door. This was all a graceful dance for the two of you. You worked perfectly together, each calculating the other’s next move before they did it. As the android took his place across from you, you stared into his deep brown eyes. It was crazy, you thought, that at one time they looked at you like a stranger, cold and detached. Now, however, you saw everything in those eyes. Fear, worry, concern, the same emotions you were feeling at the moment. Then he nodded and you flicked off the safety on your pistol.

“Police, don’t move!” You yelled as you breached the door. You heard crashing and people swearing. The other officers yelled for the suspects to get down, and then the shooting started. You ducked behind a door frame for cover and took a second to get your bearings.

There were more in the apartment than you had been informed and with heavier ammo than just handheld pistols. Connor was no longer in your vicinity but you knew he could take care of himself, you just needed to worry about taking care of yourself. With a calming exhale, you peeked around the frame and noted it was clear, then moved onto the next room. You continued to hear shots and yelling as you and two others that had taken cover with you advanced. Then Connor suddenly appeared in front of you.

“We’ve cleared the rest of the apartment and have the suspects in custody.” He said, to you and to the officer on the end of his radio. You heard a faint reply saying they copied and you smiled.

“Get down!” You heard one of the androids near the front door yell, right before a loud bang made your ears ring. The body of the android went flying. The team of officers were being ambushed by a second group of the Red Ice dealers. They must have been hiding in one of the other apartments. You could faintly hear yelling as your ears slowly stopped ringing and you turned towards the front door of the apartment.

The breath in your lungs was forced out as one of the suspects aimed their gun at you and shot your chest. Luckily, they were far enough away and the gun was a simple handgun, so it didn’t penetrate, but it did enough damage for you to stumble back and know it was going to hurt like hell later.

“Y/N!” Connor yelled, grabbing you from behind before you fell completely.

“I’m okay! Don’t worry about me!” You pushed him off as one of the human officers fell to the ground, dead. The look in your eyes must have convinced him because he immediately let you go and lifted his gun.

You did not have much time to take a breather, so, while your chest screamed in pain, you followed Connor into the next room, unsure of what it might have been at one time. Everything in the place was covered with filth and objects they used for making Red Ice. There was no way of stopping these people, you realized, and so you set your sights to shoot to kill.

Connor took out the first two dealers and you the third. You weren’t sure how many were now in the apartment, you only knew you had to stop them before they killed the rest of the team. You did know there were already three causalities, including the android, and that was too many. No more would die on your watch.

“Connor!” The android turned at the sound of your choking yell, his gun almost dropping out of his hand as he saw what was happening. You scrambled against the arm wrapped around your throat, pulling you backwards. The arm tightened and you struggled more to breath, chocking on your own saliva. Connor’s grip on the gun tightened in anger and he lifted it to shoot, carefully aiming with accuracy so he would not hit you.

There was the sound of a gunshot. Then another, right after the first. Why did he shoot him twice? You thought as the arm went slack and you went to move out from under it. “Oh,” you whispered, feeling the blood running down your side. Placing a hand over it, you crumbled to the floor. The man had gotten the barrel of his gun on your side, just under the strap of your vest, and managed to fire a shot right before Connor killed him.

All of the noise in the apartment was suddenly gone. You could only hear your breathing as you slid to the wall to prop yourself up. Even Connor yelling your name was just a faint whisper. Your eyelids suddenly felt heavy.

“Hey! Hey! Stay with me Y/N!” Connor fell to his knees next to you. He scanned your body and saw the bullet was still lodged in your abdomen. A red heartbeat line flashed in the corner of his vision and he tried to ignore how irregular and slow it was becoming. This was not supposed to happen. It was a normal mission. Just a bust. You were never meant to get hurt.

You weakly put your hand on his cheek, wiping away the tears that were forming with your bloody thumb. You shushed him quietly, head rolling to the side slightly as blood quickly oozed from the wound. There was no helping you now, you knew that, but you weren’t scared like you always thought you would be when you died. “It’s okay.” You told him, smiling. “I’m not going anywhere.” You tried to laugh, but started coughing and groaned. Okay, now it hurt.

The heartbeat was starting to slow even more, it’s red glare taunting and tormenting the android. He didn’t know what to say, he always knew what to say, always knew what to do. Now, he could only kneel there looking at you as you faded from him. “Don’t leave me.” Connor’s LED spun a rapid red, faster than you had ever seen it run, as he put his forehead against yours.

Taking his hand and gripping it as tight as you could, you brought it up to your cheek. “I will never leave you Connor, you mean too much to me.” Your lips barely moved as you softly spoke, your vision blurring. You brought his hand to your lips. His skin had the smell and taste of metal from the gun, but the scent of Connor was distinct behind it. “I love you, Connor.” You knew you were crying now, but everything felt numb to you. You stared into his eyes. In them, you saw pain, pain for you, but also love. Love you had never seen or felt before. How had you been so blind to it all this time? “My partner.” Your words were faint now, barely above a whisper, as your hand slid away from his. “My android.”

Connor gripped your other hand tight as you breathed out those last words. Words he had yearned to hear for such a long time now, but always too afraid to say them himself. He could hear the footsteps of the remaining officers as they took down the rest of the suspects, but his focus was on you completely. The red line was gone.

“No.” Connor was shaking now. This was the first death of someone close to him after becoming deviant. No one told the androids how much emotions fucking hurt. He stared at your lifeless eyes, tearing running down his cheeks. It was a few moments before he took a breath and shook his head. He had a mission to complete, he told himself. Then he would grieve. So, he raised his hand and closed your eyes.

“I love you too.” Connor kissed your forehead, the last tears dripping into your hair, and then he stood to call in to confirm the building was clear and that the team needed an ambulance for the wounded. If only he had been quicker, he thought, but he was not thinking about the mission.

#connor x reader #dbh: connor #dbh fanfic #dbh #detroit become human #dbh:connor #d:bh #detroit:become human #detroit: bh #connor dbh #dbh connor #connor fanfic #connor fanfics #connor fanfiction #dbh connor fic #dbh connor fics #dbh fics #dbh fanfics #dbh writing #rk800 x reader #rk800 #connor rk800 #dbh fanfiction #my connor fics #my fics #blood tw #death tw #gun tw #swearing tw #d: bh

[hey-itsnxel]

Level Nine.

*I never posted this fic on tumblr, but after just editing it, I figured why not?*

Rating: General Audiences. Words: 3,025 Tags: Rich Dan, Bartender Phil, Short & Sweet, Drunkeness Summary:  No one ever sat at the bar, until one night someone did.

[read on ao3]

Phil wasn’t sure how he ended up bartending at one of the most prestigious bars in New York City. One minute, he was pouring beer at a sports bar, barely getting paid minimum wage, and having to deal with the obnoxiously drunk groups of college kids that hung out there and the next? He was being whisked away by a man in a suit that probably cost more than Phil’s whole apartment to the rooftop of The Belmont Hotel.

Just like everyone else who frequented the bar scene, he’d heard about Level Nine. Despite being far past the ninth floor of the hotel it sat atop of, Level Nine was the kind of place only rich people could afford to step into. Gone were the frat boys spilling beer everywhere. Now it was socialites; It was men in business attire sipping rum and cokes by outdoor fireplaces while they discussed politics and business deals. Couples who were dressed to the nines, little black dresses and Gucci suits, downing extra dry martinis faster than Phil could make them.

It was for the socially elite. The rich. The famous.

Somewhere Phil definitely didn’t belong. Yet, here he stood, black slacks and a white button down shirt donned and martini shaker in hand. His hair was meticulously pushed back into a quiff despite knowing the strands were bound to fall in his face by the end of the night.

He just had to look the part. No one here had to know that he lived in a shitty one bedroom apartment on the other side of the city, no one had to know how pathetically broke he was until he got this job, no one even had to know his name if he didn’t want to tell them. It didn’t matter though because no one ever asked. Phil wasn’t even sure if he’d heard anything other than drinks orders since his feet his the patio floor on his first day.

Tonight was no different. The city lights were spread out like stars, a harsh contrast against the sky. The sound of traffic was muffled by the music playing over the speakers. Phil briefly wondered what it would be like to live this kind of life as he tipped a bottle of champagne into the flute in his hand, dropping a few raspberries to the bottom of the glass once he was done. The bubbles rose to the top and he repeated the process four more times before signaling a co-worker to come take the drinks where they needed to go.

No one ever sat at the bar. There was a set of three stools, matte black from top to bottom, sitting empty in front of him. The only human interaction they ever received was when someone bumped into them while ordering a drink. He supposed it would be weird to come to a place like Level Nine and talk to the bartender. They should probably just move them, honestly.

Phil had gotten lost in his thoughts of barstools and living the socially elite dream life when he heard someone’s fingers tapping against the bar. He jumped as he saw them, fumbling with the glass he had been wiping in his hands, before regaining some of the composure he was supposed to always have while he was working. The man didn’t even give Phil a chance to say anything before slapping a black card down on the counter, ordering a pair of manhattans, and walking away towards a much younger boy on the terrace.

His eyebrow rose as it fell on the black card. Even for Level Nine that wasn’t common. But he decided to think nothing of it and went to work making the man’s drinks.

Phil didn’t interact with the man again until he came back for his card. All his drink orders had been placed through one of the waitresses, who he had running back and forth all night. He signed off on the receipt without a word and walked out the door, hands stuffed angrily in the pockets of his pinstripe suit.

The boy who he had been sitting with was still on the terrace, a half empty glass dangled precariously in his left hand as he leaned against the railing. His head was hung, curls occasionally getting tussled by the breeze that had begun. With a sigh, he tipped the glass back like a shot and placed it on the table, walking out without a glance in Phil’s direction.

-

It was cold.

The outdoor fire places were lit, the hidden heaters in the base of the patio roof were on. None of those luxuries extended to the bar though, so Phil was freezing. His hands shook as he ran the cleaning rag over the surface for what felt like the 30th time despite their being nothing to wipe away. It was their dead hour, that awkward time where everyone was out eating dinner and had no reason to be at a bar. Yet Phil still had to stand there, attention ready, just in case someone were to come in.

He always felt awkward standing around doing nothing. He got fidgety and nervous, which resulted in him repetitively wiping down the counters and unused barstools. He turned the liquor bottles so the labels faced outwards, wiping the cloth over them as well. It was his least favorite part of the day.

Luckily, it seemed that part of the day wasn’t going to last very long.

Despite being early into their dead hour, the door of the elevator swept open and the same boy from a few nights ago stepped out. Phil hadn’t had a chance to look at him until now. His hair was dark, the same color as the whiskey he poured every night, falling in a mix of wavy curls across his forehead. He was wearing a black suit, minus the jacket which was draped over his arm. A black tie hung loosely from his neck.  All of that seemed normal from what Phil had gotten used to. Expensive suits were almost as common at Level Nine as the taxis were on the streets below. What really caught his attention, however, was the black and white Converse on his feet. The laces were tied sloppily, the sides scuffed, and they were a complete contradiction to the probably designer suit on his body.

The boy hesitated in the exact middle of the patio, his eyes flickering to the couches where he had sat previously and then back to Phil a few times, before his converse clad feet began to make his way towards the bar, eventually leaning against the counter.

“Hey. How are you?”

Phil was surprised. He wasn’t used to anything other than drink orders, but this random boy (who barely looked old enough to be in here) had his head tipped to the side, waiting for Phil to answer.

“I’m doing fine, thank you. What can I get you this evening?”

He looked past Phil, slipping onto one of the stools in front of the bar as he eyed the rows of liquor bottles on the shelves behind him. Phil’s eyebrow rose subconsciously. Much to his dismay, his mouth began moving on it’s own accord.

“No one ever sits there.”

The boy looked back at Phil, propping his chin in his hand.

“Well, I’m happy to be the first. I’ll look like less of a loser if I’m sitting here drinking as opposed to sitting over there drinking by myself. Rum and coke. Heavy on the rum, light on the coke.”

He flipped open his wallet, sliding yet another black card across the counter. That was two in one week. Phil stared at it blankly, his mind running with thoughts. Daniel Howell. The name on the card seemed familiar but Phil couldn’t grasp where from. It had to be somewhere important if he had a black card of all things.

Daniel seemed to read his mind, sighing slightly before he started speaking.

“Howell and Son Law Firm. My dad is Howell, I am unfortunately the son. One of them anyway.”

Oh! Duh! Now Phil could see it. The commercials, the newspaper write ups, the feature in that random magazine that had been accidentally delivered to his door. It all made sense as to why he would have a card of this caliber. He was slightly embarrassed at being so transparent. It took Dan all of ten seconds flat to practically read his mind and only another few seconds to do it again.

“Don’t worry. I get it a lot when I use that card.”

“Oh, right, I apologize.” Phil plastered his best customer service voice on as he moved to pour his drink.

To his surprise, Daniel laughed.

“You don’t have to be that professional with me. Trust me, I am nothing like anyone who comes up here.”

“I could tell by the Converse.”

Phil mentally slapped himself for saying that, turning on his heel to apologize. His words were caught in his throat when he saw the sheepish expression on Daniel’s face. His lips had quirked into an embarrassed smile, shrugging so faintly that Phil barely noticed it.

“Yeah, full disclosure, my father is going to have a fit about that whenever he shows up. So, I’m warning you to take cover.”

He watched as Dan forced a laugh, rolling his eyes in a way to was meant to be sarcastic. It came off as more sad than anything.

“I think I’m the safest out of everyone here. I have a whole bar to hide behind.”

Phil felt Dan watching him over the rim of his glass, his eyes following him as he moved around behind the bar to place the bottle back. It was unnerving, to say the least. Everyone who came to the bar barely cast Phil a second glance and now some lawyer’s kid was practically staring him down.

“What’s your name?” Finally breaking the silence, Daniel placed the glass down on the counter with a clink.

“Phil. I’ll add that to your lists of firsts, no one here has asked me before.”

The frown that fell across Dan’s face was sincere, his brow furrowed immediately. He took a slow sip of his drink, swirling the liquid in the glass.

“Rich people suck, tbh.”

Phil nodded a bit too quickly, making Dan snort. Their conversation , along with Dan’s drinks, flowed naturally from there.

By the time Dan’s father showed up, Dan was a bit drunk. His eyes had glassed over a long time ago, his sentences reducing to giggles every time he stumbled over a word. Phil had found the whole sight adorable, spending a solid portion of their conversation coercing Dan into drinking some water.

“I hate it, you know?” Dan slurred, leaning back on the barstool in a way that made Phil’s pulse quicken. He resisted the urge to reach out and push it back down to the floor.

“Hate what?”

“This.” He waved around, the stool wobbling beneath him before Dan moved forward and grounded it again. He leaned across the counter as if the next words that were going to leave her lips were some big secret. Phil obliged and met him in the middle, eyebrow risen.

“Working for my dad sucks. Going to law school sucks. Having to sit on that couch and talk about my future sucks…” Dan had turned the stool so he was looking away from Phil, his eyes locked on the elevator door. As if on cue, his father and an older boy stepped out. With a sigh, he glanced over his shoulder at Phil. “… I think most of all, my brother sucks.”

Pushing himself away from the counter, Dan grabbed his jacket and headed towards the couch. Just like he had warned, his father was already chastising him about the shoes. The brother stood off to the side, looking incredibly smug as he nodded along with everything Mr. Howell was saying.

-

For the rest of the night, Phil found himself staring towards Dan’s corner. He was slumped back against the couch, nursing a vodka tonic Phil had just made. The brother, who Phil found out was named Alex when he saw his credit card, was talking animatedly. Mr. Howell was practically beaming at every word that came out of his mouth. When the conversation fell on Dan, his expression immediately changed. He looked disapproving and stern, his lips drawn into a tight line as he shook his head everytime Dan spoke.

The later it became, the less Dan spoke. Until it was almost like he wasn’t there at all.

Phil found himself feeling bad for Dan. Despite only talking to him for an hour or two earlier, he could admit he’d developed a tiny crush on the brunette. They had a lot in common despite coming from two different paths of life.

When Dan got started on something he loved, the way he talked about it was captivating. Even if he was drunk. Phil had found this out when an older pop song started playing throughout through the speakers. Dan had immediately swerved the conversation onto that, ranting a mile a minute about different styles of music and how they’d changed over the years. Admittedly, Phil didn’t care but found himself hanging on every word Dan said like his life depended on it.

Maybe the crush also stemmed from the fact Dan was the first person in Level Nine who had spoken more than two words to him. He had seemed genuinely interested in whatever Phil was saying even stopping him to ask questions. Phil had never been more paid attention to in his life.

It was late. People had started to drift out of the bar, leaving only the  Howell’s and a few odd people meandering about. Dan caught Phil’s eye from across the room, rolling his eyes with what Phil assumed was supposed to be subtle head nod towards his brother.

It definitely wasn’t subtle.

His father and brother had already turned their heads, casting a single glace at Phil before before turning back around. Mr. Howell stood up and Alex followed, leaving Dan slumped against the couch. It was sad that it didn’t surprise Phil when they left without speaking a word to Dan.

“Bye to you too.” Dan huffed, loud enough to attract attention from the few remaining customers. His father didn’t turn around, the elevator doors already closing behind him. Phil smiled sympathetically at him, to which Dan raised his empty glass, mocking a cheers motion from across the patio, before returning to the barstool he’d claimed early.

“Well that sucked.”

Phil was already sliding a glass of water down the bar a lemon wedge on the side (because ‘water without lemons was gross’ according to Dan.) Dan twirled the lemon in between his fingers, fumbling with it before it fell to the floor. His bottom lip poked out in a pout as he looked down towards the floor, eyes lifting to Phil in the best puppy dog expression he’d ever seen. It took Dan approximately three bats of his eyelashes before Phil was practically power walking to the end of the bar where they kept the fruits for cocktails and placing another lemon in Dan’s drink.

“Thank you, Philly.”

The smirk on Dan’s lips alongside the nickname made Phil roll his eyes and a blush creep onto his cheeks simultaneously.  

“It’s my job.” He mumbled, resisting the urge to take the lemon away out of spite (he would just end up giving him a new one five seconds later anyway).

Dan stared at the water, silently watching the condensation drip down the side, while Phil resumed the nightly cleaning schedule for the bar. Every so often, he could feel Dan looking at him, but he’d always looked back down before he could catch him in the act.

“You’re the last person here, you know we technically closed like 30 minutes ago.”

Phil moved from behind the bar, the latch of the gate clicking behind him.

Dan hopped from the barstool, his feet hitting the floor with a thud.

“I know. I was waiting for you to get off.”

Swinging his arm forward, he motioned for Phil to lead the way.

“Why?” Phil started walking, pausing in front of the elevator before turning to the stairs the employees usually took. Dan quickly looped his arm through his, stopping him dead in his tracks. Before Phil could object, he had pushed the button for the elevator door and drug Phil inside.

“So I can take you home, duh.”

The way Dan spoke made it sound like it should have been obvious. His confidence faltered a split second later, when he started stammering over himself.

“I mean, like, literally home. I’m not trying to fuck you or anything yet.... Not yet like I’m planning on it or anything. I mean I could be into that one day if you’re into that. I mean literally take you to your house. Is that creepy? Now that I’m saying it outloud it sounds incredibly creepy.”

Phil couldn’t stop himself from erupting into a fit of laughter. Dan’s drunken rambling was almost as cute as the blush the spread across his face. He leaned back against the wall of the elevator, looking up at the weird designs painted on the ceiling.

Once he finally calmed down, he turned to Dan.

“It’s not creepy. But, you definitely can’t drive right now.”  

“Phil, Phil, Phil." Dan tsk-ed sarcastically, shaking his head, before he wrapped his hand around Phil’s. "You think I, the son of the man who founded Howell and Son Law firm, drives himself anywhere? Ha!”

Phil deadpanned at his dramatics. What was even happening?

“No, seriously. I have a driver tonight. Let me take you home?”

Phil hesitated, but after taking one look at the hopeful expression on Dan’s face, he knew there was no way he was going to tell him no.

(Little did Phil know, this wouldn't be the last time he found himself in the backseat of this car. Funny how things work out sometimes.)

#phanfic #my fic #<3

[ineffablecolors]

CS JJ Day 17: Not One of Those Stories

All the admiration and love in the world for @lenfaz and @katie-dub for the bundle of joy that is @csjanuaryjoy!! At 10k this is the longest OS I’ve ever written and it is also one of the stories that has been living in my head for the longest time and I was genuinely excited to get home to it for the last 3 nights. Hope you like the end result at least half as much as I love showing it to you!

“Just so you know, this isn’t one of those… bodice ripper things. It’s not a romcom script waiting to happen. It’s not one of those stories. It’s just Emma’s life. And, if you’d asked her just a couple of years ago, she would’ve bet you a decent amount of cash that it wouldn’t have anything resembling a happy ending.

Then again Emma has been known to be wrong. ”

A/N: Ever since Old Hook happened, I’ve been mourning the lack of AU fics with Emma and an older Killian so if a difference of about 15 years bothers you, this might not be your cuppa.

Not One of Those Stories;  ~ 10, 000 words; FF.NET || AO3

Just so you know, this isn’t one of those… bodice ripper things. It’s not a romcom script waiting to happen. It’s not one of those stories. It’s just Emma’s life. And, if you’d asked her just a couple of years ago, she would’ve bet you a decent amount of cash that it wouldn’t have anything resembling a happy ending.

Then again Emma has been known to be wrong. Years of expecting her parents to come back for her. That time she thought she could pickpocket Mrs Gordon. Pink highlights. That other time she convinced herself she’d made a real friend. Neal. That terrifying week when she believed she was in jail and pregnant. Four flights of stairs on crutches. That one perp who punched harder than she expected. That last slice of pizza last night.

Emma has been known to be wrong. But this one time – she might just be right.

///

This isn’t one of those stories. So she doesn’t (almost) run him over on her way into town. He doesn’t come to her aid when she gets a flat tire. She doesn’t drive into the harbor either. They are not neighbours. And they don’t work together. It seems they don’t frequent the same places or, if they do, not at the same time. They don’t bump into each other and fall in lust-hate on sight. They don’t have friends in common. Not that she has any of those to begin with but Emma’s been living in Storybrooke for a week and she has been working as sheriff Graham’s deputy for four days so she is cutting herself some slack – it’s a new thing she is trying. It feels kinda nice.

Unlike her first meeting with Killian Jones. When she has to get him out of the Rabbit Hole because it’s closing time and he refuses to leave.

///

In the days after she doesn’t contemplate Killian Jones all the time. But she is not busy enough to not spare him the occasional thought. The evils of being a newbie and entrusted with nothing bigger than the occasional pub fight.

Which there wasn’t. Honestly, not having tackled anyone in almost a month, Emma was almost spoiling for a little tussle. Maybe she wanted to show what she was made of. Maybe she wanted people to know she deserved her job. Maybe she was already bored of the small town squabbles.

But Killian Jones took one look at her – she thinks he eventually managed to focus her face and her badge – and looked more disappointed than anything else. He tossed some money on the bar and stumbled his way off his chair, past her and out of the bar.

Now, Emma, being the deputy meant to uphold the peace in this town, followed him. Emma, being a person who can tell when someone is just on that side of too drunk to be trusted to get himself home safely, followed him.

All she accomplished was learning where Killian Jones lives. That and how long it takes him (them) to get there in a slightly zig-zagging pattern. That and how biting the Maine air is right by the sea in the beginning of October. That and how it doesn’t seem to affect Killian Jones and his wide open coat and semi-unbuttoned shirt. That and how his shoulders hunch (permanently or just when he is more than a little pissed) against the cruel winds.

It was one of the single strangest experiences of her life. The guy managed to not utter a single word. On a 25-minute walk. He didn’t ask why she was following him. He didn’t complain. He didn’t apologize for dragging her out in the cold. He didn’t tell her to go to hell. He didn’t hit on her. She was pretty sure he only looked at her once, when he was about to climb the four steps to his tiny cottage.

It was… Well, it nagged at her. It probably wouldn’t have, Emma tells herself, if only she had something else to occupy her.

But she doesn’t. So instead Emma makes a semi-educated guess that a guy whose name came out of the bartender’s mouth with a mix of disdain and old habit would have some of his personal information easily available to a police officer.

48. He is younger than the +20 on top of her own 32 years that she gave him. She chalks it up to the shaggy beard and greying hair.

1.80. Taller than she assumed.

4 misdemeanors. Less than she would have guessed.

Irish. No relatives. No emergency contact.

She doesn’t want to abuse her power and dig any further.

///

Storybrooke is a pretty small town. A pretty damn small town. And Emma Swan has been living in it for a month now. And she has yet to run into Killian Jones again. It’s not like she actively wants to, she doesn’t see what either of them can get out of a silent non-greeting and him probably not even recognizing (remembering) her. But Emma is a cop and she has been trained to spot out suspicious behavior and not being seen like… ever in a town the size of Alice’s tea party, by the deputy who is out and about patrolling the streets every other day and gets 60% of her meals and 90% of her coffee intake from Granny’s is… suspicious.

“So, Granny, think I’ve met everyone by now?”

“Why, I didn’t peg you as the social butterfly type.”

Emma rolls her eyes at the dry reply and sinks back into her seat behind the old woman’s bar.

“I’m the deputy. I’m supposed to know who’s who around town.”

Granny hums, long and testing, and gives her an unforgivably probing look over the rim of her glasses.

“You know, I’d be suspicious of you going around asking about people… if I didn’t know you have our handsome sheriff working at the desk right across from yours.”

Emma is going to ignore this because she can and because one month has been enough for her to get used to the weird (bothersome) way Storybrooke’s citizens plan out everybody’s life for them.

“I’m not asking about anyone in particular. I’m wondering if there’s anyone hiding up in the woods or if a family of five has been living it up in the Bahamas and will be flying back in for Christmas any day now.”

This hum is shorter and less intimidating, more mundane. Granny is used to people asking her about anything they don’t know. Whether it has to do with lasagna or their taxes or jilted lovers.

“Only one who could afford to go to the Bahamas was Mr Gold and he packed his bags a long time ago. Though I doubt he went anywhere as sunny as that.”

The woman puts down the mug she was wiping and nods towards the coffee pot in question. Emma shakes her head and takes out a couple of bills.

“As for the woods. Nobody I know living out there… The coast though. All the way at the edge of town. That’s where Jones’ cabin is.”

Emma’s heart stutters a bit and she tries not to give herself away. It’s little more than the satisfaction of managing to navigate someone exactly where she wants them. Her skills are one of the few things she has and she will let herself fistpump the air as soon as she exits the dinner. For now she decides it’s her turn to hum – distractedly, disinterestedly, as she stands up to put on her jacket.

“Won’t be seeing him around, I’d wager. And you’d be better off for it.”

She tries not to frown at Granny’s hard edges. It’s not that everybody doesn’t know they are there. They are just not usually this visible.

“I already did actually. I got a call from the Rabbit Hole.”

Granny hmmpffs in obvious contempt.

“Thought he’d stopped going into town.”

“It was just the one time,” Emma feels the need to point out.

“Well, as I said, if you are lucky, you won’t see much of that man around.”

This time Emma does frown. She probably shouldn’t, she doesn’t know the first thing about the guy and what she has seen was hardly flattering. But she frowns with the part of herself that was always picked last in gym class, with the part that never got a Valentine or a birthday party invitation, with the part that gathered all the nasty looks every time she made her way through an upscale restaurant – target to catch or perp already in toe and wine stains on her too-tight dress.

She frowns and she turns to go.

“Now, you wait a minute, I’ll pack you a couple of cookies for that sheriff of yours.”

“You give them to him when he stops by.”

///

She does her normal rounds that night. But the next she takes her patrol further out, up the coast, to the part that still counts as Storybrooke but just barely.

It’s a one-story cabin. Unassuming. Unimpressive. Neither threatening, nor welcoming. Neither well-kept, nor crumbling. There’s a light so low she thinks it might be from a fire.

For some reason she stays for a while. To make sure the light grows smaller and smaller and then goes out entirely.

///

We are such creatures of habit and we are silly enough to attribute that same quality to the universe. It makes us feel comfortable – like we know what’s going on, know what to expect. But, of course, the universe is no slave to such womanmade rules and enjoys throwing us the occasional curveball – sometimes just for the hell of it.

And somehow it has become such an apparent thing – she never runs into Killian Jones – that when she does, Emma almost gasps out loud like a complete and utter idiot in a zombie movie.

And then she mentally slaps herself because duh, no matter how much of a hermit you are, everybody has to shop. The modern day curse of capitalism, commercialism and consumerism.

Under too-bright, fluorescent lighting, buying rice and what Emma guesses are turnips, Killian Jones looks a lot more… well, normal than she has made him up in her head.

She gives herself another mental slap.

Still no solid proof but it is looking more and more like the man is neither a serial killer, nor a freak of any particularly freaky sort. He is tanned yet pale in a way that makes Emma think of someone who spends a lot of time outside and not a lot of time sleeping. His hair is longer than she remembers, less grey than it seemed under the moonlight. He is wearing the most beat-up pair of Converse she has ever seen and a leather jacket that would probably give him a rock&roll vibe, except his shoulders are still slightly hunched and it ruins the effect.

Emma realizes she is staring when he looks up and she adds the bright blue eyes and the deep lines around them in the mental file she has on him.

They are just a few meters away and she does need to get some sugar so Emma decides to not be a weirdo and pushes her cart towards the sugar. And Killian Jones.

“Deputy.”

He gives her a nod of… acknowledgement? Greeting?

Emma is too stunned and he is already wheeling his cart away, one hand in his pocket and his eyes scanning the freezer section to the right.

“You know me?”

He stops and turns back to her, cocking his head to the side in what, she can this time determine quite easily, is confusion.

“We’ve met,” he states simply and his brows furrow and his lips twitch to the left in a small, bitter non-smile.

Her shackles rise unexpectedly fast. Probably because she has been thinking about this elusive man way more than she should.

“I wasn’t sure you remembered,” she fires back.

It’s not necessarily mean. It’s almost defensive. He is not the one that has a reason to question her memory.

“Apologies,” he says without mocking her but without actually apologizing either and she can see that he is already about to move on from her and this unexpected (first) exchange of words.

Then someone else’s cart bumps his and his left hand automatically shoots out to steady it. Or what should have been his left hand but is just his sleeve, tucked around where his wrist must end.

Emma stares like she knows she shouldn’t and knows it’s inevitable that she would.

Killian Jones steadies the cart with his good hand and looks back at her over his shoulder, as if unsure whether to say anything else, nod or...

Emma’s mouth is hanging a little bit, his mental file in a slight disarray. She watches him simply turn his back on her and continue on to the frozen section.

///

It’s not one of those stories. But after that she admittedly thinks more about Killian Jones. And consciously restrains herself from snooping around to find out what exactly his deal is. Wild youth? Veteran? Ex-drug dealer? Current drug dealer?

She is supposed to know things. It’s her job and it’s also when she feels the most in control. Yet learning about Killian Jones is… well, not precisely difficult because she hasn’t actually put her skills to it, but it feels kinda crucial. And yet she can’t bring herself to do it. To invade this total stranger’s privacy. Something she is a professional at doing.

Sometimes she thinks from a purely professional standpoint that if anyone were to disappear, his cabin would probably be the first place they would have to search. Then she thinks it’s definitely the first place the people of Storybrooke would want her to search and she gets irrationally angry. Then she realizes she is being morbid.

Sometimes she wonders if Jones is who she might be in another 15 years or so. It would have seemed more likely before she moved to Storybrooke. But Emma is trying new things these days. She is trying to be more open with people, more sociable. It’s going… questionably well. She has to stretch the truth to say that she is enjoying herself. Then again she is out of practice. And Storybrooke’s population might consist of some of the nosiest people on earth. All in all, not a match made in heaven so far. But she likes the couple living above her well enough and she does get along great with Graham. And Ruby sure is fun when you’ve had enough shots to not be bothered by the absence of a filter.

And then sometimes she considers if the very fact that she has yet to find herself a person in Storybrooke is the reason why she is intrigued by Killian Jones at all. He hardly seems like the kind of man looking to make friends. He seems like the kind of man who has lived long and hard enough to decide that people are not something he needs a lot of (or any at all as the case might be). And, anyway, Emma has not had a person ever before so there’s really no reason this will suddenly change.

And then, only once, she contemplates the idea that his eyes probably look quite nice when he is outside and in the actual sunshine.

///

Chances of her finding that out don’t seem to be improving because the next time she sees Jones is at Storybrooke’s tree lighting ceremony. Which, logically, takes place after the sun has set.

The realization that she recognizes everyone at the square makes Emma feel weirdly claustrophobic, less rather than more comfortable. She tunes out Mayor Mill’s speech easily enough, makes a point of where Granny has positioned her stall and is selling mulled wine, waves at the Nolan’s and eventually makes eye contact with Graham Humbert across the mass of people between them.

Graham Humbert is a very pleasant and attractive young man. Is word for word what Granny said to her no later than the third time Emma ventured into the town’s diner. All with the stress on ‘attractive’ as if Emma didn’t have eyes or didn’t know the definition of the word.

The thing is Graham Humbert is a very pleasant and attractive young man. And he has asked Emma out about three times now. One of those might have been too low-key to count but the other two definitely counted. Emma would know, she had to find a way to sidestep them like a landmine. She is pretty sure it’s against some rule or code to ask out your subordinate and she is definitely sure that it’s unethical as fuck. Also she sees no point in going on a date with a man who, within a week, she wanted to set up with someone else (sue her, she thinks Ruby would manage to make the sheriff let loose a lot better than she’d ever want to even try).

But, slightly awkward as things might get with Graham sometimes, he is still in the top 3 of People Emma would like to talk to at a shindig like this, so she doesn’t mind the eager way he is making his way toward her all that much.

And then she looks away and sees Killian Jones leaning against an out-of-commission lamppost at the very periphery of the square.

Killian Jones is not in the top 3 of People Emma would like to talk to at a shindig like this. And, yet, she knows it’s because he seems to be in a category all his own. A very undefined category where little is known to Emma except for the fact that suddenly she really wants to make Killian Jones let loose.

So Emma forgets that even her more sociable new self doesn’t approach people out of the blue, forgets that Graham is trying to make his way through a sea of people with sloshing cups of wine and bottles of beer in their hands, forgets that she is actually supposed to be keeping an eye out for potential wine and beer-induced trouble and forgets that most everyone in this town seems to either hate or prefer not to think about Killian Jones’s existence.

She forgets and in another couple of minutes she has two sloshing cups of mulled wine of her own and is heading straight for the man who is probably performing his one and only appearance at a social event this year.

It’s only when she is about four steps away from him that Emma realizes she has no idea what exactly it is that she plans to say to him. So instead she picks up her pace and answers the turning of his head and the questioning rise of his eyebrow by thrusting a cup of wine in his sole, blessedly-free hand.

He seems so bewildered that Emma considers explaining the concept of mulled wine to a man that she first encountered slumped over a bar. But Killian seems to get over his confusion enough to take the warm cup from her and Emma sticks her hand in her pocket, leans on the wall beside him and looks out at the people doing some sort of a gig around the tree in quick succession.

“Thanks, deputy... Can’t say I was expecting such a warm welcome.”

Emma glances at him to make sure this is not a stupid pun or an uncalled for innuendo but he seems pretty damn sincere. Baffled but touched.

“Yeah, well, you show up into town so rarely. Thought I’d open with the good stuff.”

She realizes as she says it that the little she knows about Killian Jones points to the possibility that she just handled an alcoholic a brimming cup of wine and called it “the good stuff”. But then he doesn’t seem bothered by it and Emma decides not to make her assumptions based on a single incident.

“I think our fair denizens might disagree with your suggestion that my showing into town is to be encouraged.”

She is, of course, aware of this. But Emma has always liked to think of herself as a non-judgmental person and, as long as he hasn’t broken the law, she realizes Killian Jones is good in her book. So she just shrugs and looks back at the monstrosity of a tree instead of delving into things that hardly seem relevant at the moment.

“Killian Jones.”

Emma frowns for a second before remembering that they have never actually exchanged names and she feels her cheeks heat up at realizing how often his crosses her mind. And this time when she looks at Killian from the corner of her eye there’s something almost mischievous in his expression, almost like a smile. She wonders if he knows her name just as well as she knows his.

“Emma Swan.”

“A pleasure, Swan.”

His words are nothing special but they come out so measured and serious that she is certain of two things – he is genuine and he did just learn her name.

Which in turn means that he hasn’t talked to anyone for the last couple of months because Emma is well aware that she was the “trendiest” topic in Storybrooke for way longer than she is comfortable with.

It makes her want to talk to him even more.

///

An hour later Emma has handled two separate squabbles within the same family unit, made polite and close to excruciating small talk with the town’s shrink, a tipsy kindergarten teacher, a sleezy doctor and even the freaking mayor who seemed just as unhappy having to talk to her as Emma was to reciprocate. An hour later Emma is painfully aware of how painfully small the chance that Killian is still around is and yet…

Her eyes light up in the freedom of being unobserved by anyone before she realizes that she now needs a new opening. So instead of approaching him, she hangs back and observes the man, who looks like he hasn’t moved since she left him by that same unlit lamppost. A couple of boys, who are out way past their bedtime, bump into him in their wild chase after a redheaded girl and Emma watches Killian gaze after them with a hint of longing and move further back, looking around in obvious contemplation of his exit.

She glances at the dancefloor – teeming with people ever since Graham gave the OK for the music to be turned up. It’s not like there’s anyone to bother – everyone is at the town square. Even Killian Jones. And he is about to run away. And Emma is about to bite the bullet.

She knows she has caught him off guard by the way he jumps slightly when she is suddenly just a couple of paces to his left.

“I always thought dancing like that was something we left in the 17th century.”

“I think you’d find Storybrooke… slightly more old-fashioned than most towns.”

Emma nods. He is not wrong there. And Emma knows full well the size of the can of worm she is about to open. Yet, that has nothing to do with how nervous she suddenly feels.

“Looks kinda nice though. Can’t remember the last time I saw people dancing in a way that wasn’t grinding in a night club.”

She feels his gaze on her but keeps hers resolutely on the couples on the improvised dancefloor.

“I didn’t see you take a spin.”

She bites her tongue so she doesn’t go for the immediate response about observing her.

“Maybe I haven’t been asked?”

Emma raises her eyes to his and knows that she is lying and that he knows she is lying as well.

“I find it hard to believe that a stunning young woman has difficulty procuring a partner.”

He says it so gravely that Emma is reminded of a Jane Austen novel she once read. Except she’d hardly be considered ‘young’ by 18th century standards. And she can’t seem to remember anyone ever calling her stunning.

But despite the flattery Killian seems no more willing to offer his services and Emma is running out of subtle ways to nudge him to do so.

“And yet, it looks like I do,” she states – less than subtly, what with the pointed look that comes with it.

He doesn’t look scandalized (it’s not actually the 18th century) as much as extremely confused. And somewhat frustrated. And Emma begins to doubt his reluctance is anything more than him trying to let her down easy.

“I’m certain you would do much better with a younger, more capable partner,” he replies tersely, gesturing slightly with his left forearm.

It’s the push she needs to stand her ground. Which in turn seems to break through his own resolve and Emma is already trying not to grin triumphantly at his heavy sigh and the way he nervously runs his hand through his hair.

“Would you like to dance, Swan?”

“Why, if you insist!” she smirks at him and feels a surge of pride at the almost twitch of his lips that he tries to smother with his narrowed eyes.

Seeing as he did ask, Emma has few qualms about taking his hand (there are no sparks or jolts of electricity – it’s not one of those stories – but his skin is rough and dry under hers in a way that makes her want to explore and Emma hasn’t felt like exploring in a really long time) and she pulls him forward. Except Killian only goes two steps before he stops and Emma lets herself be pulled back and accidentally a lot closer to him than she was before. He smells a bit like smoke and sea salt and his salt and pepper beard has some ginger in it as well.

“We can stay here.”

Emma looks at his frown and thinks that if he was offering for himself, she would have agreed.

///

Killian Jones has moves for a man nearing his 50’s. More moves than most men she has danced with. But then again, Emma can’t remember ever slow-dancing with anyone so that probably isn’t a fair comparison.

He is incredibly tense throughout the whole first song but when the second one rolls around and people seem to have had their fill of staring at them as if they were fucking on top of the Christmas tree rather than dancing with a generous amount of space between them at the very edges of the makeshift dancefloor, and Emma shows no desire to discontinue their swaying and occasional twirls (it’s kind of exciting, she has never been twirled either), Killian almost seems to relax.

“I have a confession to make.”

“Most men do.”

He doesn’t mind the teasing if the tiny chuckle is any indication. It’s nothing close to a proper laugh but it sends a little trill through Emma’s insides.

“Shoot,” she says, keeping her expression open and her mind the same way.

She has a feeling that Killian Jones is about to try to make her not like him.

“I don’t need the law enforcement to escort me out of our less reputable establishments these days.”

He stresses the ‘these days’ part with a sour look and Emma gets the implication but she is much more focused on the other part.

“Except from time to time.”

“No,” he says firmly, looking her in the eye and then glancing away almost guiltily.

“Ummm, I’m not sure what exactly you are confessing here, Jones.”

They are barely swaying in place now and he looks around for a few seconds before swallowing and replying.

“I heard there was a new deputy in town.”

Emma frowns. So the gossip mill did run all the way to him. And her gut instinct was wrong – he did know who she is. She isn’t sure why that makes her feel so shitty. Except she really doesn’t like being wrong and she has enjoyed the vague feeling of being right about Killian.

“So I wanted to…”

“What? Test me out? See how the girl cop would handle your drunken ass?”

His head whips around as if she slapped him toward herself and he doesn’t look hurt by her sharp tone so much as confused.

“What? No, ‘course not. I didn’t know you were a woman. Let alone…”

“Let alone what?”

She stares at him, hard and challenging but he just shakes his head and looks down and she almost feels bad but she doesn’t get what he is even-

“I just thought you’d be someone new.”

“I am someone new.”

But he doesn’t say anything else and sways them a bit more energetically even though his hand is barely holding hers now and she didn’t feel his left arm on her waist to begin with.

And Emma is confused. Because she is someone new and he knew that. And he apparently went and did something he doesn’t do these days just to meet-

Someone new.

Emma looks up sharply and finds Killian gazing in the distance again, unconsciously leading her into the simple steps.

He wanted to meet someone new. Because he and the whole town seem to avoid each other like the plague and Killian Jones is lonely. Just like Emma was when she decided to come to Storybrooke and actually give meeting some new people a shot.

Killian Jones is lonely. Just like Emma still is, if she is being honest.

And he wanted to meet someone who didn’t know him or about him. He wanted to make a friend.

“I am someone new.”

He looks back at her and this close to the brightly lit tree his eyes almost look blue again rather than the inky black they take on in the shadows.

He twirls her around and she thinks maybe, just maybe, he got it.

///

“Now that you have such a nice relationship with Mr Jones-“

She is the sixth, sixth, person and it’s only 11:34 so, yeah, Emma snaps.

“Mayor Mills, my personal relationships are of absolutely no concern-“

“Miss Swan, I couldn’t care less about who you choose to spend your time with or how. But, seeing as you seem to have a somewhat amicable relationship with our harbormaster, I’d like to-“

“Who?”

“Mr Jones.”

“He is what now?”

The mayor sighs and gives her a look that tells Emma exactly what a waste of Regina Mill’s time she is.

“For a minimal wage Mr Jones fills the archaic but very occasionally necessary position of harbormaster of Storybrooke.”

“Oh… OK.”

“And seeing as you two are on speaking terms…”

Regina gives her the most fake, politely questioning look in the history of pretense politeness and Emma rolls her eyes but nods.

“It would be of use, if you could ask him to sign these.”

The brunette opens her bag and pulls out a small pile of papers.

“Whoa.”

Emma pulls the sheets closer and wonders, not for the first time, what is everybody’s deal with Jones.

///

“Two grilled cheeses with onion rings, to go.”

“Sheriff Graham prefers fries.”

Emma grits her teeth and swallows the first, second and third reply that knock from inside. Granny is among the quickly-diminishing number of people who have not, as of yet, tried to give her some variation of “the talk” about Killian Jones.

“Two grilled cheeses with onion rings. To go.”

The old woman gives her a look that tells Emma exactly how displeased she is with her. Emma gives her one in return.

///

Killian offered to walk her home last night, something about ‘returning the favour’ and ‘gentlemanly behaviour’ which made Emma snort in very non-ladylike amusement.

So really she is just taking her turn to return return the favour.

Killian offered to walk her home last night and then he did so in the same complete silence Emma had walked him home a couple of months ago.

So maybe she just likes having a friend she can be silent with, without her feeling awkward or them feeling uncomfortable.

And friends brought their friends lunch so – there.

///

She heads for the cottage, keeping to the docks until she spots him on the beach, in a little boat which has definitely seen better days.

It takes her shuffling steps on the cold sand to alert him to her presence and she sees the way his shoulders immediately tense up. He turns around – a guarded and downright suspicious look in his eyes.

And then he recognizes her and she swears he is this close to actually smiling at her. Damn.

“Deputy.”

“Harbormaster.”

He raises an amused eyebrow.

“I didn’t even know that was an actual thing,” she adds.

“It hardly is,” he says and steps out of the beached boat. “Especially during the winter.”

“Well, apparently it’s real enough to accumulate a whole lot of paperwork. Which I was so kind to lug all the way here for you.”

“Joyful. How would I ever thank you,” he says drily and Emma grins.

“And you haven’t even seen what’s in here,” she lifts up her bag from Granny’s.

///

Killian Jones likes onion rings so he really can’t be all that bad.

They eat on a bench far enough from the water that the wind doesn’t completely freeze off Emma’s limbs. Killian’s lack of scarf, hat or glove suggests a lack of concern with the cold that is only betrayed by an occasional shiver.

He explains what being a harbormaster entails and what being Storybrooke’s harbormaster entails. Apparently the smaller the harbor, the less his responsibilities, which makes sense to Emma’s nautically-pure mind.

He is probably pretty familiar with what being the sheriff’s deputy means but he listens patiently and attentively to the jog down of her own duties.

“So is that your thing, deputy?”

“My “thing”?”

“Philanthropy, humanitarianism… charity cases.”

He gestures somewhat wearily and she follows the movement with furrowed brows. For a guy with one hand he sure uses it a lot when he talks. Which doesn’t help her get what he actually means.

And then Emma looks at his face and realizes maybe the gesticulating is just a distraction. So she’d pay less attention to his face where everything is laid out, plain to see.

Also – his eyes do look quite nice in the actual sunshine. Which doesn’t stop her from giving him a hard look and grinding her teeth – she’s been doing a lot of that today.

His chuckle is low and weary. She is starting to think that there are few things he does that don’t bring the word ‘weary’ to her mind.

“Honestly, lass, at this point I’m not even complaining. It’s…”

She wants to interrupt him and tell him how far from a philanthropist Emma Swan is. But she also really wants to know how that sentence ends, if given the chance.

“Nice… Aye, it’s nice, I suppose. To talk to someone. Even for a bit.”

Her eyes sting a little and she follows his example and turns her gaze to the sea. It’s like he is talking to the waves and just trusting them to carry his words back to her. She decides to give it a try.

“I’m not even a people person, Jones.”

///

Purposefully or not, she left the paperwork with him. Really, neither of them had a pen on hand so she had to. So now she has to go back to get it.

She brings some hot chocolate with cinnamon this time.

He is in the middle of painting the pathetic little boat and she can tell that he recognizes her steps because he tenses up only the normal amount – the amount displayed by most people who rarely socialize with anyone and are about to do just that.

Emma assumes you can hardly become anything resembling a hermit, if you aren’t at least introverted. But Killian Jones, she decides, would be an introvert even if he wasn’t such a hermit.

Even when she is around – even when she can tell that he doesn’t mind her being around (dare she say, he might even enjoy it) – he still doesn’t talk to her all that much. It’s almost like the silence is a different means of communication, just as deserving of their time as conversation.

Emma finds she quite likes it. Then again, she has always had her own ‘keeping to yourself’ tendencies.

And, contrary to what people say about watching paint dry, watching Killian paint the little boat in silence is kinda cool. But it’s way cooler when he lets her have a go.

It’s less cool when she ruins her semi-new jeans. The ones that make her butt look really nice as well. Damn.

///

He brings her grilled cheese and onion rings. Return of a return of a return of a… whatever. Emma doesn’t know if she is more shocked that he brought her lunch or that he must have gone to Granny’s to get it.

He doesn’t linger and they don’t eat together but he got her order right and she is self-aware enough to know her smile is kinda smitten.

He doesn’t seem bothered by Graham. Not the way Graham is bothered by him.

Then again, Emma thinks it’s more her body language rather than Killian’s presence that’s the sheriff’s issue.

///

Graham Humbert might pick up on body language (2 weeks without a low-key date invitation and counting) but Killian Jones certainly doesn’t.

It’s not that Emma doesn’t want to be friends with the man. She does. He has quickly climbed Emma’s personal social ladder (not that there was anyone on it that could give him much of a challenge) and emerged on top with barely a handful of lunches and a paint job on her apartment that Emma decided he was perfectly qualified for despite all his protests.

And, honestly, if she was being smart about this, Emma would keep it this way. She knows Killian is only starting to realize that maybe, just maybe, she actually does enjoy hanging out with him. That this isn’t some elaborate prank or misplaced kindness or philanthropic urge of hers that Storybrooke’s non-existent charities have left unsatisfied.

He is getting there. But there’s no way in hell he is making a move on her in the next two years.

Which – rather than making her feel calm and safe – is making her more and more frustrated. Just like the way he still looks surprised every time she seeks him out.

Frustration is basically the story of how she shows up at Killian’s cabin at 8pm on a Friday with a bottle of red wine and the disclaimer “We are sharing tragic backstories tonight.”

After his utter stupefaction wears off, Killian gives her a long, searching look – an edge she has never seen from him before peeking through it. It is the first time Emma feels the full weight of more than a decade of life and experience that he has on her.

She waits patiently despite the snowflakes melting in her hair, aware of the fact that sharing wine in his home is different from having cheesy sandwiches by the beach. Aware of the fact that her nose is red and running and her eyes are kinda wide and probably even a little anxious from the scrutiny he is putting her under. Aware of the fact that it’s Christmas Eve and that she was all alone irked her almost as much as the fact that he was as well.

“Is that a usual precursor to presents and Die Hard?”

He opens the door wider and the warm air inside makes her feel even more like she just passed a test.

///

His place is very sparsely lit. If Emma was a different kind of person, she’d call it romantic lighting.

“How the fuck am I supposed to find a corkscrew in this cave?” is the kind of person she is.

“Don’t be overdramatic, Swan. Eyes get more sensitive when you get to a certain age.”

“Actually I’m pretty sure lack of proper lighting is the worst for your eyesight, grandpa.”

“We’ll talk again in 20 years.”

“When you are asking me to read the newspaper to you.”

“You can start practicing right now.”

Before she can formulate a snarky reply she feels what is definitely an honest to God, rolled up newspaper swapping her lightly on the ass. Emma whips around, corkscrew brandished like a sword.

“Would you like to lose an eye as well?” she tries for threatening but it’s really hard to pull off when she is so busy enjoying Killian Jones actually responding to her teasing slash borderline-flirting.

“Nay,” he answers seriously as he goes to retrieve a couple of glasses. “Don’t think an eye-patch would sit well on this face.”

It’s a bold move but she sneaks up on him and when he turns around with the glasses in one hand she is right there – on her tiptoes and in his face, their noses almost touching.

“Mmm, I don’t know…”

She does a masterful show of looking over his shaggy beard, his pink, slightly chapped lips, the scar on his cheek, the straight line of his nose, the deep blue – almost lost in the black of his pupils, the white hairs in his eyebrows and the deep creases in his forehead.

“I can think of few things that won’t go well with this face.”

They stay like that for a few seconds, just breathing together and she thinks maybe now…

Then Killian blinks and looks out of the window, the way he does, as if to clear his mind of her. She can’t say it doesn’t sting a bit.

“We shall test that theory.”

It’s the night she learns Killian Jones wears glasses – big glasses with thick, black frames and a diopter that makes her head hurt. (But they are so damn cute, how on earth is a grown ass man so fucking cute with glasses on – that makes her heart hurt as well).

It’s the night she learns Killian Jones’s lips get really purple when he drinks red wine. (And he has this whole lecture about how wine gives you such a headache the next day, even at his most indulging rum never made his head pound like a couple of glasses of wine do and really, if she was just trying to get one up on him, she should know there was nothing worth stealing at the house and he can be real grumpy is the point she is trying to make and yet…)

It’s the night she learns Killian Jones’s childhood traumas rival her own. (And she has never been one to ‘weigh up’ disappointments – sometimes you bounce back from freaking tragedies and then the smallest pebble turns your whole world upside-down and that’s just life they say – but Killian’s make her ache in a place other people’s drama never gets to.)

It’s the night she learns Killian Jones’s big crime was trying to start over, falling in love and getting dumped. (“She wanted adventures… I knew that. I was just foolish enough to believe I was one. Maybe I was. One of those impulsive getaways that never last.”)

It’s the night she learns Killian Jones’s unforgivable sin against Storybrooke was making the biggest real estate owner gather his bags and his wife and hightail it out of Storybrooke, demanding everyone either buy the places they were renting from him at the time or find a new roof to sleep under.

“You might have noticed… people in Storybrooke haven’t entirely entered the new millennia. Shackling up with a married woman was bad enough but having to choose between one of their most successful businessmen and the foreigner that fixed up rust-crusted boats… well, if only it was their choice. They certainly would’ve chosen like she did.”

It's the night she tells another soul that sometimes, once in a blue moon, when the loneliness really bites at her heels, she almost regrets that her pregnancy scare was nothing more than that. (“Almost” is the key word but it doesn’t make it hurt any less, feels like just another in a whole life of almosts.)

It’s the night she learns to build a fire. (“I can do it” has always come easy to Emma but when it turns out to be a lie, it’s kinda nice to have someone show her how until it’s true.)

It’s the night she admits that she came up with her surname all on her own and still doesn’t feel like she deserves it. (It’s not as magical as Andersen made it sound but it does seem possible when Killian looks at her and tells her she is simply wonderful and the surely most beautiful swan he has ever seen.)

It’s the night she watches Die Hard with someone else for the first time. (And Killian is very good at keeping his respectable but no unfriendly distance, except he has no control over his head falling on her shoulder when he falls asleep.)

It’s the night she kisses the top of his head and wishes him a Merry Christmas. (The night she falls asleep a little more in love than she woke up.)

///

She got him a hat and a scarf.

He got her a thermos with little ducklings on it.

///

It’s not one of those stories. And she tries not to be disappointed when the 1st of January arrives and he has yet to kiss her.

///

“I just don’t see why you wouldn’t go out with Ruby. She accused me of “hogging” you.”

“Oh, so now you talk to Ruby?”

“People are always more than willing to acknowledge me when they have something to yell at me for.”

“So I have to go out with Ruby to get her off your back?”

“You don’t have to do anything. Wouldn’t you like to have some fun?”

“I was having fun before you started trying to kick me out?”

“Watching Stardust on my couch?”

“You have a problem with my movie choice now?”

///

“I mean, what’s the logic male brains come up with? ‘Oh, I know you didn’t like me like that a week ago when I last asked but now that we are the exact same people in the exact same situation, I think things might have changed’?”

“I think it’s more about sheer disbelief.”

“Disbelief?”

“Strapping, young lad like sheriff Graham. Probably thinks he dreamed up your illogical rejection.”

“Five times? And “lad”, really? You sound like Granny.”

///

“Well, excuse me, Mr Health Expert who didn’t own a scarf before I came around.”

“A scarf has absolutely no bearing on one’s health, Swan.”

“And broccoli does?”

“Yes!”

“…”

“…”

“I’ll get the broccoli, if you write me down as your emergency contact.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Broccoli. I don’t have any. Emergency contract. You don’t have any.”

“One. I don’t have one.”

“…”

“Do I want to know how you know that?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“It is within the subject of my emergency contact. And, contrary to your obvious belief that I have inhabited earth along with the dinosaurs-“

“I don’t-“

“I’m not about to keel over and die any day now.”

“Not if you know I will know the second you do something stupid like go on the water when it’s storming-“

“Drizzling at best.”

“…”

“…”

“I’ll throw in some spinach to “sweeten” the deal.”

“Bloody hell.”

///

“Emma, would you just eat your food?”

“No. Not until she serves you as well.”

“Perhaps it takes a bit longer.”

“We ordered the same thing.”

Killian lets out a deep sigh and Emma keeps glaring at Granny with everything she’s got.

“Emma-“

“This is bullshit.”

She gets up so quickly his reaching hand misses her arm completely. She storms up to the counter and feels something feral and primitive and possessive ignite inside her at the woman’s frankly unapologetic look.

“I can count you three violations in this food establishment from right here. Wanna see if I can rack up enough in the back to close you down?”

“The people might just lynch you for that one, deputy.”

“Do I look like I give a shit?”

Somewhere in the back of her mind she knows, if she wins this starefest with Granny, she wins this, period. But that’s rational thought and way in the back, and at the forefront, she is nothing but the raw menace of a bear with its teeth bared.

And Granny seems to sniff out just how serious she is.

“Mr Jones’s order will be out in a minute.”

///

It’s not one of those stories. But… the first time she hears Killian Jones laugh – really laugh, from the very bottom of his heart, with his eyes alight on her, she feels a part of her heart that she didn’t even know existed jump up to attention to listen.

///

By the end of January Emma is long past frustration. She is about to blow a gasket. Or whatever it is that people say when you are five seconds away from brutally attacking the guy you are in love with with your mouth and your hands and your everything.

The perks of being in her 30’s are supposed to include not feeling like a teenager with a hopeless case of unrequited love.

And honestly, she doubts how unrequited it can really be with the way Killian looks at her from time to time. It’s a solid leap past ‘deprived of human contact’ and dangerously close to ‘we should have all the contact humanly possible’.

Emma is no idiot. Either their jaded personalities and starved hearts or the simple overabundance of estrogen gathering up inside her, have her convinced that Killian Jones must be her freaking soulmate or something. But she knows he might not see things the same overly sentimental way.

And better yet, she knows that even if he does, he will willfully ignore every sign of her feeling the same way in favour of thinking he is too old for her, too damaged, too inconvenient in some way.

And she realizes signs just won’t cut it about the time she fully accepts the fact that it wouldn’t make a difference if he was the most ancient, most damaged and most inconvenient person in the world. Just as long as he agreed to be her person.

///

“Are you blind?”

“You are aware of my poor eyesight, Swan,” he says without turning around from his newest restoration job.

It incites her even more.

“Are you dumb?”

That earns her eye contact and some indignation.

“Wha-“

“Are you genuinely unaware of why I’m here, why I always want to be here, or are you just too comfortable ignoring it?”

His face closes off in a way she hasn’t seen it do. But then she recognizes it. It’s the expression that met her the first time he laid eyes on her.

“You don’t know what you want, Emma.”

“Well, that’s patronizing.”

“It’s a request.”

“A request?”

“For you to know your own mind before you speak it.”

His cool demeanor makes her ire burn even hotter.

“Fuck you! I know my own mind, Killian!”

“If you don’t want to be here-“

“I want you!”

“You want me,” he closes his eyes and nods. “I’m the guy you met at the bottom of a bottle. I’m the one-handed guy that the whole town hates.”

It’s a wrong move on his part – closing his eyes, and he should know it by now, should now how she can sneak up on him and take him by surprise.

Like she does when he opens his eyes and she is kneeling next to him in his muddy backyard.

“You’re not… Killian… you’re my adventure. And not the weekend getaway kind, the lifelong kind.”

His eyes widen and his face finally melts and she can finally see his trepidation, plain as his longing.

“Emma-“

“Do you only care that you weren’t hers?”

It’s not what she wants to say or what she wants to hear but it comes from some of her own insecure pieces that have been uncharacteristically quiet around Killian Jones until now.

His brows furrow painfully and her hand automatically reaches to smooth them out the way it does more and more often these days. But he catches her wrist mid-air and pulls – not enough to drag her closer but enough that her fingers find his chest while his press at her pulse point.

“People have never thought much of me but you can’t think so little as to believe I still hold a candle for a woman who couldn’t run fast enough when she realized I would never make what her husband already had.”

She opens her mouth probably with something only slightly snarky and a whole lot honest about exactly how much she thinks of him but his gaze softens over her face and the words stay on her tongue, heavy like her fingers on the fabric separating them from his skin.

“Surely you can’t think so little of yourself as not to realize that the very moment I met you… I told you, Emma… I just wanted to meet someone new. Thought I might luck out with some solid bloke or a hardened old cop who hasn’t let the town get to him yet. And instead…”

He drops his gaze and furrows his brows again and this time she raises her other hand, pauses millimeters from his face, just because he can’t capture it, just to give him a chance to pull back, then softly runs her thumb over the deep wrinkle between his brows until it smooths out almost completely and lets her palm frame his cheek, fingers tapping gently at the crow’s feet beside his eye. It focuses on her.

“Instead it was you. Young and beautiful, flushed and looking like you rushed to the bar spoiling for a fight. And… I suppose I have had some bad breaks but I swear I’ve never thought so clearly…”

“…what?”

“’I wish I could turn back time.’ To before… Bloody hell, before so much. Just watch the arrows fly… before all the years in this cabin, before Storybrooke, before the Navy, I could see it so clearly. I’d shake it all off and just stand there in front of you and ask about your name.”

“You did eventually.”

“Yeah, eventually,” his smile is melancholic but it loves her even in its melancholy. “You wouldn’t stop pestering me.”

“And I don’t intend to.”

“No?” he swallows hard and she feels herself gaining that inch, bunches the fabric of his sweater between her fingers.

“No. We’re both right here. Right now. And you don’t have to turn back time… You don’t have to change anything.”

His eyes grow more watery the longer they stare into hers. But she needs a little something for the last push. And then his gaze slips to her lips.

“Nothing at all?”

“Well… we could be a bit closer in the here and now.”

She barely hears his hum of agreement as her arm flexes and pulls him towards her, his lips landing a little to the right of hers and his forearm meeting the ground to stop him from falling on top of her. Emma twists her head just a little and finds his mouth – warm and uncertain and ready and yet so tentative, and she takes all that and gives him back the taste of her certainty and her need and yet her newfound patience. He puts it to the test right away – caressing her lips, little more than breathing against her before she hand slips into his hair and his nose finally digs into her cheek as his tongue comes out to taste her lower lip.

It’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to her. And in the next second her leg slips where they are basically kneeling in the mud and Killian kicks over a can of yellow paint in his attempt not to fall on her and she knocks over the boat’s oar which knocks him on the head and it’s the messiest thing that’s ever happened to her as well. But even as she rubs at the back of his head, asking if he is alright, and feels the mud and paint seep into her jeans (they are not new but damn, now that this is sorted maybe she can stop wearing the ones that make her ass look the best around him), she thinks it’s the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to her as well.

///

It’s not one of those stories.

So their love doesn’t exactly win over the residents of Storybrooke. If anything, it makes them hate Killian even more and Emma just enough. So eventually Emma says fuck it and spends three weeks working Killian over until he admits that yes, he was being kinda masochistic by staying in Storybrooke (no matter how much he points out that it worked out for him pretty well in the end) and there’s really nothing holding them here.

It’s not one of those stories.

So Emma goes back to bailbonds in Boston and Killian hates how much more dangerous it is compared to sleepy old Storybrooke. And he tries this and that but eventually decides he should stick to what he knows and manages to get an only-slightly-shitty job at the harbor. And eventually, once she has earned back her reputation, Emma concedes to monitoring her cases so she mostly goes after losers rather than hardened criminals, and occasionally she misses the thrill of bagging a real asshole, and sometimes she takes a hard case just to spite Killian and his overprotective grumbling but mostly… mostly she basks in the knowledge that she has someone to come home to, someone who worries and someone she doesn’t actually want to worry. And twice, then three times, Killian manages to convince people to let him restore their old boats and it never amounts to much money and she knows it nags at him but it always manages to get him excited and each boat ends up prettier and so full of new life and she knows he loves it and she only helps so she can strategically get some paint on her face because she loves the end result there as well.

It’s not one of those stories.

So Emma finds out that being in a relationship with someone who is older than you can be quite scary. In the very real and very terrifying way of realizing that you don’t want to live without that someone but that eventually, even if that moment is way off in the distance, you might very well have to. And Killian certainly doesn’t appreciate her making him get all kinds of check-ups, and drawing lists upon lists of things that he should eat more of and others he should eat less of, and getting them an exercising plan that is borderline torture. And then they end up yelling and he ends up telling her that she wouldn’t have to worry about any of it, if she got herself a fit 30-something and she ends up fainting. And when she comes to Emma gets to experience the weirdest mix of terrified of what’s wrong with her and relieved that Killian now seems to get what had her going mental with all the healthy living and he claims to have discovered new reserves of selfishness in himself and she is so not getting herself any fit 30-somethings and Emma decides not to point out the selflessness of that when it seems it’s her there might be something very wrong with. Except it turns out there’s nothing wrong with her. There’s something very right with her and inside her. And, bonus, Killian is on board with all the healthy living now. To the point where she knows in a few months – when she is craving peanut butter and pickles – she will be the one grumbling and he better be prepared. He doesn’t seem too perturbed. Then again, she did warn him that he was her adventure – the lifelong kind. And lo and behold, this time Emma was definitely right.

Maybe it is one of those stories.

#cs january joy #csjj #cs ff #cs au #captain swan #gosh i hope you like this #also holy shit 10k #where did the days of my 2k OS go? #NOTS

[agentwashxcaroliona-blog]

Another nightmare

Summary:

Carolina wakes up from another nightmare and meets Washington for a drink.

Mentions characters deaths.

Work Text:

Carolina’s eye snapped open. Her breath was fast and uneven, her body was hot and sweat rolled down her arms. She was gripping the bed covers tight between her fingers as she lay in the clammy bed. Her eyes scanned the plain room, her breathing slowly calming down.

Another nightmare.

Lina sighed and sat up, releasing her grip on the bed sheets. She then swung her legs around to the side of the bed but she didn’t seem to move afterwards. She was so drained. She could fight armies of enemies - anyone who who blocked her path but she couldn’t fight away the dreams that taunted her. The dreams weren’t always the same but they all started off with Maine throwing her off that cliff.

Falling from that cliff was the first time that Carolina thought she might actually die. From that moment on, the dream takes multiple twists and turns; showing Tex laughing at her failures, North and South in peril, CT’s dead face, Wash’s mind breaking due to his AI… but the what Carolina hate’s the most about her dreams is when the flash back of the fight that she and York had comes up. Although she knew exactly what had happened during that time and while she was awake, she was able to accurately account both their actions without any hesitation or lie, her dream takes it to a whole new level. Carolina can see the pain that York goes through when she gives him back his lighter, like she can see his heart breaking even under his helmet. She witnesses York’s death over and over again, and the deaths are never the same but Lina can’t do anything. She’s still falling from that cliff, watching all these terrible movies as she falls endlessly while the voice’s from her AI’s continuously chant ‘Allison.’

“Fuck… I wish I still had that lighter,” Carolina muttered under her breath, her throat feeling a bit raw and husky from the nightmare. She rolled her head around, her joints in her neck clicking. “These nightmares are weighing me down. How am I meant to do my mission and keep everyone safe at the same time? It’s not like I can talk to anyone about it. Epsilon doesn’t remember much of anything and Wash has it a lot worse than me…” Washington. Carolina’s eyes flicked to the door while her train of thought was directed on him. He has gone through hell and back and his AI really messed his head-up. She wondered if he had nightmares to. Maybe.

The redhead stood up, straightening out her oversized “I LOVE NY” shirt and pulled on a pair of slacks that lay sprawled on the floor. She slammed the hand lock and the door raised. She plodded towards the kitchen, her bare feet making little noise as she made her way to her destination. Once she arrived, she opened the kitchen door and instead of being met by what she had hoped and expected, she saw Wash sitting at the table, his head in one hand and his other hand holding an empty shot glass. Wash groaned when he heard the door open but he didn’t look up to see who it was. Lina cocked her head to one side before deciding the join him. She walked in, grabbed the bottle of whiskey that sat on the counter top and placed it on the table. She scraped back one of the shitty chairs that they had salvaged and plopped down on one. She didn’t speak, she just took the glass from Wash’s hand, poured herself and drink and threw it back into her throat. The liquid burned but it was satisfying. She could see herself downing in this. She poured another shot and then another and then another until Wash finally lifted his head. Wash looked like complete and utter crap. He had dark purple bags under his eyes and his face seemed somewhat sunken. Carolina didn’t really see much of Wash’s face without his helmet. It actually used to be a joke around Project Freelancer but now she wondered if he kept it on so know one would see how defeated he looked.

“You look like shit,” Wash spoke up, grabbing the bottle away from Lina and taking a swig.

“You don’t look much better,” She replied, copying Wash’s motions and taking the bottle back for herself. “What you doing up?” She asked in-between mouthfuls. Wash didn’t reply, instead he looked at her lifelessly, his eyes not making direct contact. With a loud concerned sigh, the redhead poured the blond a drink into the shot glass and pushed it over. He took it, made a grateful grunt and brought the glass to his lips and took a sip.

They sat together in silence, becoming more intoxicated as the minutes ticked by. Soon enough, Carolina had pulled her out of its normal pony tail and let it down freely. Wash had scooted his chair closer to Lina’s and his hand was locked around the neck of the bottle. “Carolina,” Wash suddenly spoke up, his tone musical, “Sweet Carolinaaa,”

“I think it’s Caroline,”

“Oh…” Wash pouted a little and pushed himself back in the chair. “Why are you down here anyway?” He asked finally. Carolina chewed the inside of her mouth for a moment. The sober part of her told her not to share her problems with someone who probably couldn’t handle his own but that voice was too muffled to take notice of.

“Just nightmares y’know?” She replied, trying to make it vague as possible. She motioned for Wash to pour another drink.

“Same,” he sighed heavily, pouring one out. “I hoped that one day they would stop but instead they keep getting worse. All the crap with Epsilon, how he screwed my mind up so bad… he fucking committed suicide. I was so fucked after that… I watched everyone die Lina, I watched you die too. Everyone died on me, York and North left me. They were my only friends and their dead. What’s worse? I had to recover their bodies. And then I found out all the bullshit that the Freelancer’s were? Even the fucking director killed himself.” Wash was spouting out his hatred, venom in his voice.

“And now its just me and you and a bunch of fucking idiots who didn’t know that they were just test subjects.” Carolina listened intently has Washington let his emotions out. She could see his knuckles turn white from how hard they were gripped around the bottle. He looked so fragile. “I know you went through shit and now we’re together but for some reason, I can’t help but hate you,” He turned his attention to Carolina now. “You were always number one, you didn’t fuck up all the time out on the field. You were a bitch to me and everyone and you survived death.” Wash laughed then.

Carolina didn’t reply. She didn’t know how to.

“So what are your dreams?” He asked.

“Well, similar stuff. Mostly about York,” She replied. Unlike Wash, she didn’t feel like completely opening up. “And I’m sorry that you hate me…” She trailed off. She knew that she was a heartless bitch. That all she cared about was herself and no one else. Well, that was how she portrayed herself anyway. “I blame myself for York’s death. I should have been there, I shouldn’t have left him… I shouldn’t have left you either,”

Wash grunted. “Yeah well, Maine didn’t give you much choice really.”

“True,” Carolina laughed a little. “Wash,”

“Hm?”

“I really did love York. As much as a bitch I was -”

“I know you do,” He mumbled, his eyes moving from her face to the shirt she wore. “To bad you didn’t show it to him while he was alive,” Carolina could feel the bite in his words as he spoke them. Lina’s heart began to sink, her stomach churning as flashbacks flooded her mind's eye. She concentrated all of her attention onto Wash. The way he sat, his back hunched, his elbows leaning against the circular table. His eyes were heavy lidded and his hair was tussled in such a way that made him look somewhat menacing, like someone who you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley way. His scars were visible and the freckles that decorated his pale skin looked dark in the dim lighting of the room.

“You might not know it Wash, but I actually do have feeling’s,” Carolina snapped back.

“Ha, really?” Carolina was beginning to get sick of Washington’s attitude. She knew that he was drunk but so was she, and she wasn’t spouting out hurtful remarks.

“Why are you saying all this now?” She asked, keeping her tone cool and collected, not wavering as much as her heart wanted to rise into her throat. She just watched the other agent shrug in response and take another sip of the golden liquid. “I cared about York, North, CT… and even South and Maine. And I care about you Wash. I know I must seem like the most heartless bitch ever in existence. I was selfish, I wanted to always be number one and I didn’t care who I fucked over but I really cared for everyone deep down. And… I know it’s my fault that you’re brain got all mixed up. If I hadn’t taken Iota and Eta, you wouldn’t have gotten Epsilon.” Carolina didn’t know how the conversation had made this turn. The alcohol had taken control of her mouth and she couldn’t stop. Nothing made sense, it was like their conversation had fast forwarded, missing out all the conversation in the middle.

Hot tears began to well in her eyes and one escaped, rolling down her cheek. She sniffled, and looked up, trying not to show any more weakness than she already had. The blond didn’t say anything, instead he looked away from the crying woman.

Wash couldn’t help feel some resentment towards Carolina. As much as they worked well together by day, at night it seemed like all the demons and ghosts of the past came to torment him. The fact that the redhead also had nightmares was some comfort but what Lina had said about it being her fault was right and he was angry. He wanted to forgive her, it was all in the past and too late to do anything now anyway and they were stuck together.

Washington knew she actually did have feelings. Church had told him what she had said that time when she ran away during their first mission together with the Blood Gulch crew. He felt a twinge of guilt when he could see her body shake through the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, just about loud enough that Carolina could hear. He picked up the bottle again but noticed it was finally empty. Figures. “Hey,” He spoke up again after an awkward silence. Carolina shifted so that her eyes were gazing into his. “I know you loved him, don’t worry. Also, it’s nice to know that I’m not the only one fucked up,” He heared Carolina stifle snicker, a smile pulling at the corner of her lips. Her green eyes still seemed watery and her thin face looked pale but she still looked pretty. Carolina was one of the prettiest Freelancers, y’know, after York in a dress and matching heels of course. Wash moved, standing awkwardly and leaned over the table. He didn’t know what had made him move or why he suddenly decided he was about to do what he was about to do but he didn’t stop himself. Mainly because sitting down after getting in this position would probably be a weird action. He approached the freelancer and nervously placed a soft kiss onto her lips. He could feel the surprise in Carolina’s lips as he body tensed but she soon melted a little into the kiss before tearing away from him quickly and standing up in one fluid motion.

“What the hell!?” She yelled, confusion in her voice. Wash grimaced, letting some of his weight rest on the table. “We were just talking about York,” The colour red began to creep into Lina’s pale complexion, matching her ruby hair. Just before Wash could reply, the kitchen door opened again and a half asleep Caboose walked in, wearing an oversized tshirt with the words “I am Church’s best friend,” hastily drawn on with black marker and pyjama pants that had little army tanks printed all over. Wash expected for the fellow blond to begin talking but instead he just stood there.

“Uh… Caboose?” Wash questioned, raising an eyebrow. Both Washington and Carolina watched to see if the team member would do anything but instead he just stood there. “Hey, is Church still with you?” He asked.

“Epsilon, what’s wrong with Caboose?” Lina asked to thin air. In a few moments, a small blue projection of a little Church appeared.

“He sleep walks sometimes - and why the hell does he still have that shirt!?” Wash groaned, pulling on his face with his fingertips. That’s when it finally hit him, was Church around the whole time they were talking? Wash looked over to Carolina and widened his eyes. It took a few seconds but the redhead finally picked up on what he was asking. She just shrugged her shoulders in response.

“Just forget about it, okay?” She mouthed. Church was ranting away about how Caboose would just walk around the base in the old days. Wash wanted to agree to Lina’s request but he doubted he ever could. Just another memory to haunt him in his sleep.

#fic rvbfanfic #carwash rvb #yorkalina #past yorkalina